Work in Progress: My Darling Necromancer

Photo by Magda Ehlers: https://www.pexels.com/photo/vibrant-yellow-birds-feeding-in-stylish-cage-32707801/

Content warnings: death, necromancy

This is a scene from an unpublished work in progress. It is set the same world as my erotic fantasy short story: The Dark Beside You.  This chapter details who two of the main characters met.

Simon’s jaw nearly dropped as Dita walked into the coffeehouse. Gone were her white mourning clothes, replaced with a gown of pale pink, standing out among the sober black suits of the men around them. The ravishing brunette had pinned her hair so three ringlets rested around the nape of her neck and shoulder. This drew even more attention to the ruffled bodice of her gown, emphasizing her ample breasts and the elegant curve of her neck. She strode confidently through the throng of men to Simon’s table.

Simon wasn’t sure what to do about this mystery woman. Simon practiced healing magic. Medical school added much needed legitimacy to his business. He might not have been the first doctor one visited, but he still did well for himself. He used the parlor of his ground floor apartment for his services. Dita had shown up two weeks ago. She was a plump, but attractive woman, dressed in a gauzy white mourning gown with a gigantic hat and a veil obscuring her face. She waltzed right in. She had no appointment and did not wait to be seen. She had simply walked through his apartment, ending up at his desk. Apparently, beauty and class did not equate to good manners.

“I’m not open on Tridays,” he dismissed her, barely looking up from his papers. She in turn slammed a birdcage on his desk. He startled at the noise and then recoiled in disgust at the contents of the cage. Three bright yellow canaries lay dead at the bottom.

“I need your help,” the woman announced, her deep brown eyes somehow looking steely. She removed her soft white leather gloves and sat across from him.

Simon scowled suspiciously. He nudged the birdcage back towards her. “I am not a veterinary doctor. Try Morrisson two blocks down.”

The strange woman looked from Simon to the birds and back. She laughed, a haughty sound, her chin lifted so she looked down at him. She motioned to the cage. “Why would I need a veterinarian? The birds, as you can see, are already dead.”

Simon grew annoyed. This wealthy widow was toying with him, wasting his time. Simon had grown accustomed to being underestimated, and a familiar anger settled in his gut.

“Then I cannot help you,” he said, punctuating his refusal with the close of his logbook. He stood, turning his back to her to return the book back onto its proper shelf.

“I hear necromancers make the best healers,” her voice stated perfunctorily. “And I have been to several healers who all sent me here.”

Simon turned back to her slowly. “What did you say?”

He could only hope the frown on his face masked the racing of his heart. He tried to keep the nature of his magic a secret. No one wanted to be treated by a death mage, even if he did, as she had said, make an excellent healer.

She smiled brightly, her full cheeks lifted high. “That necromancers make the best healers.” She repeated, a sparkle in her eyes now.  “I know that you, Simon Young, practice death magic exceptionally well. I also know that while Simon is your given name, Young is a name you adopted when your superiors found your family name too difficult to pronounce. And I know that out of all the healers in the city, you are the only one who can help me.”

She didn’t look like a damsel in distress. Simon was unsure of what help she might need from him. Part of him still suspected that this might be a cruel game for her.

“I’ll be back for the birds in a week.” She told him, carefully pulling her gloves back onto her delicate hands. Her hands were so pale and so smooth, they likely had never experienced a day’s work. Even her simple gown hugged her body in a way that suggested it was made for her. This was quite a luxury given that the new magical sewing machines made dressmakers all but obsolete. The woman pulled out a bundle of cash from her reticule. “An advance for your trouble.”

“They will not be alive,” he said, causing her to pause in the doorway. Dead things tended to stay dead. Nothing could replace whatever spark was stolen in death. Simon could revive a body, but not a person.

“I don’t need them alive,” she responded. “One week.”

Simon stood abruptly, nearly taking the desk with him. “And who exactly might you be?”

Once more she laughed at him. She had a cold smile on her beautiful face. It made her look calculating. “Ms. Perdita Sterling. Perhaps you have heard of my uncle, Otto Sterling.”

Her perfume—ambergris and musk, like sweat on clean skin—lingered after she had gone. Simon counted the bills she had left him. It was more money than he made in a year. It was just Simon’s luck that the former ward of the richest man in the country would darken his doorstep.

When Ms. Sterling returned in exactly one week’s time, again on a day when Simon’s practice was decidedly not open, the three canaries flew about his office. They jerked to and fro in their flight, their wings flapping in angled staccato beats. Only upon further inspection would one notice the birds looked sickly pale and the light in their little black eyes was absent.

This kind of magic was child’s play for Simon. Still, he didn’t like performing it. Dead things ought to stay dead.

Ms. Sterling, on the other hand, was thrilled. She clasped her hands together at her breast and beamed at him. Simon supposed that was worth his distasteful display of magic. She had been truthful; she did not need the birds alive. Simon also had been correct; she had been testing him. She left without the birds and once Simon drained them of his magic, he buried them in a box under the tree on the hill.

Ms. Sterling became a permanent fixture in his life from that point on. Between patients, she battered him with questions. About his life, about his magic, about his healing. Not satisfied with being with him every moment of the day, she occupied his nights as well. She took him to the theatre, the coffeeshops, the salons, parading him around town like a pet on a leash. She continued paying him as well.

“Why do you pay me, Ms. Sterling,” he asked one afternoon.

She waved him off. “Call me, Dita, please.” She drew his attention elsewhere. “Is that Mr. Helianthus? Come, Simon,” she beckoned. “We simply must say hello!”

Simon stopped asking after that. Familiarity grew into genuine affection. He had spent an entire day in anxious anticipation before he finally got up the nerve to kiss her. Except Dita surprised him before he got the chance.

Dita now sat before him, her mourning colors replaced with brilliant pinks and golds and Simon began to doubt his decision.

“What on earth are you wearing?” he whispered, aghast. Not that it did not suit her, but up until this point, he had been under the assumption that she was a recent widow.

Dita gave him an easy smile. “I thought this would be less conspicuous. Isn’t that the point of an assignation?”

“Less conspicuous!” Simon exclaimed in shock. “Less conspicuous? Dita, the entirety of the coffeehouse cannot take their eyes off you.”

It was true, which had not surprised Simon. Dita looked like a fashion plate come to life. She radiated a vitality and romantic quality that made Simon question what she saw in him. Simon felt both embarrassment and pride that their table was the topic of conversation around them. But how shallow did a room of men have to be to focus on a singular beautiful woman? Didn’t they know that Dita was so much more than her appearance?

Dita’s perfect scarlet lips parted. “I suppose I could have worn a jaunty hat.” She motioned to adjust an imaginary jaunty hat. Reaching across the table, she took Simon’s hand in hers. “Perdita Sterling, the grieving heiress in white, was your client. I thought this would keep both of our reputations intact.” She leaned in and added with a low voice, “I am not paying you for sex, Simon.”

Simon wasn’t entirely clear what she was paying him for to begin with. She avoided the real reason that she needed his help. Simon had begun to think that she perhaps wanted companionship. Clearly, she did not need to pay him for that. He almost said so when Dita, ever practical, clapped a hand to the table in a most business-like manner.

“Now, let’s discuss the particulars.”

Kay Zempel spends her days with her imaginary friends in the worlds that she’s created. When not writing, you can find her on her couch: trying to make a dent in her TBR, playing cozy games on her Switch, or snuggling her dog (and occasionally her husband). You can find her on socials as @kay_zempel_author, yapping on Threads or posting pics of her sourdough on Instagram, or here on her blog. Her paranormal romance Moon Dance is available now.