Necromancer's Novels & Stories

“You should ask Amy. All I know is that we need to perform three cleansings over three days on you and your friend, in order to rid you guys of all your parasites without leaving an open wound. Then, you can come into the Manor, and we can perform the ritual to unchain Ku— the shadow.” He narrowed his eyes. “You had a name for it.” “I call him Kujo.” He tried not to laugh and failed. “Oh, right! Like Stephen King’s novel Cujo!” “Well, he’s big and angry and dangerous like a rabid Saint Bernard, right?” “Right!” He laughed heartedly a moment longer. “Sorry. You’re just full of surprises, young lady.” “Go figure, old man.” He elbowed me, laughing out loud again. When he calmed down, he took an

I instantly disliked her. “Welcome back, Jericho,” Jack said with a smile and continued the briefing. “This is Nicolas Ramirov. He’s in charge of a splinter group associated with the Russian Organized Crime family operating out of Chicago. This one comes from Corporate. No specifics, they’re keeping loose tabs on him but the cops can’t get to him. He keeps himself holed up in their warehouse. That’s where you guys come in. Your job will be to infiltrate the warehouse, find him and eliminate him.”

“I just need to sever the ancient evil’s hold on him.” The Necromancer chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. “Oh, young one,” he murmured, tilting his head. “You still don’t understand, do you? That kind of bond—the one between him and the ancient evil—is not simply a curse.” His grin widened. “It’s possession. It’s fate. And it does not break so easily.” Rigel gritted his teeth. “Then tell me what will.” The Necromancer’s gaze darkened. “There is a ritual,” he admitted, voice dipping into something almost reverent. “An ancient one. A forbidden one.”

I didn't expect that centaur woman to be a second-order healing shaman priest, the two male centaurs were also fourth-order warriors, but they still didn't have any effect, after all, the human side's level and numbers were crushing. The so-called shaman priest is the orc's proprietary spell casting unit, divided into healing, enhancement, elemental three categories, corresponding to the human priest, paladin and mage.

"I won't let them harm us." Aunt Cleo's voice sliced through the air like a warning bell, her words laced with urgency and gravity. "Aqua, you need to grasp the true threat of the coven. They're not just ordinary casters. Each possesses unique abilities, ranging from unnaturally swift regeneration and inhuman strength to the sinister power to manipulate creatures and even people, turning them into spies. Some even boast of an unnerving form of immortality, extending their lives far beyond the natural order. And worst of all, they have the terrifying capability to absorb the powers of other casters."

“How… how do we stop it? How do we stop her?” “We have a plan,” Nero says, though there’s a hint of doubt in his voice. “He used his Alpha Sight on Seraphine, saw everything she was hiding. He knows how many packs are infected, how to get rid of them, and the cleansing spell we need to use. But it’s not going to be easy, Camellia. It’s going to take everything we’ve got.”

I barely make a sound but just to be sure, I also activated a spell that will ensure he won’t be able to smell or sense me. At the bottom of the grand staircase, he turns right, toward the old museum annex I’d once helped design. It’s filled with relics and curiosities: swords, banners, magical artifacts, even a petrified lycan’s paw. But he doesn’t seem interested in any of those. Instead, he kneels on a display rug and removes it, showing a thick, iron-banded trapdoor that leads to the basement. He then unlocks it with a key hanging from his necklace.

I can only hope the day will never come when we stand against one another, pointing our guns to kill. A familiar figure walks in and takes the farthest seat at our fifty sitters' tables. The girl I wanted to avoid the whole evening. The Cannibal Snookums; Regan Wells. The bane of my goddamn existence. For leaving me confused all the damn time, pulling the emotional strings in my heart and mind, considerably bad for my health. I know she knows I am here. Her hand trembles as she takes her drink close to her mouth, but she does not look my way for once.

It nodded its head subtly at her. Elinor assumed that is what a necromancer is. Someone who has the ability to bring a deceased being back to life. Indeed, it is something that is one of a kind. "You said I am more than just that, more than just a necromancer, what do you mean by that?" she asked, her forehead creasing. "Apart from your ability to hear every being's thoughts and can communicate with us, you have the power that can outnumber every creature, you name it, and still, you are above them."

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.