Kiss of the Necromancer (Memento Mori 1)

A stack of books dropped onto the table next to her, and, jolting, she squeaked in surprise. A figure sat down across from her.

Father Rinaldo.

She grimaced. “Fuck me.”

“Not allowed, sorry.” He smirked at her and began leafing through the first book in his stack.

She rolled her eyes. But okay, that was pretty funny. She sat back and folded her arms across her chest. “Did you follow me here?”

“Yeah.”

“First, you break into my apartment. Second, you’re stalking me? Look. I can seriously go to the cops about this.” She started to stand. He reached out and took her wrist. Not hard—not like he was attacking her. She would have screamed or slapped him, but there was something so dire in his expression that she paused. “Let go.”

He did. “I need you to listen to me. I need you to help me, Marguerite.”

“Why?” She shook her head. “Why me? I’m just a nutjob.”

“No. You aren’t. You’re…complicated.” Rinaldo shook his head and sighed, rubbing his hand over his short, salt-and-pepper-but-mostly-salt hair. “It’s risky for me to be here in the open with you. If he sees us, or one of his goons sees us, I’m in trouble. But—uh—I thought about it, and breaking into your apartment was the wrong thing to do. I’m sorry for that.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re apologizing?”

He nodded then smiled a lopsided expression that was both hopeful and a little cheeky at the same time. “Forgiveness is a major tenet of my religion. You wouldn’t happen to be Christian, would you?”

“I’m complicated.” Maggie sat back down across from him. She felt much safer in a public place with the strange man. At least she might be able to get to the bottom of what his obsession with her was about. “Why are you stalking me?”

“I’m not stalking you.”

“You broke into my apartment, and now you’re following me around. That’s stalking.”

“No, I’m—” He sighed. “Fine. I’m stalking you. But it’s professional stalking, so it’s not nearly as bad as it sounds. I’m not a pervert. I’m a Catholic priest.”

She smirked and planted her chin on her hand and her elbow on the table and waited.

“No, no. I don’t want to hear it.” He wagged a finger in her face. “I’m a highly trained, specialized agent of a very secret organization within the Vatican. Not like—I don’t—I mean, I went to seminary, sure, but—” He sighed again and ran his palm over his face. “I walked into that one, didn’t I.”

She laughed quietly and sat back, grinning. “Yeah, you did.” She began to toy with the pull string of her hoodie. This one had a black cat holding up a bone with the phrase “I found this humerus” emblazoned underneath. “No jokes about me being nuts, and no jokes about you being a pervert. Deal?”

“Deal.” He went back to leafing through one of the books on the top of the stack he had brought. “If you don’t believe me, why’re you here?”

“I don’t know. I’ve honestly got nothing better to do. I suppose I’m trying to figure out how much of a psycho you are, and how concerned I should be about my new stalker.” She motioned to the book she had pulled from the stack. “One mention of a name, and that’s all I’ve got from your silly story.”

“If you want to find more proof of my silly story, you’re not going to find it by looking up his old names. There’s no trail. Hell, you won’t find much proof at all. Not here, anyway. Not outside the Vatican’s private library. But I have some proof. Hopefully, it’ll be enough for you to believe me.” He slid a book across the table. Some illustration of a man from the 18th century. A doctor whose name didn’t look familiar to her…but whose face did.

The white hair and chestnut skin gave Gideon Raithe away. She shook her head. “Maybe it’s like that old picture of that guy who looked like Nicholas Cage. It’s just a coincidence.” She pulled the book closer to her anyway and peered down at the image. A scientist working on discovering the cure to consumption. She touched the illustration, as if that might give her more of a clue.

“Mmhm.” He slid another book to her. Another drawing of a man in the 10th century. It was crudely drawn, as all medieval art was, but something about it struck a chord. The man had stark white hair…and wore black robes.

She was dead. She knew she was. The rocks she had landed on had shattered her bones and cracked her skull. But it didn’t hurt. The pain had been there—brief and overwhelming—but like a crack of lightning, it had been over before she could barely even register it had happened at all.

Then came the whisper of black robes on the stones beside her. Heavy wool fabric that brushed against her arm. She couldn’t feel it. But she could see it. Or rather, she was aware of it. Her eyes were open, but there was only darkness.

She could both see and feel all the things around her, and yet…none of it at the same time.

A hand traced over her cheek. She felt it. She didn’t. Everything was a contradiction. She saw him, stark white hair and silver eyes that flashed in the darkness like a wolf. She saw nothing at the same time.

She would never die alone. He had promised her that.

She hadn’t really understood.