Necromancing the Stone

by Lish McBride

  And the squirrel? I watched as it slid up Sean’s pant leg. Sean didn’t seem to notice until the furry little guy hit about mid-thigh. Then he stopped flailing and screeched, directing all his attention to swatting at his leg. I watched as the squirrel popped out of the hole in the knee of Sean’s jeans. Sean swatted it off, and then, apparently having had enough, he ran off toward the house with tiny scratches dripping blood, the owl still dive-bombing his head and a constant torrent of curses flowing behind him. I think I heard him yell that he’d see us at dinner, but I’m not sure—Bran was laughing too hard for me to make it out. Most of us wouldn’t laugh at seeing our sibling assaulted, but I’d learned that weres, and Bran especially, had very different senses of humor.

  “I suppose you can call them off now,” Brannoc said with a smirk.

  I summoned them back, the squirrel getting to me first. It ran up my leg and sat on my shoulder. I reached over and scratched its head in thanks. “You think he learned his lesson?” I asked.

  Brannoc came up and reached toward the squirrel, looking at me for permission before he gently patted its head.

  “That depends,” he said, his lip twitching in amusement. “What lesson were you trying to teach him?”

  “Top of the food chain is nice, but there are a lot more things on the bottom.”

  Bran had regained control of himself and was nodding solemnly. “If he didn’t, then it might be something we’ll have to go over. There are others besides Sean who could use that lesson desperately.”

  I didn’t say anything, but I agreed. I’d only known the pack a short time, but I’d started to notice that some of them acted like they were invincible. Powerful, yes. Strong? Most certainly. But invincible? That was a dangerous notion to cling to.

  I gave the squirrel one last scratch on the head and then returned all the animals to the ground, my heartfelt thanks sending them into the abyss. Though I knew it was right, it always made me a little sad to send things back. I’d never been great with good-byes.

  Brannoc slung his arms around Bran and me, pulling us into a loose hug. “You staying for dinner?”

  He phrased it like a question, even though we both knew it was more of a statement. Even if I didn’t want to, I’d be talked into staying. The pack seemed to take my scrawniness personally, taking any chance to fatten—or toughen—me up. I didn’t mind. The pack had a damn good cook.

  Although technically owned and maintained by the taoiseach, or clan chief, the Den is a large open-beamed lodge enjoyed by all of the Blackthorn pack. And when I say large, I mean it—I’ve seen smaller apartment buildings. The list of permanent residents is fairly small, namely Brannoc, his family, and a handful of staff. There are always extra people there, though. Families that need a place to stay, weres visiting from neighboring packs, people petitioning to get into this pack, or the random people like myself. Pack members, if they can afford it, tithe a certain percentage of their income to the Den. That money makes sure everyone is taken care of. It’s homey and loud and would probably remind me of summer camp, had I ever gone to summer camp.

  It took a few minutes to clean the dirt, blood, and grass off me before dinner. Not surprisingly, the downstairs bathroom in the Den was well equipped with first-aid supplies for those of us who couldn’t speed-heal.

  Once I was presentable, or as close as I was going to get without a full shower and a wardrobe change, I went off looking for Brid.

  2

  COME ON-A MY HOUSE, MY HOUSE, I’M GONNA GIVE YOU CANDY

  Some guys like leggy blondes. Some like them bookish or brunette or petite, and apparently some like them plastic, or plastic surgeons wouldn’t have such big houses. And I’m not against any of those traits, except for the plastic, because that gives me the creeps. But for my money, you couldn’t get any more perfect than Bridin Blackthorn.

  She was short, but not overly so. A few inches over five feet, maybe. The red of her tank top accented her skin, which was turning dusky from the summer sun, or as dusky as an ivory-skinned girl could get. Her feet were bare, which is what she preferred, and I could make out the muscular curve of her calf through the slit in her sarong. No matter how many times I saw her, my mouth tended to go dry and my heart always sped up. It made me feel like a brain-dead schoolboy.

  “Are you going to keep skulking in my doorway like a common pervert, or are you going to remember your manners?”

  I rapped my knuckles on the doorjamb. “Friendly neighborhood perv. May I come in, dear lady?”

  She scoffed and waved me in, keeping her back to me. I kicked the door shut with my heel and slid up behind her. Her coppery hair had purple and green streaks in the front and was getting a little longer in the back, just starting to curl up a bit at the ends. If I’d told her it looked cute, she probably would’ve socked me. I kissed her neck, letting my fingers trace down her shoulders, past her elbows, coming to rest lightly on her hips. I waited for her to make the next move, if any. Brid was Alpha and didn’t take pushy behavior lightly.

  She leaned into me, pulling my hands farther around her. “You done taking your beating yet?”

  I nodded. Her hair smelled like shampoo. Sandalwood and orange spice. I smiled. I recognized a LaCroix product when I smelled one. “Yes, thoroughly thrashed. You’re using the shampoo I gave you. You like it?”

  Brid patted my hands and pulled away, going back to her task of straightening her room. She spent most of her time in the city by the university where she went to school, so there wasn’t much to clean up. “I do like it. It doesn’t stink.”

  Though that sounded like an insult, she meant it to be complimentary. Weres have an excellent sense of smell, much better than a human’s. That meant most bath products literally stank to them. Brid was only half were, but that didn’t weaken her nose. And since the fey half of her leaned toward natural things, well, it made it hard to shop for her. I’d brought it up to my mom since she makes a lot of products for her business.

  My mom is an earth witch, which means she’s a whiz with plants. She uses them to make ointments, medicines, and lately, bath products. Realizing the problems the weres and hybrids were having, my mom had begun experimenting with softer natural scents and even some unscented products. A few people in the pack had tried them out, and they’d gone over like gangbusters. My mom could barely make them fast enough. The orange and sandalwood was new, and one I’d specifically requested for Brid. I’d given it to her on our last date—we’d gone to see one of the outdoor movies they show in Fremont, and though we’d both seen the feature about a thousand times, we had a blast. It was impossible for me not to have a good time with Brid. She could take me to a seminar on time-shares and I’d leave with a smile on my face. A smile probably similar to the one I had now, caused by a memory of Brid’s candy-sticky fingers on mine.

  I flopped onto her bed. Closing my eyes, I settled in, resting my head in my palms. “So, what’s up, buttercup? We still on for tonight?”

  “You’ve been spending too much time with Ashley.” Ashley was a harbinger—a guide from this world to … wherever dead people went. She wouldn’t fill me in on where that was, exactly. Part of her job was working with necromancers. I think she was supposed to be a guide for me, but really she just tried to boss me around.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” There was a lump underneath me. I shifted and pulled out a set of child-sized markers. I pulled a blue one out of the pack. “You got an art project, Brid?”

  She walked over and snatched them out of my hand. “For your information, they aren’t mine. Some of the kids were up here earlier.”

  I waved the blue at her. “Sure, kids. Is that the story we’re going with? If I dig around, am I going to find glitter and pipe cleaners? Your old My Little Ponies? Dare I say a naked Barbie or two?”

  She grimaced. “Maybe your sister had Barbies, but I sure didn’t.”

  “Haley? Please. She fed her Barbie to the cat.”

  She grabbed at the
marker, and I didn’t bother trying to play keep-away. Brid was faster on the draw. She tackled me, using her body weight to pin me down. I weighed more, but she knew what she was doing. You don’t grow up with four brothers and not learn how to wrestle people bigger than you. Besides, it wasn’t like I minded being pinned down. Torture, I know, but I was just going to have to suck it up and take it like a man.

  Brid propped herself up on her elbows. “Nothing wrong with My Little Ponies, though.” With great care, she uncapped the lid. She studied the marker carefully before leaning down and drawing on my upper lip. I couldn’t see it, but I figured it out pretty quick. I was reasonably sure that I was now sporting a blue curlicue mustache and a tiny goatee. I reached up, pretending to feel the tip of my new mustache.

  “Does it make me look debonair?”

  With a mock-serious look, she said, “Very macho.”

  I sighed. “Will this come off before dinner?” I had a sudden image of myself sitting down at the big table with blue facial hair. With the pack. And Brid’s whole family. No, thank you.

  “Relax,” she said, licking her thumb, “it’s washable.” She wiped at it with her thumb and I dodged.

  “Are you about to clean me with your spit?”

  She cocked her head. “What? You squeamish? It’s not like you haven’t had my spit on you before.”

  I frowned. “That’s different.”

  “How?”

  My frown became a scowl. She had a point. Not that I was going to tell her that. “It just is.”

  Her face became thoughtful. She leaned forward, coming in for a kiss. Her lips were soft. She pulled back a fraction and gently bit my lip. A soft brush of lips and nose against my cheek, then a slow, long lick on my new blue goatee.

  “Any issue with that?” she said quietly.

  I had to clear my throat to get the words out. “Hell, no.”

  Both of her eyebrows went up as she grinned. “So I win?”

  I held up my hands. “You win. I crumble beneath your argumentative powers.”

  “I was captain of my debate team.”

  “I just bet you were. As long as you make sure you get it all off before dinner. Some of the pack appears to be immune to my considerable charms.” This was somewhat of an understatement. Most seemed to like me, but there was definitely a camp of holdouts in the Blackthorn pack. I couldn’t tell if it was because I was dating Brid and they were protective or if they simply didn’t like me. I wasn’t used to being instantly disliked. Until the whole necromancy thing, people either liked me or ignored me, with the occasional instant hater, but reactions were generally mild upon meeting me. That changes when you come out as a necromancer. People are immediately suspicious of you. I find it funny, usually, because I am not an imposing guy, but it was less funny now that it was interfering with my love life. I hadn’t had a love life in a while, and I wanted to keep it.

  Brid reached down, her hand popping back into sight holding the rest of the markers. She pulled a different one out of the pack and waggled it in front of me. Red.

  She popped the cap off with her thumb. The plastic clacked as it hit the floor.

  “Wanna keep debating?” I could hear the cap as it rolled under something, probably never to be seen again. “Or would you rather have a long discussion about my family, which probably won’t be nearly as entertaining and definitely won’t entail as much making out?”

  I rested my hands on her waist. That lump was back in my throat and took a minute to clear. “O Captain, my Captain.”

  She drew a little heart on my neck, right over the pulse, and grinned.

  3

  HELLO DARKNESS, MY OLD FRIEND

  Douglas woke up in between. He didn’t know what else to call it. Not limbo. Limbo implied true death or another plane. It also implied a religious bent that he just couldn’t quite put stock into. Religion had never done much for Douglas Montgomery.

  No, he was still on the same plane, or at least close to it. Not quite dead enough to be a true ghost.

  Which meant his fail-safe had worked.

  There were two parts to death. The obvious one was the physical—the heart slowed and stopped. Synapses quit firing, blood came to a halt, and in general the body went through the complicated process of shutting down. But the physical shutdown wasn’t enough. You could keep someone physically alive with machines, but that didn’t qualify as fully alive. If they were missing that spark, that intangible thing that made people who they were, then they weren’t really with this world anymore. They had moved on, despite the desperate pumping and whirring of modern medicine’s machinery.

  Alternatively, if you kept the spark going while the corporeal withered and fell away, then you weren’t completely dead either, which was precisely what he’d done. The idea had come to him from an old folktale his mother used to tell him about a giant who’d hid his heart away and so couldn’t be killed. Of course, hiding his heart wouldn’t work—that was pure nonsense—but the theory was sound. It had taken him a long time and a lot of work to do it, but he’d managed, and it had obviously been worth it.

  Douglas wasn’t whole. He’d hidden his spark, a metaphysical version of life support, and all he had to do was get it back. Which meant he had to get his act together and sneak into his house to get it. Having the beginnings of a plan made him feel better. A mental list began to form. He loved lists. There was something so inexplicably tidy about them, even the intangible ones. His top desires, in a very particular order, were:

  • Kill Brannoc, the interfering bastard, before he figured out what was going on. If anyone on the Council might get wind of Douglas’s partial resurrection, it was the ever-vigilant taoiseach. Brannoc’s death, in his opinion, was long overdue. Once he was out of the way, the pack and Council would flounder, so encompassed in their grief and the resulting chaos that he wouldn’t even hit their radar screens until too late.

  • Get his spark back.

  • Get his house back, his things, his life back.

  • Then slaughter the miserable shit who had killed him and taken it all away. This he would do last, and he would enjoy every second in a way that he hadn’t enjoyed anything in decades. Pure pleasure.

  Ruminating on this last idea, he began to wonder if physical torture was enough. Sam wasn’t a threat like Brannoc, despite the fact that he’d managed to come out the winner in their last altercation. As far as Douglas was concerned, Sam was the very definition of a fluke. He wouldn’t be so lucky next time. Perhaps he didn’t deserve a quick demise—surely a game of cat and mouse wasn’t uncalled for? Sam had seemed particularly put out that Douglas had killed his friend. Were his friends his weak point? Or perhaps people he held even more dear? He’d have to ask James how Sam felt about his family. Douglas smiled.

  That settled, he came back to his more immediate state. He sat on a marble outcropping and examined his body. This bored him quickly. The vessel of his flesh wasn’t important, necessarily, and he couldn’t glean much from looking at it, aside from mundane facts like how he died and how long it had been rotting in this place. He already knew how he’d died, though he was loath to remember it. Stabbed in the throat by an ignorant pipsqueak. As for how long … six weeks, maybe longer? He supposed it made little difference.

  He was much more interested in the sitting itself. Did he actually have enough presence to “sit” on this ledge, or was it just a construct of his mind? Did it matter? Yes, he decided, it did, but only in the sense of its implications. If he was in fact sitting, that suggested a certain amount of corporeal form. It meant that he could still have an effect on the world, body or no, if only in a minor way. After much consideration, he decided that he was, indeed, sitting, but not as fully as something completely alive. His action was a shadow of reality, but if he concentrated, the shadow filled and became almost full. It wasn’t the casual action of a living creature, but it was still an action.

  To Douglas, this was very good news. A ghost he might have been, but a
n ineffectual spirit he was not.

  He studied the slab underneath his feet. James had exquisite taste. He knew this, but sometimes it was good to give credit where it was due. He’d chosen well when he purchased the boy. Quite well indeed.

  Douglas was currently in a mausoleum in a private cemetery, that much he knew. The rest he’d left up to James. Mausoleums weren’t common in this part of the country, but he’d felt that, should something happen, it would be easier to get out of one than if he’d been buried in the ground.

  Douglas was nothing if not practical.

  After a few false starts, he was able to put one foot in front of the other and walk, which was harder than it sounded. He couldn’t really feel anything, so it was like trying to walk with a fully numbed body. Difficult, but possible. He was able to leave the mausoleum, but he couldn’t go far. Walking that much made him tired. There was a lot of concentration involved, and he was still trying to get used to moving his spectral body around. So a few feet at first, then a bit farther afield once he got used to things. He was patient. Like all things, Douglas would master this new state. Then he would go down his little checklist. So much to do.

  A new body would be nice, as well. Something less bloated and rank, a fresh new model. He rather liked the old one, but he couldn’t return to it as it was, since it was currently rotting a mere few feet from him. Without the benefits of the modern preservatives commonly used in burials, his shell was turning into a putrid mess. Perhaps he could rebuild it later—he was a necromancer, after all. If he did have to go through the hassle of getting a new body, he’d try to get one roughly the same size. He didn’t want to have his suits re-tailored. He was very picky about the cut.