by Amir Lane
Zven leaned back until his head was in Ekkehardt’s lap, the way they used to sit. Ekkehardt’s chest tightened in a faint, surreal sort of way. He’d forgotten how much he enjoyed sitting like this. He tried to stroke his hand through Zven’s hair, but he couldn’t feel it. Another painful stab through his chest reminding him that this wasn’t real, and it was never going to be.
“Why didn’t it work?” he asked.
It was a rhetorical question, more of a silent plea than a question about logistics. Zven answered the latter anyway.
“You can’t put a spirit in a dead body.”
Ekkehardt had known that, hadn’t he?
“When you say that I can’t exorcise you, do you mean that I don’t want to, or that there’s no way?”
“You can, but it’ll kill you, too.”
Zven’s hand found the sigil carved into his arm, his other resting on his stomach where that same sigil was.
“I don’t understand,” Ekkehardt said.
The list of things he didn’t understand only seemed to be growing longer.
Zven grinned up at him, his white teeth flashing in the dim light. There was something wild and mischievous in that grin. It was the grin that always seemed to land Zven in trouble, the one Ekkehardt could never resist.
“You never did, did you?” he said, though not unkindly. “You didn’t understand what you were going to do. You didn’t understand what Liese could do. You didn’t understand what it meant to get involved with a witch. You still don’t. And now, no matter what you say, you’re going to do something else that you don’t understand. You always want to understand, but you never do, darling. I would feel bad for you if I didn’t know that you would resent it.”
Well, he wasn’t wrong. About any of it. Ekkehardt had no idea what in God’s name any of this was. He’d barely even believed in it until he did it himself, and he still didn’t understand it. Chemistry, he understood. Magic? Not so much.
“So explain it to me.”
“It’s too late for explanations. I never wanted anything like this to happen. I only wanted a life with you, and I’ll take it any damn way I can.”
“Even like this?”
“Even like this.”
Ekkehardt laughed dryly, shaking his head, his eyes closing for a moment.
“This is the beer talking, isn’t it?”
“Who says I wouldn’t say the same thing sober?”
Trust Zven not to take any of this seriously.
“So I shouldn’t get rid of you,” Ekkehardt said.
“I don’t want you to die again, or worse.”
Ekkehardt wasn’t sure which part it was that made him wince.
“I’m stuck with you, then?” he asked, trying to find some humour in this.
“Was there ever any doubt about it? But you aren’t stuck with them, darling. They’re only following you because of me. They aren’t bound to you the way I am.”
Was that— Was that what these sigils were for? To bind a spirit? Goddamn. No wonder it didn’t work the way he’d expected; it didn’t do what he’d expected. In hindsight, it made so much more sense. But now, it was too late to do anything about it.
About Zven.
Not about the rest.
Wasn’t that what he was saying?
“I can get rid of them? The other spirits. I can make them leave?”
“You can.”
“How?”
“You’ll have to find out yourself. The same way you find the answers to everything else you don’t understand.”
Ekkehardt frowned. What the hell was he talking about? When Ekkehardt didn’t understand something, he went to the library and… found… a book.
“The library?”
Zven sat upright and turned to face Ekkehardt in a swift movement he wouldn’t have been able to do in real life.
“You understand books. People, not so much. But books, words, you understand those.” He leaned forward until they were inches apart. There was a glint in his eyes. “And you feel it. The electricity in your veins. You can control them — and me — or you can send them away. It’s up to you.”
“Control them?”
“Blood magic is a powerful thing. Your blood summoned me, Ekkehardt. And that drew them to you. It’ll keep drawing them to you. We’re drawn to those who can see us. Especially Necromancers. If regular blood is powerful, you can’t imagine what Necromancer blood does.”
“I saw them before I… brought you back. Before I became a… Necromancer.”
That was what he was, now, wasn’t it?
“You died. You died, and you came back. Part of you will always belong with the dead. I wish there was some going back from that, but there is not.”
It hurt Ekkehardt’s soul — assuming it was still there — to think about. Not just that he had actually died, he was somehow actually getting used to that. If the circumstances had been different, it might have even been something he would have bragged about. God knew Zven would have. No, it was the part about… about belonging to the dead. He rubbed the scar beside his heart through his shirt. His shirt was wet. He looked down and found blood soaking through it. There was a moment of panic before he remembered this was just another dream.
He was always going to belong to the dead. No magic would get rid of it. He was fine with the scars, and he was fine with Zven being trapped with him, and he was even fine seeing the mirages all over the place. But he was sick of having his dreams invaded by these goddamned bastards.
If there was a way to get rid of them, then he was going to do it. Why not? He’d gone this far already.
21
It felt like a lifetime since Ekkehardt had been in the library, and yet, as soon as he stepped in, it was as though he had never left. The hours he had spent in this building, poring over books and problems, living off his thermos of coffee and whatever snacks he managed to sneak past the eagle-eyed librarians came back to him. It felt more home than home. Places of education were always meant to be safe, his father had once said. Ekkehardt believed it now. As soon as he stepped into the old, pre-war building, the mirages vanished. He stopped dead in his tracks, and the girl behind him walked right into his back.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled distractedly, stepping aside and looking around for anything that might have been keeping them away.
Not even Zven had followed. It left him feeling surprisingly hollow and empty. He hadn’t realized just how accustomed he had become to the lingering blur in the corner of his eyes and the constant warmth that tried to offset his poor circulation. He was half-tempted to go back out and find another library. Or maybe it was libraries in general. It was interesting. He would have to try it some time. But not now. Now, he needed a different kind of information.
The librarian on duty was the Syrian, grandmother-like woman who always worked on Thursday evenings. She looked up at him over thick glasses and raised her eyebrows.
Ekkehardt cleared his throat and shifted his weight from foot to foot. Might as well just… ask.
“Do you know if there are any books here on—” He cleared his throat again. “— on exorcisms?”
His voice rose too much at the end of the question, betraying how uncertain he was about their whole insanity.
She pulled her glasses off and set them on the desk before folding her hands together. Her eyebrows rose further and her lips twisted in a silent demand for more information.
“It’s for a project.”
Which was technically true.
She regarded him for a few long seconds while she tried to stare up into his soul and find the truth in it.
Something tightened around his throat, and he almost couldn’t breathe. Witchcraft in any form, whether the government knew of its realities or not, was banned in East Germany. Even just asking about it might get him in trouble. Wasn’t witchcraft what had gotten him into this mess? If there hadn’t been that chance that somebody had learned that Zven was a pyromancer…
> The librarian put her glasses back on.
“Basement,” she said curtly. A pause, and then, “Second basement. Storage room, behind books on divination.”
She went back to her notes as though he had already left.
He mumbled out a thanks and headed for the stairs. It took him an embarrassingly long time to find the second basement, let alone the storage room. The main stairs didn’t lead to it. He had to ask directions twice and even then, he still had trouble. He only spotted the door from the corner of his eyes. It was odd. He’d been staring at that spot only a moment earlier.
The door was unlocked. Ekkehardt wasn’t expecting it to be. The room was lined wall to wall with stacks of books, no shelves to organize them. It was a mess. He blanched at the thought of sorting through all of these. He dropped his messenger bag on the floor, closing the door behind him. He liked books, of course, but not enough to want to file through every single one.
Behind the divination books.
Great.
If he could find the divination books.
* * *
It took him nearly an hour of searching to find the damn divination books. He had no interest in them, though he remembered something his Uncle Godfrey had said about his great-great-something-or-other being an Oracle. Maybe, when this was over, it was something he could bring himself to care about. For now, he had higher priorities.
What was it Zven had said? About him not understanding what Liese did? He promised himself that he would learn everything he could about this world, about this thing that was just outside his realm of understanding. Ekkehardt remembered a calculus professor telling the class that life was biology, biology was chemistry, chemistry was physics, physics was math, and anything outside of that might as well have been magic. He wondered if that professor had known what he was talking about.
For now, though, there was only one thing he had time to learn, and that thing was Necromancy. Just as the librarian had said, the books on spirits were right behind the stack on divination. There were fewer than any other subject, only about ten or so. This, he could work with.
He climbed back over the books and found his bag. At the bottom was a blank notebook that he was supposed to be using for one of his classes and a pen. A quick glance at his pocket watch told him he still had most of the day until the library closed.
Ekkehardt spent that day poring over each of the books. He skimmed the tables of contents of each book first, of the ones that did have them, and started with the most relevant-looking ones before moving to the next. The thing that had always given him such an advantage in school was his ability to skim and scribble almost on autopilot. He was one of those assholes who absorbed information with little difficulty. He still had to practice problems, but information came easily.
There was so much contradicting information, he didn’t know what was and wasn’t true. Spirits couldn’t manifest in dreams. Spirits could manifest in dreams. Spirits couldn’t hurt anybody. Powerful spirits could hurt people. All spirits were vengeful and angry. Only some spirits were vengeful and angry. Burying a body would remove the spirit. Spirits no longer had any connection to their bodies. Spirits could be exorcised. Spirits could not be exorcised. It all made his head spin.
* * *
After hours of being folded on the library floor, his muscles barely responded. His joints cracked as he stood. Blood rushed through him and burned his nerves, but it passed after only a moment of pain. He tucked the now-full notebook back into his bag and slung it back over his shoulder.
He made sure to close the door behind him. It blurred in and out of focus, only clearing when he turned. Maybe some of the mirages weren’t spirits; maybe it was just his vision. He took the bus home and locked himself in his room and began pulling together the consistencies. The walls and carpet were still scorched, but at least it didn’t reek anymore. Being in his room gave him more privacy than the kitchen.
By sunrise, he had his answers.
22
The graveyard was the last place Ekkehardt had ever expected to find himself returning to. It still gave him nightmares when spirits weren’t invading his dreams. The taste of death, like chalky decay, hung in the air and clung to his skin. There was so much, he nearly choked on it as it coated his tongue and the back of his throat.
Despite the darkness, he could see the mirages obstructing his path. It was odd; even with his flashlight, he couldn't make out more than three feet in front of him, but the spirits were as clear as they ever were, even ten, twenty feet out. There was a whole swarm of them. They didn’t appear to notice him. If they even knew he was there, they gave no indication of it. Every time he brushed against one, it rippled out of existence and reappeared behind him. Had they all been here last time? He couldn’t even remember. It felt like trying to remember a dream. Either version felt just as unreal.
The grave he’d pulled Zven’s body from was still open. Nobody had filled it in. Maybe nobody had been here since that night. Nobody had been around to notice. This wasn’t a real graveyard, after all. It was a dumping ground.
Everyone had forgotten about this place. About these graves. About these people. The people lying in these unmarked, unwanted graves didn’t mean anything, did they? Those arbitrary, imaginary lines put up and torn down at the whims of politicians meant more than the lives of human beings, didn’t they?
The whole thing made him want to hit something. He bared his teeth and screamed through them. His scream came back to him, and it only made him scream again, louder, until his throat felt raw. It felt good. He’d been holding the rage inside himself all this time, but it was coming out now. He was sick of pretending he could move on with what had happened to him. To them, to all of them. Part of him wished the guards who had shot them, who had dumped Zven's body here like it was nothing, were in front of him so he could beat them senseless. How could they treat people this way? How could people be so goddamn cold?
He felt the small bursts of flames, Zven’s powers reacting to his rage. Hot tears rolled down his cheeks. He wiped his face with the heels of his hands, momentarily forgetting that the spirits didn't know or care that he was crying. Still, he couldn’t keep letting his emotions get the better of him, not if Zven was going to react this way every time he freaked out a little.
Admittedly, he was freaking out more than just a little. No wonder Zven was always so composed and optimistic. Anger meant losing control of his powers. Powers that were now Ekkehardt’s by extension.
Ekkehardt managed to compose himself, though he could still feel his anger burning just beneath his skin. Zven's spirit shifted in his periphery. The urge to start another fire made its way up Ekkehardt’s spine and the air crackled around his ears.
“Not yet,” he said, though he wasn’t sure who he was talking to.
He walked through the graveyard, moving slowly until he reached the open grave. Shining his flashlight down, he could still see smudged traces of his own blood circling where he’d laid Zven’s body. Zven hovered over the spot where his ashes had been, more clear and solid than he had ever been before. Ice and fire ran through Ekkehardt’s veins at the same time.
This was where Zven had been buried. This was where his body had been burned. This was where his spirit would be strongest.
The other spirits closed in around him. If this was where Zven was strongest, then it stood to reason it was where these were, too. It should have terrified him, but it didn’t. He wasn’t scared at all. On the contrary, it made him much more determined to get these things out of his fucking life.
“Hey!” he shouted.
Electricity ran beneath his skin. It seemed to get their attention. Maybe. He couldn’t quite tell. But they stopped moving and angled themselves towards him. After a moment, they began shifting in.
“Fuck off! All of you, just fuck off!”
That did not work. He had to try it, though. There wasn't a whole lot of point pulling out the big guns without trying that first. But
not only did it not work, it seemed to have the opposite effect.
It seemed to piss them off.
The spirits swarmed him, all of them crowding and suffocating him. He threw his arms over his face to protect himself, but he didn’t need to. A burst of red and yellow flashed behind his eyelids and heat forced its way through his clothes to sting his skin. He didn’t need to open his eyes to see the fireball swallowing the spirits, but he did anyway. The light and the smoke burned his eyes, and he had to squint to see. Amidst the flames, he could make out the human shape of Zven grappling with the spirits. Ekkehardt didn’t think there was any way they could overpower Zven and his fire, but the spirits outnumbered them by a long shot. There were two of them and a good dozen of them.
“Shit,” he hissed, stepping back and away from the flames.
So much for that. It might have been better to skip the small attempt and just jump straight to the blood magic.
“Just keep them busy, Zven.”
He tried to shout, but it came out as barely more than a whisper. That might have been the wind, though. It was starting to pick up, and he couldn’t hear much over it. He let his hand slide down to his elbow and shoved his hand into it. He felt his textbook and the knife wedged beneath it, but nothing else.
“Oh, no… Oh, God, no, no, no!”
He dropped to his knees, angling the bag towards Zven still fighting his way through the throng of spirits to see into it. The light only seemed to somehow make it darker. He swore loudly and dumped the bag out onto the dirt. The knife bounced and hit his knee, and the textbook landed uselessly with a heavy thud. His hands scrambled for the textbook. He shook it out, praying silently that something would fall out. Nothing did.
This was impossible. He had put Nina’s journal and the notes he’d taken at the library in his bag before he’d left. He’d checked twice before leaving, and once in the car. Were they still in the car? No, no. He hadn’t taken them out. Maybe they’d fallen out somewhere or— He had been expecting something like this from Nina’s journal, with the damn thing’s habit of reappearing. But his own notes? That was normal journal paper! He’d gotten it at the same stationary store in Leipzig where he’d been buying notebooks for years, and none of them had ever disappeared before.