I opened my mouth to confirm my thoughts, then shut it without voicing the questions. Rochelle’s disclosure was unexpectedly unsettling. But also, the why and the how weren’t any of my business.
All right, then. I focused on my knitting, thinking over all the correct things to say in this situation. All the warnings and whatevers that a necromancer was supposed to give when an Adept approached them with a request. Because this was my first commission. Banishing shades, talking to ghosts, easing transitions — this was what necromancers did. Even raising corpses when supremely necessary. Usually such things would be done as commissions, working at the direction of the witches Convocation. Though some necromancers freelanced as well.
But not me. I was still in training. Sort of. Really, I was just on hold until my mother deemed me ready. Even more so than with other types of magic, necromancy grew more potent with age.
I was only nineteen, two months away from turning twenty. But it wasn’t just my youth that had me in limbo. It was the fact that I’d spent too much time with Sienna — aka Jade’s sister, and a black witch — against my will. And even though that didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things, and it was four years later now, everyone was still waiting around to see if I was going to flip the evil switch as well.
I knit another row, then looked up at Rochelle. The oracle was gazing off across the graveyard again. “You know, it wouldn’t actually be your mother, right? Just a shade. Assuming I manage to find anything even vaguely corporeal at all, given the fact she was cremated.”
“How is a shade different than a ghost?”
“A shade is like an echo, occasionally of the person’s last moments. Say, if their death was traumatic in some way. They can also manifest as a death loop. You can ask questions of a shade, but you might not get an answer. You might not be able to get any response at all. You know how sometimes you’ll be walking along and get a random, all-body cold shiver? You might have just walked through a stationary shade.”
“Really?”
I shrugged, keeping my attention mostly on my knitting even though I could work a simple pattern by feel. “Some say so. Anyway, a ghost contains some of the essence of who a person was. It’s a remnant of their spirit, or energy if you like that idea better. Ghosts often remain in this dimension by choice, like they have unfinished business or they’re looking after a loved one. Like how my great-uncle, Walter, chose to stay with my mom when he died. She was only two years old at the time, and Uncle Walter was the only family she had left. Occasionally, ghosts can also wind up trapped in this dimension. They can often communicate, present an idealized image of themselves, and occasionally even interact with our world. Briefly. And usually because a necromancer has fed some of their own magic into them.”
Rochelle was staring at me. Her normal, almost offish caution — which seemed to be her default when interacting with anyone other than Beau — had turned to outright wariness.
“Do you want me to continue explaining?”
“Yes, please.”
“Some necromancers claim that there’s a third level. That a person’s spirit can be summoned, either for questioning or to briefly manifest. But the practice, if even possible, is … frowned upon. You know.”
“Summoned from where?”
I gave Rochelle a look.
“You mean, like from heaven … or hell?”
“Everyone has their own belief system.”
“But we’re talking about magic, yes? And all magic has practical roots, fueled by energy, say from the earth itself.”
“For witches.”
“And necromancers?”
I shrugged again. “Did you know that necromancy really only passes through the female line?”
“I’d heard.”
“Some people believe that’s because only women can deal in life and death.”
Rochelle snorted. “Plenty of people deal in death.”
“But they don’t harness it.”
“So … you’re saying that … death powers necromancers?”
“Sure. Makes sense, doesn’t it? The energy released when someone or something dies triggers an ability in some people.”
“And heaven and hell? Do you believe? I mean, if you summon my mother, you’ll be pulling her from heaven?”
“No,” I said, more sharply than I’d intended. “Summoning spirits is just conjecture. I don’t … that’s not actually possible. Not for me, certainly. And as for heaven … well, ghosts can’t really talk about it. They can’t discuss the different levels of existence.”
“Like you ask and they can’t answer?”
“Yeah. You ask and they blink out, or fade, or go all fuzzy when they try to answer. Like something is restricting them from talking. From transmitting.”
Rochelle looked a little pale, a little shaken. But that wasn’t unusual around necromancers. Even Jade with all her power got a little peaky when confronted by death magic.
“Something … as in God?”
“I can’t answer that part.”
“Are spirits … angels?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Have you met an angel?”
“Nope. But I’ve met enough demons to tell you they aren’t coming from hell. Just another dimension. Like the elves. Ask any of the dragons, they’ve been around the longest.”
Rochelle shuffled uncomfortably. Though I wasn’t sure if it was the mention of dragons or of demons that had put her off.
I opted to change the subject. “Why me? There are two more powerful necromancers in town. Why did Pearl Godfrey send you to me?”
“She didn’t. I just see you here … in this graveyard.”
I shrugged. “I come here often.”
Rochelle hesitated.
I hated it when people hesitated before talking. It usually meant they were considering lying, or telling a half-truth. And then I was usually forced to go along with the lie like it was an actual conversation we were having.
“No. That’s not what I mean.” Rochelle shoved her left hand in her army-green satchel. Her tone was soft, as if she were afraid of frightening me.
Me. The necromancer fueled by death magic, who’d been freaking the oracle out only moments before.
“No. I see you.” She tugged a thick fold of paper from her bag.
I knew what she was handing me even before she held it out.
A sketch.
Of me. Of my future.
I had never seen one of Rochelle’s visions — the final version, rendered on paper — but people talked. All right, Jade Godfrey talked. Everyone else was pretty mum about anything having to do with power around me.
I took the proffered paper, feeling myself hesitating suddenly.
“It’s not bad.” Rochelle fiddled with a ring on her left hand. A gold wedding band crusted with tiny diamonds. Her husband Beau wore a matching one, though his was thicker. And according to the rumor mill, aka Benjamin Garrick, it adjusted in size whenever he transformed. Both rings had been crafted by Jade, the same as my necklace. “It just … is …” she said.
I unfolded the sketch. And there I was, rendered in black, smudged charcoal. I was perched on my favorite gravestone — the one I was presently seated on.
I had developed a habit when I was young, even before my necromancy had manifested. I had demanded to visit the graves and interment places of young children whenever I traveled with my mother while she was working — and would occasionally throw a tantrum if that demand wasn’t indulged. I used to swear that the children would whisper secrets to me, though my mother always insisted that their essence had moved on.
That had been my version of imaginary friends. Though the gravestone I most identified with at Mountain View was different. The sweet soul interred beneath my feet occasionally made an appearance, and I … I was hoping that one day I’d have the ability to help her. To release her from whatever held her in this dimension.
“Your hair is different.” Rochelle s
tepped up beside me and leaned closer, peering down at the sketch in my hands.
“Yeah,” I mumbled, taking in every stroke and smudge on the paper. I looked … different. Different than I saw myself in the mirror. Fiercer, bolder. Just … more. I wondered if that was how Rochelle saw my magic, as if it added an extra layer to me as a person. “I change my hair a lot.”
“No,” Rochelle said. “It’s different in the sketch … in the vision. Blue and purple, not the purple and red you have now. Were you planning on dyeing it again soon?”
I shook my head, unable to tear my gaze away from the drawing. “I just changed it from blue.”
“Ah …” Rochelle nodded thoughtfully.
“You, um … you see in color but sketch in black and white?”
She hesitated for long enough that I realized I’d overstepped, asking such a personal question. It was one thing to explain in general terms how something like necromancy worked, or to ask for specifics about the sketch I was holding. It was completely another thing to interrogate an Adept about their process. How their magic functioned, or even how it felt for them specifically. Magic was like sex that way. Not that I had much experience with either.
“Yes,” the oracle finally said. “Things … I didn’t know, you know, when the visions started, what was happening.”
“You didn’t have anyone to ask.”
“No, I didn’t. And when I was trying to make sense of it all, black and white felt more … grounded but less … real …” She trailed off, embarrassed.
“I understand. My mother works as a necromancer for the Convocation. And usually that means summoning ghosts to question them. Or, conversely, laying a ghost to rest who’s getting all poltergeisty. But … three times now, she’s had to go … examine, assess other necromancers. Adepts, but outside of any known bloodline, whose magic had manifested and made them think they were …”
“Crazy.”
“Yeah.”
Rochelle nodded, then looked back down at the sketch I was holding. “I get that.”
I spent another moment contemplating the version of me depicted in the drawing. Then I asked the question I had to ask but really didn’t want to. “So … there’s no way this is just, you know, a casual thing? Right?”
“Me having a vision of you? Rather than any of the other epically powerful beings that come and go from Vancouver?”
“Yeah. That’s what I thought.” And that in a nutshell was why hanging out with people way more powerful than me was a bad idea. Except that everyone in Vancouver was more powerful than me, it seemed.
“So … my mother?”
I folded the sketch, carefully tucking it in with my knitting. “You still want me to look for her?”
“Yes. I understand you might not be able to speak to her, but I have this … feeling …” She didn’t finish her thought.
“Like a vision? Your magic told you to seek her out?”
“No.” Rochelle wrapped her hands over her belly. It was an unconscious gesture that called attention to her pregnancy, which she mostly hid underneath her cold-weather layers. “I’ve been thinking about asking you for some time. Since before we met, really. Since I first learned that necromancers existed.”
“Do you know where her gravesite is?”
“No. I mean, not other than here. As I understand it, this is where the ministry inters unclaimed ashes. I figured out that much.”
“Okay. I’ll try to narrow down the location. She, um … your mom, Jane, died on the day you were born? From a car accident?”
“January 27, 1995. Saint Paul’s Hospital, if that matters.”
“Okay, there has to be some record of that. I’ll start there and let you know how it progresses.”
“Thank you. I, uh … I know that an offering is customary when asking another Adept to perform magic for you. Usually an exchange. But I didn’t know if you’d want a reading from me.”
I nodded, completely agreeing. “Can we bank it? I might not even find a trace of your mother, with her being cremated and all, so …”
“I can owe you. No worries.”
I glanced over to where I’d last seen Beau, but he had stepped out of sight. “Interred remains are spread throughout the cemetery, but there are also a few walled columbaria where single urns are interred, as opposed to combined family units or in-ground spaces. We can start looking together right now, if you like.”
“Sure, um … that would be good.” Rochelle’s shoulders relaxed.
I didn’t know the oracle well enough to have picked up that she’d been tense before. And whether it was exposing her past or asking for a favor that had been bothering her, I still wasn’t sure.
I tucked my knitting away — I hadn’t yet figured out a way to walk and knit at the same time — and hopped down from the headstone. “You can ask Beau to join us, if you like.”
“He’s just, um …”
“Being overly protective?”
I was joking, but Rochelle leveled a look my way that wasn’t amused at all. “Last night wasn’t easy for any of us, Mory.”
“I wasn’t dissing Beau. Not exactly. Just … you can let him know that I’ll know the instant anyone with magic steps into the cemetery, so he’ll have a heads-up.”
Rochelle frowned. “You can … you feel magic through the earth? Like a witch?”
“Nope. Not like a witch.”
She glanced around disconcertedly. “So, um … the ghosts tell you?”
“Occasionally. But don’t worry, there aren’t any around right now. They aren’t big on strangers. Or daylight.”
“Okay …”
“I, uh … the cemetery is mine.” I shrugged. “My territory. I can’t feel anything beyond the fenced boundary, so I suppose an Adept could launch an attack from the sidewalk or street. But most magic wielding is a close-up affair, isn’t it?”
“I guess someone could preset a spell.”
“Like a trap?”
“Yeah.”
“I’d feel that too. It would feel like … like a smudge, I think.”
Rochelle looked at me for a moment, and I just let her. It always seemed odd that necromancy unnerved other Adepts — except for vampires. That made perfect sense. Vampires usually just wanted to eradicate as many necromancers as possible, because we were capable of controlling any magic connected to death. The same power that made it possible for me to feel when someone wielding magic stepped into a cemetery allowed us to control dead things — corpses, bones, ghosts. And, if the necromancer was powerful enough, vampires. But I understood that process was a little iffy, resulting in many necromancers being slaughtered by bloodsuckers, because vampires were only mostly dead.
Or that was how they felt to me, at least. A combination of death magic, which of course called to me, and a deep thrumming spark that felt as though it fueled them. A dark, throbbing energy … like a heartbeat, but without the actual beating, living organ.
With a really powerful vampire — like Kett, Benjamin’s mentor, Jade’s friend, and the executioner of the vampire Conclave — that dark energy was loud, tumultuous, almost overwhelming. And definitely, in my opinion, untamable. The necklace I wore made being around him a bit more bearable, but if Kett wanted to kill me, even on the grounds of a cemetery I’d claimed as my own, he could do it. All I would feel was a great wave of chaos coming for me. Then nothing.
Even though necromancy might be thought unnatural by other Adepts — witches, sorcerers, shapeshifters, and even the oracle standing before me — it was vampires that felt the most discordant to me. Mostly. With one glaring exception. Though I’d met only three vampires so far: Benjamin, Kett, and Jasmine.
“Okay,” Rochelle finally said, tugging her phone out of her bag again. “We can stay for a bit. But then I think we’ll go see if Jade is around and pick up some cupcakes.”
“The bakery’s closed today.” I crossed the wet grass, heading toward the nearest columbarium — a wall of niches designated for crem
ated remains.
Rochelle followed, still texting. “Oh. Right.”
“I was planning to stop by tomorrow.”
“And you’ll text me if anything is up?”
“You, uh … you haven’t seen anything more then? Had another vision? Or?”
Rochelle shook her head, but she didn’t seem happy about it.
“That’s a good thing, right? Not seeing anything should mean there isn’t anything to see. Right?”
Beau appeared a few steps ahead of us. He had likely been summoned by Rochelle’s text, but still, I flinched. I might have been able to feel him on the grounds, but he could still move too quickly for me to track unless I paid constant attention. And paying constant attention like that would be really exhausting.
“Necromancer.” The shapeshifter nodded a greeting.
I kept my gaze somewhere around the level of his chest. Not that I was worried about staring at him, but so I didn’t need to crank my neck. He was over a foot taller than me. “Beau.”
“So, we’re ghost hunting?” Beau grinned at Rochelle, displaying very white teeth.
Honestly, I could almost feel some of his adoration splash against my left shoulder. “Something like that,” I mumbled. “I thought I could do a quick scan and see what impressions I get. If we can find any dates that line up in this section.”
Beau nodded, reaching over and linking his fingers through Rochelle’s. “Sometime in 1995. Not necessarily January, though, because they might not have buried her right away.”
“Right. Let’s take a look.”
The cloudy sky was darkening as I led Rochelle and Beau across the cemetery, but it was heralding the sun setting rather than rain. We made our way over to the white stone walls of the columbarium. While the oracle and shifter wandered nearby, quietly chatting and looking at headstones, I visually scanned the first two sections of niches designed to hold cremated remains, checking names and dates. Most of the stone panels affixed to the front of the niches were inscribed, though a couple near the bottom were blank. None were marked Jane Doe, Jane Hawthorne, or January 27, 1995, though.
Graveyards, Visions, and Other Things That Byte (Dowser 8.5) Page 2