Troublemaker: Or "a Necromancer In Love"

By Andrew Valentine

Necromancers have walked the world for ages, generating power from murder. They’re guided by unseen, supernatural forces that tell them who to kill and demand their obedience in exchange for immortality and power most ordinary humans cannot fathom.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Oct 9, 2018
• ISBN: 9781483473499

Book preview

Bukowski

CHAPTER 1

Famous Last Words

I ’VE ALWAYS BEEN FASCINATED by the last words of my victims. Not the unintelligible grunts, mind you, but real words with thoughts behind them, like, Jack Hunter, you old dog! It’s great to see you again! or You’re not still mad at me, are you, Jack? I’m sorry about all that.

You notice the subtlety, I’m sure. I am responsible for each of their deaths, and none of them exhibited fear. In fact, I’ve prided myself on my ability to keep fear out of their last moments. Fear ruins the power of life. Right up to the end, they were blithely, blissfully unaware that their deaths were moments away, their next breaths their last.

Why do I kill people, you wonder? It’s simple, really. I’m a Charmer. And I don’t mean the old flirt you know me to be. I mean the kind that uses spells and potions and charms. I’m not just any wizard with a wand and a dream to play Quidditch.

I’m a death mage, and I play my game for keeps.

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I played the game on the very morning I met you for the first time.

It was a warm, late-spring day, a seemingly unremarkable day in any city, but this was New York. Kids played stickball in the streets while moms sat on stoops, gossiping. The sky was a deep blue, so rich it almost hurt my eyes. Birds circled above, and, far higher, planes flying in and out of nearby LaGuardia Airport split the air with white contrails streaming behind.

I don’t think anyone else noticed that one of those moms kept darting her eyes furtively at her watch and then at her smartphone, as if she didn’t believe her watch. She was apparently waiting for someone who was late. Other than that, there was no indication that, two blocks away, down a darkened alleyway where few people ventured, a man was about to die.

My path through the neighborhood was purposeful; my intent was reconnaissance. I had been specifically focused on that mom checking her watch. Satisfied, I walked on.

The man who was about to meet his untimely demise lived a clockwork life: precise, regimented, and punctual. He kept a rigorous schedule. I knew he would be there for the next twenty minutes—he’d practiced his moves for the full two weeks I had observed him. He was always the same, his schedule unchanged. It was more than enough time for me to make my way through this bedroom community to the section of low warehouses that surrounded it.

Approaching this industrial area, I noted that the sounds of children playing grew dim and the rumble of diesel engines overtook them. It was still a fine day, but the buildings cast cold shadows, which chilled with a sense of foreboding. Something bad was about to happen.

Hell, something bad was happening already.

I reached the edge of the alleyway, which yawned open like the hungry mouth of some giant carnivore. Down the throat of the beast was a white-panel truck, the kind of dingy van that should have Child Molester stenciled on the side. Its rear doors were open wide, revealing an interior too dark to see from this distance. Hunched over and struggling with something inside was the man of the hour, my quarry, Myron Coggins.

The angle at which I stood didn’t allow me to see his face or make out much else about him. From weeks spent tailing the guy, I knew he was short—maybe five feet five—with a sagging gut, thin arms, and thinner legs. A pear on toothpicks. He had a receding hairline that had once contained wiry red tangles but now showed more of his scalp than not.

His face was so ugly that he was alluring, like a car accident from which you can’t turn your eyes: pitted skin cratered by adolescent acne; thick fish lips; veiny, bulbous nose; and wide, bulging eyes that cast about in a constant state of startle. After learning all I had about him, the best I could say for Myron Coggins was that he was smart enough not to have attempted a career in modeling.

I walked closer, keeping my footfalls soft and quiet. I didn’t want to disturb the man while he was at work. With his full concentration focused on his task, he had no idea I was just feet behind him. This near to him, I smelled a mix of Axe body spray and a touch of offal coming off him in waves. I heard his labored breathing, either from exertion or excitement.

The thing he struggled with whimpered. The sound was muffled, but I heard it clearly: an aching sound full of pleading and a disbelief that this could really be happening.

I fought down my rage. Any emotion—but anger especially—could lead to mistakes. In this business, there was no room for error.

Instead, I reached behind my back and calmly withdrew the Damu Khatani from its sheath. The ancient blade slid out noiselessly. A moment later, its razor-sharp silver glinted in front of me. I lowered it to my side, ready to strike.

Myron, you son of a bitch. You’re actually going through with it?

His constant state of startle proved itself as he jumped at the sound of my voice. He spun, panic evident his face. Hunter? What are you—

Shut up, I said. Normally, I would have let the Damu Khatani sing, and those would have been his last words. This wasn’t normal. What do you have there?

Myron moved to block my view. Behind him, the muffled whimpering grew in intensity, changing to a muffled screaming. Again, I fought my fury back into its box.

Nuthin’, Myron murmured sullenly. Then a light came into his eyes like he had just came up with a brilliant plan. Hey, uh, Hunter, why don’t we catch up later, huh? Good idea, right?

The wailing behind him grew even louder. The van shifted with unseen movement in the dark cabin. Myron suddenly lurched forward, taking a step toward me as if he’d been kicked in the back.

Damn it, Myron. Keeping my blade at my side, I swung out with my other hand, cuffing Coggins on the side of his head. I didn’t think I’d hit him that hard, but he