by Eli Constant
Looking down, I force my fingers to unflex and I sigh. “Shoot. I think I left it in Jim’s room. In the chair.”
“I’ll go grab it for you.”
“No!” I say it too quickly, shout it really. “I mean, no. It’s okay. I’ll just make a run for it.”
He leans a little, nearly exposing his hair to the water flooding down. “In this?”
“I’ll live. I’m not the wicked witch of the west after all.” It strikes me as funny for some reason, saying those words. I cannot help but laugh. I laugh and I laugh until tears building in my eyes and I start crying, like I am a walking, talking personification of the weather.
Kyle is staring at me. The twinkle gone. Confusion in his face. “Are you sure you’re okay? Are you sure my Dad didn’t upset you in any way.” He places a comforting hand on my shoulder. I like the feel of that, the weight of his touch.
I decide on the truth, because I’m tired of lying. “He did, but not in the way you think. It’s not important.”
“You sure you don’t want me to get your umbrella? Or I can go get your car and drive it up here so you won’t get soaked.” He’s already raising his hand, as if to take the keys from me. The presumptuousness of it irks me, more than anything else that’s happened today.
“I’m a big girl, Kyle. And you don’t know me well enough to be this kind. Go back to your Dad. Make sure he’s okay.” Even to myself, I sound exhausted. Like the world is too much and I’m done with it.
“Well, I can at least drop your umbrella off at your house. Dad said you own a funeral home and live there too, right?” The stars are trying to come back out, glistening dully in his face and waiting for any encouragement from me.
“That’s right. Seriously, don’t worry about it though. I can buy another.”
“I can’t imagine it’s easy to find a rubber duck printed umbrella.” His smile is bright and wide. His eyes twinkle. Those stars. God, those stars. “Honestly, it’s not any trouble.”
“Okay,” is all I manage to say. But that one word seems to make his smile grow so wide it might split his face. I like what I’ve said has made him happy, even though I’m stood in front of him fearing for my life, fearing that I won’t have a tomorrow, if Jim decides to tell the truth to the world.
I walk away before he can say anything more. I rush out into the rain, letting each drop hit me like it will somehow cleanse who I am. It feels vital and real and right—like it can wash away what I am and make me a human woman without fear of persecution. A human woman who could love a human man with twinkling, star-filled eyes.
But nothing will change who I am.
I was born this way. To this life. I am, and will always be, a necromancer.
Chapter Fifteen.
There’s something in the house when I come home.
Not a body awakened. Not a spirit. Something else. Its presence pushes against my skin as I enter the hallway. It’s coming from upstairs, from my home, and not from the funeral parlor or basement.
I take a deep breath. I inhale what is floating around me. It is like… honeysuckle and vanilla and cardamom. It seeps into my lungs like good tea, honeyed and spiced and everything nice-d.
“Is someone here?” My words are barely a whisper, not even strong enough to travel up the stairs and touch the door, let alone the interior of my apartment. “Coward.”
Taking a deep breath, I set down my purse, slide off my shoes, and start up the stairs in my stocking feet. Halfway up, I realize how heavily I’m breathing. I know I’m not that out of shape. It’s just fear. Fear like icy water, pushing against my body and making goosebumps spread across my skin. The presence pushes against me again. Harder this time, as if it knows that I’m coming closer.
Maybe it’s a very bad idea to go up the stairs. A very, very bad idea.
“You don’t have to skulk about like there’s a monster waiting in your bedroom.” The voice is disembodied and disturbing. It is even icier than the sensation that is brushing against my arms and legs. But not in a way that leaves me shivering. In fact, it is the opposite of that, burning hot tracks against my skin and calling sweat.
Warmness meets the painful coolness. Someone’s breath against my neck. I’m frozen on the stairs. The eighth step. I’m stood on the small platform area. The landing that facilitates the turn for the next eight stairs that lead to my door.
“Victoria.” My name spoken in a voice that I do recognize, but I cannot place. It comes again, almost sing-songy. “Vic-tor-ia.” It’s closer. So close that I could move slightly forward and kiss the mouth that is speaking.
I know who it is now.
Liam Drake. The mysterious man form Lilly’s funeral.
And I feel a little pissed. He’s not a spirit. Not a soul come to haunt me. Not a matter of unfinished business. “What the hell are you doing in my house?” I stomp up the stairs. It’s not very dramatic, considering I’m wearing no shoes.
How silly of me though, to let anger take over, to let myself forget that this man is a relative stranger. I have no idea what he is capable of. And I am barreling up the stairs like I am She-Ra, Princess of Power.
I expect to find my door open, but it is not. It’s not only closed, but it’s still locked. This entrance is the only way in and out of the apartment, save for the fire escape I had installed several years ago. It was a way to satisfy the safety code for the old building, plus I like the look of it. It reminds me of Rent or Westside Story. I sometimes daydream that I’ll find some strange opportunity to climb out the window and dance about singing at the top of my lungs to some bedazzled listener standing on the grass below. However, today is not that day.
Feeling for my keys in my pocket, I realize that I’m not wearing anything that has pockets. No jacket. No proper pants. After opening the main door, I’d felt the presence and I’d left the keys in the lock. Downstairs.
So much for making a dramatic entrance. I glance back down the stairs. I can only see so far as the wall mounted light spreading its lemony yellow rays across a small arc of space. I’d have to go back down, take the bend, walk further, get my purse, all just to come back upstairs. No. I was going to have to knock on my own damn door.
I raised my fist, pushed back my shoulders and straightened my spine. And I knocked- on my own damn door.
Standing silently, I wait. I’m not going to ask to be let in. The knocking was humiliating enough.
It feels like I stand there for a very long time. Until, finally, I hear the turn of the lock and see the doorknob twist. Dropping my hands to my sides, feeling that I automatically ball them into fists, I try to look as determined as I possibly can.
The doorknob continues to twist.
So fucking slow that I’m pretty sure I’m going to turn grey and die before he’s actually opened the door.
“Liam, could you open the door faster. This is ridiculous.” I don’t sound fierce though, I sound like a complaining child. Not the effect I was going for.
The knob’s no longer twisting. It’s sat at the pivotal place right before the latch actually gives and the door can be swung inward.
“Jesus H. Christ. Open the damn door.” Impulsively, I kick the door. It rushes away from me in a quick motion, like someone has pulled it hard from the other side and sent it rocketing toward the wall.
There’s no one standing in my immediate view. I can see most of the kitchen from where I’m standing, down the hallway, and to where my bedroom is. The door is wide open. I can see my sheer blue curtains fluttering in the breeze. The curtains that frame the window that leads to the fire escape. Dull, fading sun hidden by dark clouds still provide enough light to play against the wood floors.
He’s left. Through the window, like a thief in the night. Bastard.
With a sigh of relief—both literal and mental—I move down the stairs and grab my things before ascending once more, this time nothing drawing me forward.
My shoes are on again too, but I have no need to stamp and storm.
Just my empty house with an open window and the taint of that intrusive asshole waiting. I thought about calling the police, but what good would it do? I had no proof he was here. I didn’t actually see him. I couldn’t very well tell them that I ‘felt’ him. And the fact that the voice sounded like his— as pale as proof could get.
As soon as I move through the door, I turn around and close it, turning the knob lock and throwing the safety latch situated at the top of the door. My purse gets hung on a large cast iron hook near an old wall clock that was once my great-great-grandmother’s. It doesn’t work anymore. Hasn’t for years.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
I look more closely at the clock. At the hands that have remained unmoving for so very long. But they’re not unmoving now. They’re slowly shifting clockwise. The longest, narrowest hand moves in front of the other two, fast around each number. Too fast.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
I lean in further, convinced it’s not true. I’m just dog tired and my brain is going to la-la-land without my permission.
“I think I over fixed it.”
I jump, feeling like my bones are going to fly out of my skin. I know I should turn around, but I can’t seem to move my legs. Or my eyes, which will not blink. They begin to water, tears dripping down my face. I am truly frozen in surprise and fear. Fear. The fear is back. Creeping up my skin like tiny snakes, wanting to bite, but waiting for orders.
“You can turn around. I won’t bite.”
It’s as if he knows what I’m thinking, but I don’t believe him. From the moment I first saw Liam Drake, I was more than sure that he did, and would, bite.
Free of whatever made me statue, I turn slowly, hands fisting at my sides, ready to punch the daylights out of Liam freaking Drake.
He’s lounging on my hunter green couch. His white slacks and lavender shirt are tailored to his body, just like the pinstripe suit had been at the funeral. The clothes reek of money. He is able to cross his legs easily, his left ankle balanced on his white knee, the material not too tight anywhere that I can see despite the sitting position. It’s a sign that he was measured, the material cut slowly and methodically, the stitching made straight and lovely.
The lavender shirt is open just enough at the collar. Two buttons undone providing just enough of a gap so that his tan chest peeks out. I see no hair. Just golden smoothness.
He stands quickly, the motion like a dancer getting in position.
His pants’ legs waterfall down and becomes straight without a single wrinkle. Another sign that the material is expensive. He looks me up and down once he’s standing, his eyes lingering on what feels like every damn part of me. There’s an attitude to it, a sense of entitlement. It makes me both angrier and… slightly aroused. It’s been a while since someone looked at me like I was good enough to eat. Not that I’d let him know how I liked him appreciating the goods.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” I don’t even attempt to be civil. I’m tired. My leggings have finally dried from the umbrella pressing against them, but I still want to change. And he has no right to be here. My cellphone is behind me in my purse, closer than the landline, but the time it would take to dig through the contents of my stupidly large hobo bag would pretty much guarantee a failed attempt at contacting the police.
“You mean you don’t want me here?” Liam acts hurt. His vibrant green eyes crush in at the corners, his mouth contorting into a pout. A sexy pout.
He is not sexy. I like to lie to myself sometimes.
“No, I don’t want you here. I want you to leave, before I call the police and get you hauled away for trespassing,” I snap defiantly, my eyes flaring with anger at both his B and E of my home and at his arrogance.
“Putting me in jail. That’s an interesting idea.” His mouth does a 180 into an amused smile.
“What’s so funny?” I feel compelled to stamp my foot, but I don’t. Bully for me. Maybe I’m learning to control my childish responses. Of course, my tongue still wants to push out of my mouth and blow a raspberry at him.
“Just that I might be compelled to give the police something they’d want more. So putting me in jail might not be your best plan.” He says it so casually, like there exists no poison within his intentions. He moves around the room a little, running his finger over a picture and miming flicking away dust. I dusted only a day ago, so I know he’s simply trying to be an asshole.
“And what would they want more?” My mind works furiously. I feel I know where he’s going with this, but my mind is grasping at straws. I cross my arms over my chest, thinking it might make me look tougher. Here’s a tip—crossing your arms does not make you look tough. At least, it doesn’t if you’re average height and a bit on the heavy side. I drop my arms sheepishly. Take a deep breath. Wait for him to respond. He doesn’t. “What would they want more, Liam?”
“You, little necromancer. They’d want you.” Again, his speech is casual, like he is not threatening to send me to my doom.
For the second time in one day, I know I go as pale as a spirit not yet crossed over.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I mutter, mentally assessing what I have nearby that I can use as a weapon. Because for the second time in one day, I am lying to someone who has figured out what I am, and I know I’m facing flight or fight.
“There’s no use denying it, Victoria.”
“Stop calling me Victoria. You don’t know me. And I don’t know you. We certainly aren’t on a first name basis.”
“I know you. Very well.” He says the words with so much confidence that I nearly believe him.
“Just get out of my house. I’m tired. Too tired for this shit.” I point at the door, keeping the fiercest expression I can muster across my face.
“You’re too tired?” he says, his smile and confidence fading a bit, “I can only imagine.” He moves towards me then, in a rush so fast that I have no hope of fighting or sidestepping. When his arms wrap around me, I feel like I’ve become boneless. Like I will fall asleep right where I’m standing. Fall, without his support. I fight to keep my eyes open, but I can’t.
Liam lifts me off the floor in one swooping motion. My eyelids flutter; I catch bits of reality.
He’s carrying me… into my room. He’s setting me on the bed. He removes my shoes and tucks my legs beneath the heavier comforter I bring out of storage when the months begin to cool. He’s gentle, more gentle than I could ever imagine from all his haughtiness and bravado. I hear the rain pitter-pattering against the metal of the fire escape that faces the backyard as my head nestles against the pillow.
It is only then that I fully succumb to the exhaustion. The last thing I hear is the sliding of my window closing. The way it mutes the sound of the rainfall. The last thought I have is that he has done this to me—sent some sort of spell across my skin to make me so tired.
Chapter Sixteen.
I’m caught in a dream.
No, a memory.
I’m young, the age I was when my gift first awakened. Maybe a little older, but still years before I’d become a full necromancer. It’s many years before Grandmother Sophia would die.
Because she’s there, looking very alive, sitting on the porch of her little house—the one she moved to after Dad took over the business. It faces the swamp, on the opposite side of Hellhole Bay from Bonneau. I’d never understood why she’d chosen that spot, not until I became older and could feel what she felt.
As an adult, when I visited her house—a house that I now own since it was paid for and bequeathed to me—I felt it. Those bodies in the murky, muddy waters calling to me. So. Very. Many. Bodies. So deeply sunken that they will never be unearthed. They fed grandmother’s power. Fed it like air, water, and food to a normal human body.
That’s not how she described it though.
She said it fed her like sex. My grandmother was never one to mince words.
I don’t go there often. It gives me the willies.
Grandmothe
r Sophia is smiling at me as she sways in her rocking chair. Her eyes are silver-grey and wise. The wrinkles that paint her face each tell a story. I love to look at her.
“Come here, Piccola morte. My lovely little death,” she reaches a hand out to me, beckons me forward. My grandmother… my grandmother whom I love so dearly.
I feel my legs moving. It’s so real. Like I am there again. When I step up on the porch, I kneel next to her. She strokes my hair. Her fingers are long and frail, so gentle and kind. She begins to sing to me in Italian. The words are ones I have forgotten until now.
“La morte non è definitiva, il mio amore, il mio amore. La morte non è definitiva. Quando sono andato, io sono qui. Al di là del velo, a portata di dito. Parla e sentirò. Ascoltare e io parlerò. La morte non è definitiva, il mio amore, il mio amore. La morte non è definitiva.”
I hear the translation in my head as she speaks, my mental voice overlapping hers until it is almost a chorus.
Death is not final, my love, my love. Death is not final. When I am gone, I am here. Beyond the veil, at fingers' reach. Speak and I will hear. Hear and I will speak. Death is not final, my love, my love. Death is not final.
I lean my head down against her leg. The rocking chair stills, but her hand continues moving through my long hair.
“Always remember, Piccola Morte. Remember how I love thee. Remember I am never far away, even when this body is turned to dust.”
I wake from the dream, my face wet with tears. Such a vivid memory. I could still feel her hand upon my head. Looking back now, at that moment in my childhood, I am sure that grandmother knew she was going to die soon.
Sitting up, I fluff and stack all the pillows on my bed until I can lean back against the headboard comfortably. My bedroom and the rooms beyond are dark as a tomb, but they are empty, no bodies haunting the shadows. Looking at the clock on my side table, I read the time. Three a.m.