Page 2 of Necromance
“No,” she admitted. “But I’ve felt it. The castle isn’t right. There’s something… off about it.”
I smiled, slow and knowing. “Interesting.”
Most hauntings were simple. Restless spirits, half-remembered echoes of the dead, lingering where they had been wronged. But some places, the truly cursed ones, were different. They didn’t just hold spirits, they swallowed them.
And Ravenspire had been swallowing for a very long time.
“Will you take the job then?” She asked impatiently.
I drained the last of my tea and set the cup aside, pretending to consider it. The truth was, I was definitely going to take the job. Aside from the fact that I desperately needed the funds, the opportunity excited me. Alone, for once, in a beautiful castle, with no lords or ladies breathing down my neck in a stuffy parlor. No haughty nobility to impress…
I grinned at her. “I’ll pack at once.”
The rain had lessened to a fine mist by the time I walked Lady Hathaway to the door. The damp air clung to my skin as I pulled the heavy wood door open, allowing the widow to step out onto the stone path outside. Her carriage waited at the gate, the driver hunched beneath his coat as he adjusted the reins.
Lady Hathaway hesitated on the threshold, glancing back at me. The shadows from the flickering lantern outside cut deep lines into her already weathered face. She reached into her clutch,withdrawing a singular iron skeleton key.
“This key will open any of the doors,” she said, placing it into my outstretched hand. “There should also be a stock of food in the kitchens though the castle has no gas so you’ll have to cook on the old wood stove.”
I nodded, slipping the key into my pocket.
“I expect you’ll leave by morning?”
“Tonight if possible,” I said, shrugging.
She studied me for a long moment, as if debating whether to say something more. Then, with a curt nod, she pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders and stepped out into the mist.
I shut the door behind her, the sound echoing in the quiet cottage. I lingered there a moment, fingers resting against the cool brass handle.
Ravenspire.
The name alone sent an uneasy thrill through me.
I’d heard the rumors of course, everyone had. The castle had stood empty for years, abandoned to the elements and whatever lingered inside. There were stories of disappearances, of servants who had fled in the night, refusing to speak of what they’d seen. Most of the stories contradicted each other, but one truth remained that I was sure of. Ravenspire was haunted. I’d known it, felt it, from the very first time I’d seen it… been drawn to it for some reason…
And it was mine to unravel. At least for now anyway.
A slow smile curled my lips as I stepped back into the warm glow of the firelight.
People often recoiled at what I did. Necromancy. It wasn’t a polite profession, nor one that earned much respect outside of whispered desperation. To most, I was a trickster, a woman with clever hands and a silver tongue, hired to make the candles flicker at dinner parties and summon shadows to dance along the walls.
To others, I was something to be feared.
The church certainly had their opinions. So did the self-righteous lords who clutched their crucifixes while secretly hiring me to consort with their dead lovers. They all wanted something… answers, closure, proof that death wasn’t the end.
Necromancy unsettled people because it demanded acknowledgment of death. Of its presence, its permanence, its hunger. It was easier to pretend it was a trick, to laugh at it in the safety of candlelit rooms.
I had long since stopped caring what people thought.
The truth was, I wasn’t a trickster or anything to be feared… unless of course, I wanted to be.
I had my magic, though actuallyusingit was another story. Most of what I did for parties was purely at the spirit's will. Sure I could speak to the dead, I could see them, and even summon them, but I rarely used necromancy. Not only wasit difficult to contain, it was even more difficult to recover from. All magic had a cost and mine was steep.
Turning from the door, I crossed the room, my skirts dancing against the wooden floor. My cottage was small but comfortable, a home built for someone who was rarely in it. A low table stood by the hearth, cluttered with stacks of notes, candle stubs, and a handful of trinkets collected from past clients. Herbs and dried flowers hung from the beams above, their scents mingling with the ever-present trace of grave dirt and smoke.
I moved through the space with practiced ease, gathering what I would need for my stay at Ravenspire. A leather satchel first, worn and sturdy, its straps softened from years of use. I placed inside a bundle of dried sage, a few of my grandmother’s withered tomes, and a small vial of salt. Protections. Some ghosts were harmless, mere echoes of the past. Others… well best to be prepared.
Next, I retrieved a small velvet lined box from the shelf. Nestled among folds of black silk lay a collection of bones. Tiny finger bones, a sliver of rib, and a single vertebra. Not human, not anymore. They were relics, taken from the long-dead, carved with sigils older than the language I spoke. They hummed beneath my fingertips, whispering secrets only I could hear.
