A Different Kind of Deadly

by Nicole Martinsen

  A Different Kind

  of Deadly

  Nicole Martinsen

  Copyright © 2015 by Nicole Martinsen

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  ISBN 0-9000000-0-0

  www.NicoleMartinsen.com

  Part One: Inval's Legacy

  First came Soma and Myalo, twins of Flesh and Mind

  Through their strengths these brothers two brought glory on Mankind

  They knew not that the Third did watch

  that wicked Witch of Pox and Plague

  And from the depths of Nethermountain,

  Astheneia, patient, her time bade.

  Soma and Myalo came and sprung the foul coil

  They fell into the Nethermount and hit its tainted soil

  Vindictive Astheneia struck the brothers will her ill

  And with her servant, Ponos thus, she cast her culling spell

  Salvation came from Psychi, in whispered words of sagely Lore,

  "Soon, my bright and mortal friends, you will suffer this no more."

  And once their hearts were filled with hope they knocked on Thanos' door.

  He bent over the hollow men, ghosts of what they used to be

  And plucked the breath from dying lips to show them Death's mercy.

  Song of the Six Houses

  1: Ultimatum

  In this world two things terrify me to the point of collapse.

  Death.

  And my mother.

  And as she stood over me, seconds after coming-to from my most recent episode, I felt my heart drop into the pit of my stomach.

  "Tell me," she crooned, making no effort to hide her disgust, "How have you managed to disappoint me today?"

  If I stayed silent, I was damned.

  If I told the truth, I was double damned.

  If I lied, I was supremely damned.

  However, being a glutton for punishment and bound by my conscience (cursed thing that it is) my choice was clear.

  "I fainted during the autopsy."

  She threw her hands above her head; the skeletal form of her too-tight skin stretched out even thinner, and my mother let out an ear-splitting screech. Somewhere in the back of my mind I wished I had died rather than just blacked out earlier.

  But knowing my family...

  That would only be the beginning of a far darker hell.

  "You." She slammed her palms beside my shoulders; I receded into the couch. "You are twenty-six forsaken years old, and you still can't watch a body, not even rotten, mind you, being cut up?"

  Her nose was like the tip of a bayonet. After the better part of a minute, she withdrew.

  "Sit up."

  I complied.

  Her hair was piled up into a bun so taut it was painful to look at. The black and gray strands eerily resembled the angry feathers of a raven.

  "Look at your family." Her voice became pleading; she lifted a hand to motion to dozens of portraits on the wall. "Do you see how proud they are? How talented? How do you think they'd feel if they knew that my eldest son didn't want to continue their legacy?"

  I did my best to meet the faces in the frames. To me, each and every single one of them looked like they were dying. Not in the sense that any living creature is in a perpetual state of getting closer to death, but in a way that suggested my ancestors made it their mission to become lifeless.

  Pallid skin, shallow eyes, bluish lips...

  I cringed.

  "Mother, have you ever thought that I might not be cut out for the family business?"

  Her eyes narrowed into blackened slits; the click of her heels stabbed my ears with every step she took.

  "There is no such thing," she muttered dangerously. "You may be a disgrace; the greatest I've ever known, but you are still a part of this family. Get over your idiotic phobias and take up the mantle, or else I promise you, my son," she curled a razor finger beneath my chin, lifting it to meet a terrifying smile, "What you now refuse to do for your lifetime, I will see that you do in death for eternity. Understood?"

  I nodded numbly.

  "You have one month." Her shawl slapped my face on her exit.

  I didn't know how much time passed between the instant she left and the moment I became unfrozen, but I knew with utter certainty that this was my last chance. I needed a plan... the first part was to get my mind functioning again.

  My name is Marvin.

  I suffer from acute necrophobia.

  And I have thirty days to become a necromancer.

  Or else I am very, very undead.

  2: Diana

  I spent the remainder of my evening barricaded in the attic, an unappealing place for the rest of my family on account of the sunlight that pierced through the rafters. I peeked through the gap between the wooden boards, at the wasteland of the Howling Desert -named for the winds that screeched across the dunes at night.

  The majority of our home was in the depths of Nethermount, where cool earth and lack of humidity made it ideal for storing bodies. As for myself, well... I never quite fit in.

  It was a point of pride for relatives to show off exotic new acquisitions; dwarves or elves or various fey. Stitched limbs and bizarre tumors were the norm at family dinners, where I did well not to vomit at the table.

  And now, unless I somehow managed to get over my lifetime aversion, I would be the newest addition to my family's collection.

  I leaned against a pile of dusty crates, debating over whether I should give this whole necromancy thing a try, or make funeral preparations while I still had time to order flowers.

  "At least you'll never hurt me," I said, facing the corner. "Right, Diana?"

  Diana tilted her porcelain head to the side. I wasn't certain if this meant she agreed with me, or just nodded because she assumed it was the right thing to do. It's hard to tell with porcelain dolls.

  I found her back when I was twelve, nailed shut inside a coffin. I never discovered why she was tucked away like this -she seemed harmless enough.

  I grabbed a bone comb and sat on the floor, running it through her hair.

  "You have to take better care of yourself." She turned her head and blinked once, giving me an opportunity to admire her glass-blown eyes. They were pink, like the petals of a cherry blossom, nestled under long brown lashes. I braided her hair at the sides, fastening the strands over her shoulder. "Whoever made you must've loved you very much."

  The peachy paint that made up her lips spread at the corners, forming a tiny smile. A blush bloomed across her the apples of her cheeks.

  "You know, you're the closest thing I've ever had to a friend."

  The paint disappeared, forming an appalled frown. Sunlight passed above us, landing in her eyes. It made it look like she was on the verge of tears.

  Diana placed a hand over mine, the ball-joints of her knuckles moving to squeeze it tight. She should have been cold, but her touch was as warm and alive as my own.

  I told her about my latest flub at the autopsy, and my mother's ultimatum.

  No one born to Nethermount has the option of being anything other than a necromancer. Most people are convinced of our obsession with death, never realizing that it's the other way around. We are scientists that worship life in every incarnation, regarding life after death as the highest form of art.

  To call my aversion an embarrassment was the understatement of a century.

  Once I'd had a few minutes to brood over everything I felt a tug at my sleeve. Diana lifted her other arm and
pointed at a tarp against the wall.

  She grabbed the sheet and tossed it into a pile, revealing a very old fireplace. Kneeling, I saw that some bricks had fallen out, allowing sunlight to stream on the ashes.

  Or at least, where ashes should have been.

  Instead I found a bed of nightshade. Tiny purple trumpets reached towards the sky, so bright and beautiful that, for a moment, I forgot all about my impending funeral.

  "Did you grow these?"

  Diana smiled.

  I searched for some paper and a writing utensil, bringing them to her so I could have some more detailed answers.

  "Where did you find the seeds?"

  She scribbled a reply.

  Between the floorboards.

  Do the flowers please you?

  "Yes," I smiled. "More than you know."

  She took up the pen again.

  Why are you... afraid of bodies?

  I looked at the question for a long time, considering an answer.

  "Because they're dead... and by that I mean... it's something that should breathe, and move, but doesn't. It's unnatural."

  Because life-sized animated dolls are natural?

  "You look like you could be alive. You fooled me the first time I saw you. Sometimes, in certain kinds of light, I still wonder."

  Ohh, she wrote, your problem isn't with dead things, it's with things that look dead.

  "...there's a difference?"

  Her glass eyes rolled back in her head. Diana dug through the crates, throwing items into a burlap bag. She slung it over her shoulder and took me by the hand.

  "Diana, where are we going?"

  She'd put away the notepad from earlier, so she had no way of telling me specifics. I chose to trust this living doll as she dragged me into Nethermount, deep below the desert sands.

  3: The Pit

  The one good thing that came with living in a clan of necromancers was that the halls were almost always empty.

  Allow me to explain.

  Necromancers raise the dead –that much is true, but most of us aren't the spell-muttering, cloak-and-dagger figures popular culture makes us out to be. If a plague sweeps through the region, you can either take your chances with the village mystics, or you can find one of us.

  Turns out people that spend most of their free times cutting into bodies know a great deal about how they work –go figure.

  The complex we live in is collectively known as Nethermount. It's an extensive series of huge, underground caverns that accommodate the Six Houses. Houses are the family branches that make up the Clan. The bigger the House, the more say it has in matters involving Nethermount. This ranges anywhere from what food we order from the local suppliers, to claims on fresh or unique cadavers.

  Thanos, my House, happens to be the smallest, but we're also the only exception to the rule.

  And that's because we've produced some of the most... eccentric necromancers to have graced these halls.

  And somehow I've managed to explain everything but why the halls are empty. Aren't mental tangents great?

  "I'm an idiot sometimes."

  Diana nodded vigorously.

  And I just got told off by a doll.

  In a nutshell, necromancers are narcissists. They generally keep to their quarters; if someone has to go through the common halls then it's typically their undead errand-runners.

  If my mother knew this was my regular route, I'd never hear the end of it –doing things by oneself was seen as a very plebeian thing to do.

  I cringed as I realized where Diana was leading me. A set of cast iron doors loomed across the hall. I could practically feel the chill beyond just by looking at them. She calmly placed her fingers on the handle, and I reminded myself to breathe.

  Diana was small by human standards, standing at a solid five and a quarter feet tall. This included her shoes, which added two inches to her stature. She was slender and pale, with straight brown hair and petal-pink eyes. I could think of many words to describe her –none of them tough.

  So one might imagine my surprise when she was able to throw those doors open with a flick of her wrist.

  She took advantage of my shock to shove me into the room, closing the doors before I had the chance to escape.

  Mine was an expression of total dismay.

  You're fine, she wrote, haven taken out her notebook. I'll be back in ten minutes. You don't have to move, but please don't run off.

  She turned before I could suggest an alternative that involved me being as far away from this place as possible; leaving me slumped against the Morgue's cold quartz wall.

  Each House had their own place to store bodies, but Nethermount had a communal area for them as well. It was a long space, with stone slabs lining either side. The walls had inlets for specimens that required extensive freezing.

  At the farthest end of the room, just beyond my line of sight, was the Pit.

  It was exactly as its name implied –a big hole in the ground. There was an oculus in the ceiling right above it. Topside, it looked like an old well. It used to be that superstitious locals would hold rituals and offer their own to the Pit, believing that they would be protected from death and disease through blood sacrifice.

  At that time, the title of necromancer didn't exist. All people knew was that we were really, really good at keeping others healthy. Some called that magic. We called it knowledge.

  Although, once we branched into the whole raising-people-from-the-dead thing, we weren't liked as much. And on that matter, I happen to agree with the angry mobs.

  Diana returned not long after my musings ended, wearing a triumphant grin.

  "Should I be concerned?"

  Her smile vanished at my remark, grabbing my arm with a hint of the strength she'd demonstrated earlier. It told me I wasn't going to weasel my way out of this one.

  She led me to a slab. I could see the outline of a body through my fingers, snapping them closed when I was within fainting range.

  I heard Diana scribble on her notepad.

  Do you trust me?

  "Of course I do." I looked at her in earnest. "It's me I don't trust."

  Marvin, just look. If you do it once I'll never force you to come back here again.

  It was a rare thing for Diana to make a compromise.

  I detected the sincerity in her face. It sounds ridiculous, I know, that a doll could have any real expression, but I'd said it already: I'd known Diana for years. She was sarcastic and took great pleasure in pointing out when I was being a coward, but she'd never lied to me.

  Not once.

  Bearing that in mind, I dropped my hands to take a look at the body on the slab.

  It was a man about the age of forty; a desert-dwelling nomad, judging by the tattoos across his brow. He was still wearing the clothes he had when he died. They were worn, but well maintained, save for the hole in the abdomen. His extremities had no evident signs of struggle or tampering. He didn't die of the initial stab wound, but he did bleed out from the stomach. It was a painful way to go, and could've lasted anywhere from ten to forty minutes –whoever killed him wanted him to suffer as much as possible.

  What took me by the most surprise was that I assessed his condition without a great deal of strain. My eyes cautiously roved his features; he was classically handsome, with broad shoulders and a strong jaw. And strangely, he looked almost... alive.

  "Diana, what did you do?"

  Diana opened her bag and shoved it under my nose. Crushed pearl powder, paint pigments, kohl –all things I'd seen on my mother's dressing table as a young boy. Things she used to make her severe bone structure that much more terrifying.

  "Cosmetics?" I ran a finger down his forearm, inspecting the peachy cream that came off on my glove. "You put makeup on a corpse?"

  She flipped through her notes, pointing at something she'd written earlier.

  Your problem isn't with dead things.

  "...it's with things that look dead," I read aloud, watching
as her smile grew. "Diana, you're a genius!"

  She performed a pirouette that dipped into a bow.

  Well, she wrote, what are you waiting for? Dissect him and present your efforts to your mother.

  I shifted uncomfortably, looking at the nomad's corpse.

  It wasn't that I was squeamish over anatomy –I could juggle jars filled with organs all day long. It's how I learned, since our more traditional methods proved to be... difficult, for someone with my reservations.

  But cutting into a body was a different matter.

  Diana came fully prepared; setting out the surgical tools I never had the courage to use. I took a scalpel and examined its edge in the light.

  You've practiced on leather, Marvin. I've seen you make the cuts a thousand times. You can do this.

  4: Dinnertime

  The memory of actually performing the operation wasn't there. I wondered if I'd blacked out somehow, but the blood on my gloves said otherwise. My stomach churned violently while I looked the other way. I couldn't peel them off fast enough.

  Diana had the presence of mind to cover the remains now that I was through with them. The heart, lungs, brain, and liver of my unwitting patient were neatly collected into glass jars. She took the liberty of marking my name on one of the research cabinets, storing the fruits of my labor.

  Diana then studied me with an expression I'd never seen before. It looked like she was searching for something, but I didn't know what she could possibly find that wasn't there five seconds ago.

  "Is something wrong?" I asked.

  Diana remembered herself, and her painted face defaulted to an impassive stare.

  She shook her head no.

  "Then we should get you back to the attic." I glanced at the door leading out of the Morgue. "We need to hurry if we want to make it before the-"

  The dinner bell cut me off.

  Its metallic sound ricocheted through the caverns of Nethermount, and echoed long after its source had fallen still.

  I couldn't believe how bad my timing was.