Necromancer Troubles: Inklet, #100

By Liana Brooks

Necromancy: shady, illegal, and totally ruining Detective Andi Kierzan's Saturday night as she attempts to interview the latest in a string of risen-corpses. A risen corpse who remembers his own name, and not much more. (The risen dead aren't known for their resurrected brain functions.)
Andi does get one other name from him, though. A name that seems totally unhelpful… Unless you know what Andi knows.
A twisty short story about the unintended consequences of receiving kindness from strangers, don't miss Liana Brooks' Necromancer Troubles! 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Inkprint Press
• Release date: Feb 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9798201903909

Liana Brooks

Liana Brooks once read the book GOOD OMENS by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett and noted that both their biographies invited readers to send money (or banana daiquiris). That seems to have worked well for them. Liana prefers strawberry daiquiris (virgin!) and will never say no to large amounts of cash in unmarked bills. Her books are sweet and humorous with just enough edge to keep you reading past your bedtime. Liana was born in San Diego and in addition to there has lived in Illinois, Colorado, Florida, Texas, Alabama, Georgia, South Carolina, and Kansas. We'd like to tell you where she is right now, but last we checked she was researching books on both Alaska and Africa. Not only are the bookstore algorithms breaking trying to track this lady, but we can't tell you where to mail that daiquiri. Your best bet is to try Twitter where you can often find @LianaBrooks talking about her four kids, her giant dog, and plans for world domination.

Book preview

Necromancer Troubles

INKLET #100

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Liana Brooks

www.InkprintPress.com

NECROMANCER TROUBLES

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What do you remember? I asked the person across the metal table from me. There was no sound in the interrogation box except the ripple of the artificial stream running from the north wall across the table and filtering out on the south end, where the mirrored glass allowed the rest of my team to watch. There couldn’t be any ticking clocks, tapping pens, or ominous chimes; one never knew what could trigger the magically touched.

The person across from me was six three, brown eyed, blond haired, age fifty-seven, and dead. In life Matt Ferison had lived a blameless life as an adjunct mathematics professor at the local college. He’d died of a cancer that went too long ignored and had been buried by grieving relatives who, while all being terribly upset at his loss, did not seem the kind of the people to illegally raise a man from his grave and leave him to wander around downtown Cherry Tree, Pennsylvania.

A few of them looked like the sort who could tap a ley line, but they would have taken him home and he would have been Not My Problem.

Instead I was spending Saturday night with a dead man wearing peeling layers of funeral makeup,