Kiss of the Necromancer (Memento Mori 1)

Except the shape that hovered inches from her face.

It was only darkness, floating there in the world where it should not be. A black robe flowed around it, the sleeves ripped and tattered. From the monster seemed to curl more shadows, writhing and swirling up the walls like tendrils of pure nothing.

The monster reached a hand toward her. Its fingers were impossibly long and pointed—needle sharp at the end.

She remembered those claws spearing through her heart.

Scrambling back with a desperate sob, her shoulders smashed against a wall, stopping her retreat. The nightmarish thing stretched a long, void-like arm toward her, straining those pointed claws to brush against her cheek. They felt like the ends of daggers.

Around its wrists hovered silver links, like bracelets, hovering and orbiting around its arm.

Silently, it slipped closer, moving like nothing more than an illusion. With one hand, large enough that he could curl those long fingers over her shoulders, the monster pulled her from the wall. She arched her back in an attempt to stay away, but she was helpless. As she pressed her hands to the shadows, trying to push it away, it felt like pushing against a wall.

Its other claw traced a single needle-like nail down her cheek, her throat, and then hovered directly over her heart. She waited for the stabbing pain—to feel it skewer her heart like it had done before. It held her like she was nothing more than a doll, and it was about to drive a needle and thread through her stuffing.

But the strike never came.

She looked up into the shadowy nothingness beneath its hood. She had seen this nightmare so many times, and each time, she had wanted this to happen. She had begged for mercy, like her father had done to her. She had looked into the void and wished for it to take all her pain away.

It was waiting for her to ask.

I’m done running. I’m done being a coward.

“I don’t want to die,” she whispered to the creature. Then she finally accepted what she knew was true. Her past self had begged her to listen to her instincts above all else. Even when things didn’t seem right. And God help her, she was going to try. And her instincts said she knew this creature in front of her. Just by another face. “Please put me down, Gideon.”

It obeyed, placing her gently to the ground, her back against the wall. The shadow around her melted, dissipating and dissolving like black incense smoke. The harder she tried to watch, the faster it seemed to disappear. In an instant, the smoke was gone.

And Gideon was kneeling at her feet. She went to kick him—to scream at him—but he was looking at her with such an expression of heartbreak and agony that she froze. When a tear escaped the corner of his eye and he sat back on his heels to swipe at it, all her anger popped like an old balloon.

“Are you all right?” His voice was a low rumble. “If the vampire I saw was who I think it was…”

“He didn’t hurt me. He was fine—I mean, except for all the people he just ate.”

“Vampires tend to do that, being vampires and all. A wolf eating sheep. I would not trouble yourself over it. The world is filled with predators, humans included.”

Why did he seem so sad? No, it wasn’t sadness. It was relief. “Gideon? What’s wrong?”

“You have never said that to me before.”

“To put me down?” She arched an eyebrow.

He chuckled weakly. “No. That you didn’t want to die. It’s—” He paused. “It’s good to hear.”

“How many times have I asked you to kill me?”

“I haven’t kept count. Too many times.” He shifted to sit on the ground, turned half away from her. He wasn’t wearing his fancy, expensive coat. He was in a black vest, pants, and shirt, with that silver embroidered tie that he liked so much. It was odd to see him so relatively casual, sitting there on the floor, dressed like he was going to the opera.

The opera.

“You’re Faustus, aren’t you?”

Gideon shut his eyes and let out a long, dreary breath. “You knew me first as Gideon Faust. I was Johann Faust in the years before. Yes.”

“And I’m…”

“Marguerite.” He grimaced. “I got drunk at a bar, all right? I ran my mouth. Damn Goethe got the details all wrong. Oh, well. I guess it made a better story his way.”

That made her laugh. It was a half-assed, tired laugh, but when it wanted to burst free, she didn’t stop it. Gideon smiled faintly, but he wouldn’t look at her. His silver eyes were pointed straight down at the carpeted floor. Now that she had a chance to glance around, she saw they were in a hotel room. Black luggage was sitting by the door, packed and ready to go.