Tale of the Necromancer by Kathryn Ann Kingsley

18

March 1685

Whitby, England

Marguerite ran.She fled through the field, running for her very life. A creature beyond all measure pursued her. She did not know him, save for the flashes in her dreams of a demon that possessed her.

She had seen priests to aid her. She had visited women who practiced the old ways. None could rid her of the dreams that took her in the waking world, whispering to her of a past that could not be. She saw herself dying—again, and again, and again—in such terrible ways.

And each time, that thing, that terrible and shadowy monster was there. Nipping at her heels. Reaching for her soul. She did not know herself. She did not know from whence she came. All her memories and recollections were gone. All, save those terrible nightmares that could not be real.

Or at least she had not believed them to be real. Until she witnessed the monster in the waking world. Her physician—who had claimed to be able to help her—had melted away. His body had disappeared into the shadows and horrifying reaching talons.

She had screamed. And then she had run.

It was pouring, the water coming down in sheets around her. She could barely see, and the long grass around her clung to her dress as if wishing to pull her down into the dirt. As if that was where she belonged.

Perhaps I am already dead, and that is but Death himself come to claim me. I am not alive, am I?

She ran as far and as fast as she could, before one misstep ended her escape. Her ankle twisted in a depression in the ground, and with a cry of pain, she fell into the wet grass.

She sobbed, her tears joining the rain as it sank into the ground. Yes. She was dead. And this was her home.

There was family in the dirt.

She sank her fingers into it, needing to feel the clinging grit against her hand. She put her forehead down and shut her eyes tight. “I am alone. Please, I do not wish to be alone. If I might die, let me die. But I cannot do this any longer.”

When a hand touched her back, she screamed. Rolling over, she gazed up at—

At Death.

But not the shadowy creature she had expected. No. What stood beside her was—was a—was a skeleton.

It stood upon its bony, rotted, yellow legs, no skin or tendon to help hold the pieces together. From its shallow shoulders and empty ribs hung tattered remains of fabric. A skull perched atop a neck, and no lower jaw decorated its fleshless remains.

It stood there, watching her. With no lips with which to aid it, the skeleton spoke to her. “I am here, Marguerite.”

She screamed.

And her world went black.

* * *

Gideon snarled,his fists clenching.

How was it that his world was always insisting on going from bad to worse?

There, walking through the moors in the pouring rain, heading back to his home, was not Marguerite. When she had fled from him, he knew she would run through the moors, perhaps sprain her ankle, and then, soaked and hopeless, she would return to him. And then they would begin in earnest.

But no.

No.

Instead, he saw the bony, impossible, infuriating form of a fleshless revenant carrying her unconscious body back to the light of his home. When the skeleton stepped closer, meaning to move past him and out of the rain, he stepped in front of it. “Leave her and go.”

“I cannot. More importantly, I will not.” The skeleton stood firm, holding the girl to his lifeless frame as if he were a living man. “She summoned me. I crawled from the Earth. And I walked over field and through ocean to reach her. From my grave I have come to this foreign land.” He paused. “Besides which, I would remain simply to spite you, necromancer.” He took another step forward, bony foot sinking into the muck. “Now get the fuck out of my way.”

Looking down at his wife, at her drenched state, he knew there was nothing he could do. She had summoned a revenant without realizing it. She had latent power before they were bound, but now that his soul was tangled up in hers, she was truly dangerous.

He stepped aside. The skeleton walked past him into the room and headed straight for the fire. He placed her tenderly in a chair and began working to rid her of her sopping wet dress.

Gideon glared at the revenant. It was useless anger, but he felt it all the same. With a long, beleaguered sigh, he accepted his new fate. “How wonderful that the hero has returned to us.”

“There is a fence post outside that is tapered more than most. I think in the rain it would fit quite nicely. Go wedge it up your arsehole.” The skeleton straightened and fetched a blanket to wrap it around Marguerite, who was now dressed down to her slip and corset.

His jaw twitched. “Lovely to see you again, too, Leopold.”

* * *

December 1961

Portland, Oregon

Maggie heldher pet in her lap. She was sitting on the floor, her legs crossed, and she cradled the little creature in the crook of her arm. He was wheezing, his chest rising and falling in short, rapid gasps.

Her pet rat Algernon was dying.

His eyes were closed, and she knew it would happen soon.

She understood death. She understood that creatures died. And her little rat had lived a long and happy life for his species. Rats only lived up to three years, Dr. Raithe had told her. He had asked her instead to consider a cat, as they could live up to twenty. She liked cats—she had nothing against them. In fact, she thought that was a great idea and she had gone to the pet store with him with the full intent of coming out with some lovable kitty.

But when she saw Algernon’s adorable little face and whiskers peering up at her from the cage in the pet store, she’d instantly fallen in love. That had been four years ago. He had lived longer than she had thought possible.

She understood his time would come.

But it still didn’t do anything to stop her grief, or her tears. John, her best friend and fellow patient of Dr. Raithe, sat beside her. He had one of his strong arms wrapped around her shoulders. He kissed her temple but said nothing.

“Thank you for all the love you gave me,” she whispered to the little animal. She knew he couldn’t understand English, but she believed animals could feel the intent behind them. “Thank you for all the laughs, and for stealing all my hair ties. Thank you. I’ll miss you.” She sniffled. “I love you, Algernon.”

John hugged her tighter. “He’ll always be with you.”

“I know…I’m just going to miss him so much.”

“It’s all right.” He rested his head against hers. “You gave him a wonderful life, and he adored you. I’ve never seen a rat follow a person around the house.” He chuckled. “Scared the shit out of me a few times.”

She smiled at the memory. But the bittersweet moment turned sour as Algernon stopped breathing.

Maggie wept.

John helped her dig a little hole in the back yard, and she placed her friend in a shoebox, burying it deep enough that the neighborhood animals wouldn’t make a meal of her friend’s remains.

It wasn’t until two in the morning that night that she finally fell asleep, fitfully turning from side to side, wishing she could reach out and feel the warm, fuzzy presence of her pet rat. Gideon always scolded her for keeping him in the bed with her. But the little guy was studiously clean, and never really wandered off. It felt wrong to keep him in a cage when it was clear he had no interest in running away.

At four in the morning, her hand touched something fuzzy on her pillow. Fuzzy—but…not warm.

Opening her eyes, she sat up, instantly awake. Fumbling for the light switch, she flicked it on. There, on her pillow, was Algernon. He was cleaning himself, wiping the dirt from his face and whiskers with his little hands.

No. Her rat had been dead. Was this a miracle? Had he returned to life? Had she been mistaken, and buried her living friend, who had dug himself out of the dirt to come back to her?

Reaching out, her rat eagerly jumped into her hand. She petted him gently, even if she was trembling. He was cold. As cold as—well—the grave.

Algernon had not come back to life. He was still dead.

She fainted.

* * *

November 2019

Boston, Massachusetts

“And that’s that.”The nurse smiled at her and handed the packet of papers to Maggie over the counter. “You’re all set.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Sure. Thanks.” She kept herself from laughing incredulously at the woman’s comment. “All set” to her apparently translated to being shoved into a halfway home with a monthly stipend from the state, mandatory meetings with her state-appointed psychiatrist, and no fucking clue who she was.

But being in a dumpy apartment in Chinatown was still probably better than being in the hospital. She was getting really sick of the food. She supposed she had an excuse. She’d been in Mass General for six weeks, and had every possible scan run on her that they had machines for.

She was really sick of MRIs.

Stupid loud-ass tubes.

“Good luck!” Her chipper nurse patted her on the shoulder then went off to deal with other patients.

It left Maggie standing in her hospital room alone, with only a bag of her pseudo personal belongings and the clothes she was wearing. “I guess I’ll go call a cab,” she muttered to nobody. Leaving the hospital felt…strange. Even though she didn’t want to be stuck there, it was oddly comforting to be constantly surrounded by people. She had no idea who she was, or why she woke up lying in Copps Hill Burying Ground in the middle of the night. She had no identity besides “Marguerite” and no one had come to “claim” her.

And her mind was plagued with visions of her death. Waking or sleeping, it didn’t matter. Again, and again, and again, she dreamed of dying by almost every means possible. And nobody in the hospital could tell her why or make it stop.

But at least she hadn’t been alone.

Walking out of the doors, she found herself not looking forward to her cruddy studio apartment, because there’d be nobody there with her.

“Marguerite?”

She jumped at the sudden voice. She turned—and blinked. Standing before her was easily the most handsome man she had ever seen in real life. He had bronze skin, as if he hailed from the middle east. His hair was pure, snow white, as was his goatee. His eyes were liquid silver. He wore an expensive suit that was entirely black, save for a tie that matched his eyes.

He smiled at her warmly. There was real tenderness there—real sympathy. He reached his hand out to her. “My name is Dr. Gideon Raithe. I’m your new psychiatrist. I thought perhaps I could give you a ride to your apartment.” His voice was deep and rumbly, but smooth like velvet.

“I—ah—um—” Her cheeks felt warm. Was she blushing? Holy shit, get hold of yourself. Placing her hand in his, she forced herself to smile. “Maggie. Nice to meet you.”

After shaking her hand, he pointed off down the street with a cane that he carried. It was clear it was for fashion and not for need. The top was a vulture, cast in silver. “My car is this way.” And with that, he turned and led the way.

I wound up with the weirdo eccentric doctor. Great. Go me.

She found herself staring at his ass and snickered quietly enough that he couldn’t hear her over the sounds of downtown.

At least he’s hot.