Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Roz couldn’t help but watch Alaric as he worked in the cemetery. He’d donned the clothes he stole-not-stole from the museum and followed her about the cemetery without complaint. He knew where things were stored, what her general chores were, and did most of them without asking for help.
She was sort of glad he couldn’t feel the elements, because the day was unseasonably warm, and if he took off his shirt she’d be useless at her tasks. Maybe Selma was right, there were worse things than being tethered to a good-looking man.
Her chores were done in a quarter of the time with Alaric’s assistance. He sat with her as she ate lunch under one of the large trees on a small hill, their backs pressed to the trunk.
“Done by lunch, a new record,” she told him between bites of her sandwich.
“I told you I was handy. If I weren’t, the coven would have kicked me out years before,” he said.
“I still find that so hard to believe.”
“I have no magic, why should they let me stay? I’m surprised no one slipped me a memory draught and left me wandering senseless in the woods.”
“A memory potion?” Roz said skeptically.
“Oh, yes. The apothecary witches especially disliked me. I was to blame when yeast went missing. I made a delightful mead. I was sure one day they’d do something to the yeast to finally put an end to me.”
Roz rested her head on his shoulder, gazing down over the cemetery. A lone figure strode purposefully through the gate.
“Who is your Aunt Selma with?” Alaric asked, squinting.
“She’s alone,” Roz said, waving to catch Selma’s attention. The old woman waved back, making her way slowly up the hill. Her route was circuitous, avoiding certain grave sites. When she finally made it to them, she wiped the sweat from her brow.
“Last heat wave of the year,” she muttered. “Goddess willing,” she added. Then her gaze slid to Alaric and she cocked her head. “You’re looking…opaque.”
“She can see me?” Alaric asked Roz, genuine surprise on his face.
“She can hear you, as well,” Selma snorted.
“Is that…?” came a voice from somewhere near Selma. Roz blinked at the space around Selma, her gaze darting around. It sounded like her Aunt Franny, but there was no way…
“Yes, dear, it’s Alaric Blackwood, try to keep up,” Selma said, waving her hand at the air next to her. There was a shimmer there, a sort of outline of something that Roz couldn’t quite focus on. It undulated between a shadow and wisps of white smoke.
“You can both see me?” Alaric asked, his voice high and hopeful.
“I may be dead, but I still have eyes,” Franny’s voice echoed over the small space. “Roz is looking at me; has she finally mastered her skills? Or does she remain useless?”
Roz bristled. She was used to Franny’s rude comments, but that didn’t make them hurt less.
“That is the purpose of this discussion,” Selma told Franny, then turned to Roz suddenly. “Can you see her?”
“Not…really…” Roz said carefully. “There’s…something. But I can hear her! I can hear her!”
Franny sighed. “I suppose that’s better than nothing.”
“I can see you,” Alaric said, blinking at the empty space.
Selma settled onto the grass across from them. The shimmering thing next to her sat as well.
“Well, I have summoned Fran so we might have a chat about your little…well, it’s not really a problem, is it?” Selma said.
“A bit of a problem—we need to break the curse,” Roz said. “So he can finally rest.”
“He looks well rested,” Selma remarked, her gaze traveling over him slowly. He did look rather handsome in his old-fashioned outfit. There was still the faint outline of bruises and wounds on his face, but most were gone.
“Did you really tether yourself to the founder of Pumpkin Hollow?” Franny asked, scandalized. Roz shrank back against the tree. It’d been years since Franny died, and longer still since she’d tried to teach Roz the art of necromancy. The memory of the failed lessons still stung.
“A remarkable feat, I hear,” Alaric said, his tone clipped.
“Reckless,” Franny corrected.
“Impressive,” Selma said. “That’s why I dragged you from playing Pinochle in the afterlife. I think Roz has the gift of reanimation.”
The faceless blob next to Selma bristled. “There is no such—”
“I’ve seen it,” Alaric interrupted. “The original Graves family was very skilled at reanimation. Seems like the years have diluted the talent.”
“I will not be spoken to in such a manner, no matter how important you were,” Franny said, emphasizing the last word. Roz put a steadying hand on Alaric’s knee. Selma’s gaze dropped to it, her lips turning up in a smile.
“Contact,” she said, wagging her finger. “How long have you been able to touch him?”
Roz’s cheeks pinked at the memory of the night before, of his lips on hers, then all over her body. She cleared her throat. “Since you left last night.”
“Fascinating. How?” Selma asked.
“Blood,” Roz said. “Just a drop or two.”
“Blood magic,” Franny hissed. “I cannot believe you dragged me here to bear witness to this! Blood magic has been stripped from our annals for a reason. Reckless, costly, imperfect. Blood magic always takes something, and it doesn’t like to give it back!
” The amorphous blob swayed with every point, ticking them off in anger.
“Piss off, Fran. You’re just jealous. You were the last to try to commune with Alaric, weren’t you? And failed?”
The blob did not answer. Even without a face, Roz could feel the anger radiating off it.
“Now, let’s stop with the pissing matches. Alaric, tell Franny about the curse,” Selma waved to him good-naturedly. He took a deep breath and recounted the events leading up to his death, including the words of the reverend.
“Killed during a waning moon, weren’t you?” Franny asked. “Perfect time for banishment. Dragged from the coven to the church of our enemies. I’m assuming there was blood involved?”
“Mostly theirs, some of mine,” Alaric allowed, as if he didn’t still bear remnants of the bruises and scabs.
“Magic doesn’t always need skill, just intent. Accidental curse, probably placed you in a sort of…purgatory,” Franny said. “Witches don’t believe in purgatory. A land we cannot reach or understand, nor know how to access. That’s my best guess.”
“And my blood?” Roz asked. “All I did was cut my hand and bleed on his statue—”
“On me,” Alaric said. “I was at the base of the statue…in case you fell. Some of your blood got on me.”
“Oh,” Roz said. If she’d fallen, there’s nothing he could have done. Yet he waited there, hovering, keeping her safe. She chanced a sideways glance at him. He wore the same surly expression he did on his statue, his gaze trained on her aunts.
“Blood is the elixir of life,” Franny said after a long pause. “It is the current through our veins, the life force of the vampire. It is grounding, as well. Your blood fell through the layers of our world and the next and tethered his spirit to yours.”
“And the more blood, the stronger the tether?” Selma suggested.
“Yes and no. A tether is a rope. You can fortify the rope and make it stronger, so he does not drift away again. But at some point, the rope is as strong as it will ever get.” Franny paused. “To let him pass, you have to sever the rope.”
“How do we know it won’t put him back in that purgatory?” Roz asked.
“Just break the curse,” Franny said, as if it were that simple. “You know the words, you know the intent, you know the moon phase…really, Roz, it’s simple magic.”
Roz’s cheeks burned again. She’d pulled the spirit of the beloved founder out of a three hundred-year curse and Franny still belittled her. She sat up straighter, refusing to let her aunt bully her like she was still a child.
“I am sorry I am considered such a grievous failure by you, Aunt Francesca. But I am the one necromancer that finally communed with Alaric, after centuries of you all trying and failing. And I did it by accident. I want to know more of what this means about my blood. There’s no way I’m the first person to bleed on his spirit in three hundred years.
” Alaric put his hand atop hers and gave it a small squeeze in support.
She glanced at him again, his surly expression replaced by a wolfish grin.
Franny was quiet for so long, Roz thought she wouldn’t speak. If it weren’t for the haze next to Selma, she would have thought she’d gone back to the spirit realm, likely refusing to speak to Roz again out of spite. That sounded like something Franny would do.
“Fran?” Selma asked.
“No,” Franny said, her tone clipped. “Blood magic is nothing to fool around with. It isn’t in practice for a reason, the trials never performed. Blood magic operates in a balance—blood gives life, so there must also be death. This is why the book is dangerous, why I hid it—” She cut off abruptly.
“Delia,” Selma muttered under her breath.
“What about my sister?” Roz asked, alarmed.
“Her decay magic, it’s a balance to you. It may explain why…well, never mind. Go on Franny, we don’t have all day.”
“In the past, we were able to reanimate corpses. It was eventually discontinued, due to some…unfortunate incidents. However, there are variations of reanimation. Alaric has no body, so perhaps your blood brings him closer to the mortal world, but also you to the spirit world. But make no mistake, he is not alive. He is a spirit, no matter how visible he is, no matter how tangible he becomes. He will never age, and he will remain tethered to you until he crosses.”
“Is it dangerous?” Alaric asked.
“You’re already dead,” Franny said flatly.
“To Rosalin,” he clarified. “To be closer to the spirit world.”
“Goddess, no. We necromancers spend our whole lives with half our body in the spirit world and half in the mortal world. Even without the gift, Roz has the strength of the Graves name. She could travel to the spirit realm and remain there for years and return no worse for the journey. So is the story of some of the greatest necromancers.” Franny paused before speaking once more.
“You do not intend to stay tethered to her, do you?”
“I promised to help him pass,” Roz said.
“That’s not what I asked,” Franny said pointedly.
“I would never ask such a thing of Rosalin,” Alaric said.
“Good, because it is cruel. She is young, full of potential. She only has a few more years of childbearing age”—Roz sat up straighter, her mouth open to protest, but Franny continued on—“and it should not be deterred by a spirit hanging around her every moment. You may feel like you owe her, and in many ways you do. The best way to repay her is to cross over and let her live her life.”
The blob that was Franny pivoted, as if to regard Selma. “Is this all you needed from me?”
“You could have stopped at the book you hid,” Selma said. “Save the tirade for your crochet group.”
“Good luck finding it. It’s truly buried. The secrets will die, as they should have. The blob bristled and disappeared with a quiet pop. Selma stared at the space where Franny had been for a moment, then turned to looked at Roz and Alaric.
“She’s a tough nut, but she means well. Projecting a little, I think. I have keys to her cottage, if you want to snoop around.” Selma started to stand and Alaric scrambled to his feet, holding a hand out to help her up.
“Handsome and chivalrous. Don’t find that among the living,” she said, winking at Roz.
She patted Alaric on the shoulder and kissed Roz on the cheek.
She fished through her bag, pulling out a keyring and removing a single key from it to hand to Roz.
“Just remember, Franny is dead, and you’re alive.
” Then she tottered down the hill and out the gate.