Her head hurt, whether that was from the fever or overwork, she wasn't sure. Kit had yet to come back from his mysterious errand, and she wasn’t altogether certain when Clea would send the necromancer to her. Sleep beckoned, but she was a little scared that she’d miss the necromancer’s visit.
I’ll send her to you once I have everything set up. Although she’s a bit of a nutcase, so I’m not sure whether she’ll be able to save your hideorkill Drayer,the mad woman had said with a wave of her hand.
Gentry had been too thankful to be alive to question the Weaver about the specifics. Clea didn’t really seem to be the merciful type, particularly since she’d killed Visha.
After she’d read through her father’s nonsensical notes for what felt to be the millionth time, Gentry caved. The time on her laptop read three in the morning, and her body felt like hell. Slowly, she powered down for the night, her laptop far hotter than she would’ve liked. Then, for the first time since she had escaped Mage Headquarters, she went through the routine of brushing her teeth and showering. It felt divine, and she would’ve taken her time if she wasn’t perilously close to driftingoff as the piping-hot water poured over her body. Turned out the Underground apartment didn’t have bad water pressure.
She fell into bed, her sadness coming back in full force when she recognized her father’s blanket. The feeling worsened when she realized it smelled like him, but she snuggled up nonetheless. Not even grief could stop Gentry from falling asleep within seconds.
A knock on the door woke her. It was a hard rap, not at all like the playful jaunt Kit had said would be his signal. Gentry fought herself awake as that knock repeated, and her brain kicked on. As silently as possible, she opened the drawer of the nightstand and retrieved her father’s gun. It was a cool, steady weight in her shaking hands as she stood up from the bed.
A long time ago, her dad taught her how to shoot, but she really didn’t want to find out if she remembered her lessons.
She peeped through the door viewer, her heart racing when she saw it wasn’t the tall, handsome witch who’d gone AWOL. Rather, it was two women. One short, one tall. She recognized neither of them.
The taller one seemed to sense her presence, her emerald eyes immediately going to the peephole. “Let us in,” she grumbled, “we don’t have time for this shit.”
“We can feel you in there,” the smaller one piped up cheerfully with a lilting accent, “we’re here to help you. Clea sent us.”
Flicking on the safety of the gun and shoving it into her waistband, Gentry was already unlocking the door, ignoring the hiss of the wards as they disengaged. She opened it up and the tall woman and short, tiny blonde both rushed past her as if she didn’t exist.
The taller one was dressed in all black and had a decisively gothic feel. She looked dangerous in a gaunt kind of way, her skinniness not hinting at any sort of combat ability the way Clea or Kit did. But then again, Gentry knew witches didn’t actually need muscles to be dangerous. The smaller woman looked like she knitted oversized sweaters for charity, although there seemed something blissfully off about her happy smile as she placed a ludicrously large bag on the table by Gentry’s laptop.
“Let’s get this over with,” the taller one grumbled, “the lab’s going to blow up the city if I’m gone too long.”
“You’re the one who said I couldn’t go alone,” the smaller one complained, although she didn’t sound like she minded in the slightest, “and I’m the one doingyourfriend a favor.”
“Is Clea really anyone’s friend? I’d describe her more as a pet. Like a vicious gerbil that eats all the other gerbils.”
“A really dumb gerbil.”
“Uh, excuse me,” Gentry said, “are either of you the necromancer that Clea said she’d send?” She looked at the smaller one, who’d implied as much. She didn’t look particularly… deathly. But then again she’d never met a necromancer before, and to make things stranger, this woman spoke with an accent Gentry only heard parodied on television. What were the odds that a person could be both a necromancerandfrom the Wilds?
“Oh yes.” As Gentry expected, the small blonde stepped forward. “I’m Wren and I’m a necromancer. This is my girlfriend, Adrienne.” For the first time since she’d entered the apartment, Wren frowned. “Clea told us that I’m the last resort before she kills you?”
“Yeah, that’s my understanding.” Gentry confirmed, unsure how to not makethatnot awkward. “But no pressure I guess.”
“You should be a little quieter when saying you’re a necromancer, Wren,” Adrienne hissed, “who knows how thickthe walls are in this shithole. No offense.” The last part didn’t sound sincere in the least.
Aw, so that’s why she’s Clea’s friend.Adrienne seemed like the type who wouldn’t mind having a savage for a friend.
“That’s rude,” Wren scolded, “and stop telling me what to do. If someone heard us, you’d just poison them anyway. Now, shoo. I have work to do so that Clea doesn’t do something mean like she always does”—the necromancer looked at Gentry—“don’t mind, Adrienne. She’s just worried that someone will hear I’m a necromancer and try to kill us. My bones are pretty valuable. Also, sorry about Clea. She kills a lot of people, including my friend this one time. I don’t like her very much.”
Adrienne sat down at the table and pulled out a book from the bag Wren brought. “Stop talking her head off, Wren, and get to work. I have a shift to go back to. So if you two could go ahead and do the thing I’d appreciate it.” She then opened her book and proceeded to ignore them, her long, bloodred nails a pop of color against the black tome.
The little necromancer rolled her eyes, but then she proceeded to dig through the same bag. She drew out a large knife. Gentry, still standing at the door, recoiled.
“I won’t harm you or cut you, not without your permission. Come on, sit down.”
Gentry pulled a chair away from a still-reading Adrienne and then sat down, suddenly aware that her hair must’ve looked like a mess. Her long T-shirt hardly excused itself as proper clothing, either. But Wren didn’t seem to care about that as she snatched Gentry’s hand with the one that wasn’t holding the knife. Her smaller hand was so cold that Gentry yelped a little bit in shock. Her father and Kit's skin was always blazingly hot, and that little detail distracted her mind as Wren ran her fingers up and down Gentry's palm. It tickled.
"Are necromancers always cold?" she asked, trying to ignore the strange sensation.
Wren shrugged. “I've never met another necromancer. They tend to die pretty quick, but yes, my body temp tends to be in the 70s, so I imagine the surface is even colder than that.”
“It makes sex kind of weird," Adrianne chimed in without looking up from her book.
Wren giggled at that, and Gentry found herself looking at the other girl's throat, and sure enough, it rose and fell, so she knew that the woman was breathing.
