Hold Me Closer, Necromancer

by Lish McBride

  He pulled up a wooden chair. The hand-carved filigree made it look old and expensive, but he kept it in the basement. He took off his dove-colored suit jacket and hung it carefully over the back of the chair. He used the same care to settle himself into the seat when he was done, smoothing non ex is tent wrinkles out of his pant leg as he sat. Finally, he folded his hands in his lap and made eye contact with her.

  Most people aren’t able to maintain eye contact for more than a few seconds without feeling uncomfortable. Even fewer can do it without speaking. This man managed to do both with seemingly no problems. Brid had always secretly believed that people looked away because they took the “eyes as windows to the soul” thing too seriously; she wondered if the man across from her had much of a soul to worry about.

  Her nostrils flared slightly as she scented the air around him. It was faint and hiding under the smell of all the old blood in the room, but she could just make it out. He’d cleaned up, but the hint of fresh copper and salt spoke to her senses. He’d most likely killed, and recently.

  Apparently, the man had finished his evaluation of her. “Are you comfortable, Ms. Blackthorn?”

  “I’m naked and in an iron cage.”

  “Yes, my apologies about that,” he said. “I understood werewolves to be an unself-conscious bunch.”

  Brid gave him her yearbook smile. “I don’t give a rat’s ass about whether or not you can see my nipples, but you do have me on a cold iron floor, which is uncomfortable, to say the least.”

  “Again, my apologies, but I can’t just let you have free run of the place. That would be”—he paused and pursed his lips—“problematic.”

  “Nice euphemism.”

  “I try. Bridin—may I call you Bridin?”

  “Could I stop you?”

  He tutted at her like an old schoolmistress. “Let’s try to maintain a little civility, shall we?”

  She shrugged her shoulder.

  “Do you know who I am?”

  “I could take a few guesses,” she said. In fact, the list of who the man could be was pretty short. The power, the blood, the cage. Very few could do these things. She’d never seen Douglas Montgomery because her father hadn’t taken her to Council meetings yet, but she was willing to bet serious money that the man in front of her was the head of the Northwest Council. The fact that he held that position told Brid quite a lot. Other Councils, if they even had a necromancer, weren’t led by them.

  “Then why don’t you take one?” he asked, amusement filling his voice.

  “If you insist,” she said. “Mr. Montgomery.”

  “Excellent. Now that we’re acquainted, let’s get down to business, as they say.”

  “Is this where you tell me your evil plan? I just want to know if I need to get comfortable.” If her comment angered him, Brid could see no sign of it.

  “Sorry to disappoint,” he said. “Here is what I will share: If all goes well, you’ll be free in a few days. Meals and such are contingent on good behavior.” He smiled, completely without warmth. “Essentially, Ms. Blackthorn, if you’re a good girl, then you needn’t have any worries.” He stood up to leave, clearly feeling their discussion was finished.

  Brid didn’t agree. “Well, then, I’m afraid we have a problem, Mr. Montgomery.”

  He pulled on his suit jacket and checked his cuffs.

  “I am a lot of things, but a good girl isn’t one of them. Neither is stupid. You don’t plan to set me free.” She’d been raised to lead and had learned that some prisoners could be released and some couldn’t. Brid knew she fell into the couldn’t pile. The thought chilled her. She’d either escape or, failing that, hope that her pack found her in time.

  He straightened his jacket.

  “I’m dangerous to keep, yes, but I’m worse to let go.” Douglas laughed, a hollow booming sound that made Brid’s spine want to straighten. “Why, because your pack will track me down and kill me for what I’ve done to you? I thought more of you, Bridin. Your father doesn’t have the clout to challenge me.”

  He moved slightly when he said that. The thought of her father seemed to make him a little uncomfortable. Good. Bridin leaned her head to the side and flicked her bangs out of her face. “Oh, I wasn’t talking about politics. No, I’ll kill you myself for the whole kidnapping thing, that’s a guarantee. But this—” She waved at the cage, palm up. “Once it gets out that you’ve built a cage that can hold me? One that can hold my father? There aren’t any good reasons for why you’d create such a thing. No, every were and shifter in the world will be on you for this. You’re a dead man, Douglas.”

  Douglas smiled and gave her a short bow before marching back up the stairs. “It has to reach the public for your prediction to come true,” he said. “And I don’t foresee that happening.”

  “You don’t think I’ll tell when I’m released?” The last word came out sarcastic.

  His answered with a twisted-sounding chuckle. “Have a lovely evening.” He flicked out the lights.

  Brid heard the door shut and several locks click. His footsteps faded. Once they were gone, she stood up and shook herself, loosening her muscles. She stretched, walked around the cage a few times, then settled back down into a ball on the floor, the most warmth and comfort she could expect. When she’d relaxed herself, she began to cycle back through all the information she’d gotten so far. She’d find a way out. She just hoped she found it soon enough.

  6

  Sweet Dreams Are Made of This

  The aconite gave her fevered dreams. Bits of memory floated up, one conversation blurring into another until she was just seeing pieces of what had happened. In the dreams, at least, she was out of the cage and back in the familiar meadows of her home.

  She remembered circling her brother Sean, waiting for him to make his move. The smell of crushed grass underfoot reached her nose, and her blood soared. The anticipation of the fight was almost better than the fight itself. Almost. He feinted to the side. Instead of lunging at him immediately, she paid attention to the smaller muscle movements telling her which way Sean was actually going. The slight motions were clear to her, despite the darkness. She let him grab her, rolling with it instead of fighting, which took him by surprise. They both hit the ground with a bone-rattling thud, Brid absorbing most of the impact. She used it and her legs to jettison Sean fifteen feet through the air and into the base of a tree.

  “I,” said Sean, remaining prone on the pine-littered soil, “have got to learn how you do that.”

  Brid grinned, wiping blood from a new gash on her forehead as she jogged over to help him up. She assessed his injuries quickly, popping a dislocated shoulder back into place with a sharp jerk and thrust of her wrist. Sean yelped.

  “Easy.”

  “I am easy.” She smacked his nose before he could make any off-color remarks to that. “Daddy would have made you wait.”

  The aconite burned again, and the scene jumped.

  She didn’t have time to duck, only to grab on and twist to the side and hope she fell with an advantage. They rolled several feet, Brid ending up on top, her hand against Sean’s throat.

  “Point,” Bran said. He nudged Sean with the toes of his boot. “You have to be more aware of your surroundings.” He lifted his boot and pushed Brid off Sean. “And you have to be careful when you do that. A bigger guy could toss you off.”

  “I wouldn’t use it on a bigger guy.” Brid dusted herself off.

  “Or you could be too focused on the position and not notice an accomplice.”

  Brid shrugged. “It worked, didn’t it?”

  Bran shook his head. “You need to think these things out more.”

  Sean got up off the ground and put his arm around his sister’s shoulders. “Leave it,” he said.

  “But she needs to remember,” Bran said, frowning.

  Brid gave Sean a one-armed hug.

  “Hard to forget when you remind her every ten seconds.” Bran’s frown loosened. “You’re right.�
� He leaned forward and kissed Brid on the forehead. “Sorry, sis.”

  “Me too,” she said.

  Sean hushed her. “Shut it. You’ll be a great tánaiste.”

  It always amazed her how one word could pack so much weight. Tánaiste. Next in line, heir, one step away from being taoiseach. “You both sound so sure.”

  Bran nodded. “You are what the pack needs.” He flicked her nose. “Besides, I will always be here to bail you out after you screw up.”

  Brid cocked her eyebrow. “You gonna back that up?”

  Bran held up his hands in surrender. “Not today. Dad’s just spent an hour making me practice in the dark.”

  “You need the practice.” Her father came out of the darkness. He held out his hand. “Speaking of which, it’s not yours yet.” He motioned, and Bran returned the ancient bow to his father. Brannoc took it lovingly, then closed his eyes, willing the bow away. To Brid it appeared as if the bow was there one second, then gone the next.

  “We’d better head homeward.” Brannoc began to walk out of the clearing and into the woods, Bran a step behind him. Sean fell in with Brid, following a few steps after.

  Brid watched the back of her father as he slid between the trees. “I wish he wouldn’t make Bran practice. Not yet.” Animals traveled quietly in the woods beside them, the tiny movements obscured by shadow. “Does he have to prepare him so soon?”

  “Even Dad won’t live forever,” Sean whispered. “Mom didn’t.”

  “I know,” she said, “but I like to pretend that Dad will.”

  The scene blurred again, her mind picking out another night.

  “Ooooh, them’s fightin’ words,” Brid said. She dropped into a crouch. Sean mimicked her, pacing slowly to the side. They circled each other, all smiles suddenly gone. This time Brid advanced first. She dropped low and kicked out at Sean’s ankle. He moved back and she missed. He ran forward before she could recover, knocking her over. Brid spent a second with her face in the dirt before she was able to twist around. After a few moments of grappling, they ended up in the same position they’d been in before, with Brid pinning her brother down using her knees.

  She heard the slightest rustling to the right of her, and she knew it was Bran before she saw him. As it was, she barely managed a half turn before he knocked her over. Bran held her restrained for only a second before letting her go. He didn’t have to press the fact that he’d won. They both knew it. He helped her up, dusting her off at the same time.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Dad insisted.”

  “It’s okay,” she whispered. She felt stupid. Brid hated feeling stupid. It was a useless, unhelpful feeling.

  Brannoc joined them. “That’s enough for today.” He looked at Brid, and his face softened. “Why don’t you boys go back to the house? Check in with your brothers and see if everything’s okay?” Sean and Bran nodded and left, Sean throwing an apologetic look at his sister over his shoulder.

  The woods grew quiet as her brothers’ footsteps moved farther and farther away. Brannoc let the silence hang for a few minutes, crossing his arms and giving Brid time to process her mistakes. As he always did.

  “Do I need to apologize?”

  Brid shook her head.

  “Did Bran?”

  Brid felt her eyes begin to water and hated it. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “He was right to do it—you both were. I was overusing the move. He knew it. I knew it.” She felt tears roll down her cheek and hated that too. A tánaiste should know better. Her father wiped her cheeks with his knuckle.

  “So why did he say sorry, then?”

  “Because he knows I hate to learn my lesson.”

  Brannoc grabbed her shoulders. “And because he knows you’ll be too hard on yourself.”

  “It was a dumb mistake.”

  “And one much better made on the practice field, don’t you think?”

  “I can’t make mistakes like that anymore, Dad.” She felt her anger leak into her voice.

  Brannoc laughed. “What, just because you’re next in line now, you can’t screw up?”

  Brid looked at him. “When I’m taoiseach, mistakes will get people hurt.”

  Brannoc let go of her shoulders and brushed her hair out of her face. “You aren’t taoiseach yet. That wonderful responsibility still lies with me. Worry about that when the day comes. Hopefully, it will be a long time.” Brid opened her mouth, but he silenced her. “You’ve got to stop putting this pressure on yourself. Although I applaud that you’re taking the position seriously, if you keep beating yourself up over small errors in judgment, you’ll never make it to pack leader. Mistakes are our best teachers.”

  “I thought pain was the best teacher.”

  “Pain is a good teacher, not the best. You’ve got to start seeing your new position like a practice field. Mistakes are better made here and learned from than when they can actually hurt you.”

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  Brannoc leaned down a little and looked her in the eye. “Is that all that’s bothering you?”

  Brid didn’t bother trying to hide it. Lying to her father was next to useless, and he’d keep picking at it until she started talking to him. She looked toward the archery range, even though the forest blocked it from view. All she could see was the occasional patch of stars and moon in the sky whenever the trees gave way.

  “Ah,” her father said. “You’re wondering if I made the right decision.”

  She looked him in the eye and nodded.

  “I’m positive I chose correctly.”

  “I didn’t just win by default? We’re pretty evenly matched.”

  “You and Sean?”

  “Not funny, Daddy.”

  Brannoc put an arm around her. She leaned into him, taking in his smell along with the sharp tang of pine. “You did not win by default.” He hushed her anticipated follow-up question. “I know what you’re going to say, and yes, it was a factor. But it was not the only factor, and that’s all you need to know for now.”

  “Do you think he’s disappointed?” She kicked absently at a pine cone.

  “Secretly relieved, I think.”

  “I hope so.”

  “How’s school going?”

  Brid let him change the subject. She was as done with it for now as he was. “Good. Hectic, but good.”

  “You getting enough to eat? Running all the time like we talked about? Watching your stress levels?”

  Brid smiled. “You know, for an Alpha, you sound a lot like a mother hen.” He pulled on her ear. She leaned away with a giggle but returned to the circle of his arm. “I’m fine, Daddy. I’m not going to hurt anyone.”

  “I’m more worried about someone hurting you.”

  They turned the bend in the trail, and she caught sight of the house. As much as Brid loved the city, loved going to school, she missed her home. The smell of pine and grass. The quiet broken only by blue jays or crows. No one but her pack for miles. She smiled at the warm glow of lights and watched as a few children chased one another in the yard. They whooped and hollered, excited voices carrying as they play-fought across the lawn. An adult ran up, herding them inside for dinner.

  She closed her eyes, concentrating on smell and sound. Lingering on the threads of Bran and Sean as they mixed with her father’s scent. Home. “Natural daddy stuff,” she said, opening her eyes, “to worry about me at school, but I could take on the football team without too much trouble. I’m surrounded by humans all the time. Who would hurt me?”

  Her father didn’t answer, just pulled her closer.

  The drug did funny things, jumbling past and present in her mind. Thoughts rushed forward sharp and clear, only to fuzz and dissolve as soon as she grabbed them. She floated in and out of herself, not sure what was memory, what was dream, and what was happening right now.

  Douglas placed two fingers against Bridin’s wrist, feeling for the flutter of her pulse. Slow and steady. He nodded at Michael to open the cage, choosing to carry her to the
wall himself. Recent experiences had taught him that it was best not to lead young Michael into temptation. Unless, of course, it suited Douglas. He propped her up, eyeing Michael carefully as the were pulled on his gloves and closed the manacles. Once she was secured, held only by her thin little wrists, Douglas let her body sag.

  He placed his own hands over the runes carefully etched into the manacles. They were skillfully made. Money well spent. He smiled and pushed his will into the runes, invoking them into being, painting metaphysical silver over the cold iron. Closing his eyes, he went over the lines in his head, making sure each one was in its place, each node of power where it should be. Precisely crafted runes would count for nothing if he invoked them poorly. Hastily drawn symbols begged for flaws in the work. Flaws were unsafe. Worse, they were sloppy, and he was anything but.

  Michael slipped off his gloves and pulled up a chair. He spun it around backward, like he was in study hall instead of seated in front of a girl strung up in chains. Douglas thought the look on Michael’s face would have been the same either way. He eased into his own chair.

  “So what are we doing, anyway?”

  Douglas pulled on latex gloves. “We aren’t doing anything.” He pulled out a sterile needle, a syringe, and a few vacuum-sealed tubes. “What I am doing is trying to make the best out of your mess.” He held the capped needle in his teeth as he settled a tourniquet around Bridin’s arm. He felt for the vein. Once he found the soft bump of it, he inserted the needle. The tubes made small popping noises as he slid each in turn into the syringe. Blood spurted, quickly filling up several tubes. Douglas held a cotton swab over the puncture as he removed the needle and tourniquet. Unhampered by the all-around dampening effect of the cage, the wound quickly closed. He put the blood vials into the small fridge under the stairs. He’d study those later.

  He went to his bookcase, passing several older notebooks on his way to a fresh one. New subject, new book. Organization, Douglas felt, was a virtue.

  With a fountain pen, he filled in the date on the first page, how much blood taken, how much aconite given. Then he drew a small chart for results. Admiring his work, he was amazed at how much fountain pens had improved since his youth. Even more elegant now in their maintenance and execution. He handed the notebook and pen to Michael, tempted for a moment to purchase a few ballpoints for the were. Between the were and the pen, he was more concerned about replacing the pen.