Page 4 of Necromancers Don't Raise

I froze and glanced to the side instead of up at him. My two friends. What could I possibly do for them when I was like this? I tried to speak extra clearly. “That’s good. I wouldn’t want to kill you before you gave me a job.”

“A job? You recently died, but you’re already considering employment? Have you considered that you might be a workaholic?”

I sighed as much as I could without operable lungs and looked up at him. “I hope so. Otherwise, it’ll take me decades to afford a decent place with good security. I don’t suppose undeadhave the luxury of living in good neighborhoods. Are there undead neighborhoods? I have no idea.”

“What is a decade or two when you’re immortal? Peculiar. You don’t seem to wonder if you’re safe with me. You should consider that before you offer yourself as my employee.”

I shook my head carefully so it didn’t fall off or something that would have been unlikely twenty-four hours ago. Or longer. Hard to tell time when you’re dead. “You wouldn’t ever hurt me.”

His eyes narrowed. “Ah. You must not have heard more about dark sorcerers than the thickness of their bones. I’m afraid that safety in the hands of a dark sorcerer is far from guaranteed.”

I shrugged. “I’m already undead. What’s worse than that? Also, your hands are so strong and capable, I probably wouldn’t mind you harvesting my organs or turning me into a lovely settee. How do dark sorcerers get their furniture?” I eyed the tanning bed. “Can I order one of those once I’m gainfully employed?”

“What sort of work are you looking for? There are certain limitations on the undead.”

I nodded, trying to look confident and failing because I was a decomposing puddle of death. “I know that it won’t be easy, but there must be something to do, and if there isn’t, I’ll create a need and fill it. I could…” My mind spun, but all the things I could do were based on who I had been. “What do you need?” I sounded desperate, and I was never desperate.

He placed a large, heavy hand on my bald head while his eyes softened with compassion I’d only seen a few times in my life. “It’s all right. You will settle into your mind, your memories, soon enough. You’re doing incredibly well, Nova. Don’t rush the cadence of your recovery. Regeneration is difficult, particularly the first time. You can’t work while you’re recovering. As I am a dark sorcerer of iron will and fierce reputation, consider yourselfmy prisoner. The only work you’ll be doing is recovering until you have the physical strength to match your indomitable will.”

I stared into those compassionate eyes and my heart lurched in my chest, like it was trying to beat for him. He was a million times more attractive than Vilus, and he was looking at me like I was a precious soul that had unlimited worth, no matter what condition my shell was in.

“You remind me of a doctor I saw once in Romania, working with the poor,” I said before I’d thought the words through.

He raised a dark, heavy brow. “You didn’t happen to get bitten while you were in Romania, did you?”

I smiled slightly and shook my head. “No, that was years ago. I wish I could remember what happened, how I died, and…” if my friends were okay.

His hand slid over my skull to rest lightly on my shoulder, his warmth matching the concern in his eyes. “You remember going to Romania?” He placed his other large palm on my forehead as if checking for a fever. Did the undead get fevers?

“Is it bad to remember?” I asked, careful to keep my fear from showing. Then again, he’d already seen me worse than I’d ever imagined it was possible for me to be, so what was I trying to hide for? I didn’t have a name to protect, or a cause to defend. I was just myself. Whoever that was.

His answer was low. “Not bad, just unusual that one with memories would be so calm and reasonable. The worst pain is remembering what you were when faced with what you have come to be.”

Wasn’t that the truth? I met his eyes, chin up. “I’m pretty sure I was crying when you found me.”

His eyes were so terribly compassionate. “Without tears. Yes, but the dead don’t process emotions well. They are stuck in them, if they have them at all.”

I spoke as blandly as I could with this unresponsive voice. “I’ve never processed emotions when I was alive, just repressed them. You see a lot of hysterical undead? Why? Why do you care? Why do you fish monsters out of sewers and bring them home to patch up?”

He smiled and then turned to pick up a sewing needle. “I am much more comfortable around the dead than the living, although I am technically counted as the latter. The dead don’t lie.”

“Except in coffins.”

He flashed a full smile that made my heart wrench. It couldn’t beat, but it was still there, occupying space in my chest, and whatever metaphysical emotions were still inside of it was reacting to the dark sorcerer. “Bones, my butler, lies on the couch. He finds it much preferable to his coffin.”

“You have an undead butler?”

“And cook, driver, gardener, as well as several bodyguards.”

I smiled and felt my lips rip from the movement. Apparently, the dead didn’t smile, either. Still, I’d smile. “So, you do let the undead work for you. What are your rates? Do you have insurance? What positions are available?”

He studied me, eyes gleaming peculiarly. “I’ve mentioned that you are my prisoner. Until you are recovered, you aren’t going anywhere.”

I shook my head as I studied him. “That’s not enough. Once I’m recovered, will you try to find something I could do?”

He frowned slightly. “You are very determined to work for someone who is a truly fearful and terrifying necromantic sorcerer. My favorite servants are rats. I have countless dead and animated rats that roam Apple City and Singsong, collecting information for me.”

“Like on the tv show? Except Vilus doesn’t ask his rats to provide intel on where the fresh undead is so that he cancollect them and give them the spa treatment. I don’t think you understand what terrifying really is. It’s approaching retirement without a 401k. It’s having no job security and ending up without money, clothing, or anything else in a sewer. You’re terrifying? Maybe you try, but you don’t even flinch when you look at me. I don’t have a nose, do I? And yet your eyes are only concerned, without one iota of disgust or coldness when you examine me. If I’m in danger from you, if anyone is in danger from you who isn’t threatening what you have decided to protect, I would be very surprised.” I shouldn’t have said all that, and honestly, the intensity I’d used was making me want to lean my head on his shoulder and take a nap.

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