Kiss of the Necromancer (Memento Mori 1)

Maggie nodded numbly.

They left. And she was alone then with the golden skeleton. She knew she had to do this—she knew she had to—but oh, she wanted to turn tail and run. She wanted to hide. She wanted to crawl into a dark hole and never come back out again.

Like a grave.

This is why I died all those times. This is why Gideon killed me, again and again, or I found myself on the end of a noose. Because I’ve been running away from the truth. I’m a coward. I’ve been a coward for who knows how long.

She was still trembling, but at least now she remembered to breathe.

I’m sick of running.

“Come here, my princess…please…” The raspy voice came again, desperate and heartbroken. She realized now that it was speaking French. Which, apparently, she could understand. The skeleton couldn’t move its jaw—she could see the bits of gold and tarnished silver wire that held it all together.

Just like Harry.

Oh, no…

She stepped forward slowly, feeling like a deer walking toward a hunter. Or like she was approaching the edge of a cliff.

Falling. Someone in dark robes called her name and reached for her. But she had jumped, and now it was too late. The castle walls turned to the jagged stone of cliffs. And then shit hit the bottom.

And she died.

But he was there.

“You will never die alone.”

The images flashedin her head, but she remained staring at the ruby eyes of the skeleton. “D…do I know you?”

“What has he done to you, my beloved?” The skeleton spoke again in French, and yet again, she could understand him perfectly. “My favorite daughter…my princess. Born of love, but not of marriage. You were always doomed to a terrible fate. But I had hoped…I had hoped you would find peace in love where I never could. But if you are here—now—then he has taken you. Like he did to me.”

She swallowed the lump in her throat and finally reached the edge of the table.

Something snapped together in her brain. Like two pieces of a puzzle that had long been torn apart, they forcefully came together. She winced in pain and placed her hand to her temple. It had actually physically hurt.

But what hurt worse was what followed.

Tears trickled down her cheeks, and she didn’t bother to stop them. She could only weep. Because now she knew a terrible truth. And now she knew what she had to do.

Reaching out, she placed her hand atop the golden bones of his hand that was curled over his chest in the symbol of prayer. And in a shaking, trembling whisper, she said back to him in French two words she didn’t think she would ever, ever speak in her life.

“Hello, Father.”