Mortal Terms: The Good Necromancer, #4

By Michael La Ronn

Pop! Pop!

 

That's the sound of a gang gunfight in front of my house. Never a dull moment in the hood.

 

Rrrring!

 

That's the sound of a real estate agent calling to offer me a boatload of money for my historic house. Half a million dollars and I'll never have to hear another shooting again.

 

No, I'm not taking the money. The only way I'm leaving my house is in a body bag.

 

"Say what???"

 

Speaking of bodies, that's what the police are saying when the dead body in front of my house vanishes in broad daylight…in front of hundreds of people.

 

Coincidence? Of course not. But I'm not solving any supernatural problems today.

 

Why, you ask? I'm taking my grandson Malcolm to the zoo, that's why. The world is just going to have to find another necromancer to solve its problems for a change.

 

…Don't see it? Me either.

 

Sheeeeet, here we go again.

 

Scroll up and buy your copy of Mortal Terms today!

 

V1.0

• Language: English
• Publisher: Author Level Up LLC
• Release date: Apr 13, 2022
• ISBN: 9798885510103

Michael La Ronn

Science fiction and fantasy on the wild side! Michael La Ronn is the author of many science fiction and fantasy novels including The Last Dragon Lord, Android X, and Eaten series. In 2012, a life-threatening illness made him realize that storytelling was his #1 passion. He’s devoted his life to writing ever since, making up whatever story makes him fall out of his chair laughing the hardest. Every day. To get updates when he releases new work + other bonuses, sign up by visiting www.michaellaronn.com/list

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my almost fifty-year-old life so far, it’s that everyone deserves to be happy. 

I don’t care who you are or what you’ve done; the world would be a better place if all of us felt some inner peace. Even supervillains ought to be hugged every now and again. 

If we were all just a little bit happier, maybe the sharp sting of death wouldn’t be so bad.

You wouldn’t need necromancers like me to conjure the dead in shadowed rooms at godforsaken hours of the night, or to negotiate deals with giant insect demons who could just as easily slash you into ribbons if they felt like it.

No, sir, necromancers like me would be unemployed in a world of unbound happiness. In such a utopia, the only reason to talk to the dead would be to tie up unfinished business like ferreting out lost passcodes to safes or helping relatives say proper goodbyes in the event of unlikely massive heart attacks. 

Maybe if folks had more inner peace, they’d be more apt to step into the liminal space between here and then. They’d welcome the great spiral of oh-my-God that awaits when a reaper claps chains on their soul and escorts them to the spirit world. 

That’s a utopia I can believe in…

Can't see it?

Me either.

In the meantime, I guess I’ll have to settle for the dastardly undercurrents of pain, loss, and grief that run through the darkest corners of the human spirit. Those undercurrents that, you know, cause us to do the all-too human things we do.

Kill each other. Fall in love with the wrong person. Scheme against people for money and power. Summon demons for personal evil. 

For the foreseeable future, folks like me will be in high demand.

But you know what? I’ve got a right to be happy regardless of how the rest of the world feels. After all I’ve been through? Sheeeeet…

Happiness is waking up in the morning to see your daughter at the kitchen table—your only living child who you haven’t seen in seven years, and who you never thought you’d see again, I might add—an infant grandson who lights up with a gummy smile when he sees you, and your loyal undead servant cooking chocolate chip pancakes. 

Happiness is—despite a kitchen counter piled high with dishes because your undead servant never did master the art of cleaning as he went—sitting down in a bathrobe and tube socks, with your dog nestled against your ankles and your family around the table, enjoying a Sunday morning breakfast, laughing and enjoying each other’s company.

As far as utopias go, I’ll take mine any way I can get them, even if it’s in small bubbles of magic moments.

Daddy, are you sure you’re going to be okay with Malcolm today? my daughter Marlese asked. She bounced my seven-month-old grandson, Malcolm, on her lap as he banged a wooden spoon on the table.

Bang. Bang. Bang. Each hit needled my ears, but I’d learned to appreciate my little guy’s noisemaking. With his puffy cheeks, bright brown eyes, and curly hair, he looked like a mini version of my daughter. Seeing him up to mischief brought back memories of when I had sat in this same kitchen with Marlese on my lap, trying to wrestle utensils out of her hand. It's funny how life turns a mirror back on you sometimes.

We'll be just fine, I said, cutting into a leaning tower of pancakes. The cut severed a chocolate chip and unleashed a lazy river of maple syrup across my plate. It's just the zoo, Mar. Besides, you and Darvin should take some time for yourselves.

Marlese and her boyfriend Darvin were staying with me for a few weeks. Since it was the first time Marlese had been back to St. Louis in seven years, she had arranged an afternoon lunch with her old high school friends. I offered to take Malcolm off her hands for a few hours. Bo and I were going to take him to the zoo. 

I guess we could get away for a hot minute. Marlese primped her new micro braids, which were a waterfall of black with streaks of blue.

The first thing she did when she came to town was get her hair done at an old friend's. Boy, did her hair look good, but I never understood how she could sit between someone's legs for hours and endure all that twisting and pulling on her scalp. Just thinking about it made my head hurt. 

Girl, you've been training us, Bo said, pointing a spatula at her. A pancake fluffed in the pan behind him. Lester can change diapers faster than a NASCAR crew can change a tire at a pit stop, and I can prepare a bottle with the finesse of a French chef. Between the two of us, we got the taking-care-of-the-baby thang covered.

Marlese folded her arms. I don't know.

Bo shrugged. If anything goes wrong, blame Grandpa.

I turned to Bo and gave him a long look.

What did I tell you about using that word? I asked.

Bo scraped the pancake out of the pan and tossed it onto a plate on the counter. He doused it in syrup like an arsonist dousing gasoline on a fire. Whatchu want me to call you? G-pop?

If you want to know, we always called grandfathers in my family Paw Paw. Grandpa made me feel old and in need of a walker with tennis balls on the bottom, like I was on loan from a nursing home.

What do you think, Malcolm? I asked, leaning in toward him. You think you can manage Paw Paw for a little while? If I need some milk, do you got me covered? Can you change my diaper?

Malcolm stared at me, drool running down his chin. Marlese wiped it with a cloth, laughing quietly. 

Footsteps tracked into my kitchen. My daughter's boyfriend Darvin limped in, freshly soaped up and smelling strongly of some god-awful chemical cologne that reminded me of wood cleaning spray. He wore his trademark Hawaiian shirt with parakeets and volcanoes, and a bucket hat. He had his bushy ponytail tied with a green rubber band that he had probably fished out of my kitchen junk drawer; the rubber band looked suspiciously familiar.

If you want my honest opinion, I'm embarrassed to say that Darvin is not a bad guy, but he's goofy as all get out.

Do you know how sometimes you're just not on the same wavelength with someone? Darvin was always tripping over something, and he couldn't have a conversation with me without making some ridiculous comment that made me wonder about him.

He put a hole in my wall trying to hang a picture frame; then, when I taught him how to repair the hole, he fell off the step ladder and sprained his ankle. Now he was limping around my house, and I had a wall in my guest bedroom that needed spackling and a coat of paint. But he treated Marlese like a gentleman should and he was a good father to Malcolm, so I put up with him. 

Bo shoved the plate of pancakes at Darvin and said, I thought I was gonna have to come and rescue you. Hazel and I bet money that you'd tumble down the back steps. Ain't that right, Hazel?

Hazel, my German shepherd and Labrador mix, looked up at Bo curiously, then settled back down on the floor.

Darvin gave a silly grin as he eased into his spot at the table. Come on, man, quit calling me out, he whispered. I'm trying to milk this as long as I can.

Excuse me? Marlese asked.

So that's why you had her bring you dinner in bed last night? I asked.

Jig is up, bruh, Bo said.

Mmm-hmm, Marlese said, pursing her lips and shoving Malcolm into Darvin's arms. You just got yourself baby's next feeding.

Tell him, girl! Bo said, cackling.

Darvin angled around Malcolm and tried to cut into his pancake with one hand. He pushed the pancake too far, spilling syrup all over my table.

I shook my head and pretended not to see it, eating my pancakes.

Marlese soaked up the syrup with a napkin, and, like a ninja, grabbed Malcolm's wrist before he slapped the wooden spoon into the sticky mess.

Bo plopped down at the table, cracked open the morning newspaper, sighed, and read it with the concentration and seriousness of a senior citizen.

Bo can't eat, but he always joins me for meals at the table. He's a spirit occupying an embalmed corpse, which took some serious magic. If he did eat, I don't even want to know what would happen to the food, since his organs don't technically work.

He's a pretty good cook, and he makes all the meals. He's no Martha Stewart, but you ought to try his fried chicken.

He does all the cleaning in the house too, and heaven help you if you don't clean up after yourself. He almost put Darvin through the wall over toothpaste in the sink. And trust me, you don't want my six-foot-five man-mountain of an undead servant mad at you.

Before you paint me as a do-nothing, the cooking and cleaning were Bo's idea. Dead man's gotta do something.

Damn, Bo said, wincing in disgust at the newspaper. These gangs are out of control.

They report on the shooting? Marlese asked.

Which one? Bo asked. The one at four o'clock yesterday evening, the one at eight o'clock, or the one that woke us all up at three in the morning?

I groaned. Don't remind me.

We were all up at three in the morning, courtesy of a gang shootout in the street outside my house. I sprang out of bed to a healthy dose of gunshots and curse words in the air. The street was wreathed in more gun smoke than a western movie.

In moments like that, when the shots are so close, the air around you is a palpable ball of danger, all you can do is find the floor and pray a stray bullet doesn't find you. You're angry, beyond angry—not because you got woken up, but because your people are out there killing each other, with no end in sight.

Yet again, another black boy was in the morgue, cut down in his prime before he had a chance to offer something good to the world.

And you know the worst part? When you know them. When you know their mothers, uncles, and cousins, and the endless cycle of rage and grief that they all get locked into.

Over the last two weeks, gang violence had escalated. It came out of nowhere, like most rashes of crimes around here. There’s never any rhyme or reason. Word on the street was that two opposing gangs were fighting for territory. My block was the next battleground in the endless war. It made me scared for Malcolm. We stayed away from windows after dark.

Just another day in the hood…but as for me and my house, we were all happy.

A shrill mechanical ring made me jump. My old rotary phone on the wall was ringing, the handset clattering furiously against the base.

Telemarketer? I asked.

Marlese was closest to the phone. She squinted at the readout on my caller ID next to the phone. After a long sigh, she said, It's that crazy white lady again. Daddy, she just won't stop, will she?

I slammed down my fork so hard, it was a miracle I didn’t break my plate.

Again? I asked. What part of ‘do not call’ does she not understand?

Bo set down the newspaper and tapped me on the chest. Be cool, be cool. Look at it like this, boss man. If you take that real estate chick up on her offer, you might could live in a mansion in Ballwin.

Ballwin, my ass, I said. And mansion, my foot.

Marlese reached for the phone, but I told her to stop.

Let it ring, I said.

She'll clog your voice mail, Marlese said. She left you six messages last week.

We waited in silence. The phone nearly rung itself off the hook. At one point, I thought the phone was going to pop off and force me to hang it up.

Then, the noise stopped, and silence swept through my kitchen, so quiet I could hear pancake crumbs smoldering in the skillet on the stove.

Still, I waited with bated breath.

You probably know me well enough by now to know that strange things happen when my phone rings. Fortunately, it wasn't a crazy vampire calling to threaten me this time.

It was a woman calling to offer me money. Lots of it.

You'd never know it by looking around my street, with all the drugs, gang violence, vacant homes, and empty lots, but I live in prime real estate territory.

A hundred years ago, my neighborhood was white people as far as the eye could see. Heaven help a black person walking around here. Then, after World War II, the black folks moved in, the white folks moved out to the county to get away, and a toxic mix of racist policies started the urban decay that is now my neighborhood.

Now people want to live in the hood again. After all, we're just minutes away from amazing shopping at the Delmar Loop, and a quick drive from all of St. Louis's most beloved attractions: Forest Park, the Arch, and more. And you can't beat the historic homes around here.

Anyway, this real estate agent had been calling me nonstop offering to buy my house. When I say she called nonstop, I mean she called me every day, twice a day, always at random times in hopes that she'd get me on the phone.

I wasn’t going to sell my house, no way, no how. I’m attached to this place, and it’s going to stay that way.

Did we get lucky this time? Darvin asked.

Bo folded his newspaper and pointed at the phone. Naw, man. She's gonna call again.

Brrrrrrrng!

The ring might as well have been an arrow to the heart.

I shot Bo a cranky look full of daggers, and he shrugged.

Told you, boss man, Bo said. It's destiny callin'. Get that money and be done with it already.

Well? Marlese asked, waiting by the phone.

Soften her up for me, I said, finishing the last of my syrup-drenched pancake, trying to suppress a well of rage growing in me.

Madam Real Estate Agent was about to meet cranky Lester.

CHAPTER TWO

Broussard residence, Marlese answered.

She glanced at me, then rolled her eyes as she listened to the woman.

You sure you want to talk to my dad? Marlese asked. He's cranky today.

Silence.

Uh-huh, she said. "I don't think that will help…Mmm-hmm, you're persistent all right…Seriously, out of all the people in this neighborhood, you can't find a single person who wants to sell their house? I mean, if your client has a briefcase full of money, somebody must want it…You still want to talk to my