Necromanson (Beta) Chapter 11 (Patreon)

Athena snapped off the last of the stone holding her, and rushed over to Henry, who watched her with half-lidded eyes. “Henry,” she said, running her gaze over the red curtain running along his side, then down to the white haired old man, whose eyes bulged in death beside him. “Are you okay?”

Athena almost smacked herself. Henry was obviously not okay. “Help,” Henry muttered, his voice barely audible. Athena’s gaze travelled around the room, and she found a needle and thread, gauze and medical tape lying beside the implements of torture littering arranged on the table.

It was one of the seldom considered aspects of torture, Athena thought to herself as she snatched up the supplies and knelt beside Henry. Her fingers shaking, Athena took up the curved needle, and began pushing it through the neat edges of the cut.

Henry let out a groan, and his head stirred as he looked over at Athena. “…You doing?” he mumbled.

“I’m stitching you up so you don’t bleed out.” Athena didn’t mention that she had no experience doing so, but her stitches became neater as she got used to the sensation of passing the needle through flesh. As she worked, her fingers became swift and sure, and she thanked whoever was listening that Henry didn’t have the strength to scream and thrash anymore.

”You’re really cute,” Henry mumbled, his head lolling to face her. Athena glanced up, and looked at his face. His eyes stared into the distance, dialated. Athena’s eyes widened, and she got back to work stemming the slow ooze of blood down Henry’s side.

“But not like in a bunny way,” Henry gasped, his eyes drooping closed. “like in a gets-my-dick-hard-as-steel way.” Despite the circumstances, and the slick blood covering her hands, Henry managed to get a laugh out of Athena.

Henry’s monologue devolved, alternating between praising Athena, hitting on her, apologizing to dead people, and occasionally calling for his mom. Athena wiped a wet towel over Henry’s bloody torso, revealing the finished product of cinched together flesh, not yet puckering with inflammation. Athena bent over Henry and unbuckled the straps holding him in place before she paused for a moment, considering her next move.

Henry was heavy. It was no fault of his, hell, had he been in shape, he would have likely weighed more. The man was just too much taller than she was, and so she realized she was going to need to make a plan before she started clumsily flopping him around, probably doing more harm than good. Athena eyed the rolling table and added to her list as she left the room, looking for a place to lay Henry down on a real bed.

Luckily enough, the room closest to the stairwell had a bed. It seemed as though Zack slept in it when he was torturing someone 24/7, as Athena noticed a sink with dried blood around the edge, and small brown stains here and there on the sheets. Athena shuddered as she learned more about the man, the hairs on her neck standing up as she realized how much danger they had truly been in.

Athena took the top off the rolling table, leaving the base. She hauled Henry onto it awkwardly, then dragged him to the bed, hoisting him onto the queen-sized mattress one side at a time. When Athena finally had Henry in bed, she unbuckled the strap around his head that made him look like a unicorn. Athena retrieved the gun from the torture room, defiled Zack’s corpse a bit, and then went back, laying down beside Henry, listening to his quiet breathing. Faster than she would have thought possible, Athena fell asleep.

***Sam***

Sam awoke with a start, the right side of his body itched. He reached up to scratch his leg before withdrawing his hand with a hiss of pain. His eyes rolled down to examine himself. Splinters as big as his thumb had embedded themselves all along his right side. Sam gasped in pain, and levered himself up with his left hand.

“Fuck,” he said, grunting. Sam’s brows furrowed, and he touched a finger to his ears, and saw that he came back with blood. “Goddamnit,” Sam muttered, unable to hear himself beyond the dim vibration that travelled through his jaw every time he spoke.

Sam took a deep breath, and tried to remember the last thing that happened. The last thing Sam remembered was… boobs. With a chuckle, the big man shook his head and struggled to a stand. Sam’s thoughts turned to Zack, and getting a sitrep. “Probably gonna get fired,” he said into the silent void.

Sam retrieved his phone before he limped down the hall, removing the smaller splinters as he went. Sam knew it was unsafe to pull the bigger ones out until he made it to a hospital. As he limped down the hall toward the basement, his phone began to vibrate his pocket.

Sam pulled the phone out, and blearily checked it. It was the alarm for his eight o’clock workout to end, it was midnight. Sam was about to shove the phone back in his pocket when a text popped onto the screen. It was from his boss’s phone.

Sam, go into the vault, the code is 1559368, retrieve the message from box 16, and read it.

Sam’s brows furrowed, and he put the phone back in his pocket. Instead of heading straight for the vault, Sam limped the rest of the way to the basement, all the way to the torture room. There really wasn’t any better name for it. There, on the ground, just on the other side of the thin steel poles meant to suspend a body, was Zack, stiff and curled in on himself. A dangerous man, pathetic in death. The faint stench of urine entered Sam’s nostrils.

Sam’s eyes scanned the room, from the blood beneath the table to the broken restraining spell against the wall. A bloody curved needle rested on the floor beside the dead man, and while no visible wounds were on his body, his eyes bulged, his face a rictus of pain. Sam stepped on the old man’s right hand, tearing the prosthetic ring and pinky fingers off, leaving a jagged silicone faux skin behind.

Sam stood, looking down at the corpse of his former employer, and heaved a sigh, turning away with a shrug. Apparently he wasn’t getting fired today.

The heavy steel door of the vault swung open, the arcane enchantments protecting it against magical intrusion disabled with a pulse from the mundane circuitry in the keypad. Sam stood stock still, his eye widening in awe at the sheer amount of wealth the old man had amassed before his about-fucking-timely death.

Gold, artifacts of incredible power, ancient creatures and forbidden books, all stared back at sam, piled around the spacious room, making it nearly claustrophobic. After taking it all in, Sam limped to box sixteen, climbing over a weathered stone box carelessly placed in front of it.

Sam tested the metal box, finding it swung open easily. Inside was a canister formed from dark brown glass. Reaching into the box, Sam gingerly closed his hand around the canister, pulling it away from the wall. There was a soft click and hiss as it detached from something. Sam peered into the box, but saw nothing to indicate the canister’s function.

Looking back down at the brown glass container, Sam thumbed his chin and frowned, turning it this way and that. Sid this message have any meaning, now that Zack was gone? Sam would be inclined to think no, had the message not been sent after the old man was obviously dead.

Sam raised the glass to eye level, trying to discern what lay beyond the nearly opaque glass. Sam shook the container, hearing the light rattling of a paper note inside. Sam shrugged and put his massive hand over the relatively small cap, twisting it off.

Wary of the suspicious noises when he took the canister out, Sam held it away from his face when he removed the lid. Nothing happened. After a moment, Sam turned the tube back toward him, peering into it. A small, withered humanoid shape flung itself from the canister toward Sam’s face, trailing the wavelike ripples of arcane power behind it.

It sped through the air between them, fast as a snake, moving so fast it drew a blurred line between the canister and Sam’s startled face.

Sam caught it. He held the offending creature with his right hand, seizing it from the air before the lid had time to start dropping. The spirit, uncertain of form, and supposedly able to pass through solid matter, struggled in Sam’s grip like a fruit bat, all its wriggling having no effect on its fate.

Sam looked closely at the spirit in his hand, and he saw a pale, withered mockery of Zacharias Landon, snarling up at him with impotant fury. Sam knew its purpose, to move into his body and displace Sam’s soul. He’d seen it’s like before.

With casual disregard, Sam held the ethereal spirit up to his mouth and bit its head off. Crunching on the spirit’s skull, and grimacing at the bitter taste, Sam tucked the canister under his arm, pulled out his cellphone, and made a call.

“Yeah, I know it’s not the right time to check in, this is important,” Sam said, limping back out of the vault. Between crunching off more of the limp spirit in his hand, he spoke. “Aneira, Zack’s dead.” Sam paused for a moment.

“No, I didn’t kill him,” he said, offended. “Believe me, I only do what I’m told, I don’t care to do any more than that.” Sam stayed silent for a moment. “The problem is with the people who killed him, and the circumstances surrounding it. Looks like Zack really did make a soul collecter, tried to make himself a god, but the thing got fried before he could set it off.” He paused. “Yeah. Yeah, that guy on the T.V. and this one here. What do you want me to do?”

Sam’s tensed shoulders relaxed. “Yeah,” he said. “Got it, I’ll take a little longer because I’ve got a splinter.” Humor colored his voice as he strode toward the exit. At the threshold of the Vault, he caught a piece of paper fluttering from the canister out of the corner of his eye.

Sam bent down and retrieved the weathered paper, spreading it open to reveal the old man’s flowing script.

To the person who probably killed me.

Go fuck yourself.

-Zacharias Landon

A spell burst into a white light on the page, startling Sam, causing him to drop the paper. The words inscribed themselves on the back of his retina in the moment the spell flashed, and Sam’s right eye began to throb.

Instead of fading away, the spell inscribed on his vision only darkened, became pitch black, with crisp flowing writing on any surface he looked at. Sam’s right eye began to burn, and tears streamed down Sam’s cheeks a he clutched at his face.

“No fucking way,” Sam gasped as the burning began to spread, feeling as though it were anchoring roots through his skull. Sam’s survival instincts kicked in, and he stumbled back into the vault, snatching up a priceless ceremonial knife.

With the blade pointed toward the offending eye, Sam took a deep breath, and gritted his teeth, getting down to the business of saving his life.

Henry found himself sitting at the campfire outside his grandparent’s old house, roasting marshmallows. To his right sat Halil, his leg stubs oozing phantom blood that didn’t quite reach the fire. In front of him, and to the side, were the two men Henry had killed the day before. One, with black hair and a short beard, his own knife protruding from his chest, and the other, an older blonde with a bullet hole where an eye should have been.

The newcomers sat and stared at Henry, their malevolence palpable, yet the pale men neither did or said anything. Henry turned his marshmallow carefully, making sure to brown all the sides evenly. “They can’t do anything, yet.” Halil said, reaching into his bag and placing another marshmallow on his two pronged fork before holding it over the fire. “They’re too new to this. it’s like learning to walk all over again.”

“Huh,” Henry grunted, eyeing the staring ghosts. When his marshmallow had reached a golden brown, he slid the skin off, ate it, and waited for another skin to form.

“This is an enjoyable memory from your childhood,” Halil said, blowing out a marshmallow that had caught fire. “Even if it is a testament to western gluttony.” Halil accidently burned it again, blowing it out quickly.

Henry sighed, resting his chin on his hand. “At least Zack isn’t here to give me shit,” he said, slowly rotating his stick. The two ghosts simply stared at him.

“I’m not sure I could have handled him,” Halil said, turning his stick, slowly getting the hang of it. “Besides, I’m sure the old man would have tasted terrible.” Henry cocked a brow at Halil, who casually managed his marshmallows.

“Tasted terrible?” Henry asked, before his eyes caught the two partially burned marshmallows on Halil’s stick, then back to the two silent ghosts. Henry realized that something more than malice colored their faces, it was fear, and pain.

“There we go.” Halil said, sliding the two marshmallows off the stick and popping them in his mouth. The faces of the ghosts in front of Henry crumpled in agony before they flickered out of existence. Halil’s eyes rolled back in his head as he chewed, a small bit of melted marchmallow dripping from his stake.

Henry’s emotions shifted like a tempest between anger, fear, disgust and relief. Henry took a steadying breath, and spoke. “Do you plan on doing the same to me?” He asked, watching as Halil became just a little more solid than he had before, his presence more heavy.

Halil gazed at him, and Henry caught a hint of amusement at the corners of the legless ghost’s eyes. “They don’t suffer any more,” he said, setting the stick down. “Why would I do you the same kindness?”

“Good to know,” Henry said, gazing at the marshmallow on his own stick. With a shrug, he snagged it off the sharpened wood with his teeth. “At least those bastards aren’t gonna stick around fifteen years like some people.” Halil tilted his head in acknowledgement before reaching into his bag, replacing another two marshmallows on his spit.

“Go easy on those,” Henry said idly. “You’ll get a stomach ache.” Halil snorted in a way that matched the teenager’s appearance as he started to roast the next batch of souls over the fire.

“What do you plan on doing with all those?” Henry asked, eyeing the bag.

“After our little run in with the sorcerer, I realized I can’t simply wait to see how your life unfolds,” Halil said, his face lit by the glow of the fire. Halil turned, looking straight at Henry as the light danced across the side of his fine featured face. “I think we’ve shared this space long enough, I’m going to have to strike out on my own.”

Henry raised his eyebrows. For the life of him, he couldn’t see that as a good thing, but inside the dream world they inhabited, he couldn’t do anything but follow the script of the dream. Henry shook his head and set down the sharpened stick. Uncrossing his legs, he warmed his feet by the fire, staring up at the glittering stars in the sky.

“Do you really hate me?” Henry mused as he watched the milky way spread out above him.

Halil considered for a moment. “I hate what you mean to me, and I hate losing,” he said, his eyes gazing into the fire. “In all the years I’ve watched you, I’ve learned enough to know you aren’t evil.” Halil cocked his head to the side. “I’d never seen evil until the past few days, truly. But it doesn’t seem so bad. You handle it well.”

“Not like I want to,” Henry said, his face grim. “You of all people should know my reasons for giving up, fifteen years ago.”

“Scared of how many people you’ll have to kill to put this mess behind you?” Halil asked, a smirk on his lips. “It’s a shame you have talent but no taste for it.”

“Yep, that’s what I’m afraid of,” Henry said, his breath faintly visible in the chill night air. “I’m afraid I do have a taste for it, and sooner or later, I won’t be able to tell who I should kill from who I want to.”

Halil grunted. “My experience with the world beyond death has given morality a broader perspective for me,” he said. Halil turned and pointed at Henry’s brow. “As long as you’ve got that thing in your head, killing will be fairly commonplace. If people come after you and you have to kill them, just keep one thing in mind.”

“What’s that?” Henry asked, turning his gaze to meet Halil’s.

“They were asking for it,” Halil said with a mischievous grin.

Henry nodded with an exaggerated motion. “Ah, victim blaming,” he said. “Works every time.”

Halil shrugged. “Only men and women like that sorcerer will try to kill you,” he said, returning his gaze to the fire. He raised his head as though listening to a distant sound. “You’re about to wake up. See you tomorrow.”