Tale of the Necromancer by Kathryn Ann Kingsley

24

Gideon sat nervouslyat the picnic table of The Barking Crab. It was one of Boston’s oldest seafood establishments, and at least it was early enough in the spring that it wasn’t beset by the locust that were the seasonal tourists.

To say that he clashed with the décor was to put it mildly. The Barking Crab seemed to pride itself on how washed-out, faded, broken-down, and rat-infested it was. Not a single surface wasn’t covered in chipped, sun-bleached paint, or had enough splinters to make you wonder if the picnic table benches weren’t going to collapse under normal use.

But the food was incredibly good, and Marguerite never was one for pointless elegance. And so, he stared in half-hearted disgust at his bottle of beer and waited. He had arrived early, too anxious not to, and had made sure their seat was the best one in the house. It had only taken a few hundred dollars and some patience to get it. No murder involved.

He smirked. Marguerite would be so proud.

His heart cinched painfully. He knew she would be here soon to join him—if she didn’t stand him up, but that didn’t seem to be her style—but still…he missed her. The past year had both oozed and sped by at the same time.

That was what heartbreak did. Sometimes he would find he had spent hours simply sitting in a chair and staring at a wall, thinking. Remembering. Regretting.

Mostly regretting.

When there was movement at his side, he jolted out of his thoughts, looking up at the young woman who approached him. For a split second, he barely recognized her. He had lived for centuries with the ghost of the woman who came toward him. She had been sallow, shadowed, haunted and forlorn. He had thought her resplendent, only because he didn’t know any better.

The woman who came toward him, however, to stop at his side with a shy and lopsided smile, was something else entirely. She was breathtaking. Her eyes shone brightly, there were no bags beneath them. She wore a low-cut black blouse tucked into dark green pants. A bright silver necklace hung around her neck, emblazoned with a delicate skull caught in twisting vines and lace. She wore a long, black jacket, and a black purse with a Colonial American winged death’s head stamped on it in white ink was slung casually over her shoulder. Her long hair flowed around her in well-kept curls. The offensive orange was gone and was now replaced with a deep green that matched her eyes.

She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

He stood so fast he nearly knocked over his terrible beer, and he had to scramble to catch it before it spilled.

The woman he had known had indeed been a ghost.

And this woman was a so very, very much more than that. And far more than he expected.

And to be frank, he did not quite know what to do with himself.

Turning back to her, he cleared his throat and attempted to regain his dignity, but she was already laughing at him. Not in cruelty, but in amusement. In…fondness.

He could not allow himself to hope. He could not. And yet, like the terrible poison that it was, it sank into his veins in an instant.

This is already going terribly.

* * *

Maggie almost feltbad for the poor bastard. He had already tripped over himself in the four seconds she had been in his presence. “Hi.”

“I—ah—” Smoothing one hand over his tie, he gestured to the table with the other. “Would you care to join me?”

“Nah, I figured I’d sit on the other side of the restaurant, and we could just awkwardly stare at each other all night.” She moved to sit on the other side of the picnic table, placing her bag down on the ground as she did. She tipped it over on its side, letting Algernon skitter out. She scratched him on the head. “Don’t get into too much trouble, and don’t let them push you around.”

He let out a squeak and took off to the fence that surrounded the outdoor patio, squirming under the slats of wood and toward the harbor. She smiled. It was still a little chilly, but the restaurant had heaters set out nearby. It was going to be a nice night.

Well, the weather was going to be nice, anyway.

The rest still remained to be seen.

Gideon took his seat across from her again, silver eyes flicking between hers as if he didn’t believe what he was seeing.

“What?” She arched an eyebrow quizzically. “Did I smudge my makeup?”

“No, no. You look…good. That’s all.” And now he looked embarrassed.

She smiled. “I’m a whole person now. I don’t think I’ve been that way for a long, long time. Maybe not even since I was really alive, back when I was a kid.”

“You were twenty.”

“I was still a kid.” She paused as the waiter came up to ask what she wanted. “Can you guys do a bramble?”

The waiter blinked. “I—don’t think I’ve heard of that. I’ll ask the bartender, though.”

“No, no, it’s fine.” She thought it over for a moment. “I’ll take a basic martini.” Once the waiter walked away, she turned her attention back to Gideon. “You’re right, Americans can’t mix gin drinks to save their lives.”

He chuckled. “I would have attempted to order for you, but I think I despise the menu.” He eyed the piece of paper in his hands. “I suppose I’ll order the fried fish.”

“Hard to go wrong with fried.”

“Hard to get sick from it, as well.” He wrinkled his nose.

“Oh, come on, you can’t get food poisoning.” With a hum, she realized she honestly didn’t know if he could. “Wait, can you?”

“No, but I can have my body—summoned as it might be—insist that what I’ve put in must come right back out. Which is hardly pleasant.”

“Huh. I learned the other week I could still get the flu, so that was fun.” She smiled. “Poor Algernon was so worried.”

“I see you’ve crafted an illusion for him. Well done.”

“I mean, he’s a rat. It’s not like I have to get the facial features right.” She chuckled. “And people wig out enough when a rat jumps out of your bag, let alone one that looks like it came from the reject bin of a Halloween Outlet.”

“Pah. Be kind. He’s a mid-grade Halloween prop.” He sipped his beer, made a face, and put it back down. “I think I will switch to hard alcohol, on second thought.”

“Not a Sam Adamsfan?”

“Apparently not.”

“Snob.”

“Guilty as charged.”

Propping her elbow up on the table, she plopped her chin in her hand and watched him. “How are you, Gideon?”

“Oh, quite fine. Work has kept me busy. I spent a few months in Morocco, dealing with a bit of a mafia uprising. It was a nice change of pace.”

She watched him flatly. She almost believed him. Almost. But there was a crack in his perfect veneer. “Are you telling me the truth, G?”

Stunned, he processed the words that came out of her mouth. “Did you just call me ‘G’?”

“Seems like it.”

“I’m not entirely sure how I feel about that.” He shrugged a shoulder. “I suppose it isn’t terrible. There are worse things you could call me.”

The waiter came back with her martini, Gideon ordered one to match, and they placed their food orders. She got a plate of onion rings for the table, she ordered the whole-belly fried clams, and he got the fish ‘n chips. They were both relieved to find out they had malt vinegar.

“Can’t get fat,” she said with a grin as the waiter walked away. “Might as well enjoy it, right?”

“One of the greatest joys of being as we are.” His silver eyes glittered in amusement. “And no, I was not lying to you. I did spend the better part of three months in Morocco being shot at, or convincing people to stop shooting at other people.”

“That wasn’t the bit I’m dubious about. It was the first part. Where you said you’ve been ‘quite fine.’”

“Ah.” It seemed he couldn’t keep eye contact as he stared down into his martini, spinning the glass between his fingers. It was still getting dark fairly early, and the firelight from the gas patio heater reflected off the surface of the drink.

His jaw ticked, and he shifted uncomfortably on the wooden bench. Finally, after it seemed like he was going to ignore her, he finally answered. “It isn’t any of your concern.”

“Ouch.”

“What am I to say, Marguerite?” He looked up at her then, and she was taken aback by the hurt in his eyes. “What is it you wish to hear from me? That I sit alone, unsure of what to do with myself, or that I still reach for you in the night only to find you missing?” He grimaced and looked away again, turning his attention to the view of the Fort Point Channel next to the restaurant. He rolled his shoulders back, cracking them. “I have kept busy. I am immortal. I am fine.”

Now don’t I feel like the bitch?“I didn’t leave to hurt you.”

“I know. Nor do I blame you. Nor did I expect anything different. Nor do I expect that anything will come of this dinner more than the ‘closure’ you seek.” He still wouldn’t look at her, instead staring off at the little boats and weathered dinghies that dotted the stone wall of the channel.

“I haven’t decided yet.” She sipped her martini and realized she was drinking it maybe just a little too fast. Oh, well. She figured she earned it. And she figured she’d need it. “I don’t hate you, Gideon.”

Now it was his turn to look at her incredulously.

“I don’t.” She picked up the little spear that held the pimento olives from her drink and ate one off the end of it. “I should. Believe me, I know I should. You did absolutely terrible shit to me, G.”

“Still don’t know how I feel about that, but go on,” he murmured.

“You murdered my father, my best friend…you lied to me, manipulated me, torched an entire village in jealousy, and drove me to commit suicide. And then, too afraid to let me go, you…did this to me.” She gestured at herself. “You turned me into an undead whatever-the-fuck against my will. Then, while trying to ‘fix’ me, you spend hundreds of years making it catastrophically worse.”

He cringed, as if each listing of his sins was another nail in a coffin. “Believe me, I am acutely aware of all this. Do you think it hasn’t gone through my head, playing over again and again? I may not have suffered the blackouts you endured, but…I relived it all just the same.”

“That’s one of the three reasons I don’t hate you. See, I—” Their food arrived, and the waiter placed a giant pile of fried clams in front of her. “Oh, fuck yes.” She laughed, the waiter joining her. “Sorry, been away from Boston for a while. I missed this.”

Once the waiter was gone, she found Gideon ignoring his food entirely. He was staring at her, his expression confused and unreadable.

She smiled. “Eat. Fish ‘n chips has a short temperature shelf life. The colder it gets, the weirder it gets.”

With a long sigh, he picked up his knife and fork and listened to her advice. Dipping one of her clams into the tartar sauce—she’d need to ask for about twelve more containers of the stuff—she did the same.

“The first reason I don’t hate you is because you know what you did was wrong. It didn’t stop you from doing it, and it doesn’t change what you’ve done, but if you were stomping around telling me it was ‘justified’ or that you didn’t regret it, I wouldn’t be here.”

“But I would do it all again, Marguerite. If you lay dying in my arms, I would repeat my actions. I—” He gritted his teeth then shook his head, cutting himself off.

“Go on. Please.”

Every muscle in his body went tense and then slack. With a shrug as if to say nothing could possibly get any worse, he finished his thought. “I love you, Marguerite, more than anything. More than myself. And I can’t exist in this world without you. I would bind my soul to yours again in a heartbeat if it meant I would ensure we were, at least in some tragic way, always together.”

She wanted to tease him for his melodrama, but he looked like he was about to snap. Either in anger, or in tears, she didn’t know, and she decided she didn’t want to find out. “Hey.” She reached over the table, placing her hand over his where he was gripping his blunt dinner knife hard enough his knuckles were white. “I’m here.”

“I am a child. Nothing more than a weak, insipid toddler, throwing blocks because I can’t have my favorite toy. Eurydice is right.”

She smiled. “How is the big grumpy bird?”

“She’s lovely, and quite grumpy, thank you.”

She wormed her fingers into his, forcing him to let go of the knife and relax. He stared at their hands as though he didn’t recognize them. With a dumbfounded shake of his head, he lowered his voice. “Marguerite, I do not regret the terrible things I did—I regret that I had to do them.”

Silver eyes flicked to hers, edged in tears. She squeezed his hand gently. “Don’t you think I know that?”

Dumbly, he shook his head. “I don’t understand…How could you…”

“You’re desperate, not cruel. That’s the second reason I can’t hate you. Nothing you ever did to me was out of malice. It was just a man, clinging to smoke. You didn’t want to kill my father, you wanted to marry me. You didn’t want to kill Harry, but he got in your way. I really, really disagree with your methods, but you never meant to torture me. I know you love me, and I’ve never once doubted that.” She slowly let go of his hand. Namely, so she could keep eating her dinner. He begrudgingly went back to doing the same.

“And the third reason?”

She smirked. “A secret. For now. Maybe I’ll tell you later, maybe I won’t. Food and drinks first.”

Gideon downed his martini in one go and gestured for the waiter to get him another.

“You’ve been doing a lot of solo drinking, haven’t you?” She laughed.

“You have no idea.”

They ate in silence for a moment. With a sudden grunt, he tapped his finger on the wood surface of the table. “I neglected to say how sorry I am about Leopold. Harry. Whatever he wished to be called.”

“You hated him. It was mutual.”

“I’m not sad he’s finally gone. It was a long time overdue. But I know you must still miss him.”

“I do. Every damn day. But that’s grief, isn’t it? That’s the nature of loss. We don’t stop crying. We just cry less.”

“And for your grief, I am sorry. Not because he’s gone.” He huffed a laugh. “Trust me, I won’t miss him.”

“I think you will, just a little.” She grinned, reaching across the table to steal one of his French fries, even though she had plenty of her own. “But you don’t need to admit it. That’s fine.”

He smiled for real for the first time since they sat down. It lit up his face, but not his eyes. He was staring down at his fried fish like it was an open grave.

God, I hate seeing him like this. I hate that he’s in pain. I should be rolling around in it like Scrooge McDuck, but instead it breaks my heart.

“All right, fine.” She sighed. “I’ll tell you the third reason I can’t hate you. I wanted to revel in this a bit, but I just can’t. It’d be like kicking Mephisto.”

He furrowed his brow, puzzled, but said nothing and simply waited.

It was her turn to down the rest of her martini. “The third reason I can’t hate you, Dr. Gideon Raithe, is because I love you.”

* * *

“Excuse me?”

Gideon stared at her, unable to believe what he had heard. Certainly, she was only tormenting him. Turning the tables on him and toying with him for a change.

But instead, she shrugged and let out a breath. “Tried to deny it, tried to pretend I didn’t. Tried to pretend I hated you. None of it stuck. I needed time, and I’ve had that time. And I guess I’ve finally made up my mind. I miss you. It feels like…” She paused, thoughtfully picking at the mound of ridiculously hideous fried food in front of her. “It feels like how I miss Harry, but worse. Because I know you’re still here. It’s weird to be immortal and feel like you’re wasting time.”

“Marguerite, I—” He stopped. He honestly didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. It wasn’t possible. “After all that I did?”

“That’s the thing that gets me. That’s the thing that really, really gets me, Gideon. If you could have just gotten out of your own goddamn way, and waited for a hot fucking second, everything would have been fine.” She took a gulp of her martini.

“I—I don’t—”

“If you had just seen me sketching at that fountain, and sat down beside me, and said hello? If you had just introduced yourself like a normal person, dated me like a normal person, and been a little less, well, you, I would’ve fallen in love with you. I would’ve married you.”

“You can’t possibly know that.”

“I can. And I do. Because every time you and I have just been together? Every time you and I have just had a chance to ‘be’?” She shook her head, her smile beleaguered and tired, as if she were sick of climbing a mountain that she could never reach the peak of. He empathized. “When we were living together in that castle, or the quiet times we spent together, or most recently when you had me go on that stupid lie of a vision fetch-quest? Each time, each goddamn time, Gideon, I fell in love with you. And then you had to go and wreck it.”

He would not cry.

He would not cry.

He would not cry.

He wiped at his eyes with the back of his sleeve, glad for the rough fabric of his suitcoat. The pain of it was a stiff reminder that he was in public, and his injured dignity would not abide with weeping.

Maybe later.

If she could have hurt him more, he did not know how it could be accomplished. The simple fact of what she was saying—you never needed to fight for me—tore something loose inside his heart. Tore it straight out, like those priests had done, and plopped it on the table next to his overly breaded and oily fish.

The breath he pulled in was shaky, and the one he let out was equally so. “Is this goodbye?”

“No.” She reached for his hand again, and he numbly let her take it. She squeezed it. When she smiled at him, her expression was dazzling. “This is hello.”