Greywalker (23 page)

"What? Why?"

"A necromancer manipulates magic through the auspices of death."

"Hang on. They kill things?"

"Not necessarily, though a large number of their rituals can only be effective in the presence of death, and the easiest way to get that is to kill some sacrificial animal. When I say death, I mean not just dead bodies or something of that ilk, but the change in the power state that happens when someone or something dies. Y'see, the force, or energy, of a living thing becomes free at the moment of death—it's one of the things which causes ghosts, too. The right kind of magical attractor in the immediate area can capture the energy, and a great deal of energy and information are available for a little while to anyone who can manipulate that attractor. It's terribly dangerous stuff, though, to those who can touch it at all. Many of us feel it, but necromancers are among the few who can use it. The necromancer exchanges some of his own life-force energy for control of the new energy source, so long as it lasts—giving up life for the knowledge and power of death, for a time."

"Ugh," I said with a shudder. "What good would that do us?"

"A necromancer can create dark artifacts or examine their history. Necromantic artifacts are always grim and lowering like that organ because of the thread of death tied up in their creation." "Are they worse than any other kind?"

"Can be. The power of most dark artifacts comes from a sort of accreting process, where layers of use, power, and purpose adhere to the object and become bound up in it. Many necromantic dark artifacts are relatively harmless. Since they are created for specific purposes and only used once or twice, they don't build up that sort of power. But that one..." She shuddered.

"All right," I said. "So why would we want a necromancer here?" "A necromancer can look back to a dark artifacts moment of creation and see what caused it. Don't know how they do it—it's bloody spooky. If we knew what the artifacts purpose and process of creation was, we would know how to neutralize or destroy it. This is not going to be easy. If we go about it wrong, we run the risk of increasing its power by having our own sucked into the artifact."

"I'd rather not see that thing get any stronger," I said. "You don't know any necromancers then?"

"No. I find their practices a bit disgusting, and they're a dying breed. Necromancers aren't just created out of practice and determination. They're born with the potential talent and develop it as they age. It's not a very politically correct profession, you can imagine. Boys and girls who kill their pets so they can 'touch the power' usually end up in mental institutions. The right type of conditioning and therapy breaks the potential and steers them into more normal courses."

"So psychos who torture animals are potential necromancers?" "Oh, no. One in a million children is a potential necromancer, and he—or very rarely, she—may never tap the power, never even know that there is any power to tap. They never harm anyone or anything, but some slip through and survive long enough to learn. That's the one who becomes a necromancer. They're very secretive and paranoid. Well, wouldn't you be?"

A connection closed in my mind. "Mara, what happens to necromancers when they die?"

"I suppose that would depend on how they died. I suspect that many of them don't truly die, but linger in some fashion or become something new. If they survive bodily death and still have their minds intact, they could still wield their powers, but I think it would be very dangerous for them. Casting would suck away a lot of whatever life energies they still had, and the recuperation afterward would be extraordinary. But their relationship to the power would be different, and they could probably conserve a great deal of their own energies— even feed them—by killing as part of the ritual. If they're corporeal enough to use the knife or what have you." Then she stared sharply at me. "That's a rather strange question to ask. Why did you?"

"Because I think I've met a necromancer."

"My God, Harper. Where?" "I can't say."

She glowered at me. "You must be very careful. Use what I've taught you to protect yourself, or these powers may harm you. I know you don't quite believe it all—"

"I'm beginning to."

Mara dropped me near my office. Before I took another step for Sergeyev, I wanted to know more about that organ in the normal world, and though it made me uncomfortable, I knew where to start. I didn't even bother going up to the office, I just went straight to the Rover.

The street outside the Ingstrom house was full of cars. The auction of the personal property was under way and the house was packed with bidders. I wished I felt something more useful—like anger—but all I felt as I stepped up onto the screened porch was an uncomfortable confusion.

Michael was at his table inside. His eyes got wider when he saw me. "Hi, Michael," I said. "H-hi, Ms. Blaine." "Is Will on the podium?" He replied slowly. "Yeah." "Is Brandon around?" "Brandon’s not here." "Why not?"

Michael shrank. "I don't know. He was supposed to be here but he didn't show up. Did you want to talk to him?" "No. I wanted to avoid him." He nodded. "Yeah, he's not too cool lately."

I heard Will's gavel drop, and then a murmur of sound rose to a growl and people began to boil toward the outer doors. I stepped back and hid in the crowd-shadow of the table.

Michael shot me a quick look of nervous apology. "Lunch," he explained. "Without Brandon, we're running kinda late."

"That's OK."

He smiled and turned to face the first of the exiting bidders. I was pushed farther into the corner by the eddying humanity and trapped there when Will came out.

He patted his brother on the shoulder and glanced at the screen of the laptop computer. "Everything OK out here, Mikey?"

"Yeah." Michael shot a quick glance in my direction and went back to his computer and the couple in front of him.

Will raised his head and turned. He stiffened when he saw me and froze in place behind Michael's chair, until his brother elbowed him in the side.

"Hey, I'm trying to work here," Michael growled.

Jarred, Will walked toward me but kept the table between us. He stopped and clasped his hands in front of his belt buckle. His long fingers squeezed white. "What... what can I do for you?" His voice was cool, but I could almost see it, like a staff of music quivering on the air, thin as smoke.

I looked up at him, and all I could think was, "My God, he's tall!" I felt stupid, and something hurt inside which had nothing to do with recent physical bruises. "I wanted... to talk to you on a professional matter."

Will looked blank. "Professional. That's all?"

"Yeah."

He glanced at the tide of people, then back to me. "Let's take this someplace a little quieter."

"All right," I agreed, perversely reluctant to be alone with him.

"Mrs. Ingstrom left some lunch for us in the kitchen and I'm starving. You don't mind, do you?"

"No, I don't mind if you don't." I followed him toward the door.

"Hey," Michael called over his shoulder. "Bring me some when you're done. I could use a bite, too, you know. Us boy wonders have to keep up our strength!"

"Right, Mikey. I won't let you starve," Will called back.

"It's Michael!"

We walked back through the house to the kitchen. Will offered me sandwiches and coffee, too. I took a cup of coffee and watched him sit at the kitchen table to eat. I stood against a counter and sipped for a few minutes in silence as he got through half a sandwich.

"All right," he started, sitting back and leaving the rest of his lunch sprawling on the plate, "now that I'm no longer faint with hunger, what did you want to discuss?"

"First, I wanted to say I'm sorry, Will. I—"

He cut me off. "Don't start that. I don't need the extra stress."

"Yeah. Michael told me Brandon didn't show up. What's up with that?"

Will threw his hands into the air. "I have no idea! He's completely unpredictable and irresponsible. He didn't show up today, doesn't answer his phone. No one's seen him. He's even bailed on the Ingstrom’s without notice, and he knew Chet Ingstrom for years. No idea what he'll do next. You saw that tantrum he pitched at the warehouse. That's not the first time that he's flown off the handle recently over something minor. And we're not the only people looking for him, either. When I get my hands on the slick bastard, I'm going to shake him until he tells me what's going on."

"Who else wants him?" I asked.

"I don't know, but he must be in deep trouble. The guys who've been coming around looking for him are the sort who break legs. I don't want it to get around, though. It could really kill us."

I looked at him over the rim of my coffee cup and speculated. "Is it Brandon you're trying to protect? Or yourself?"

"Myself! Brandon's a jackass. We had an agreement, but now it looks like I've been left with the baby, again. I put equity into the business and if it goes under, or gets confiscated, then what? How could I take care of Michael if I'm flat broke and out of a job?"

"Will," I started, frowning into his eyes, "what did you invest in?"

"The auction house." He narrowed his eyes, eyebrows quirking into Ws on his forehead. He pushed his spectacles up and stared at me. "What are you talking about?"

I touched my cheek, remembering the first blow that had started me into the Grey. "I've seen this sort of thing before, and I'd say it's even money something criminal is going on."

"Like what?"

I gave a helpless shrug. "Drugs? Fraud? Tax evasion? Money laundering?"

He was appalled. "Why? How?"

"It's an easy business to hide things in—the value of an item is what you say it is, after all. Or what someone pays for it. And one of you does a lot of traveling, don't you?"

"I do, or I did until recently. Then Brandon took it over. I thought he was giving me a break to spend more time with Mike."

"That could be a cover for a lot of other activities. Has the business pattern changed suddenly? More profits? Less? Different type of goods or clients?"

Will looked askance at me. "Business has been improving..."

"And I'll bet Brandon's standard of living has suddenly gone up, yet he can't justify making you a partner, in spite of the money you've invested. Yeah, I'll bet it's doing just great for someone. And other people have noticed."

"You think the guys looking for Brandon are cops?"

"Could be cops, feds, unhappy partners at the other end, loan sharks..."

Will thought about it and shook his head, aghast. "Do you really believe that, Harper? That I could be a... a fraud or a drug dealer-or a fall guy?"

I didn't meet his glance. Instead I put my coffee cup down and started to leave. "I shouldn't have said anything. I came to ask you a favor, but it wouldn't be right now."

"No. No, no... I'm not letting you walk out on me again." I started to flinch, but he only caught my hand and turned me back. "It took way too long for you to come back. Don't just walk out. Please."

I kept my eyes away from him.

"You wouldn't have said all this if you thought I was a villain. So maybe that's not what you think. Tell me what you think."

I hesitated, then said, "I think I don't know enough. And I think you need to be very careful, Will."

We were silent a moment. He put his hands on my shoulders; then I felt his breath move my hair as he spoke. "Thank you, Harper. And I'm sorry. I was a real jerk last week. Could we try again?"

My answer was cut off by Michael yelling from the screened porch. "Will! Hey, Novak, get your buns out here!"

Will twitched and snapped a look at his wristwatch. "Damn it." He turned his eyes back to me. "I am serious. I want to see you again and I am sorry about the way I acted. I know you didn't have to come here and you didn't have to say anything, so I'm hoping that means you'll call me and give me another chance. I'll do anything you ask to show you I mean it."

Michael shouted from the hall. "Will!"

I thought about it and knew what I wanted. I groped for some-thing to say and picked up the plate of sandwiches. "Here. You'd better take these to the boy wonder before he starves to death. And... umm... if you're free late tonight, maybe we could... discuss some things."

"No 'maybe.' Definitely." He grinned and took the plate away with him. I stood in Ann Ingstrom's kitchen a moment longer, sipping cold coffee and writing a note on a pad by the phone. I considered just leaving it and slipping out the back, but I couldn't chicken out now. I headed for the front door. Passing the living room doorway, I looked in. Will was back up on the small raised platform, looking like a beat poet standing on a soapbox. He glanced up and smiled as I passed.

"Thanks, Michael," I said, dropping the note on the table as I started past him.

He swallowed a mouthful of sandwich and called after me. "Hey, Ms. Blaine! Harper?"

I turned around. Clutching my note, Michael got up and closed the door between the house and the porch.

"What is it, Michael?" I asked.

"Well, I just... well, I'm trying to say, like, you're not going to dump him again, are you? My brother, I mean. I mean, I know he's kinda geeky and all, but he's a good guy."

"He's a very good guy," I agreed. "And actually," I confessed, "I think he's kind of sexy."

Michael snorted a laugh. "Will?"

"Well.... yeah."

Michael stared at me. "Will can't be sexy. He's my brother. You're sexy.

The blush swept over me like prairie fire. "Oh, boy. I've got to go." I could hear him sniggering as I retreated.

I sat in the front seat of the truck and stared back at the Ingstrom house for a few moments. The long-haired white cat ambled around the corner and sat on the front walk. It looked at me and yawned, showing its fangs, then raised a forepaw and began to wash as if dismissing me.