NECROMANCER & CO. by David Stroup
EXCERPT:
A strange, low rattling had been added to the constant dripping of the water from above; I looked around but couldn’t identify the source. The smoke of the incense, I saw, wasn’t dispersing the way it should ... now it was pooling on the rough wood floor like a ground-fog out on the riverbanks.
“Where is the key, Geb?” Hurst asked. “The key to the north cabinet?”
The corpse on the gurney took in a great wracking breath and began to talk.
“You ... Kylen ... not ...”
“Geb, damn it, where’s the key to the north cabinet in the warehouse?”
“Kylen ... can’t ... get away, Kylen, get ...”
Something was wrong. V’Marnion was non-responsive to the questioning -- the shade shouldn’t be able to do anything but answer direct queries, and I didn’t like the sound of what he was saying. I heard a choking sound behind me, and turned to see Llan vomiting against the wall ... VourJalledionne looked terrified. Whindle had pulled a wicked-looking smallsword from under his coat -- some ugly eastern design with a blue-black blade -- and Hurst was edging over the circle of chalk.
“Llan? Llan, are you all right?”
“I -- huk -- gimme a min’ --”
The air was bad, but it was far more than that. Was it something I had done? Over the next few days I would ask myself that question many times ... and be asked it by others. But I couldn’t think of any error I could have made that could have produced an effect like this ...
“Mister Hurst -- stay back --”
The rattling sound was mounting... there was so much else going on in the room I couldn’t pin it down. The air had dropped another ten degrees in the last few seconds. I made a decision.
“VourJalledionne -- get out!” I yelled. Whindle, dimly seen across the foggy room, was stabbing at phantoms with his short sword ... Hurst, one foot over the line of my thaumatic circle, was having second thoughts.
The circle was broken; with the perfect integrity of the magik sigil violated, the thaumatic field should have been dispersing. It wasn’t. I tried to release the reins of power mentally, and nothing happened.
I glanced at the door again -- VourJalledionne was leaning against it, pale, unmoving.
“Get everyone out of here, Llan,” I said. “And I mean fast ... see if there’s anyone else in the building as well.”
I had located the source of the rattling ... every corpse in the room was twitching convulsively, shaking on their wooden gurneys.
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In the city of Sylian Tul, licensed necromancer Ander Waeryn has his hands full.
His wife's family -- one of the most powerful of the ancient Armiger clans -- just want their wayward daughter to come to her senses and return to the family estate. As an Aelf, Ander isn’t even supposed to have been allowed to study magic, much less a dodgy specialty like necromancy. And it’s harder every day to make a living in the slums of the soot-stained, steam-powered capital of the human-run empire.
Then his latest paying commission goes horribly wrong, and suddenly the Metropolitan Investigation Office’s only Consulting Necromancer is in the middle of a case that has the city ready to boil over. As mobs take to the streets and the city’s press -- led by Ander's ex-lover -- fan the flames, Ander is torn between an investigation the police won’t allow to proceed ... and a horror from the past that shouldn’t exist.
EXCERPT:
A strange, low rattling had been added to the constant dripping of the water from above; I looked around but couldn’t identify the source. The smoke of the incense, I saw, wasn’t dispersing the way it should ... now it was pooling on the rough wood floor like a ground-fog out on the riverbanks.
“Where is the key, Geb?” Hurst asked. “The key to the north cabinet?”
The corpse on the gurney took in a great wracking breath and began to talk.
“You ... Kylen ... not ...”
“Geb, damn it, where’s the key to the north cabinet in the warehouse?”
“Kylen ... can’t ... get away, Kylen, get ...”
Something was wrong. V’Marnion was non-responsive to the questioning -- the shade shouldn’t be able to do anything but answer direct queries, and I didn’t like the sound of what he was saying. I heard a choking sound behind me, and turned to see Llan vomiting against the wall ... VourJalledionne looked terrified. Whindle had pulled a wicked-looking smallsword from under his coat -- some ugly eastern design with a blue-black blade -- and Hurst was edging over the circle of chalk.
“Llan? Llan, are you all right?”
“I -- huk -- gimme a min’ --”
The air was bad, but it was far more than that. Was it something I had done? Over the next few days I would ask myself that question many times ... and be asked it by others. But I couldn’t think of any error I could have made that could have produced an effect like this ...
“Mister Hurst -- stay back --”
The rattling sound was mounting... there was so much else going on in the room I couldn’t pin it down. The air had dropped another ten degrees in the last few seconds. I made a decision.
“VourJalledionne -- get out!” I yelled. Whindle, dimly seen across the foggy room, was stabbing at phantoms with his short sword ... Hurst, one foot over the line of my thaumatic circle, was having second thoughts.
The circle was broken; with the perfect integrity of the magik sigil violated, the thaumatic field should have been dispersing. It wasn’t. I tried to release the reins of power mentally, and nothing happened.
I glanced at the door again -- VourJalledionne was leaning against it, pale, unmoving.
“Get everyone out of here, Llan,” I said. “And I mean fast ... see if there’s anyone else in the building as well.”
I had located the source of the rattling ... every corpse in the room was twitching convulsively, shaking on their wooden gurneys.
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