Chapter 17 Winter
~Winter~
“Do you feel it?” Dad asked me.
“Feel it?” I murmured, distracted by the sight in front of us. Holy hell.
“A push at the door to the Valley of the Dead? The call for the illicitly raised to be returned to their natural state?”
We both had our palms upturned, him to my left and slightly in front of me in a protective stance. I’d seen him straining not to employ more than that.
I looked from his flickering crimson flames to my amber fire. “Yeah, like a resonant hum of sorts that’s specifically calling to my death magic.”
“That’s it.”
Now I’d answered his training question, my full focus went to the figures fifty feet from us all over the dark sands beach.
Yeah, Ambrose’s place.
Well, close to the entrance to that particular black magic plane.
He wasn’t here right now.
Some enemies of his—two black magic users who were rogue and twisted sorcerers wielding it like maniacs—had risen the dead and sent them here to get under his skin.
He’d called Dad, knowing he was training me, and now it had been turned into an exercise, not just a necessary necromantic takedown.
Dad and Ambrose would usually deal with it themselves.
Ambrose had already incapacitated the black magic users, but they’d entrenched their spell into the risen dead themselves, enabling them to keep walking the world, even though the sorcerers had been sent to Ryker at the Guardian Movement for arrest and processing once Ambrose had neutralized their black magic so it couldn’t infect anyone there.
This was the aspect of Necromancy I’d always been so afraid of, because it involved invoking Risen Reckoning.
But as Dad had kept telling me on the way here, it was the proper use of Risen Reckoning—not using it on the living like Morien had done.
Today had been so great before this exercise had come my way.
We’d spent hours at what had become our constant training ground on that picturesque and peaceful mountain range. Mom had popped by again and she and Dad had taught me a cool spell that they’d performed together when they’d first met.
They’d named it a Blended Wraith-Necromancer Concealment Spell.
Necromantic and Wraith magic worked off the same twilight resonance which enabled both to naturally harmonize with each other’s power.
That spell involved using necromantic tethering and Wraith cloaking.
For them, they’d used Mom’s Dark Fae magic to add a misdirection element using illusionary magic.
But for me, as that wasn’t available, I’d used my own spell that I’d actually created recently in my Grimoire Creation class just to manufacture illusions more powerfully—and it had worked.
Mom and Dad had both been so excited and impressed when I’d used that and my combo of Wraith and Necromancy to pull the spell off on my own, fusing it together within me.
They’d even called Father and Pops in to watch me in action.
It had been so great. So fucking great.
And now… I didn’t want that to end.
And I really didn’t want to shy away again whenever something unsavory regarding Necromancy crossed my path.
As I kept reiterating to myself, I actually couldn’t.
So much was riding on me being able to do this.
They didn’t know it, none of them did, but they were counting on me—my family, my loves.
Because it had to be me. My interactions with Ruxnoth had made that clear.
My recent testing of that shard I’d captured had made that clear.
I was close to cracking the living equation regarding that warmth addiction Ruxnoth had caused in me, but in the process, I’d felt something about Sanctus itself.
It couldn’t be destroyed by any conventional means.
Not through anything like a brute force magical assault.
From what I’d gathered so far, the one infusing the metaphysical construct with its lifeforce had to will it, to make it so.
Basically, there had to be a bond to the construct to be able to impact it in any way.
Considering Ruxnoth’s intention was for that to become me, therein lay our solution to stopping that thing from destroying the balance and harming the mortal plane in terrifying ways.
Me. I was the solution. Me bonding with the construct was the solution.
Obviously, I needed to deepen my investigation to be certain—especially before I told anyone.
But even then, how were they ever going to accept that?
Just suggesting it would set off alarm bells.
And if my family locked me down, tried to stop me…
what Ruxnoth would do with them getting in his way of pulling me down there…
I couldn’t even stomach the thought of it.
“Winter?”
I flinched as Dad’s hand landed on my shoulder.
I blinked to see he’d snuffed out his magic, and he was eyeing me worriedly, his gaze flickering back and forth, keeping an eye on how close the risen dead were to us.
“Fine. I’m fine.”
He frowned. “You know I really hate it when your Pops claims that when it’s not true. Not you too. Especially not with this. I know how nervous this makes you, that it’s one of your major fears about Necromancy and—”
“No, Dad. Really, I’m actually good.”
“You are?”
“Yeah. I mean, I’m nervous still. But I’m willing—and able—to do this.
I know I need to. I know how dangerous it would be if something happened and I tried to do this on my own, how truly dangerous this spell is to others who aren’t us.
Me having a solid handle on it will also hopefully assuage some of that fear out there toward me.
Like the Temperance situation. No more clueless kid, possible accidental world-killer, right? ”
“Win, that’s not how they—”
“Can they—are they in pain? The risen dead over there, I mean?”
I stared out at them dragging themselves across the beach, grunting and moaning.
Loose flesh hung from their bones, their rotting and shattered frames.
Their eyes were glazed over with what Dad called death haze.
Their clothing was frayed, dirtied, in pieces mostly, some just barely covered because it had decomposed in their graves over time.
Animated Fleshwork.
Everywhere they walked, a sweep of blackness flooded out—black magic poisoning the environment.
I’d learned that it didn’t happen with Ambrose because his control was another level, and the way he wielded and held his power was of a more pure nature.
A true rarity for any black magic user. And the opposite of what those corrupted sorcerers who’d raised these beings traded in.
There were forty of the risen moving across the beach.
Dad had said that it was a lot for a first-timer using Risen Reckoning to deal with, so he’d help out in a big way, leaving me just a few, enough for me to perform the spell at least.
If left unchecked, Animated Fleshwork would just continue on forever.
Dad called them “vessels for carnage and heresy.” The longer they remained roaming, the more of a strain it was to the integrity of the Valley of the Dead.
It was a violation to the balance, to the delicate fabric of life versus death that existed in the supernatural world.
Dad’s answer to my question broke through my thoughts.
“Win, we’ve gone over this. You’re well-versed in the intricacies involving this area of Necromancy. It’s just the spell we need to work on now.”
“I know, but… are you sure… they really can’t feel… they’re not—”
“They’re in distress, but they can’t feel pain the way you and I can, the way living beings can.”
“But I’m not a living being, am I?”
He went rigid at my words, pain etching his features. “Of course you are.”
“You know what I mean. I’m more like them than—”
“Absolutely not. You’re in no way whatsoever… this. You’re not Animated Fleshwork.”
“Animated Death,” I muttered. “Living Death.”
He flinched at my words. “That’s not—”
“In distress, you said?”
“Yes. This risen state is unnatural. They’re no longer at peace.
The death raisers yanked them brutally out of that.
They don’t have full cognitive function, but they’re deeply unsettled.
Returning them to death state is a mercy.
As much as the spell may make that seem otherwise, I promise you that’s the case. ”
I nodded, then called my Wraith frost, making him jolt in surprise.
“What are you doing?”
I thrust both hands out, sending a wave of it toward the Animated Fleshwork.
It flooded over every single one of them within moments.
Their movements slowed, their groans and moans gradually dissipating.
“Soothing them.”
They didn’t stop coming, but I could see their distress had been mitigated.
As I called my frost back now that it had settled over them, and snuffed it out, I looked to see Dad eyeing me incredulously, a smile spreading over his face.
“My sweet and gentle son,” he murmured, reaching out and stroking my cheek.
“I don’t like suffering.”
“I know you don’t.”
“They didn’t deserve this. Nobody does.”
“I agree. It’s unspeakable.”
“Have you needed to do this a lot?”
He eased his hand away. “More than I would have liked. But I have a responsibility to the world. My discomfort has to take a backseat.”
“Too much, though, isn’t it?”
“I’m all right with it, son. And I’ll keep this aspect of things away from you once this Ruxnoth situation is dealt with.”
“That’s not fair to you.”
“It’s okay. You don’t have the stomach for it. And honestly, I don’t really want you to. I didn’t want to have to teach you this. I certainly don’t want you doing it on a regular basis.”
“Regular basis? Fuck, how many times have you actually done this?”
“I’ve been an active highly-accomplished necromancer for decades, Win.”
“You’re evading answering my question.”
He blew out a breath. “Several dozen times.”
“Several dozen? That’s beyond vague. Like, over a hundred times? Fifty?”
He lifted a shoulder. “Probably more than the first one you said.”
Holy. Fuck.