Chapter Seven

Repercussions of Resurrection

Jerking my arm back, I hide it underneath the table and shake it violently as if that will rid it of this awful infection of partial immaterialism. I, too, offer Nik a grin.

“Losing corporeal functions is totally normal for a witch, Nik,” my smile pretends to say.

It is totally not normal.

“Is this an expected symptom?” I growl at Sabbath through my teeth, seeing her chew her lips for a moment, scheming in her mind.

“Maybe we can—”

“So that means no,” I mumble. “I gotta get outta here before I go full ghost mode and everyone sees.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“No.” I stop her, shaking my head. “Eat. Drink. Be merry.”

Mounds of food topple onto the serving dishes at that moment as if my words have cued them, and I look at it all longingly. Experimenting, I reach a hand out but my fingertips slide right through the bread. Now, I’m starting to take offense to the fact that my hand seems to be the only part of my body having issues with tangibility, specifically when all I want to do is stuff my face.

This is not the kind of a “no-carb diet” I’m about.

Ignoring me, Sabbath starts piling bread and handfuls of roasted pumpkin seeds into her knee-length skirt, wrapping the fabric around them—because this is just the twelfth time we’ve tried and splendidly failed at being circumspect tonight.

Awkwardly standing, she offers Nik a beaming smile. “Nice to meet you!”

We bolt from the table, speed walking out of the banquet hall all hunched over like it will make us appear small and, with any luck, invisible. Before we leave, my gaze searches for the magicians who’d been wreathed in black smoke, but they seem to have evaporated back into the air by whatever magical means they first arrived.

“This isn’t good,” Sabbath mutters as soon as we slip through the ornate entrance hall doors, shouldering them to a whispering close.

In the silence, my breath comes hastily. So does the sound of my lurching heart, which I’m sure she can hear. At least I have a heartbeat, which would’ve been a big debate if I were a full ghost.

“So, to recap: My magic isn’t working. My hand can’t hold a baguette. I have to charm my hair not to look like a grandma, and frankly, there’s a very real possibility that the grandma hair would’ve been natural at this point anyway—with the amount of stress I am under right about now.”

“It can’t get worse?” Sabbath suggests with a measure of hesitation I think wise.

“You’re awful at being reassuring,” I huff. “It can always get worse.”

“Come on,” she urges, ambling down the hall. “Help me stuff all this in my pockets, I can’t walk all the way back to our room like this.”

She seems to have entirely forgotten our true predicament. Her memory comes back to her with a sigh, and a very delicate attempt at not dropping food on the floor or flashing me her old lady underpants.

“What happens after you return from the dead, Sab, are there symptoms? Is there, like, proper protocol for becoming normal again?”

“I’m sure it’s in one of my textbooks. I’ll check as soon as—”

The doors of the banquet hall creak open, and to my horror, none other than Soren Cain comes strutting out. He makes a beeline for us, eyes hooked on mine.

My eyes try to dart away, to seek an asylum other than that glow-in-the-dark shade of blue, but I’m thoroughly caught off guard. My body has gone rigid, like prey forced to face off with its predator, while Sabbath half-heartedly brushes the crumbs off the folds of her skirt.

Look alive, Mika.

Literally.

Soren Cain’s gaze is fastened on us in a dead sort of way—which is not a joke, more of the way I would describe how specifically I can feel the few fucks he gives seeping through his casual glare. He’s the vision of a male runway model, who’s been given an emotional lobotomy as he glides straight toward us. Coming to a standstill before us, his eyes barely graze over me as he looks Sabbath up and down in a way that makes me want to punch him.

“You’re the legendary Sabbath Winters?” he nods, arrogance lacing his tone.

I don’t miss the flicker of insult that passes across Sab’s face. Legendary. Amandine’s word, no doubt.

“I’m hardly leg—” she starts.

“She is,” I snap, answering him before she reduces herself in front of this Burnbrighter. “What of it?”

He cuts his icy gaze toward me, the sentiment that I am utterly inconsequential clearly hanging in his eyes. The hair on my arms rises in hackles; in closer proximity, something about this guy instinctively makes me bristle.

Soren Cain is all hard strokes and sharp edges, which is fitting for someone who uses knives to carve things into skin, much the way he’s already managed to get underneath mine. I notice that even his own body hasn’t escaped this pastime; he’s wearing a black sweater flecked with white stretched tight against his chest, the sleeve rolled up his forearm. Iridescent pink and white lines are scrawled into his skin. He sinks his hand into a pocket before I can make out any of the runes he’s tattooed onto himself.

It’s unfair that he might have murdered me, and that he’s also so unfortunately hot. Like, one or the other, Universe. Decide.

“You did something different with your hair.” Ignoring my question, he tilts his head to consider me for a moment before thoroughly refastening his attention on Sabbath. “Your handiwork, I presume?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say stiffly, sounding like I know exactly what he’s talking about.

“Your glamor is thin and you look like death, Mischa. It’s a little obvious that you’ve been resurrected.”

I open my mouth, not sure which insulting thing to prioritize. “It’s Michlynn. Mika.”

“Odd,” he says, his mouth a flat line.

“My name doesn’t really care what you think of it,” I retort.

I look for some backup in Sab, but at present she looks like she’s deciding whether she wants to laugh or cry. It’s a strange sort of expression that’s unfolded across her face as she watches the animosity already boiling between me and Soren.

“I need a favor from you, Winters,” Soren Cain states, in a way that sounds far more like he’s demanding subservience than asking for help. “Meet me at midnight tomorrow, top of the bell tower. Don’t be late.”

“Why would we do that?” Sabbath asks slowly. She’s the perfect politician, level-headed, aloof, and a complete contrast to who she was thirty seconds ago.

“My necromancer was killed.”

Sab’s golden brown eyes stare at him, sussing out the implications. “Is that a threat?” she asks carefully.

To our surprise, Soren’s face breaks out into a smile. Not a nice smile—well, it is nice in all the ways I don’t want it to be—but a smile with hidden secrets… and bitter memories.

“Not at all. He was my friend, and he had performance issues. A dead necromancer is simply the reason I’ve come to Spellfall, where I’ve been assured there’s more attentive and well-trained talent. I need to perform a spell that... poses certain risks.”

“Um, the same spell that killed someone?” I ask indignantly.

“A different one, though considerably more dangerous.”

“And you want a seventh-year necromancer,” Sabbath says flatly.

“I would prefer a higher level one, but I have my eyes set on instinct above experience. Judging by her... liveliness,” he casually nods toward me, “you are quite capable of what I need.”

Ha! Soren Cain has yet to discover that Sabbath’s “instinct” won’t be to assist bad boys with their dark endeavors.

“What’s the spell?”

The sound of approaching footsteps encroaches upon our meeting, but Soren glances over his shoulder then back to us, undisturbed. I guess he could get away with most anything, being the High Chancellor’s nephew. “Meet me Saturday night and I’ll tell you more.”

Sabbath’s eyes slide toward me, and I can see the curiosity of Soren’s request burning in her gaze. For all the fight that Sab puts up against magic, she’s still here, entertaining a dangerous magical proposition. Again.

Seeing my jaw set harshly against her curiosity, she returns Soren’s expectant watch with a hardened look. He breathes in deeply, noticing our silent exchange, but lacking the sense of urgency that we are clearly rattled with right now.

His eyes slide back to me, hovering over my pallor. “I’d give her about a week before her skin drains of whatever color it still clings to, glamor or not. She’s likely already exhibiting signs of lessened tangibility, and it’s only going to become harder not to slip into the spirit realm. Once she does, no one will be able to see her. Repercussions of Resurrection, page 465.”

If I thought I was angry before, that is nothing compared to how I feel now, listening to this pompous dickwart talking down to Sabbath. “Yeah, well, we’ll figure it out. Thanks,” I say coldly.

“Or, I could help you.”

“What would you know about necromancy?” I retort. “You’re Runes Brood.”

“Word travels fast,” he notes.

I gesture to his arm. “You don’t seem to be trying to hide it.”

“Let’s just say I have some personal interest in this department, though unfortunately, I lack the natural gift. Carrow’s a revenant now, and you should be warned, that comes with consequences.”

Sabbath’s face is a mask of carefully concealed insecurity, and she’s gone mute now.

“Midnight, Saturday, in the suites at the top of the bell tower,” Soren offers, starting to turn away. “And don’t look the shadow walkers in the eye.”

Frowning, I take a step forward as he begins to walk away. “What shadow walkers?” I call, hating how raspy my voice sounds as I force it to a volume loud enough to get his attention.

Soren pauses with my question, just enough to glance over his shoulder, eyes sparkling fiendishly in the torchlight. “They’ll find you. If they haven’t already.”

I have the distinct feeling roiling in my gut that things just got worse.

I *love* the name Michlynn ("mish-lynn"). When I had the idea for this story years and years ago, I knew my witch was going to be named Mika. Then I came across the name Michlynn and had to find a way to work it in! My day job is in casting, so I see a lot of actors who have the dopest names. Mika/Michlynn/Sabbath are all names inspired from my real life encounters! What are some of your favorite names from fantasy books?

xx Jessa

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