A Different Kind of Deadly (2 page)

"Did you grow these?"

Diana smiled.

I searched for some paper and a writing
utensil, bringing them to her so I could have some more detailed
answers.

"Where did you find the seeds?"

She scribbled a reply.

Between the
floorboards.

Do the flowers please
you?

"Yes," I smiled. "More than you
know."

She took up the pen again.

Why are you... afraid of
bodies?

I looked at the question for a long time,
considering an answer.

"Because they're dead... and by that I mean...
it's something that should breathe, and move, but doesn't. It's
unnatural."

Because life-sized animated dolls
are natural?

"You
look
like you could be alive. You
fooled me the first time I saw you. Sometimes, in certain kinds of
light, I still wonder."

Ohh
, she wrote
, your problem isn't with
dead things, it's with things that look dead.

"...there's a difference?"

Her glass eyes rolled back in her head. Diana
dug through the crates, throwing items into a burlap bag. She slung
it over her shoulder and took me by the hand.

"Diana, where are we going?"

She'd put away the notepad from earlier, so
she had no way of telling me specifics. I chose to trust this
living doll as she dragged me into Nethermount, deep below the
desert sands.

3: The Pit

The one good thing
that came with living in a clan of necromancers
was that the halls were almost always empty.

Allow me to explain.

Necromancers raise the dead –that much is
true, but most of us aren't the spell-muttering, cloak-and-dagger
figures popular culture makes us out to be. If a plague sweeps
through the region, you can either take your chances with the
village mystics, or you can find one of us.

Turns out people that spend most of their free
times cutting into bodies know a great deal about how they work –go
figure.

The complex we live in is collectively known
as Nethermount. It's an extensive series of huge, underground
caverns that accommodate the Six Houses. Houses are the family
branches that make up the Clan. The bigger the House, the more say
it has in matters involving Nethermount. This ranges anywhere from
what food we order from the local suppliers, to claims on fresh or
unique cadavers.

Thanos, my House, happens to be
the smallest, but we're also the only exception to the
rule.

And that's because we've
produced some of the most...
eccentric
necromancers to have
graced these halls.

And somehow I've managed to explain everything
but why the halls are empty. Aren't mental tangents
great?

"I'm an idiot sometimes."

Diana nodded vigorously.

And I just got told off by a doll.

In a nutshell, necromancers are narcissists.
They generally keep to their quarters; if someone has to go through
the common halls then it's typically their undead
errand-runners.

If my mother knew this was my regular route,
I'd never hear the end of it –doing things by oneself was seen as a
very plebeian thing to do.

I cringed as I realized where Diana was
leading me. A set of cast iron doors loomed across the hall. I
could practically feel the chill beyond just by looking at them.
She calmly placed her fingers on the handle, and I reminded myself
to breathe.

Diana was small by human
standards, standing at a solid five and a quarter feet tall. This
included her shoes, which added two inches to her stature. She was
slender and pale, with straight brown hair and petal-pink eyes. I
could think of many words to describe her –none of them
tough.

So one might imagine my surprise when she was
able to throw those doors open with a flick of her
wrist.

She took advantage of my shock to shove me
into the room, closing the doors before I had the chance to
escape.

Mine was an expression of total
dismay.

You're fine,
she wrote, haven taken out her notebook.
I'll be back in ten minutes. You don't have to
move, but please don't run off.

She turned before I could suggest an
alternative that involved me being as far away from this place as
possible; leaving me slumped against the Morgue's cold quartz
wall.

Each House had their own place to
store bodies, but Nethermount had a communal area for them as well.
It was a long space, with stone slabs lining either side. The walls
had inlets for specimens that required extensive
freezing.

At the farthest end of the room, just beyond
my line of sight, was the Pit.

It was exactly as its name implied –a big hole
in the ground. There was an oculus in the ceiling right above it.
Topside, it looked like an old well. It used to be that
superstitious locals would hold rituals and offer their own to the
Pit, believing that they would be protected from death and disease
through blood sacrifice.

At that time, the title of
necromancer didn't exist. All people knew was that we were
really,
really
good at keeping others healthy. Some called that magic. We
called it knowledge.

Although, once we branched
into the whole
raising-people-from-the-dead
thing,
we weren't liked as much. And on that matter, I happen to agree
with the angry mobs.

Diana returned not long after my musings
ended, wearing a triumphant grin.

"Should I be concerned?"

Her smile vanished at my remark, grabbing my
arm with a hint of the strength she'd demonstrated earlier. It told
me I wasn't going to weasel my way out of this one.

She led me to a slab. I could see the outline
of a body through my fingers, snapping them closed when I was
within fainting range.

I heard Diana scribble on her
notepad.

Do you trust me?

"Of course I do." I looked at her in earnest.
"It's me I don't trust."

Marvin, just look. If you do it
once I'll never force you to come back here again.

It was a rare thing for Diana to make a
compromise.

I detected the sincerity in her face. It
sounds ridiculous, I know, that a doll could have any real
expression, but I'd said it already: I'd known Diana for years. She
was sarcastic and took great pleasure in pointing out when I was
being a coward, but she'd never lied to me.

Not once.

Bearing that in mind, I dropped my hands to
take a look at the body on the slab.

It was a man about the age of forty; a
desert-dwelling nomad, judging by the tattoos across his brow. He
was still wearing the clothes he had when he died. They were worn,
but well maintained, save for the hole in the abdomen. His
extremities had no evident signs of struggle or tampering. He
didn't die of the initial stab wound, but he did bleed out from the
stomach. It was a painful way to go, and could've lasted anywhere
from ten to forty minutes –whoever killed him wanted him to suffer
as much as possible.

What took me by the most surprise was that I
assessed his condition without a great deal of strain. My eyes
cautiously roved his features; he was classically handsome, with
broad shoulders and a strong jaw. And strangely, he looked
almost... alive.

"Diana, what did you do?"

Diana opened her bag and shoved it under my
nose. Crushed pearl powder, paint pigments, kohl –all things I'd
seen on my mother's dressing table as a young boy. Things she used
to make her severe bone structure that much more
terrifying.

"Cosmetics?" I ran a finger down his forearm,
inspecting the peachy cream that came off on my glove. "You put
makeup on a corpse?"

She flipped through her notes, pointing at
something she'd written earlier.

Your problem isn't with dead
things.

"...it's with things that look dead," I read
aloud, watching as her smile grew. "Diana, you're a
genius!"

She performed a pirouette that dipped into a
bow.

Well,
she wrote,
what are you waiting for?
Dissect him and present your efforts to your
mother.

I shifted uncomfortably, looking at the
nomad's corpse.

It wasn't that I was squeamish over anatomy –I
could juggle jars filled with organs all day long. It's how I
learned, since our more traditional methods proved to be...
difficult, for someone with my reservations.

But cutting into a body was a different
matter.

Diana came fully prepared; setting out the
surgical tools I never had the courage to use. I took a scalpel and
examined its edge in the light.

You've practiced on leather,
Marvin. I've seen you make the cuts a thousand times. You can do
this.

4: Dinnertime

The memory of
actually
performing the operation wasn't
there. I wondered if I'd blacked out somehow, but the blood on my
gloves said otherwise. My stomach churned violently while I looked
the other way. I couldn't peel them off fast
enough.

Diana had the presence of mind to cover the
remains now that I was through with them. The heart, lungs, brain,
and liver of my unwitting patient were neatly collected into glass
jars. She took the liberty of marking my name on one of the
research cabinets, storing the fruits of my labor.

Diana then studied me with an expression I'd
never seen before. It looked like she was searching for something,
but I didn't know what she could possibly find that wasn't there
five seconds ago.

"Is something wrong?" I asked.

Diana remembered herself, and her painted face
defaulted to an impassive stare.

She shook her head no.

"Then we should get you back to the attic." I
glanced at the door leading out of the Morgue. "We need to hurry if
we want to make it before the-"

The dinner bell cut me
off.

Its metallic sound ricocheted through the
caverns of Nethermount, and echoed long after its source had fallen
still.

I couldn't believe how bad my timing
was.

"That's it," I said, wandering towards the
Pit. "Time to find a pike to impale myself on."

Diana grabbed my shoulder so hard I felt it
coming off its socket. It was the first time I'd ever seen her so
angry. Her irises took on a reddish tint that spelled murder if I
didn't heed her silent warning.