Necromancy's fun, once you get past the smell.

Take me for example. Actually, my nose hasn't worked since the accident, and that's fine by me. Means no more obstacles at work. Anyway, I can find work anywhere, and it's always super easy. Need a testimony in a lawsuit? No problem, let me go talk with the victim. Closure for living family or friends? I got you, bud. Cheap labor? Fuck you, go actually hire someone. Cadavers for a zombie-themed haunted house? Absolutely.

That's just the stuff I can think of off the top of my head.

Anyway, you need an extension on life's deadline (get it? Haha), I'm your guy.

Call or message me at XXX-XXX-XXXX or @----- today. My rates are flexible!

-- Your Local Necromancer, Thanias

I wake up at 5:00 a.m. every day. One with my talents needs an early start to the day. I usually chat with 2 of my zombies at the breakfast table while I drink black tea and munch some hardtack. Too bad they aren't very verbal, just moans and groans. At 6:00, I listen for the echoes of the spirits of the dead.

I follow their sounds. Wherever I find them, I start asking around for my next gig. Today, for example, I "cured" a sickly child, decorated a haunted house, diagnosed someone with consumption, and dug a handful of graves.

My schedule is flexible, but my long work day usually allows me to go home around 7:00 p.m. I'll commune with the dead and record some soundtracks with my theremin to lull myself and the restless ones to sleep. I dream of the underworld and those who will soon make the journey there.

This particular Tuesday started like any other—5:00 a.m., black tea, hardtack, two zombies at the table. I named them Harold and Miggs for conversational purposes. Harold’s left ear occasionally falls off when he nods too enthusiastically. Miggs mostly stares. Great listeners, both of them.

Around 6:00, the usual chorus of whispers rolled in. Faint, urgent, echoing through my skull like someone humming in a cathedral made of bone. Most days it’s vague: regrets, unfinished business, the odd complaint about burial attire. But today it was focused.

Hospital.

Now, hospitals are tricky territory. Lots of rules. Lots of fluorescent lighting. Very anti-resurrection vibe.

We have an informal understanding.

They pretend I don’t exist, and I try not to improve their discharge rates.

Still, business is business.

I tucked my business cards into my coat, left Harold and Miggs with strict instructions not to water the plants (they misunderstand that phrase), and followed the pull of the spirits to Saint Bartholomew’s General.

The lobby smelled aggressively of disinfectant. I wouldn’t know personally, of course, but there were enough janitors around to safely assume. Nurses moved briskly. Machines beeped in polite panic.The receptionist handed me a visitor sticker that said “HELLO, MY NAME IS: Thaddeus.”

Close enough.

The whispers led me to the fourth floor.

Room 417. ICU.

Inside lay an elderly man surrounded by family. Machines hissed and chirped. The doctor spoke softly about “comfort measures” and “making him peaceful.”

I stepped in quietly.

“Excuse me,” I said, in my most respectful tone. “I represent an alternative transition consultancy.”

The daughter blinked at me. “Who are you?”

“Thanias. Local necromancer. Flexible rates.”

The doctor stared. “Security—”

It wasn’t intentional. I’d like that on the record.

HIs spirit was already floating around, unsure of which realm it wanted to be in. I merely… steadied the connection. Just a touch. A professional courtesy. The old man’s eyes fluttered open.

He sat up.

Machines screamed.

He looked directly at his family and said, quite clearly, “Tell Gerald I hid the bonds under the shed.”

Then he fell back down.

Flatline.

Absolute chaos.

Now here’s the thing—technically, he was going to pass within minutes anyway. I did not alter the timeline. I just facilitated a brief Q&A session.

Unfortunately, hospitals do not appreciate nuance.

Alarms blared. Nurses rushed in. Someone shouted “Code Blue!” as though it were a particularly aggressive paint color.

I was escorted—firmly—into the hallway.

“You cannot just walk into ICU and— and do whatever that was!” the doctor snapped.

“I provided closure,” I said calmly. “You’re welcome.”

Behind us, the daughter was sobbing—not in horror, but in stunned relief. “The shed,” she kept repeating. “Dad, you stubborn old—”

Security arrived.

Now, I could have made this worse. I could have animated a cadaver from the morgue as a distraction. I could have summoned a whole host of walking limbs, appendixes and tonsils that had been removed and sat waiting to be incinerated.

I did not.

Instead, I chose diplomacy.

“Gentlemen,” I said to the guards, “I understand this looks unconventional. But grief is messy. My work simply… tidies.”

They were unmoved.

As they escorted me out, a nurse hurried past us, pale. “Room 428,” she whispered to another staff member. “The coma patient—he just started talking.”

“I did not touch Room 428,” I said honestly.

The whispers in my head giggled.

Ah.

Residual resonance.

Sometimes when you open the veil, more spirits cross over than you mean for.

Later that evening, back home with Harold and Miggs, I reviewed the day’s events over tea.

On the plus side: one family achieved closure and possibly located hidden bonds.

On the downside: I am now unofficially banned from Saint Bartholomew’s General.

Lessons learned?

Still, as I lay down and played a slow, wavering tune on my theremin, the spirits settled.

Some thanked me.

Some complained.

One asked if I validated parking.

Tomorrow, I think I’ll stick to graveyards.

Lower liability.

That night, the residual resonance caught up to me. It began as restless whispers, like "Where did you leave the crackers?" or "Would you finish up already? I need to go right now!", but it escalated into wails. I consider myself a heavy sleeper, but even I couldn't ignore the endless noise. After 15 minutes of this, I couldn't hold it in any longer. With a bone-shaking yell, I cried, "Shut up!" Mind you, I do enjoy being surrounded by a few ghouls and spirits when I sleep: it's almost like white noise. I'll only tolerate so much, though.

When I rose from my bed as a vampire rises from his coffin, I felt invigorated. That is one of the perks of being a necromancer.

As I trotted down the stairs, I decided I would take a day off and visit a graveyard. Yesterday was simply exhausting.

After a quick breakfast, I donned my black leather jacket and departed.

Once I had arrived, my intuition told me something was off. There was a silence. I'm obviously not referring to the physical one; I expect that. Then, I realized the spirits were missing. "Where could they have gone?", I mused to myself. I searched the graves for anything suspicious, but I was not given any realization as to the cause of the disappearance. I listened. After a few moments, I could scarcely decipher a strange hiss. It was strange, as if it was being muffled or uttered backwards. Once I heard it, the source of the sound felt my presence. Behind me, I felt the cold, steady hand of another necromancer.

No. No, wait. This guy's definitely not a necromancer.

How could I tell? Let me impart some of my otherworldly wisdom. Four things make a necromancer: natural disinclination to interact with the living, love of darkness and cold, fascination with the undead, and of course a fashion sense centered on black. Then whether or not one actually learns magic is up to fate. And possibly the gods? Anyway.

White repels ghosts. Don't ask me why. They also have a strong aversion to people with any sort of suntan. This man was not only fully dressed in white but also spent tons of time in the sun, if the rich tan was any indication. Why his hands were so cold, I couldn't tell you. Iron deficiency? I could tell you this though--bro was definitely a paladin or a cleric. My guess leaned toward the latter, what with the flowing robes and all. Which god he followed, I could tell you that--because she hates me.

Limitis, goddess of the border, is not a fan of necromancers. Never has been, and I seriously doubt she ever will be. So you can imagine the atmosphere when we faced each other.

It was hella awkward.

"Uh. . ." I cleared my throat. "Hey, man, you kinda scared off my ghosts."

He frowned. The guy was really well-built for--whatever he was, cleric or paladin. He definitely had the kind of frame suited for the latter. He was also about a half foot taller than me, or even more than that. Being frowned at by such a man, even for one with my notable talents, was frightening. "Those on the other side of the border must pass into the Underworld. I merely did my job."

"Well, you see, that's kind of a problem--"

He didn't wait to hear my feedback. Instead he just talked over me. Real nice guy. "What I don't understand is why so many restless spirits lay in this backwater town."

"Excuse me? I'll have you know--"

"There must be evil influence here." He narrowed his eyes at me, and I suddenly became very aware of my less-than-muscular physique. (I never really got past the 'lanky high school boy' stage.) "Are you behind this?"

I held up my hands and took a step back. "Hey, buddy, I don't make the dead. I just work with them."

"Which means you're well-versed in dark energies and resentful intentions. Yes?"

"Um, well, I wouldn't--"

"Good. You can come with me then."

So here's the thing, friends and foes. I've found that paladins are shit at listening. That's how the accident happened. Now, I try to keep my hands pretty clean--not a fan of getting blood under my nails, you know? It's hard to get out. But even a worm will turn.

So when push comes to shove, I shove back.

Which is why, when Real Nice Guy made to grab my wrist, I animated a skeleton.

It was not on purpose. It was a complete accident. Reflexive. The way you duck when someone throws something at your head. See, I don't like being grabbed at. I'm a bit touchy about it. And when I get touchy, I reanimate things! It's not like I mean to, it just happens!

Anyway, he ended up with a dagger shoved in his side.

That’s the thing about dying. Especially violent murders. The screaming never really tends to stop.

So now, I’m stood there, in the graveyard, surrounded by skeletons, the still warm corpse of this paladin, and a fucking ringing in my ears.

Shit.

Limitis isn’t going to be happy with me.

It's hard working with warm bodies, but the colder they get, the weirder they'll be after revival. So I really had no choice but to get started right away.

I sent away the skeletons, cast off my cloak, and rolled up my sleeves. Always remember to roll those sleeves. I also recommend removing any rings and bracelets. Revivals are messy. Anyway. I'd left my own knives at home, so I could only use the one I'd accidentally killed the paladin with.

Oh yeah, I forgot. So obviously necromancers don't just reanimate the dead. Some of us, maybe, but more often we have another skillset: revival. The thing about that is, you really can't be afraid of pain. Or blood and gore. Or Limitis, for that matter. As it stands she's cursed me about six times in varying ways. Anyway. To revive a person, you have to give them a life force, yes? Well, theirs is already shot. (Sometimes literally.) So that means you've gotta improvise.

In other words, you have to share your own. Not in a 'you get some, I get some' way--more like 'you'll live as long as I live'. So basically, you can revive however many people you want, but the minute you die, it's game over for all of them too.

Luckily I'd only had to revive one person before this. That time was also an accident.

Ideally, for revivals, you would also have some loose incense to burn, a few good crystals, red candles, and a ready-to-eat feast nearby (because nothing is more tiring than yanking someone back through the veil). And obviously a sink to wash your hands in. Unfortunately I had none of these things on me. Best I could do was smear some blood spells on the guy and leave the rest up to manual labor.

I shut my eyes.

The other side of the veil is a pretty creepy place. That day it was even creepier. Probably because my arms were soaked in blood from the elbows down, which tends to draw evil spirits. I was groped all over the minute I crossed.

There was good news and bad news. The good news was that the paladin's ghost hadn't even woken up yet. The bad news was that the paladin's ghost hadn't even woken up yet. I may have mentioned my physical capabilities (i.e., none of note, unless you count having double-jointed fingers).

In the end I grabbed him by the ankles and dragged him back. I don't advise this. But if it's you're only option, well, what're you gonna do? He didn't stir the entire time. If that was a bad sign, well, how should I know? Anyway I eventually got him back into his body and on the right side of the veil. Then I hustled back to my own fleshbag and got the heck in there before I could get possessed (not a fun experience).

When the paladin’s eyes snapped open, the first thing he did was gasp like a man who’d just realized he’d left the oven on.

The second thing he did was grab my collar.

“By the grace of Limitis—” he choked, staring at me like I was both a miracle and a crime scene. “What did you do?”

I pried his fingers off my jacket with all the strength of a mildly determined breadstick. “Revived you. You’re welcome. Also, please stop grabbing me. It triggers things.”

He blinked, processing. Then his gaze dropped to the blood sigils smeared across his chest, to the dagger still lying in the grass, to the ring of disturbed earth where the skeleton had briefly existed.

“You killed me,” he said slowly.

“Technically,” I replied, holding up a finger, “I reflexively animated a skeleton which then—independently and without prior authorization—stabbed you. I would describe it as a collaborative accident.”

Silence settled between us, broken only by a distant crow and the faint, judgmental rustling of leaves.

He pressed a hand to his side. The wound was gone, but the memory of pain lingered in his expression. “I felt the border,” he murmured. “I stood before it. I heard Her voice.”

Ah. That would be bad.

“What did She say?” I asked, already bracing myself.

He looked up at me, face paling beneath the tan. “She said, ‘Return. And bring the necromancer with you when his time comes.’”

…Great.

“Okay,” I said carefully, “let’s not overreact.”

“You have bound my life to yours,” he continued, voice tightening as realization dawned. “I can feel it. Like a thread. Like a tether tied to my chest.”

I winced. “Yeah, that’s the Terms and Conditions part. You live as long as I live. I die, you die. Very efficient. Cuts down on paperwork.”

He stared at me in utter horror.

“I am a cleric of Limitis,” he said. “Guardian of the threshold. Shepherd of souls. I cannot be… subcontracted.”

“Look, in my defense,” I said, “you were actively bleeding out and I panicked. It was either revival or an awkward conversation with your goddess while you were dead, and I feel like that would’ve gone worse for me.”

He rose to his feet, swaying only slightly. For a man who’d been a corpse ten minutes ago, he recovered alarmingly fast. Cleric constitution, I guessed. Very unfair.

“What is your name?” he demanded.

“Thanias. Local necromancer. Flexible rates.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I am Caelum, sworn servant of Limitis. And you, Thanias, have committed a grave transgression.”

“Yes, that is where we are standing,” I said, gesturing at the graveyard. “Lots of graves. Very on theme.”

“That was not a joke.”

“It was a little bit a joke.”

His eyes glowed faintly, a soft, holy white that made every nearby ghost immediately vacate the premises like someone had turned on a spectral fire alarm. The graveyard fell even quieter than before.

“You will undo this,” Caelum said.

I crossed my arms. “I can’t.”

“You will try.”

“I physically cannot. Revival bonds are permanent. Trust me, I’ve looked into refunds.”

He stared at me for a long moment, searching my face for deception. Unfortunately for him, I was being completely honest. I may be morally flexible, but I’m very firm on the laws of necromancy. They’re less laws and more aggressively worded suggestions, but still.

Finally, his shoulders sagged a fraction. “Then this is… my penance,” he murmured.

“Whoa, whoa,” I said. “That's a little rude. Think of it more like… a professional partnership.”

“A partnership,” he repeated, voice flat.

“Yes! You handle overzealous spirits crossing where they shouldn’t, I handle the ones who need a little more time. Balanced ecosystem. Very sustainable.”

He looked at me like he was considering whether smiting me would also kill him. Judging by the way his jaw tightened, he did not like the odds.

Before he could respond, the air shifted.

You ever feel when a storm is about to hit? Pressure dropping, hairs on the back of your neck standing up, that sense that something vast has turned its attention toward you?

Yeah. That.

The ground beneath the graves began to hum. Faint at first, then stronger. The soil trembled, not in a violent quake but in a steady, anticipatory vibration.

Caelum’s head snapped up. “Do you feel that?”

“I always feel things in graveyards,” I said. “Occupational hazard.”

“No,” he said sharply. “Something else.”

The whispers returned—not the usual restless chatter, but something unified. Focused.

The earth at the far end of the graveyard cracked open with a soft, deliberate split.

Not an explosion. Not chaos.

Precision.

A pale hand emerged from the soil, fingers long and elegant, utterly unrotted. It gripped the edge of the grave and pulled.

A figure rose, brushing dirt from immaculate white sleeves.

Caelum froze beside me. “That,” he whispered, voice suddenly very small, “is not supposed to be possible.”

The newcomer’s eyes opened, gleaming like polished bone.

They smiled at me.

“Ah,” they said pleasantly, voice echoing with far too many undertones to belong to a single soul. “So you’re the one who’s been reopening my borders.”

I swallowed.

“…Define ‘my.’”

"You already know the answer to that foolish question," the immaculate voice said. Without a struggle, the angelic form ascended from the earth and lightly landed on the top of a grave. It had been a hot minute since I last met Limitis. We're not on good terms. She had visited me after I had sent a company of undead villagers after an unjust sheriff. After that, I got a stern warning not to mess with the border again. I can't do that! It's my whole thing; I'm a necromancer, after all.

Back to the matter at hand. The goddess's mouth opened again: "I am displeased with your treatment of my cleric. If I wish, I can punish you sorely for your transgression. Alas, I have need of one with your..." Oh, great. Now she wants me to go run errands for her? I'm quite busy already. In the brief moment I had thought this, her eyes narrowed on me, as if sensing my unwillingness. Limitis continued, "abilities. There is a relic I have lost, a token of great power. You and Caelum will join forces and embark on a journey to find it."

Caelum immediately objected. "My lady, I cannot go with this...necromancer! You know as well as I that he hates our morals and ideals. Even if we find it, how do you know he will not use it for himself?"

"He simply cannot. Only one who had practiced our art can correctly use the relic. Your life is bound to his, so it only seems fitting that you should accompany him."

My mind jumps to the obvious question. "What if I refuse?" Limitis coldly and calms replies, "Then I will strip you of your power and subject you to a hundred years of suffering in my realm. If I did any longer, I fear I would anger your god." I answer, "Very well. Where is this relic and what is it?" "You will know it when you retrieve it," her eyes widen in impatience, "Caelum knows its appearance. As for its location, I will periodically send messengers with directions for your next steps. I do want to have a little fun with this. I'm giving you a mission, a quest, if you will. You're welcome." With that, her shimmering form dissipated into the air, as if she had never been there.

That's how I was coerced into a treasure hunt.

Listen. Necromancy is a rare branch of magic, and it's rare for a reason. Most kids can't just waltz into their backyard and reanimate rat bones, okay? You've gotta go through some pretty fucked-up shit before you start turning to dead people for help. That's why most of us are goth/emo, reclusive, don't like to be touched, and have dark senses of humor. It's also why I do not vibe with being ordered around.

But alas, Caelum looked like he'd murder me himself if I tried to split, and I had no doubts he could do so. I was not eager to pass Limitis' border anytime soon. When she'd had a few decades to forget all about me, sure! But not right now.

Besides, I hadn't even lived yet. Even I have a bucket list.

This was how I ended up in the passenger seat of a Prius with my feet up on the dash and some kind of boring-ass classical music playing in a low drone from the speakers.

"Yo, where the fuck are we headed anyway?"

Caelum glanced at my feet. "We're going to the airport. Can't you sit straight?"

"I'm afraid that's not in my skillset. And after the airport?"

"Boston."

"We're looking for an ancient magical artifact in Boston?"

Caelum briefly closed his eyes. "No, we're going to my house. I can't just trek halfway across the globe without any sort of preparation."

"Can't or won't?"

"Both."

"Skill issue."

Another half hour passed. Hellfire (yes, that's the name of my hometown, and it's fuckin' dope) is four hours from the nearest airport, and it'd only been a quarter of that. If I had to listen to one more minute of classical music, I was going to dig my eardrums out.

I ejected Caelum's CD.

"What're you doing?" he asked tiredly.

"Oh, nothing. I just thought maybe this could qualify as Limitis's ancient artifact. C'mon, man, what do you think I'm doing? I'm saving my sanity."

I hooked up my phone and put on something random. Caelum wrinkled his nose at the first ten seconds. Typical.

This was going to a long trip.

Airports, as it turns out, are a uniquely hostile environment for necromancers.

Not because of the metal detectors, or the body scanners, or even the overpriced sandwiches that look like they were embalmed before being placed on display.

No, the real problem is that airports are full of ghosts.

Not ghost ghosts, but a different kind. Not exactly spiritual, but emotional. They're subtler, but they compound like hell in a place like this.

Thousands of people coming and going every day. Near-misses. Regrets. Last goodbyes said too quickly over departure gates. That one guy who ate questionable sushi at 30,000 feet and saw the border for approximately twelve seconds before being violently returned to his body by airline coffee.

The spiritual traffic is insane.

The moment we stepped through the sliding glass doors, the whispers came back like someone had flipped a switch in my skull.

One spirit kept screaming about a connecting flight in Denver like it was still personally haunting him. A group of college friends arguing as a long-term friendship died.

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Oh, this is going to be a long day.”

Caelum adjusted the strap of his pristine white travel bag. “Compose yourself. We are in a public place.”

A ghost drifted through him, paused, and immediately recoiled like it had touched a hot stove. It zoomed away down the terminal.

He blinked. “Did you see that?”

“Yeah,” I muttered. “You’re like spiritual bug spray.”

“I am consecrated,” he said stiffly.

“Congrats. You’re Raid: Ghost Edition.”

We got in line for security.

This was, in hindsight, a mistake.

I forgot about the skeleton key in my pocket. Not metaphorical. Literal. Femur-shaped. Good for emergency lockpicking and occasional dramatic flair.

The scanner lit up like I’d tried to smuggle a small medieval armory through my coat.

The TSA agent stared at the screen. Then at me. Then back at the screen.

“Sir,” she said slowly, “do you have… bones in your pockets?”

I hesitated. Caelum closed his eyes in what I could only assume was prayer for patience.

“Technically,” I said, “they’re occupational artefacts.”

She did not find that reassuring.

Ten minutes later, I was explaining—very carefully—that the bones were decorative, ceremonial, religious and absolutely not evidence of any recent criminal activity. Caelum stood beside me radiating quiet judgment and faint holy energy, which did not help my case. Eventually they let us through, mostly because Caelum started quoting something about “pilgrimage exemptions” and “religious artifacts,” and the agent clearly decided that we was above her pay grade.

We shuffled toward our gate.

I slumped into a chair and sighed. “If the relic is hidden in a place like this, I’m quitting.”

“It will not be,” Caelum said firmly. “It is far too sacred to be left among… rolling suitcases.”

A child ghost zipped past, chasing a spectral balloon. I waved. He waved back. Caelum pretended he did not see it.

“Remind me,” I said, “what exactly this relic does again?”

He hesitated. Which was never a good sign.

“It is called the Compass of Thresholds,” he said finally. “It does not point north. It points to borders.”

“…Borders,” I repeated.

“Between life and death. Between realms. Between what is and what should not be.”

I sat up straighter. “So basically, it’s a divine GPS for the veil?”

“That is an oversimplification,” he said.

“That is exactly what it is.”

He didn’t deny it.

A slow grin spread across my face. “Oh, that is dangerously useful.”

His glare snapped to me immediately. “You will not misuse it.”

“Relax,” I said, holding up my hands. “If I wanted to cause large-scale existential instability, I’d have started with something easier. Like politics.”

He looked deeply unconvinced.

Boarding was called.

As we filed onto the plane, the air pressure shifted in that familiar way that meant the veil was thinner than usual. Spirits lingered near the windows, peering out like they could still feel the thrill of takeoff. One old man hovered near seat 14C, grumbling about legroom even in death.

I slid into my seat. Caelum took the aisle.

As the plane began to taxi, I felt the faint tug in my chest.

The bond.

Caelum must have felt it too, because he glanced at me sharply. “You feel that?”

“Yeah,” I said quietly. “Like a thread getting pulled.”

He frowned. “That should not be reacting.”

The engines roared. The plane lifted.

The moment the wheels left the ground, something far, far away stirred.

Not a whisper. Not a ghost.

A presence.

It felt… pleased.

I swallowed. “Hey, Caelum?”

“Yes?”

“You ever get the feeling we’re not the only ones looking for this thing?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Which, coming from him, was answer enough.

The plane climbed higher into the clouds.

And somewhere beyond the veil, something began to follow our trajectory.

Five hours later, we staggered like the dead out of the airport in Boston (pardon me for not paying attention to its name). Or, Caelum walked and I staggered.

It was rainy in Boston. Very nice weather. While we waited on the sidewalk for an available taxi, Caelum reached out an arm to steady me. "Pull yourself together. The flight wasn't that long."

"Buddy, I haven't eaten since before you kidnapped me. Even necromancers get hungry after. . .Fuck, it's probably been twelve hours or longer. . .And plus, revivals make me ravenous on a good day."

"Watch your profanity." He rearranged his grip on me and reached in his pocket with the other hand. I expected him to whip out some holy emblem or something. Instead he pulled out a phone. Color me surprised.

He dialed someone. Whoever it was sounded around our age. He asked them to have food ready, then hung up after another short exchange.

"That your girlfriend or something?" I asked--more to annoy him than anything. Caelum definitely struck me as the 'too holy for romance' type.

Sure enough he cast me an exasperated glance and said, "That was my mother."

"Damn, you still live with your parents? Poor guy."

"I don't. I asked her to watch over my place while I was gone."

I chuckled and rested my elbow on his shoulder (a bit awkward, due to his taller-than-mine stature). "You're too serious, my friend. I've met skeletons with better humor than you."

A taxi pulled up and Caelum opened the door, then helped me in. Kind of him, but he didn't have to treat me like a senior citizen.

On the way to wherever Caelum lived, I chatted with the driver and Caelum sat looking like he was enduring the miseries of the nine. I also tried to ignore the way my organs had started to cannibalize each other. It was lucky I had a good pain tolerance, because it was actually getting painful.

At last the driver dropped us off by a tall-ass apartment complex. We took the elevator up to the 40th floor.

Caelum was rich.

How'd I know? Well, the 40th floor was divided into no more than two apartments, and one of them was his. When we walked in, not only was it spacious as hell and practically made of windows, it was also finely furnished and had a kitchen no middle-class man could afford. Combine that with the absolute feast laid out on the table and there was no denying it. The guy was loaded.

"Hey, hey," I said. "I thought holy men weren't supposed to be worldly or something?"

Caelum gave me a very tired look. If he was this weary of me already, bro had no chance of lasting until we found Limitis's artifact. That worked in my favor.

A kind-looking lady who bore less than zero resemblance to Caelum emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. "Cae, welcome home. And who is this lovely young one?"

"Thanias. Freelance necromancer. Flexible rates."

She blinked once, but took it in stride. Giving Caelum a stern look--the kind of look that says You and I are going to talk, young man--she took my arm and led me to the table.

"Caelum told me you could use a good meal. Go on, eat up. I'm Maya, it's very nice to meet you."

I decided then that if Maya ever needed help, I would do anything she asked. And then I stuffed my face.

I learned three things within the first five minutes of eating at Maya’s table.

One: she cooks like she’s personally trying to win a war against hunger.
Two: Caelum is physically incapable of relaxing in his own home.
Three: revival hunger is very real and deeply embarrassing in polite company.

I inhaled an entire plate of food before remembering basic social norms. Halfway through a second helping, I slowed down enough to realize Maya was watching me with gentle concern rather than horror.

“Sweetheart,” she said softly, “when was the last time you ate?”

I swallowed. “Before I was spiritually conscripted into a divine scavenger hunt.”

Caelum sighed from across the table. “He means yesterday morning.”

“That tracks,” Maya said, nodding sympathetically, and placed another dish in front of me. “Eat. Then you can explain what kind of trouble my son has gotten himself into.”

Caelum grimaced with such an intensity that made me adore Maya that bit more. I had not intended to emotionally imprint on a stranger’s mother over roasted chicken and garlic potatoes. Yet there I was, demolishing my third plate while Maya beamed at me like she’d personally solved world hunger.

“Slow down, dear,” she said gently. “You’ll make yourself sick.”

“I physically cannot,” I replied through a mouthful of mashed potatoes. “My body is in emergency recovery mode. It thinks we’ve been stranded in a desert for three years.”

Across the table, Caelum watched me with the exhausted expression of a man who had been dragged back from the grave and decided that somehow this—this unhinged dining performance—was worse.

“You don’t have to stare,” I told him. “It makes me self-conscious.”

“You just ate an entire loaf of bread,” he said flatly.

Maya hid a smile behind her hand. “Caelum, stop scowling. Your friend is clearly starving.”

“We are not friends,” Caelum said immediately.

I pointed a fork at him. “We are life-bound contractual associates. Totally different.”

Dinner continued in surprisingly comfortable silence after that. Well. Comfortable for me. Caelum kept glancing at my wrists like he could physically see the bond thread wrapped around them. I felt it too—faint, like a low hum beneath my skin. Constant. Annoying. A little bit like Caelum himself.

After dessert (which I also destroyed with professional efficiency), Maya poured tea and finally leaned forward with keen interest.

“So,” she said pleasantly, “what exactly does a freelance necromancer do?”

Caelum choked on his drink.

I perked up. “Oh! Lots of things. Closure consultations, spectral mediation, occasional graveyard maintenance, light resurrection work—”

“Light resurrection work?” Caelum echoed, horrified.

“Well, not light-light,” I admitted. “More like short-term, with far too many complications.”

Maya blinked. Then, incredibly, she nodded. “That sounds like very important work.”

I froze mid-sip. “…You’re not concerned?”

“Sweetheart,” she said gently, “I raised Caelum. I have been concerned for years. At this point I’ve decided to just be polite when it comes to the supernatural.”

I liked her immediately.

Caelum pressed his fingers to his temples. “Mother, please do not encourage him.”

“I’m encouraging good manners,” she corrected. “You could learn from him. He introduced himself properly.”

I puffed up slightly. “Flexible rates.”

He groaned. For a few blissful minutes, everything felt almost normal.

Then the lights flickered.

The teacup in my hand vibrated.

I went very still.

Caelum noticed instantly. “What is it?”

I set the cup down carefully. “We’re not alone.”

Maya’s eyes widened just a fraction, but she stayed seated. Tough lady. Respect.

The temperature in the room dipped—not freezing, not dramatic, just enough to make the air feel… watched.

From the far end of the apartment, near the panoramic windows overlooking the rainy city, the glass fogged over.

Words began to write themselves across the condensation.

Caelum stood so fast his chair nearly tipped. “A messenger,” he said under his breath.

I squinted at the forming letters.

FIND THE FIRST BORDER WHERE THE RIVER FORGETS ITS NAME.

I stared.

“…That is aggressively unhelpful,” I said.

The message lingered for a moment longer. Then the fog cleared, leaving only the reflection of the three of us—and something else, just behind us, that wasn’t there a second ago.

A tall silhouette. Featureless. Still.

I whipped around.

Nothing.

But the bond in my chest yanked sharply, like a fishing line being reeled in from somewhere far away and very, very interested in where we were standing.

Caelum felt it too. His hand flew to his chest. “It’s closer,” he said tightly.

“Yeah,” I muttered. “No kidding.”

Maya rose slowly, calm but firm. “Do you two need to leave?”

We both hesitated.

That was answer enough.

She sighed, already reaching for her phone. “I’ll pack some food for the road. And Caelum—” she gave him a pointed look “—try not to die again. It seems very inconvenient.”

He flushed. “Mother.”

I leaned toward him and whispered, “She’s my favorite now.”

Within ten minutes we were back in the elevator, bags hastily packed, my stomach blessedly full and my nerves absolutely shot. The doors slid closed, sealing us in the mirrored box as it descended toward the lobby. My reflection in the mirror lagged half a second behind my movement, then snapped back into place.

“…Okay,” I said slowly. “That’s new.”

Caelum’s hand glowed faintly with holy light. “Stay behind me.”

“Oh, absolutely not,” I said. “If something attacks, I’m hiding behind you. That’s the whole point of having a heavily armored cleric life-bound to me.”

The elevator shuddered to a stop between floors.

And from within the glass, something pressed outward—long fingers, faceless head, testing the boundary like a window it might be able to push through.

It didn’t break the surface.

It just watched us.

The bond in my chest thrummed in response, louder than ever, and I had the sudden, horrible realization that whatever this thing was…

It wasn’t following us randomly.

It was following me.

I swallowed hard. “Caelum?”

“Yes?”

“You remember when I asked if we were the only ones looking for the Compass?”

The thing watched us through the window of the elevator, its lack of a face somehow seeming to take everything in. It tapped the glass periodically with its long fingers, like a kid at the zoo trying to get a rise out of the tigers so they would do something interesting.

Not a spirit of the dead. I could tell because it wasn't wailing at me. The dead are always so needy, looking for one more chance to live, but this thing was fully alive. Judging by the long fingers and the pale, featureless face, this was probably some weird resident of the Infernal Circles. Called demons by some. Called annoying little bitches by me, because sometimes the humanoid ones call me on the phone or in my dreams to try to trick me into making soul bargains. I don't hate myself that much. Plus, there's too much liability there, what with my soul being bound to anyone I resurrect. Anyway.

Caelum started waving his holy symbol around like he was trying to whack a bug. "Foul demon, begone back to your cursed realm!" he shouted.

"Bro, you're not very quick, are you? It isn't even in our realm. If it was, it would already be eating us or something."

The demon tapped on the glass more insistently. It was inside the glass, so maybe some sort of weird mirror demon? Maybe it wanted to steal our faces. Good luck with that, you little bitch. Maybe you, too, can look as malnourished as Thanias the necromancer. Hey, it was already pale enough.

Well, I didn't want to be stuck in this elevator anymore. I reached out my senses, searching for any elevator mechanic spirits I could summon, but unfortunately all of them were busy avoiding Caelum's holy symbol.

Caelum didn't stop doing... whatever he was doing with the symbol. He started shouting some nonsense in Celestial about sealing the borders. When he finished, the window fogged up like a sauna. The demon didn't leave, though. It just sat there behind all the little water droplets, watching us with its creepy non-face.

Then it reached out its finger and traced something in the fog. The letter B. Then another letter: A. By the time it got to an L, then a T, I started to sweat. It finished writing the name Balthazar in the mist between worlds, then it disappeared, presumably back to its hellish home. Maybe the holy ritual actually worked. Maybe it just got bored of watching us argue.

The elevator lurched back to life and brought us down to the first floor. Caelum must have noticed the look on my face, because he said, "Who's Balthazar?"

"Another necromancer. He's on some bad shit. We don't want to mess with him." And apparently also a demon summoner now. Good job, buddy. It's only the most evil branch of wizardry around. Wizards who summon demons for everything are the magical equivalent of the kid who gets their nerdy friends to do their homework--lazy, selfish, unethical. Which had always described Balthazar, so it did fit.

"Aren't you friends?" the cleric asked. "I was under the impression there was some sort of brotherhood of necromancers that worked together to raise the dead among the living." Just when I had begun to underestimate his stupidity.

"No," I said with a disappointed sigh, "there is no necromancer bro code. You clerics really don't know anything about us, do you? No, Balthazar has been looking for revenge against me..." I paused. "Ever since I killed him."

So you see, kids, there's two types of revival: autorevival and allorevival. Most necromancers, including myself, know the latter. But Balthazar, being the little bitch he is, most likely learned the former.

Though I denied it to Caelum, there is a sort of code among necromancers--though again, they're more of aggressive suggestions than concrete laws. The first and foremost is that no one should be able to resurrect themself. Which is why autorevival is a forbidden art. Not only is it incredibly dangerous knowledge, it's also pretty fucked up--because unlike in allorevival, where you bind a person's life to your own, autorevival requires a life force to be stolen. In other words, you kill a person to bring yourself back to life. Usually an infant child who still has their full lifespan.

Like I said, it's fucked up. But I wouldn't put it past Balthazar for even a second.

"Hey, you put some kind of protection spell on your mom, right?" I asked Caelum, tugging the sleeve of his robe.

He cast a reproachful look at me. "I put a protection spell on all of my parents on every full moon. Why did you kill Balthazar?"

I calculated quickly. The full moon was only three nights past, so Maya was probably still in the clear. I hoped, anyway.

"That's not important right now." When he glared, I said, "Hey, don't look at me like that. Do I seem like the type who murders innocents? I do have morals you know. But right now our first priority should be getting the hell out of here."

Caelum gritted his teeth and muttered a pray for patience. Then, as if it pained him greatly, he said, "You're right. Let us leave this place."

Once Caelum and I had reached the bottom, we were both traumatized, but for different reasons. I was annoyed that I would have to face my demon-summoning rival again, but Caelum looked like a germophobe who had just witnessed someone picking their nose. Completely different reactions.

"FIND THE FIRST BORDER WHERE THE RIVER FORGETS ITS NAME."

What could that mean? I've never been a wiz at riddles, always took a liking to playing chess with ghosts myself. You know who may have some clue? My helpless friend Caelum.

"So, what do you think of the first clue?" I'm prepared for some goofy answer, but he surprises me by saying, "It is quite obvious, really. Mistress Limitis always took a liking to Greek borders, so it seems clear she would send us to Hades. The River Lethe causes forgetfulness to those who drink of its waters, so it would be the one to forget its own name." He could have left out the "Mistress" though.

I'm shocked/mortified for two reasons: One, Caelum has finally been helpful on this miserable journey. Two, that is exactly where I can expect to find Balthazar's doorstep.

"So, do you recall the black demonic visitor from the elevator? His master, Balthazar, lives 3 and a half blocks into Hades." The cleric's face loses all of its color. Every sundrop has paled and collected into a gray, miserable, and pitiful puddle. "If Balthazar is also searching for this relic, who else might be?" I think to myself.

I interrupt Caelum's thoughts and say, "Our destination is clear, then. We're going to the land of half-naked toga wearers, Greece. On such short notice, we don't have time to schedule a flight. We'll just have to stow away on one."

As Caelum realizes we're hiding on a plane without paying for tickets, his face drains of color a second time.

There are three things you should know about stowing away on an international flight.

One: it is significantly harder than movies make it look.
Two: clerics are morally opposed to hiding inside cargo containers labeled “LIVE CRUSTACEANS.”
Three: airport ghosts love drama.

“Absolutely not,” Caelum hissed, tugging me away from the loading bay. “We are not hiding in a crate of lobsters like common criminals.”

“They’re not criminals,” I said. “They’re seafood. Very different legal category.”

“We are not hiding with seafood,” he repeated, jaw set.

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Okay, Mr. Lawful Good, do you have a better plan? Because last I checked, tickets to Greece on short notice cost more than your apartment probably pays in rent.”

“I own my apartment.” He says simply. “We will board properly.”

“With what money?”

He reached into his robe, pulled out his wallet, and handed over a sleek black card that looked like it had never known the indignity of a declined transaction.

I stared. “You’re joking.”

“I am not.”

“You had THIS the entire time? You made me suffer through TSA with bones on me, when you could've hired a private jet?”

“You insisted the bone was ‘religiously significant,’” he said defensively. "This isn't private jet money. It could be business class money."

“…I hate you a little.”

He ignored that.

Ten minutes later, we were speed-walking back through the terminal like two very poorly coordinated secret agents, Caelum booking last-minute tickets while I tried not to look like a man outrunning his demons. Literally.

The ghosts in the terminal were louder this time. Agitated. Whispering.

They always get like that when big, nasty forces start moving across borders. Like spiritual pigeons sensing a storm.

One tugged on my sleeve as we passed Gate 22. I glanced down. The ghost of a middle-aged man in a Hawaiian shirt pointed urgently at a departure screen.

ATHENS – BOARDING SOON

“Yeah, yeah, I see it,” I muttered. “Working on it, buddy.”

Caelum shot me a look. “You are speaking to the air again.”

“Not the air. That guy died of a heart attack after trying to run to his gate with two carry-ons and a pretzel the size of his head.”

“…I did not need that information.”

We made it to the gate just as boarding was announced. Caelum handed over the tickets, posture perfectly straight, aura faintly glowing with that subtle holy authority that makes airline staff instinctively assume you are both respectable and not carrying contraband bones.

The agent scanned them, smiled politely, and waved us through.

I leaned toward Caelum as we walked down the jet bridge. “You realize this is the most illegal legal thing I’ve ever done.”

“We bought tickets,” he said flatly.

“Yes, but we did it in a panic after being threatened by a demon and given a cryptic riddle by a goddess. Spiritually, this still feels like a crime.”

He did not dignify that with a response.

***

The plane to Athens was older. Dimmer lighting. Less legroom. More… atmosphere.

Which is to say: more ghosts.

They clustered near the windows, drawn to the thinning veil at high altitude. A few noticed me immediately and started drifting closer like curious jellyfish. Caelum opened a prayer book and pretended very hard that he did not see any of them. One ghost leaned over my shoulder and squinted at the page.

“Oh, I remember that verse,” she said fondly. “It’s about mercy.”

“Please do not read over my shoulder,” Caelum muttered without looking up.

I snorted.

The engines roared. The plane lifted. That familiar tug in my chest tightened again, sharper now that we were heading toward the literal mythological border between life and death. Caelum’s hand drifted unconsciously to his sternum.

“The bond grows stronger the closer we move to it.”

“Yeah,” I said quietly. “I noticed.”

For a while, we flew in uneasy silence. I tried to nap. Caelum actually did pray. The ghosts occasionally commented on the in-flight snacks.

About two hours in, turbulence hit. Not the normal kind. Not the “oh no, the seatbelt sign is on” kind.

The veil-shuddering kind.

The overhead lights flickered. The air pressure dipped. Every ghost on the plane froze, then slowly turned toward the same point in the cabin ceiling.

Watching.

I followed their gaze.

For a split second, the ceiling above the aisle looked wrong. Not solid. Not metal. Something else layered over it, like another reality pressing its face against a thin sheet of glass.

A long, pale indentation appeared, as though something on the other side had gently placed its hand there.

Testing.

My stomach dropped, and it wasn’t from the turbulence.

“Caelum,” I whispered.

“I see it,” he said, voice tight but steady.

The indentation slid along the ceiling, following the length of the cabin. Not breaking through. Not yet. Just… keeping pace with us.

Like it knew exactly where we were.

One of the ghosts whimpered. “That’s not supposed to be here.”

“No kidding,” I muttered.

The plane jolted hard. A few passengers gasped, clutching armrests. To them, it was just turbulence.

Then, just as suddenly, the presence withdrew. The ceiling snapped back to normal. The ghosts relaxed, though none of them looked particularly reassured.

The seatbelt sign dinged off like nothing had happened.

I exhaled slowly. “Okay. So. New working theory.”

Caelum didn’t look at me. “That we are being hunted.”

“Yeah. That.”

He closed his eyes briefly. “Balthazar would not be able to reach across realms so easily on his own.”

“Which means he’s not working alone,” I finished.

We didn’t speak for the rest of the flight.

After the visit from the lump in the ceiling, nothing of interest happened. Caelum was praying and reading (the Bible, I think?) while I watched the other passengers. No, not like a deranged stalker watching a kid with a bag of halloween candy. Necromancy is my occupation; you should know that I do stuff like that by now. The ghosts walked around, visiting the passengers as they watched movies, listened to music, or dined on airplane food without their knowledge.

We departed from the plane. Before we had left the airport, I noticed a lady in a baby blue dress with floral hat. I saw dark tendrils like arms of death crawling after her in the pick up line. Without a second thought, I found myself briskly walking toward her. "Ma'am, please be careful. I have a bad feeling you're in danger." I immediately left, pulling Caelum by the wrist with me. The woman's demeanor looked like a strange combination of confusion, bewilderment, and disgust. I felt her eyes drill into the back of my skull.

"That was rather kind of you," my cleric companion said. "Detecting foul spirits and death is my whole thing, you know," I reflexively replied.

It was 8 in the morning. Life was abounding everywhere. I found myself surrounded by pine and olive trees and a myriad of wildflowers. The sun was obnoxiously cheerful. Personally, I prefer cloudy days with just a peak of sunlight. There is one good thing about this place: we're standing above one of the largest collections of the dead in the world. Unfortunately, I can't hear any individual voices above the loud din of spectral interference.

I'm still dragging Caelum by his wrist. Upon the realization, I hastily release it. He harshly says, "Thank you for finally letting go of my hand. Do you have a plan to find Hades?"

With triumph evident in my posture and voice, I answer, "Yes, I do."

We find an alley behind the airport, which is where I begin to work my gift. I take so gravel from the pavement and stack it in a small mound. "Are you playing in the dirt? Now is hardly an appropriate time." "Give me a minute, cleric. I'm performing the textbook reanimation right now." I finish the performance in a few minutes after chanting and adding a few olives I found under a tree.

"Behold, our tour guide, Alexandros!" The spirit I summoned, now in physical form, has burns scattered across his naked body. His eyes are a pale white, but that's nothing a pair of contacts can't fix. His black hair is missing, save for his eyebrows. I'm guessing he died in a plane crash. Fortunately, he looks thrilled to be "alive" once more.

Caelum is visibly disgusted and appalled. "What is THAT?"

"His name is Alexandros, please use it. He's your new best friend. He shall lead us through Greece to the border of Hades. And, we may even learn some Greek on the way."

I made it twenty minutes.

By then we were wandering the streets of Athens, tailing our buddy Alex. He was a pretty good conversation buddy, actually.

Unfortunately, not only had I not slept in twenty-four hours or more, I had also reanimated a skeleton, revived a man, suffered through two flights in quick succession, and then reanimated a tour guide. I wouldn't have been able to stay awake after all that on a good day. But of course, being the absolute dumbass I am, I tried to power through until we'd reached an acceptable place for me to pass out. The result was that I just passed out mid-step on the middle of a sidewalk.

You'd figure it'd be a dreamless sleep. Not a common occurrence for me, so I was looking forward to it. I was very severely disappointed.

It started out with all the usual elements. The persistent scent of alcohol and cigarette smoke. Shards of glass stuck in my skin. Oh, tons of blood too. I'll spare you the gorier details, though.

Bastard, bastard, bastard, bastard. . .

Somewhere, he chanted it over and over. Usually the muttering of ghosts doesn't bother me, but I couldn't say the same of this. In fact, it was tough to resist the urge to claw out my eardrums.

I thought by now I'd gotten used to it. I was wrong. The longer the dream ran, the faster and louder the chanting got. Someplace in the hazy distance--I was standing in a subway tunnel?--a mangled silhouette crept closer.

My skin felt sticky and hot. My heart had decided to live in my throat, and pounded there like it regretted that decision. I trembled, and the shards of glass dug in deeper.

Snap out of it, Thane. It's not even real.

I told myself that over and over. I'm unfortunately terrible at listening. And the silhouette kept closing the distance.

I turned and ran. But you see, the thing about dreams is that space means less than nothing, and before long I'd just looped back behind the old creep. There's never anywhere to run. And when there is, you just find something even more horrific around every corner.

Damn. If this kept on, I was likely to reanimate something in my sleep.

Almost as soon as I had the thought, the dream froze. Light filled my vision--soft at first and then brighter and brighter. Almost enough to hurt.

". . .nothing you can say to convince them."

I blinked a few times. Definition returned to the world--not the sort you often find in average dreams. I lifted one hand and studied it quickly. Five fingers, thumb's on the proper side, details were all there.

"Thanias? Are you listening to me?"

I blinked and turned to face the voice. "Uh--yes."

Well, this was new.

Caelum made a face that told me he wasn't fooled in the least. "Even I can't protect you from the consequences this time. If you're not even thinking about what you'll tell them, then there's no chance they'll allow you to keep your godhood."

My eyes widened. I tried to cover the reaction with a light cough. "I. . .I'm thinking. Definitely."

I snuck a look around the place as I said this. If I wasn't mistaken, we were literally on top of the clouds. Marble pillars supported a roof painted with various scenes of undeath. I quite liked it, actually. I found that I was draped over a divan, and Caelum sat at my feet with stick-straight posture and a constipated expression. I wasn't sure whether this was my fault or because he was wearing a somewhat revealing outfit that was nothing more than drapes of semi-sheer fabric. Holy shit, were those hickeys?

I sat up to get a closer look. Caelum frowned.

Holy shit, they were hickeys.

"You don't seem very concerned," Caelum noted in a flat voice.

"Oh right." I coughed and cleared my throat. "Uhmmm. . ."

Caelum shook his head with a sigh. "Thane, you. . ."

Everything dimmed. Caelum's voice faded to a ringing static.

And then I woke up on a soft bed.

Waking up is usually the best part of my day.

That probably sounds deranged, but you try spending your nights trapped in nightmares with glass in your skin and ghosts chanting insults at you. Consciousness starts to look like a luxury.

This time, though, waking up came with a problem.

The problem was named Caelum.

I stared at the unfamiliar ceiling for a solid ten seconds before my brain caught up with my body. Soft bed. Open window. Distant sounds of Athens traffic. The smell of olives and something faintly floral.

Then my eyes slid to the side. Caelum sat in a chair beside the bed, spine straight as a ruler, hands folded in his lap like he was attending a funeral rather than babysitting an unconscious necromancer. His expression was carefully neutral, which meant he’d been worried. Caelum only looked that composed when he was actively suppressing panic or anger.

Or both.

“You passed out in the middle of a sidewalk,” he said without preamble, noticing I was awake. “Again.”

“New personal record,” I croaked. “Twenty minutes on foreign soil before collapsing. I’m improving.”

His mouth twitched, which, I had learnt, was about as close as he ever got to smiling.

“You are not improving,” he replied. “You are deteriorating.”

I pushed myself up onto my elbows, immediately regretted it, and flopped back down. My head throbbed like a choir of ghosts had decided to rehearse inside my skull.

“Where’s Alex?” I asked.

“Exploring,” Caelum said dryly. “He appears quite enthusiastic about being alive again.”

“Good for him. Love that for him.”

Silence settled between us. Not the comfortable kind. The heavy kind that pressed on your ribs and made your thoughts louder than they had any right to be.

Unfortunately, my thoughts had chosen this exact moment to betray me.

Because now that I was fully awake, the dream lingered in sharp fragments. Marble pillars. Clouds underfoot. Caelum in sheer drapery, looking exasperated and—unfairly—very distracting.

And the hickeys.

I squeezed my eyes shut for a second.

This was a problem.

Not because Caelum was objectively attractive. That was just a fact, like gravity or death. The problem was that I had noticed. Noticed and then continued noticing, which implied a level of interest that was, frankly, inconvenient for everyone involved.

I opened one eye and risked another glance at him.

Still sitting upright. Still composed. Still annoyingly handsome in that severe, holy-warrior sort of way. The kind of person who looked like he ironed his socks.

Shit.

“Why are you staring at me?” he asked.

“I’m not,” I said immediately.

“You are.”

“I’m evaluating your aura,” I lied. “Very standard necromancer procedure. Extremely scientific.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Your aura evaluation involves squinting at my neck?”

My soul briefly left my body.

“I was—uh—checking for signs of divine corruption,” I improvised weakly. “You know. Radiance leakage. Halo instability. Hick—hiccups. Divine hiccups.”

That was not better.

Caelum stared at me for a long, silent moment. Then he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose like I was a particularly stubborn headache.

“You are insufferable,” he said.

“Charming,” I corrected automatically.

He did not dignify that with a response.

Another pause stretched between us. It would be very easy, I realized, to just ignore the entire situation. Pretend the dream hadn’t happened. Pretend I hadn’t noticed anything. Pretend the life-bond between us was purely magical and had absolutely no inconvenient emotional side effects whatsoever.

Very easy.

Also very stupid.

I dragged a hand down my face with a groan. “Okay, hypothetical question.”

Caelum’s posture stiffened immediately. “That phrase has never preceded anything good.”

“Hypothetically,” I pressed on, “if two people were magically bound together for life, constantly in each other’s proximity, relying on each other to not die horribly—”

“Thanias.”

“—and hypothetically one of them was extremely irritating but also, like, competent and morally upright and annoyingly easy to look at—”

“Thanias.”

“—would it be normal,” I finished quickly, “for the other person to develop what we will generously call ‘confusing feelings’ that are definitely just a side effect of the bond and not a personal failing?"

I did not look at him. Looking at him would make this real, and I was very committed to pretending this was all a theoretical academic discussion about necromantic side effects.

“Are you,” he said slowly, “asking me if you like me?”

I choked.

“I did not say that!” I snapped, sitting upright so fast my vision spotted. “I said ‘hypothetically’. That is a legally distinct statement.”

He watched me with an expression I couldn’t quite decipher. Not disgust. Not anger. Something quieter. More thoughtful.

“That,” he said after a moment, “would indeed be… inconvenient.”

I deflated slightly. “Right? Extremely inconvenient. Terrible timing. We’re being hunted by a homicidal necromancer and trying to break into the Underworld. Romance would be wildly unprofessional.”

Another pause.

Then, very calmly, Caelum added, “For the record, I did not say the feelings were unwelcome. Only inconvenient.”

My brain short-circuited so hard I could practically hear the static. And then: Alexandros burst in, beaming proudly.

“I have found the path to the old temples!” he announced. “Also, I think a ghost tried to sell me souvenirs.”

I stared at him, then at Caelum, then back at Alexandros.

“Fantastic,” I said faintly. “Great. What do we get? Supernatural fridge magnets?”

Alexandros shook his head. "Necklaces."

Caelum turned his nose up - and then we saw it. The three best friend pendants, the cheap kind that slot into each other to make a heart.

Great.

Absolutely great.

This quest was going to kill me long before Balthazar got the chance.

I accepted the necklace Alex gave me and dressed at record speed. Then I gave some perfunctory excuses about personal matters and blah blah blah before booking it out the door.

I did in fact have some personal matters to tend to, and there was no way I was doing it with Caelum around. Not after--whatever the hell had just happened.

It only took me about fourteen minutes to find a tarot parlor. Mostly this was due to the fact that ghosts love to hang around tarot parlors, and I just so happen to have eyes that can see them.

I went inside. The person offering readings was this gnarled little old grandy smoking a long pipe, and before they could even ask, I blurted, "Do you do readings for past lives?"

"Have a seat, child," they said, with a sweeping gesture at the cushion across.

I did. Sitting still, well, that was another matter. I still sort of felt like my veins were full of soda instead of blood.

They took a long look at me. "Well. Been a while since I saw someone like you."

"That sounds like a bad thing."

"Depends on your point of view," they said, and flicked the ash from the bowl. Whatever was inside definitely wasn't tobacco, nor anything else I'd smelled before. "Your past is full of disgrace, but within you remains every drop of power you wielded then, if you can reclaim it."

"Could you, uh, clarify or something? That's a little vague."

"I could, but you might not like what I show you."

I bit the inside of my cheek.

The 'dream' I'd had was still as fresh and clear in my mind as if I'd only just woken from it. Clearer, even. Too clear to write off as just a dream. There's only one kind of dream like that--visions. And visions of the future are never that coherent. Which left one option, and I was not liking the look of it.

Pair that with the fact that Caelum and I were bound not just by revival, but by another thread I'd never felt before--that one that had pulled at my wrist like an insistent child--and I was just about ready to nope out.

I'd not asked for any of this. To be frank, I was scared shitless by the thought that I'd just stumbled across some guy I'd known lifetimes in the making. And immediately killed him--albeit on accident. I was not ready to think about red strings or other halves or anything like that.

But I also didn't exactly have a choice.

So I took a deep breath and told the elder, "Show me."

There was no transition.

One moment I was sitting in the elder's parlor, the next I was standing on clouds again.

Also, you ever had sleep paralysis? That feeling of lying there, unable to move even if you want to--yeah. It was like that. I was there, but I had zero control over my body. Couldn't even blink against the sudden brightness.

As I stood there, an observer in my own body, Past Me--you know what, let's just say Thanias 1.0--leaned a little to the left and nudged the guy standing next to him with an elbow. "What do you say we ditch when the speech is over?"

Then Thanias 1.0 glanced up and my heart lagged.

There Caelum stood, in all his barely-dressed glory, looking at Thanias 1.0 the same exasperated way he normally looked at me these days. "Can't you behave yourself for one night?"

I watched with mortified horror as Thanias 1.0 leaned even closer with a grin. "Is that what you're into? 'Cause I--"

Someone else in the line cleared her throat rather loudly, and Thanias 1.0 straightened up (much to my relief). After a moment he sighed. "I'd have skipped immortality if anyone had told me it'd be this boring."

Lucky for me, the rest of the speech went by without incident. There was a banquet of sorts afterward, and Thanias 1.0 was not shy with the wine. Most of the night was lost to drunkenness.

It wasn't fun, waking up with my past self's hangover. Or the brain fog that came with it.

I was laying on something warm. And firm. All in all it wasn't uncomfortable. Thanias 1.0 must've been of the same opinion, because he nuzzled down against it.

Then an arm came up and wrapped around Thanias 1.0's waist, and it clicked.

Ah, crap. Crap, crap, crap crap crap.

***

After the first fifty years or so of memories, the shock wore off. Acceptance came pretty soon after. Time blurred like rain on a camera lens. It all came flooding back, you might say, except that most of the flood just washed through and only left vague impressions behind. In the end I only had a few clear memories when I woke up, back in the elder's parlor, in a daze.

When the gods gifted me immortality, and I used it to bind Caelum to me to prevent his death; facing a council of gods as they gave the verdict on my punishment (though why I was being punished, I couldn't remember); and Caelum taking my hand in the final moments, promising to find me again.

I, Thanias the necromancer, was once a god. That was fine. I could process that part.

But Caelum--model of holiness and perfection and all things just--Caelum loving me enough to go through hell on my behalf, to put up with my crap for. . .who knows how long--

Yeah, that was a bit hard to swallow.

I stood outside the hotel room door for a full thirty seconds, staring at the peeling number plaque.

This was ridiculous.

I had faced divine judgment, soul-binding revelations, and the catastrophic realization that I might have accidentally been a god with a deeply questionable romantic past. Returning to a dingy hotel room shared with a cleric who now knew all of that through sketchy soul-bond dial-up should not have been the most intimidating task on the list.

And yet.

I adjusted my coat, which accomplished nothing except giving my hands something to do, and knocked.

There was a pause. A very deliberate, very suspicious pause.

The door opened just enough for Alex’s eye to appear in the gap.

“Password,” he said.

“We don’t have a password.”

“Exactly what an impostor would say.”

I closed my eyes briefly. “Alex.”

“Yes, ominous necromancer?”

“Open the door before I reanimate every dead bug in this hotel.”

The eye vanished. A beat later, the door swung open.

Alex stepped aside with theatrical caution, as if expecting me to burst into flames upon crossing the threshold. I did not oblige him. I entered with all the dignity of a man who had absolutely not just spent several minutes loitering outside because he was emotionally compromised.

Caelum was standing near the window, arms folded, posture rigid in a way that suggested he had been standing there for some time. The faint glow of city lights outlined him, turning him into a silhouette edged with gold.

He looked up when I came in.

Our eyes met.

And immediately slid away again.

Ah. Excellent. We were both going to pretend the previous conversation—regarding past lives, divine crimes, and potentially ill-advised eternal vows—had not fundamentally altered the structure of our reality. A healthy and sustainable coping strategy.

Alex clapped his hands once, loudly, like a man attempting to herd particularly dysfunctional cats. “Right. Everyone’s alive, nobody’s currently being smote, and we have a quest to advance. I’d call that a win.”

I latched onto that lifeline with gratitude. Planning. Action. These were things I understood. Far preferable to contemplating the emotional ramifications of having apparently promised myself to a man across multiple lifetimes.

“Yes,” I said briskly, removing my gloves and setting them on the small desk. “Progress would be ideal. Limitis was quite clear about the urgency, and I’d rather not incur further divine disappointment. It tends to come with lightning.”

Alex leaned against the desk. “Good news on that front. While you were off having your mysterious brooding rooftop moment—”

“I was not brooding.”

“You were dramatically silhouetted against the moon,” he said. “That’s brooding.”

“I was thinking.”

“Anyway. While you were doing that, I made some inquiries.”

Caelum shifted slightly, attention sharpening. “Inquiries about the relic?”

Alex nodded. “Word is there’s been unusual activity about two towns north of here. Old burial grounds. Spirits not crossing over properly. Locals say something’s… stuck. Like there’s a blockage.”

My pulse gave a small, traitorous jump. A boundary disruption. A place where the line between life and death was fraying.

Perfect.

I folded my arms, expression carefully neutral. “Rumors are unreliable. People blame any minor haunting on ‘ancient cursed artifacts’ these days. It’s very fashionable.”

“Sure,” Alex said. “But here’s the interesting bit. The burial grounds are built on the ruins of an older temple. Pre-church. Dedicated to a goddess of thresholds and passage.”

I resisted the urge to sigh dramatically. Of course. Of course it would be something that obvious. Why have subtlety when the universe could instead hit me with a metaphorical brick labeled LIMITIS’ PROPERTY HERE?

Caelum exhaled slowly. “If the relic is lodged there, it could be interfering with the passage of souls.”

“Yes,” I said. “Which would explain the ‘stuck’ spirits. And the rumors. And why Limitis is particularly invested in retrieving it before the disruption worsens.”

Alex pointed between us. “Look at that. Cooperative analysis. I’m so proud.”

Neither of us responded. Cooperation implied ease. This was… more like mutually tolerated proximity while both parties attempted not to think about the cosmic implications of their relationship.

Caelum finally moved away from the window and approached the desk. He stopped on the opposite side from me, creating a careful distance that felt louder than any argument.

“We should leave at first light,” he said.

I nodded. “Agreed. If the relic is destabilizing the boundary, delays could worsen the effect. More lost souls. More unrest.”

The pendant under my shirt gave a faint, almost imperceptible warmth, as if in agreement. I pointedly ignored it.

Alex watched the two of us like a spectator at an extremely tense tennis match. “You two are being weird.”

“We are always weird,” I said.

“True,” he allowed. “But this is a new flavor of weird. More…weird.”

Caelum coughed, which was either a reaction to the accusation or a desperate attempt to derail the conversation. “We should discuss potential opposition. If the relic has been active for some time, others may have noticed.”

Ah. Thank you, Caelum. Blessed, beautiful deflection.

“Yes,” I said quickly. “Balthazar, for instance. He has an unfortunate habit of appearing precisely where ancient, powerful, and morally questionable artifacts are located.”

Alex frowned. “You think he’s already there?”

“I think,” I replied, “that if a necromancer with delusions of grandeur heard about a site where souls were failing to cross properly, he would consider it a delightful opportunity for experimentation.”

Caelum’s jaw tightened. “Then we must reach it before he does.”

The urgency in his voice wasn’t just about the relic. It was about preventing the kind of misuse that would confirm every dark suspicion he’d ever had about necromancy.

About me.

The thought lodged uncomfortably in my chest.

“I have no intention,” I said, perhaps more sharply than necessary, “of allowing Balthazar to get his hands on something that can manipulate the boundary of death. He is already insufferable enough without divine enhancements.”

Alex raised a hand. “Small logistical question. How exactly are we approaching this burial ground? Because I’d like to avoid being immediately arrested for grave trespassing.”

“We’ll go in quietly,” Caelum said. “Assess the disturbance. If the relic is present, we secure it and leave.”

I tilted my head. “You make it sound charmingly straightforward. I admire your optimism. It will almost certainly go catastrophically wrong.”

“That is not optimism,” he replied dryly. “That is a plan.”

“Plans,” I said, “are merely detailed descriptions of how events will deviate in practice.”

Alex snorted. “You two really are made for each other.”

The room went still.

I focused very intently on the grain of the desk’s wood. Fascinating stuff, wood grain. Complex. Non-emotional.

Caelum cleared his throat again. “We should gather supplies tonight. Wards. Holy water. Any… necessary reagents.”

I inclined my head. “I will prepare binding sigils and containment circles. If the relic is active, we may need to stabilize the area before attempting removal.”

There. Professional. Neutral. Entirely devoid of any acknowledgment that we had once, apparently, vowed to find each other across lifetimes. Just two colleagues. Two bros. Making plans. With the underworld.

Completely normal.

Alex pushed off the desk. “I’ll handle mundane things. Transport, maps, bribing any suspicious locals, that sort of thing. Try not to have another identity-shattering revelation while I’m gone, yeah?”

“No promises,” I said automatically.

He paused at the door, then glanced back with a softer expression. “Hey. Whatever cosmic mess you two are tangled up in… you’re still the same idiots I signed up to help. Alright?”

The silence that followed was heavier than before.

I busied myself with unpacking my kit, laying out chalk, ink, and small bone charms in precise, methodical rows. Order. Control. Things that did not suddenly inform me I had been a different person in a different life making binding promises to a cleric who was now very pointedly not looking at me.

“You intend to carry on,” Caelum said quietly.

It wasn’t really a question.

“Yes,” I replied, not looking up. “I can't exactly stop, can I?”

A faint huff of breath—almost a laugh, but not quite. “You are remarkably adept at compartmentalization.”

“Years of practice,” I said. “One cannot function as a necromancer without learning to place certain revelations in neatly labeled mental boxes marked ‘deal with after dinner.’”

He stepped closer. I could feel the shift in the air, the subtle warmth that accompanied his presence, like standing near a steady flame.

“And the box for… this?” he asked.

My hand paused over a vial of grave dust.

I swallowed. Once. Then resumed my movements with exaggerated care. “That box is currently under construction.”

Silence stretched.

Finally, he said, “We will deal with it. After the relic.”

Relief and something sharper twisted together in my chest. Postponement. Not denial. Not rejection. Just… time.

“Yes,” I agreed softly. “After the relic.”

The pendant warmed again, a quiet, insistent pulse against my sternum. A reminder. A promise. A complication I was very determined to ignore until circumstances forced otherwise.

I capped the last vial and straightened.

“At dawn, then,” I said, returning to brisk professionalism. “We investigate the burial grounds, retrieve a potentially unstable divine artifact, and prevent a rival necromancer from weaponizing the afterlife. A perfectly ordinary Tuesday.”

Caelum’s mouth twitched despite himself. “Your definition of ordinary is deeply concerning.”

“On the contrary,” I said, allowing myself the faintest smile. “It is remarkably consistent.”

Outside, the city lights flickered, and somewhere far to the north, I could almost swear I felt a thin, trembling line in the fabric of death itself.

Waiting.

We would go to it at first light.

And deal with all this...after

Y'all, pro tip.

Never, ever take a cleric graverobbing.

A bit of context. We all got up early, which was absolute hell with the amount of jetlag I was suffering, and packed into a rental car (courtesy of Mr. I-Have-A-Black-Card Caelum) to make the trip to the afflicted graveyard. I had of course taken the liberty of procuring practical equipment the night before, such as gloves and shovels. After all, it wasn't like Limitis's compass was just going to be sitting on top of someone's burial mound. When we arrived, we went about expelling troublesome ghosts and setting up a temporary boundary. Then I busted out the shovels.

But of course Caelum--being Caelum--was very against the idea of indiscriminately disturbing graves in search of it. This is the kind of morality that gets in the way of efficient work, kids.

"Look," I said, leaning against my shovel, "we can't just use some sort of location spell or call to the damn thing like it's a cat. Besides, this place is already in disarray because of the ghosts. I doubt we can do worse damage than has already been done."

Caelum looked at me for a very long moment with a constipated scowl. Alex spoke up and said, "He's got a point, Caelum. Our best bet is just to dig."

He at last caved, though not without muttering some prayer or another.

For the next two hours, we defiled graves.

Some more tips if you're planning a similar expedition: bring lots of water. You will get seriously dehydrated if you don't. Gloves may also be helpful for preventing blisters. Also carry salt so that no angry spirits will attempt to possess you. An alternative way to do this is just to drink Gatorade, which also solves the hydration issue. Also, have an alibi prepared in case the police find out.

Anyway, everything was pretty uneventful, which only put me on edge. If Balthazar was stalking us, and he almost definitely was, then this would be the perfect place for him to spring a trap. Plenty of ghosts and their remains all in one spot? Perfect conditions.

But the minutes slipped by and there was no sign of him.

". . .bastard. . ."

I locked up faster than an old man's knee, my heart falling out of rhythm for two painful seconds.

Luckily, my reaction was not exceptionally obvious, so neither Alex nor Caelum noticed.

I wiped the sweat from my forehead and peeked around. Tons of ghosts, yes, but none I recognized. Moreover, I was approximately six thousand miles away from that place. If he was haunting me, I would know it by now. Which left one possibility: I was hallucinating.

"Hey." The other two looked up. "I'm gonna take a break, okay? My shoulders are screaming."

Neither of them had any objections, though Caelum frowned. Maybe my face was pale. Paler than usual, anyway.

I stuck my shovel in the dirt, and the matter of hauntings was pushed to the back of my mind for a moment. I'd either just hit a rock or somehow lucked upon Limitis's compass.

I laid the shovel aside and crouched down, feeling through the dirt with my fingers. They closed around cold metal--

Pain ripped through me as if my skeleton had decided to break loose.

When I tell you it hurt, I mean it hurt. You cannot imagine a pain as great as I felt then. Not even if you were melted in an active volcano.

Vaguely, I was aware of familiar voices. I think Caelum or Alex must've been calling out to me, but that part's too fuzzy to tell. All I knew at that moment was that I was being torn apart, dissolved, unraveled like a failed knitting project. All I knew was pain.

Then a void.

Not black. Grey, like an overcast winter's day where you can't tell one cloud from another. It was quiet, but not silent. What the sounds were, I couldn't tell you. Humming, maybe. Like a toneless chorus through a wall.

This, my friends, was a border. Sort of like purgatory. Except usually borders are a lot more crowded. And they don't have windows to the world of the living, like I currently faced.

On the other side of the window, my body was limp except for the dirt-caked fist clutching the compass--it had to be the compass, because no rock would've done that to me. Alex and Caelum fretted over me. Caelum tried to pry the compass from my fingers--smart, but it failed, which surprised me. Who'd have thought my grip strength could best his?

Behind me, a very severe, uncomfortably familiar voice sounded, and I winced.

"You shouldn't be here."

Limitis.

I turned around slowly. "Uh. Define 'here'."

She looked at me with her nose turned up. "My domain. You shouldn't even be capable of glimpsing this place, let alone. . ."

A vein jumped in her temple, and I roughly pieced together what was going on.

By picking up Limitis's relic, I'd attuned to it. Not being one of the goddess's chosen, and on top of that being someone she actively despised, it had presumably almost killed me--hence the soul-rending agony--and it had also directly contradicted Limitis's own words that I wouldn't be able to use the compass. The result? One ticked-off goddess.

Wonderful.

Limitis pinched the bridge of her nose like an overworked manager who had just discovered someone from accounting had set the office kitchen on fire.

“I explicitly said,” she began slowly, each word sharpened to a point, “that you would not be able to use the compass.”

“In my defense,” I said, glancing back at my own body through the window, “I didn’t use it so much as aggressively inconvenience it.”

Her eye twitched.

“That relic is keyed to my authority,” she continued. “It should have rejected you entirely. It certainly should not have allowed you to attune.”

“Ah,” I said. “So this is less of a ‘you’re trespassing in the afterlife’ issue and more of a ‘my technology is malfunctioning’ situation.”

“It is not malfunctioning.”

“Then it’s discriminating poorly.”

The vein in her temple throbbed harder. I took that as confirmation that I was, in fact, poking a divine bear.

Behind us, the grey expanse hummed faintly, like an enormous choir warming up without ever quite beginning the song. It made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end—assuming, of course, that the metaphysical projection of my neck had hair. Hard to tell.

I looked back through the window again. Caelum had one hand on my shoulder and the other stubbornly trying to pry the compass from my fingers. Alex hovered nearby, clearly torn between panic and the practical concern of whether she should attempt CPR on someone who might technically be soul-absent.

“They look worried,” I muttered.

“They should be,” Limitis said flatly. “Your soul is currently misfiled.”

I blinked. “Misfiled.”

“Yes.”

“As in—”

“As in you are neither fully alive nor fully dead, and therefore not meant to be in this domain,” she snapped. “The compass attempted to synchronize with you. Your existence resisted. The resulting conflict displaced your consciousness here.”

“That sounds,” I said carefully, “like a very polite way of saying the thing tried to murder me and failed.”

Her silence was not reassuring.

I folded my arms. “So what now? Do I get a warning label stamped on my forehead? ‘Caution: May Void Warranty of Divine Artifacts’?”

Limitis lowered her hand and fixed me with a long, measuring look. It wasn’t anger, not exactly.

“You were judged,” she said at last. “Your sentence was clear. Your power was to be severed from divine authority. You were to exist… separate.”

“Separate,” I echoed. “You make it sound like I’m in solitary confinement.”

Her lip curled. “Do not be flippant.”

“I’m coping,”

The humming behind us grew slightly louder, like the chorus had taken a collective breath. I resisted the urge to look over my shoulder. Something told me that whatever was making that noise was better left unacknowledged.

Limitis continued, quieter now. “The compass should not recognize you. It should not respond. Yet it did. And that suggests…”

She stopped.

I tilted my head. “Suggests what?”

Her gaze snapped back to me. “Nothing you need concern yourself with.”

“Oh, fantastic. Because historically, when a goddess says that, it usually means I’m about to concern myself with it very intensely.”

She ignored that. “You will release the relic.”

I barked out a laugh. “I would love to. Truly. Unfortunately, my body seems to be in the middle of a death grip situation. You might have noticed that from the convenient viewing window.”

Her eyes flicked to the scene of my unconscious self. Caelum was now very clearly praying under his breath while trying, with increasing desperation, to loosen my fingers.

For a moment—just a moment—something like uncertainty crossed Limitis’s face.

It vanished so quickly I almost convinced myself I’d imagined it.

“You are not meant to wield it,” she said again, more forcefully, as if repetition could turn the statement into fact.

“And yet here we are,” I replied. “You said I couldn’t use the compass. The compass disagreed. Maybe it has poor taste.”

“Or,” she said coldly, “you are exploiting a loophole.”

I opened my mouth to retort, then hesitated.

A loophole.

That implied rules. Systems. Conditions.

“Hypothetically,” I said slowly, “if I were exploiting a loophole, what would that even mean? I’m not one of your chosen. I’m not exactly on your holiday card list. So why didn’t it just vaporize me on contact?”

Limitis didn’t answer immediately. Her gaze slid past me, out into the grey expanse, as if consulting something far away and far older.

When she spoke again, her voice was clipped. “Because you are not entirely separate.”

My stomach dropped.

“That sentence,” I said very carefully, “is doing a lot of work. Care to unpack it?”

“No.”

"Is it Caelum? We're soul-bonded, you know."

"It may be. He is...authorized."

She took a step closer. The air around her—or whatever passed for air in this place—tightened, pressing in on me from all sides.

“You will let go of the compass,” she repeated. “Now.”

I tried to move my hand, purely out of spite.

Nothing happened.

“I would,” I said through gritted teeth, “if I were currently possessing my hand.”

Her jaw clenched. “Then return to your body and release it.”

“Oh, is that all?” I asked brightly. “Just pop back into my corporeal form like I forgot my keys in the car? Why didn’t I think of that?”

Limitis raised her hand.

Pain lanced through my chest—not the bone-breaking agony from before, but something sharper, more precise. Like a hook catching on my very core and yanking.

The window shuddered. On the other side, Caelum’s face went pale as my body convulsed.

“You do not belong here,” she said, voice ringing with finality. “Return.”

The hook pulled harder.

The grey world warped, the humming chorus rising into a dissonant swell that made my ears ring. For a split second, I thought I heard something else layered beneath it—a familiar whisper, ragged and furious.

“. . .bastard. . .”

My vision flickered.

Limitis’s expression changed—not to anger this time, but to sharp alertness.

“You are being followed,” she said abruptly.

I choked on a laugh that came out more like a wheeze. “Yes, thank you, I’d gathered that from the homicidal stalker angle.”

“This presence cannot enter my domain,” she said. “But it is pressing against the boundary. Your instability is giving it… leverage.”

That was not a word I enjoyed hearing in any context involving my soul.

“So the longer I stay here,” I said, “the easier it is for him to get closer.”

“Yes.”

“Well,” I muttered, “that’s a lovely incentive.”

The hook yanked again, harder than before. The grey expanse fractured at the edges, like glass under too much pressure. Through the cracks I saw flashes: dirt, sky, Caelum’s white-knuckled grip on my shoulder, Alex shouting something I couldn’t quite hear.

Limitis’s voice cut through the chaos.

“Release the compass,” she ordered one last time.

“I am trying!” I snapped. “Contrary to popular belief, I do not enjoy spontaneous soul displacement!”

The cracks widened.

The humming became a roar.

And then—

I fell.

Not down. Not forward. Just… fell, like gravity had remembered I existed and wanted to make up for lost time.

Pain slammed back into me all at once.

Air tore into my lungs in a ragged gasp. Dirt scratched my face. My fingers spasmed violently—and the cold metal object clutched in my hand burned like ice.

“Thanias!”

Caelum’s voice. Close. Frantic.

I pried my eyes open. The sky above was painfully blue. Alex hovered just beyond Caelum, looking equal parts relieved and furious.

“Tell me,” he demanded, “that you are not dead.”

“Working on it,” I croaked.

Every nerve in my body screamed. My hand refused to unclench, the compass pressed tight against my palm as if welded there.

Caelum’s gaze snapped to it. “You have to let go.”

“Yes,” I agreed weakly. “That does seem to be the general consensus.”

I focused on my fingers.

They trembled. Resisted. Slowly—painfully—they began to loosen.

For a moment, the metal seemed to resist me, clinging stubbornly as if reluctant to be released.

Then, with a final shuddering exhale, I let it drop.

The compass hit the dirt with a dull, heavy thud.

The pain vanished instantly.

I lay there panting, staring up at the sky, every muscle trembling in the aftermath.

“Well,” I said hoarsely, “good news: not dead. And, thanks to you, Caelum, I can enter your goddess' domain.”

Caelum didn’t laugh. He just sagged in relief, one hand still gripping my shoulder like he was afraid I might evaporate if he let go.

"Can I enter yours?"

"The afterlife? You already have," I said, not begetting the frankly obscene amount of tension in his gaze.

Alex folded his arms. “Next time,” he said tightly, “maybe don’t grab cursed divine artifacts without warning us first.”

I managed a weak grin. “Where’s the adventure in that?”

Neither of them looked amused.

Somewhere, very faintly, at the edge of hearing, I thought I caught that whisper again.

“. . .bastard. . .”

My smile faltered.

Adventure, it seemed, was far from over.

Half a second later, I felt it all at once--that disgusting, horrible crawling at the back of my neck that spoke of eyes I didn't want to perceive me.

I didn't even have the energy to sit up, but the moment I felt it--felt him--my heart sped up like it was personally trying to beat Usain Bolt. The memory of glass shards stuck in my palms came back unbidden. The reek of alcohol, cigarettes. Blood. Oh yeah, a lot of blood. I guess some of it was probably mine.

"Guys, um. We should dip."

I expected a little protest, maybe an insistence that we clean up first. Something out there must've pitied me, though, because Caelum only pulled my arm over his shoulder and helped me to my feet, then back to the car. Alex fetched the shovels. I assume one of them picked up the compass, though I wasn't sure which.

The walk to the car was short, but I felt his eyes on me the whole time.

I didn't even know he became a ghost. Let alone that he'd track me six thousand miles across the globe. Talk about dedication. If only my father had shown such concern for me when he was still alive.

"Thanias." Caelum backed out of the parking lot. "What happened back there?"

"Divine maintenance issues."

"Would you stop making a joke out of everything?"

I blinked. Caelum was normally uptight, but he'd never actually snapped at me before. "Sorry. My therapist says it's a coping mechanism. She's probably right. Uhm, I think basically what happened was Limitis's relic tried to kill me. It backfired. Oh also, I think I'm being haunted."

Caelum shot me a tight look. "Explain. Now."

And thus, I had no choice but to unpack my daddy issues.

When I finished telling a pretty glossed-over version of events--my old man's alcoholism, his abusiveness, and how in the end I killed him--the car was silent for a long while.

See, this is why I don't like telling people about the past. I suddenly go from being a carefree, happy-go-lucky little shit in people's eyes to being a victim. Bad enough that I had to associate with my dad when he was still alive. Even worse that I couldn't get free of that association after I'd ended his life with my own two hands. Nothing kills a good vibe like seeing pity in everyone's gaze when they look at you. Sure, I went through some bad shit. Stuff no one should have to go through. But it was years ago, and all I want is to forget it--which is impossible when it's the first thing people remember about you. Oh, Thanias? Yeah, poor kid, having a dad like that.

You see the issue? I go from being my own person to being a mark of my father's evil. Which is supremely crappy.

I sighed through my nose and rested my head against the window after a while. Maybe a nap and everything would be fine.

I hoped, anyway.

I pretended to sleep, but I didn't manage to get any on the way back to the hotel. After some time, Caelum put on his god-awful CD. When we got back, he gently touched my elbow, light as a butterfly, and said, "We're back. Can you walk?"

"Yeah. I can walk."

I got out of the car as if I were perfectly fine. Sort of a skill of mine. In reality I felt like I'd been melted down and hastily clumped back into a human shape. My kidneys could've been swapped with my lungs for all I knew. Anyway, I wasn't dead and I wasn't bleeding, so I figured I'd heal up in a few nights. Maybe less if I hustled.

Things continued to be quiet. I took a shower first, which I think was reasonable, considering I had almost died and was also covered in dirt from collapsing and all that jazz. Caelum went next--also nice, because I was not exactly ready to face him.

While Caelum showered, Alexandros and I sat side-by-side on the bed, a comfortable distance apart, neither of us talking. The guy seemed to be chewing on something, so I left him be. After a while he spoke up.

"I went through something like that," he said finally. His tone was quiet, a little rough, like the words were strange in his mouth. I bet they were. "When I was alive. Except, instead of killing my dad. . ."

"He killed you," I finished. "Right?"

Alex stared at a spot in the carpet for a while. "Yeah."

I sighed and hooked my arm around his shoulders, then gave him a noogie just for the heck of it. "Well, if I ever meet your dad, I'll put the fear of God in him for you."

He smiled. "Thanks, Thanias."

I released him. "Anytime. I did reanimate you, so you are my responsibility now. Plus, pretty sure I'm older than you, so it's only right."

The silence that settled this time was comfortable.

At least until Caelum walked out of the bathroom, dressed in loose white pajamas, a towel on his shoulders. His hair was still damp, and his face was a bit flushed from the steam.

Maybe he sensed the tension, or maybe he was just sweaty, but Alexandros stood up and said, "Guess it's my turn." And then beat a swift retreat into the bathroom.

I picked at a thread in the comforter and avoided looking at Caelum, even when he sat next to me, almost close enough for our arms to brush.

I spoke first, after a short stretch. "Look, I know what you're thinking, okay? That what my dad did was awful, and it's awful I had to go through that, and it's probably why I turned out like this. And I've heard it all, alright? I don't--"

I stopped short when he gripped my shoulder, sudden and almost too tightly, and looked up reflexively. Caelum's eyes were scary intense. "Thanias. What your father did to you--the things he put you through--it's unforgivable. No, look at me--" He caught my chin, gentle but firm, and said clearly: "All of that's true. But his sins are not your cross to bear, do you understand me?"

I stared at him for a minute. Then, for the first time in maybe, eh, twelve or so years, I bawled my eyes out.

The tears came readily, like waterfalls from the underworld. Important thoughts, like "Does this make me look like a weak baby?" never appeared. If they did, my subconscious self never allowed them to cross my mind.

Caelum's arms felt firm, but caring. Nothing outside of the embrace in that hotel room could harm me. Not even Balthazar.

Every ounce of flesh and blood had actually allowed me to feel sorry for myself.

My father WAS a jerk to me.

I endured CRUEL injustice.

My upbringing was UNFAIR.

Perhaps, a good cry was all I needed. I don't know what's happening next, nor do I care. Alexandros may be laughing at my pathetic weeping in the shower.

Caelum comforts me, "There you go. Let it out."

I gratefully comply.

Our little session must have only lasted 3 minutes, but it felt like we were on that warm, comfy sofa forever.

When Alexandros emerged from the shower in the hotel bath robe, he saw a red-faced, puffy-eyed necromancer resting in the arms of a cleric.

The three of us tacitly agreed never to mention that again.

Is crying a bad thing? Not in moderation. (If you're crying all the time you probably should see a therapist.) Is it shameful to express one's emotions? Of course not.

Does that mean I wasn't mortified? Also no. Especially when you factored in that Caelum smelled like rosemary and lavender. That in itself is innocuous. The weird part is that I somehow already knew that, despite never having been in close enough proximity to him to have such knowledge.

I really needed to look into what exactly I did in my past life to piss off the entire council of the gods.

Anyway, before we left the hotel, we brainstormed a rough plan. It went like this: First, we'd cast protective spells so we'd be safe from whatever nasties Balthazar was conjuring up to chase us (and also from my father, which might've been one of said nasties, if we're being honest). Second, we'd use the compass (since I'd attuned to it, and it was our best bet) to find the weak point in the border and fix it up. Third, if he showed himself, we'd take out Balthazar--permanently this time. And fourth, we would return the compass to Limitis and all this would be behind us. Fifth--this one was a personal goal--I'd demand that Limitis tell me about my past. She and I used to be colleagues, after all. One thing I did still remember was that I'd been made the god of the unfulfilled dead. Which meant our areas of influence overlapped. Therefore, we were colleagues.

I cringed my way through Caelum's protective spell. Necromancers and holy magic don't mix well, but I managed not to scratch my skin off until the itch faded. Alex probably had it way worse, being (technically) a corpse. I'd have to revive the guy when I had a chance. One can't exactly do bloody magic in a hotel. That's how you get a long prison sentence. Not speaking from experience, but I've heard of guys who got locked up in that manner.

I chilled by the wall while Caelum tried to cast on Alex.

Finally, after a long interval had passed, Caelum lowered his holy symbol and turned to me. A bit tightly, he said, "I can't cast a protective spell over necromancy. You will have to handle this one."

I thought for a moment. Protective spells weren't really my specialty, but one thing I'd learned over the years was that intent and blood went a long way. You can basically cast any spell on anything just by smearing some blood on it and believing.

With this in mind, I walked over, bit down hard on the meaty part of my palm, and smacked it against Alex's forehead. Then as an extra measure I doodled some random sigils in the splatter--a pentagram, a few Cyrillic letters, various punctuation marks (anything is a sigil if you decide it is). Then I wiped the excess blood off my hand and announced, "Done."

Caelum looked at me with his expression faintly wrinkled. Kind of a look between mild disgust and hopelessness. "You just scribbled on him in blood."

I crossed my arms. "It's a protection spell. Test it if you don't believe me."

"I'll take your word for it." Caelum glanced at the spell again, then amended, "This time."

By the time we reached the graveyard, the blood had dried to a sticky film, and Caelum was doing very well at hiding his disgust. By which I mean, he had all but said ‘ew’ out loud. Alex seemed to take joy in this fact, making an effort to bump into him every time the car turned, getting blood all over the poor guy.

Caelum looked incredibly grateful to hop out of the car. Which was surprising, because I don’t think I’ve ever seen him excited to enter a graveyard again.

He did seem to very suddenly remember why we were there, though because he grabbed my shoulder with a shocking intensity and whispered ’good luck’ before I could close the car door

Now, here’s the thing about accidentally attuning to a goddess’ artefact through a soul-bond with her cleric. You feel like a mutated supervirus barely managing to get past the divine white blood cells that sense your necrotic energy, and throw everything they’ve got at you. In other words: I managed to enter the Limitis limbo, where you get to see the world under a blacklight and highlight the metaphorical come stains (micro tears in reality). I also felt like I had been hit by a garbage truck. I must’ve pointed, though, because Caelum had led the charge through it, radiating holy light, pulling me and Alex along with him.

There is something else they don’t tend to tell you about adventuring through realities to face off against your father/murderer/sworn enemy and shunned necromancer: you aren’t really sure if you’re grateful for the company until it’s over.

I had embarrassed myself enough in front of Caelum. The last thing I needed was a ‘Luke, I am your father’ moment from this bastard.

Alright, so there was good news and bad news.

The good news was that it seemed Balthazar and my dear old dad were in the same spot. The bad news was that Balthazar and my dear old dad were in the same spot.

By the same spot, I mean the exact same physical coordinates. Not even an inch difference. Even possession is not so clean. Which means, somehow, they'd combined. Like, literally blended together.

Great. Because they weren't bad enough as two separate people.

Have I mentioned that the gods really hate me?

Anyway, it seemed that the closer I got to the window, the closer I was to the physical world. So, like a responsible adult, I cupped my hands against it and yelled a message to Caelum and Alex before running off to go and investigate. I did not, however, stick around to see their reactions to my decision.

It'd be fine. I had Caelum's blessing and all that. I didn't think even a hellhound would want to sniff around me.

Also like a responsible adult, I smeared a little blood on the windowsill so I'd be able to find my way back. (Trust me, boundaries are the last place you want to get lost in. Especially when said boundary belongs to a goddess who has it out for you.)

After doing these things, I headed off in the general direction of my dad. The boundary darkened. Before long, I felt eyes on my back.

Now, people stare at me a lot. I'm very used to it. However.

You know how it'd feel weird to see a wax statue of yourself? Or if you've ever astrally projected, what it's like to see your own body? That was kind of how I felt then. Like I was sensing some other version of myself staring at me. That is a very creepy sensation to have at any time, especially in a boundary.

I risked a backward glance. There was a hazy silhouette, faint and fluid. It disappeared shortly after I spotted it, and the feeling faded.

I tried to convince myself it was nothing, and focused on finding Balthazar/my dad.

This Hades was different from others, mostly because of the red overgrown earth. Yes, that's what I noticed first. Unlike the overworld, Hades had black tree-like pikes jutting out of the ground. Red vines covered the ground and hung from trees. Even I was feeling uneasy about this environment.

I proceed in Balthadad's direction (a super clever name, I know) until I come across a portcullis. Its crimson stone urges me to turn back, but I have no choice. Walls extended as far as I could see in either direction. Everything feels like some ghost is inhabiting it, even the dirt beneath my feet. The gate is closed, so I walk over the bridge and shout, "Let me pass!" I've come across these gates before, so I knew that a gatekeeper would respond. This one had some character, however. "Why?'' "I am Thanias, the necromancer, and I have business on the other side of your wall."

The sarcastic voice said, "But why? I don't care." I nearly summon a swarm of ghouls to knock the portcullis down by force, but I remember my place. With only a hint of disgruntlement, I ask again, "Would you please let me through?" "Yeah, no. Balthazar is expecting you. He told me you were not to pass."

I play my pity card. "My dad is on the other side of this gate. Could you please let through?" I don't know if he can see me, but I muster the cutest puppy dog eyes I can. I must look as adorable as an angry hellhound.

"Yeah, I know. I still won't let you through." That's it. I know the consequences, but I still clap my hands and release the ghouls around me. They appear from the dark fog, almost as if they were waiting this entire time. Some of them phase through the gate and cause the gatekeeper to shriek and moan in the most humiliating pitch possible while the others knock the portcullis down for me.

My work is done; my fingers snap and the spirits vanish to the fog.

With that behind me, I prepare myself for a meeting with Balthadad. Hey, maybe I can solve my daddy issues AND confront my rival in one fell swoop.

The moment the portcullis hit the ground, the sound didn’t echo.

It was swallowed.

That should have been my first clue to turn around, run back across the bridge, and pretend I had never come within a thousand metaphysical miles of this place. But alas, poor decision-making is kind of my brand.

I stepped over the twisted bars and towards Balthadad.

The air changed immediately. Heavier. Thicker. Like breathing through velvet soaked in old blood. The red vines that carpeted the ground shifted subtly under my boots, as if aware of my presence and deeply unimpressed by it.

“Great,” I muttered.

The walls loomed high on either side, black pikes jutting out like broken ribs. And behind them—behind everything—I could feel it. Not Limitis’s precise, disapproving stare, but something broader. Hungrier. Amused.

“Balthazar,” I called out, voice echoing weirdly, as though the syllables were being chewed on before being spat back. “You’ve got a very tacky aesthetic going on. Have you considered interior decorating?”

Silence.

Then, softly, a clap.

Just one.

I froze.

Another clap followed, slow and deliberate, coming from somewhere ahead in the crimson haze.

“Well done, Thanias,” a familiar voice drawled. “Breaking into the Underworld. Very on brand. Very dramatic. Your father would be so proud.”

My stomach dropped like it had just remembered gravity existed.

The haze parted.

Balthazar stepped out first.

He looked exactly the same as the last time I’d seen him—tall, infuriatingly composed, dressed in dark robes that seemed to absorb the red light rather than reflect it. His smile was all teeth and no warmth.

And beside him—

No.

No, no, no.

He stood just slightly behind Balthazar, arms folded, expression exactly as I remembered: disappointed, stern, and faintly disgusted, like he’d just stepped on something unpleasant and realized it was his own child.

My father.

For a second, the world narrowed to a pinpoint.

I was twelve again, standing in a doorway, clutching a book I wasn’t supposed to have. I was sixteen again, flinching when footsteps came too fast behind me. I was twenty, hands shaking, blood on my palms, watching him fall and knowing there was no taking it back.

My mouth went dry.

“Hi, Dad,” I heard myself say, voice oddly flat. “You look… less decomposed than expected.”

His lip curled. “You always did cope with humor. Even when it was deeply innapropriate.”

Ah. Yep. Still him.

Balthazar watched us like someone observing a particularly entertaining stage play. “Touching,” he said softly. “Really. I do so enjoy family reunions. They’re so… emotionally charged.”

I tore my gaze away from my father and fixed it on him instead. Easier. Hatred was simpler than… everything else clawing up my throat.

“You’ve been following me,” I said. Not a question.

He inclined his head. “Of course. You didn’t think you could meddle with borders without attracting attention, did you?”

“I was hoping,” I replied, “that you’d at least wait until after my midlife crisis.”

“You’re a necromancer,” he said lightly. “You’ve been in a midlife crisis since childhood.”

I took a step forward onto the red earth. The vines shifted again, curling slightly toward my boots like curious snakes. My skin prickled, magic stirring reflexively.

“I’m not here to banter,” I said. “I’m here to end this. You’ve been stalking me, haunting me, screwing with the veil, and frankly it’s getting really annoying.”

Balthazar’s smile widened. “Annoying? Thanias, I’ve been guiding you.”

“Guiding me to what? An early grave?”

“To understanding,” he corrected. “You’ve always refused to acknowledge what you are. What you’re capable of. You pretend you’re just a freelance corpse consultant with a sense of humor, but you and I both know better.”

I opened my mouth to retort.

My father spoke first.

“He’s always been delusional,” he said coldly. “Thinks he’s clever.”

I forced a laugh. “Wow. Even in death you’re still doing the emotional damage thing. Thanks.”

He stepped forward then, boots crunching on the red earth. The vines recoiled from him, hissing softly as if recognizing an authority I didn’t understand.

“You killed me,” he said simply.

“I did,” I said. My voice didn’t shake. I was weirdly proud of that. “You were about to kill me. Self-defense is generally considered socially acceptable.”

His eyes narrowed. “You exaggerate. I was disciplining you.”

Ah, yes. The classic argument.

I felt something inside me twist—anger, old and sharp and familiar. The kind that had teeth.

“You call it discipline,” I said quietly. “I call it years of being told I was broken. Wrong. Dangerous. Like I was some kind of ticking time bomb just waiting to ruin your perfect little life.”

“You were dangerous,” he snapped. “You played with death like it was a toy. You enjoyed it.”

“I was a scared kid who could hear ghosts screaming all the time,” I shot back. “And you decided the best solution was to scream louder.”

Balthazar watched, practically glowing with delight. “Oh, this is better than I imagined,” he murmured.

“Shut up,” we both snapped at the same time.

We froze.

Great.

My father recovered first, jaw tightening. “You think this place is a punishment for me?” he said. “Being dragged here, forced to watch what you’ve become? A necromancer bound to gods and relics, tearing holes in the natural order?”

I let out a slow breath.

“No,” I said. “I think this place is exactly where you wanted me to end up.”

He blinked, caught off guard.

“You always said I’d end up in hell,” I continued. “That I was messed up, that I’d ruin everything, that death followed me like a shadow. Well, congrats. Prophecy fulfilled. Here I am.”

Balthazar chuckled. “And with me. Don’t forget me. I’d hate to be excluded from the emotional climax.”

I turned to him, anger snapping back into focus. “You’re the one who’s been pushing things, aren’t you? Stirring up spirits, messing with borders, trying to force my hand.”

He spread his arms. “Someone had to nudge you. You were stagnating. Hiding behind humor, pretending you didn’t care about the power you wield. I merely created… opportunities.”

“By traumatizing me,” I said flatly.

He tilted his head. “Pain is a very effective motivator.”

My magic surged at that, dark and instinctive. The red vines shriveled where it brushed them, turning to brittle ash before regrowing moments later.

“I’m not your project,” I growled. “I’m not your experiment. And I’m definitely not your protégé.”

His smile sharpened. “But you are my equal. That’s what scares you, isn’t it? That everything you hate about me… lives in you too.”

For a second, the words almost landed.

Then I glanced at my father—standing there, cold and unrepentant, still convinced he’d been right all along.

And something inside me settled.

“No,” I said softly. “The difference between us is that I know I’m messed up. I don’t pretend it’s righteousness.”

My father scoffed. “Pathetic. You think self-awareness absolves you?”

“No,” I said. “But it means I can choose to be better than you were.”

For the first time, his expression cracked—not with anger, but with something like uncertainty.

Balthazar’s amusement dimmed slightly. “Careful, Thanias,” he said. “You’re drifting toward moral growth. Very out of character.”

“Yeah,” I replied, flexing my fingers as necromantic energy gathered, cold and steady. “Don’t worry. I’m still going to kick your ass.”

The ground trembled faintly, as if the Underworld itself were leaning in to watch.

I looked between them—my rival and my father, the past and the present, both trying in their own ways to define what I was.

Then I stepped forward onto the blood-red earth.

“Alright,” I said. “Family therapy’s over.”

My magic flared.

“Let’s talk about consequences.”

I focused on Balthazar.

See, people underestimate me because I'm skinny and snarky. They don't realize that I can think and talk at the same time. And to be frank, I knew by the time I got here that Balthazar had revived my father. It was either that or he'd literally combined with him--which quite obviously wasn't the case. So, if I wanted to get rid of them both, the solution was simple.

Wipe Balthazar off the face of the earth.

Now let me tell you my real specialty, friends and foes.

My real specialty is erasure.

Take it from me--some people just never deserved to exist. They should never have even been a fleeting thought in the divine mind. Much less actual, corporeal beings. Those people often end up being the cause of others' deaths. Their trauma. I.e.--they make a lot of ghosts. Most of my jobs include deleting those people. So far my total's around twenty-eight. I've been all over the US chasing them down. The great part? No one even remembers them after they're gone.

I'm not sure why I didn't employ this skill when I killed these two. Maybe I felt guilty. Well, I'll tell you this--I don't feel guilty anymore.

All of that being said, erasure is hard on a conscious, lively target like Balthazar. I'd have to knock him out first.

"So, Balthazar, you broken any hearts lately?" I asked. Hopefully I could get the bastard talking so he wouldn't take heed of the bones clumping under his feet. "Please, tell me all about your exploits. Then I'll know how many bones I need to break."

He rolled his eyes. "Thane, don't tell me you're still upset about that. Surely killing me must've done the trick to make you feel better."

"Yeah, no. In your dreams, maybe." My mouth went on autopilot while I gathered up more remains. More still. "You do still dream about me, don't you? You're not the type to move on. Honestly, the yandere act's getting a little tired, Bal."

"I dream of opening your ribcage and picking around inside," Balthazar said. Which, uh, major ew. Just when I thought he couldn't get any more disgusting.

My father's expression wrinkled. I guess he'd probably put two and two together. Before he could pipe up with some reproach or another, I said to him, "Yeah, yeah, being gay is bad, so I've heard. I don't fucking care, so don't even bother."

I'd almost gathered enough bones. I was bracing to put them to use when the bond yanked hard--damn near hard enough to knock me on my ass. I managed to stay upright, but I couldn't help grimacing.

Balthazar's eyes gleamed like I'd just handed him ten million in gold. "Oh, this is a treat. When did you split your soul, Thane? Even I'd have trouble with something like that."

Split my soul? Oh, fuck. Don't tell me--

The bond pulled, harder, sharper. I just needed half a minute--

"Last I checked, Bal, my soul is mine and mine only." I curled one hand. "Listen, it's been great, but I'm sorta missing my skinbag. Don't worry though--I'm coming to kill you again."

I threw my hand up and a conglomerate of bones seized Balthazar, dragging him under the strange earth.

I just barely caught the sound of him cursing. Then the bond pulled again, and it took me with it this time.

One moment I was in that warped patch of earth, bones rattling and Balthazar swearing somewhere beneath the surface. The next, everything snapped sideways—like a page being turned too fast—and cold air slammed into me.

Gravel crunched under my boots.

“Thanias!”

Alex’s voice cut through the static in my head. I blinked hard until the world settled into something resembling reality: crooked headstones, pale moonlight washing everything silver, and Caelum standing a few steps away with his hand half-extended, like he’d been ready to grab me out of thin air.

Which, I supposed, he had.

I straightened slowly, rolling my shoulders like that would somehow shove my soul back into its proper alignment. “You know,” I muttered, “I really wish people would stop yoinking me across realms without so much as a text first.”

Alex rushed forward and grabbed my arm, fingers digging in just enough to make sure I was actually solid. His eyes darted over me, checking for injuries. “You just vanished. One second you were there and then—nothing. What happened? Are you okay?”

“Define ‘okay.’” My voice came out steadier than I felt. Inside, the bond still throbbed, sore and raw, like someone had yanked a thread straight through my chest.

Caelum’s gaze sharpened. “You were fighting him.”

Not a question. Of course not. Caelum never asked things he already knew.

“Yeah,” I said, exhaling through my nose. “Had him buried, too. Very dramatic. Then the universe decided I was having too much fun and dragged me back here.”

Caelum frowned. “The bond did that?”

I didn’t answer right away.

Because Balthazar’s words were still echoing in my skull.

When did you split your soul, Thane?

I flexed my hand, watching the faint tremor I couldn’t quite hide. “Apparently,” I said lightly, “there are some… developments about my soul I was not informed of.”

Caelum’s expression went from sharp to dangerous in half a heartbeat. “Explain.”

“Working on it,” I shot back. Sarcasm was easier than admitting the tight knot of unease coiling in my gut. “All I know is he felt it. And if he felt it, that means he can probably track it. Which means—”

“That he knows about us,” Alex finished quietly.

Somewhere in the distance, a night bird called. The sound made the shadows seem deeper.

I dragged a hand down my face. “He won’t stay buried for long,” I said. “That bone trick buys me time, not a miracle. When he gets out, he’s going to come looking for answers. Specifically the kind that involve cutting me open and rummaging around, apparently.”

Alex winced. “He actually said that?”

“Yep. Very on-brand. Zero stars, do not recommend as an ex.”

Caelum didn’t smile. His eyes flicked to the ground beneath us, then back to me. “The bond reacted violently. Stronger than before. That means whatever is happening between your soul and—” he hesitated, like even he didn’t want to say the name “—mine, is escalating.”

I swallowed. “Yeah. I noticed.”

The truth was, the pull hadn’t just been strong. It had been desperate. Like something on the other end had been calling for me, not just yanking.

Like I was tethered to more than just the facts of someone's soul.

I pushed that thought down hard and fast. Not dealing with that existential crisis tonight.

I forced a crooked grin instead. “Good news is, I’m back. Bad news is, Balthazar now knows I’m not exactly… standard issue.”

Alex’s grip on my arm tightened. “Then we have to move. If he can follow that connection—”

“He can’t,” I cut in, though I wasn’t entirely sure. “Not instantly. Not unless I let him lock onto it. And trust me, I am not in the mood for round three tonight.”

Caelum studied me for a long moment, like he was trying to see past the jokes and into whatever I was very carefully not saying. Finally, he lowered his hand.

“Then we use the time we have,” he said. “Because if your soul truly is divided, Thane… that changes everything.”

I huffed out a humorless laugh. “Yeah. Tell me about it. I’d really love to know when that little life decision happened.”

The bond pulsed again, softer this time, like an echo.

I looked up at the dark Athenian sky and muttered, “Fantastic. Soul issues, homicidal necromancer, and unresolved daddy drama. Truly, my schedule is packed.”

Alex snorted despite himself.

Caelum did not.

And for some reason, that worried me more than anything else.

I ignored my less-than-ideal physical state and focused on my two companions. Boundaries, borders, in-betweens, gateways--whatever you want to call them--are standard fare for necromancers. They are not, however, standard fare for the average cleric or reanimated civilian. Before anything else, I'd have to watch over Alex and Caelum like a hawk. Because I definitely wasn't the only one watching them.

"Listen, guys, some tips," I said, moving the two of them closer together so I could keep them both in sight. "First--don't look anything in the eye. Actually, just try not to look up at all. And if the ground moves, stare at your toes. Second, think of your favorite song and sing that sucker in your head like there's no tomorrow. The more upbeat, the better. Third, if something tries to possess you, the first thing you should do is urinate. Better to piss yourself than fall prey to demonic influence, trust me on that one."

". . .And how can you be sure we're virgins?" Caelum asked.

I blinked. "Well, I can't, but it doesn't actually matter. The whole 'pee of a virgin' thing is a myth. Urine in general will work. The main thing is that it's salty and wet. Both things that evil spirits despise."

"I don't want to know how you learned any of this," Caelum muttered.

"Anyway," I said, "you two should be alright. Just stay where I can see you."

"And what happens if you look into something's eyes?" Alex asked.

"Oh, me? Don't worry about that." Worst I'd had so far was an insatiable urge for disco music for about a week. "We necromancers have natural defenses. Besides, I've still got Caelum's protection spell."

We proceeded deeper into the strange boundary.

There are natural rifts in the border all over the world--Stonehenge, for example, or Bunker Hill. Mostly places where death exceeds what's natural. Which is why the US is full of holes. Manmade rifts, on the other hand, are uncommon, and the boundaries inside are always chaotic. Even I can't predict what they'll be like, and I've spent half my life wandering boundaries, poking around in places I probably shouldn't.

And see, this is where necromancy gets a bad rep. People think we go around ripping holes in the border and just indiscriminately raising the dead. That is in fact strongly discouraged by ninety-eight percent of us. It's only fuckwads like Balthazar who see fit to let the dead pour unchecked back into the realm of the living. That, my friends, is called idiocy.

Anyway, this boundary specifically was creepy as all hell. Forget meeting some random ghost's eyes--I could barely see Caelum and Alex in front of me through the fog, despite them being only about a foot away. I still hand my hands on their shoulders. The ground was somewhere between wispy and spongy. Fingers kept trying to grasp my ankles. I heard bells and windchimes in the distance, echoing with an eerie reverb.

Then, all at once, something shifted--and before I could react, I was yanked away from Caelum and Alex and into a different realm entirely.

***

I'm a pretty calm guy. I can normally adapt to things without much delay. Going with the flow, rolling with the punches.

Well, I get tired of being punched after a while.

The new place was dim. Brighter than the unnatural boundary, but still dark, like midafternoon in the middle of a storm. The bells and windchimes were much clearer than before, but still distant, faintly discordant like a fading memory. Beneath my back was cold marble, and above my head was a ceiling supported by carved pillars threaded with cracks and painted in smudged scenes of undeath.

I sat up. Sure enough, the divan was here too--black velvet and intricately worked silver. And on the divan--

Thanias 1.0 looked at me with a frown that said he wasn't impressed.

For a long moment, he stared at me and I stared at him.

Then he said, "You're forgetting your divinity."

"Well, that's vague."

"What I mean is that you are literally forgetting how to be a god. If you go on like this much longer, without reclaiming your divinity, you'll just. . .forget. All the power you could have will disappear. And so will your necromancy."

That got my attention, and not in a good way.