Death Maker by J. C. McKenzie
ChapterOne
Blood sprayed my face, the warm thick liquid dripping down my cheek. The rest of the blood splattered on my black boots and the thick manicured lawn, but somehow missed the leather pants and vest I wore specifically for this job. I grimaced but finished the incantation to bring forth the spirit. My death magic pooled around me, dark and sticky, before driving into the bones laid bare before me.
The surrounding trees groaned, and an eerie warm wind swept over the gentle knoll in the cemetery. The loud hum of crickets and katydids filled the air, the constant soundtrack for a late summer evening. But another sound rose from the inky darkness of night.
A wailing spirit.
Ripped from the veil by my magic and pushed through the crumbling bones, the spirit of Agatha Montgomery crystallized in front of me as a pale blue spectre of what she used to be, while the chicken’s blood dripping down my hands cooled.
The sun had set less than an hour ago, and though raisings were common knowledge nowadays, necromancers like me still preferred to raise the dead at night because the barrier between the living and the dead thinned and it helped us avoid unnecessary spectators and judgement.
Pushing harder with my magic, I sent the spirit into the remains of her body. The corpse shuddered. Bones cracked and the wooden coffin groaned. Agatha’s corpse awkwardly scrambled to its feet. Reanimation took bones, blood, and power, and I had all three.
Someone gasped behind me.
Dressed in her Sunday best—a tasteful, knee-length, dusty rose coloured dress with long sleeves, stockings with matching hat and shoes—the reanimated corpse of Agatha Montgomery waited for her orders.
Technically, I didn’t need a reanimated corpse to speak with the spirit, but the drabs standing behind me did.
“Ms. Morgan?” The client’s shaky voice spoke behind me. “Is everything okay?”
“Ask your questions,” I whispered to the three people waiting. Placing the sacrifice in a sealable bag for the butcher, I set the package at my feet with the other three. If I didn’t have to reanimate the corpse for the clients, I wouldn’t have had to use so many chickens. I took out a moist towelette and wiped the blood from my hands and face.
“I won’t be able to hold her long,” I told them. That last part was a lie. I could hold this spirit for a long time, but I wouldn’t. Spirits deserved to rest, not be dredged up by ungrateful nieces and nephews who bickered and squabbled over the estate and couldn’t reach an amicable interpretation of a will.
I shuddered, squeezing my eyes shut. Nothing could stop my own internal critic.
Sell out.
Hypocrite.
I stuffed the soiled tissue in my pocket. I might not agree with my clients’ motives. I might dislike raising the dead for trivial matters. But neither of those things stopped me from doing my job. The new world had few opportunities available for necromancers, and at least I could stomach this one and afford to pay my bills.
And Mom’s.
Henry Montgomery stumbled forward and cleared his throat. He hunched forward as if he spent most of his time at a desk on a computer, and his wrinkled dress pants and crinkled shirt did nothing to make me think otherwise. He had a shifty hazel gaze and his fair complexion looked like he needed a healthy dose of vitamin D. “Hi, Auntie.”
The corpse whipped her head in his direction and hissed.
“Auntie.” Amanda Montgomery straightened from the other side of the grave, standing opposite of her brother. She tucked her blonde hair behind her ears and narrowed her gaze. She looked like a feminine version of her brother, just with longer hair and tighter pants. “We’re sorry for raising you. We’d like to clarify your will.”
Agatha hissed at her niece, too.
The third person, a court appointed adjudicator, stood expressionless beside me. Peter Schmidt had a tall, lean frame that fit his off-the-rack suit well. His pale skin gleamed under the moonlight and his keen blue gaze scanned the area. This wasn’t our first time working together, and the novelty of necromancy must’ve worn off, because he no longer flinched at the raisings.
Peter had suggested my services to clients in the past. This wasn’t his first rodeo and unless human nature or the laws governing necromancers changed drastically, this wouldn’t be his last one, either.
While the court usually upheld wills, people generally had four main reasons to legally dispute a will and actually have a shot at winning—how the will was signed and witnessed, the mental capacity of the testator at the time of signing, possibility of fraud, or if they suspected the testator of being unduly influenced at the time of signing.
I didn’t need to know which of the four reasons this particular case fell under for the niece and nephew to contest the will.
Nor did I really care.
It wasn’t my business and I got paid either way.
“What about my will?” Agatha hissed again, her voice thin and reedy. “My last wishes were clear.”
“You left everything to the dog,” Henry protested.
I bit my tongue. The dog? Brilliant. I might love this woman a little.
“Not true.” Agatha folded her arms over her chest. A bone snapped and her shirt sleeve ripped. “I gave you Harold’s stuff and Amanda got my tea set.”
Amanda squeezed her eyes shut, hopefully seeing how this wasn’t going to play well for either of them. If only they’d apologize for disturbing Agatha and back out now. There was still a possibility of redemption for their asshole ways.
“How is Sir Edington doing?” Agatha asked, her voice sounding less tinny.
“He’s fine.” Henry said. “We don’t understand how you would give all that money to a twelve-year-old pug. How do you expect him to actually use it?”
The aunt’s true intent slapped me across the face. I groaned. Apparently, Henry and Amanda didn’t have two brain cells between them to connect the dots.
I leaned over and whispered to Peter, “Who’s taking care of the dog?”
His lips twitched. “The youngest sibling, Charlotte.”
“Obviously, she got the brains of the family.”
“She offered to look after the dog before the will was read. That’s the real reason these two are fighting it. The will said the dog would go to whomever wanted him or offered first. Charlotte had to confirm she’d take the dog before I could read the next part of Agatha’s will.”
“The money goes with Sir Edington,” Agatha raised her voice. “Your sister was always my favourite, anyway.”
Henry and Amanda flinched before stepping away from the open grave, heads hung low. They didn’t say anything else. They didn’t apologize to their aunt for the intrusion, nor did they have any kind words to share. I already thought poorly of them, but I didn’t often get the full story, so I tried to refrain from judging—and I certainly never let my personal opinions impact my professionalism.
This, though?
Their blatant greed, disrespect and lack of compassion earned my disgust.
Agatha keened loudly, her decaying body swaying back and forth. “Put me back, Bone Witch. Let me rest.”
Ignoring the slur, I nodded and sank my power into the bones. Whispering an incantation, I sent Agatha’s spirit back to the veil that separated the living from the dead. Agatha sighed in relief and her blue spectre of a soul faded away, returning to the veil where all souls gathered and waited either for rebirth or to move to the beyond where even I couldn’t reach them.
The corpse fell back into the coffin, lifeless again, and already dismissed by the living. The call of crickets and katydids rose and slowly smothered the stillness that had settled over the cemetery.
Not getting the results they so obviously wanted, Henry and Amanda started walking back to their cars, leaving Peter, me, and a bunch of dead chickens in the graveyard. Still no thank you or apologies for wasting our time. No acknowledgement of their shitty behaviour.
I pulled a large plastic bag from my rucksack and dropped the smaller sealed bags with the chickens into it.
“What do you do with the sacrifices?” Peter asked. He didn’t normally hang around to chat.
“I have a standing arrangement with a butcher in town for the poultry chickens like these.” I refused to let the chickens go to waste. Their sacrifice wouldn’t be used just for trivial disagreements and money. They would feed the hungry for a reduced price. I still felt like shit. Just not super scummy shit. “And if I can’t get poultry chickens, I find laying chickens that are dying of cancer.”
Peter nodded and glanced at the open grave. The cemetery workers would seal everything up after we left.
“Does it ever bother you?” he asked.
“It?”
“The frivolousness? The lack of…” He waved his hand at the grave. “Respect. Remorse. Empathy? I don’t know.”
“Of course, it does.” It did every day. These two clients hadn’t tried to use their limited time with Agatha to say goodbye. They just wanted to harass her soul for their own financial gain, and I’d helped them do it for a fee.
“Then why do you do it?” He turned his kind blue gaze to me.
“I suspect for the same reasons you do.” A paycheque. In a world that had grown less kind, people like me, people like Peter, found ways to survive.
“I tried to talk them out of it, you know,” Peter said. “The will was pretty clear, even if it was rather eccentric.”
“And now they’ll have to live with what they did. They let greed and anger cloud their better judgment.” Maybe one day they’d even feel bad about it.
Peter nodded and glanced at the grave again.
“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t think raising Agatha hurt her so much as annoyed her. I’m glad the laws about the probate period are clear. Most souls haven’t moved beyond the veil during that time. They’re easier to recall and less disturbed.”
“That does make it a little easier to stomach. Thank you.” Peter swallowed. “Have you raised beyond the probate period?”
Did he honestly expect me to admit to breaking the law?
“For something else court related. Not wills, obviously,” he added quickly.
Maybe he saw the shock on my face. The courts could order a spirit resurrected for many reasons, not just will disputes, and they weren’t restricted by the same probate period as estate wills. And of course, there were the other raisings I did.
“I have,” I said, and the memories sent chills down my spine.