Curses, like restless spirits, find their way back.
"Pleasure doing business with you," he said.
"You can call me Gironde if you'd like," the Necromancer offered, a smile curving his lips, suggestive and knowing. "I'm sure we'll meet again soon, Shaytan. Sooner than you think."
I should've felt privileged by that statement, but I didn't—not in the slightest. Instead, I muttered an unenthusiastic "alright." Another snap of his fingers, and the parchment vanished without a trace. Gironde clapped his hands together and leapt to his feet.
"Let's get to work!"
I stood up too, reluctantly. "What exactly are we going to do?"
"We're going to let a ghost in," he replied, "and have a little chat with it."
"What?!"
"Don't be nervous," he grinned, his expression oddly reassuring. "I won't let him hurt you. Just leave everything to me!"
At that moment, a strange, almost primal instinct urged me to turn and run as fast as I could—screaming if necessary. But instead, I nodded slowly. Very slowly.
"Relax. Trust me," he added, flashing me that sly grin. It was the kind of phrase you only ever hear from people you definitely shouldn't trust.
Before I could process that, he grabbed me by the arm and spun me around to face a large mirror. He scrutinized me for a moment, adjusting my posture here and there, checking me over again, then pushing my chin up with a finger. His focus was intense, precise—like a tailor examining his work. I blinked in confusion. It wasn't until I glanced up that I realized he was half a head taller than me. After a final step back, he studied me again.
"Something's missing..." he muttered, more to himself than to me. "But what? It's been so long since I've done this..."
I rolled my eyes.
"Oh! I've got it!" he said, snapping his fingers with a suddenness that made me jump.
The motion burned dark marks into the polished parquet floor beneath me. I froze, eyes wide.
"Calm down. Stay still," he scolded me, as if I were a model caught in the middle of a photoshoot. In that moment, he reminded me of Alex when he was absorbed in his playing, grumbling under his breath if I interrupted him to ask for food.
"It's just a magic circle to protect you," he explained. I nodded and decided that I wasn't going to exit that damned circle. "The spirit can't cross it."
"Now, face the mirror. And keep your posture straight!" he instructed. "I've set you up so your energies can flow freely, that's very important." I followed his command, and after a moment of silence, he spoke again. "Yes, that's right. Now, close your eyes. Do you know the spirit's name?"
"No," I answered quietly, hesitation creeping into my voice.
I lingered a moment longer, not sure if I should close my eyes. I didn't trust Gironde, and something about this entire situation felt wrong. But with a resigned sigh, I gave in. He wasn't about to slit my throat, right? I hoped...
Gironde stepped behind me, and I felt his cold, icy touch gently cradle each side of my face. His skin was freezing—so cold, it felt almost as though it were burning. It was as if his body had been carved from ice, a perfect, lifeless statue of it.
That strange sensation I had been trying to place finally clicked into place. There was something off about him, something subtle but undeniable. I had been struggling to figure it out, and then it hit me.
Gironde didn't have a smell. Not a trace of one. He was completely scentless.
A chill ran down my spine as I processed that. It was an eerie detail, one that made him feel even less living, more like... something else.
"Never mind," he continued, his voice so close it sent a shiver through my body. "Think hard about the ghost. Picture him clearly! What color was his hair? His eyes? Was his face round, or did his chin have that sharp point? Did he have any scars, birthmarks, or other unique features? And finally, if you have all that—feel him. How did you feel when you first met him? When he stood before you?"
His petite figure was translucent, his skin pale and colourless, as if he had been woven into this human form from some kind of smoke-like substance. His dark, lifeless eyes swallowed the light around him, draining the color from the world as if they would consume everything in their path. His wavy red hair was dull, almost lifeless, and I instinctively knew that if I reached out, my fingers would pass right through him. His neck was marked with strange purple stains, bruises, and the unmistakable impressions of vampire fangs. They had nearly torn a piece of him away.
An unnatural chill settled into the air around us, biting through my skin and sinking deep into my bones. It felt as though the frost had burrowed itself into my flesh, a cold so penetrating it seemed to freeze me from the inside out. The puddles on the floor began to dull, then freeze with sudden intensity, as if winter had arrived in an instant. Ice flowers blossomed on the windows, and frost spread like a veil across the grass.
The cold tightened its grip, and soon I was engulfed in an unbearable frost. It dug into me like claws, freezing my blood, and I feared that if it reached my heart, it would stop beating entirely, forever trapped in ice. No amount of warmth would ever thaw it.
It was hard to breathe, each inhalation stinging as if the cold was freezing me from within. I didn't want to breathe, knowing the cold would creep inside, suffocating me without mercy. The ghost was angry—furious.
The Necromancer finally released me, but his touch lingered on my skin, like the cold had burrowed deep inside me again. Or it hadn't left, not really. I could feel it now, settled within my chest, as if it had been there, waiting for this moment to resurface. In fact, I never managed to drive it out, it had been there since my encounter with the ghost, lurking, hiding, waiting for this moment, only to come back again. Or perhaps it was always there? I didn't know.
"Well done, Shaytan," the Necromancer's voice broke through the tension. "Open your eyes. Talk to the spirit."
I did as instructed, and my heart stilled in my chest. The ghost was standing behind me, his form clear in the reflection of the mirror. I turned to face him. He wore a bitter smile, but his anger seemed to have faded.
"What is your name?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Name?" The ghost's voice wavered, as though the word was foreign to him. "I had a name... My name was Simon."
His tone had changed, no longer deep and gravelly but softer, almost normal—like the voice he had before death. Still, there was an unsettling edge to it, something otherworldly that made my skin crawl.
"Why do you haunt me? Why are the other ghosts following me, Simon?" I pressed.
His gaze turned vacant, distant, as if he wasn't looking at me at all but instead staring into something invisible. Without warning, he vanished, leaving only a swirling, black smoke in his place.
"I'll show you," his voice echoed, and I immediately snapped my attention to the space where he was standing.
He appeared again, standing just a few feet away, and extended his hand toward me. He wanted me to step out of the protective circle. He was inviting me, but the gesture felt loaded with something more.
I glanced at the Necromancer, whose expression was calm and detached, like someone watching an interesting show. He only nodded at me. "Go ahead. I think you made a good impression on him. He won't hurt you."
I exhaled deeply, gathering the courage to step beyond the circle. My instincts screamed at me to expect an attack, but nothing happened. It was as if the air itself had relaxed, and for the first time, the cold seemed to retreat.
I stepped toward the boy cautiously, closing the gap between us. When I stood just an arm's length away, I hesitated, then raised my hand to meet his.
The moment our palms touched, a jolt of electricity shot through me, a strange, sharp sensation that made my pulse race. The cold was still there, but it no longer held the same oppressive power. It lingered, faint but present, like a shadow.
Suddenly, images flooded my mind—brief flashes of memories I didn't recognize, fragments of experiences, like glimpses into another life.
Darkness. A bloody figure. He had to run—had to escape. I could feel the boy's fear as if it were my own, his memories unfolding in my mind like I had lived them myself. So that's what you've been trying to show me all this time?
Simon stumbled into the basement, ripped open the door, and slammed it behind him. He leaned against the wooden board, gasping for breath, trembling uncontrollably. He had seen it—the other boy torn to pieces by three vampires. He knew what awaited him.
With a hoarse whisper, the boy had managed to utter one final word: Run! And Simon ran, though deep down, he knew there was no escaping the inevitable. The hope that had driven him forward flickered and died when the door creaked open, and the slow, deliberate footsteps echoed in the silence.
This is a nightmare, Simon thought. There are no such things as vampires. He pressed his hands to his lips, trying to stifle the sobs that wracked his body. Then, the cardboard box across the room was sent flying, and the vampire appeared in his path, grinning with cruel satisfaction. He grabbed Simon's hair, pulling him toward his fate, even as Simon fought to slow his movements. He knew where they were headed: back to the hall, to the place where the other boy had been slaughtered.
The double doors swung open, and the vampire dragged him before the man on the throne, ignoring every desperate attempt Simon made to break free. The two other vampires, blood still staining their clothes, stood on either side of the platform, their eyes cold and unfeeling.
Simon was terrified. He didn't want to die. He had so much left to live for. The thought of going home, reassuring his parents that everything was fine, of comforting his little sister when she couldn't understand math or dealing with his big sister's heartbreak—it all flashed before his eyes. Who would take care of them if he died? Who would buy ice-cream for his older sister when she was down? Who would explain math to his little sister? His heart clenched.
Then, the vampire threw him to the ground with brutal force.
"Please... I don't want to die," Simon begged.
He glanced up at the man on the throne. At that moment, time seemed to freeze. His breath caught in his chest, and his eyes widened in awe and fear. The figure before him was no mere man. His beauty was almost otherworldly, as if carved from marble by angels. His expression was cold, commanding—like a king, a true monarch. But it was his eyes that captivated Simon the most—blue-silver irises that gleamed with an intensity that made Simon feel exposed, as if nothing could escape his gaze.
The Lord of Vampires smiled, but there was no warmth in the expression. In the blink of an eye, he was standing before Simon, and the boy would have recoiled instinctively had he not been pressed against one of the other vampires.
"You looked at me, human," the vampire said, his voice low and dangerous.
"I'm sorry..." Simon stammered, his voice trembling. "I didn't mean to... It was an accident..."
"Look at me," the creature demanded.
Reluctantly, Simon raised his eyes to meet his. The vampire's beauty was even more striking up close.
"Do you like what you see?" the vampire asked, his voice laced with dark amusement.
Simon didn't know how to respond. He hesitated, then nodded uncertainly.
"Then I will be merciful," the vampire said coldly, "I will be the last thing I allow you to see."
The next moment, everything went black. Pain exploded through Simon's skull, and he could feel warmth trickling down his face. He screamed, his cries echoing in the hall as the vampire's chilling laughter filled the air. Ephraim gouged out Simon's eyes, savoring the moment, before retreating to his throne, his fingers slick with Simon's blood.
"He's yours. Kill him slowly," Ephraim commanded, and Simon was too weak to beg. The last thing he felt were the vampire's fangs sinking into his flesh.
His scream tore through the air, but it was cut off when his throat gave out. He lost track of time, unaware of how long it took before death finally claimed him.
I blinked, pulling my hand away. Simon didn't speak after that. His form had become more transparent, more fragile. He looked more hurt... more dead than ever. His empty eye sockets stared at me, and the marks on his neck were more pronounced.
For reasons I couldn't explain, I didn't want to see him like this. Gently, I touched his face and covered the hollow void where his eyes had once been, as if trying to protect him. I offered him what little energy I could.
"Thank you, Simon," I whispered.
From the corner of my eye, I saw the Necromancer's expression shift—surprise flickered across his face. I think that was the first time I had ever shocked him.
When I drew my hand back, Simon's eyes had returned to normal, and the deep scars on his neck had faded to faint, red remnants of what had once been.
The Necromancer stepped closer to me, his gaze sharp and probing. "What did he show you?"
My fists tightened, my teeth grinding together. Words failed me. How could I describe the horror I had witnessed?
Instead, I forced out a response. "I know who killed him."
The Necromancer raised an eyebrow, curiosity flickering in his expression. "Who?"
"My father," I added, the words tasting like ash in my mouth.
The Necromancer fell silent, his mind clearly turning. "Ah, of course. I almost forgot. Vengeful ghosts are like blood curses. If their killer is too powerful to be touched, or if they can shield themselves, the spirits turn to someone else for vengeance—the next of kin, usually."
"Those ghosts... all of them..." I whispered, but my voice faltered, unable to fully grasp the enormity of it.
The Necromancer's gaze softened for a moment.
"Help me," the ghost pleaded, his voice weak but desperate.
The Necromancer sighed. "They will not disappear until someone dies. That's the nature of vengeful spirits. They're bound by a blood debt."
"Can't you do something?" I asked, my voice full of frustration.
The Necromancer shook his head almost instantly, his expression grave. "No. But," he added slowly, "you can ask the spirits to wait. Give your time. It's risky... defying the will of transcendent forces is never wise, but... there are loopholes."
I turned to the ghost, my heart heavy with the weight of my decision. "Alright, Simon. Can you wait a little longer? I need time to think this through." He nodded silently, his form flickering in agreement.
I exhaled, a deep, weary sigh escaping me. What else could I do? What was I supposed to say to these restless spirits? Did they truly expect me to take on the Fifth—just because they asked?
Simon had faded away, leaving me alone with the Necromancer. We had tried. But this was as far as it went.
"Would you like me to read your fortune, Shaytan?" he asked, his voice tinged with amusement.
I gave him a wary look, and he quickly added, "Of course, free of charge."
"A reading?" I raised an eyebrow. "Isn't that something mages usually do?"
"As a matter of fact," he smiled slyly, "we taught them how."
He gestured for me to return to my armchair, and then he took his seat across from me. With a sharp snap of his fingers, a deck of cards and a small pouch appeared on the glass table between us.
"What would you like me to read for you? Cards or bones?" he asked, his gaze steady.
"Whichever's more accurate," I shrugged, leaning back into the chair.
His grin stretched wider. With another snap, the deck vanished without a trace.
"I'm a necromancer, after all," he said, his tone light, "and I have a particular affinity for the language of bones."
I nodded, intrigued despite myself. He poured the contents of the small pouch into his palm, then closed it with his other hand. His eyes fluttered shut as he concentrated, the silence hanging heavy between us. After a moment, he let the bones fall onto the table, his eyes snapping open as he studied their positions.
"You have a particularly difficult future ahead of you," he said gravely.
I blinked at him, a nervous laugh escaping my lips. "You're kidding, right?"
He didn't laugh back. "No," he replied simply, his expression unwavering. "You've accepted that your life is far from normal, haven't you? But what lies ahead will test you in ways you can't yet imagine."
I ran a hand through my hair, frustrated but resigned. "I get it. Life keeps throwing curveballs, but honestly, can't I catch a break?"
"You're going to bring change to the world," he continued, his voice steady, "though whether that change will be for good or ill is yet to be seen. But three things will help you along the way: souls, blood, and famiglia."
I sighed, my voice laced with irritation. "Can't I just go to school and live a normal life?"
The Necromancer's lips twitched upward, but there was no humor in his eyes. "Probably not."
I frowned, leaning forward. "And what's all this about souls, blood, and famiglia? This sounds like some vague prophecy crap. Why can't you just tell me something concrete? Like, I don't know, that I'll be hit by a bus next week?"
The Necromancer chuckled softly, clearly amused. "I don't know what those things mean yet," he said, his grin almost playful. "But that's the thing about the bones—they're not for me. They're for you. You must be the one to interpret them."
I crossed my arms, growing impatient. "So, what am I supposed to do with that? What do the bones mean?"
The Necromancer leaned forward, his voice lowering. "Protect your famiglia. It's in danger. Bad blood looms, threatening to spill. The death of an innocent heart will bring the end of a false reign, and the crown will deny its bearer."
I stared at him, my mind struggling to piece together his cryptic words. "I don't understand."
"Prophecies aren't always clear at first," he said, his voice thoughtful. "When the time comes, you'll know what to do."
A long sigh escaped him as he snapped his fingers again. In the blink of an eye, Des, Alice, and Alex appeared beside me, their expressions confused as they looked between each other and me.
"Can I help you with anything else, gentlemen?" The Necromancer's smile was back, sly and inviting.
Alex's eyes widened as he stared at the skull now resting on the table. When did that get there?
The Necromancer turned to him with a knowing look. "Ah, I see you appreciate the finer things in life, Mister." He gave Alex an almost teasing glance. "Did Nancy's beauty catch your eye? Though I must say, we've been married for quite some time now."
Alex was momentarily speechless, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. I, too, stared, unsure if I had heard him correctly. Did he just say he married a skull?
Des stood up abruptly, breaking the silence. "Well, I think it's time for us to go!"
The Necromancer's face shifted, just for a moment, to one of slight disappointment. "What a shame," he said with a playful sigh. "I so rarely have such entertaining company."
He rose, planted a kiss on the skull's forehead, and carefully placed it back in the armchair, giving it a soft command to wait. Then, with a flourish, he saw us to the gate of the cemetery.
At the iron gates, he tipped his top hat, giving us a sly, almost sugary smile. "Goodbye, gentlemen. I wish you a frightful night."
With that, Gironde Mehisto disappeared into the dense, ghostly fog that swallowed the cemetery, leaving a cold shiver running down my spine.