Chapter 8
Chapter
Eight
Winter
Imust have dozed off on the couch because I woke with a start to the sound of knocking. Rook was instantly on his feet, moving silently to the door with one hand slightly curved, ready for his claws to emerge if needed. He checked the peephole, shoulders relaxing somewhat before opening the door.
Milo bounced in, clutching one of his mini skeletons in the crook of his arm. His wild brown curls looked even more chaotic than usual, as if he'd been running his hands through them repeatedly.
"Evening shift reporting for duty!" He was so cheerful. "Or is it night shift? I can never remember what eight p.m. to four a.m. is called."
Rook closed the door behind him, performing a quick visual sweep of the hallway before securing the locks. "Evening," he grunted.
I sat up, rubbing sleep from my eyes. "Hey, Milo."
"Winter! You're awake!" Milo beamed at me. "I heard about what happened at the lab. Are you okay? Did you really make all the equipment explode? That's so cool! I mean, not cool that it was dangerous, but cool that your powers are that strong!"
His enthusiasm was exhausting and endearing at the same time. I couldn't help but smile.
"I'm fine. Just tired." I stretched, wincing as my knee popped. "And yes, apparently I don't like having my brain scanned."
Rook moved to the center of the room, his posture all business. "Status update," his voice clipped and professional. "No further incidents since the lab. Perimeter is secure. Winter had dinner at 1800 hours. No signs of Harbinger activity."
Milo nodded seriously, clutching his skeleton closer as he listened. The little thing's jaw clacked softly, as if it was trying to add its own commentary.
"Surveillance orbs are functioning normally," Rook continued. "The new vending machine hasn't tried to kill anyone."
"Yet," I muttered.
Rook shot me a look before continuing. "Fenric sent a message that he'll be here at 0400 for the morning shift. Zane is still at headquarters, debriefing about the cultist."
"Got it," Milo nodded. "I brought a laptop like you asked. Not one of the haunted ones, even though they do have better graphics." He set his skeleton down on the counter next to Frank's fishbowl and reached into a shoulder bag, pulling out a sleek silver laptop.
Rook finished his briefing and headed for the door. He paused, glancing back at me with an unreadable expression.
"Try not to break reality while I'm gone," he gestured to the vending machine, which I was pretty sure was his version of "goodnight."
"No promises," I gave a small smile.
Something flickered across his face, amusement, maybe, before he nodded once and left.
As soon as the door closed behind him, Milo spun around and presented the laptop to me with a flourish. "For you, my lady," he gave it with an exaggerated bow.
I laughed, taking the computer. "Thank you, kind sir."
"It's Bureau-issued, but I disabled most of the spyware," he whispered conspiratorially behind his hand. "They can still see what websites you visit, but they can't access your personal accounts or anything."
"Milo, you're the best." I was genuinely touched by his thoughtfulness.
He beamed, his cheeks flushing slightly. "Just don't tell Fenric. He'd have a bureaucratic meltdown."
I settled back on the couch and opened the laptop. It booted up quickly, displaying a standard government login screen. "What's the password?"
"Oh! It's 'NotHaunted2029' with a capital N and H," Milo plopped down in the armchair Rook had vacated.
I raised an eyebrow. "Seriously?"
"IT has a sense of humor," he shrugged, pulling out a crochet hook and a ball of bright red yarn from his bag. "And they're still bitter about the ghost in the server room incident last year."
I decided not to ask and logged in, immediately opening a browser to check my email. I had dozens of unread messages, mostly spam and a few concerned notes from coworkers wondering why I hadn't shown up for my shifts.
While I scrolled through my inbox, I glanced over at Milo. He was hunched over his project, his fingers moving deftly as he worked the hook through the yarn.
"What are you making?"
He looked up, his face lighting up with enthusiasm. "Fall sweaters for my mini skeletons!" He held up what appeared to be a tiny red sweater, about the size of my palm. "They get cold at night."
I blinked, staring at him. "Aren't skeletons immune to that? They don't have skin? Muscles?"
Milo gasped, looking genuinely offended. He clutched the tiny sweater to his chest as if I'd insulted his child. "They have feelings!"
"Be that as it may," I tried to be diplomatic, "they still don't need clothes, do they?"
Milo opened his mouth to argue, but his gaze suddenly shifted to the counter. His eyes widened in horror.
"No! Jeffrey! Spit that out!" He shouted as he jumped from the chair.
I whipped around to see the mini skeleton he'd placed by Frank's bowl leaning over the edge. To my horror, its tiny skeletal hand was dipping into the water.
I screeched, the runes on my arm flaring to life as I leaped off the couch and ran to the counter. Jeffrey turned toward me, his skull somehow managing to look mischievous despite having no facial features. In his bony hand was my betta fish, flopping desperately.
"Frank!" I grabbed the fishbowl, hissing at the mini skeleton. "Put him back, you little monster!"
Jeffrey made a sound like chattering teeth and pointed at me, his tiny skeleton body shaking in what could only be laughter.
"Jeffrey!" Milo scolded, rushing over. "Apologize right now and go out into the hallway!"
The mini skeleton hung its head, making apologetic clicking noises as it gently placed Frank back into his bowl. The fish swam in frantic circles, clearly traumatized by his near-death experience.
"I am so sorry," Milo ran a hand through his already messy hair. "Jeffrey is just excitable?"
"Excited about fish murder?" I checked Frank, who seemed physically unharmed but was still swimming in agitated circles.
Milo sighed and pointed to the door. "Hallway. Now."
To my surprise, the mini skeleton pouted. How does a skull pout? He trudged toward the door. Milo opened it a crack, and Jeffrey slipped out.
"He'll think about what he's done," Milo assured me. "I've never seen him do that before. He must have been curious about Frank."
I set the fishbowl back on the counter, but farther away from the edge. "Is he going to be okay out there by himself?"
"Oh, he won't go far," Milo waved dismissively. "The necromantic tether with him only stretches about twenty feet. He's probably just sitting against the wall sulking."
I returned to the couch, the blue glow on my arm gradually fading as my panic subsided. Milo sat beside me, looking genuinely contrite.
"I really am sorry about that," he looked down. "My skeletons are usually better behaved."
"It's okay," I sighed, closing the laptop. "Frank seems fine, just a little shaken up. Like his owner."
We sat in silence for a moment.
"So," I turned to face Milo. "Tell me about yourself. How does one become a necromancer with dancing skeleton minions, anyway?"
Milo's face lit up at the question. "Oh! Well, it's kind of a long story."
"I've got nothing but time," I gestured around the apartment. "Prophecy prison, remember?"
He laughed, setting his crochet project aside that he'd picked up again. "I grew up in the foster system," he began, his usual boundless energy tempered by the seriousness of the topic. "Bounced around a lot. Never really had a place that felt like home."
"I'm sorry," I reached over to squeeze his hand.
He shrugged. "It wasn't all bad. Some of the families were nice. But I was always the weird kid, you know? The one who could see things others couldn't."
"Things like?"
"Ghosts, mostly. They were my first friends. The living kids thought I was crazy, talking to empty air. But the ghosts understood me."
There was something deeply sad about the image of a young Milo, friendless except for the dead. It made his perpetual cheerfulness seem both more remarkable and more fragile.
"When I was sixteen, I was placed with this older couple who lived next to a cemetery," he patted my hand that was still on his. "That's when I discovered I could do more than just see the dead. I could connect with them. Give them form."
"Your first skeleton?" I guessed.
He nodded, a fond smile spreading across his face. "Her name was Eleanor. She'd been a ballet dancer in life, died in the 1920s. She taught me how to waltz in that graveyard."
The image was both macabre and strangely sweet. Teenage Milo dancing with a skeleton under moonlight.
"The foster parents freaked out, of course," he sighed. "But by then, the Bureau had detected my magical signature. They sent someone to evaluate me, and next thing I knew, I was enrolled in the Academy for Supernatural Studies."
"And the rest is history?" I prompted when he paused.
"Pretty much," he nodded. "Turns out I have a natural affinity for necromancy. Most people find it creepy, but I see it as making friends who never leave." His smile turned a bit sad. "When you grow up with nothing permanent, that means a lot."
I felt a sudden wave of affection for this strange, kind-hearted young man who had turned his loneliness into something beautiful, if unconventional.
"I think it's amazing. You've created your own family." I hugged him for a second before pulling back.
His eyes widened, as if this perspective had never occurred to him and he wasn't used to another's touch. "I…yeah, I guess I have."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a dried rose, its petals brown and brittle. "Here, let me show you something."
He held the dead flower in his palm and closed his eyes. A soft violet light emanated from his fingers, enveloping the rose. Before my eyes, color returned to the petals, deep crimson bleeding into the brown until the flower looked freshly cut, vibrant, and alive.
"It's not really alive," Milo explained, opening his eyes. "It's more like it's an echo of what it was. But beautiful still, don't you think?"
He held out the revived rose to me. I took it, speechless, cradling it carefully in my hands. The petals were soft, the stem green and supple, as if it had just been plucked from a garden.
"Milo, that's..." I struggled to find words. "That's incredible."
He blushed, his cheeks almost matching the rose's color. "It's just a small thing. Not as impressive as reality manipulation."
"No, it's better," I firmly told him, holding the rose to my chest. "You brought beauty back from nothing. That's not small at all."
The way he looked at me then, surprised, touched, a little shy, made something flutter in my chest. For a moment, we just sat there, me holding his magical rose, him watching me with those earnest eyes.
The moment was broken by a scratching at the door. Milo jumped up.
"That'll be Jeffrey," he shook his head. "I think he's served his time."
As Milo went to let his repentant skeleton back in, I looked down at the rose in my hands, marveling at its perfect petals. In all the chaos of prophecies and cultists and reality breaches, this small act of magic felt more meaningful somehow.
I tucked the rose carefully behind my ear, determined to keep this one beautiful thing close.