Robin Thorne's only lead is cold and dead in the ground, leaving them with one solution: consulting a necromancer.
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what is the value of a soul?
June 4th, 2024
Autumn Hill, Three Portlands
It was summer in Three Portlands, but the necromancer's lair was still cloaked in the gold and crimson foliage of fall.
Thorne cautiously approached the cottage tucked away within the urban woodland of Autumn Hill. The last time they had visited Annabelle Lee had been with Beatrice Ross, and that visit had ended on a less than friendly note after a bout of murder accusations. Still, she had helped them in the end, and necromancers were scarce enough that she remained Thorne's best bet.
The necromancer was sitting on a bench on her front porch, feeding bonemeal to the bird skeletons. A half-dozen of the undead animals hopped around by her feet, seemingly oblivious to the grains of calcium falling through their exposed ribs.
Annabelle frowned when she noticed Thorne.
"Robin. Here to accuse me of murder again?"
They shook their head. "No, Annabelle. I need to speak to a ghost. And if you'll remember, it was Bea who accused you of murder, not me."
"Maybe so, but I don't subcontract for the feds, you know that." She stood up, tossing the rest of the bonemeal on the ground, and turned to go inside.
"This is personal," they called after her. "I need to speak to the man who killed my mother."
"Oh." She stopped. Slowly, she turned to face Thorne. Sadly, voice laden with sympathy, she said, "Robin, I wouldn't recommend that."
Thorne frowned, but tried not to let irritation bleed into their voice. "I don't care what you recommend, just what you can do. I'm willing to pay."
The necromancer was already shaking her head. "You can't afford my rates."
She was probably right, but Thorne didn't care.
"Name your price."
She did.
She was right.
"I'll pay it," they said.
"How?"
"On my word and bond." Thorne extended a hand.
Annabelle studied their hand, but did not move to shake it.
"Your word as a magus?"
In their peripheral vision, they could see that the bird-skeletons had stopped eating and were staring intensely at them. Empty eye sockets occasionally flickered with the spectral light of their bound avian ghosts. The largest bird, a skeletal raven whose bones had long-ago been sun-bleached white, flew over to perch on Annabelle's shoulder.
"My word," they repeated.
Annabelle took their hand and shook it, sealing the deal.
"Witnessed!" cried the raven.
The oath they had made wasn't a geas. It was much simpler and far more dangerous than that.
It was a conjurer's bargain.
The necromancer was giving them a line of credit, allowing them to defer payment with little more than a promise. It was a sweetheart loan, interest-free with an indefinite repayment schedule, and only one small catch — a tiny piece of collateral.
If Thorne didn't repay the loan before they died, the necromancer would get their soul.
"Come." The necromancer turned back towards the house, stalking through the door without waiting to see if Thorne was following.
The necromancer's parlor looked exactly as one would expect: hardwood walls and flooring done from dark walnut, rugs of real sheepskin as pale and clean as snow, wrought iron furniture decorated with skulls and skull motifs; what little light there was came from spindly finger-like beeswax candles clutched in the corners, or from undersized windows set with thick foggy glass that did more to obscure than to reveal — and where the two sources of illumination met, the mixture was seemingly darker still.
The center of the room was dominated by the design of a single thaumaturgical working which had been permanently embedded in the floor: a wreath of interlocking pieces of coral and ivory arranged into a circle; the circle inscribed by a pentagram of polished jet; a single black pearl resting at each tip of the star; the five inner points of the pentagram were anchored by five chunks of amber, every one bearing the mummified remains of an ancient insect.
Thorne whistled softly. "Does all this really help?"
Annabelle paused for a moment to look at them looking at the room. "A little. My clients — both sets of them — tend to expect a certain kind of ambiance, and things tend to run more smoothly if I simply accommodate them." She kept walking further into the house. "We shall be working in the lab."
"Not the laboratory?" Thorne asked, enunciating each syllable with deliberate over-pronunciation.
"Only when there's a thunderstorm," Annabelle quipped.
In contrast to the parlor, the necromancer's lab was remarkably featureless. The floor was bare concrete, dotted with non-slip pads and anti-fatigue mats. Faint streaks of copper-brown stains traced a trail to a drainage grate in the corner. A stainless steel countertop ran the length of one wall. There was a sink at one end, next to a stainless steel refrigerator. At the other end, the polished bronze and brass frame of an Everhart Resonator hummed quietly. In the middle of the room was a dull grey circle of lead.
Annabelle immediately set about her work, striding purposefully towards the fridge. "Tell me the name of your shade and three facts about them."
Thorne watched as the necromancer selected a single egg from a carton inside the fridge. "Julian Corwin. Fought in the Seventh Occult War. Last known residence in Oregon. Ordered the death of my mother."
Annabelle crouched down near the edge of the circle. She shot Thorne a quick glance. "Do you have anything else?"
"Do those not count?"
"It counts, it's just… you don't have something more concrete?" She punctuated the question by cracking the egg against the concrete floor with a quick, effortless flick of her wrist that was obviously practiced.
Thorne withdrew an oneirograph from their jacket pocket and offered it to the necromancer. "This is an oneirograph made from a memory of him. Does that help?"
Annabelle cleanly separated the shell of the egg, neatly depositing the undamaged yolk in the center of the circle. She stood, tossing the pieces of egg shell into the sink with a lazy underarm throw. She glanced at the oneirograph, then gestured for Thorne to put it away. "Good enough."
The necromancer closed her eyes. With her left hand, she pointed at the Everhart Resonator. With her right hand, she pointed at the egg.
"Julian Corwin of Oregon!" Annabelle Lee's voice rang out like a chime. "You who fought in the Seventh Occult War. You who killed this person's mother. Heed me!"
Nothing happened.
The necromancer scowled at the circle as she slowly lowered her hands. "It didn't work."
"I see that." Thorne said. "Why?"
"Something has disrupted the link between the shade and its name. Something artificial." Annabelle turned her gaze on the federal agent. "What are you withholding?"
They met the necromancer's gaze with their own. In a flat, measured tone they said, "Nothing you need to worry about."
"I very much disagree!" Annabelle spoke as forcefully as she could without shouting. "Whatever you're not telling me is why I can't summon this shade, at least in part."
Thorne shook their head. "Trust me, it's better if you don't know."
Annabelle crossed her arms and began tapping her foot. She sighed, exasperated. "Robin, I'm a necromancer," she said, adopting the patronizing tone of a disappointed teacher. "My entire job is extracting information from the dead. Whatever secret you are trying to protect from me — or protect me from — you can't. You can only make my job harder. So you need to decide which is more important: summoning this shade, or keeping your secret."
Thorne was silent for a moment. They stared at the egg yolk, which was now beginning a slow slide across the gentle slope of the floor towards the drain.
"Julian Corwin was a Foundation Overseer."
Annabelle Lee made a sound like an exotic bird being clumsily strangled. The necromancer scuttled several steps back, gesturing frantically with her hands and fingers to conjure a simple ward.
"I release you from your bond. No services have been rendered and no payment is owed."
The sudden removal of the debt weighing down their soul should have been a relief. It wasn't.
"Anna, please—"
The necromancer held up a hand to cut them off.
"No. I will not get involved in whatever this is. I don't subcontract for the UIU and I don't meddle with the Foundation. Very basic rules which have kept me safe and safely operating. I can't help you."
"I can't do this on my own, I've already tried. You said yourself something is disrupting the summoning. I need a necromancer — a real necromancer, a specialist with skill in the art. That's not me. Compared to you, I'm not even a hobbyist."
It was obvious to Annabelle that Thorne was trying to appeal to her ego, but that didn't make her any less susceptible.
"You're right. You would never be able to summon this shade on your own."
"So will you help me?"
She sighed and shook her head. "No. But I can give you a referral. I only know him by reputation, but his reputation is good."
Slight as it was, Thorne couldn't afford to pass up on the offer. "Who is it? Can I trust him?"
"The Rowe kid. Adam." She paused to see if Thorne would react to the name. "He might be on your radar, he's been blacklisted by a bunch of the corps for having more morals than sense."
Thorne shook their head. There were more than a few wizards named Rowe, but the one Thorne was familiar with was a history professor at ICSUT.
"Sounds desperate. Are you directing me to him because he's the best at what he does, or because he's the best that I can afford?"
"He was good enough to get blacklisted in the first place." The necromancer inclined her head slightly in agreement. "But you're right, he probably can't afford to turn you away."
"I guess that's better than nothing."
Annabelle raised a hand again. "Don't thank me for it, I won't have you in my debt."
Thorne frowned. "No need to be fae-minded about it. I accept your gift without obligation."
"Good." She breathed a sigh of relief, an ever-so-slight look of guilt crossing her face as she did so. "I mean no offense, but I do not want to become entangled with whatever it is that you're doing. A good necromancer knows when to grab the shovel and when to flee the tomb, and this is not a time for shovels. I want nothing to do with it."
It was cowardice, plain and simple, but Thorne couldn't bring themself to be mad at her for it. It wasn't like the two of them had ever been close friends, and the necromancer was under no obligation, personal or professional, to risk her life for what was — as much as Thorne would like to pretend otherwise — a personal vendetta. "I understand, and I promise you that I will do everything in my power to ensure you experience no repercussions from this."
Annabelle Lee stared at them, expression grim. Eventually, she nodded. "If you manage that, then I will be in your debt. Marginally."
June 5th, 2024
The Trolley Yards, Three Portlands
This necromancer's lair was nothing like the other one. For starters, it was inside a tenement block in the Trolley Yards — one of those neighborhoods along the edge of the Periphery where de-gentrification had progressed to the point where security deposits were unheard of and rent was collected weekly, if at all. The outermost buildings in the district were already starting to cross the Mayoral barrier, and 3PPD ran nightly sweeps to find any rough sleepers who might be at risk of being trapped and crushed inside the condemned buildings as they exited the city.
Using a few strips of plaid duct tape, a piece of damp posterboard had been mounted next to the apartment's buzzer system. A message had been scrawled in orange highlighter across the board, and had then been further revised in the same orange highlighter.
ADAM ROWE
Necromancer NO REANIMATION
Medium NO DIVINATION
I will talk to ghosts for you
Cheap! Low-cost! Affordable!
My rates are negotiable
Ask for Apt #22f
There was no button for Apartment 22f on the buzzer board. Not that it would have mattered, if the frayed wires dangling from it were any indication. Thorne tried the front door. It wasn't locked. There was no lock.
A cursory search of the building — the kind that pointedly avoided seeing anything that would require intervention — revealed that #22f was actually a closet that was being recursively sublet as a half-bedroom space. A hammock was strung up against the back wall, upon which a haggard young necromancer sat reading an old issue of Tesco Real Food.
Thorne rapped their knuckles on the doorframe. "Adam Rowe?"
Adam Rowe glanced up from the description of a meal he would never eat. "Who wants to know?"
"Robin Thorne." They had to suppress the reflex to brandish their badge.
Not that it would have been needed. The color drained from Adam's face, and he snapped the magazine shut — then reopened it and carefully folded down a corner to bookmark his place, before closing it again.
"I invoke my right to silence."
Thorne sighed. They had been afraid of this kind of reception as soon as they entered the Trolley Yards.
"I'm not here on FBI business. I need to hire your services. Annabelle Lee gave me your name."
The necromancer's eyes flashed with the predatory gleam of an extremely small business owner. "Well that's a different matter. Who is it that you want to talk to?"
"Julian Corwin. The man who killed my mother." Thorne pulled out the oneirograph they had made from the memories of Corwin kept inside Florence's grimoire.
"He has the eyes of a murderer," Adam said, leaning forward precariously in the hammock to get a better look. "Why did Annabelle send you to me, instead of helping you herself?"
"The ghost is encrypted somehow. Annabelle couldn't summon it." They hesitated.
Adam looked at them expectantly, waiting for the obvious shoe to drop.
"Also he was a Foundation Overseer." Thorne spoke as quickly and quietly as they could.
Adam jerked backwards, and would have been dumped out the other side of the hammock if not for his head thunking against the wall. He recovered quickly, jolting up straight and cradling his newfound bruise. With exaggerated care, he recovered the magazine from where it had fallen and placed it back upon the stack underneath the hammock.
"I see. Will you excuse me for a moment? I need to start packing. I suddenly have pressing business elsewhere."
"Please. I can pay you double your normal rate."
The necromancer shook his head. "You don't know my normal rate."
"Name one."
Adam continued shaking his head.
"It's not about the money, Robin. I don't know what you've heard, but I'm not some revolutionary who likes to pick fights with normalcy orgs. The Foundation encrypted that ghost for exactly one reason: to keep people like me from talking to it. I struggle to think of anything more likely to piss them off than stealing information from a dead Overseer. That's the kind of shit that they invent new forms of torture for."
"So you can't do it." If money wouldn't motivate him, maybe professional pride would. Hubris was the official fatal flaw of wizards, and that was doubly true for necromancers. Something about holding power over life and death tended to go to a person's head.
Not this one. Adam laughed. "I didn't say that. It's not impossible, just difficult. And suicidally dangerous, which is why I won't do it. Try a different tactic, Robin."
Thorne frowned. They didn't think they were so transparent. "Look, the Foundation doesn't operate in Three Ports. We can keep you safe from reprisals."
"Who's we? You said this wasn't FBI business. And you said they killed your mother — if she wasn't safe here, who is?"
He was right, as much as Thorne hated to admit it. Their mind raced for alternatives. There was one obvious place to stash a hapless necromancer out of reach from the Foundation. Two obvious places, actually, but Thorne wasn't about to suggest protective custody in Paramax.
"The Backdoor, then. They can't sneak anyone past Charlie. I have contacts there, they can set you up with a cushy gig — live-in medium, expenses paid."
Adam hesitated.
Adam Rowe was a pretty good necromancer. He was also pretty much broke.
"And," Thorne swiftly added, "I'll owe you a favor."
"What kind of favor?"
"The kind of favor that can make up for being blacklisted by every corp in town. It never hurts to have a friend on the force."
"Is that a get-out-of-jail-free card?" The necromancer's gaze was suspicious.
They shook their head. "Not quite. I can't control what Agent Spencer does. But it might keep you from being arrested in the first place."
Adam sat in quiet contemplation on the hammock, which rocked gently back and forth. The prospect of a cushy job — with housing included! — under the protection of the Doorman of Backdoor SoHo was very alluring. On the other hand, the prospect of being black-bagged in the middle of the night by a Mobile Task Force was very much not.
The necromancer's stomach chose that moment to rumble.
Adam Rowe stood up, unceremoniously disentangling himself from the hammock, and offered Thorne a hand to shake.
"Alright, you have a deal. You'll set me up with this gig in SoHo, and I'll decrypt this fascist's ghost for you."
"Deal."
They shook hands, without mortgaging anyone's soul in the process.
what is the value of a promise?
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