Excerpt: HOPELESS NECROMANTIC by Shiloh Briar
Necromantasy is the new romantasy in Hopeless Necromantic, a debut romantic fantasy for fans of Gideon the Ninth, The Irresistible Urge to Fall for your Enemy, Long Live Evil or Assistant to the Villain.
“A delightfully quirky mix of outrageous humor and heartfelt tenderness. Sikras and Helspira are a couple to die for!” —Stephanie Burgis, author of Wooing the Witch Queen
SHE RAISES HELL. HE RAISES THE DEAD. WHAT COULD POSSIBLY GO WRONG?
Read the first two chapters of Hopeless Necromantic, on sale June 2nd, below!
CHAPTER ONE
SIKRAS
Sure, everyone claimed they would do anything to bring back a deceased loved one, but that was because they failed to imagine
the ramifications. Unless one had no sense of smell, or a penchant for the stench of decay, undead rarely made satisfying company in the long term. “But, oh,” the people would say, “I never meant for them to return as undead. I meant for them to be alive exactly as they were before.”
Too bad.
No matter how hard anyone wished, hoped, or prayed for a loved one to come back to life – to be truly alive – the best a corpse could ever get was a little less dead than they were before.
And that’s where Sikras “Catseye” Nikabod came in.
Necromancy certainly wasn’t the noblest of professions in the kingdom of Nyllmas, nor anywhere in the whole of Siaphara. If Sikras were brutally honest, necromancy was less a “profession” and more an illicit opportunity for magic wielders with questionable moral compasses to make a living by ripping souls from Enos and stuffing them inside corpses, much in the way one shoved cubed bread into a hollowed-out game hen.
But it paid the bills. Illegally. People could balk and wail and organize all the protests they wanted, but for every townsperson who cried about “dead men’s rights,” two or three people would be at Sikras’s doorstep, begging him to resurrect Grandpa.
For that reason, when Sikras smelled the familiar odor of dried blood and rotting flesh outside his mansion’s ornate door, he wasn’t surprised. That meant one of two things: either a strangely independent undead minion waited on his stoop, or he had a new client.
Sikras made no move for the door even when a knock sounded from the other side. Instead, he studied the gameboard before him, the only pristine object in a cavernous room full of clutter and dust. It wasn’t until he moved an onyx-carved component into the threshold of a gold-lined circle painted on the board that he stood.
“I’ve made my move, Benjamin. Your turn.”
“Finally,” called a voice from a distant room. “I almost died of old age.”
“Count yourself lucky, then. Natural causes are a fine way to go.”
After dusting his shoulders and tugging at his sleeves to smooth any wrinkles, Sikras approached the door and pulled it open.
A man holding a lifeless body awaited him on the other side. No surprise there. Sikras tilted his head and gave the corpse a cursory analysis.
Adult. Human. Female. Visible, gruesome injuries. Puncture wounds, exposed intestines, the whole kit and caboodle. Dead maybe seven, eight hours tops. Rigor mortis had set in, making her rather unwieldy, as the traumatized-looking gentleman holding her grunted each time he readjusted the dead weight.
Awkward silence made seconds feel like hours, and if the stranger’s slack-jawed stutters were any indication, it didn’t look as if he would form a proper sentence any time soon. “Allow me to hazard a guess,” Sikras said to break the ice, giving one of the puncture wounds a gentle poke. “A horde of crowned gremlins? They’ve been getting closer to the city lines lately. Devilish things, those.”
The man gathered whatever courage he possessed and cleared his throat. “Apologies. I—I’m still in shock. This mansion’s never one I thought I’d visit.”
“It’s not the top tourist destination in Vinepool, I can tell you that much.” Sikras stepped aside. “Bring her in. Benjamin will show you where you can set her.”
“Benjamin?” The man’s arms quaked as he struggled to hold the body. “I’m here to see the fabled necromancer, the Glowing Cat’s Eye in Death’s Darkness. Who’s Benjamin?”
In the doorway, a human skeleton appeared. “Hi.”
“Adalin’s mercy!” The man stumbled backward and fell, trapped under the dead woman’s weight.
“Benjamin.” Sikras regarded him with open arms. “Perfect timing. Did you make your move?”
“Took me two seconds,” Benjamin replied. “You could learn a thing or two from me regarding efficiency.”
Sikras dipped into a humble bow, then glimpsed back at the horrified stranger splayed on his steps. “It’s true. Benjamin here is a champion at Rack and Ruin. Do you play?”
“A walking skeleton?” A gasping wheeze tightened the man’s words as he shoved the corpse off his torso and scooted backward. “Walking. Talking.” Sikras raised a finger. “Just don’t ask him to dance. He’ll do it, and it’s not a pretty sight. He’s a damn fine musician though. You’ve never met a man who can work the lute quite like this one, let me tell you.”
The sound of clacking bones rang out when Benjamin placed his hand on his hip. “I can dance. Sort of. We don’t all practice choreography with undead minions like some people.”
“Oh, yes. Undead.” A cloud of dust jostled off Sikras’s sleeves when he clapped his hands together. “On that very subject, gather your corpse, sir, and bring her inside. Who do we have here? Wife? Lover? Sister? A corrupt landlord who you wish to resurrect for the sheer joy of watching her die twice?”
“W-wife, sir.” A layer of doubt reflected in the man’s eyes as he stooped to gather the dead. “Am I to believe you’re the necromancer I seek?”
“Judging by your tone, I assume that’s difficult to believe?” “With respect, sir, you don’t exactly…That is to say, you don’t look the part of the necromantic prodigy sung of by the kingdom’s bards.”
“First off, Nyllmas’s bards leave a lot to be desired. Second, I haven’t let myself go all that much, have I?” Head cocked, Sikras faced the grand mirror hanging askew on the wall beside him, but a hefty coating of dust robbed it of its primary function. He raked his fingers through the tangled mess of his loosely curled hair, as if that would make him more presentable.
Benjamin tapped his chin in consideration. “I bet it’s the dark circles beneath your eyes. Or the lifeless tone of your skin. Your unnaturally gray hair, perhaps? Wait, no, the atrophied muscles. Oh, or the gaunt face.” He rounded on the client. “It’s his face, isn’t it?”
“All that, yes.” The man nodded, his throat bobbing from a hard swallow. “And you look so…average. You’re much taller in the portraits.”
Sikras smirked. “I’ve a pair of boots that bolsters me to five foot eleven. Shall I put them on before or after I resurrect your dead wife?”
“N-no boots necessary, sir.”
With his elbow, Benjamin gave Sikras a gentle nudge. “I’m sure he means no offense. Folkloric men are meant to be godlike, glistening things. You know I adore you, but, in your current state, you do look a bit like a corpse that someone left in the sun too long.”
“Your poetry knows no bounds, Benjamin. That’s why you’re the musician, and I’m just the dancer.” Absent of any insult, Sikras regarded his patron and bent into a sardonic bow. “Contrary to appearances, yes, I am the great necromancer you seek, and I will provide you with nothing but the utmost quality whilst rendering my services. Now, slide the rubbish off our dining table and toss your beloved up there, will you?”
With a grunt of resignation, the man stepped past the threshold, followed Sikras and Benjamin into the dining room, and hoisted his wife’s corpse atop piles of loose parchment and empty plates. “You were right about what you’d said earlier,” he muttered, shuffling away once he had positioned her. “’Twas a pack of crowned gremlins what killed her when she was out gathering herbs.”
Sikras spun on his heels to capture the man in his stare. “Vile way to go. I’m impressed you weren’t gutted alongside her.”
“I was able to run and hide, sir. Adalin blessed me well.”
“Adalin worshipper, aye?” A shudder rattled Sikras’s shoulders. “She must have missed your wife’s prayers for mercy. Lost to the blood-curdling screams, perhaps? Tell me, uh – what’s your name again?”
“Bilsby, sir.”
“Bilsby. For how long has your wife been dead?”
About eight hours.”
Sikras nodded his approval. “Fresh. Good. It increases the odds that her soul remains in Enos and that Goddess Adalin hasn’t whisked it away to whatever afterlife she created for her venerators. Before we begin, I need you to sign some paperwork. Benjamin?”
Benjamin pried open a drawer and removed a prewritten parchment. After struggling to find room for it on the cluttered table, he grabbed the deceased’s arm. “Pardon me, miss,” he said, then scooted her limb out of the way.
“Quill and ink pot are over there,” Sikras mumbled, pointing. “I’d tell you to read the parchment, but we both know you won’t.” The statement seemed to ruffle Bilsby, evidenced by his puffing chest and reddening cheeks. “I don’t need to read it. It doesn’t matter what it says. I’d give—”
“Anything to have her back. Yes, where have I heard that before? As noble as it is original, I assure you.” Nonchalance padded Sikras’s words as he tapped the parchment. “This contract states I did, or at least attempted to, review the risks associated with the resurrection of a dead loved one, including but not limited to nausea, vomiting, lightheadedness, intense regret, mental and emotional turmoil, cursing me, cursing the gods, and any damage to your person or personal belongings should you drop to your knees, wail, rend your garments, et cetera, so on and so forth. In addition, please note that signing this parchment relinquishes me from any liability regarding your satisfaction or dissatisfaction with the services rendered.”
“Gimme the damn quill,” Bilsby snapped, hastily jotting his signature.
Sikras crossed his arms. “Don’t forget to initial. I’ll need payment up front, please and thank you.”
Bristling, Bilsby reached into his vest pocket. With a trembling hand, he set the leather satchel of coins atop the table. “You keep an awful lot of paperwork for someone who does this outside the law.”
“The paperwork isn’t for the courts. It’s so when you inevitably return later to complain about my services, I can shove proof of your blatant disregard for my cautions in your face.”
“Any cautions you’d utter are irrelevant,” Bilsby huffed. “I just want my wife back.”
“Of course you do. And while I can bring her back, the divine thread that weaves her memories, her personality, her mannerisms to her body, will only last for as long as—”
“Just return her to me!” The force of his tone failed to match the stout, quivering patron who had cowered on the doorstep moments prior. “I wouldn’t have hauled her all the way here against the laws of Nyllmas, dodging the Red Sentinel, marinating in her blood, if I wasn’t damn well sure I wanted her back. I paid your price, I signed your paper, now do whatever it is you people do.”
“My people? Necromancers are hardly a…You know what? Never mind.” Stifling all outward signs of emotion, Sikras pocketed the money and blew on the ink to dry it before handing it to Ben. “File these with the others for me, would you?”
Benjamin’s eyeless sockets gawked at the papers for only a moment before he tossed them on the floor with the other disorganized contracts that Sikras had collected over the years. “All filed.”
“Perfect, thank you. All right, then.” Sikras cracked his knuckles and rotated his shoulders. “Stand back. Time for the fun part.”
Arthritis, or carpal tunnel, or some other irritating affliction unbefitting a man in his mid-thirties made perfecting the necessary hand gestures required for the spell the most annoying part of a resurrection. Nevertheless, Sikras powered through, twisting wrists and fingers in a flurry of memorized movements.
The atmosphere shifted, suffused with otherworldly energy that pulsed with forbidden power. Rising tendrils of smoke curled in the room as Sikras initiated the spell’s verbal component: “An’stisei tus necrouz.”
It appeared. The woman’s life thread was like a streamer tethered to her gutted chest. This was her essence, the raw energy that animated a body. A bead of sweat tickled the side of Sikras’s forehead as it snaked its way to his jaw.
Halfway there. All that remained was the soul.
Sikras mentally reached out, and while his physical body remained in his dining room, his mind snapped into Enos.
A soundless wonderland of flora sprawled before his vision. Trillions of soft, glowing plants stretched into an impossibly far horizon. He recognized the plants for what they were – the afterlife’s representation of mortal essence, each plant somehow tangible and intangible, the Grim Reaper’s garden of life. Little balls of light floated above the flowers and vines, like luminous particles of dust caught in a stream of sunlight. Souls. Souls that lingered in Enos, waiting for their chosen deity to collect them and bring them to that deity’s individual plane to live out eternity in whatever afterlife their god or goddess fashioned.
Sikras reached out, feeling, searching, until he sensed the missing half belonging to the woman sprawled on his dining table. Her soul parted from the others, drawn to him like a magnet, and though he had no olfactory senses in Enos, the sensation of rosewater and cotton struck him.
Soul in hand, he blinked out of Enos and into his body, his dining room. The rhythmic beat of his heart quickened, his breath growing shallow, as black mist erupted from his palms and enveloped the corpse in an undulating shroud of darkness. The light of the woman’s soul competed against it, glowing bright enough to cast shadows on the walls.
A sudden chill siphoned all heat from the room, which was a very handy side effect of resurrections for the summer months. During the more insufferable seasonal heatwaves, when the discomfort of profuse sweating outweighed the cost for spellcasting, Sikras occasionally raised the dead for no other reason than to cool the living quarters, but balmy temperatures were not an issue today. Winter’s approach still sent an unpleasant shiver through his arms. The ritual was near completion.
The fabric of the planes between living and dead quivered as the two broken pieces – the thread of essence attached to the corpse and the soul plucked from Enos – wove together.
The body on the table convulsed, a spasm of life jolting through her limbs.
Sikras matched her tremor when the snap of thaumaturgic backlash crackled through his body. The price of spellcasting. Blood and bone, it burned like a thousand little needles sinking into his skin. Winded, he wiped the sweat from his brow and leaned forward to inspect the once lifeless vessel. A flicker of light, dim and fragile, lit the woman’s eyes when they shot open.
The room fell into an unsettling hush, save for the labored breathing coming from both Sikras and the resurrected woman. She sat upright, slow and deliberate, intestines still exposed, skin still pale from blood loss. She looked every bit the same as she had when Bilsby had dragged her to Sikras’s doorstep, albeit more animated.
“Bilsby?” The woman’s shaking hands patted her body, her face, as if touching herself would assuage her confusion. “Wh-where am I? What happened?”
“She’s…She’s…” Bilsby stumbled backward, a look of horror twisting his expression. “She’s not right. Put her guts back in, sew her up, something! Gods, man, she still looks like she’s dead!”
“Come now, that’s no way to speak to your wife.” Sikras swatted Bilsby with the back of his wrist and found the woman’s gaze. “Does he always talk to you like this?”
“Y-you said you’d bring her back!” Bilsby stuttered.
“And I did. I’m a necromancer, sir, not a tailor. If you want her
sewn up, I recommend Carpin Capers Clothing. Granted, it’s been four years since I set foot in the city, but last I heard, Jiselle was a master of her craft.”
“I can’t do this. What good is she in this state? I can’t be married to a . . . a monster. That’s not my wife; that’s an abomination!” An accusatory, quaking finger trembled in Sikras’s face. “Fuck you, you soulless demon!”
The picture of calm, Sikras wiped away a fragment of spittle that landed on his face after Bilsby’s potent outburst. “Benjamin, please show Mr. Bilsby the door. He’s dropping some very subtle hints that he’d like to leave.”
“To your right, sir.” An unflappable aura of professionalism emanated from the skeleton as he pointed toward the exit. “We thank you for your business and hope you’ll come again.”
Wounded deer scuttled toward safety with more grace than poor Mr. Bilsby. His boots slipped on strewn papers, nearly toppling him, as he dashed for the door. Soon, the only thing left of him was the haggard voice that echoed in the mist outside, “Death to all of you, you rotten bastards!”
“Don’t forget to recommend us to friends and family,” Sikras called out, then faced the abandoned woman before him. “He seems nice.”
“He’s an arse!” she spat out, chest heaving with each unnatural breath. “Why did he…How am I—?”
“You must have questions. I used to have a pamphlet somewhere, but I’m afraid it’s lost to the chaos. Here, let’s have a seat where there’s less cutlery.” Sikras slid his hand into hers and eased her off the table, frowning when one of her organs fell from the hole in her stomach. “Oh, dear. You don’t need that, do you? Benjamin can dust it off if you’d like.”
“No trouble at all, my lady.” Without delay, Benjamin scooped up the organ and picked off pieces of debris.
Puffy-eyed and on the brink of tears, she shook her head. “Something tells me that’s the least of my problems.”
“Come, now. Just because you’re sort of dead, and in a complete stranger’s home, and your husband ran away screaming after calling you a monster? Trust me, sweetheart, I’ve seen worse.” Supporting her fragile frame, Sikras guided her to a dusty, padded seat. “Bilsby’s reaction isn’t terribly uncommon. The fantasy of having a loved one resurrected is often kinder than the reality.”
“Loved one? Ha. More like his financial security.” Her bottom lip trembled as tears welled. “I just…I can’t believe it. I remember the fear, the pain, the gremlins. And Bilsby, he just ran. Left me to die.”
“Yes, he seems to be quite good at running.”
She regarded Sikras with wide, glistening eyes. Confusion – and probably early signs of decomposition – choked her words. “I saw Death. I crossed the threshold into Enos. I was at peace, waiting for Goddess Adalin to take me to her paradise. And then, I heard your voice.”
“Death was there, was she?” Sikras cringed as he eased into a nearby chair. “I’ll be hearing from her soon, I’m sure. She hates it when I mess with her garden.”
“I like Death,” Benjamin said, shrugging. “I think she’s nice. And that body. Yes, sir.”
Sikras arched a brow. “How would you know? You can’t even see her. Or hear her.”
“Well, no, but she’s always asking about me. I think the Grim Reaper must have little crush on ol’ Benjamin Reese.”
“And why wouldn’t she?” Regarding the resurrected woman, Sikras smirked. “Just look at Benjamin’s face. Flawless, isn’t it?”
Oblivious to their banter, it seemed the only motion she could manage was to shake her head. “So, that’s it? Married to that miserable, wretched man for twenty years, barely enjoying a day of life, and now I don’t even get to enjoy death?”
Sikras recognized the devastation in every tortured decibel of her breaking voice; he had heard it countless times. Placing his hand atop hers, he offered what he hoped was a gentle smile. “What’s your name?”
She sniffled. “Canida, sir.”
He gave her hand a comforting squeeze. “Canida. Let me be the first to welcome you back, however brief your stay may be. As I tried to explain to your husband before he so valiantly ran off, you’ll only be yourself for as long as your brain is, shall we say, viable? Once the decay sets in and the integrity of your synapses fade, I’m sorry to say, you’ll be back in Death’s garden, and this body will be a thoughtless, walking corpse.”
The weight of the confession, however tender in its delivery, sparked sadness that showed in her sagging posture. “I see.”
“Not the news you were hoping for, I’m sure. Your husband may not be here to enjoy your final hours, but Benjamin and I make terrific company when we’re the only option available. Can I get you a drink? Wine? Mead? Whiskey? I can’t promise you’ll feel the effects of inebriation, given your body’s condition, but I hear it’s cathartic just to go through the motions.”
Silence followed, the eerie quiet of a woman coming to terms with her reanimation, her husband’s betrayal, and her impending second death. Her posture straightened as she drew a cavernous breath and released it in a slow exhale. “A drink sounds lovely.”
“On it.” Benjamin dipped into a side room, and, before long, he reappeared with a frosted green bottle and a single glass. “For you, my lady.”
A weak smile graced Canida’s dry, cracked lips. “Such a gentleman. Thank you.”
“Anything for our honored guest,” Benjamin said.
Disregarding the glass, Canida seized the bottle and chugged it, liquor sailing down her throat in one swift gulp. When the amber liquid leaked through the hole in her stomach lining and soaked into the chair’s padding, she gasped. “Oh, dear. I’m sorry. I—”
Sikras dismissed her apology with a nonchalant wave. “Trust me, that’s not the worst thing that chair has seen in its lifetime.”
A short but genuine laugh lifted some of her dismay, and she jiggled the bottle. “Join me in a drink?”
“No thank you. I don’t drink.”
“In these shit times? Mercy, how do you cope?”
“Gallows humor and a mountain of denial have worked out pretty well so far.”
“More for me, then.” Canida took another drink and let her head collapse into the chair’s tall back. She stared at the ornamental ceiling, lips pursed. “He was a shit husband, you know.”
Sikras chuckled. “He didn’t make a good first impression, but, to his credit, he did haul your corpse all the way here. Surely he had some redeeming qualities.”
“Oh, yes,” Canida mumbled. “And he was more than willing to share them with the local florist, the baker, and Adalin only knows who else. That’s why this whole thing is so damned confusing. Why beg a bloody necromancer to bring me back when he barely acted like he wanted me in the first place? I’ll bet you that organ I dropped that he only wanted me alive because my parents send us silver every month.”
Pretending not to feel the weight of Bilsby’s gold weighing down his pocket, Sikras shrugged. “Money is a wicked motivator, isn’t it?”
“I suppose.” Canida sighed. “Doesn’t matter now, does it? It’s a wild thing how fast life goes. I lived a fair one though. If I had any regrets at all, it’d be that I never got even for that bastard’s infidelity.”
“Oh?” Sikras arched a brow. “A little revenge would make you feel better, would it?”
Bottle in hand, Canida leaned forward, elbows on her legs. “I’ve been a patient, understanding, faithful woman my entire life. Adalin knows he didn’t deserve it. Does it make me a bad person to crave pettiness just this once?”
Sikras shook his head. “Not at all. Just to be sure, is this one of those statements you really mean or one of those things you say aloud just for the satisfaction of saying it?”
“Honey, if it meant getting back at Bilsby, I’d let the entire Red Sentinel have their way with me. And after? I’d sleep like a kitten curled up by a fire.” A flash of mischievousness sparked through the heaviness in her eyes. “What do you say? You raise the dead, but how about you raise my hopes and help out a dying woman?”
Ignoring Benjamin’s snickering, Sikras forced a polite grin. “As far as…?”
Canida laughed. “I don’t have to spell it out for you, do I? Is sex still taboo if I’m only kind of dead?”
Holding his grin, Sikras cleared his throat and placed a hand on his chest. “I’m flattered, Canida, and while I do love a rebellious act of vengeance, my heart belongs to another.”
“A man who takes his vows seriously? Where were you two decades ago when I married Bilsby?”
“Well, I’d have been about fifteen or sixteen, so probably falling in love for the first time. That’s right about when I met my wife.”
“Adorable.” The bottle clanked as Canida set it atop a nearby table. “That’s all right. It’s my own fault. I should’ve gotten back at Bilsby when I was alive. Where is this special lady of yours? I’d love to meet her.”
The silence lasted the length of a heartbeat before Sikras smiled. “Absent.”
“Well, she’s a lucky woman.”
“She’s had better luck,” Sikras murmured.
“Sorry? I didn’t quite catch that.”
Banishing his self-pity to the back of his mind, where it could fester with the rest of his problems, Sikras sprung to his feet. “I said perhaps Benjamin can aid you in your final quest. He’s always been something of a ladies’ man.”
“The skeleton?” Canida turned a baffled gaze toward Ben. “No offense, but you haven’t a single organ to your name, let alone the one I’m looking for.”
“Oh-ho, Madam Canida, trust me—” Benjamin struck a valiant pose, chest out, hands on his hips “—I know a thing or two about—”
Sikras’s raised hand abruptly ended the sentence. “Benjamin, you know I love your bone jokes as much as the next person, but Ms. Canida is running on borrowed time.”
“Fair enough.” Benjamin offered Canida an arm, an open invitation. “In my present state, I understand your reservations, but should you choose to accept this offer of promiscuity, I assure you, what I lack in body, I more than make up for in creativity and experience.”
Canida stared at the offering, her expression a mixture of doubt and hesitation, until she sprung from her chair. “You know what, Benjamin? I’m in. If I’m about to die, then dammit, I get to be wicked at least once.”
“Twice if we’re lucky.” Benjamin patted her hand as she weaved her arm into what remained of his. “Right this way. With luck, Sikras will have actually made his move in Rack and Ruin before we’re finished.”
As the pair vanished into a secluded bedroom down the hallway, Sikras shuffled toward the exit. Much as he wished to finish their Rack and Ruin game, dropping eaves on Canida and Benjamin’s extracurricular activities rated very low on his list of desires. Perhaps a brisk walk around the grounds would do him some good. If nothing else, it’d help to clear the lingering thoughts of his wife.
Winded from the resurrection, he nabbed the tall, ethereal scythe leaning against the wall, and gave it a tender stroke. “Hello, lovely.” It was nearly weightless, allowing Sikras to effortlessly twirl it with his fingers before he planted the blunt end of the staff onto the floor. Being more magically inclined than martially skilled, Sikras couldn’t wield a weapon to save his life, but Death’s own scythe made a damn fine walking stick when he was still reeling from thaumaturgic backlash.
Just as he reached for the door handle to make his exit, a knock sounded on the other side.
“Oh, look,” he muttered, “Mr. Bilsby has returned to call me a thieving hustler, and it only took him five, ten minutes? Must be a new—”
The door’s hinges squealed as he opened it.
“—record.” Sikras blinked, gawking at the strange woman before him.
Two clashing eyes stared back, one humanoid in appearance, the other a brilliant red iris set inside a black sclera. A pair of twisting horns emerged through an explosion of pink hair pulled into a messy bun, and though they rarely emerged from their homeland of Chthonia, there was no doubt in his mind that the woman before him was a demon. Draped around her neck, a recognizable, crimson scarf added a pop of color to the neutral tones of her leather armor.
He’d know that scarf anywhere. Not only was she a demon, she was a member of the Red Sentinel.
And honestly, Sikras didn’t know which promised to be more detrimental to his health.
CHAPTER TWO
Helspira
When the dilapidated door squealed open, Helspira’s focus landed on the fatigued man standing in the opening.
Punch him in the face and usurp his house.
The intrusive thought made her frown, but as commanding as her internal, demonic impulses were, smothering them had become second nature. Favoring a polite smile over a skull-crushing assault, she leaned into a civil bow. “A very good evening to you, sir.”
“You’re not my client.” The man expressed mild surprise before he tapped an engraved scrap of wood dangling by a rusty nail. “May I direct your attention to this sign?”
Helspira arched a brow as she processed each carved letter. Learning to speak the local Siapharan tongue had been much easier than learning to read it, but the message was simple enough: NO SOLICITORS.
“This sign is a lifeline,” the man said, scythe on his shoulder as he leaned against the door frame. “It helps dissuade people from asking for things, which is particularly useful, since I’m incapable of saying no.”
Her smile only spread. That sign may have stopped the other Red Sentinels from upholding the queen’s order, but it wouldn’t stop her. “I need you to accompany me to Queen Saelihn’s castle.”
“No.”
Her head snapped back in surprise. “But—” she pointed to the sign “—you just said—”
“I’m so sorry. Where are my manners?” He flashed a mouthful of surprisingly well-maintained teeth for a human who looked as if he barely combed his hair. “No, thank you.”
Did she have the right man? Suddenly she wasn’t sure. Undeterred, Helspira stood taller and offered a hand. “My name is Helspira, Red Sentinel acting under Banneret Rowan. I’m looking for Sikras Nikabod, the Glowing Cat’s Eye in Death’s Darkness, former necromancer to Queen Saelihn of the Kingdom of Nyllmas. Is he present?”
The man spread his arms and struck a pose. “Congratulations. You found him. Did Saelihn just not get the message when I refused her other summonses, or is the elven queen starting to show signs of old age in her second century of living?”
Helspira wrinkled her nose. “So, you are Sikras Nikabod, the Glowing Cat’s Eye in Death’s—?”
“If you’re intent on addressing me by the parasitic spirit that chose my body as its host and not my actual name, Catseye is fine,” he said with more nonchalance than she expected. “Perhaps you’d care to enlighten me as to why everyone is always shocked to discover I’m the fabled necromancer?”
Embarrassment surged like a storm. The man before her looked nothing like the folkloric hero who had single-handedly slaughtered armies to protect his kingdom. Helspira’s mind had painted a much different image when she had heard tales of his exploits. Even the weakest demons in Chthonia looked more menacing; with his gray hair and gaunt face, this man resembled the ghost of a hero more than an actual one. “Apologies, it’s just…You don’t look anything like – um, you know what? That’s not important. Queen Saelihn hereby summons you to appear before her, to discuss the circumstances surrounding your many, many years of tax evasion.”
“Blood and bone. The Red Sentinels double as tax collectors now?”
Helspira puffed out her chest, hands resting on the armor at her hips. “Yes. Well, no. Although, a unit of sentinels awaits us just outside your gate if you refuse to comply with the summons regarding your crime.”
“I see. Drew the short straw, did you? You’re the lucky one who must drag ol’ Catseye kicking and screaming from his precious sanctuary?”
Helspira attempted a sweet smile. “If it’s necessary, but I’m hopeful there won’t be much kicking and screaming. It’s embarrassing to make a grown man wail, but if I must for Crown and kingdom—”
“Can’t I schedule something with Saelihn?” Catseye gestured to his uninspiring garb. “As I recall, she’s a stickler for appearances. I’d hate for her to see me in anything other than my finest regalia.”
“My superior said you scheduled and neglected to appear for eight summonses. I’m afraid I must insist you come with me now.”
A heavy sigh dropped Catseye’s shoulders. “And a handful of Red Sentinels are just beyond my gate, you say?”
“Correct. You must have left quite an impression on them. I was the only one willing to cross the threshold onto your property line.” “I see. And you’re certain you don’t want to be lucky number nine on the list of rejected summonses?”
Did the man need the obvious pointed out to him? Very well. She gestured toward the horizon. “Queen Saelihn would not have sent so many if the situation didn’t grow more dire by the week. Look around. The wind grows colder each day, and it carries the stench of death with it. An unnerving stillness settles not just over our city of Vinepool but the kingdom of Nyllmas as a whole. Don’t you see the sickly, gray hue in the sky where color used to be? The black, gnarled branches where greenery once bloomed?”
“With respect, Ms. Helspira, those things happen every winter.”
Knock him out and drag him if he won’t come willingly.
A nervous laugh bubbled from her, and she turned away to take a soothing breath. She held it for one, two, three seconds. Exhale, and…There. Calm. No matter how loud the demonic impulses roared in her head, she just had to remember that she was the only one who could hear them. And thank fate for that. Even her sane side sounded absolutely senseless sometimes.
No matter how much this Catseye protested, failure wasn’t an option. She couldn’t let Queen Saelihn down – not when she owed her everything. Saelihn had, after all, welcomed Helspira and her parents into the safety of Vinepool after they fled Chthonia.
Other Red Sentinel members may have been unsuccessful with Catseye, but she would prevail, and she would do it with the words and decorum of a human rather than the violent tendencies that her kind was known for. “I anticipated your reluctance, so I prepared a speech on why it’s in your best interest to accompany me.”
“Gods above.” Catseye recoiled. “You’re threatening me with a motivational speech? Diabolical.”
Helspira blinked. “A speech is hardly a threat.”
Catseye’s head dipped back, and he freed a dramatic groan. “Saelihn won’t let this go, will she? Honestly, I could handle the Druidic emissaries disguised as birds and rodents, and the relentless letters cluttering up my mailbox, and the wave after wave of
Red Sentinels trying to drag me in, but a pep talk? I admire your creativity, Ms. Helspira; it’s as brutal as it is effective. If all Saelihn wants is her precious ‘tax money,’ then fine, I’ll accompany you. But I do hope that’s all she wants.”
The breath she’d taken in preparation for her speech flew out her lungs in an exasperated cough. “Really? That’s where you draw the line? Not sword-wielding sentinels or royal summonses, but speeches?”
“Rest assured, it’s nothing against you. I’m sure you prepared a stirring piece, but long-winded monologues bring me back to my failed wizardry apprenticeship and the droning, hours-long spans of information the high magus tried to cram into my brain. It’s a disastrous time in my life, and I prefer not to revisit it, even in a metaphorical sense.”
Well, b’yehnz. All that time she’d wasted trying to perfect every little sentence, applying all the knowledge she’d gathered about human psychological behavior to appeal to him on an emotional level, and he folded before he even heard her opening? She’d spent two hours on the first paragraph alone.
Helspira sighed, lips tightening. Okay. Fine. It didn’t matter. At least he agreed to come with her. What was that human saying? Beggars shouldn’t be choosers, or something like that. But what was that bit he had mentioned about Druidic emissaries? Queen Saelihn never mentioned the deployment of any hired hands with the capability to shift into animals. Before she could request clarification, Catseye raised a hand.
“Just give us five minutes before departure, would you? My brother-in-law is currently honoring the dying wishes of a client, and we’re nothing if not the epitome of professionalism around here.”
Lurid moans of pleasure from down the hallway severed the temporary silence, followed swiftly by what Helspira assumed to be a headboard slamming against a wall. Discomfort stiffened her arms, and she arched a brow. “Do I want to know?”
Catseye stepped outside and closed the door behind him. “Probably not.”
“Fair enough.” Having traded the sound of awkward moans for even more awkward quiet, Helspira gripped her elbows. She rocked back and forth until the absence of sound became too much to bear. “Nice scythe.”
“Thank you.”
“Where’d you get it?”
“Death.”
“I…Okay. As in the physical embodiment of—?” She scrunched her nose. “I’m sorry, I don’t know how to respond to that.”
“I’ve been told I have that effect on people.”
Despite everything, Helspira smiled. “I usually have the same effect. Different reasons, of course, seeing as how I don’t currently possess a weapon once owned by an omnipotent entity, but—” she shrugged “—the same effect nevertheless.”
He flashed an unpredictably dashing grin. “No one ever knows how to respond to a Red Sentinel. Authority figures leave an uneasy taste in people’s mouths.”
Her sudden burst of laughter surprised her, and she shook her head. “No, not because I’m a sentinel. I meant—” she gestured to her horns “—this whole situation.”
“I’ll admit, pink isn’t a common hair color in Siaphara, but—”
“The horns,” Helspira interrupted, amused laughter still escaping between words.
“Look, it’s very sweet of you to have pretended this entire time you didn’t notice, but I know what I am to humans.”
Catseye leaned against the mansion, scythe resting on his shoulder. “I’ll be honest, Ms. Helspira, that red scarf of yours struck far more terror in my heart than those horns. Care to know the difference between a Red Sentinel and a demon?”
“What’s that?”
His grin widened. “I’ve never been hated by a demon. That I know of, anyway.”
The confession made sense. While other Red Sentinels didn’t include Helspira in their gossip, her demonic hearing picked up a lot, and there was no love lost over the infamous Catseye, especially where her superior, Banneret Rowan, was concerned. Regardless, she smiled. “That’s probably for the best. If a demon hates you, your life expectancy is usually very short.”
“In that case, I shall remember to stay on your good side.”
If that was his goal, he was off to a good start; he was certainly more amicable than her fellow sentinels. “Thank you for agreeing to this. Trust me when I say Queen Saelihn is very eager to see you again.”
“I don’t doubt she is. Alas, as soon as I stride into those marble halls of hers, I’ll be screwed one way or another.” Catseye looked skyward, expression unreadable. “Let’s hope our queen is gentler with me than Benjamin and Canida are with that headboard.”
And just like that, she didn’t know what to say. Again.
He really did have that effect on people.
A curious fellow, this Catseye. At least the walk to the castle promised to be an interesting one. But after surviving the nightmarish landscape of Chthonia for almost thirty years, there was very little Helspira felt unprepared for.
Helspira was emphatically unprepared for a sentient skeleton with a glowing blue thread inside its ribcage.
The Red Sentinel marched in formidable procession down the worn, dirt road leading to Vinepool’s inner market, chain mail clanking like a discordant choir. When she didn’t busy herself stealing glimpses of the walking, talking set of human bones, Helspira took timid peeks at the pale-skinned, necromancer-turned-recluse beside her.
She couldn’t help but wonder if she’d been played for a fool. Before, when the other sentinels stomached her presence long enough to speak to her, they had called Catseye the best weapon in Nyllmas’s arsenal. Best how, exactly? He was charming, sure. Charismatic. But he leaned an awful lot of his weight into that scythe. It looked as if he could barely command his body to walk upright, let alone command a legion of undead soldiers.
The unforgiving dirt road transitioned into cobblestone as they journeyed, but it did little to ease Helspira’s agitation. It certainly wouldn’t have been the first time she had been the butt of a joke. One of many prices she had paid being the only demon welcomed into Nyllmas, let alone the prestigious Red Sentinel.
A surge of assurance smothered her doubt. No. It couldn’t be a joke. People were dying, the land needed this Catseye, and death was never something humans joked about.
The sentient skeleton – whom she assumed was Benjamin, based on the context clues – faced Catseye, his words leaving his jaw in a reverberating echo that sounded almost human. “Think Queen Saelihn will be upset I missed my own funeral?”
“If she is, she shouldn’t be. She knows you’re not a mourning person.”
Ben failed to stifle a laugh. “True, true. I’m not entirely dead anyway, so it’s not like I’ve urned the right to a funeral.”
Helspira stopped short as the two grown men muffled their immature snorts and snickers. Death jokes? This was the person meant to save Nyllmas? She wasn’t sure what irked her more: that they didn’t seem to be taking this seriously . . .
. . . or that she found their depraved, childish banter a teensy bit funny.
Nobody ever joked in Chthonia. Not even on the good days.
Wiping away any traces of amusement, Helspira snuck another peek at Catseye. Even with the scythe’s aid, he seemed to languish with each stride, a stark contrast to the Red Sentinels’ straight-backed, even-paced marching. “Forgive my asking, but are you all right?”
“Oh, yeah.” Catseye paused to adjust his spine and stretch it out. “Forgot how long of a walk it was to Saelihn’s castle.”
“Why was your home built outside of Vinepool? I thought you and the queen used to work closely with one another.”
“It was always in Saelihn’s best interests that some distance existed between us. Necromancy wasn’t – isn’t – everyone’s cup of tea. It kept the inevitable assassination attempts far from the castle.”
The confession widened her eyes. “People tried to kill you for practicing necromancy? Even when it aided the queen?”
“Eh, well—” the pitch of Catseye’s voice rose as he shrugged “—turns out relatives aren’t too keen on people puppeteering their dead loved ones, even when it’s for something as noble as winning a war.”
“Probably because corpses don’t get paid for their services,” Ben chimed in. “I swear, the disregard for the rights of the undead is ridiculous.”
“At least they don’t have to worry about paying taxes,” Catseye mumbled, the bustling sounds of Vinepool’s market square nearly drowning his words as they neared the queen’s castle.
The powerful aroma of spices tickled Helspira’s nostrils. Heightened hearing and a keen sense of smell held far more practicality down in her native Chthonia than they did on the sunlit surface of Siaphara, but even though the lively chatter of merchants and shoppers made her eardrums pulse, she drank in the sights with an adoring flutter in her chest. She watched a mesmerized child run her little fingers over the scarves draped across a silk vendor’s stall. The merchant, donned in flowing emerald robes, regaled the child’s father with a tale of how beautiful his own daughter looked in one of the fine, fabric pieces.
It must’ve worked. The father offered over a handful of coins and gazed on with pride in his eyes as his daughter chose a vibrant scarf of goldenrod and turquoise. The scarf matched the child’s movements, twirling behind her, like a weightless ribbon riding the winter wind. Helspira smiled. Even two years later, the concept of exchanging hammered metal coins for goods and services healed her inner adolescent. Were the scenario to play out in Chthonia, the blood of a dead merchant would mar that scarf’s bold colors. And the child…
Her smile faded.
No. It wasn’t healthy to consider what happened to the children.
She hadn’t even realized she’d stopped walking, until she felt a tap on her shoulder. Helspira startled and spun, face to face with a human skull.
“Hello there.” A sun-bleached, fleshless hand reached out. “We haven’t been formally introduced. I’m Benjamin. You can call me Ben if you’d like.”
“Ben.” Helspira nodded, gripped his hand without hesitation, and shook it. “I would’ve introduced myself earlier, but it sounded like you were tying up some loose ends.”
“That’s not all I was tying up,” his disembodied voice whispered with a hint of mischievousness. “Who knew spurned spouses could be so—”
“I’m Helspira,” she interrupted with a quick, nervous laugh. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Is it?” A hint of disbelief lived in his ghostly voice. “Well, that’s surprising to hear. I saw you spying the silk vendor. Have you met him? Charles. Nice guy, but don’t accept the first price he throws at you. Don’t get me wrong; his product is great, but he always tries to upsell if he thinks he can get away with it.”
“Oh, no—” she held up her hands, the heat of embarrassment warming her cheeks “—I haven’t met any of the locals. Well, except for a wizard with whom I had a very fleeting relationship and some of the people at the almshouse. That’s where my parents and I have been staying the last two years.”
“A Red Sentinel at the almshouse?” Ben tilted his head. “Pardon my prying, but I used to be a Red Sentinel. It’s not glamorous pay, but you should be able to afford housing.”
Helspira offered a small smile and a smaller shrug. “Affording it isn’t the problem. Finding someone willing to sell to demons is the hard part.”
“Ah, an issue with which I am somewhat familiar. I’m no demon, but I know all about unsettling the common man.” Ben cupped his jaw. “I think it’s because I’m not wearing any pants.”
Several feet ahead, Catseye swiveled on his heels, arms spread, eyes wide. “By gods, Benjamin, you’re right. This won’t be a wasted trip after all. We can stop by Carpin Capers Clothing and see if they can make you some modified trousers. What a relief. I was afraid this trip would prove pointless.”
Struggling to see how aiding the kingdom against an enemy threat was somehow less important than finding garments for a walking corpse, Helspira grimaced, but she let the thought fall to the wayside as they carved their way through the market to exchange sights of bustling townsfolk for the grandeur of Queen Saelihn’s castle. Located in the heart of Vinepool, it had a welcoming quality, despite the two armed and armored sentinels posted at the entrance. As Helspira and the others approached, and she spied the faces of the guardsmen, her shoulders tightened.
She certainly wasn’t drowning in favor amongst her brothers-and sisters-in-arms, but she’d have traded her other eye if it meant dealing with anyone other than Carl and Yurg today.
Best to get it over with.
After muscling her way to the front of the unit, she approached the two sentinels at the gate and offered a respectful bow. “Sentinel Helspira returning with Catseye, as per our queen’s instruction.”
Ben managed to make a noise that sounded suspiciously like a gasp, bones clacking as he pressed his hand into his sternum. “Carl? It’s me, Sentinel Champion Benjamin Reese. By Dionus’s sword, I haven’t seen you in years. We served together, remember? Ringing any bells?”
A stab of pity struck Helspira’s chest when the men refused to acknowledge Ben. Carl and Yurg may have been proper soldiers, but they were proper assholes as well.
Carl snorted, staring past Helspira, past Ben, until he found the attention of the nearest Red Sentinel who wasn’t a demon or an undead skeleton. “We’ll notify Queen Saelihn. She’ll await them in the Grand Hall.”
Before anyone else could speak, Helspira interjected, “Open the doors, Sentinel Carl. I can escort them to the Grand Hall.”
If looks could kill, Carl’s glare would have decapitated her. “I don’t take orders from demons.”
Rip out his throat and make Yurg eat it.
Helspira pinched the bridge of her nose and quieted her impulses with a slow, deep breath.
Ben, however, chose to free a loud, dramatic groan. “Gods-dammit, Carl. Don’t be a dick. You’ll give the whole R.S. a bad name.” Without waiting for permission, he pushed past the two men, his bony shoulder colliding with each.
They scoffed as he opened the door and invited himself inside, but they did nothing to stop him. Helspira wondered why, until…A chastising tsk–tsk from Catseye caught her attention. Helspira watched Catseye lean toward Carl, violating every inch of the man’s personal space.
“Carl, Carl, Carl.” Though Catseye’s voice lowered to a soft, eerie whisper, Helspira’s keen hearing discerned every hushed word. The smile he wore was a front, an outward illusion of mirth, as he twisted Carl’s red scarf around his finger and pulled him closer, his ear hovering less than an inch from Catseye’s lips. “Unless you want to breathe in the mist of a shadow blade and acquaint your organs with the brief but excruciating feeling of coagulative necrosis, the next time Benjamin addresses you, you will address him in return, and you will address him respectfully.”
Carl’s throat bobbed with a hard swallow. He nodded.
Catseye’s raspy chuckle sounded like a promise of death, but after a quick rotation of his wrist, the scarf unraveled from his finger and Carl leaned back, unharmed, likely except for his ego. And, as if he didn’t just violently threaten a man’s life three seconds ago, Catseye quite literally waltzed into the castle’s open doors with all the grace of a dancer, humming a bouncy tune Helspira had never heard.
She had never seen fear like that in Carl’s eyes before. He tried to gloss it over by maintaining hard eye contact with the open space in front of him, but the quiver in his tight jaw was unmistakable.
The man was downright terrified.
Quickening her pace, Helspira entered the castle’s interior, the footsteps of marching soldiers echoing behind her. Relief flowed through her, like a warm stream, when the elegant tapestries and paintings filled her vision. Artwork, be it textile or canvas, had a way of calming her, which came in handy when trying to let go of the unbecoming desire to rip Carl’s head off and spike it onto the floor, like an overripe watermelon. She traced the textured brushstrokes with her gaze as she crossed the room toward Ben and Catseye.
The skeleton faced her, one hand on his hip. “Hey. You don’t let Cunty Carl out there get away with that I-don’t-take-orders-from-demons nonsense, do you?”
Helspira regarded him with a smile. “It’s fine. His words don’t hurt.”
“But your fist would.” Ben jabbed the air, a mock punch, as he followed the path Catseye made down the long corridor toward the Grand Hall. “I know it’s frowned upon for sentinels to assault fellow soldiers, but you could’ve smacked some reverence into him. Bet he wouldn’t disregard you again if you showed him how strong a demon can be.”
Helspira looked down and freed a quick, quiet laugh. The brief surge of delight when picturing her fist crushing the bones in Carl’s skull softened when her humanitarian side returned. “Anyone can put down a snarling beast. I prefer to ask myself why it’s snarling in the first place. Carl’s not wrong to be wary of demons.”
“You don’t seem so bad to me.”
Seven simple words strung together into a sentence she had never heard; Helspira smiled. “You don’t seem so bad yourself. I couldn’t help but overhear that you’d earned the title of Sentinel Champion. I can only dream of achieving such prestigious recognition. You must’ve been quite the swordsman in your time.”
“Nah. Well, yeah. But, to be honest, I was always pulled more toward music than the battlefield.” Ben tapped his chin, a clack-clack-clack of bone against bone. “If only I’d married my passionless talent for swordplay with my genuine devotion for the performance arts, I could’ve killed a man with a lute and had the best of both worlds.”
A laugh bubbled out of Helspira with such force that she pressed her fingers to her lips to stifle it. It wasn’t until her composure returned that she cleared her throat. “I’m no expert on matters of diplomacy, but I don’t think murdering people with instruments will do any favors for your likability.”
“I won’t lie; I do miss being likable. Or, at the very least, existing in someone’s proximity without the gawking.”
“And the whispering,” Helspira added.
“Or the pointing.”
“The horrified screaming.”
“Or, my personal favorite,” Ben said, “the falling to their knees and the pleading to the gods to rot out their eyes to spare them the sight of such a profane abomination.”
Helspira’s eyes widened. “I’ve yet to experience that one.”
“The night is young.” Ben gave her a playful nudge. “There’s still time. But since it seems everyone’s about as keen to talk to demons as they are to sentient sacks of bones, how about we form an alliance until the public develops some taste for good company?”
A warmth radiated through her chest. Helspira had fantasized about befriending Siapharan locals upon fleeing Chthonia. While a full set of human bones never manifested in her imaginings, she couldn’t be choosy. Two years of walking upon the upper world’s soil, and this was the longest conversation she had held with anyone other than Cecil.
But Cecil didn’t count. Not after everything that prickish wizard did.
As eager as she was to show the queen that she had been successful in retrieving Catseye, Helspira almost regretted it when they arrived at the regal, arched doorway to the Grand Hall. “If it’s an alliance you wish, it’s an alliance you shall have.” She grasped Ben’s hand and shook it. “But we’ll have to pick this conversation back up another time. The queen awaits.”
The unexpected rush of making a friend lifted Helspira’s spirits, but Catseye did not seem to match her joy. He appeared far too focused on the closed door, which he stared at with a frown. “Ten seconds away from being scolded by an old elf queen. Neat.” He sighed. “Let’s get this over with.”
Catseye cracked his knuckles and pushed the ornate door. To say it barely budged would have been generous. “Blood and bone, why do they insist on making these things so damned heavy?” he wheezed, digging his heels into the marble floor for traction. When his effort – or some sort of divine force’s pity – granted him access in the form of enough space for his thin body to squeeze through, he regarded Helspira, breathless, panting, arm extended. “Ladies first.”
“How…gentlemanly? Thank you.” Gods, she hoped she tempered the pity in her voice enough to spare his feelings.
After slipping past him and into the Grand Hall’s spacious chamber, Ben, Catseye, and the remaining Red Sentinels followed, spreading out in the cavernous room.
Whomever had told the queen of their arrival had done so with great haste. Queen Saelihn already sat upon one of her many strategically placed thrones. This chair was more decorative than functional, but Helspira had heard that the work put into its craftsmanship had kept local woodworkers out of financial ruin. Such generosity was not rare for the kingdom of Nyllmas’s beloved queen – at least when funding battles and sending aid to all the villages that had suffered during those battles didn’t ravage the kingdom’s finances.
In the room’s majesty, Helspira’s heart fluttered. She was rarely afforded entrance to the Grand Hall, and while the vaulted ceilings reminded her of how spacious Chthonia could be, the similarities ended there. Raw beauty lived in every corner, down to the flesh-stripped bones of a dragon mounted to the towering wall behind the queen’s throne. Sure, the fabled beast’s corpse was tacked with all the dignity of a dead moth skewered by an entomological pin, but it was still a sight to behold.
The doors closed behind them with a boom. Catseye, still trying to catch his breath, dusted his cream-colored sleeves and pretended to straighten a nonexistent collar on his tunic. Despite the overhead chandeliers and the enormous stained-glass windows shedding light on his disheveled appearance, he embodied confidence as he slicked back his mop of silvery hair. Arms spread, scythe in one hand, he strode toward the queen and dipped into a bow. “Saelihn. Oh, pardon me, I mean, Your Majesty.” His jade eyes pierced through the veil of his hair as he raised his head mid-bow. “I see you’ve kept the dragon. You’re either sentimental toward old relics or your new interior designer has questionable taste.”
In one fluid motion, Queen Saelihn stood. Posture straight as an arrow, skin smooth as glass, and every strand of her long dark hair pressed to perfection, the elf queen looked nothing like most centenarians, boasting the appearance of someone far closer to their early twenties than one coming up on two-hundred-plus years. “The dragon reminded me of better days,” she said, voice as flawless as her form. “Days when my dear friend ensured it would guarantee my protection, should anyone ever make it past the Red Sentinel and invade the castle.”
A charming smirk appeared on Catseye’s face, and he straightened his posture. “Sentimental for old relics, then. Makes sense. In any case, it’s been too long.”
“You’re the one who kept refusing my request for an audience.”
“I keep a full schedule.”
“And I keep a tight watch on you.” Queen Saelihn inclined her chin, amber eyes narrowing. “Unless you count practicing your dance steps with the raised undead and playing endless games of Rack and Ruin with Sentinel Champion Reese, your life is as empty now as it was four years ago. You had no reason to refuse my summonses.”
“Yes, I’m intimately aware of the tight watch you’ve been keeping on me. I’ve seen your hired eyes scurrying about my grounds over the years.” Catseye slid a hand to his hip. “Druidic spies, Saelihn? I didn’t know Nyllmas had the budget for such extravagant scouts.”
“Druidic spies?” Though the queen’s brows scrunched together, her perfect visage did not falter. “You are mistaken. My emissaries are no more capable of shifting into animals than they are at wield-ing any magic, but make no mistake, they are effective. Not only have they kept me abreast of your goings on, they’ve been providing information regarding Vessik as well.”
“Vessik! And, just like that—” Catseye’s arms flew out at his sides “—we’ve arrived at the crux of my presence here, haven’t we? Honestly. Luring me in with false threats about overdue taxes? For shame, Saelihn.”
Helspira shuffled toward Ben, hiding her whisper with her hand. “How does he get away with showing Her Majesty such little respect?”
“They go back a long way. He’s like a brother to her,” Ben’s hushed voice replied. “An annoying little brother, but a brother nevertheless.”
The queen seemed well versed in ignoring Catseye’s commentary, segueing with no hesitation. “Vessik’s armies invaded the village of Eboni. By now, his pattern is becoming predictable. He’s dominating the smaller municipalities, but I’m sure he’ll start spreading to larger cities soon. The Red Sentinel has kept his numbers from growing, but regardless of our efforts, his armies remain consistent. I had hoped after four years, he’d back down, but he mistakes my kindness for weakness. I know you two have a history, but the time to put him down has come.”
Catseye’s head bobbed in countless, exaggerated nods. “I see, I see. The thing is, Vessik has accurately identified my weakness as actual weakness, so as much as I’d love to help, I cannot.”
“We need the Glowing Cat’s Eye in Death’s Darkness,” the queen said. “Nyllmas needs him.”
Ben made a noise that sounded something like the clearing of a non-existent throat, and he raised his hand. “Your Majesty, if I may—”
From the gathered horde of Red Sentinels, one man stepped forward. Helspira knew him as her superior, Banneret Rowan – a muscled mass of a middle-aged man whose personality was as cut-throat as his blade. How he had managed to sneak into the room without her notice was anyone’s guess. Helspira watched the ban-neret thrust a finger toward Ben and scowl. “Silence, abomination.”
Catseye rounded on the banneret. His expression twisted into a grin as eerie as it was cheery. “Oh, if it isn’t dear, sweet Banneret Rowan. How long has it been? Enough time to forget one’s manners, it seems. Show your brother-in-arms some respect, would you?”
A muscle twitched under the banneret’s eye. “He’s a Red Sentinel no longer. He’s dead.”
Catseye frowned. His boots echoed through the otherwise silent chamber, one step after the other, as he approached the banneret. When he stood at arm’s length, he cupped his hand near his mouth, leaned toward Rowan, and loudly whispered, “This may come as a surprise to you, but he’s aware of that. It seems antagonistic to draw attention to the fact.”
Queen Saelihn caught Rowan in her steady stare. “Banneret, please—”
“Enough of this madness.” Spit flew from the banneret’s lips as he seized the crossbow strapped to his back. “Sentinel Champion Reese is dead, and as long as the Catseye’s power is wasted parading his ghost around like a puppet on a string, we’re all damned. The coddling ends now.”
Helspira’s stomach sank when Queen Saelihn’s horrified shriek – and the bolt from Banneret Rowan’s crossbow – pierced the air at the same time. Her Majesty’s order, a garbled, “No, stand down!” seemed to leave her lips in distorted, slow motion.
But crossbow bolts did not yield to verbal commands. Not even from royalty.
Helspira flinched, the whoosh of the bolt hitting her sensitive eardrums. A close call, but she was not its target. It struck the glowing thread and stone that hung inside Ben’s ribcage.
Jolted from its resting place, rock and thread bounced between Ben’s bones and struck the marble floor with a clack. The soft, eldritch glow vanished from the thread, and Ben, the once risen skeleton, clattered lifelessly to the decorative tiles.
With pupils shrinking to pinpricks, Queen Saelihn staggered backward. She turned her wrath to Rowan, fists clenched. “You gods-damned coxcomb.” Terror entered her tones as she thrust a panicked finger toward the door. “Everyone, run!”
SHE RAISES HELL. HE RAISES THE DEAD. WHAT COULD POSSIBLY GO WRONG?
When new recruit Helspira takes on the doomed mission that no other soldier wants, life—and death—start to get a little complicated. Helspira must play escort to Sikras—a frustratingly handsome necromancer with the power to raise the dead—as he attempts a mission that he’s failed twice before; stopping an undead army at the edges of the kingdom.
No one thinks he will succeed. Not even Sikras. But the more time the two spend together, the more they find they can imagine a brighter future. As secrets come out and the two grow closer—and Sikras’s lively skeleton companion Benjamin tries desperately not to be a third wheel—will Sikras’ and Helspira’s changing feelings for each other be enough to overcome the growing danger?
RAISE A GLASS. RAISE THE DEAD. JUST DON’T RAISE YOUR HOPES.