Dreams of the Necromancer (Memento Mori 2)

11

Gideon followed Marguerite,watching her carefully. He didn’t quite know what to make of what was happening. Between their…unexpected, and yet entirely welcome, flirtation, and now her single-minded mission to charge off down every single row of tombs in search of a piece of his broken talisman, he found himself anxious.

Perhaps that wasn’t quite the right word. He had seen anxiety in all its forms, as she had suffered it through the centuries. He was nervous and excited at the same time, which, balled up together, made him feel as though he were walking on a bed of nails.

Nervous, excited, and just a little bit in awe. Was this who she was meant to become without the shadows dogging her heels? Without the fear of the past that haunted her? He knew it was too good to be true. This moment would not last. And, in her own right, she understood that as well.

But he would hardly refuse the momentary respite—this eye of the storm where he could glimpse the clear skies overhead and marvel at the stars that glittered down at him. He prayed to whatever gods or demons would still listen to him that she managed to cling to this new sense of self she had found. Whatever had driven her to destroy her father had broken free some previously buried part of her. A piece that he had not seen since she was a mortal woman.

The piece he had fallen in love with so very, very long ago.

He could still remember the ghost of her slap against his cheek, and it made him smile.

When she pulled up to a hard stop, he was too distracted to match her, and bumped into her. Their considerable difference in size had her reeling forward, and with a chuckle, he grabbed her shoulders to keep her upright. “Warn me next time, princess.”

“Can’t. I’m making this shit up as I go.” When she put her hand against his, he expected her to pull his touch from her shoulder. But instead, she turned her head and…kissed the back of his hand.

He wanted to throw her against the side of the mausoleum and have her. It wasn’t that he was desperate, but the need roared forward in him abruptly and without warning. Oh, who am I kidding? I am the definition of the word desperate. She might even say yes. She might even want him in return.

But it would be manipulative. Dishonest. It would take advantage of her missing memories. She didn’t remember why she should be beating his skull in with his own cane, not returning his affection.

When she smiled at him, though, he was sorely tempted to throw out what little remained of his honor and dignity in return for just a little more of what glittered in her emerald eyes. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t disgust. And it wasn’t horror.

And that was enough for him.

When she finally slipped away from him, he forced himself to focus on the moment. She was already talking, and he was only, to be honest, half listening. She ducked under a branch of a tree that had grown low.

“This is it! This is totally it.”

He followed her, having to nearly double in half to clear the branch. When he straightened, he looked up at the mausoleum before them. It was severe and grim, its gothic-inspired architecture wishing to inspire sobriety in the viewer. As far as Gideon was concerned, he had never seen an architectural style that seemed to look down its proverbial nose on everything around it in disapproval quite like the gothic style.

The large metal door, along with the secondary grate over it, were both chained shut. The links had rusted solid to a lock whose key had likely long since turned to dust. This had been a place for a family to come and visit. But money did not always buy loyalty, and it certainly did not buy love. Long since abandoned by those who had meant to care for it, the cold and discerning appearance did nothing to offset the morbidity of the situation.

Not that it seemed to bother Marguerite in any way whatsoever. She picked up the rusty lock then dropped it again and wiped her hand on her coat. Turning to him expectantly, she gestured at it. “Do your thing.”

“Do my ‘thing.’” He shook his head and placed his cane on the ground in front of him, folding his hands atop it. He couldn’t help but grin. “And what is that, exactly?”

“Raise a zombie to rip this apart or something. I don’t know. You’re the necromancer.”

Tsking, he shook his head. “All right. This ends now. If you’re going to have me ‘do my thing,’ you’re going to learn a few things about it.”

She leaned against the wall and folded her arms across her chest. “Oh, goodie! Is it Freaky Lecture Time with Dr. Gideon Raithe, Spooktologist?” She only looked half annoyed.

“No, no, no.” He grinned. “It’s Freaky Lecture Time with Dr. Gideon Raithe, Deathidemiologist.” Huffing in mock indignity, he straightened his tie. “Please.”

She laughed, her emerald eyes lighting up in amusement. “Pardon me. I could at least get your title right.”

“Precisely. Now. Let us begin.”

* * *

“Okay,okay, okay. I think I get it now.” She waved her hand at him. “Zombies—which aren’t really called zombies, those are something different in Vodun, but sure, thanks, Romero, they’re zombies now—are reanimated mindless corpses? But revenants are like Harry, my father, Algernon, and the others.”

“Yes.” He smiled at her. He had been interesting to listen to, even if he could have just skipped to the summary at the end. “Raising a revenant takes time and effort. It can’t just be done with the snap of the fingers. While reanimated corpses are much easier to raise, their strength is limited to that of a normal corpse. That is to say…utterly impractical for opening chains, digging themselves out of graves, or bursting out of tombs.”

“Movies are all bunk, then.”

“Oh, yes, entirely.” He shrugged. “C’est la morte.”