Satisfied, I return my attention to the grave and let my blood drip onto the ground, the dark drops sinking into the earth.
The air shifts, becoming thicker, charged with a power that makes my hair stand on end.
“Ossa surgant, spiritus loquatur.” I press both hands to the cold grass. “Kwan, surge et responde.”
The incantation tears through me, consuming the magic I just gained. Necromancy is a ravenous art.
The grave trembles. Hannah must be backing away because the binding spell tightens its hold on my ribs, distracting me. How irritating that her proximity comforts me. Normally, being close to someone is anything but comforting.
The earth splits apart with a deep rumble, releasing the putrid scent of decay.
Hannah lets out a squeak, and the grass shuffles as she steps back further.
Pale particles rise from the jagged crack—bone dust. It swirls around us, catching the moonlight, and I breathe it in, letting Florence’s essence fill my lungs.
“Ohmygod,” Hannah says into her hands. “Is that— You’re really— This is the worst day of my life.”
“Memorias revela,” I command, my voice growing stronger as the necromantic energy builds. “Show me your bloodline.”
The bone dust settles on my skin like snow, and the world around me dissolves.
I’m standing in a dimly lit space filled with sultry music. Cigarette smoke curls through amber light, and the stuffy air tastes like whiskey andperfume. The floorboards beneath my feet are sticky with spilled drinks. Behind a mahogany bar, a woman moves gracefully, her black hair long and shiny, wearing a red dress that hugs her curves. When she turns, it’s Florence’s eyes staring back at me, the same warm brown I looked at across coven circles for decades.
The vision shimmers and shifts, and the interior changes. The smoke clears, and the brass instruments fade. Piano music fills the room instead, and behind the bar, a different woman is serving drinks. She has the same smile, the same eyes. It shifts again, moving through time, through Florence’s descendants. Above the bar, painted in red letters, are the wordsThe Crimson Moon.
Finally, a location. A thread to follow.
But the image is already crumbling at the edges, turning to ash before it can show me what the place looks like now.
“Show me more,” I whisper. I push harder, drawing on what little power remains, trying to anchor the vision. I need a street, a face, a name. Where is this establishment? What is the name of the person I’m looking for?
But the vision continues to fragment, leaving me grasping at the faint outline of red letters.
“Damn it all.”
Darkness pushes through, and in my next breath, the shattered pieces dissipate like mist. I’m back in the dark cemetery, cold air biting my skin. Dampness seeps through my trousers where I’m kneeling on the wet grass. The bone dust falls to the earth, leaving a gritty residue on my tongue. I turn my head and spit away from the grave, then wipe my brow, where sweat beads along my hairline.
“Hurry and fix it before someone sees,” Hannah whispers.
I’m vibrating, my heart pounding hard. Necromancy always takes its toll, but this felt more draining. I’m surviving on insufficient power, and my body knows it.
Pressing my cut palm against my cloak to stanch the bleeding, I sweep my other hand over the earth, settling it back to what it was.
Hannah lets out a breath, glancing around. “What did you see?”
I labor to my feet, drained. “Florence’s descendants. I don’t know how many she has or who we’re looking for, but we need to find a saloon called The Crimson Moon.”
“A saloon? You mean like a bar?”
I wave a hand. How should I know what people call them these days?
“Let me see…” Hannah pulls that rectangular device from her pocket, the one she used earlier for light. Her thumbs move across its surface, and it glows to life.
I step closer to peer over her shoulder. “What is this?”
“Phone.” As she taps it, symbols and images appear on the glowing surface as if by magic. “The Crimson Moon… Yeah, here it is. It’s a short bus ride away.”
“What? How do you know?”
