Necromancer Novels & Stories

A male voice, that I didn’t know, asked. Looking up, I saw a male player, standing a few feet away. His character was a vampire, but he was wearing the armor of a Hunter. Hunters in this game were players that found pleasure in attacking other players for their gold pieces and items. Granted, only common items could be looted.

There’s a screaming storm surrounding it and flashes of red, demonic lightning. But I see it, clear as day. So cautious, afraid, and hopeful, I reach a hand toward it. I summon Neron, collecting all the power I can. I reach. I imagine killing that pulsing darkness. My hands glow blue and brilliant. And the second I touch it, my brain is filled with screams, a howling storm of rage. And everything goes dark.

“It’s the place between worlds where dead things linger and living things aren’t supposed to be able to reach. As for getting out, that’s complicated.” “Of course it is,” I muttered, because nothing in my life could ever be simple. “Why am I here? Did you bring me here?” “Your mother sealed me away when she hid you with humans,” Nyx explained. “She knew if I manifested too early, before your body was ready, I’d burn you up from the inside. But seals can be broken by strong enough emotion, and survival instinct is the strongest there is.” I thought about Victoria’s claws coming at my face, about the absolute certainty that I was about to die. “So you broke out because I was about to get murde

As if noticing my curious glances, Lucan leaned closer and explained, “That’s a Graveborn. They call themselves Necromancers.” I frowned, studying the man in question. At first glance, he looked human but the details betrayed him. His eyes glowed a deep crimson, and when he spoke, sharp fangs flashed briefly. I would’ve taken him for a vampire, but his skin wasn’t pale like the ones I’d met before; instead, it held a faint gray tint, like ash brought to life.

Something that still carries the Church’s coin and the Church’s warrants. He sips his ale slowly, eyes scanning the wall behind the bar where fresh posters have been tacked up. The ink is still damp in places. Raven Winterstar stares back at him from the parchment—child’s face, white hair, sharp blue eyes that seem to follow him even in charcoal and soot. Below the sketch: **NECROMANTRESS. 500 GOLD MARKS. DEAD OR ALIVE.** Garrick sets the tankard down. Wipes foam from his mustache with the back of his hand. He’s seen worse bounties. He’s hunted worse things. But a child who raises the dead… that’s new. That’s interesting.

“I could cut him open—” “No!” The word burst out of me, nearly bringing what was left of my guts up with it. “No, fuck, no.” “Ignore him,” Nate snapped. “He’s a necromancer, of course he always wants to dig up bodies. It’s like fucking Christmas for him.”

Their mouths gaped, sewn shut with thread that glowed faintly, trapping centuries of screams. They had once been warriors. Wolves. Mages. Leaders. Banished, betrayed, erased. Now, they belonged to me. A figure emerged from the skeletal trees. He was tall, draped in rotting velvet that reeked of earth and decay. His face was hidden by a jagged mask fashioned from bone. The Necromancer. “You summoned me,” he rasped, his voice grating like stone on stone. “You know the price.” I rose to my feet, my shadow stretching across the poisoned earth in ways no living thing’s should. “I’ve already paid.”

The grave hadn’t only held Reive under the ground but also diminished his magic powers and didn’t allow him to restore them. Still, the necromancer had tried. All these years. Every time he noticed some warm-blooded creature run across his field, he fell upon it through the ground with the ghostly cords of the Dark, sucking out its life and magic in their entirety. They were usually foxes, moles or hares. Sometimes, when a human being came into sight, the necromancer tried to kill him, too. But the last time this had happened was so long ago that Reive didn’t even remember whether he’d managed to do it. Mages usually resisted, a