Chapter Eighteen

The Next Day

November 16, 2026

 

THE WALK TO his shack was quiet but laden with tension, like the calm before chaos, and Storm couldn’t help but wonder what ominous event was on the way. He’d spent a pleasant morning with Denver and Foley, while Rowan studied and accompanied his father on estate business. He’d only left them ten minutes ago and already felt like he’d waded deep into more trouble than he wanted to face today.

Worried, he quickened his pace over the fallen leaves and dry, crisp grass to find the shack was still standing. Storm breathed a sigh of relief that the warning wasn’t about Ithen’s escape, even if that did mean something else was on the horizon.

Circling the building, he inspected every wall, crevice and spell before standing at the door and peering through the window in the front door. He didn’t risk standing by the full living room window in case Ithen saw him, instead choosing the discreet option that kept him out of sight and mind.

Standing on his tiptoes, he peeked inside to see that Ithen was sitting against the wall, pale and drained, like he hadn’t slept or eaten. This was the first time Storm had checked on him to find Ithen awake, but he’d left packaged food and bottles of water within reach because he wasn’t the same violent, vindictive monster Ithen was. Inside the shack, Ithen lifted his free hand to the shackle holding his left wrist to the wall and tugged, muttering a few curse words, and attempted to strong arm the metal. When that failed, he used dark magic to weave shadows and mist until the magic was sucked into the protective spell.

Storm almost laughed to see the shock on Ithen’s face.

While reading his heart through the demon spell, Yael had gotten a feel for his magic that allowed Storm to set a special spell on the lock that counteracted Ithen’s magical abilities. Since neither had known the extent of what Ithen could do, what magic he’d had access to over the years, they’d been cautious not to get cocky and presume they had the upper hand. This spell was particularly clever, feeding on whatever magic Ithen exuded, effectively making Ithen his own jailer. Yael had preened like a peacock when Storm made the mistake of admitting how ingenious the plan was.

“He is awake?” Yael spoke softly by his ear.

Having grown accustomed to Yael’s propensity to pop out of nowhere, Storm glanced over his shoulder to find Yael wearing a black suit with blood-red accents on the collars and cuffs. Their long white hair was styled into a long plait and a fringe curved around the right side of their face. Yael loved to play with their appearance but preferred this form, changing their hair from dark brown, blond and red. Storm had seen this version the most and liked the familiarity.

“He tried to spell the lock on the shackles.”

Yael’s eyes sparkled with amusement as they nudged Storm aside to press against the shack and breathe against the window. The glass steamed up, poised for the long talon that rose to draw delicate, intricate sigils in the breath mist. “Famulus.”

Storm knew enough Latin to decipher the command for servant. Watching over Yael’s shoulder, he saw Ithen freeze and stare ahead, long hair tumbling over his shoulder when he turned his head sharply as if to catch something flitting out the corner of his eye.

“Maero,” they continued, their voice soft and lulling.

“To grieve?”

Yael retreated from the window. “Sorrow,” they corrected, taking a gentle hold of Storm’s arm to guide him toward the poppy field. “If he’s to be a prisoner and awake, I want him too busy thinking of his sorrows to bother escaping.” The argument was so reasonable Storm raised an eyebrow, surprised they’d insinuated Ithen could escape. “I doubt he could, but everything will be easier if he doesn’t want to.”

“Won’t forcing him to relive his sorrows make him want to leave?”

“No, youngling. We are demons and the Dark One,” they said, giving him an amused side-eyed glance as they walked to Adam’s Grove. “We are made of the same dark magic. We are sorrow, suffering, death, and desire. We are secrets and lies.”

Storm’s magic practically sang its agreement beneath his skin, tempting him to use magic, teasing him with how easily he could be brutal, dark and capable of evil. Yet neither he nor Yael had crossed the line with their magic. As all witches and mages were capable of bad deeds, the dark mages were capable of restraint.

“It is who we are, as the dark ones; the chosen of the dark arts; the ones who can bend will and hearts as easily as we breathe.”

“Disturbing,” Storm remarked, not sure if he meant how right this felt or how it sounded coming from a demon capable of anything.

Yael didn’t pander to his mood. “Good. The magical world should be scared of us,” they agreed, without stopping to think of how borderline evil that sounded. “Especially when we work together as we will this afternoon.”

Storm nodded and let out a self-depreciating laugh at his ignorant thought that this was nothing more than a visit to check on Ithen, and see how Storm was doing after Yael had insisted they had an errand to run. “It’s nice to see you too, but could you not pop up just to lecture, train me, or drop an emotional bomb?”

With a mock gasp, Yael walked backwards, a hand over where their heart would be if they were human. “Did my friend miss me?” they asked dramatically, irritatingly human in their expressions.

Storm half wanted to strangle them and half laugh. The moment Yael reached out, he raised his hand in warning. “If you pinch my cheek, I will curse you!” He’d had enough of that from Gladys when he first moved in with her and every elderly witch in the area came to check on him.

“Save your strength.”

Worried about the ominous words, Storm followed Yael to the poppy field that was his sanctuary during these chaotic days, stopping short of Adam’s Grove when he found a body lying amongst the autumn leaves that had fallen late this year. “Please tell me I’m hallucinating and that isn’t a dead body.”

The silence that followed his question was less than inspiring. Swallowing his fear of what this ‘lesson’ may be, he turned to Yael, who stood at his side with their arms behind their back, swaying with a playful smile. “You must learn how to master your necromancy. Preferably sooner than later,” Yael replied, letting their arms hang lax as they walked toward the body and crouched. “This man is…or was…an inventor. The higher demons are happy for you to resurrect him so they can make use of his knowledge. However, if you fail, they appreciate the sacrifice of helping you come into your full powers.”

Yael turned the man onto his back without warning.

Storm winced at the thud of the body being rolled over, unseeing eyes gazing at the sky. Pressing his stomach, he fought his natural reaction. This was his purpose, who he’d been born to be. He couldn’t get queasy every time he came across a dead body if he was ever going to use his necromancy. The future was uncertain, and no one knew if he’d done enough to prevent the deaths of everyone he loved: Rowan, Denver, and Foley. If they were destined to die no matter what he did, Storm had to resurrect them as any decent necromancer should.

Cracking his knuckles, he stretched his neck and shoulders, shook his arms and rolled his back, preparing for however long this might take. He ignored Yael’s pleased smile and knelt by the man, trying not to look into his empty eyes. “How do I start?”

Yael’s grin widened, delighting in Storm’s surrender. “As I taught you, tap into your magic. It will know what you wish to do, and I am sure it is more than ready to welcome the task.” They began unbuttoning the man’s bloodstained white shirt to expose his chest. “Skin to skin contact will help the first few times and allow you to connect to the deceased through the faint electrical charge left over after death.”

No doubt Gladys was scrying for Ithen, searching for him in any way she could. She wouldn’t be held off much longer. He needed to do this right; he needed to master the art of necromancy.

“Everyone who dies in such a way—” Yael continued quietly, respectful of the dead body between them. “—murder or sickness, in this case a lung disease, will want to live again. They don’t automatically consider or acknowledge the desire, but the will to live lingers in their body for a matter of eight to ten hours after death.” With a thoughtful tip of their head, they met Storm’s gaze. “This should be easier for you, as the body is an hour old.”

“He has to want to live again?” Storm asked, surprised something like necromancy—which most witches thought evil and against nature—required the consent of the deceased person. “I mean, say someone I didn’t know died in the street and I rushed in to save them. If they didn’t want to live, could I still resurrect them?” He wanted to know where the boundaries lay before delving into practising on a real person.

“You could,” Yael replied, sounding hesitant. “Your magic is strong. I believe your will could outweigh theirs, but you best not try. Forcing the will of the deceased could be as dangerous for you as resurrecting one you love.”

“Right. That was in Reed Hadley’s book. Necromancy will take years from me and potentially steal my magic when done wrong.” Storm wasn’t surprised something as dangerous as necromancy required a greater cost than other magic.

“Exactly. Best we not risk such harm to you,” Yael advised, patting his hand before sitting on their heels and gesturing to the body.

“Agreed.” There was too much to do to risk losing a few more years of life. Storm didn’t know the consequences of travelling through time, and he didn’t want to tempt the Fates any more. “Let’s give this a shot.”

Storm called on his magic, already dancing in his mind, full of glee for being called upon. Thinking of his magic as a living, thinking entity was strange. Sure they were of one mind, he opened his eyes and focused on the man lying dead and waiting for someone to bring him back to life.

He pressed his hands to the man’s exposed chest and dug deep with his magic. At first, only the emptiness of death greeted him, then the ghostly image of the man appeared a foot beyond Yael’s shoulder. His spirit was still following his body in the same vain hope of life that Yael had talked about; this man wasn’t ready to let go.

Since Storm didn’t know what to do—as the teachings in Reed Hadley’s book were vague—he thought about how he’d want to be treated if he were in this man’s shoes. “Hello,” he said, hating how uncertain he sounded. Clearing his throat, he tried again. “Hello. I’m Storm Tera. Can you tell me your name?”

Out the corner of his eye, he could see Yael studying him intensely but showing no sign of approval or disapproval.

The man turned his gaze toward Storm, his ghostly eyes as white as the demon’s. “Jordan Miller.” He looked around the field with a frown. “I was in my office.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, holding eye contact despite the coldness of an empty gaze. “You died. But if you want, I can bring you back. All you have to do is reach into your body and touch my magic. I can do the rest.” He wasn’t sure what ‘the rest’ may be, but he was willing to give his best.

Jordan looked at his body as he approached and crouched by his physical shoulder. He tentatively reached for Storm’s hands where they connected to bare skin. “Resurrection?” he murmured with enough curiosity that Storm suspected he wasn’t expected to answer the question.

He gave Jordan time to accept the situation, watching as his ghostly body turned and sat on top of his real body. With a last uncertain glance at Storm, he sank into his body.

A second later, Storm felt a tug at his magic and closed his eyes to focus. He could feel the curiosity, the interest in necromancy and resurrection. Beneath that lay a will to live, a searching mind, the essence of someone who never stopped asking questions.

Mend the soul and body; join them in harmony. Bond the mind, heart, body and soul until Jordan Miller is whole again. He sent his will through his magic, trying to be specific so there were no misunderstandings or misinterpreting of his wishes. Return this brilliant mind, open heart, and gentle soul to the world of the living, so he may continue his good work and create a brighter world.

Not knowing what else was needed, Storm sent a pulse of magic through the human body and opened his eyes to see the ghostly figure of Jordan Miller fade.

Gods, he hoped that was supposed to happen.

Glancing at Yael, he found them studying Jordan’s face, leaning closer to determine the presence of life.

Storm removed his hands as fatigue washed through him. He felt like he’d been sitting in the same position for days, carrying a great weight. Sagging where he sat, he slid to the side and lay on the grass, lacking the strength to move. He lay facing Jordan’s body, his breath catching as a faint twitch of the jaw gave him hope. The most haunting intake of breath followed the twitch, and Storm almost stopped breathing.

Yael cocked their head at the inventor, their eyes hopeful until the breath repeated, this time clearly the distinctive sound of relief.

Storm knew without having to ask.

He’d failed and Jordan Miller was dead. Again.