Critical Failure

“Rise, North. Rise and greet the new world.” Imogen Trace chanted and sprinkled droplets of her own blood around the grave. “Rise, North, I bound thee to me. Rise and greet the new world.”

In the depth of the night, Imogen glanced at the well-manicured turf of the grave, waited for movement. Nothing. She half closed her eyes, concentrated and felt the warm power rise from within her. She felt it ease throughout her body, surge down her arm to linger at her fingertips where blood coalesced. There it hesitated, as if unsure where to go.

She walked the grave. The power entered the droplets as she moved, splashed onto the grass, sank into the dirt. When the circle was complete, she crouched down at the foot of the grave and laid her palm flat, pushed more power into the circle she’d created.

Now she could see the grass stirring. It shifted as if alive, parted in a rippling wave to reveal an oak casket. The top slowly and silently opened. A gust of decay-filled air erupted from the interior and Imogen held her breath. She hated that; nothing she could do, though.

She reached behind her and fumbled for the maglite. It was a large one, designed to penetrate the blackest of nights and she carefully breathed out again.

The man lifted a hand to his eyes as the beam struck him in the face. “Turn that bloody thing off!” He said in a husky British accent. “You wanna give our position away?”

If the situation hadn’t been so sad, she would have chuckled.

“How do you feel?” She asked softly and lowered the flashlight. He was dressed in Armani. As she watched, his chest filled out, his arms tightened the sleeves and his legs filled out the trousers.

He’d been a fine specimen of manhood in life, and that, obviously hadn’t changed with his death. His dark hair was brushed back from a broad forehead; he had dark blue eyes that were filling out to fit into eye sockets. The flesh on his face thickened, plumped out to cover high cheekbones, full sensuous lips and a rounded chin.

“Like I’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards.” He grumped and sat up. “What’s that god-awful smell?”

Imogen cleared her throat and didn’t answer. He’d probably be offended if she said it was him.

“Give me a hand will you? Then you can explain how the bloody hell I got in here, and what happened in Sydney.” He rose to his feet and staggered, reached out to steady himself on the side of the grave. “What the hell?”

Imogen stared down at him, unsure of what to say. It wasn’t everyday a body was raised from the dead.

He looked up at her, accusations flickering through his eyes. “That bastard buried me alive?”

There was no easy way to say it. “Ah, no, Mr Grosvenor. You’re actually dead.”

He raised a disbelieving eyebrow at her, then tilted his head and frowned as if trying to remember. Then he unbuttoned his shirt. The dozen bullet wounds on his torso were still clear to see, though no blood oozed. She gave him life, she gave him blood, he had none in him except that which magically made him live.

“Holy shit!” He stuck a little finger into one of the holes. It came out clean. He did the same to all the holes scattered across his chest and abdomen. “Wow.”

Imogen waited him out. It had to be tough for him and that was probably an understatement.

“How did you… no, don’t answer that, I already know.” His eyes lifted to hers and something flickered in them. “You’re a necromancer.”

Imogen nodded. “While I live, you live. I, and only I have the power to put you back. Should I die, you will too. It is my blood, my magical blood that sustains you. You’ll never need to eat or drink, not even from me.” His face twisted with disgust at that comment. “I have reanimated you, Mr Grosvenor, and no matter what happens to you, you will live.” Her voice dropped. “Even if you lose your head, you will still live until I put you back or die. Do you understand me?”

North snorted and climbed out of the grave. Imogen stepped back, out of the circle.

“Right.” He said disinterested and looked around. “Hmm. Can’t see a blessed thing. Is there a view? Not that I care, of course. I mean, how much of a view can there be when you’re six feet under?”

He tried to take a step forward and found he couldn’t. His legs would take him only so far, to the edge of the circle before he could walk no further. “Hey, why can’t I…?”

“I have to release you from the circle first, Mr Grosvenor.”

“Oh, I just assumed…” He narrowed his gaze.

“Assumptions are what got you here.” Imogen said with a small smile.

North lifted that eyebrow again and crossed his arms over his chest, impatient.

“Not yet, Mr Grosvenor, not until you’ve heard what I have to say. Whether you come out or not, depends on your answer.”

“Very well.” He waved a hand for her to continue.

“Do you understand everything I have told you?” She asked.

“Yes, madam. You sustain me. While you’re alive, I’m alive and so on. Get to the point.”

“Were you this arrogant in life?”

He gave her a charming smile as a reply.

“Of course you were,” she muttered and took a deep breath. The taint of decay still lingered, but it was only a hint. A little aftershave would overpower it. It was a smell that would always be around him now. “You may as well have a seat, this might take some time.” She said and sat cross-legged on the grass.

Imogen shone the light on her backpack and pulled out a lantern, turned it on and the flashlight off. She reached into her esky and pulled out a stoppered bottle of shiraz and a plastic glass.

North looked on with interest as she poured herself a glass. She didn’t bother to offer him one, and took a sip. His expression was priceless as he licked his lip and breathed in.

“Good. That’s bloody good. Vintage?” He said and stared down at her in astonishment. He licked his lips again.

Imogen shook her head. “What sustains me, sustains you. What I taste, you taste.”

North sat down at the edge of the open grave. “Just remember, I don’t like avocado, mussels or spinach.”

Imogen chuckled. “Okay, I’ll do that.” She had another sip then lowered the glass and sighed.

“I wish you’d succeeded in your last mission, Mr Grosvenor.”

“Call me North, but do not call me by my full name. I sound like an address.” His mouth lifted in a smile and dimples flashed in his cheeks.

Yeah, Imogen thought, he was a fine specimen of manhood.

As if reading her thoughts, but probably her expression, North said, “Can I still… or do I feel it if you…”

Imogen felt heat rush into her face. Now there was a question! “Ummm…”

“Oh, wait.” He grinned at her wickedly. “ ‘What sustains you, sustains me.’ That’s what you said, so I can only assume that…”

“What did I say about assumptions?”

“Right.” He said and manfully tried to quell his humour, to no avail. He sat there grinning at her.

“Any more and I’ll tip the wine out.” She threatened and he subsided, although mirth shone from his eyes.

“Now, to begin.” She dragged in another breath and eased it out. “When you died, it was the end of an era. No, don’t go all stuffy and proud. I mean that when you died, the idea of freedom died with you. Regardless of your overblown sense of self worth, you really were the best and only hope we had, as M no doubt said to you at the time.”

North nodded smugly.

“When you failed, you failed us all, North.” It was a cruel way to put it, but she had to break through his arrogance and make him understand the consequences. From his shocked look, she’d made headway. “I mean it North. You died and so did we all, in a hundred different ways. You went physically, the rest of us went emotionally, socially. Everything we knew was gone and now there is a new world. One which is not to our liking.” She took a sip of wine and he swallowed.

“There is no magic practiced anymore. There is a death sentence on anyone caught. There are no magical creatures anymore; they are all in hiding after the purges. Any child that shows any predisposition to magic is destroyed, their parents, too. And no, before you ask, your magic is gone. That I cannot return to you. And you don’t have my magic either.”

He lifted his shoulders. “Then what can I do? I always used magic to complete my missions.”

“Murdo knew you with magic. Knew how to defeat you; strip you of your magical protection. Killed you. What do you think he’ll do when you confront him again?”

“Try the same thing again.” North stated grimly, then eyed Imogen. “What makes you think I want to face him again?”

“Three things: the first is revenge. Remember, you cannot die unless I want you to, or I die. Second, because this was the only mission you failed at. And third… Third, I’ll put you back if you refuse and find another way.”

North looked away from her. “Got it all planned out, haven’t you?”

“Yes, actually.”

He continued to stare out at the darkness. Imogen sipped her drink and watched him swallow again. At least he was enjoying it. She’d never been a fan of red wine, but she’d brought it for him. She’d known it was one of the things he’d enjoyed the most when he was alive. Other… things, she wasn’t willing to provide.

“What’s in it for me?” He asked without looking at her.

It was a question she’d expected, but had hoped not to answer. “There’s not a lot in it for you, North. There’s the satisfaction of always completing your missions. There’s knowing you got Murdo…”

He turned to look at her, his eyes sad. “But you’ll still put me back. Kill me off again.”

“You’re not alive now.” She said softly and held his gaze.

He nodded slowly. “How long will you keep me…?”

“If you succeed, magic will happen again. The creatures will return. The world, while changed, will be better.”

“But I won’t be here to enjoy it.” He said bitterly.

“That’s up to you, North.” Imogen said quietly. “If you kill Murdo, if you can return to us the world, then would you be happy as you are? Would you be happy to exist like you do? Would you be content to be with me for all my days? Would you be happy to wear aftershave?” She found herself leaning forward, but didn’t ease back.

“Aftershave?” He snorted then grinned. “That smell, when I first woke up. That was me, wasn’t it?”

“I’m afraid so.” Imogen looked behind her. She could feel the approaching dawn. That meant his answer would have to be swift. What he didn’t know was that she couldn’t return him during the day. If he found out, all he had to do was delay her until the sun rose and he would have a full day to do what he wished. She could not control him in daylight. It was her secret, one he could never know, should he decide to help.

“I need time to think about this, necromancer.”

“I can’t give you any.” She said apologetically and set her now empty glass back into the esky.

“You can kill me anytime, what’s the rush?”

She closed the lid and turned to him. “Haven’t you been listening? Magic use is a death sentence. If I’m caught out here…”

“Oh.”

She could feel the first brush of ambient light on the horizon. It was almost too late.

North drew himself up. He didn’t breathe, but gave the impression that he’d taken a decisive breath. “Okay then, I’ll do it. Just to see the look on that murdering bastard’s face when I turn up again, larger than life.” He gave her that wicked grin as his eyes roamed over her body. “And maybe I can convince you that all work make a dull necromancer.”

“Job first, bonus later.” She promised, although she wasn’t going to fulfil his bonus in the manner to which he was accustomed, but no need to tell him that.

She unsealed the circle and he stepped out.

“By the way,” he asked as he picked up her esky and backpack and they began walking back to her car. “What’s you’re name?”

“Trace. Imogen Trace.” She replied in a cultured British accent.

© Jaye Patrick 2005