by Kater Cheek
The necromancer was a forty-something woman in black leggings and a long-sleeved top so tight it gave her the appearance of wearing a V necked wetsuit. She had a steely-eyed stare that made her seem tall even though she barely came up to my chin, and her hair and eyes matched her surname.
“Ms. Black,” James wiped his palm on his trousers before offering it to her. “I’m so glad you could do this for us. I know it must be a busy night for you and uh, oh, this is my sister, Kit.”
“Nice to meet you.” I shook her hand politely and sized her up. She sized me up as well, and I had no idea if she liked what she saw.
“Follow me.”
Her necromancy studio, or ‘sacred space’ as she called it, had just enough drywall and insulation to call it a spare room, though it retained all the charm of the garage it had once been. The bare cement floor had a white painted circle whose edges touched the walls. Inside that she had painted a five pointed star, and inside the star’s center pentagon was another circle.
Although a fluorescent shop light hung from the ceiling and a space heater hummed in the corner, the necromancer lit five ivory pillar candles and set them at the points of the star. This task completed, she went to unlock one of the tall metal cabinets near the door leading to the kitchen.
“Here are the rules.”
She opened the cabinet and brought out a black iron cauldron.
“First, do not touch the spirit.”
A variety of knives were hanging on pegboard in the back of the cabinet. She chose a foot-long, wavy bladed one with a black handle and tucked it into a sash at her waist. The pegboard had an outline showing where the knife had been.
“Do not ask the spirit about the afterlife.” The necromancer brought down a floral sewing chest and took out a handful of what looked like desiccated bats. The bats went in to the cauldron. She ripped open a sachet full of red leaves and tossed those into the cauldron as well.
“Do not ask the same question three times. The dead are incapable of lying. Do you understand?”
We nodded.
“Remove everything but that which was given to you by the deceased. When you are finished, sit there, and there, facing the center.” She pointed to our places with a long acrylic nail. All of her nails were painted black with tiny silver spider webs on them.
“What?” I asked, not sure if I had heard correctly, but she was already walking to the house.
James had his back to me and was taking off his socks and shoes.
“She can’t mean that, can she?” The only thing Uncle Fred gave me was the bindi.
“Kit, she knows what she’s doing.” James took off his jeans and folded them into a little pile.
“Yeah, but everything?”
“I promise not to look.”
My brother took his boxers off. What could I do?
By the time she came back with the kettle, I was buck naked with my arms wrapped around my knees. The cement floor wicked away heat like ice water.
James, at least, had his tweed jacket and a loose pair of sheepskin moccasins. The small space heater, near where the garage door once was, tried valiantly to hold the autumnal chill at bay, but it wasn't up to fifteen feet of sloping ceiling full of cold air.
“Don’t move until I tell you to,” she ordered, pouring water into the cauldron.
James drew his knees up towards his chest. The space heater fan oscillated, and the smell of reconstituted bat wafted towards us. After the necromancer stored the kettle on a trivet near the door, she drew her knife and began to trace in the air above the circle.
James’ runes had glowed like fluorescent ink under black light, and the aetheric placenta around our apartment had a wan, listless glow, but when the necromancer drew her knife along the circle, bright white light poured out, as if she were cutting paper blocking the sun.
She chanted a couplet under her breath as she walked counterclockwise around the circle. With the end of each refrain, the beam of light pulsed and shimmered. When the circle was complete, a hemisphere of smoky red surrounded us, as tall as the ceiling.
James didn’t have my slack-jawed expression of awe. He must not be able to see any of this.
And then she danced. I never would have expected that a middle-aged necromancer could be so lithe, but she twirled like a contortionist, using her knife as a baton. Her leg arced forward, and she twisted in a half leap, dancing along the lines of the star within the pentagram. The garage shimmered and glowed like a laser light show.
A skip like a cat, and she was twisting and twirling to create the third line of the star. By the fourth line, she frenzied, flailing her dagger like an Olympic gymnast with a ribbon.
And then she slowed down, mournfully slow, as she danced the final line, returning to the first point of the star. She started crying. When a tear touched the top point of the star, I felt a psychic click, and the whole pentacle hummed.
Inside the pentacle there was barely enough room for the three of us, and the cauldron, which by now contained sodden furry shapes. She clapped twice, and the fluorescent light went out, leaving us with only the candles and the red circle of the space heater for illumination.
She dragged the tip of her knife to her palm. “By blood we call and blood we spill.” A red drop appeared on her skin, and with a flick she dropped it into the cauldron. The liquid grew darker, as though asking for more.
“Witch calls to witch, let them speak as one.”
James stuck his tongue out, which meant that he had received more prepping than I had. The necromancer scraped her blade along his tongue, and dropped the saliva into the pot. The liquid drew back unto itself.
“Flesh calls to flesh, let the flesh of the living give form to the spirit of the dead.” She reached forward and snatched my hand.
Flesh? No wonder he had kept me in the dark. I wanted to pull my hand away, wanted it more than anything, but I had promised. Let her take her flesh. I held my finger steady, and stared her in the eye, daring her to take a knuckle.
She trimmed my fingernail and dropped the tiny crescent into the cauldron.
The liquid drew back unto itself, a black vortex of need. A column of power rose from the center of the circle. She was whispering something under her breath, fast, intense, as though she were memorizing a poem for the exam of her life. Rivulets of sweat poured down her temples, despite the chill, and her dark eyes pressed shut. When she spoke aloud again, I jumped in surprise.
“Frederick Edgerson, heed our call. Frederick Edgerson, rise for us. Frederick Edgerson, drink of our blood and flesh and strength, and walk once more among the living.”
And then he was there.
He wore the same tweed jacket and shoes that James huddled in, and had the laugh lines of a man in his sixties. He seemed to be lit, not by the dim candlelight, which barely touched our circle, but by dappled sunlight of a summer’s morning. He smelled like that too, the dried herbs and fresh wildflowers and warm pine needles overpowering even the murky smell of dead bat. Fred put his hands in his pockets and pulled out a small wilted dandelion.
“Hello, Annie,” he addressed the necromancer. “Good to see you again.”
“Hello Fred. Your niece and nephew are behind you. They have some questions to ask you. Don’t—”
His laughter cut her off. “I know the rules, Annie. I won’t tell them about the afterlife.”
Even death could not erase his friendly charm. How could I ever have thought the rumors about him were true? He pivoted slowly, and the sunlight pivoted with him, though he cast no shadow.
“James, my dear boy, it seems that this is the final trip to Seabingen I had hoped for. I’m sorry I couldn’t make it in life. I was looking forward to a cup of your coffee.”
James didn’t respond except to nod as the tears poured down his face.
“And is that Kit? Those pictures James sent didn’t do you justice. You’re a very pretty girl. I’m glad to see you’re wearing my bindi. It suits you.” He frowned. “Oh
, but it’s caused you trouble, hasn’t it?”
“Yeah.” I explained to him my predicament as best I could.
He looked sad. “I’m so sorry, Kit. How can I help?”
“Well, I wanted to know how to protect myself. I asked Holzhausen if I could join the Guild—”
“What?” James retorted. Oops. Guess I’d forgotten to mention that.
“—But that won’t happen until May.”
James put his face in his hands and shook his head, as if to ask what he was going to do with me.
“Don’t be so prejudiced, James,” Uncle Fred said. “Some vampires are good people. Besides, I know the Guild Leader. He’s a powerful mage, and a good one to have on your side.”
“But what do I do about Monica?”
Fred held the dandelion in his hand and had been staring at it wistfully. “Did Monica threaten you directly, or did she just sic her sister on you?”
“She has a sister?”
“She has a half-sister named Theresa. We used to call her “Curse Terry” behind her back, because she threatened to curse anyone who crossed her. She’s terribly devoted to Monica.”
“Yes, she came to see me. She’s the one that said that Monica had your baby and that Hazel made her lose it.”
Uncle Fred shook his head. “Theresa lives in her own world. She is the only one who believes her stories. Don’t worry about her curses. As long as she doesn’t have your hair or blood, they won’t do much.”
My hand flew to my head. Theresa had got my hair caught in her watch. It hadn’t just been an accident. She came over specifically to get hairs from my head.
“She already cursed me. She cursed my van. If I hadn’t been wearing the bindi, I would have been hit. But why would Theresa curse me? She thanked me for giving Monica the bindi.”
“Oh my dear girl, I’m so sorry.” Uncle Fred steepled his fingers in front of his face. “Theresa must have been trying to kill you to make the bindi work for her sister. Monica knows about the inheritance spell.”
“So, there is one?”
“Yes, Mr. Holzhausen told you the truth. It’s yours until death. Your mother might still be able to use it, but I haven’t heard from Nelly for years, and your half-sister isn’t descended from me. You could transfer it to your mom, I suppose.”
“And if I don’t? I have to dodge curses and assassins forever?”
“No, not forever. Wear it long enough and no one but your blood relative will be able to use it. If you can avoid Monica for a few more months, she’ll give up, and Curse Terry always does what her sister tells her to do.”
Right. Don’t get shot. Great advice, Uncle Fred.
“Uncle Fred, is it true that Monica cursed Hazel?”
“No, my dear. Hazel could never bear children. It’s true that I wanted a son and daughter of my own, but I wanted Hazel as my wife even more.” He shook his head. “I thought Monica would have forgiven and forgotten by now.”
“What do I do about Terry’s curse?”
“It should be safe enough to handle after Samhain, if you’re careful. Take it to the U.C.S. and have them cast a binding upon its maker. And tell Mary Strede I told her so.”
James cleared his throat. “There’s one thing I worry about. This jewel you gave her. It’s from India, right?”
Fred nodded.
“Did our family steal it?” James asked. (Trust James to worry about that.) “I mean, mom always said her side of the family was English. The English, uh, they had a tendency to loot artifacts.”
Uncle Fred shook his head. “Not this one. My great, great, great grandmother made one for each of her daughters. Just because one daughter married an Englishman doesn’t mean those descendants have any less right to it. It belongs to Kit. It’s meant to be with her now.”
He reached forward. “It is working for you, isn’t it? Do you mind if I—” At the necromancer’s warning cough, he pulled his hand back. “Almost forgot myself there. But you can see through glamours, can’t you?”
I nodded.
“You see that, James? My hypothesis was right! Oh, my dear girl, I’m so happy. James was so worried that you’d live your whole life and never see a faerie. What else can you see?” Uncle Fred’s enthusiasm lit his face from within.
“I can spot vampires. I can see lycanthropes too, which I’ve heard is rare.”
“Lycanthropes? So, werewolves are real too? Well, I’ll be.”
“And I can see spells. I’m sorry, Uncle Fred. I never believed in witchcraft. I thought it was just your religion.”
“Well, don’t you see that’s why I wanted you to have the bindi? I could have sold it. The Lord and Lady know we needed the money. But my grandma had it for years, wore it her whole life. She could see all kinds of things with it. She’s the one who made me want to become a witch.
“And, you know, every time I pulled that bindi out and thought about selling it, I remembered how frustrated James was that you wouldn’t see, wouldn’t accept that what we did was real. Then I’d tell myself, well, guess I don’t need the money that badly.”
“Why didn’t grandma give it to my mom?”
“Because your mom would have sold it in a heartbeat.” It was the truth, and he said it gently, but it still hit me like a crushing slap of guilt.
Mom would have sold it. She would have sold it the first chance she got, and never looked back. I might have too, if James hadn’t stopped me. Jesus. Was that the kind of person I was? Was I like Mom, or like Uncle Fred?
Fred folded his hands in front of him, as if he wanted to pat my shoulder, and had to remind himself not to. “It’s your choice, Kit. I gave it to you, and it’s yours now. Just remember, you’re going to have plenty of money in your life, but you’ll never have this jewel again if you sell it to someone. I’d rather see it on your pretty face than gathering dust in a collector’s box.”
“I won’t. I won’t sell it.”
“You promise?” James said.
“I won’t sell it to anyone. I promise.” Warm tears blinded me. Why hadn’t I gotten to know him while he was still alive? Why hadn’t I moved to Maine after high school instead of traveling around with Rolf? Why hadn’t I ever written him a letter, or made a simple phone call? “I’m sorry, Uncle Fred.”
Uncle Fred must have known what I was thinking, because he leaned forward with his hand extended, almost touching me. He pulled his hand back at another warning cough from Annie Black and turned to my brother instead. “James, take care of her, okay?”
James nodded. He had dried his tears by now, but he still had crags of grief in his damp face. “I miss you so much, Uncle Fred. There’s so much I don’t know, so much I never learned.”
Uncle Fred smiled sadly. “You think the dead have no regrets? From the day you were born, I wished you could have been my son instead of Nelly’s. She never appreciated what she had. I wish I could have helped you more, I wish I could have kept you away from that bastard who sired you, but all I could do was watch from my scrying bowl and pray.
“I was so proud when you turned out so well. I wished you could have been my kids, but wishing won’t change the world. We have to make do with what the Lord and Lady give us.”
“You haven’t much time left, Fred.” The necromancer’s eyes were closed. “You’re fading.”
Uncle Fred looked down at his body. “So I am. It’s time for me to rest again.”
“Will we see you again?” James asked.
He winked. “You know I can’t answer that.”
And then he was gone. His spirit had passed back to wherever it came from, leaving warm and lonely silence in its wake. The room fell dark except for the flickering candles and the red glow of the space heater.
Chapter Twenty-Three
John Hamilton turned out to be the current president of the U.C.S. When I called him and explained about the curse on my van, he said he’d get back to me. Two days later, with no reply, I had Elaina and James call him on my behalf. He blew
them off too. Then I asked Silvara to call him. After that, he acted both sympathetic and alarmed, and promised to show up the very next day.
John showed up at the crack of dawn, with two other witches. One of the witches was Mary Strede, a tiny old lady who looked as wrinkled as a Sharpei. The other one was Elaina’s mom, dressed in a gray sweatsuit with her hair pulled into a ponytail. Elaina’s mom and I were half awake and yawning, unlike the other two freaks who were chipper despite it being an ungodly hour.
They seemed to know what they were doing. Mary used barbecue tongs to pull the curse out from under my dash, John tossed salt on it, and Elaina’s mom waved a bunch of burning sweetgrass in a circle around both me and my van.
I felt pretty damn good. It might have been the sweetgrass smoke. More likely, it was the thought that Theresa was going to be magically neutered. I’m not a vengeful person, but damnit, she tried to make me get into a car accident.
Mary Strede and Elaina’s mom used the hood of my van as a table and unwrapped the curse bundle, peering inside like science students dissecting a mouse pellet.
“There were two makers,” Mary said, poking through the bundle with wooden chopsticks. “Sisters, it looks like.”
“Theresa and Monica together?” John said, shaking his antlers. He tutted. “Monica should have known better.”
Mary snorted. “She probably figured she wouldn’t get caught.”
“Are you going to bind both of them?”
Elaina’s mom was still waving the sweetgrass. “I’m afraid so. Shame, really, but rules are rules.”
“How long will it last?” I asked. Until May, I hoped.
“They will have to do selfless acts until their karmic debt is paid.” Mary’s eye twitched. “If I know Curse Terry, that could be years.”
Sweet.
Mary Strede shook her head. “Fred warned me this would happen. He warned me years ago.”
“He did?” I asked. “That makes sense then.”
“What makes sense?” Mary waved sweetgrass smoke away from her face and glared at Elaina’s mom.