by Amir Lane
That was the main thing, wasn't it? It might not work. Nina's explanation wasn't complete. He had all the instructions, but not whether or not she tried it, and especially not whether or not it worked. The last few pages were missing, torn out. It filled him with unease, but he had to tell himself that it meant nothing. Maybe she just didn't want to risk anybody finding it.
It didn't explain why only the end results were missing and not the instructions, but he couldn't worry about it. Especially, he reminded himself, when the most likely outcome was nothing.
He spent the next few days poring over Nina’s notes with one of Liese’s old to new German dictionaries, deciphering the few words he hadn’t managed to figure out by context. The… ritual seemed straight-forward enough. Not fun, but simple. It almost felt too simple to work. It was all he had, though. The worst case scenario was that he wasted a few hours. Actually, looking over the rushed cursive, there was a good chance it might make him sick. That said, what kind of scientist would he be if he didn’t experiment?
He took Liese’s truck downtown to get what he needed, and anything that was missing from the fridge. It seemed like the least he could do. When he got back home, he realized he’d brought Zven’s favourite cookies. Nobody else in the house liked them, but he couldn’t bear to throw them out. He tucked the box into the cupboard where nobody would touch it.
He had everything. Well, almost everything. Everything but the last thing he translated:
The blood of a Necromancer.
He didn’t know any Necromancers, and he didn’t know anybody that did. Mostly because he still wasn’t entirely convinced that any of this wasn’t complete bullshit.
The only one he knew was Nina Kruspe. But Nina Kruspe was long dead. Even if he knew where she was buried, there was no way there was any blood left.
He had a crazy idea. Well, slightly more crazy than this idea of trying to summon his dead boyfriend with instructions left by his dead aunt. Nina was his aunt. Technically, her blood was in his veins. He wasn’t sure that counted, but it was the closest thing he had. Which meant he needed to fill a jar with his own blood. It was about the last thing he wanted to do right now.
Digging up Nina was starting to look like the better idea.
It took a few days to do it. Ekkehardt could only bleed so much at once before dizziness overtook him and he had to stop. The cuts were shallow, close enough to the crease of his elbow to keep anybody from noticing. By the time he had what he hoped was enough, he could watch himself bleed into the jar without immediately feeling faint and nauseous. It didn’t feel like a good thing.
14
Ekkehardt waited until Liese and Jakob were asleep and there was no sound in the house. He stood in the open doorway of his bedroom for a long few minutes, gathering the courage to sneak through the halls. If either of them woke up and found him, they would kill him. Or, worse, tell his parents.
It had taken a lot of sly asking around to find out where Zven was buried. There were few people who knew and even fewer who wanted to share that information. But he'd managed to find a girl whose best friend's cousin’s roommate was a wall guard, and she'd heard through him where he was. An unmarked grave not far from where they'd been shot. He could get there and back before sunrise if he left now.
Liese’s keys were sitting on the counter where anybody could take them. He shoved them into his pocket, gritting his teeth at how loud the jangling metal was. Everything he needed was in his backpack, except for the shovel he'd stashed at the side of the house. Jakob used it for gardening, so it was already covered in dirt. He wouldn't notice a little more. Ekkehardt wrapped it in a paper bag to keep the seats clean and shoved it in the back of the car.
It was impossible to make the truck, which should have been retired years ago, be quiet, but it was the only one he had access to in Berlin. Ekkehardt had to hope Jakob and Liese wouldn't hear it. He backed out of the driveway and headed in the direction the girl he'd talked to had pointed him in. He had to pull over more than once to squint in the dark at his map, but it only took him two whole hours to find the unowned plot of land.
He was never going to make it home before dawn, was he?
It was already past one in the morning. He parked as far off the side of the road as he could, far enough that nobody should have been able to see it just driving past.
His bag and shovel felt much heavier now than they had when he left the house. He stepped outside the car and was struck by the stillness of the air. There were no birds, no insects, no traffic. Not even the sound of his own feet against the dirt reached his ears. Something was blanketing this place, stifling the world around him. It made the hairs on his arms and neck stand on end. Something pushed against him as he walked, as if trying to keep him out of a place he had no business being, as if this place knew he was going to desecrate it with blood magic.
‘It's called the wind, genius,’ he told himself.
It was wind and nerves making him think there was more going on here than there really was. This place had no idea who he was or what he was here for, and even if it did, there was nothing it could do about it.
The reminder didn't keep him from wanting to turn back.
Even with his flashlight, it was hard to tell where he was going. He inched down the bank off the road, knees bent and hand on the ground to keep himself from falling. Rocks and twigs and God knew what else dug into the thin glove that offered just enough protection from the January chill. His foot slipped on a frozen patch of dirt, and his heart leapt into his throat as he slid down several feet, grabbing at the ground and digging his heels to slow himself to a stop. For a few seconds, he lay flat against the ground and struggled to gasp through the dust entering his throat and lungs. He rolled over onto his stomach, propping himself up onto his elbows, and spat out as much of it as he could. If this was the worst part of his night, he would call it a success.
His flashlight had fallen several feet from him but it continued to shine in the direction he'd been going. He grabbed it and the shovel, and let himself slide the remaining feet until he reached the flat part of the ground.
At first, even with the flashlight, he didn't notice anything worth noticing, but the farther he walked, the colder it became. He felt what his mother called a Swedish winter approaching before he reached the first plot of upturned earth.
The first unmarked grave.
Ekkehardt’s breath trembled and the reality of what he was doing — and of what this place was — hit him. He watched the blurred shapes move in front of the light. There were more of them now, flitting around like moths. It made sense that there were so many here; it was a graveyard, one where there had obviously been too little care for the deceased for their spirits to rest. Knowing Zven was at least one of the deceased, if not one of the spirits, hurt his heart. He whispered a small prayer, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing would be enough to make up for the pointlessness of these deaths. People just like them, who hadn’t done anything wrong, were gunned down like animals. The Schießbefehl — the order to fire — wasn’t supposed to be an order to kill on sight but if they did, well, it wasn’t like the officers were penalized.
There were almost half a dozen graves that he could see, but there were probably more. And, of course, since all of them were unmarked, he had no way of knowing which one, if any, was Zven’s. He walked around each, shining the flashlight on them until he was sure he’d examined all of them. The one farthest from the road had the least amount of grass over it, marking it as the newest. This had to be it. He couldn’t fathom that someone else had been killed and dumped here since then. It was too much to consider.
Digging shouldn’t have been as difficult as it was but his chest ached when his heart sped up with the exercise, and he had to stop more often than he would have liked. But finally, the shovel hit something that wasn’t dirt. It wasn’t a coffin, either. It was just… a body.
Ekkehardt sat at the edge of the grave. He wasn’t ready to look. He didn
’t know what would be worse: finding that it was Zven, or finding that it was someone else.
Someone else would be worse, he decided.
If it was someone else, he would have to dig up another grave and not only did he not think he could handle it physically, he didn’t have the stomach for it either.
“Dear God,” he whispered, “please… Please.”
He didn’t know what he was asking for. If there was anything to ask for. He squeezed his eyes shut, took a deep breath, and shone the light on the face. It was covered in dirt, making it impossible to make out any features. He leaned in, and the stench hit his nose, strong enough to make bile rise in the back of his throat. He turned his head to avoid vomiting on the body. Breathing through his mouth wasn't much better. The smell wasn't as bad, but he could taste the decay at the back of his tongue, and it was almost worse.
“Suck it up,” he said through ground teeth. “You didn't come all this way to back out over a smell.”
He held his breath and moved to stand over the body. The hole wasn't very deep, only four or five feet. Even without breathing, the stench surrounded him. There was an actual weight to it, bearing down on his body the closer he got. It was the second worse thing he’d ever experienced. He uncovered as much of the body as he could with the shovel, lifting his head out of the hole as often as he needed to for some semi-fresh air. It was wearing Zven’s clothes. He wiped his face on his shoulder and crouched to wipe the dirt from the body’s face. His skin had begun to fall apart, and most of his hair and teeth had fallen out. Insects had already gotten to him. Ekkehardt couldn’t even recognize him. If not for the safety pins holding his suspenders together, he might not have even been sure it was Zven.
His knees gave out and he had to lean back against the wall of the hole to keep from collapsing on top of Zven. He hadn’t expected it to be this bad. He had already seen Zven’s body, but not like this. Not like this. Not…
He covered his face with his arm. Tears mingled with sweat and dirt. He screamed and wailed through the pain in his throat and his heart. Even if the ritual in Nina’s journal wouldn’t work, he couldn’t just leave Zven here. He had to be buried properly, in a coffin and a real grave, not this. He didn’t deserve this.
But it would work. Nina had done it. Zven had told him that he could do it. Zven had led him to all of this. Futile or not, he had to try. Anything to get rid of the pain shooting through every inch of his body, right down into his fucking soul.
Ekkehardt struggled to hook his arms under Zven’s knees and shoulders and lift him out of the hole. He had to lean back against the dirt and practically roll the decaying body out.
Without the shadows of the hole, Ekkehardt could get a better look at the damage. And there was… a lot of damage. It looked like animals had gotten to him before he’d been buried. Part of his face had been eaten, and the ends of his fingers were missing. Ekkehardt didn’t want to look for teeth marks to confirm.
What was going to happen if he did bring him back to life? His body was falling apart and— What the hell had happened to his eyes?
Ekkehardt doubled over. Bile burned his throat as the rest of his meals came up.
“Fuck,” he mumbled, gasping. “Oh, fuck…”
Every time he looked back down, the urge to vomit rose in his throat again.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, smearing dirt across his face. Ludwig had been dead at least as long as Zven when Nina tried to bring him back, according to the dates. Yes, the rest of the pages had been torn out. Yes, he had no idea how that ended. Maybe putting a spirit back into a body fixed it. If it had worked for Ludwig, it would work for Zven.
It had to work for Zven.
Ekkehardt’s bag was still on the other side of the hole where he’d left it. He grabbed it and dumped the contents of it onto the ground. He remembered too late the glass jar. It hit his foot and rolled off, uncracked as far as he could tell. Thank God. He didn’t know what he would have done if it had broken. Replacing all that blood right here wouldn’t have left him with enough energy to do this.
“Okay,” he exhaled, “you can do this. Just… Just do it.”
He dug two candles into the dirt, one on either side of Zven’s head, and lit them. The dim glow made it easier to see without having to hold the flashlight between his teeth. There wasn’t much of Zven’s chest left, but Ekkehardt managed to find a place to rest the shallow bowl that he filled with the hemlock, henbane, aloe, saffron, mandrake root, and poppy seeds. That last one was supposed to be opium, but that wasn’t as easy to find. That was what opium was made from, right? It would have to do the trick.
A second bowl of wine and oil went between Zven’s thighs. Ekkehardt wasn’t going to ask why there, but that was what Nina said. He lit the contents of each bowl on fire and stepped back. The flames rose in small fireballs. Hope rose in Ekkehardt’s chest. Zven was here. He must have been.
The easy part was over. The stench of Ekkehardt’s sweat was almost worse than the stench of the rotting corpse at his feet. He picked up Nina’s journal with one hand and the large knife next to it with the other and flipped to one of the bookmarked pages. There were only a couple steps left. Carve this symbol into them and… drink a litre of his own blood. Piece of cake.
“If I can do this, I get Zven back. I’m doing this for Zven,” he reminded himself.
Grief and pain were making him delusional. He was starting to believe his own bullshit.
Why hadn’t he done this before lighting the fires? If he put them out, would that break the connection to… wherever spirits were? Besides the ones that had been hanging around him, at least. He couldn’t risk it, especially if Zven wasn’t here yet. He didn’t need the journal. He had long since memorized each symbol and sigil in this journal, but he didn’t want to risk making a mistake. He left it on the ground as close to the candle as he could without having to worry about it burning. Should he cut himself first or Zven? Himself, definitely himself. The other way just was not sanitary. Less sanitary than the rest of this situation.
The knife burned the spot under his elbow, the largest and most convenient spot to carve a dark magic sigil. If this didn’t work, he was going to find the closest insane asylum.
He ground his teeth against the pain, staring up at the sky while he did it and only glancing down to check the drawing. He’d traced the pattern with a knife against paper dozens of times but it was nothing like the real thing. It hurt so much more than he’d expected. If he was honest, he’d been sort of pretending that it wasn’t going to hurt. He cried out from between his teeth and squeezed his eyes against his tears. Blood ran down his arm, staining his shirt and the dirt beneath him. By the time he was done, he was seconds away from hyperventilating, but he’d managed not to throw up again.
He almost pressed his arm to his chest to stem the bleeding and maybe dull the pain, but he stopped himself. His clothes were covered in dirt and decay and absolutely nothing he wanted in an open wound. Dammit, he should have brought bandages or a towel. The best he could do was unzip his jacket and use his t-shirt. It was mostly clean, clean enough.
When he could see through the pain, he crouched next to Zven. It was now or never.
Still, he hesitated. He didn’t think he could do this. Even if it didn’t look like him, this was the man he’d fallen in love with. How had he thought that it would be so easy?
“I promise, I’m doing this for a good reason.”
As soon as he made the first incision in Zven’s stomach, his vision blurred and his eyes watered. He stumbled back, narrowly avoiding falling back into the hole, gasping for air. There was nothing in the goddamn universe that smelled worse than this. God, he couldn’t even remember what fresh air smelled like. There was nothing left in his stomach, but that didn’t keep him from retching and dry heaving. The words to describe how revolting this was didn’t exist. Revolting was putting it mildly. Revolting was meat left on the counter too long. This was a whole other thi
ng entirely. He hadn’t been sure whether the smell or the act of cutting into his dead boyfriend with a steak knife was going to be worse, but he knew now.
He held his breath and kept cutting the symbol that matched the one in his arm as quickly as he could. It was like the black magic version of matching tattoos. Under different circumstances, he might have laughed about it.
He swapped the knife for the jar full of his blood. The blood of a soon-to-be Necromancer. The thing that everything was riding on, more than the opium. If this didn’t suffice, then digging up and carving up his boyfriend’s body, not to mention his own, was for nothing. He struggled to unscrew the cap. Damn him for being smart enough to screw it too tight to leak in his bag. He managed to get it off, despite the blood soaking his hands, by using his shirt.
Drawing a circle around Zven’s body emptied over half the jar, but it still looked like there was still a good litre in there. It was plenty. He stood over Zven’s body and started drinking. It was thick and warm and reeked of old iron. He coughed and spluttered on the first sip, getting more on the front of his shirt than in his stomach.
“God, that’s gross,” he groaned.
He plugged his nose and tried again. His mother always told him that plugging his nose when he ate something he didn’t like would get rid of the taste, but it didn’t appear to work for blood any better than it did for onions. He chugged as much as he could at a time to make it go faster, but he had to stop every few hundred millilitres to gag. It was too much; he couldn’t finish. There was still a quarter of the jar left when he felt it come back up. The jar fell from his hands as he doubled over at the sharp stabs in his gut, so much worse than they should have been just from vomiting again. He didn’t have the presence of mind to grab for it or stop himself from screaming in pain. His knees hit the ground, his entire body collapsing in on itself.