Necromance

CHAPTER ONE

MIA ARDEN

Most people didn’t come to my door unless they were desperate.

The sort of desperate that left them pale, twitchy, their voices hushed, their hands trembling as they reached for a cup of tea they wouldn’t drink. The kind that drove them to the edge of reason, to my doorstep, to the woman who spoke to the dead.

Lady Margaret Hathaway sat across from me, her back straight as a poker, a slight tremble in her hand, despite the thick wool shawl wrapped tightly around her frail frame.

The candlelight flickered against her lined face and there was a weariness to her—a weight that settled in the corners of her mouth.

I poured myself a cup of tea slowly, letting the scent of bergamot and honey fill the small cottage. The rain outside pattered against the windows, a soft, insistent tapping, as if someone, or something was waiting to be let in.

I leaned back in my chair, one leg crossing over the other, the layers of my dark skirts pooling around me.

The fire crackled low in the hearth, filling the room with a warm, flickering glow, but it did little to chase away the chill that always seemed to settle around me.

“So,” I said, letting my voice remain light. “What can I do for you, Lady Hathaway?”

Her gaze flicked up, searching my face. She pressed her thin lips together as if considering her words. “I am told that you provide… certain services.”

I smiled against the rim of my cup. “I offer many services. Some say I host parlor tricks for the desperate widows and over indulgent lords. Others whisper that I consort with the dead.” I took a slow sip. “Both are true, of course.

A muscle in her jaw twitched. “I need you for the latter.”

I tilted my head, watching her carefully.

I didn’t know Lady Hathaway well or at all truly, but what I did know of her certainly intrigued me now.

I’d dealt with all kinds of customers. Grieving mothers who wished for one last word from a lost child, jilted lovers desperate for closure, noblemen who had killed a rival in a duel and feared their ghosts would haunt them.

Some sought comfort. Others wanted control. Few ever wanted the truth.

“I’m listening,” I said softly.

Lady Hathaway exhaled slowly, reaching into the folds of her shawl, she produced a small envelope and placed it on the table between us. The weight was unmistakable. Gold or banknotes, it hardly mattered to me.

“I own an estate,” she said at last. “Ravenspire.”

The name settled between us like a lead weight and she watched me closely.

I didn’t need to feign ignorance. Anyone with a sense of self-preservation steered clear of Ravenspire.

The castle loomed over the cliffs like a blackened husk, its towers bent against the sky, its windows hollow and sightless.

Stories of it traveled faster than the wind.

Gossip of strange lights flickering through the halls, voices calling out from empty rooms…

Everyone knew Ravenspire. Especially me.

A long ago story my grandmother used to tell me fluttered through my mind, like a forgotten memory sailing through a breeze. A fairytale, no doubt, but one I’d forgotten about after all these years.

The Duke of Ravenspire betrayed a heart…

I nodded. “I know of it.”

“I’ve been trying to sell it for years,” she continued, her voice tight. “But no one will touch it. Rumors of strange happenings, hauntings. The staff abandoned it long ago. One of them went mad, swore she saw a woman in the walls, beckoning to her in her head.”

A faint prickle ran down my spine, though I kept my expression neutral. “I see. And you, Lady Hathaway? Do you believe the servants?”

Her gray eyes narrowed slightly. “I believe I’d like the property cleansed so I can be rid of it.” She tapped the envelope with a single, bony finger. “I am willing to pay handsomely.”

I smiled, leaning forward to lift the envelope, weighing it in my palm before slipping it into the folds of my skirts. “I imagine you’ve had priests and exorcists already try?”

Her mouth curled into something sour as she waved a dismissive hand. “More than I care to admit. They all left claiming there was nothing to be done.”

They always did. Holy men and skeptics alike had their limits. I had none.

I let my fingers drift idly over the rim of my cup, my nails tapping softly against the porcelain. “Tell me, Lady Hathaway… have you seen this ghost yourself?”

A flicker of something passed through her expression. Not fear precisely, but something older, wearier.

“No,” she admitted. “But I’ve felt it. The castle isn’t right. There’s something… off about it.”

I smiled, slow and knowing. “Interesting. ”

Most hauntings were simple. Restless spirits, half-remembered echoes of the dead, lingering where they had been wronged. But some places, the truly cursed ones, were different. They didn’t just hold spirits, they swallowed them.

And Ravenspire had been swallowing for a very long time.

“Will you take the job then?” She asked impatiently.

I drained the last of my tea and set the cup aside, pretending to consider it.

The truth was, I was definitely going to take the job.

Aside from the fact that I desperately needed the funds, the opportunity excited me.

Alone, for once, in a beautiful castle, with no lords or ladies breathing down my neck in a stuffy parlor. No haughty nobility to impress…

I grinned at her. “I’ll pack at once.”

The rain had lessened to a fine mist by the time I walked Lady Hathaway to the door.

The damp air clung to my skin as I pulled the heavy wood door open, allowing the widow to step out onto the stone path outside.

Her carriage waited at the gate, the driver hunched beneath his coat as he adjusted the reins.

Lady Hathaway hesitated on the threshold, glancing back at me. The shadows from the flickering lantern outside cut deep lines into her already weathered face. She reached into her clutch, withdrawing a singular iron skeleton key.

“This key will open any of the doors,” she said, placing it into my outstretched hand. “There should also be a stock of food in the kitchens though the castle has no gas so you’ll have to cook on the old wood stove.”

I nodded, slipping the key into my pocket.

“I expect you’ll leave by morning?”

“Tonight if possible,” I said, shrugging.

She studied me for a long moment, as if debating whether to say something more. Then, with a curt nod, she pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders and stepped out into the mist.

I shut the door behind her, the sound echoing in the quiet cottage. I lingered there a moment, fingers resting against the cool brass handle.

Ravenspire.

The name alone sent an uneasy thrill through me.

I’d heard the rumors of course, everyone had.

The castle had stood empty for years, abandoned to the elements and whatever lingered inside.

There were stories of disappearances, of servants who had fled in the night, refusing to speak of what they’d seen.

Most of the stories contradicted each other, but one truth remained that I was sure of.

Ravenspire was haunted. I’d known it, felt it, from the very first time I’d seen it… been drawn to it for some reason…

And it was mine to unravel. At least for now anyway .

A slow smile curled my lips as I stepped back into the warm glow of the firelight.

People often recoiled at what I did. Necromancy.

It wasn’t a polite profession, nor one that earned much respect outside of whispered desperation.

To most, I was a trickster, a woman with clever hands and a silver tongue, hired to make the candles flicker at dinner parties and summon shadows to dance along the walls.

To others, I was something to be feared.

The church certainly had their opinions. So did the self-righteous lords who clutched their crucifixes while secretly hiring me to consort with their dead lovers. They all wanted something… answers, closure, proof that death wasn’t the end.

Necromancy unsettled people because it demanded acknowledgment of death. Of its presence, its permanence, its hunger. It was easier to pretend it was a trick, to laugh at it in the safety of candlelit rooms.

I had long since stopped caring what people thought.

The truth was, I wasn’t a trickster or anything to be feared… unless of course, I wanted to be.

I had my magic, though actually using it was another story.

Most of what I did for parties was purely at the spirit's will.

Sure I could speak to the dead, I could see them, and even summon them, but I rarely used necromancy.

Not only was it difficult to contain, it was even more difficult to recover from.

All magic had a cost and mine was steep.

Turning from the door, I crossed the room, my skirts dancing against the wooden floor.

My cottage was small but comfortable, a home built for someone who was rarely in it.

A low table stood by the hearth, cluttered with stacks of notes, candle stubs, and a handful of trinkets collected from past clients.

Herbs and dried flowers hung from the beams above, their scents mingling with the ever-present trace of grave dirt and smoke.

I moved through the space with practiced ease, gathering what I would need for my stay at Ravenspire.

A leather satchel first, worn and sturdy, its straps softened from years of use.

I placed inside a bundle of dried sage, a few of my grandmother’s withered tomes, and a small vial of salt.

Protections. Some ghosts were harmless, mere echoes of the past. Others… well best to be prepared.

Next, I retrieved a small velvet lined box from the shelf.

Nestled among folds of black silk lay a collection of bones.

Tiny finger bones, a sliver of rib, and a single vertebra.

Not human, not anymore. They were relics, taken from the long-dead, carved with sigils older than the language I spoke.

They hummed beneath my fingertips, whispering secrets only I could hear.

I hesitated, then took a silver dagger from its place by the bedside. Its edge was sharp, the hilt wrapped in blackened leather, a gift from my grandmother, enchanted with our ancient magic.

Clothing was the easiest part. Most of my dresses looked exactly the same. Dark fabric, not quite stylish and certainly not what a lady of high society would wear, but they were comfortable. I stuffed a few nightgowns and underthings in as well, then turned back for the sitting room.

I reached for the deck of cards resting on my writing desk. The edges were soft with wear, the design faded with age. I ran my fingers over them, feeling the weight of their history, the lives they had touched.

I turned over the top card.

The tower.

Lightning, striking stone. Ruin. Upheaval.

I huffed a laugh and tucked the deck into my bag. “How fitting,” I muttered.

Despite the sense of unease curling in my gut, I couldn’t deny the thrill that ran through me. A castle with a dark past, countless ghosts, trapped within its walls. There was power in old places. Secrets buried beneath dust, and stone.

And I would unearth them.