Necromancist (Seven Forbidden Arts 6)

“Alice,” he said with a warning in his voice. “I’m incapable of love. You killed that when you gave up on me.”

He’d never loved her. If he had, he would’ve fought for her, not run away with his tail between his legs. Maybe it was easier to blame her than acknowledge the truth, that what they’d shared had never truly mattered to him. Their love had been a great and wonderful ideal for both of them at the time. Sometimes, it was easier to hold onto the illusion than face the facts.

She turned her back on him and walked to the elevator with quick strides, aware that he followed a step behind. She called the elevator and rested her forehead on the cold metal of the door. She wasn’t going to get more than physical from Ivan. She should walk away, knowing it was going to destroy her in the end, but she needed what he had to offer too much, what she could never ask of another lover. He knew how to hurt her just enough to make it feel good, to ease the pain in her heart. With every beat of his palm on her skin, a little bit of her soul felt cleansed. It was as if she could breathe freer when he fucked her.

He kissed the back of her neck and rested his head against hers. “I’m not going to lie to you.”

She took a steadying breath. “I understand.” She could never make anyone love her, no matter how hard she tried to please them. Not her dad, not her mom, and certainly not Ivan.

“You have all of me that’s left,” he breathed against her ear. “It’ll have to be enough.” He turned her around and kissed her softly on the lips. “How about that coffee?”

Another consolation prize. She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Sounds good.”

In the canteen, she had to sit gingerly on the plastic chair. Ivan ordered coffee at the service counter and returned with two cups and a packet of aspirin. They sold a lot of those to performers with morning-after hangovers.

He pushed the pills over the table. “Take two. Do you have anti-inflammatory cream at home?”

She blew on the hot coffee. “You didn’t paddle me that hard.”

His smile was as hot as his expression was possessive. “You’ll have the imprint of my fingers on your ass until tomorrow, that’s a promise.”

Her cheeks heated at the remark. She glanced around to ensure they weren’t overheard. He was going to be the end of her. Again.

Back in her office, Alice tried hard not to think about the fact that she wasn’t wearing underwear, but each time her naked butt shifted under the fabric of her dress, she thought about Ivan and their spotlight fucking.

She ran a hand over her face. Two more months before he’d leave. At the rate they were going, he was spoiling her for other men. Scrap that. He’d already done that nine years ago. She was probably going to end up a spinster. She’d better buy herself a vibrator and a cat.

Her phone rang, making her jump. It was Henry.

He sounded uncertain. “I hope I’m not interrupting?”

“I always have time for you. What’s up?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“I can swing past your office this afternoon.”

“It’s private.” He cleared his throat. “I prefer we talk somewhere other than the office.”

She tensed. “Sure. Where do you have in mind?”

“Are you free tonight? We can meet for an early dinner.”

“What is this about, Henry?”

“I’d rather wait for tonight.”

“Is this about the show, about Ivan?”

“Yes.” He hesitated. “And no.”

“Please don’t say you’re going to run negative publicity. You know it’ll kill us. The theater—”

“Alice.” He paused before continuing. “Let’s talk tonight. Jerry’s Pizza at six?”

“I’ll see you there.” She hung up with a frown.

Like only a spirit could recognize a necromancist, only a necromancist could recognize a true medium. With his gift of light, Ivan could separate the wheat from the chaff, the false fortunetellers from the truly gifted spiritualists. A spirit worker could sometimes possess the gift of light, and they shared the ability to channel the dead with necromancists, but they couldn’t manipulate spirits.

What concerned him most was Boris’s threat. Anyone who touched Alice was dead, and if the fucker happened to be dead already, he’d make sure no medium would ever grant him access to freedom and peace, again. A man who needed a necromancist was a dangerous man. Knowing nothing about this so-called Godfrey, he knew enough not to get involved. To add to the increasingly complex relationship he shared with Alice, the voices were becoming intolerable. He had a good hunch the same medium who’d channeled Boris had channeled the souls who haunted him with their nagging. The only solution he saw to both ensuring Alice’s safety and silencing the voices was finding the medium who’d channeled them and make her take them back to their graves. Once a medium had channeled a spirit, that same medium had to put him back to rest. His hands in that matter were chopped off.