The Necromancer's Seduction

The Necromancer’s Seduction

By

Mimi Sebastian

Dedication

Thanks to Linda Kichline and Jeanette Roycraft at ImaJinn for your support and enthusiasm.
Publishing a debut novel can be intimidating, and you both have been wonderful to
work with, removing some of that apprehension. And, Jeanette, thanks for producing
a fantastic trailer, and Patricia Lazarus for designing a beautiful cover.

To the lovely Desert Muses: Virginia, Wendy, Sandy, Leslie, Shanyn, Cami, Annette,
and Maria. You ladies keep me sane.

And to Desert Rose RWA chapter. What a wonderful group of talented and truly gracious
writers.

Last, but certainly not least, to my parents, brother and his family, and step-kids
for sharing my enthusiasm. My son who seems to understand that sometimes mommy needs
time to do her homework. And my husband for putting up with my writer’s block woes,
and giving me time and space to realize a dream.

Other Books by Mimi Sebastian

Coming Soon

The Necromancer’s Betrayal

Copyright

ISBN: 978-1-61026-133-3

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products
of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events
or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

The Necromancer’s Seduction 2013 by Noemi Ghirghi.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By
payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable
right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may
be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored
in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or
by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented,
without the express permission of ImaJinn Books, Inc.
Cover design by Patricia Lazarus
Cover credits:
Background: nike @ renderosity
Couple: iconogenic-istock

Contact us at:
ImaJinn Books, Inc.
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http://www.imajinnbooks.com

Chapter One

Introductory Anthropology classes never topped my list of favorite classes to teach,
but their blandness kept me sane. They fit into the one compartment of my life easy
to control.

That’s why I tamped my frustration on the days the students stared at me with blank
expressions or daydreamed about their upcoming weekend parties.

But the discussion in class today had escaped the compartment. I wasn’t sure how it
happened. Maybe I didn’t take the cues when I spilled coffee on my pants while rushing
out of the house or when a man crunched my foot while searching for a seat on the
bus.

“So Odysseus traveled to the Underworld to chat with some ghosts. Exactly why I don’t
read myths,” said a male student, punctuating his bored expression with a shrug.

“Then why are you taking this class?” one of my more vocal students asked, her silver
lip ring emphasizing the crease to her lips.

“The credit.”

I paused my scribbling and closed my eyes. This is good for me, I argued. At least
they were talking, but this topic hit a bit too close to home. I checked the time.
Two fifty. Five more minutes. Last class today. And it’s only Tuesday?

For the past six months, my mind had imitated a drunk driver failing miserably to
stay within the white traffic lines, zigzagging between a final research paper, settling
my grandmother’s estate . . .
stop
.
Focus on the white lines
.

“If you had the opportunity to talk to someone you loved who’d died, or say you could
come back from the dead. Wouldn’t you try?” the girl continued.

I faced the bland, beige wall that enclosed the four rows of desks, enough for forty
students, plenty for the twenty or so that actually attended class. A few strands
of sunlight managed to break through the unwashed windows and glint off a pair of
wire-rimmed glasses. Brad. His eyes, framed by the glasses, probed mine in a challenging
look. The other students stared at me, waiting for my contribution to the conversation.

But I had no words to offer.

Clack
. My blue dry erase dropped from my limp hand to bounce off the ceramic floor. I blinked
and stared at the back right corner of the lecture room.

There again. The air wobbled and emitted a soft
shush, shush, shush
.

I surveyed the students, hoping no one else had perceived the strange movement.

Again. Wobble and shush.

Someone had joined my class, uninvited, invisible . . . not human.

I swallowed, forcing the acrid lump down my esophagus. I bent to retrieve the marker
and straightened when my cell phone vibrated, signaling the end of the class.

Saved by the vibrator.

“I want you to write an essay highlighting the points on the board for next class.
Use the article on tribal rituals to frame your argument. Have fun.” I smiled at the
students filing out, trying to affect sincerity, but my stiff lips probably gave me
away.

Brad passed in front of me and tapped his index finger on the desk. “Interesting lecture
today. I can think of a dead person or two I’d like to visit.”

I allowed my eyes to meet his for a moment and encountered mock seriousness. Of course.
Of course he was kidding. I watched him exit the room. Brad was unusual, but at least
he acted interested in the class. His essays intrigued me with their offbeat perspectives
on ancient cultural practices. He argued for the misrepresented or misunderstood society
even when the society made a habit of pillaging neighboring clans or sacrificing its
citizens to ensure victory over their enemies. Leave it to Brad to almost convince
me.

What a weird day. And I suspected it was about to get weirder. I faced the undulating
space in the corner. “Show yourself.”

The air shook, and a humanoid form emerged, but warped—arms too long, head too flat,
skin too translucent. A male fae of some sort, but why reveal its true form to me?

“I seek your services,” he said, his voice rasping against my eardrums, making my
ears and neck shudder.

I shoved my books into my backpack. “Unless you’re planning on taking an anthropology
class, which I’m betting you’re not, I can’t help you.”

“You must aid me.” His voice rasped louder, sending the shudders down my spine.

“I must not do anything.” Interactions with fae demanded firmness, absolute certainty.
Any hesitation, any hint of giving an inch, and they’d carve out miles and miles until
they took everything.

“As you can see, I appear before you with no disguise. I find myself in an untenable
position, damned to walk among humans in my fae form and unable to return to the fae
lands.” He shifted closer, and I instinctively slid to the edge of the desk closest
to the door.

“Even if I agreed, I don’t see how I can help retrieve your glamour.”

His diamond-shaped, crystalline eyes studied me for a moment, at least, I guessed
he was staring. It was hard to tell without irises. “I was in a bar, a glass of some
tropical concoction pressed to my lips, the kind with the little umbrellas stuck in
a piece of pineapple, when a drunkard knocked into me and caused me to spill the drink
all over the counter and my pants. The pineapple with the umbrella survived the assault,
and I touched the toothpick to remove it. It scorched my fingers.”

He rubbed two long fingers together. “A toothpick made from bamboo, deadly to my kind.
If I’d taken even a sip, I would have died.” He curled his fingers into a fist and
shook it. “The drunken idiot saved my life, triggering a reciprocal debt, and he had
the nerve to curse me as if I had done him some ill will. Before I could meet my obligation
to him, he drove away drunk, killing himself and someone else.”

“And bringing him back to life as some nasty zombie is repaying him for saving your
life?”

“I fulfill my debt. He pays for his crime. The rest are technicalities.”

“Yeah, well it’s usually the technicalities that come back and bite you in the ass.”
I slipped my arms into the straps of the backpack and steeled my resolve. “I’m sorry.
I can’t help you.”

The fae grew until his head scraped the ceiling, a good ten feet. His crystal eyes
flashed, creating a headache inducing strobe light effect. His lips thinned to a sneer.
“You can bring him back, allow me to resume a normal existence in this realm. You
have an obligation.” His voice shook the windows, and I was thankful the classroom
occupied the top floor of the five-story building.

“I have no obligation to you. I didn’t invite you, and I want you to leave now.”

I peered directly at his strobing eyes. He frowned at our standoff, then slowly shrank
back to his previous height, still two feet above me. I heard what could have passed
as a sigh. His chest expanded and contracted, but the sound resembled a shrill hiss,
a balloon losing air. He merged back into the air and disappeared.

I sagged, planted my butt on the desk, and rubbed my face with one hand. This was
the second supernatural in the past twenty-four hours to come calling . . . and the
fifth this week. Last night, a Ninja shadow thing nearly sent me tumbling down the
stairs when it popped out from the alley next to my house. The Ninja wanted me to
raise his enemy, who had killed himself before the Ninja could deliver the killing
blow himself. He spent a good fifteen minutes expounding on the dishonor to himself,
his village, his ancestors, hell, even his cat.

Necromancers are far and few between, and since my grandmother Cora’s death, more
supernaturals have shown up on my doorstep seeking my services. Cora loved her power,
embraced it despite the traumas it brought her. Me? I currently leaned toward bathing
in acid over using my power.

And therein lay my dilemma, one I’d managed to avoid while Cora was alive to run interference.
Many in the supernatural community hate us. Others, like the fae, insist we’re obligated
to use our powers. It’s pariah or indentured servant, no in-between, no real respect,
no Martha Stewart adoration.

But occasionally someone pops up, no shadows or sandpaper voices, asking for help,
and my heart wants to help, to reach out. But I can’t, because once I give in, it
won’t stop, and I’ll wind up dead like the rest of my family.

* * * *

I left my classroom a few minutes later and crossed the courtyard toward the library.
I intended to spend the rest of the day catching up on research. I had a tenure review
in four weeks and desperately needed to work on my presentation.

“Ruby!”

What now? I groaned and turned to see Steve striding toward me. I took a deep breath
and adjusted my bra strap, not wanting him to perceive my frazzled state.

He gave me a quick kiss on the cheek before we resumed the trek to the library. “You
look good,” he said.

I chortled, aware of my thrown-together-at-the-last-minute outfit and hair pulled
up in a clip—because I didn’t have time to deal with it—the sum of most of my mornings.
I smiled despite myself and returned the compliment. He did look good dressed in his
usual khakis and a maroon shirt, highlighting his green eyes and the deep bronze tones
in his brown hair. A Professor of Archeology, he never wore suits, managing to pull
off a more tidy Indiana Jones ruggedness without venturing into cliché territory.

I struggled to define my relationship with him beyond the trite fuck buddy label and
eventually stopped trying. We saw movies, ate out, had sex. He never committed or
declared his undying passion or, better, made promises he couldn’t keep—which suited
me fine.

“I’m sorry we haven’t caught up with each other. I’ve missed hanging out,” he said.

I tilted my head, trying to assess where our boundary fell today and decided to play
it safe. “Me too. I’ve been pretty busy with classes and dealing with family stuff.”

His eyes reflected genuine concern. “How are you doing?”

“Fine,” I said. “Still some details to tie up on the investigation into Cora’s death.”
My answer seemed woefully inadequate, but what gory details about my life could I
reveal without sounding completely unhinged? I’ve come to accept my inability to form
a romantic relationship with a normal man. The alternative? I’d rejected that long
ago.

“Learning about Cora’s secret life?”

My heart stopped for a split second before I realized he was teasing. Christ. If he
only knew. “My grandmother’s life at sixty-eight was more exciting than mine at thirty,
which is pretty pathetic when you think about it.”

He chuckled. “We all could’ve learned a thing or two from her. I’m sorry I haven’t
been around to help you deal with things since her death.”

“You helped. You provided much needed moral support during the memorial service.”
And generated many stares from the various supernaturals present, who’d wondered why
the human was there. When they’d realized he’d accompanied me, they backed off, accustomed
to my abnormalities. I hadn’t asked him to come, but he’d offered, and I’d needed
someone with me who didn’t drink blood or turn into a hairy beast.

“I’ve been scarce since the memorial,” he said. We stopped in front of the library.
He pulled me around to face him, keeping his hand on my arm. “I’d like to make it
up to you. How about dinner Friday night?”

Like all our casual dates, a yes would definitely lead to sex. And that’s bad because?
My eye wandered past him.

Oh shit. I froze.

“Does a date with me sound that bad?” His jocular tone didn’t match the disappointment
weighing on his expression.

“No. Sounds perfect. Just what I need.” My voice was too high, too coated in saccharin
to come across as normal. He tasted the sweetness too.

“Are you sure?” He lowered his head, almost touching my forehead.

I drew a breath to sound more convincing and not like I wanted him to leave—now, which
of course, I did. “Yes, absolutely.”

He studied my eyes for a moment. “I’ll call you.” He squeezed my arm before retreating
down the courtyard.

I returned my attention to Kara leaning against a big leaf maple. What the hell was
she doing here? I wasn’t expecting her, which made me think she wanted something—something
I wouldn’t like.

She waved at me and sauntered over. Even simply dressed in a red silk shirt tucked
into jeans, Kara exuded a polish that always befuddled me. The times I attempted to
appear well-groomed, applying eyeliner and lipstick, painstakingly sliding on my pantyhose,
the universe conspired against me to rip the hose and smear my eyeliner.

“You know, for apple pie, he’s not bad. Nice ass,” she said.

“You never visit me on campus. What’s up?”

“I wanted to see how you were doing, like a good friend.”

Kara was a good friend, but she was not sentimental, and I wasn’t buying the BFF line.

“I appreciate your concern for my welfare . . . but what’s the catch?”

She huffed. I admired her acting skill. “You wound me. I worry about you. You’ve become
more reclusive since Cora died—if that’s even possible.”