8FOLD: The Necromancer Saga # 1, "The Red in the Dark"

[Amabel Holland]

David Collins has remembered the forbidden name that was locked in his
dead father's memories: the name of the necromancer. Now returned, he
and his acolytes seek the death of all life. A fragile truce unites
the secret circle and The Company against this common enemy, one
feared even by the Elder Gods of dread Venus.

THE NECROMANCER SAGA # 1
"THE RED IN THE DARK"
[8F-220] [PW-64]

-------------- SECRET CIRCLE --------------------

MAILE AKAKA, age 20. Aeromancer.
Once the top field agent of The Company, she orchestrated her own
abduction and memory wipe to defect to the circle. She now serves as
its leader.

AZABETH "BETH" COLLINS, age 37. Oneiromancer.
The circle's co-leader, recently awaken from a long slumber.

JUNE LASH, age 47. Ailuromancer.
Maile's spymaster, commanding dozens of feline agents around the globe.

DAVID COLLINS, age 31. Mnemonomancer.
Husband to Beth, brother to Claire Belden, unlikely wielder of the
ancient blade Thirteen.

SARAH AVERY, age 25. Evocamancer.
An engineering genius, she refuses to use her demon-summoning magic.

TREVOR JEFFRIES. Robot.
A sophisticated robot built by The Company to infiltrate the circle.
Retooled by Sarah, and equipped with sonic weaponry.

--------------- THE COMPANY ---------------------

CLAIRE BELDEN, age 31. Metamancer.
Missing, presumed to have defected, pursuing her own agenda with the
help of Trinity Tran.

TRINITY TRAN, age 35. Haematomancer.
Once a fugitive, working for The Company in return for their
protection; now, the head of the dominant faction within The Company.
Pregnant with David Collins's child.

SAMSON DRAKE, age 28. Sciomancer.
Company assassin; formerly Maile's lover.

PINKY MURDER, age 23. Apparamancer.
Company teleporter. Both she and Samson were swallowed by a demonic
mass five months ago, and have been presumed dead...

-------------------------------------------------

You've always been a runner.

   You don't stand up. You don't fight. Scared little baby. You just
crumple up into a ball and then you run away. Aren't you ever going to
stop running?

   "No," says Pinky in a burst that smells of jasmine.

()

It didn't always smell like jasmine. She chose that.

   Altered the scent of her magic. Bent it to her will. They think
she's weak, but she's stronger than they know. They think running is a
sign of cowardice, but really it's because she's smart. She knows her
limits and she chooses her battles.

   Does she fight fewer battles on average? A lot fewer? Sure. But
they're her battles. The ones she chose. Just like she chose the
jasmine.

   Just like she chose her name.

()

"Pinky Murder," Adam said three years ago.

   She nodded solemnly.

   "The 'Pinky' I get, sort of." He reached for her dyed hair and
touched it carefully with his fingertips, as if he was afraid it would
fall off. "But the last name."

   "Murder," she said, insistent. Then, tentatively: "It's a cool name."

   "It is a cool name," agreed Adam. "But it's a little goofy?"

   A shrug. "I'm a little goofy."

   "That's true. Pinky Murder."

   "Pinky Murder."

   "It fits."

   "I know. That's why I chose it."

()

She chose her name like she chose herself. On the day she dissolved
the first dose of estradiol under her tongue, she cried the biggest,
stupidest, happiest big stupid happy tears. Bigger and stupider than
that night in twenty-thirteen when she finally accepted it. Christmas
Eve.

   And Christmas morning, when she started to gather herself back up,
there was this sense of relief. Because this was it. This was the
answer. "I'll never have to go through this again. There will never be
another huge galvanic shift that upends my whole flipping world."

   "Lmao," says the magic now pulsing in her veins. "Lmao."

()

Kissed by Venus. You ran from that, too. When they came for you,
didn't you run? They had to chase you. Adam had to chase you.

   Adam was one of the lucky ones who got his magic before the lullaby
was broken. He was already well-established within The Company when
one morning in August thousands of people woke up with eldritch energy
all up in their business. Pinky's teleportation magic, magic that
wasn't limited only to three-dimensional space but could be used to
traverse other non-Euclidean realms, made her an extremely valuable
target for acquisition.

   But the whole thing was bad vibes. Got worse when they made it
clear they wouldn't take no for an answer. Samson was dispatched to
either bring her in, or to kill her. He terrified her. (He still does.
She can hear him now, feel him now, running toward the wet shapeless
voices that she's running from.)

   But Adam was also chasing her. And Adam had one advantage over
Samson: he knew her. Knew how she thought. Knew how she ran. Knew how
to find her before Samson did.

   And then he told her what the recruitment team hadn't. About the
elder gods of Venus, about the global apocalypse The Company was
plotting for and working toward.

   "And these are the people you work for?" said Pinky. "These are the
people you want me to work for? What, you think you're gonna win me
over with the 401k and the health care plan?"

   "I mean, it's actually really good health care," said Adam. "Pinky,
just like you, I wasn't given a choice. A lot of people weren't.
People who are trapped and want out. People working against The
Company from the inside."

   Pinky raised an eyebrow.

   "We can help them. You can help them."

()

Help them. Ha. That seems so far away now. She can't even help
herself. Hell, she's not even sure if she's still alive. She has no
sense of physicality, zero awareness of her body. And if there is one
thing being trans is good for, it's always being intensely aware of
your meatsuit at all times.

   But that proved to be an advantage. Almost immediately, she felt
its lack, knew something was wrong. The shock snapped her
consciousness back into place. Samson's by contrast spent much longer
languidly spooled out, floaty and fuzzy, seeping into the shadows.

   And the shadows seeped back. Seeped into Pinky, too, and part of
her knows that she will never quite be rid of it, will never quite be
clean. Bits of Samson's consciousness seeped into bits of Pinky's, a
violation at which she could sense he took keen, sharp pleasure.

   She felt sorry for him at first. Felt sorry for the dude who
straight-up murdered his own brother literal minutes before the grabby
swirly oozy things grabbed, swirled, and oozed them into this vast and
cramped nothingness. For all his faults, she wasn't gonna leave him in
some bleak eldritch hell.

   So when she started running, she was careful to drag him along with
her. Or as much of him as she could. Hard to tell where he or she
ended or began, not having bodies, or where the shadows started or
stopped, not having light. She can't smell the jasmine, but she can
feel it somehow; the magic gives it shape.

   It doesn't feel so much like she's moving from one point to
another, but like the points are bending. In the same way that this
place, whatever it is, is being pulled and pushed by her will. The
things that live here don't much like that, but neither are they
willing to let her go.

   This becomes doubly true when Samson starts pulling toward the
shadows. Or rather, when something in the shadows starts reaching for
him. Something new and terrifying. Something with red teeth.

   Samson runs toward it, and he almost takes Pinky with him. It takes
days (or weeks? or months?) for Pinky to pull herself free of Samson.
It's violent and bloodless, leaving little bits of Pinky in Samson and
little bits of Samson in Pinky. (You'll never be clean.)

()

And then she feels Adam in the darkness. At first it breaks her heart:
oh no, not him too. But then the feeling becomes more distinct. It's
less that he's in here with her, and more like he's at the other side
of it. Like it's a blanket between them, and she could touch him
through the fabric. She reaches out for him, armless and handless, and
this time she can smell the jasmine.

   She can see him, fire arcing from his fingertips into one of
several robed figures. As the robe and the man inside it burst into
flames, another slashes toward Adam with a curved knife. He falls
inches short. Before he can make another attempt, the robed man's body
is hurled through the air by a gust of wind and hail. Pinky recognizes
Maile Akaka before she snaps back into the darkness like a rubber
band.

   Akaka was with the circle last Pinky knew. She wonders if this
means that The Company succeeded in abducting her, or if it means that
Adam defected. She tries reaching for Adam again, but the feeling is
slippery and distant.

()

But she can feel Maile Akaka. Maile feels different than Adam.
Sharper. Less subtle, less gentle, less nuanced. Like raw garlic;
Pinky can taste her from a mile away. So maybe if she reaches for
Akaka, she'll find Adam too.

   And she does. Somewhere else now, somewhen else. Later. Days?
Weeks? Knives and robes. Rain and fire.

   Akaka is shouting at another woman (blue hair, duster jacket) who
takes aim at a statue with what looks like a prop gun from a steampunk
convention. A jet of blue something bursts from the gun and into the
statue. It explodes; red tendrils spill out of it, spiraling like
smoke, but the smoke is wet and heavy with puss.

   Adam's flames ignite the wet smoke. The blue-haired woman swings
what looks like a human head by a metal handle, and its scream knocks
over the first rank of the robed figures.

The scream lingers even after she snaps back. It echoes in the
timeless dark. The longer she listens, the less it sounds like a
scream, like a mouth. It sounds like a drill. Like a synthesizer. Like
a weapon.

   But we're weapons too, Samson thinks with her brain. Used to be The
Company's weapons. The weapons of the old gods. The guns of Venus. But
now, we're his weapons.

   He smiles with his master's red teeth. She doesn't see them, but
feels them: sharp and cold and red and deep.

   "I'm not a weapon," says Pinky. "I know who I am."

   Yes, says the darkness, only now the darkness is red. You're not
strong enough to be a weapon. You're a runner.

   So run.

()

She reaches for Maile again, and finds her in a garden. She's sharing
tea with Trinity Tran. (Tran from accounting? What is going on?)

   "Two left," says Maile. "Once we get those last two statues, there
won't be any vessels remaining."

   "And then?"

   "We're still figuring that out. Pill says Adam's been helpful
chasing down some leads, but we're still coming up empty."

   "We'll have to hurry it along somehow," says Tran. "Our truce ends
at the solstice."

   "No chance of an extension?"

   "I'm trying. But it's unlikely." She stops, takes a deep breath.
"Do you smell that?"

   Maile sniffs the air. "Jasmine. I've smelled that before."

   Pinky wants to say something, but she doesn't have a mouth. Doesn't
have a body. Not here, anyway.

()

The dark has it. The red has it.

   The red dark has her body, just like they have Samson's.

   It's why she can't get away. Why she keeps snapping back.

   So she reaches for her body. She reaches for herself. Chooses
herself. She can't get at it by running from the dark. She has to run
toward it, like Samson did.

   No. Not like Samson. Samson wanted the dark. Felt the pull of it.
That's not what she's doing. She's running toward it like an army.
Ripping through it like a bullet. Slipping past it like a spy.

   Some spy! It knows she's here. Knows what she's trying to do. It
will try to stop her. Try to catch her. Make her fight for every inch.

   It's agony. It's impossible. It's the worst thing she's ever felt.

   "No," Pinky remembers. "It was worse before. It's never going to be
that bad again."

   And at the center of the seething swirling massless something, at
the heart of the deep red, there is an explosion of pink, a burst of
jasmine and defiance.

()

The first thing she feels are her lungs. Air. It's been so long since
she breathed that she forgot how it felt. Never gonna take that for
granted again.

   Same goes with the beating of her heart. The blood flowing into her
fingertips.

   The cold stone at her back, smooth like polished marble. She's on
some kind of table.

   A tightness at her wrists and ankles. Correction: she's tied to
some kind of table.

   She hears voices. Voices that sound familiar. Words that sound
familiar. Before she cracks open an eyelid, she knows what she'll see:
those damn red robes. Chanting. Some kind of ritual.

   They're not paying attention to her, though. They're gathered
around a second table. Around Samson.

   "The vessel!" shouts one of the voices. "The vessel has been filled!"

   There is a groan from Samson, and then a gleeful laugh. In
celebration, the cultists raise their knives and slit their own
throats.

   The bodies fall to the floor. Samson turns his head, his eyes still
closed. His lips peel back in a grin.

   His teeth are red and wet.

   "God, it's good to kill again." The voice is Samson's, but also not
Samson's. It is something more, and something less. "Thanks for the
ride."

   "Didn't do it for you," says Pinky.

   "You think this was an accident, girl?" He sits up. Red shadows
gather around him. "We were counting on you to run. Counting on you to
be stubborn."

   "We?"

   The grin drops. "Don't play dumb. You felt it too. The red in the
dark. It scares you?"

   She considers lying but decides against it. "Yes."

   "Me too," says Samson. "But I like being scared. Makes me feel
alive. Just like killing."

   "And it's in you, now? You're its vessel?"

   "Oh yes." He lifts a hand in the air, as if he is looking at it.
But his eyes remain closed. "You should know that this is either the
part where I kill you, or the part where you run away so I can kill
you later. Makes no difference to me. Lady's choice."

   "You know what I'm gonna choose."

   "I do." He smiles again. "You are a runner. But if you were going
to run, Pinky, you should've done it already." He reaches out his
hand, and its shadow keeps reaching, the finger shadows stretching
into knives. As she twists herself into nothingness, she feels the
points press against her cheek.

()

When she twists back, there are fresh red slices across her face. She
collapses on a hardwood floor.

   She's dizzy. Sick to her stomach. Like she was the first time she
jumped. She supposes that makes sense. It's been a long time since she
had a body, and so her body is going to have to get used to it again.

   And it was a blind jump on top of it. She's not even sure where she
is. Somebody's living room.

   "Pinky?" says a voice. Maile's voice. Maile's face. She must've
been reaching for Maile again.

   Pinky feels it coming. Feels herself about to pass out. "Have to
warn you," she says. "Samson. Red teeth. Samson has red teeth."

()

She dreams of him. Not of Samson, but of the dead thing inside him,
rotting and obscene. "He starts inside you," Samson whispers in her
ear. "Like a cancer. A cancer that thinks. A cancer that wants."

   (What does it want, though?) Pinky knows that she shouldn't
respond. If she does, it will let the dead thing inside of her, too.
She knows this the way you know anything in a dream.

   "You're right." Samson's voice is smooth. Tempting. "But you're
going to do it anyway. You're going to ask." (What does it want?)
"Even though you know you shouldn't. It's like those games in the
mirror. You close the door, shut off the light, spin three times, call
their name."

   Samson smiles. She can't see it, can't see him, but she knows he's
smiling, can feel it in the air. "Or maybe it's like burning a bridge.
Saying the things you know you can never take back, the words you
regret even as you're saying them. It's a reflex. An impulse. Too
primal to be denied.

   "Even if you don't want to, part of you wants to risk it. Wants to
know. Wants to play with fire. Part of you wants to get burned."

   Pinky can't move her body, but it's moving. Moving all on its own.
Ignoring every command her brain is sending it. She can feel it. Feel
her mouth opening. Feel it starting to ask the question. (What does it
want?)

   Pain. Sharp, cold. Piercing. A needle through her lower lip, then
her upper. She feels the warm scratch of ropy twine pulling through
the holes, and the rough tug of the knot as it stops beneath her lower
lip.

   Stitching her mouth shut is a woman. The dead thing in Samson
hisses. The woman shakes her head, unimpressed. "You have no power
here, old one. Not yet."

   She turns her attention back to her needlework. As she finishes the
last stitch, she places a warm hand on Pinky's cheek. "I'm afraid this
will be permanent. Just in your dreams, of course. You'll be safer
this way."

   When she pulls the hand away, the woman is hovering over Pinky's bedside.

   "I'm awake?" says Pinky. Her lips still hurt.

   "Yes," says the woman. She turns her head. Pinky follows with her
eyes, spotting a fat orange tomcat. "Goliath, go get Maile?"

   The cat jumps down, his heavy tummy-pouch swaying back and forth as
he skitters out of the room.

   "Your name is Beth," says Pinky. "How do I know that?"

   "The way you know things in dreams," says Beth. "And you know a
little more than that. The thing in Samson. You know what it is."

   It's a profoundly strange sensation, remembering something you
never knew. "The necromancer. The red teeth. I don't know what his
deal is, but it's bad news, I know that much."

   "Even Venus is scared of him," says Maile as she enters the room.
"That's why we're working together with The Company. Pooling our
resources."

   "So you are with the circle," says Pinky. "And that means this
place is Shallow House?"

   "Sure is."

   "How am I here?" says Pinky. "One of the first things they made me
do, was try to port into Shallow House. But I couldn't."

   Beth shoots a glance to Maile, who nods: go ahead and tell her. "We
had a visitor recently. Queen of Cups. Shallow House was hers to begin
with. She only stayed a few minutes, but it was long enough. The wards
are slowly failing. Crack was large enough for you to climb through."

   "Why are you telling me this?"

   Maile answers. "Because we know you're not going to tell The
Company. Adam said we could trust you."

   "Is he okay?"

   "Yes. He's helping us."

   "Is he here?"

   "No."

   "I know about him helping," says Pinky. She starts to explain. "I
caught glimpses. Something with statues?"

   "Vessels," says Beth. "Created by the necromancer's acolytes to
channel his essence. But if they've managed to put him into Samson,
into a living vessel, destroying those last two statues are the least
of our worries."

   "It's my fault," says Pinky. "He said that I led him out of the,
the, wherever we were. And the necromancer with him."

   Maile holds up a hand. "First of all, the necromancer was already out."

   "That's my husband's fault," says Beth, suitably embarrassed.

   "Second, don't blame yourself for trying to survive. Third, maybe
this is a blessing in disguise. Necromancer has a human body, maybe
he'll be easier to kill."

   "Maybe," says Beth with a shrug. "Be easier if it wasn't Samson, though."

   "I mean, sure," says Maile. "But at least it gives us something to
work with. Pinky. When was the last time you ate?"

   "December?"

   "We should fix that."

()

Shallow House's kitchen is the domain of June Lash, an older woman
accompanied at all times by at least two cats. She fills a bowl with
leftover pasta salad. Pinky's not big on pasta salad, but she's not
about to be picky and so she prepares to politely grin and bear it.
And maybe it's the months of isolation spent in some kind of hell
dimension talking, but, you know what? It's actually quite good, maybe
the best cold salad she's ever had. Better than potato salad, even.

   As Pinky shovels it in, she half-listens to Maile discussing recent
events with Beth's husband, David. Something about an ancient sword
and a forbidden name. Some notes compared on past encounters with
Samson. Maile wishes someone named Pill was here, but apparently
there's some other giant mystical end of the world crisis that she's
handling.

   They're soon joined by the screaming head that Pinky spotted in one
of her jumps, the one that sounded like a drill. Turns out it's a
robot head named Trevor who is also dating June. He's been carried by
Sarah Avery, who sets the head down on the counter so he can chat up
his girlfriend.

   Pinky recognizes her. Sarah was who she and Samson were sent to
recruit. The Evocamancer whose funky demon powers swallowed them up in
the first place.

   Only, she knows that's not true. She knows it was Claire Belden.
She doesn't know how she knows it, she just does. Probably more dream
nonsense?

   "Uh, hey."

   "Hello," says Sarah. Her voice is flat and husky. "Why are you
talking to me?"

   Pinky blinks.

   "That's not me being rude," says Sarah. "It's a request for information."

   "Um." Pinky falters. "It wasn't you. That did the thing. With the."
She wiggles her fingers, miming tentacles.

   "I didn't think it was."

   "Claire Belden."

   "That makes sense," says Sarah. "Thank you. That puts my mind at
ease." She turns to go.

   "Uh," says Pinky. Sarah turns back, confused. "Can I ask you about
something? In private?"

   Sarah shrugs and beckons Pinky to follow her into a corner of the
common room. "What is it?"

   "For what are probably obvious reasons, I don't have any of my
medication. I thought maybe, if you had some to spare."

   Sarah shoots a sideways glance at the people over in the kitchen,
then turns back to Pinky. "What's your dosage?"

   "One hundred milligrams spiro twice a day, three milligrams
estradiol twice, two hundred prog before bed."

   "Yeah, I can spot you some for a while. Why are you crying?"

   "It's just really nice to talk to someone," she throws a glance
over her shoulder, then lowers her voice, "someone like me. You know?"

   "Yeah. It's been a long time."

   "Do they, uh, not know?"

   "They never asked," says Sarah. Then, with a twinkle of
conspiratorial mischief: "But no, I don't think they do. You know how
the cis are. They can always tell."

   Both of them start laughing hysterically. But a third laugh joins
in, a dark laugh, one that continues even after theirs have stopped
cold.

   The group in the kitchen heard it, too. "Samson," says Maile.

   "Oh yes," says the voice in the red dark. "Thanks again, Pinky."

   "No," says Pinky.

   "Do you remember what you said to me? When I asked you if you
wanted to die or to run? You said I knew what your answer was going to
be. And it's true."

   Shadows swirl in the nearest wall. Sarah grabs Pinky by the arm and
the two of them rush to join the others.

   "Like we said before. You've always been a runner. And we were
counting on that."

   June quickly makes a circle of salt around the group.

   "Figured you'd run toward Maile. Toward the circle. Try to warn them."

   The shadows take on Samson's shape. But they remain shadows. Red
shadows. Red and rotting.

   "And maybe Shallow House would let you in. We just had to hitch a
ride." He smiles with red teeth and eyeless eyes. "Didn't think you'd
be stupid enough for the same trick to work twice in a row, but it
did."

   "I'm sorry," sobs Pinky. "Oh God, I'm so sorry."

   "None of that," snaps Maile. "We don't have the time. We can't take
him on yet. Not without a plan. And the salt won't hold for long.
You're going to need to get us out of here. Can you do that?"

   "Not all at once," says Pinky. "It'll have to be one at a time, and
I don't know how fast I'm going to be. My magic's already stretched
pretty thin."

   "Then I need to buy you some time." Maile steps outside of the
circle. Inside the house, it begins to rain.

NEXT TIME: "SONG OF SHALLOW HOUSE"

COPYRIGHT 2023 AMABEL HOLLAND