Hopeless Necromantic (The Catseye Chronicles #1)

Chapter One

Sikras

SURE, EVERYONE claimed they would do anything to bring back a deceased loved one, but that was only because they failed to imagine the ramifications.

Unless one had no sense of smell, or an unusual penchant for the stench of decay, undead rarely made satisfying company in the long term.

“But, oh,” the people would say, “I never meant for them to return as undead. I meant for them to be alive exactly as they were before.”

Too bad.

No matter how hard anyone wished for, hoped for, prayed for a loved one to come back alive—truly alive—the best a corpse could ever get was a little less dead than they were before.

And that’s where Sikras ‘Catseye’ Nikabod came in.

Necromancy certainly wasn’t the noblest of professions in the kingdom of Nyllmas, nor anywhere in the whole of Siaphara.

If Sikras was brutally honest, necromancy didn’t technically qualify as a ‘profession’ so much as an illicit opportunity for magic wielders with questionable moral compasses to make a living by ripping souls from Enos and stuffing them inside corpses much in the way one shoved cubed bread into a hollowed-out game hen.

But it paid the bills. Illegally. People could balk and wail and organize all the protests they wanted, but for every townsperson who cried about ‘dead men’s rights,’ two or three people would be at Sikras’s doorstep, begging him to resurrect grandpa or whoever happened to keel over that weekend.

For that reason, when Sikras smelled the familiar odor of dried blood and rotting flesh outside his mansion’s ornate door, he wasn’t surprised. That meant one of two things: either a strangely independent undead minion waited on his stoop, or he had a new client.

Sikras made no move for the door even when a knock sounded from the other side, instead he studied the gameboard before him, the only pristine object in a cavernous room full of clutter and dust. It wasn’t until he moved an onyx-carved component into the threshold of a gold-lined circle painted on the board that he stood.

“I’ve made my move, Benjamin. Your turn. ”

“Finally,” called a voice from a distant room. “I almost died of old age.”

“Count yourself lucky, then. Natural causes are a fine way to go.” After dusting his shoulders and tugging at his sleeves to smooth any wrinkles, Sikras approached the door and pulled it open.

A man holding a lifeless body awaited him on the other side. No surprise there. Sikras tilted his head and gave the corpse a cursory analysis.

Adult. Human. Female. Visible, gruesome injuries.

Puncture wounds, exposed intestines, the whole kit and caboodle.

Dead maybe seven, eight hours tops. Rigor mortis had set in, and it apparently made her rather unwieldy, as the traumatized looking gentleman holding her grunted each time he readjusted the dead weight.

Awkward silence made seconds feel like hours, and if the stranger’s slack-jawed stutters were any indication, it didn’t look as if he would form a proper sentence any time soon.

“Allow me to hazard a guess,” Sikras said to break the ice, giving one of the puncture wounds a gentle poke.

“A horde of crowned gremlins? They’ve been getting closer to the city lines lately. Devilish things, those.”

The man appeared to settle at the soothing timbre Sikras injected into his voice. “Apologies. I—I’m still in shock from everything that happened. This mansion’s never one I thought I’d visit.”

“It’s not the top tourist destination in Vinepool, I can tell you that much.” Sikras stepped aside. “Bring her in. Benjamin will show you where you can set her.”

“Benjamin? Th—there must be a mistake.” The man’s arm’s quaked as he struggled to hold the body. “I’m here to see the fabled necromancer, the Glowing Cat’s Eye in Death’s Darkness. Who’s Benjamin?”

In the doorway, a human skeleton appeared. “Hi.”

“Adalin’s mercy!” The man stumbled backward and fell, trapped under the dead woman’s weight.

“Benjamin.” Sikras regarded him with open arms. “Perfect timing. Did you make your move?”

“Took me two seconds,” Benjamin replied. “You could learn a thing or two from me regarding efficiency.”

Sikras dipped into a humble bow, then glimpsed the horrified stranger splayed on his steps. “It’s true. Benjamin here is a champion at Rack and Ruin. Do you play?”

“A walking skeleton?” A gasping wheeze tightened the man’s words as he shoved the corpse off his torso and scooted backward.

“Walking. Talking.” Sikras raised a finger. “Just don’t ask him to dance. He’ll do it, and it’s not a pretty sight. He’s a damn fine musician though. You’ve never met a man who can work the lute quite like this one, let me tell you.”

The sound of clacking bones rang out when Benjamin placed his hand on his hip. “I can dance. Sort of. We don’t all practice choreography with undead minions like some people.”

“Oh, yes. Undead.” A cloud of dust jostled off Sikras’s sleeves when he clapped his hands together. “On that very subject, gather your corpse and bring her inside. Who do we have here? Wife? Lover? Sister? A corrupt landlord who you wish to resurrect for the sheer joy of watching her die twice?”

“W—wife, sir.” A layer of doubt reflected in the man’s eyes as he stooped to gather the dead. “Am I to believe you’re the necromancer I seek?”

“Judging by your tone, I assume that’s difficult to believe?”

“With respect, sir, you don’t exactly ... That is to say, you don’t look the part of the necromantic prodigy sung of by the kingdom’s bards.”

“First off, Nyllmas’s bards leave a lot to be desired.

Second, I haven’t let myself go all that much, have I?

” Head cocked, Sikras faced the grand mirror hanging askew on the wall beside him, but a hefty coating of dust robbed it of its primary function.

He raked his fingers through the tangled mess of his loosely curled hair, as if that would somehow make him more presentable.

Benjamin tapped his chin in consideration. “I bet it’s the dark circles beneath your eyes. Or the lifeless tone of your skin. Your unnaturally gray hair, perhaps? Wait, no, the atrophied muscles. Oh, or the gaunt face.” He rounded on the client. “It’s his face, isn’t it?”

“All that, yes.” The man nodded, his throat bobbing from a hard swallow. “And you look so ... average. You’re much taller in the portraits painted by local artists.”

Sikras smirked. “I’ve a pair of boots that bolsters me to five foot eleven. Shall I put them on before or after I resurrect your dead wife?”

“N—no boots necessary, sir.”

With his elbow, Benjamin gave Sikras a gentle nudge. “I’m sure he means no offense. Folkloric men are meant to be godlike, glistening things. You know I adore you, but, in your current state, you do look a bit like a corpse that someone left in the sun too long.”

“Your poetry knows no bounds, Benjamin. That’s why you’re the musician, and I’m just the dancer.

” Absent of any insult, Sikras regarded his patron and bent into a sardonic bow.

“Contrary to appearances, yes, I am the great necromancer you seek, and I will provide you with nothing but the utmost quality whilst rendering my services. Now, slide the trash off our dining table and toss your beloved up there, will you?”

The man lingered, slack-jawed, indecisive.

With a surrendering grunt, he stepped past the threshold, followed Sikras and Benjamin into the dining room, and hoisted his wife’s corpse atop piles of loose parchment and empty plates.

“You were right about what you’d said earlier,” he muttered, shuffling away once he had positioned her.

“T’was a pack of crowned gremlins what killed her when she was out gathering herbs. ”

Sikras spun on his heels to capture the man in his stare. “Vile way to go. I’m impressed you weren’t gutted alongside her.”

“I was able to run and hide, sir. Adalin blessed me well.”

“Adalin worshipper, aye?” A shudder rattled Sikras’s shoulders. “She must’ve missed your wife’s prayers for mercy. Lost to the blood-curdling screams, perhaps? Tell me, uh—what’s your name again?”

“Bilsby, sir.”

“Bilsby. For how long has your wife been dead?”

“About eight hours.”

Sikras nodded his approval. “Fresh. Good. It increases the odds that her soul remains in Enos and that Goddess Adalin hasn’t whisked it away to whatever afterlife she created for her venerators. Before we begin, I need you to sign some paperwork. Benjamin?”

Benjamin pried open a drawer and removed a prewritten parchment. After struggling to find room for it on the cluttered table, he grabbed the deceased’s arm. “Pardon me, miss,” he said, then scooted her limb out of the way.

“Quill and ink pot are over there,” Sikras mumbled, pointing. “I’d tell you to read the parchment, but we both know you won’t.”

The statement seemed to ruffle Bilsby, evidenced by his puffing chest and reddening cheeks. “I don’t need to read it. It doesn’t matter what it says. I’d give—”

“Anything to have her back. Yes, where have I heard that before? As noble as it is original, I assure you.” Nonchalance padded Sikras’s words as he tapped the parchment.

“This contract states I did, or at least attempted to, review the risks associated with the resurrection of a dead loved one, including but not limited to nausea, vomiting, lightheadedness, intense regret, mental and emotional turmoil, cursing me, cursing the gods, and any damage to your person or personal belongings should you drop to your knees, wail, rend your garments, et cetera, so on and so forth. In addition, please note that signing this parchment relinquishes me from any liability regarding your satisfaction or dissatisfaction with the services rendered.”

“Gimme the damn quill,” Bilsby snapped, hastily jotting his signature.

Sikras crossed his arms. “Don’t forget to initial. I’ll need payment up front, please and thank you.”