The Necromancer's Betrayal (The Final Formula Series, Book 2.5)

The Necromancer’s Betrayal

Copyright © 2014 by Becca Andre. All rights reserved.

First Kindle Edition: 2014

Editor: Shelley Holloway

Cover and Formatting:
Streetlight Graphics

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

Chapter
1

E
lysia tucked her hands in her pockets and bent her head against the damp wind. This February had been mild—mild enough that it rained instead of snowed—but it was still too cold for the lightweight jacket she wore. She had left her heavy coat at her grandmother’s house when she visited over Christmas. She should call and ask for it to be sent to her, but that would give Grams another opportunity to lecture her about wasting her life—and talent. Elysia had gotten her fill of that over the holidays.

She hesitated at the corner, and after a quick look in both directions, crossed against the light. It was too cold to obey the traffic laws. She cut through an alley and stepped out onto the parking lot behind the building where she tended bar five nights a week. It wasn’t the career she had envisioned when she graduated college three years ago, but it paid the bills. Mostly.

The wind shifted, tugging at her hood, and she reached up to hold it in place. That’s when she became aware of another tug on her senses. This one familiar and as natural as breathing. Death called to her, somewhere in the darkness near the back door of the bar. She stopped in the shadow of a neighboring building and reached out. The call was too strong for it to be anything other than a human.

The back door of the bar opened, and Elysia jumped in surprise. She had been so lost in the call, that she hadn’t been paying attention to her surroundings. A tall blonde stopped in the doorway, her legs and arms bare beneath the mini skirt and sleeveless top she wore.

“You out here?” The woman squinted in the dim light. The illumination from the dirty bulb over the door didn’t carry far.

Suddenly, the woman wasn’t alone. A man stepped out of the darkness beyond the door and walked toward her. His footfalls made no sound against the wet pavement. The woman didn’t flee into the bar like Elysia expected. Instead, she nudged a broken brick against the doorframe to keep the door from closing, and walked out to meet him.

“Where did you go?” the woman asked him. “That brunette was hot, and interested.”

The man moved closer. If he said anything, Elysia didn’t catch the words. She reached out once more, and gasped. Here was the death she had felt. Dear God, a zombie. And this woman seemed to know him. Had he just been killed and animated? If so, he was animated by blood. Elysia didn’t sense direct necromancer control. Then there was the fact that he was right behind her place of employment. That couldn’t be a coincidence. Who knew she was here? And why would—

The dead man captured the blonde by the shoulders and pushed her back against the wall.

“Hey!” Elysia shouted and walked toward them. She hesitated to take command of the zombie. If his handler was nearby, he would know what Elysia was, and she wasn’t about to give that away until she had to.

The woman whispered something to the zombie, then shoved him. To Elysia’s surprise, he stumbled back a step. “Don’t screw this up,” the woman told him. She stepped back inside, kicking the brick out of the way to let the door slam behind her.

Elysia slowed. Had the woman been the zombie’s controller? Now what? Should Elysia follow her inside and confront her?

The man began to turn, and Elysia noted the wide shoulders and how well the ripped jeans fit. She had to give the woman credit. She knew how to bait her.

Elysia gave herself a mental shake. Gross. She was admiring a corpse. Maybe it was time to find a boyfriend before she ended up like crazy Aunt— No, not going there.

The man finished his turn. “Yes?”

Elysia skidded to a stop, almost falling on the wet asphalt. He wasn’t a zombie. Zombies were mindless shells of humanity animated by a necromancer or her blood. This man was a lich: an animated corpse with his consciousness still intact.

“Did you need something?” He cocked his head slightly, earnest eyes meeting her own. She couldn’t discern the color of his eyes in the dim light, but she could see that they weren’t filmed over in death. God, he hadn’t been dead long.

“Miss?” He took a step toward her. “You look a little pale. Do you need to sit down?” He reached out as if to take her elbow. “Can I help you get somewhere?”

She said the first thing that came to mind. “Sit.”

His legs folded and his butt hit the ground with a wet splat. He looked up with wide horrified eyes that likely reflected her own expression.

“Oh, shit,” they said in unison. She never expected to meet her first lich behind a bar in Athens, Ohio. Maybe at a family reunion…

“You’re a necro,” he said.

“And you’re dead.”

He glanced around, checking for witnesses. “And now I’m yours.” He frowned up at her. “What would you command of me—other than a wet ass?”

She blinked. “I didn’t expect you to be this… articulate.”

Anger lit his eyes. “What? Did you think I was just a dumb animal?”

Wow, she had insulted a corpse. That was a new one.

Without warning, he shoved himself off the ground and into a crouch.

“Stop!” She took a hasty step back.

He dropped to a knee and doubled over with a grunt, as if he had been punched.

“Stay where you are,” she added, her tone softer. “Who do you belong to?”

He lifted his head and glared, perhaps hoping to intimidate her. It would be more effective if he wasn’t kneeling at her feet.

“Were you sent to expose me?”

He maintained his frown—and his silence.

“Tell me,” she said.

“I belong to no one.” He fisted his hands, but made no other move.

“Who Made you?”

He gritted his teeth and the muscle in his lower jaw flexed.

“Was it the woman you were talking to?”

“No. She’s my friend.”

Elysia frowned. She didn’t think he could lie to her, but he could avoid telling the whole truth. If his creator had given him a command, Elysia would have a hard time subverting it. But there was a solution. If she made him hers, he would tell her everything.

“Get up,” she told him.

He rose to his feet, moving closer as he did.

She stood her ground. “You will not harm me.”

Something much like a growl came from his throat. It was the creepiest thing she had ever heard.

“Come.” She turned and headed for the street.

“As my lady commands,” he muttered and followed.

Elysia walked the three blocks to her small apartment, keenly aware of the dead man following a few paces behind. He maintained his silence, and each time she glanced back, he was busy surveying their surroundings as if he expected someone to jump out at them. His intensity made her nervous.

She knew little of liches aside from the stories. The power to create one was so rare that only a few were said to be Made each century. That meant that a very powerful necro could be nearby. She only knew of two others powerful enough to create a lich. One was the Deacon, the most powerful necromancer in the Midwest, and the other was his son.

Elysia followed the cracked sidewalk to her apartment, eyeing every shadow and potential hiding spot. She glanced over her shoulder and found the lich’s gaze on her. A shiver crawled up her spine. Rumors held that a powerful necromancer could watch the world through the eyes of those he had Made. She didn’t believe that, but now, alone in the dark with this dead man, she couldn’t help but wonder. It was another reason to make him hers.

She led him around to the back door and into the outdated kitchen. It looked like Ernie, her roommate, had already left for his shift at Dairy Mart, though he hadn’t been gone long. The smell of his favorite frozen pizza still hung in the air.

“Please have a seat.” She gestured at one of the three mismatched chairs surrounding the 1950s-style dining table.

“That’s more a request than a command.” He studied her as he spoke. In the bright light of the kitchen, she noted that his eyes were a vivid forest green. An interesting contrast to his jet-black hair. What a shame he was dead.

He pulled out the nearest chair and dropped into it. At the last moment, she remembered his wet jeans and flinched. He had probably ruined the seat cushion.

He caught her eye and the corner of his mouth curled upward.

A chill rolled over her. Death hadn’t robbed him of his intellect.

He frowned under her scrutiny. “What?”

She chewed her lip, but didn’t comment. All she wanted was to get this over with. Crossing the room, she tugged at the warped drawer beside the sink until it abruptly rattled open, almost spilling its contents on the floor. She considered the three knives and selected the one with the shortest blade.

“What are you doing?” The scrap of chair legs across tile accompanied his words.

She turned to find him on his feet. His will brushed against the sliver of her soul she had injected into him on her first command. With no soul of his own, he couldn’t hope to push her out, yet that touch of a will surprised her. And if she were honest, it fascinated her, too. She had always denied her gift, but deep down, the lure to use it always remained. She thought of it as her darker self. A self she would love to deny existed.

“Sit,” she said.

He fell into the chair so quickly it almost tipped over backward.

His eyes dropped to the knife she held. “What are you going to do?”

“Silence.”

His mouth snapped shut.

Elysia had to stop herself from apologizing. After all, he was little more than a corpse, sent here to antagonize her. She forced her feet to carry her closer.

“Don’t move,” she said, aware of how easily he could overpower her. The dead possessed incredible strength. She stopped beside him. “I’ve never done this before. I know there are fancy ceremonies and weeks of preparation, but I don’t need them.”

His brow wrinkled in apprehension.

“You’re lecturing a dead man, Ely. Get on with it.” She gripped the knife tightly, trying to force out the shakes, and eyed the other hand. The fingertips were not an option. Too sensitive and not enough blood. The wrist? That seemed dangerous. People slit their wrists to commit suicide. She wanted to bind with the dead, not become one of them. Her eyes slid up the pale skin of her inner forearm. Out of the way and an easy place to stick a bandage—providing she had one.

“Okay,” she whispered.

He watched with wide eyes, probably thinking she intended to use the knife on him—though the dead had nothing to fear from a paring knife, or any weapon. Nothing short of fire or decapitation would stop them.

She pressed the blade against the soft flesh of her arm, making an indention, but no wound. “I should probably sharpen my knives.” She applied more pressure, drawing it slowly across her skin. “Peeling potatoes can be—”

The knife broke the skin and she sucked in a breath.

He growled—there was no other way to describe it. She looked up in surprise and then down again as a bead of crimson rolled toward her wrist. She dropped the knife to the table.

“Tell me your name,” she whispered.

“James.”

“James,” she repeated, and they both gasped as what she had tied between them tightened. She held out her arm. “Drink.”

This time his growl stood her hair on end, but he gripped her arm in both hands and brought the wound to his mouth. She braced herself for the cold brush of his dead lips, but gasped instead when his warm mouth settled against her skin. His hot tongue scraped across the wound and pain shot up her arm all the way to her shoulder.

“James,” she whispered, intent on finishing it. “You are mine. From this moment forward, for as long as I live, you are mine.” The pain vanished and the soul-bond shifted and grew.

He groaned and ran his tongue along the wound again.

“We are bound,” she forced out. “When my life ceases, so does yours.”

The link between them exploded into life, slamming deep into the very core of her being—and his. He threw himself away from her with enough force that he ended up on the floor beside his overturned chair.

She turned and stumbled across the kitchen, catching the doorframe to regain her balance. She pushed off and all but fell into the living room. The arm of the sofa saved her from landing in the floor.

A howl rose from the kitchen, and she whirled to face the door. The deep baritone was hauntingly beautiful, but terrifying at the same time.

“Hades’s blood,” she whispered, her grandmother’s favorite curse. What the hell was that?