Reading, Writing and Necromancy Page 26

  I moved closer. “It’s not your fault.”

  He stared into the unlit fireplace across the room. We sat in silence. I tapped my foot against the floor in impatience. Sitting here was agony. I wanted to do something.

  “Have I ever told you why I hated your biological mother?” Khaba asked.

  “You never told me that you did.” I thought he’d been grateful she’d freed him from the bondage of his lamp and gave him employment.

  “It wasn’t because she turned evil and killed people. I suppose I should feel angrier about her destroying the school and murdering staff members, but there must still be a bit of demon left in me because I found that more curious and titillating than shocking or evil. The mystery of why she did it still intrigues me.”

  I knew some of the reasons she’d done it, but I didn’t dare mention them.

  “Alouette Loraline created the spell to keep me from living inside the lamp and being a slave with a master. Because of her, the lamp lives within me. I was thankful, and to some extent, I still am. But because of that spell, your mother knew me better than anyone else. She knew what I needed.

  “I can’t just make magic happen when I want. She came to me every morning and asked me what I needed—what I wished. No matter where my lamp was, she rubbed it so I could store up enough power to use later in the day for any task required of me by my job. I think she knew I would grow to resent her and hate being dependent on her. Every time I wanted something, I had to ask her. She never refused me, whether it was something dictated by the necessity of the job or something I desired for personal reasons—that is, if I could word my wish in a way that it satisfied the parameters of my contract and couldn’t be used for sole personal gain.” He laughed and shook his head. “That’s a magical contract for you. It’s always about the wording.”

  Yeah, I knew how those were after my experiences with Wiseman’s Oath.

  “It wasn’t her being cruel that made me hate. It was that she was so kind and sympathetic. Funny how that is.” He glanced at me, his smile turning sheepish. “It’s petty, I know, but I did resent her. Then one day she brought a student to me. I can’t even remember what it was he had done, something minor, not even worthy of a detention.

  “His name was Brogan. I think he just needed someone to talk to, and she thought it should be me. It was late eighties, and those raised in the Morty Realm were less comfortable talking about their sexuality than those raised in the Unseen Realm. It was obvious he was gay, but he felt ashamed about it due to his religious upbringing.”

  So that was how he had met his boyfriend. I took Khaba’s hand, wanting to comfort him.

  Khaba stared through me as he spoke, his gaze focused on the past. “The young man started hanging around my office more and more, opening up and talking to me. I knew Brogan probably had a crush on me—I mean, who doesn’t?—but he was a student, and I wasn’t going to do anything about it.

  “One day he said to me, ‘Mr. Khaba, who rubs your lamp to grant your wishes?’ He must have seen the anguish in my eyes, but I wasn’t about to tell him about my personal life. I just figured it was his awkward attempt at a cheesy pickup line and quickly forgot about it.

  “I don’t celebrate Yule or Christmas or any of your pagan holidays. In those days when Alouette was still alive, no one made me go to the holiday parties. I was fine not receiving gifts from anyone.

  “Wasn’t I surprised to find a gift outside my door on Christmas morning. It was a present from all the staff for a massage from the healer in Lachlan Falls. Written in handwriting I didn’t recognize was a note that the healer had been paid and therefore was bound not to ask for anything if she rubbed my lamp. Your mother later told me the massage, and the clause that had been added so that the healer couldn’t take my wish, was Brogan’s idea. He had asked not to be named as the organizer of this, but … teachers talk.” Tears swam in Khaba’s eyes. “It was the nicest thing anyone had ever done for me—aside from your mother coming to me every morning and making sure I had enough magic to perform my duties.

  “I can’t explain why, but I didn’t resent Brogan. Maybe it was because it wasn’t done out of obligation, and I didn’t feel beholden to anyone. I didn’t even need to acknowledge Brogan as having thought of the idea. I felt so relieved. For once, I didn’t owe anyone anything.

  “That has been my entire existence as a Fae. I’m ruled by rules and obligatory boons.

  “Grandmother Bluehorse helped Brogan find an appropriate apprenticeship outside of the school, and eventually Brogan graduated. I knew he was studying with a healer, but I didn’t ask who. I didn’t know it was the woman in Lachlan Falls who had given me the massage. At least, I didn’t know until I showed up one day, after having paid for one for myself. The old woman asked if her apprentice could massage me since her arthritis was ailing her.

  “Wasn’t I surprised to find him in the healing room!

  “He was so shy and awkward it was cute. ‘Will this make you uncomfortable, Mr. Khaba?’ he asked. ‘Since we knew each other when I was a student?’

  “I tried not to laugh at his concern. I’d never been uncomfortable being nude in front of anyone. It’s only school rules and my desire to show off my fabulous fashion sense that gives me the impetus to wear clothes.” He winked when he said it, some of his old self glowing in his eyes as he recounted the story. “So Brogan gave me a massage. I came back the following week for another. And another. He was professional, and there wasn’t anything sexual about it. Nor was there any hint he might ask me for anything in return. Neither he, nor the healer, rubbed my lamp to ask for wishes. I got to keep them all to myself. I think that alone made me fall in love with him.” He smiled wistfully, and his breath hitched in his throat.

  Tears filled my eyes. Every time I’d seen Khaba in Lachlan Falls sneaking off, I’d been so dense. It wasn’t that he wanted just anyone for his kilty pleasures. He had a boyfriend in town. Of course they would want to spend time together.

  Khaba cleared his throat. “I enjoyed the professional distance between us, the division that allowed me to keep my wishes and not have to share my magic with anyone. But as I grew to know Brogan—we often talked during the massage session—I felt uneasy about our patient-client relationship and the fact that he hadn’t asked for any wishes. Ever. Months went by before I asked him if he would like to go over to the pub after work. It was easy talking to him, and I liked getting to know him outside of our professional domains. As we walked out into the night afterward, I did ask him then what it was he wanted, what wish I could make come true.

  “Even in the moonlight I could see him blush as he said, ‘I don’t need magic to make my wishes come true. And if I did have to use magic for my wish, it would be stealing, and I wouldn’t do that. Not to you. Not to anyone.’

  “So I kissed him and asked if I had made one of his wishes come true. He said I had. I think we spent quite a bit of time that night making each other’s wishes come true, sans magic.”

  I wiped my eyes. How could I have not known Khaba was in love?

  “Brogan is—was—the one person who never asked me for anything in return for rubbing my lamp. I offered to grant his wishes many times. The one time he took me up on the offer was to help someone he couldn’t heal. He had a good heart. He was my truest friend in all the world and my lover. And now he’s gone forever.” Khaba dropped his face into his hands and cried. “He had the same markings, the black veins like Sebastian Reade. It was the same murderer. I just can’t understand why anyone would hurt him. He didn’t deserve this.”

  I cried with him. Not for Brogan—I had hardly known him—but for Khaba’s loss. I shed tears for my own loss, at the fear of not knowing whether I had lost my own boyfriend and friend. Derrick and I understood each other like Khaba and Brogan.

  Sorrow and guilt welled up in me, making my throat tight.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. “I never knew. I didn’t understand how your mag
ic worked until recently, and when I did, I should have asked if you needed someone to rub your lamp.” I’d been selfish and too focused on my own world to think about his.

  More than ever, I had to prove Miss Periwinkle was behind the murders. It was too late for Sebastian Reade and Brogan McLean. I prayed there was still time to find and save Derrick. If I delayed, someone else might end up dead.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  The Mysteries of How Vega Spends Her Spare Time

  My first order of business was looking for Derrick. When that proved fruitless, I turned to the other problem at hand.

  In order to prove Gertrude Periwinkle was the murderer, I needed someone who could resist her siren charms to help me. I required someone who wouldn’t blink an eye at my ability to resurrect the dead so I could interview the deceased using my affinity in order to ask them who their murderer was. As much as I wanted to confide in Khaba, he went by the rules. I couldn’t tell him I’d recently discovered I could talk with the dead. Nor did I have any faith he’d be able to resist Miss Periwinkle.

  Josie had suggested Mrs. Keahi, but there was no way she would be willing to help me. She loathed me.

  That left Vega to serve as a credible witness. I only had to figure out how to entice her.

  Vega sprawled across her bed reading a magazine. I stared, perplexed when I saw it was a Scholastic Art magazine. I wouldn’t have thought anything I liked would interest her, but I could see it was an issue featuring Edward Gorey’s macabre artwork. It was one of my magazines.

  “That is mine,” I said, my ire rising.

  She turned a page. “It was on the desk. You shouldn’t leave your things around if you don’t intend to share.”

  I waved my hand at the decorative glass bottles she’d placed yet again on my wardrobe. “Fine. I guess I’ll start using your stinky perfume too.” So much for trying to sweet-talk my roommate into doing a favor for me and bribing her with a promise to do more duties.

  Vega laughed her wickedest witch cackle. “Go ahead and try. You wouldn’t know the difference between the perfumes, acids, or poisons.”

  I carefully set the bottles back onto her wardrobe, in any free place available—and there wasn’t much with the skull, crystal ball, candles, jar of eyeballs, mummified hand, bottles of herbs, voodoo doll, cauldron, potted plant, and scrolls of paper. I considered dumping one of the bottles into her wardrobe of clothes, but I didn’t want to risk the entire room smelling like old-lady perfume.

  Instead, I returned to my plan. “I could tell what was a poison when Thatch was puking up blood.”

  She sat up, dropping the magazine to the floor. “I had nothing to do with that.” She pointed a finger at me. “Don’t go accusing me of poisoning him.”

  “I didn’t say you were. But Khaba still thinks it was you, doesn’t he?” I didn’t actually know that. It was a complete bluff. “He keeps giving you that look like he thinks you’re guilty. He’s waiting for you to mess up so he can catch you. I saw how he looked at you today at the meeting.”

  “Shut your mouth, or I’ll shut it for you.” She shook with rage. “I didn’t hex anyone’s fucking chocolate. And I didn’t kill Sebastian Reade.”

  An idea crossed my mind, a long shot, but it might be better than trying to convince Vega to switch duties with me when I had missed part of two dinner duties already. I would be walking a fine line goading a powerful bitch-witch like Vega.

  “The person who poisoned Thatch also attacked one of the school staff. He or she drained Sebastian Reade. Someone possibly in league with the Raven Court. A powerful Witchkin. If Khaba and Jeb suspect you of poisoning Thatch, they must be looking for links that connect you to the murders.” I nodded toward her coffin. “I’m surprised they haven’t questioned you about your coffin yet and who you plan to stuff in there.”

  She followed my gaze and nudged it farther underneath the bed with her foot. Or she tried to. It slid back an inch.

  She twisted her hand, and her wand appeared in her fist. “Listen, bitch. If you’re trying to scare me, you’ve got another think coming. I’m a powerful Celestor. I divined my future. I saw that I’m in no harm from being accused of these crimes again.” She swallowed. Fear threaded through her posture, making her usually confident demeanor hesitant. Either she was lying about what she’d seen or there was something more she’d seen that she wasn’t saying.

  “Not if more bodies don’t show up. But we both know that isn’t likely with the way things are going. Wouldn’t it be … convenient if you could prove you aren’t guilty?”

  Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. I could tell I had her ear, though.

  She lowered her wand. “What do you mean? How would I prove my innocence? I’ve already tried foreseeing the truth.”

  “What if you interviewed the dead? You could ask Sebastian Reade who his killer was.”

  “Like a séance?” She rolled her eyes. “That is the kind of stupid suggestion someone from the Morty Realm would think up.”

  I hadn’t been referring to a séance, but I didn’t know why the idea was so stupid. “What’s wrong with talking to the dead?”

  “First of all, necromancy is forbidden. Second of all, the reason séances aren’t allowed is that the dead are difficult to reach. You never know who you’re talking to. If I attempted to call the spirit world, I might get someone else who will pretend to be Mr. Reade. No one would find information that comes about from a séance to be credible evidence.”

  “I’m not talking about a séance. What if you could temporarily resurrect Sebastian Reade’s body and ask him who drained him?”

  “I suppose it could work. In theory.” She sat on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, lost in thought. “But as I said before, it’s forbidden magic. It isn’t like Witchkin schools have Necromancy 101 where one can learn the black arts. If we do have any books with those spells, I’m sure they’d be restricted. The books I’ve seen on the black market are usually incomplete and sometimes completely useless—not that I would know.” She quickly added, “It’s not like I’ve tried to resurrect the dead.”

  If Vega was the kind of person that enjoyed sex in a coffin, I didn’t doubt she would try necromancy as well.

  I licked my lips and then stopped, trying not to look nervous. “You don’t need a book. I know of a way.”

  She skewered me with a look full of yearning. “You’ve got to be shitting me.”

  “I kid you not. I know of a way we can question Sebastian Reade.” Here was the tricky part. “I’m willing to help you clear your name as a favor to you.”

  “A favor. What do you want in return?”

  “Nothing much, since you’re my roommate and we look out for each other.”

  “Just name your damned price.”

  “You have to be willing to report what Sebastian Reade says to Khaba and Jeb. You have to promise to tell them who the real killer is so you won’t be accused.”

  “Is that all?” she asked.

  “And I don’t want you to tell them or anyone else I can do necromancy.”

  “If you’re successful. No offense, Clarissa, but you can hardly get your wand to light up.”

  “I don’t have a wand.” Except the one I’d appropriated from a student.

  “There’s your problem.”

  “Will you perform Wiseman’s Oath for this if I help you?” There was no way I trusted Vega not to tattle on me to Thatch or anyone else. A magical oath would ensure she didn’t break her word.

  She pursed her lips. “Fine. Hold out your hand.”

  Vega gripped my hand. She incanted a long spell in another language. Maybe it was Old English. The air between us crackled gold and then blue. The air smelled like old mushrooms and starlight. My mouth tasted off, metallic and tart.

  “I, Vega Bloodmire, promise that if we successfully reach Sebastian Reade through necromancy and he says I am not the killer, I will not name Clarissa Lawrence as my source
of forbidden magic when I tell Khaba and Jeb what I learned.”

  “And Thatch,” I said. “You won’t tell him either.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I promise not to tell Felix Thatch either.”

  Like any contract, Wiseman’s Oath was only as good as the wording used. I wasn’t a lawyer, but it sounded pretty safe. I tried to think if there was anything else that could go wrong. “And you promise you haven’t already set up some secret message to anyone to get me in trouble like you did when you tricked Hailey Achilles that one time?”

  “No.” A smile curled to her lips. “But I wish I had thought of that.” She cleared her throat. “I, Vega Bloodmire, have not and will not contrive to get Clarissa Lawrence in trouble for what she is about to do.”

  I didn’t see how she would get out of that.

  “Now, you repeat after me,” she said. “I, Clarissa Lawrence promise to resurrect Sebastian Reade’s body through necromancy.”

  I repeated.

  Her smile widened. “And if I, Clarissa Lawrence, fail in this task, I give Vega Bloodmire my entire wardrobe to use as she pleases without complaint.”

  I shook my head. “I’m not agreeing to that.”

  “Yes, you will.”

  “I’m doing you a favor,” I said.

  “Not if you waste my time. If this turns out to be a bust, I want compensation for my disappointment.”

  “Never mind,” I said.

  “You never mind.” She jabbed her wand into my stomach. “It was your idea in the first place. I bet you just want to talk to Sebastian Reade so he clears your name.”

  “No one accused me of poisoning my department head.”

  She crossed her arms. “Fine. How about this instead: If I, Clarissa Lawrence, fail in the task to resurrect the dead, I will allow Vega Bloodmire to use the top of my wardrobe without complaint.”

  I had a feeling that was the best compromise I would get out of her. I repeated the phrase, though I left out the part about “without complaint.” There was no way that would be feasible, and I wasn’t going to risk a permanent explosion of boils on my face if I broke the oath accidentally.