Necropolis

by Christopher Nuttall

  “My name is Olivia,” she said, remembering the days when she’d been Oliver. Now that she’d filled out, she couldn’t be Oliver any longer. “Do you understand me?”

  The girl hesitated, then nodded, so slightly that Olivia almost missed the motion. It was interesting, she noted, that the girl spoke English – or at least understood English – when the Cossacks had clearly not understood a word she’d said. She rubbed her stomach absently, cursing them under her breath. They hadn’t needed to speak to her to get their point across.

  Olivia smiled at the girl. “What is your name?”

  The answer was so quiet that Olivia had to strain to hear it. “Esther.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Olivia said, holding out a hand. Esther ... it sounded familiar, although she wasn’t sure from where. It certainly wasn’t the name of anyone she knew personally. “How did you end up here?”

  The girl shook her head frantically, then scrambled to her feet and practically ran towards the door. Olivia stared after her, realising that Esther had probably been given very strict orders to have as little to do with the prisoner as possible, then turned to the tray of food. It was a stew that tasted of beef and vegetables, with a hard bread that she had to soak in the stew before it became edible. When she’d finished eating, a different girl entered and removed the tray, then nodded towards the door. Ivan was standing there.

  “Good morning,” he said, in his unaccented English. “I trust you slept well?”

  Olivia glowered at him. The Russian didn’t seem too bothered by her disdain; he merely held out a hand, inviting her to come with him. Olivia hesitated, remembering the pain in her ankles, then stood up anyway. If she refused, he would simply compel her to come to him. But the pain was so overpowering that she fell to the floor, trying desperately not to scream.

  “Now, that won’t do,” Ivan said. She felt him walking over to her, then picking her up effortlessly. “Don’t worry. We will fix the pain.”

  “You caused it,” Olivia muttered through clenched teeth.

  “Yes, we did,” Ivan agreed, dispassionately. He carried her towards the door, then through it and down the long stone corridor. “But we can fix it too.”

  They entered a smaller room that was as bare as the others, apart from a long stone table. He placed her down on it, told her to stay on the table and walked out of the door. Moments later, he returned with Gregory in tow. The monkish man smelt as bad as ever, Olivia realised, as he touched his fingers to her ankles. But she started to feel better almost at once.

  “I was blessed by the Father Tsar,” Gregory said, when she gave him a surprised look. A Healer. He had to be a Healer. “Where else does it hurt?”

  Olivia hesitated. The last thing she wanted was him touching her, not when he smelt as if he hadn’t taken a bath in his life. But her body hurt badly ... she swallowed her disgust and pointed to where her body was aching, hoping he would heal them all. One by one, he touched them and the pain faded away to nothingness. In some ways, she realised mutely, he was a more capable Healer than Lucy. And Lucy was among the best in British service.

  “Thank you,” she said, when he’d finished. “But it wouldn’t have been necessary if your men hadn’t beaten me.”

  Gregory laughed, unpleasantly. “And would you have done as you were told if you hadn’t been tied up?”

  He helped her to her feet, then headed out the door. Ivan pushed Olivia towards it, gently, then followed her down the corridor. They passed through a pair of armoured doors, each one reminding her of the ironclad she’d seen on the Thames, then deeper and deeper into the complex. Finally, they reached a room with a pair of Cossacks standing on guard, holding sabres rather than rifles. Olivia puzzled over it for a long moment – no matter how good they were with swords, a child with a pistol could kill them – and then felt her blood run cold as she realised the truth. Swords were the best weapons, short of flamethrowers, against the undead.

  “Once we’re inside, I suggest you obey orders,” Ivan muttered, as Gregory spoke to the guards in Russian. “This is not the time to play games.”

  Olivia felt sick as the door opened and the stench of death wafted out at them. Inside, illuminated only by a set of torches on the walls, was a stone prison cell. No, she realised mutely; it was far more than just a prison cell. Iron bars allowed the occupant to be watched by his captors, while preventing him from reaching them without permission. Indeed, the bars were far closer together than was strictly necessary. As a child, she’d wormed her way through iron bars that would keep out grown adults, but it wouldn’t be possible here. A cat would have problems getting through the bars.

  But it made sense, she realised numbly. The undead had no sensitivity to pain. They wouldn’t hesitate to break bones, just to fit through the bars. In the cage, they couldn’t escape without crippling themselves permanently. She shuddered, remembering the undead crawling forwards, pressing themselves against the barricades. Even crippled, they were still dangerous.

  A sudden flare of light made her blink and cover her eyes in surprise. When she pulled her hand away, she saw a chubby man standing in the corner, producing glowing balls of light. A Blazer, she noted, cursing once again under her breath. She might have managed to defeat a Healer, but Blazers were notoriously dangerous unless one had the advantage of surprise. And if there was one Blazer, there might be others.

  She gritted her teeth as she felt despair sinking into her mind, latching on to the commands Ivan had left in her head. It was hopeless, part of her mind argued; there was no way to escape, not even into death. The very thought of suicide was somehow unthinkable. No, all she could do was obey the Russians and give them what they wanted. She knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that it was the result of Ivan’s commands, yet it was so hard to fight. One day, she realised, she would be theirs ... and she wouldn’t even know that anything had changed. She glared over at Ivan, who smiled back at her.

  Damn Charmers, she thought, remembering Gwen’s tales about Lord Blackburn. He’d come close to molesting Gwen, an aristocrat, Master Magician and Master Thomas’s ward. If he’d been prepared to do that, what else had he actually done? None of them are ever decent people.

  “Look inside the cage,” Gregory said. There was a note of grim ... enthusiasm in his voice that chilled her to the bone. “What do you see?”

  Olivia scowled as she saw the body lying on the stone floor. It had once been a young man, but someone had killed him ... judging from the marks on his throat, she deduced that he had been choked to death. Someone had just wrapped their hands around his neck and squeezed, hard. It was impossible to be sure – the room was cold enough to slow the decomposing process – but she had a feeling he’d died only a day or two ago. Perhaps even only a few hours ago ...

  “So,” Gregory said. “Bring the body back to life.”

  Olivia stared at him. “I can’t bring him all the way back to life,” she protested. Only Jesus had ever been able to bring a man back from the dead. Necromancers could imbue corpses with a shambling mockery of life, but it wasn’t the same. “All I can do is ... make him one of the undead.”

  “Then do it,” Ivan said. “Now.”

  There was an undertone of command in his voice that reminded her that Charm was always an option. Olivia hesitated, wondering if she shouldn’t force him to compel her anyway, then she pushed the thought aside before it could solidify. If she let him work on her mind again, the eventual collapse into mindless surrender would come sooner, rather than later. Instead, she stepped forward, wishing she knew more about how to use her powers. But Gwen had flatly forbidden her to experiment and it was one rule she’d never even considered breaking.

  A young girl in Edinburgh had a pet mouse that died, she recalled, bitterly. She brought it back to life and took it to her mother, expecting to be praised. Instead, she was killed and her family transported to Australia, just to make sure no word of the affair leaked out. If the population had known that a Necromancer had bee
n born in Edinburgh ...

  “It will take time,” she hedged. In truth, she wasn’t even sure where to start. The undead hordes she’d faced before might have obeyed her, but they hadn’t been raised by her. God alone knew who’d turned them into the government’s secret weapon. Gwen had speculated that it had been Master Thomas, but no one knew for sure. “Let me try ...”

  “We are patient,” Gregory assured her. There was a faintly mocking tone in his voice that suggested he knew precisely what she was feeling. “Take your time.”

  Olivia moved as close to the bars as she dared, then closed her eyes, recalling what little she knew about the actual necromantic process. There had been almost nothing in the books; Gwen had never tried to use the power, while the male Master Magicians had left those pages blank, preferring to pretend they didn’t have the power themselves. No one had really tried to interrogate a Necromancer before killing him, Olivia knew; they’d been too scared of the possible consequences. But it had also left them alarmingly ignorant of how the power actually worked.

  “Of all the magical arts,” Gwen had said, months ago, “necromancy is the least understood.”

  Olivia tried to feel out her magic. The girls at Cavendish Hall had spoken of feeling their magic crackling through their bodies, as much a part of them as their hands or feet, but she’d never really tried to use her magic. She slowed her breathing, concentrating on her heart beating within her chest, then tried to feel for something new. For a long moment, there was nothing new or unfamiliar ... and then she heard a whisper. It echoed through her mind, as if someone was talking loud enough to be heard, but not loud enough to be understood.

  But it didn’t seem to reach beyond her flesh and bone.

  Opening her eyes, she looked at the dead body and realised, to her horror, just how to awaken it into a semblance of life. She inched forward, reaching her hand through the bars until she was touching the body, then closed her eyes again. This time, she was aware of her living flesh ... and the dead corpse she was touching. And it was the easiest thing in the world to take some of her life energy and push it into the body. She felt it jerk under her fingers and yanked her hand back, her eyes snapping open. In the cage, the body was slowly coming to life.

  Her head swam as the whispering grew louder. She toppled backwards, expecting to slam her head against the stone floor, but Ivan caught her before it was too late. Tears fell from her eyes as she clung to him, seeking comfort even in his arms. Ivan patted her back softly, his eyes never leaving the creature in the cage. Olivia forced herself to stand on her own two feet, then turned to look at what she’d done. The whispering seemed to grow even louder as she saw the undead creature slowly making its way to its feet.

  It had been human once, she knew. Now, its skin was grey and its eyes were an eerie yellow colour, as if it had long lost all traces of humanity. Its hair seemed to be falling out, although she couldn’t tell if that was merely a side effect of what limited decomposition had happened or something to do with necromancy. It held out one long hand and examined it, without a trace of interest or curiosity on its face, then held up its head and stared at the four humans watching it.

  And then it moaned.

  Olivia moaned too as the sound sliced into her head. It was a cry of hunger, a raw lust for sustenance that ran far beyond a desire for food and drink. It wanted something else, she knew; it wanted the living energy running through them all. She understood, now, why the undead had reacted the way they did. When they weren’t being directed by a Necromancer, their lives were consumed by an endless desire for life energy. And, when they ran out, they just waited until they were reanimated by human contact.

  She shuddered, then vomited, throwing up everything she’d eaten onto the hard stone floor. Gregory didn’t even seem to hear her. He was too fascinated by the undead creature as it made its shambolic way to the bars and stood there, staring at him. It looked to have been thwarted by the bars, but Olivia knew better. The creature was waiting. She could feel the link between herself and the creature, even though they were no longer touching. It was hers to command as she saw fit ...

  But the more she touched it with her mind, the louder the whispering in her head. Sooner or later, it would overcome her and then ... perhaps there was some sense in having all Necromancers executed, no matter what they were before they developed their powers. It threatened to pull her into its undead mind ...

  “Take her to wash and then feed her,” Gregory ordered. His voice was excited, as if he was pleased to see the undead creature. Olivia thought he was mad. Couldn’t he understand how dangerous it was? “We will do more tests later.”

  Ivan helped Olivia to stumble towards the door, his hands gently holding her upright. Behind her, the creature moaned again. The further she moved from it, the weaker the link between them. But she knew it wouldn’t last ...

  If they let it loose, she thought grimly, there will be hundreds of others all too soon.

  Chapter Ten

  Gwen couldn’t help feeling some relief as Romulus introduced her to the remainder of the staff. Cook, a jovial woman fat enough to make three women, was friendly enough, even though she didn’t bother to share her real name with anyone. Rosie, Lady Standish’s social secretary, seemed pleasant, but distant. She probably was far too aware of the gulf between herself and a simple maid. But Janet, Lady Standish’s other maid, seemed friendly and quite happy to chat.

  “Help her settle in,” Romulus directed, with another brilliant smile. “And then prepare for dinner.”

  Janet smiled at Gwen. “This isn’t such a bad place once you get used to it,” she said, as she led Gwen into a tiny room with a pair of beds pressed against the wall. “As long as you do as you’re told, Her Ladyship doesn’t mind you.”

  Gwen nodded as she picked up the bag and carefully unpacked it, placing the clothes in the drawer under the bed. The room was tiny, too small for one person, at least for an aristocrat. Her room at home was easily five or six times as large as the room she was expected to share with Janet. She had a nasty feeling she was going to find it hard to sleep with Janet in the same room, even if her new friend didn’t snore. She’d never had to share a room with anyone in her life. Even the new students at Cavendish Hall didn’t have to share rooms.

  “Most of the staff are at the Hall,” Janet explained, as Gwen finished unpacking and straightened up, checking her appearance in the mirror. “But we’re the lucky ones who get to go to Russia.”

  A bell echoed through the house. “That’s dinner,” Janet added, climbing to her feet. “We’d better go to meet Cook.”

  The food smelt nice, Gwen decided, although it looked as though Cook preferred to feed her family on traditional English food rather than anything foreign. It was clear that the mania for Indian or Turkish food hadn’t reached the Standish Family. She picked up the plate of roast beef, already sliced into multiple pieces by Cook, and carried it through the door into the dining room. Behind her, Janet carried the potatoes and a small bowl of vegetables, then returned to bring up the rear with the gravy.

  Gwen carefully kept her eyes on the meat until she put it down in front of Lord Standish, but then glanced around as she stepped to the back of the room. It was as fancy as any she’d seen, although it was too small to host more than five or six people at table. She couldn’t decide if that was because of the size of the house, which was small by aristocratic standards, or if Lord Standish had deliberately designed the dining room to make it harder to invite large numbers of guests. Gwen’s own father had done the same and he had a wife who had been reluctant to invite guests to her house. There was too great a chance of visitors seeing her devil-child.

  She saw Raechel Slater-Standish sitting at one end of the table and felt an odd moment of kinship, a sense that she would have liked the young girl if they’d met before she’d gone to Cavendish Hall. Raechel was tall, wearing a dress that showed the shape of her breasts even if it didn’t reveal any skin, with a strong face th
at gave her a ruthlessly indomitable look. She didn’t have the soft features that were considered fashionable these days, but it was easy to see why she would turn heads. Long red hair – naturally red, if Gwen was any judge – drew attention to her face and hands. And she was surprisingly muscular for her sex.

  She grew up in the countryside, Gwen thought, recalling Lady Mary’s notes on Lord and Lady Standish and their ward. Her parents would have taught her how to ride and take care of herself, even if she’d also had a restricted life.

  She shook her head and stood beside Janet as the Standish family slowly ate their way through a surprisingly large amount of food. Lord Standish was as tall as his wife, with a distinguished attitude that befitted a government minister, but it was clear that he was slowly losing the battle against his weight. Even sitting down, Gwen could see that he was developing a paunch that would eventually leave him as overweight as Lord Mycroft. But his eyes were sharp and there was nothing wrong with his mind. She just hoped he didn’t pay close enough attention to her to realise that there was something wrong.

  Janet seemed to remain perfectly still as they waited, but Gwen had to fight down the urge to fidget. She remembered all the long boring meals she’d endured with her mother and father and felt a twinge of guilt at the thought of the servants just standing there, waiting for their lords and masters to finish. It hadn’t been much better at Cavendish Hall, particularly as young magicians couldn’t resist showing off their powers at the expense of the servants. It had been hard to convince most of the young men that it would get them in real trouble if they did it publicly.

  Finally, the dinner came to an end and the family withdrew into the drawing room. Gwen allowed herself a moment of relief, then helped Janet clear the table and carry the remains of the food to the kitchen. It seemed like a waste, she thought, until she realised that the staff would keep the food and devour it themselves. On Cook’s command, she picked up a tray of three glasses and carried them into the drawing room, careful to ensure that she offered them to Lord Standish first. He was, at least in theory, the head of the household.