Tim Marquitz - Resurrection

Thanks to my demonic heritage, I didn’t have to worry about most of the injuries I sustained on the job. Only those caused by supernatural sources-magic, undead, demons or angels, et cetera-required assistance to repair.

Unfortunately, even in an age where magic was its most refined, it couldn’t do much in the way of healing. More a tool for destruction than anything, magic lacked the subtlety needed for such delicate work. Outside of beings like God or Satan, no one really had the control to adapt their power to heal.

That was too bad for McConnell. Though getting the best care humanly possible, there were no guarantees of success. There was only one other option that offered him a better chance of survival and that was off the table: my uncle’s blood.

Gifted to me by Lucifer before he disappeared, the blood was a potent source of power. A few tiny drops would heal most any wound, no matter how grievous, in but a minute. A beneficial side effect to it, when taken in bulk, was that it granted a short-term surge of magical energy that increased strength, vitality, and physical resistance.

Down to the last two vials, the others either stolen by my ex-wife or broken by McConnell’s assault on my house, there was no way I was sharing, especially not with the wizard. Regardless of what he’d done for me in the tunnels, he wasn’t deserving of my uncle’s gift. Baalth would just have to be angry if the bastard croaked.

Speaking of Baalth, I gave him a call. After explaining everything to Poe, who no doubt was using his powers as a mentalist to see if I was telling the truth, I was passed on to the demon. Baalth hopped on the line growling.

“Where’s McConnell?”

“He’s at DRAC, in surgery.”

I could hear a rumbling in the background. “Will he make it?”

“If there’s a chance, it’s here.”

Baalth was quiet for a minute before he responded. “The piece of shit that did it?”

I sighed. Baalth believed in killing the messenger. “He got away, but I’m still on the case.” I tried to sound positive. It’s really not my strong suit.

Another rumble kicked off, the line crackling with static. “Finish the job.” A barely repressed hiss of anger tinged his words. “Have McConnell returned to me as soon as he is out of surgery and stable. My people will take over from there.” He hung up. Whatever was grinding his gears had to be serious. I’d never heard him so on edge.

Muttering to myself, I hurried to Abraham’s office. He’d want to know what I found. Comfortable from the months I’d slept on the couch, I opened the door without knocking and slipped inside. The scent of old wisdom hit me instantly. Lined with wall-to-wall shelves, loaded down with ancient books and magical texts, the office was an occultist’s wet dream.

The desk, on the other hand, was a maid’s worst nightmare. Piled with overflowing files and an assortment of paperwork, pens, and stained coffee mugs, the face of the desk was nowhere to be seen.

Out from behind the computer monitor, its sides covered in brightly colored sticky notes, Abraham peeked out at me. “Have a seat, Frank.”

He went back to work, ignoring me as I sat. Though his face was lined with concentration, he looked good; healthy, happy even. His recent hookup with Rachelle Knight, DRAC’s mentalist, third member of the High Council and resident ditz, must be doing him some good.

During the Asmoday coup, he’d been exhausted, worn to the bone and it showed. Not that the impending end of existence would be easy on anyone, but Abraham was a sensitive soul who took humanity’s ills as his own. Like the mythical Atlas, he held the world aloft, his shoulders bearing its massive burden.

A shiver ran down my spine as I leaned back in the chair rubbing my eyes. My imagination far too vivid for its own good, I couldn’t get the image of a nude Abraham holding up a globe out of my head. Gratefully, Rahim’s arrival distracted me.

I looked back at the door as the tall wizard lumbered in. Dressed casually in jeans and a t-shirt, his normal outfit a tailored suit, Rahim appeared frustrated. His face was scrunched, lined. Tall and dark, I normally couldn’t help but picture him as Darth Vader. It was a little harder to do today.

Two months out from a broken back, mostly healed thanks to the magic of my uncle’s blood, there were still some signs he had yet to fully recover. Though subtle, he walked with a limp, his pace deliberate, careful. He’d lost some weight too. Always a physical man, almost in spite of his magic, he’d been lean and powerful. Now, he looked like he’d been on a crash diet; his chest narrow, his limbs thin and wiry. While he spared me a big smile as he walked by, I saw him wince as he dropped into the chair behind Abraham’s desk. His wounds had taken their toll.

Abraham stopped what he was doing and glanced over at Rahim. I caught the glimmer of the look that passed between them before they turned to face me. As usual, there was something I wasn’t being told. It was standard operating procedure around here. I tried not to let it bother me.

“You were at Rest Land? What did you find?” Abraham asked.

I nodded as I brought out the phone, scrolling to the photos before passing it over. “Other than a heaping pile of dead bodies and a vicious assassin, there wasn’t much of interest there except for the symbols.” I gestured toward the cell.

Abraham examined the pictures while Rahim looked at me with raised eyebrows. “Assassin?” he asked, his Barry White voice trembling a bit.

“I’m not sure what he was, but assassin fits as well as anything else I could call him. That’s who took out McConnell.” I had his full attention as Abraham clicked away on his computer. Able to multi-task like no other, I knew he was still listening, so I just went on. “Baalth called in a favor and asked me to go after a guy who’d laid a beating on his lap dogs. After he told me they’d been looking into the Old Town disappearances, I went along figuring I could work some intel on the side. He sent the cowboy with me, to keep me in line no doubt, and we stumbled onto a hidden chamber beneath the mausoleum.” I passed on the exact location as Rahim wrote it down.

“I presume the assassin got away by your lack of information on him.”

“Yeah. The bastard was fast, plus I needed to get gray boy out or his boss would have a conniption with my name written all over it. I didn’t even get a good look at the guy.” I shrugged, knowing my lack of solid information didn’t help.

Abraham looked up from his computer, mumbling something under his breath. He sat back, glancing at Rahim, then to me. “Our zombie-animator is likely a necromancer named Reven.” He snapped the phone shut and set it on the desk.

I shook my head not recognizing the name. Rahim appeared to, but didn’t seem impressed by it.

“Those symbols you found are resurrection sigils. They’re used in necromantic rituals to, obviously, bring the dead back to life.”

“How do you know it’s this guy, Reven, that’s doing it?”

“Unlike magic, Necromancy is a more unique, individual craft. While certain aspects of it are common, holding to the tenets of the art as defined by Zarek Ashu, the first true necromancer, it has evolved as an individual pursuit. Much of the literature has been lost or destroyed over the years, forcing the would-be necromancers to adapt their methods. Each has their own way of tapping into the power to raise the dead, and as such, their styles have become calling cards, of a sort.” He pointed to the phone. “The symbols you found match those of Reven. It’s him, or perhaps an apprentice of his.”

“I’ve never heard of the guy. Is he powerful?”

Rahim shook his head, stepping in to answer, “Not in the traditional sense. Of course, anyone who can raise the dead is a threat, but he’s certainly not on Asmoday or Gabriel’s level, or even that of your cousin, Scarlett.”