The Necromancer's Betrayal

by Mimi Sebastian

  Dust.

  I tilted my head and scanned the niches, some empty, but others bearing undecorated, simple urns of clay. With a head-splitting burst of concentration, I yelled at Charlie to knock over the urns. Delatte was absorbed with his chanting and either didn’t understand or didn’t care when Charlie headed for the niches, until the sound of the urns crashing to the floor made his eyes fly open. I had no idea if this would work, but my demon side had stretched my power and now was a good time to explore just how much.

  Delatte raised his voice, almost shouting the chants. My body shook violently, and I fell over, curling up against the searing pain. My feet and the tips of my fingers stiffened. I tried to move them, but couldn’t. Rigor mortis was setting in while I was still alive, and I couldn’t even release my scream.

  I squeezed my eyes and reached deep for my power. The voodoo had dampened it, but I felt it punching against Delatte’s spell. I drew on every reserve of will I had to drag it out and latch onto the residual death energy emanating from the ashes. My eyelids flung open, and I emitted a soundless scream, maybe coming from me, maybe from my power. I spread out the arcane tendrils, still weak. I panicked. This wasn’t going to work, and I was going to wind up trapped in an ugly zombie doll. I could barely make out my heartbeat or blink my eyes.

  Then something ignited.

  My power gushed out, and the ashes exploded, formed an angry swirl, and attacked Delatte, blowing into his nose and ears, absorbing his scream by filling his mouth with ash. He collapsed, clutching his throat in the throes of strangled coughs. He rolled on the floor. The sound of his dry heaves and coughs blended with the hungry trill emanating from the ashes. The sound of the dead souls?

  In the turmoil, Charlie snatched the doll from Delatte’s hand and stuffed it in his mouth, tearing at it with his teeth before spitting the doll out, probably irritated that it wasn’t bloody and squishy. My body trembled, and the stiffness eased. I shed fresh tears of relief and slowly uncurled and got to my knees.

  The zombie ashes exploded out of Delatte in a volcanic plume and settled on the floor, adding a layer of cadaverous dust to the already dirty floor. At the same time, Olive and Charlie engaged in a struggle to see who could succeed in tearing off the most limbs off each other. Delatte hauled himself up and charged me, his arm arced, his fist curled to deliver a blow.

  I scurried and grabbed his hatchet, jumped up, and thrust it out, stopping him before he could reach me. He stood for a split second, his arm still outstretched. He uttered one word in the same language he used for his chants, in what I could only describe as a Southerner speaking French. I didn’t understand the word, but I didn’t need to. The meaning revealed itself when the bodies that were lined up along the wall shuddered to life. He fled down the passage toward the main chamber of the Columbarium. Going for reinforcements? I had to get out of here fast.

  Hatchet gripped tight, I swung around to the still-struggling Olive and Charlie. Before I could disengage the two, Olive reached from behind Charlie and tore his head off, but he didn’t let the mere flesh wound stop him. He ripped at her face with his hands, causing them both to tumble to the floor. In a matter of seconds, they’d torn out just about every appendage each one had, leaving their bloody torsos twitching on the floor.

  I blinked a few times at the insane sight before me, unable to comprehend what had led me to this place, standing in the middle of body parts and mummies and crazy voodoo priests. The mummies reached Olive and Charlie and joined in the carnage, and I had no choice but to make a hasty exit. I bit the inside of my lip in frustration. Delatte’s voodoo brand prevented me from helping Olive unless . . . all voodoo depended on some kind of ritual.

  I scanned the ground, not exactly sure what I was looking for, but all I spotted were the nasty instruments. I groaned in frustration, knowing I only had a few more seconds at best before the mummies came after me. Maybe I was approaching this from the wrong perspective. Yes! I searched the niches, and the tingling that rushed to my fingertips immediately told me I’d found what I was looking for—a mason jar filled with a liquid green murkiness and an unrecognizable blob. I scrunched my lips and clasped the jar with my fingertips, held it away from my body, then tossed it against the wall. I leaped back to avoid being splattered by the foul liquid.

  I glanced at the macabre orgy of mummies and zombies and gave a small yelp of triumph at seeing what I recognized as Olive’s upper body lifeless. While I lamented her horrible death, at least now her spirit had found peace, even if her body lay in pieces. I siphoned the arcane energy from Charlie, letting him sink back into the mindless bliss of death, before racing down the passage, my shaking hand clamped around the hatchet.

  I skidded to a halt.

  Delatte, that son of a bitch, had locked the door leading to the main chamber. I tugged at the doorknob, but it didn’t budge.

  The sounds of the mummy zombies crawling and scratching toward me prompted me to slam my body against the door. After a few more heart-thumping minutes, I could see them approaching. The scene was quite laughable in a demented sort of way. Their skin hung off their bones, resembling third-rate makeup effects, except it wasn’t makeup, and I was most certainly not laughing and could only whimper as they slithered closer.

  I threw myself at the door, rattled the handle, and pounded the thick wood. My heart pounded and slammed in time with my hand against the door. I turned and watched in terror as the mummies approached, unable to do anything but tighten my grip on the hatchet. Oh, hatchet.

  I spun and hacked at the door with frantic swipes. The wood splintered and split until I managed to separate the top of the knob. Delatte’s soulless creatures reached out their deformed hands and hooked their claws in the hems of my jeans, scraping at my ankles. They gurgled and bleated, making a horrible mewling sound as if in pain—sounds that I’m sure would haunt me for decades to come. Terror snaked up my back. I cried out in a hysterical half laugh, half scream.

  My power welled in me, surging forth, seeking something to cling to, but the graves lay still and quiet, out of reach. I tightened my hand on the hatchet and resumed hacking furiously, sending splinters flying around me. After I’d dislodged the lock, I slammed against the door and almost fell on my face when it swung open. I kicked at the mummies, finally dislodging them, then sprinted past the main chamber, down to the basement, and out the back doors.

  The night sky surprised me. I thought for sure I’d emerge from the nightmare into the safe and cheerful dawn light, but the night stretched on, eternal, and I half expected a new horde of mindless monsters now gathered to bombard me.

  I ran to the wall I’d scaled and scrambled back up and dropped to the other side. My heart rammed into my chest with such force I could hardly catch a breath, but I forced in some air and continued to run down the deserted street until my lungs forced me to stop. I slumped against the wall of an apartment building.

  What the fuck was a voodoo priest doing here? This had to be connected somehow to the bullshit going on with the demons. Either that, or San Francisco had become one serious gateway to hell bent on destruction.

  I clasped my head. Under different circumstances, one where the voodoo priest wasn’t trying to suck out my soul, I would have loved to sit down and chat about zombies and soul sucking and voodoo rituals, maybe even gain more insight into the possibilities of my power. Delatte almost seemed to know more about necromancer ability than I did. Christ, I think my mailman might know more. Cora had started training me in my teens, but after Mom’s suicide in my early twenties, I withdrew altogether, and then Cora was killed.

  I tried to stand, but all my muscles, tendons and bones had liquefied, and I drooped back down on the sidewalk. I’d tasted my share of terror, encounters with zombies and vengeful vampires, but Delatte’s voodoo and those whispers spoke of something from a deep, dark primal crevasse sealed off long ago. A power that shouldn’
t exist. A nameless power. A power corroded and putrid.

  And I couldn’t confront it alone. I wanted someone who could travel here quickly. Who wouldn’t be afraid of the night. Who had his own score to settle with Delatte.

  I called Lysander. No more than twenty minutes had passed before the air around me swooshed. Ly appeared next to me and scooped me up. I tightened my arms around him and relaxed the high alert state I’d forced on my body and mind, allowing another wave of shock to shudder through me. When I’d calmed enough to speak, I told him about Delatte.

  “That would explain what I sensed at the pier. Vampires never mixed well with voodoo, but generally the practitioners steer clear of us,” he said. “Stay here, and I’ll go check it out.”

  “What if he tries to take your soul?” I asked, panic spilling out with my words.

  “Now that I know what to expect, he’s less of a threat. His greatest weapon was surprise.” He stroked my cheek. “I’ll be fine.”

  The air vibrated, and he was gone, only to reappear moments later. “Nothing. All gone. The zombies, Delatte.”

  “Just like that?”

  He answered with a half shrug. “Let me take you home, and I’ll come back and search some more. See if I can pick up on his trail.” He leaned close and tried to lock onto my gaze, but I had my eyes fixed on the distance, toward the Columbarium. “We’ll find him. Don’t worry.”

  I shook my head and wrapped my arms around myself. “He came pretty close to killing me, and those mummy things . . . It was awful. Something beyond this world is driving him, and whatever, or whoever it is, is coming after me.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  THE NEXT MORNING, I cancelled my Friday class. I didn’t have to feign illness. My voice was hoarse enough from last night’s screaming to convince even the most skeptical of deans. Lysander had brought me home, and after a fruitless search for Delatte, he’d stayed with me until I fell asleep wrapped in his arms. I woke up at around six a.m., my cell phone beeping. Lysander had texted me, saying he hadn’t found Delatte and would try again the next evening, but he needed rest. Even though he could tolerate some amount of daytime at his age, it still tired him out. Daytime rest rejuvenated him to face whatever the night spawned.

  I dressed in my only clean clothes—loose fitting, green linen slacks and a purple long-sleeved peasant blouse—and grabbed a bagel and coffee on my way to Xavier’s gallery to recount last night’s events at the Columbarium and see what insights he could provide into the voodoo angle. Xavier was the only one who’d never lied to me even when his truth skimmed the edge of controversy. He definitely was not afraid of controversy.

  He owned two galleries in a neighborhood that was currently defining the San Francisco art scene. I entered the smaller of the two, no more than seven hundred square feet, miniscule when compared to his mansion-sized gallery and residence down the street. This one catered to the more hip, avant-garde artists. Its stylized interior—walls inlaid with a rusted metal—gave it an industrial edge.

  The attendant directed me to the backroom where I found Xavier with his head bent close to a sculpture he was tapping lightly with a hammer. A breathing apparatus covered half his face, giving him a very post-nuclear vibe. A fine white dust coated his jeans and long-sleeved shirt, creating an incongruous picture of the powerful demon usually decked out in fine suits. He tapped around the bust’s nose a few more moments, then removed the mask and waved me over.

  “She’s beautiful,” I said, in awe of the woman’s head emerging from the stone. Her expression was one of amusement, sculpted with the subtlety of a skilled artist. I had no idea how he’d coaxed the beguiling slant to her eyes. “Can I touch it?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  I ran my fingers between grooves of hair sculpted to appear as if a wind gust had whipped into the room and blown the strands across her face. The detail was so precise, yet delicate, I half expected her to blink at any moment. The lifelike quality of the artistry reminded me of the gargoyle that guarded the entrance to the demon lair. I was still waiting for it to leap off the balustrade and take flight.

  “I had no idea you sculpted,” I said.

  “I love chipping and manipulating the stone to see what it reveals.”

  “You don’t know what you’re going to create beforehand?”

  “Sometimes I have an idea, but the stone doesn’t always agree.”

  He regarded me with an enigmatic expression, and I turned back to the bust. He frowned and cradled my cheek in his palm. “What happened? You look haunted.”

  “That’s an interesting choice of words,” I said wryly. I took a moment, struggling with the right words to describe the weirdness, before fully recounting my Columbarium adventure with the bokor, Delatte.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about Olive?” he asked when I finished. He didn’t seem at all bothered by the horror I’d just told him about.

  “I told Malthus.”

  He pursed his lips. “You must tell me everything now. I am your guardian.” He placed a hand on my shoulder. “Why did you involve yourself in the witch’s affairs?”

  I met his slightly annoyed expression with an exasperated huff. “Kara is my friend, and Olive’s death was possibly my fault—our fault.”

  “You say Delatte took your hair?”

  “Yes. He mentioned something about delivering my soul to Baron Samedi. I know he’s making a reference to one of the vodun deities, but could it mean something beyond mad rambling?”

  Xavier stared at me for a long moment. That same flicker of surprise and anger he displayed at the demon council hearing played out in his expression, with something else added, shadowing his eyes. “How did your power react in the presence of voodoo?” he asked softly, almost hesitant, as if afraid of my response.

  “Something in that room called to me, tried to connect to my power,” I answered, equally as soft, equally as afraid.

  He turned to fiddle with his tools.

  “Could Samedi be our demon mastermind?” I asked.

  “Demon mastermind?” He chuckled, but his inflection lacked any real amusement.

  “I don’t really know what to call the individual responsible for Cael and all the other crap. Maybe I should name him Bob to make things easy.”

  “Mastermind, eh?” He returned his gaze back to me, seemingly back to normal. He grabbed a wet cloth and cleaned off the area he’d just chiseled. “What Delatte said about Baron Samedi was voodoo priest babble, but Delatte does pose a threat, especially if he’s targeting you. You need to stay away from him. Let me deal with the bokor. Have you told Malthus?”

  I shook my head.

  “And the vampires?”

  “I called Lysander, and he met me at the Columbarium.”

  A frown tugged at his lips. “You should have called one of us first.”

  “Delatte attacked Lysander. He needed to know, to have an opportunity to respond. I thought maybe he could track Delatte, but he found the Columbarium empty.”

  Xavier was staring at the sculpture so intently I imagined he was communicating with it. Finally, he shook off his apparent reverie and refocused his gaze on me.

  “This smells like Cael all over again. Delatte showing up, stirring trouble, attacking supes.” I gnawed on my lower lip, remembering the bloody tools strewn on the floor. “The scene was pure evil. Evil for evil’s sake. I don’t know how else to explain it. Supernaturals are different. We drive the power, use it for good or bad. But this energy drove him, as if he had no choice but to be an evil bastard.”

  “You think supernaturals aren’t capable of evil acts?” His voice almost cracked, but he hardened it before allowing any emotion to seep through. I tried to peer deeper into his eyes, but he turned back to the bust.

  “Yes, supes are capable of evil acts, but it’s different. Our pow
er is not born of the same type of primal evil Delatte was sourcing,” I said finally.

  “Are you sure about that? What about Cael?” He caressed the curve of the sculpture’s cheek with a slow glide of his thumb, making it seem like he actually felt warm, soft skin underneath.

  “Cael was disturbed and sadly manipulated.”

  “Ivo didn’t think so.” Xavier picked up the carved wooden handle of a small sanding tool and roughed out the stone on the back of her head.

  “Who is she?” I asked.

  “Her name was Colette.” He traded the sander for a small chisel, worked out a chink in the stone before meeting my eyes, his expression intent. “She was my lover and was killed in the genocide.”

  I almost fell over and clutched the workbench to steady myself. I hadn’t seen this one coming. Holy shit. Both Malthus and Xavier’s lovers had been murdered. Did all women who were loved by a demon fall victim to some unfortunate death? I suppose it was a good thing Ewan and I nipped things in the bud.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He poked around her neck with the chisel then responded. “I didn’t want you to view me with colored lenses, but it’s time for you to know such things.”

  I sat on one of the stools. He picked up the sander and smoothed out the area, cursing when the tool slipped from his hand and fell on the floor. He rested his arm and forehead on Colette’s bust.

  “Do you know anything about my grandmother’s death?” I asked.

  “Only what you know,” he answered before looking up, not at me, but past me. A dark shadow passed over his eyes. “Your grandmother was a strong woman. She endured much tragedy, like you. Malthus—” He gave a mirthless laugh. “So self-righteous, yet he ended up with a necromancer.” He shook his head, and his eyes lightened. “She’d be proud of you. Look at what you’ve achieved.”

  I snorted. “Chaos?”