The Necromancer's Seduction

By Mimi Sebastian

She has never feared the walking dead. It's the power required to reanimate the dead that startles her, seduces her. The power that dwells inside her . . . and is growing.

For Professor Ruby Montagne, being a necromancer has brought her nothing but heartache, and she walked away from that part of her life long ago. However, her quiet existence in San Francisco is shattered when she stumbles upon the body of a slain witch, and the supernatural community insists she transform him into a revenant to track the killer. But his murder was just the beginning, and Ruby soon realizes that the stakes are higher than anyone can imagine--and that revenants have nasty minds of their own.

Now demonic creatures have escaped into the human world, and zombies once again walk the streets. For humanity's sake, Ruby forms an unlikely alliance with a witch, a revenant, and Ewan March, a demon warrior who sets her senses on fire. She's always distrusted demons, and Ewan is no exception. But circumstances push them closer together, and Ruby not only finds it harder to resist him, she isn't sure she even wants to.

But she suspects his job of patrolling the portal separating humans and demons conceals a dark and deadly past that may consume them both. With events spiraling out of control, Ruby unravels a plot that threatens the human and demon realms and puts Ruby's very soul in jeopardy. Because when the dead walk, no one is safe. Especially Ruby.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BelleBooks
• Release date: Jul 15, 2013
• ISBN: 9781610261333

Book preview

Also by Mimi Sebastian from ImaJinn Books

The Necromancer’s Betrayal

Book 2 of The Necromancer Series

The Necromancer’s Seduction

by

Mimi Sebastian

ImaJinn Books

Copyright

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.

ImaJinn Books

PO BOX 300921

Memphis, TN 38130

Ebook ISBN: 978-161026-133-3

Print ISBN: 978-161026-132-6

ImaJinn Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

Copyright © 2013 by Noemi Ghirghi writing as Mimi Sebastian

Printed and bound in the United States of America.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

ImaJinn Books was founded by Linda Kichline.

We at ImaJinn Books enjoy hearing from readers. Visit our websites

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Cover design: Patricia Lazarus

Interior design: Hank Smith

Photo/Art credits:

Background: Nike © renderosity.com

Couple: Iconogenic © istockphoto.com

:Esnj:01:

Dedication

Thanks to Linda Kichline and Jeanette Roycraft at ImaJinn for your support and enthusiasm. Publishing a debut novel can be intimidating, and you both have been wonderful to work with, removing some of that apprehension. And, Jeanette, thanks for producing a fantastic trailer, and Patricia Lazarus for designing a beautiful cover.

To the lovely Desert Muses: Virginia, Wendy, Sandy, Leslie, Shanyn, Cami, Annette, and Maria. You ladies keep me sane.

And to Desert Rose RWA chapter. What a wonderful group of talented and truly gracious writers.

Last, but certainly not least, to my parents, brother and his family, and step-kids for sharing my enthusiasm. My son who seems to understand that sometimes mommy needs time to do her homework. And my husband for putting up with my writer’s block woes, and giving me time and space to realize a dream.

Chapter One

INTRODUCTORY ANTHROPOLOGY classes never topped my list of favorite classes to teach, but their blandness kept me sane. They fit into the one compartment of my life easy to control.

That’s why I tamped my frustration on the days the students stared at me with blank expressions or daydreamed about their upcoming weekend parties.

But the discussion in class today had escaped the compartment. I wasn’t sure how it happened. Maybe I didn’t take the cues when I spilled coffee on my pants while rushing out of the house or when a man crunched my foot while searching for a seat on the bus.

So Odysseus traveled to the Underworld to chat with some ghosts. Exactly why I don’t read myths, said a male student, punctuating his bored expression with a shrug.

Then why are you taking this class? one of my more vocal students asked, her silver lip ring emphasizing the crease to her lips.

The credit.

I paused my scribbling and closed my eyes. This is good for me, I argued. At least they were talking, but this topic hit a bit too close to home. I checked the time. Two fifty. Five more minutes. Last class today. And it’s only Tuesday?

For the past six months, my mind had imitated a drunk driver failing miserably to stay within the white traffic lines, zigzagging between a final research paper, settling my grandmother’s estate . . . stop. Focus on the white lines.

If you had the opportunity to talk to someone you loved who’d died, or say you could come back from the dead. Wouldn’t you try? the girl continued.

I faced the bland, beige wall that enclosed the four rows of desks, enough for forty students, plenty for the twenty or so that actually attended class. A few strands of sunlight managed to break through the unwashed windows and glint off a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. Brad. His eyes, framed by the glasses, probed mine in a challenging look. The other students stared at me, waiting for my contribution to the conversation.

But I had no words to offer.

Clack. My blue dry erase dropped from my limp hand to bounce off the ceramic floor. I blinked and stared at the back right corner of the lecture room.

There again. The air wobbled and emitted a soft shush, shush, shush.

I surveyed the students, hoping no one else had perceived the strange movement.

Again. Wobble and shush.

Someone had joined my class, uninvited, invisible . . . not human.

I swallowed, forcing the acrid lump down my esophagus. I bent to retrieve the marker and straightened when my cell phone vibrated, signaling the end of the class.

Saved by the vibrator.

I want you to write an essay highlighting the points on the board for next class. Use the article on tribal rituals to frame your argument. Have fun. I smiled at the students filing out, trying to affect sincerity, but my stiff lips probably gave me away.

Brad passed in front of me and tapped his index finger on the desk. Interesting lecture today. I can think of a dead person or two I’d like to visit.

I allowed my eyes to meet his for a moment and encountered mock seriousness. Of course. Of course he was kidding. I watched him exit the room. Brad was unusual, but at least he acted interested in the class. His essays intrigued me with their offbeat perspectives on ancient cultural practices. He argued for the misrepresented or misunderstood society even when the society made a habit of pillaging neighboring clans or sacrificing its citizens to ensure victory over their enemies. Leave it to Brad to almost convince me.

What a weird day. And I suspected it was about to get weirder. I faced the undulating space in the corner. Show yourself.

The air shook, and a humanoid form emerged, but warped—arms too long, head too flat, skin too translucent. A male fae of some sort, but why reveal its true form to me?

I seek your services, he said, his voice rasping against my eardrums, making my ears and neck shudder.

I shoved my books into my backpack. Unless you’re planning on taking an anthropology class, which I’m betting you’re not, I can’t help you.

You must aid me. His voice rasped louder, sending the shudders down my spine.

I must not do anything. Interactions with fae demanded firmness, absolute certainty. Any hesitation, any hint of giving an inch, and they’d carve out miles and miles until they took everything.

As you can see, I appear before you with no disguise. I find myself in an untenable position, damned to walk among humans in my fae form and unable to return to the fae lands. He shifted closer, and I instinctively slid to the edge of the desk closest to the door.

Even if I agreed, I don’t see how I can help retrieve your glamour.

His diamond-shaped, crystalline eyes studied me for a moment, at least, I guessed he was staring. It was hard to tell without irises. I was in a bar, a glass of some tropical concoction pressed to my lips, the kind with the little umbrellas stuck in a piece of pineapple, when a drunkard knocked into me and caused me to spill the drink all over the counter and my pants. The pineapple with the umbrella survived the assault, and I touched the toothpick to remove it. It scorched my fingers.

He rubbed two long fingers together. A toothpick made from bamboo, deadly to my kind. If I’d taken even a sip, I would have died. He curled his fingers into a fist and shook it. The drunken idiot saved my life, triggering a reciprocal debt, and he had the nerve to curse me as if I had done him some ill will. Before I could meet my obligation to him, he drove away drunk, killing himself and someone else.

And bringing him back to life as some nasty zombie is repaying him for saving your life?

I fulfill my debt. He pays for his crime. The rest are technicalities.

Yeah, well it’s usually the technicalities that come back and bite you in the ass. I slipped my arms into the straps of the backpack and steeled my resolve. I’m sorry. I can’t help you.

The fae grew until his head scraped the ceiling, a good ten feet. His crystal eyes flashed, creating a headache inducing strobe light effect. His lips thinned to a sneer. You can bring him back, allow me to resume a normal existence in this realm. You have an obligation. His voice shook the windows, and I was thankful the classroom occupied the top floor of the five-story building.

I have no obligation to you. I didn’t invite you, and I want you to leave now.

I peered directly at his strobing eyes. He frowned at our standoff, then slowly shrank back to his previous height, still two feet above me. I heard what could have passed as a sigh. His chest expanded and contracted, but the sound resembled a shrill hiss, a balloon losing air. He merged back into the air and disappeared.

I sagged, planted my butt on the desk, and rubbed my face with one hand. This was the second supernatural in the past twenty-four hours to come calling . . . and the fifth this week. Last night, a Ninja shadow thing nearly sent me tumbling down the stairs when it popped out from the alley next to my house. The Ninja wanted me to raise his enemy, who had killed himself before the Ninja could deliver the killing blow himself. He spent a good fifteen minutes expounding on the dishonor to himself, his village, his ancestors, hell, even his cat.

Necromancers are far and few between, and since my grandmother Cora’s death, more supernaturals have shown up on my doorstep seeking my services. Cora loved her power, embraced it despite the traumas it brought her. Me? I currently leaned toward bathing in acid over using my power.

And therein lay my dilemma, one I’d managed to avoid while Cora was alive to run interference. Many in the supernatural community hate us. Others, like the fae, insist we’re obligated to use our powers. It’s pariah or indentured servant, no in-between, no real respect, no Martha Stewart adoration.

But occasionally someone pops up, no shadows or sandpaper voices, asking for help, and my heart wants to help, to reach out. But I can’t, because once I give in, it won’t stop, and I’ll wind up dead like the rest of my family.

I LEFT MY CLASSROOM a few minutes later and crossed the courtyard toward the library. I intended to spend the rest of the day catching up on research. I had a tenure review in four weeks and desperately needed to work on my presentation.

Ruby!

What now? I groaned and turned to see Steve striding toward me. I took a deep breath and adjusted my bra strap, not wanting him to perceive my frazzled state.

He gave me a quick kiss on the cheek before we resumed the trek to the library. You look good, he said.

I chortled, aware of my thrown-together-at-the-last-minute outfit and hair pulled up in a clip—because I didn’t have time to deal with it—the sum of most of my mornings. I smiled despite myself and returned the compliment. He did look good dressed in his usual khakis and a maroon shirt, highlighting his green eyes and the deep bronze tones in his brown hair. A Professor of Archeology, he never wore suits, managing to pull off a more tidy Indiana Jones ruggedness without venturing into cliché territory.

I struggled to define my relationship with him beyond the trite fuck buddy label and eventually stopped trying. We saw movies, ate out, had sex. He never committed or declared his undying passion or, better, made promises he couldn’t keep—which suited me fine.

I’m sorry we haven’t caught up with each other. I’ve missed hanging out, he said.

I tilted my head, trying to assess where our boundary fell today and decided to play it safe. Me too. I’ve been pretty busy with classes and dealing with family stuff.

His eyes reflected genuine concern. How are you doing?

Fine, I said. Still some details to tie up on the investigation into Cora’s death. My answer seemed woefully inadequate, but what gory details about my life could I reveal without sounding completely unhinged? I’ve come to accept my inability to form a romantic relationship with a normal man. The alternative? I’d rejected that long ago.

Learning about Cora’s secret life?

My heart stopped for a split second before I realized he was teasing. Christ. If he only knew. My grandmother’s life at sixty-eight was more exciting than mine at thirty, which is pretty pathetic when you think about it.

He chuckled. We all could’ve learned a thing or two from her. I’m sorry I haven’t been around to help you deal with things since her death.

You helped. You provided much needed moral support during the memorial service. And generated many stares from the various supernaturals present, who’d wondered why the human was there. When they’d realized he’d accompanied me, they backed off, accustomed to my abnormalities. I hadn’t asked him to come, but he’d offered, and I’d needed someone with me who didn’t drink blood or turn into a hairy beast.

I’ve been scarce since the memorial, he said. We stopped in front of the library. He pulled me around to face him, keeping his hand on my arm. I’d like to make it up to you. How about dinner Friday night?

Like all our casual dates, a yes would definitely lead to sex. And that’s bad because? My eye wandered past him.

Oh shit. I froze.

Does a date with me sound that bad? His jocular tone didn’t match the disappointment weighing on his expression.

No. Sounds perfect. Just what I need. My voice was too high, too coated in saccharin to come across as normal. He tasted the sweetness too.

Are you sure? He lowered his head, almost touching my forehead.

I drew a breath to sound more convincing and not like I wanted him to leave—now, which of course, I did. Yes, absolutely.

He studied my eyes for a moment. I’ll call you. He squeezed my arm before retreating down the courtyard.

I returned my attention to Kara leaning against a big leaf maple. What the hell was she doing here? I wasn’t expecting her, which made me think she wanted something—something I wouldn’t like.

She waved at me and sauntered over. Even simply dressed in a red silk shirt tucked into jeans, Kara exuded a polish that always befuddled me. The times I attempted to appear well-groomed, applying eyeliner and lipstick, painstakingly sliding on my pantyhose, the universe conspired against me to rip the hose and smear my eyeliner.

You know, for apple pie, he’s not bad. Nice ass, she said.

You never visit me on campus. What’s up?

I wanted to see how you were doing, like a good friend.

Kara was a good friend, but she was not sentimental, and I wasn’t buying the BFF line.

I appreciate your concern for my welfare . . . but what’s the catch?

She huffed. I admired her acting skill. You wound me. I worry about you. You’ve become more reclusive since Cora died—if that’s even possible.

Kara scares me when she undertakes a mission, more so when her mission involves me. I’m still bewildered at my friendship with a witch. I used to slip into her cluttered bookstore and hide between the occult literature aisles searching for books. At first, I resisted her attempts at conversation, but she persisted and seemed sincere. We share an odd friendship based more on symbiotic need. Through her I get my morsels of supernatural life from afar, and she gets her ration of blah when the coven grated on her nerves. It worked for the most part. Of course, we’ve yet to rake our friendship over the coals.

Seriously. You haven’t called me in a few days, although, she dragged the words out, could it be because of Apple Pie?

No.

I knew she wanted all the dirt on Steve. Sadly, there wasn’t much to shovel.

We’re going on a date Friday night.

She crossed her arm into mine, and we strolled down a walkway lined with acacia trees, weaving between students gathered on small clumps of grass or seated around picnic tables. I noted the occasional side-glance from the male students. I’m sure we painted an interesting picture in contrasts—her short, black hair and dark brown eyes against my hazel eyes and shoulder length, copper-auburn mane.

See, it makes me happy to know you have a date instead of spending another Friday night at home like an old ninny.

I actually believe you worry about my sex life, but I’m convinced you have an ulterior motive, and I can’t deal right now.

What’s up?

Supes. They’ve been literally appearing out of thin air and dark alleys since Cora died. Before I know it, they’ll be slinking out of my TV or toilet.

Whoa. What are you talking about? She stopped, and we stepped off the walkway onto the grass.

Supernaturals asking me to raise dead enemies or what have you. I don’t know how Cora dealt with it.

I see. She tapped her index finger on her chin. Cora set ground rules. You should do the same.

No. I’m not setting any rules because I’m not going to raise dead Ninjas.

Ninjas?

I shook my head. What do you need?

She sighed. You’re not going to want to hear this.

I opened my arms out to my sides. Lay it on me. Can’t be worse than the fae in my class today.

She laughed. I’m sorry I missed that.

No, you’re not.

She waited for some students to pass us. I need to go talk to one of our witches.

Doesn’t this witch have a phone?

I also need to get something from him. Please come with me.

Why doesn’t someone from the coven go with you?

Adam was, ah, expelled from the coven. She gave me one of those half guilty smiles. You don’t have to do anything. You can hang out and enjoy the scenery.

Somehow I’m thinking he doesn’t live beachside.

Look, I don’t want to go alone, but bringing another witch might upset him.

I racked my brain for an excuse. I could always pull the professor card—research, papers to review.

Her eyes pleaded. Kara never pleaded.

I caved. Okay, I’ll go with you.

She smiled and grabbed my arm again, propelling me past the buildings to the street where she’d parked her red Prius.

I got a sinking feeling, like the last time I passed a cop driving seventy-five in a fifty-five zone. I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?

Kara laughed. When have I ever steered you wrong?

I responded with a snort. You really want me to answer that?

Chapter Two

I FOLLOWED KARA up the narrow stairs lit by one light that flickered on and off, casting our bodies as misshapen shadows on the walls. Adam lived in a small studio above a convenience store in the part of the Haight that hadn’t quite succumbed to trendy boutiques and expensive restaurants. The occasional smell of greasy noodles traveled up the stairwell from the Chinese takeout joint next door.

He’s not going to hit us with a horrible spell that turns us into Bridezillas, is he? I asked.

She sputtered a laugh. I can almost see him doing something like that.

Why was he expelled from the coven?

I can’t tell you. She halted in front of a faded yellow door, paint peeling around the edges. Her mouth moved, forming the words of a spell. She frowned. He didn’t finish casting his protection spells.

I couldn’t help peeking down the stairway. Now might be a good time to bring in another witch.

No, let’s go inside and check things out, she said, her tone insistent. The same tone mothers use to herd their three-year-olds out of the candy store.

She resumed her spell casting, touching a small, silver Japanese Geisha charm attached to a silver chain hanging around her neck. Witches draw their power from earth elements, needing a proper balance of at least two elements to complete a spell. Elemental power emanates from a range of things in the natural environment—hot or cold air, the soil in a potted plant, salt from the ocean. If a witch attempts a spell and can’t find enough elements around her, she can extract extra power from the charm she previously loaded up.

The door swung open. When I didn’t follow her into the apartment, she turned to me.

I don’t think this is a good idea, I said. I refrained from voicing the more significant reason for keeping my feet planted in place.

She got it.

She took a moment to respond, and I saw the internal debate in her pursed lips. When she spoke, she used a level tone instead of her usual fuck-you-I’m-right. I never ask you to help me with any of the supernatural stuff. All I want is your company, all right? We’ll leave the apartment, and then you can return to your closet at the university.

I stood next to the staircase a moment longer, irritated. I have an office at the university and have taught countless introductory anthropology classes to earn it. With an exaggerated sigh for her benefit, I stepped into the apartment. She shut the door behind me.

Kara planted her hands on her hips while surveying the apartment. Did he have monkeys for roommates?

I smiled and took in the clothes, magazines, and books scattered about the apartment in uneven piles. A desk occupied one corner with a computer monitor peeking out of the paper stacked on top and overflowing onto a frayed thrift store couch.

She walked around the room with her hands up, casting more spells. I don’t want any surprises while we look around. So where would a messy guy keep his spell journal?

Buried in one of the piles. Why are you looking for his spell journal?

She answered me with another none-of-your-business stares.

Right, more top secret coven stuff. Should we be poking around his apartment? Aren’t we violating his privacy?

Kara crossed her arms. He never turned over his spell book when the coven requested it.

I rolled my eyes. Supernaturals eschewed silly things like propriety and other societal norms, stretching out the moral gray areas to their benefit—one of the many supe quirks that set my teeth on