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?
Exclusively read the first section of Hopeless Necromantic 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 chore[1]ography 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 after[1]life’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 rose[1]water 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.