A/N: This was something that I came up with a while back and it's been tugging at my brain ever since. I hope you all will give it a shot and let me know your thoughts! There is a reference to Russell's powers as a shaman. You can check out that on the Otherworld wiki (I'd link if I could) for more information if you need it. I think I provided enough context clues in the story, but it never hurts to have more information. If you want to read more about shamans, check my profile for a story about Brady and Peter. Again - please review!
Disclaimer: I don't own The Darkest Powers trilogy nor the Otherworld series. There are several scenes taken from The Reckoning and written from Margaret's point of view.
The ground shook, one of the girls yelled. She gasped, taken by the horror of it all. The earth was shaking and groaning and with a loud crack, it split open in front of them.
It wasn't supposed to go this way.
The young woman walked into her grandfather's study. She hadn't been in this room in years, not since he had proclaimed her training complete. She certainly didn't agree but there was no use in arguing. She was free to use any of the books he kept but she didn't.
She looked at the heavily shelved walls. Some of these books were well over a century old, several may be two or three centuries past that.
If only she could summon him, things would be easier. She couldn't though. There were restrictions on what they could and couldn't do. Rules and taboos as well. She couldn't summon him even if she gave it her all. The old ways forbade it.
Her grandfather was from the old country. He stressed that her knowing her roots were important. She would merely be adrift like so many other children of settlers were if she didn't remember where she came from.
She felt adrift now. It was cruel. She had the power to raise the dead but not the one that could help her. She couldn't use another necromancer either. Necromancers had a one way trip; there wasn't any lingering on this side of the veil.
Footsteps sounded behind her.
"There you are," the older woman breathed. "What are you looking for Margaret?"
She checked her list. She had gone over it at least five times already. She had the herbs ready. It was her mind that was resisting.
She never managed to raise a corpse, not while her grandfather was alive. He had always reassured her that her day would come. It would come and then she would wish it never did.
She was sitting next to a freshly dug grave.
Walter Platt.
She saw his obituary in the paper yesterday. He was an old man that passed away, surrounded by his family. He worked at one of the factories in town until he retired. He had had a quiet, peaceful life. His spirit wouldn't lash out at her.
Her grandfather had instructed her on how to pick someone for summoning. It was not something to take lightly. The spirits are distrustful, he said, when they're summoned. They are angry and confused. They could lash out at her, not physically of course, but they could find other ways to exact their revenge.
It would be easier to use a spirit that was hanging around but she didn't want to do that. She wanted her first summoning to be a *true* summoning. She wanted to pull someone through the veil.
She focused, visualizing the picture from the paper.
He never came.
"Any luck?"
Margaret shook her head.
"Well," the older man started, "perhaps you're simply not ready for it yet."
"I'm twenty-one years old. I should be able to summon. What kind of necromancer am I if I can't do that?"
The old man sipped his coffee. Margaret had sought out his advice on necromancers since her grandfather passed. She had grown up with him. He was like an uncle to her, slipping her little tidbits when her grandfather refused.
"Not all of them do," he said quietly. "You have to practice, yes, but you cannot force something that simply isn't meant to be."
Margaret fingered the necklace she was wearing. "Is it this? My grandfather gave it to me-"
He held up a hand and shook his head.
"It's nothing more than a pretty necklace."
"But the dreams, they stopped after she gave it to me."
He gave her a small smile. "The mind is a powerful thing, always open to suggestions. You can try without it if you like, but I imagine there won't be a difference."
She was older now. There wasn't much work for a weak necromancer in the Cabals or their think tanks. She had to be the first of her family to have a normal human profession.
It was humiliating. She was thankful her grandfather couldn't check on her. He would be so disappointed. Her grandmother tried to hide hers but acting had never been her strong suit. She was merely a human, one that was aware of the supernatural world and the role her family played, but a human nevertheless.
After her mother, they had such high hopes for her.
Happy hour was such an odd thing. The participants were usually anything but happy. They were looking for something to dull their already dull, meaningless lives.
The economy had been hit hard. The psychological standoff with the Russians was in full effect. She still couldn't find much to do with the supernatural. A necromancer who couldn't summon was as useful as a witch who couldn't cast.
She was already a few drinks in when she saw him, huddled over in a booth, sneaking leering glances at her.
The man in the booth was gone now. Pity. She could have used a lay.
She returned to her drink, taking a sip.
"Hello there," a husky voice sounded to her left.
She gave a small smile and looked to the source.
Her smile vanished when she made contact.
He wasn't alive.
She had thought that her grandfather was being overly cautious with her. Telling her scary ghost stories to ensure that she didn't let her powers get away from her. She was wrong. It started out so simply. The ghost had approached her and was completely polite until she couldn't do what he wanted.
It turned ugly and fast.
She shuddered at the memory. It only opened up the floodgates though. That one ghost found others and they flocked to her, demanding that they each be heard out and granted their wishes.
It simply couldn't be done. Now she knew why her grandfather told her the ghost stories. It was to scare her, yes, but it was for her own good.
She threw herself into books she swore she'd never open.
Ancient rituals, folklore, legends, true and false accounts on how necromancers helped shape history.
She read accounts of necromancers raising the dead for armies, personal servants, scare tactics, framing other necromancers or supernaturals. She knew that most of the stories were false or at least greatly exaggerated. Within the tales, the truth was there. A few accounts were true but she was never told which ones.
Her grandfather told her that she didn't need to know such things until she was older. He's pointed out that necromancers of such power had been out of this world for centuries and would never return. The bloodlines had purposely been watered down - no more marrying between the same families or other supernaturals.
Her grandfather had served on the Interracial Council and had amassed his library collection over the years. The next representative should have come for the books, their history, but they never did.
Margaret inwardly winced when she ran into accounts of their family. They were true necromancers, she was a mere shadow compared to them. Even if they weren't in the stories of raising armies, there were still accounts of them settling spirits.
She threw herself into the library, immersing herself in the knowledge of their race. If she couldn't do what she was supposed to, she would do the next best thing.
The nightmares returned.
She was suspicious of this meeting. Sorcerers didn't reach out to people like her. There were plenty of others that they could reach our too.
No, this was something different. If he reached out to her, it was for a very specific reason.
It probably was something along the lines of one Cabal wanting to summon a former employee of another to extract inside intel. It'd be intriguing if she hadn't run into that scenario before, or if it had a higher intellectual level than of a teenager.
No, this would prove how much of a disappointment she was to the family name. Despite her grandfather's death, her mother losing it shortly her birth, and her weak powers, the family name still commanded respect.
A man walked into the bar, average height, average weight; completely average all around. He took the chair next to hers and ordered a beer.
"Margaret, isn't it?"
She gave him a once over.
"I understand that you are ... an expert in your field, scholarly even."
Margaret took another sip of wine. Why couldn't there be at least one sleazy bar that had decent wine?
"I know my history," she replied.
"That is exactly I, I mean, we are looking for."
She turned to him with a puzzled look. Typically this was where meetings went sour when they learned she was all theory and practice. All bark and no bite.
"I'm sure you've heard the rumors over the years. A group out there, performing experiments, engineering a better future for the community."
She snorted. "I've heard those tales, yes. The same story has been floating around since I was a girl."
Margaret hadn't been a girl in a very long time.
"What if I told you that it was true? That such things did happen and now that they are coming into their powers ..." he trailed off when he bartender checked on them. He resumed after they were alone again. "They're of age now, some of experiments worked, some backfired. My sources say that their power potential is much greater than it should have been."
"Why does this concern me? The only confirmed experiments I know of like that took place in World War 2 and it was on both sides."
"This wasn't along those lines, nothing military related. This was ... well, the path to hell is littered with good intentions, right?" He grinned and then caught himself, remembering what Margaret was. "One of the ... failures, I suppose is the correct way to refer to them, is a necromancer."
That garnered more of Margaret's attention.
"And what do you want? Notes? Books?"
"I was hoping you would join us. You'd be able to train her. Ideally we'd reach the point where we can use them to take out the group that did this."
"Do you have any idea of how powerful she is?"
"Not much. She is attracting ghosts like you wouldn't believe. A source said she carried on a long conversation with a ghost in a restaurant and didn't even notice the stares until it was too late to play it off."
Margaret returned to her drink. Typical. Every necromancer was a powerful one, according to those who wanted to use them. Just ignoring the fact that since the girl didn't know about the ghost, she was merely found by one. Margaret was found by several each week. It didn't mean anything.
This was likely to prove that she was normal, just untrained.
"Margaret, please," he leaned in closer. "This is something you'll take with you for the rest of your life."
"How much?"
He sputtered.
She repeated herself and he was silent. She got up to leave and he grabbed her arm. An icy stare released her but she remained where she stood.
"We don't have money. This ... just come, and take a look at her and you can decide if you want to make history instead of studying it. She'll be at my house in a few days. I'll call you when she arrives."
The ground continued to shake, the hole widening and deepening, tombstones tumbling, caskets becoming unearthed.
She grabbed Chloe by the shoulders.
"Get up, get up now!"
It was only a matter of time before they too were swallowed up.
Screams echoed in her ears. The unearthed coffins - how did they fit so many in those tiny rows - were now filled with spirits and they all wanted to escape their physical confinements.
She was drawn to them, like a moth to flame. She approached the edge and listened. They were all crying out for her, for her to release them, to free them.
Images of old nightmares surfaced. No one was supposed to have this much power. The elders had seen to this centuries ago when kings abused their powers to keep up with their endless armies and wars.
Margaret looked back at Chloe. She didn't see a young girl anymore.
She saw a weapon.
The girl didn't have an ounce of training. She insisted that she wasn't trying to prove anything; she wasn't simply trying to act out or exaggerate her abilities.
She simply did it naturally.
This was much worse than the nightmares that plagued her youth. This was an entirely new monster.
"We weren't prepared, not at all."
"Then we need to get prepared," Andrew replied.
"She split open the ground, Andrew! The very earth opened to free the dead. It - it - it was something out of the old stories my grandfather used to tell. Terrible stories that gave me nightmares about necromancers so powerful they could raise entire cemeteries of the dead."
She took in a breath. "She can raise the dead at fifteen. Without training. Without ritual. Without intention."
"Then she has to learn how to-"
"Do you know what Victoria told Gwen? She's never learned a single spell, but she can cast them. If she sees it, she can do it. No training. No instructions. Naturally, we thought she was telling stories, but now ... we can't handle this. I know they're just children, and what has happened to them is terrible and tragic. But the greater tragedy would be to tell them they can expect to lead normal lives."
"Lower your voice," Andrew hissed.
"Why? So you can keep assuring them everything will be alright? It won't. Those children are going to need to be monitored for their entire lives. It's only going to get worse."
"That's why we're going to help them," Andrew repeated.
Margaret shook her head.
"No one is supposed to have that much power. No one," she hissed. "In a few years," she sighed. "She's going to have to have much more than monitoring, I promise you that."
She could really go for a cigarette, too bad she quit a few years ago. She had gone outside to try to gather her thoughts.
Andrew couldn't even conceive of how wrong he was. There wouldn't be anything they could do for the children. They might be able to give a few coping strategies but that might only buy them a few years.
"I understand it didn't go well?"
"Where do I begin?"
"You don't need to," he said, standing next to her. He was quiet for a few moments; the only noises were the birds in the trees.
"I've done what I can but it doesn't look good," he said. "I'm assuming that ... the necromancer outperformed herself."
"How did you know?"
He smiled and tapped his head. Of course. Shamans could astral project. He could focus and see what was happening anywhere else in the world. If rumors were true, he could see a little past that too.
"It was something my ayami hasn't seen in centuries and it greatly concerned her."
Margaret snorted, as if she wasn't already worried enough for everyone.
"There are other forces too but the veil is thinning -"
"Impossible, she's lying," Margaret interrupted.
"She does not lie to me, what would be the use?"
She could really use a cigarette.
"Troubled times are coming. The veil thinning is something that I've never heard of." He looked at her expectedly.
She pressed her lips and looked away.
"What do we do about it?"
"We could ... see they are taken care of."
Her face paled. She couldn't think of any possible solutions but certainly *that* would be the last resort.
"Or we could see if a cabal is interested."
"Which one did they come from? Cortez or Nast?"
"St. Cloud."
Her eyebrows lifted. That was unexpected and a typical of how she understood the cabals operated.
"It'd need to be them, then. They have all if their files and histories. If anyone knows what they're dealing with, it'd be them."
"We could get more money from the Nasts or Cortezes. The facility in Miami is supposed to be impregnable."
"Money?" She shook her head.
"Why not? It is going to be risky arranging ... their transport. It's probably hush money."
"They are already to have a rough time as it is. We can spare them the tests they've already performed at least by giving them back."
Russell sighed; clearly disappointed he wouldn't be increasing his windfall.
Margaret didn't sleep well that night. It was the first time in years that she had been plagued by the nightmares that visited her when she was a girl and then a young woman, trying to figure out where she belonged in the supernatural world.
She dreamt of cemeteries rising up, ghosts and spirits and whatever else flood out of the veil, she dreamt of a world plagued by those that didn't belong.
At the center of it was just a small little creature, something that was so cleverly disguised as being something as sweet and naïve as a young girl.
She saw that girl but she didn't see the innocence that the real one had. She saw nothing in those blank eyes. She responded to those who barked orders at her and her army of undead responded in kind.
She saw fire and destruction.
She approached the girl, screaming at her to stop.
The girl turned to her; the once blonde hair turned to the color of ash, and whispered something that she couldn't hear.
The army of undead turned on her and she felt them, probing at her conscious, some that were ethereal tried to invade her mind, the physical ones found her limbs and began to tear them apart.
She awoke with a start and stumbled her way to the bathroom to vomit. Once she was gone, she looked at herself in the mirror.
She wasn't a psychic, those didn't exist. Well, there were some supernaturals that claimed that they were but how could that ever be proven? Shamans though … she knew that they had a very limited ability to see the different planes and send the visions to people. Or at least that was what all of her research suggested that they could do. It was another one of those phenomena that couldn't definitely be proven one way or another.
She looked at the old woman in the mirror. By all accounts, she shouldn't have made it to this age. Her mother hadn't. Her grandfather did but she knew that he took great care to never summon anything, even accidentally.
Chloe wouldn't make it to her age, she knew that. Such power was a grenade with the pin already pulled. If she was going to live, it would have to be heavily supervised. She couldn't have anything resembling a life outside of warded areas. They would find her and torment her, day and night, night and day until she gave them what she wanted.
How many spirits did the old man already tell? Hundreds? Thousands?
She rinsed her mouth out and washed her face. The water helped slow the panic down to a trickle.
No, her dream wasn't something that Russell sent. He couldn't possibly have seen something like that and still haven't called to talk to her. No, this was something only her imagination could have conjured up.
She returned to bed and sat there, leaning against the headboard.
It needed to be done and soon. The longer she was around the girl, the more risk she was exposed too.
She leaned and grabbed her cell phone from the nightstand. She called Russell but he didn't answer. She left him a voicemail and it was only after the fact that she hoped that he couldn't hear her voice wavering.
It simply had to be done. There wasn't a way around it.
The girl needed to go away.