Special Agent Anika Dandridgedidn’t make it to the Chicago SOA field office until close to 1700. Patrick felt her presence before he even saw her.
Is this how I feel to everyone?
Even through his shields Patrick could sense the shroud of death that surrounded Anika, saturating her aura with a darkness that wasn’t bad, just cold. Patrick stood to greet her as she entered Dabrowski’s office, eyes flicking from her dark face to the psychopomp trotting at her feet. It took the shape of a fat little pug, gray in coloring, with keen, otherworldly eyes.
Anika herself was an African American woman in her late forties, tall, her graying hair twisted into dreadlocks pulled back in a thick ponytail. Born and raised in New Orleans, Louisiana, Anika was a necromancer who owed her life to the government—literally. As with most black magic, it was illegal, but she had been granted a reprieve of life as a child after her case was appealed through all levels of the courts until it reached the United States Supreme Court. The nine justices had ruled unanimously to allow her to live.
Government interference at its finest.
“Special Agent Dandridge,” Dabrowski said as he stood. “I wish your first trip to my field office was under better circumstances.”
Anika left her carry-on by the door to come greet them. She didn’t extend her hand in greeting, but Patrick did. She eyed him for a moment before accepting the handshake. Even through his shields, he could feel the pull of her magic, a hunger in her power that reached for his soul despite his shields.
“Thanks for coming on such short notice,” Patrick said.
Anika shrugged, the ankle-length wool coat she wore shifting with the motion. “A judge signed off on my services. It’s not like I could say no.”
“I know how that is.”
“Let’s get you and your companion to the body,” Dabrowski said.
Anika glanced down at the psychopomp sitting politely by her feet. “Selene. Is the body onsite?”
“In our morgue.”
“And the supplies I requested?”
“Waiting for you. The videographer arrived about two hours ago and finished setting up the camera.”
“Excellent.” Anika graced them both with a polite smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Then let’s go wake the dead.”
The SOA’s morgue in the basement reminded Patrick of the one at the PCB back in New York. The dead always had to be handled with care, and the wards embedded in the walls and floors of the morgue were different than the ones sunk into the building’s foundation.
Anika brought her luggage with her, and Selene never left her side. Patrick kept pace behind the psychopomp. As a pug, it was cute and would probably go unnoticed to mundane humans for what it truly was—a spirit guide for the dead.
Psychopomps were rare and only appeared to people whose magic dealt with the dead. Patrick had only met one before this. Spencer Bailey was an old friend from the Mage Corps and a soulbreaker with an affinity for the dead. His psychopomp had taken the shape of an ocelot with an attitude.
The head medical examiner had come in on his day off to oversee the resurrection of the body found at the Westberg home. Dr. Aaron Sheehan was a reedy man in his early fifties, a warlock, and greeted Anika with a smile that didn’t look forced.
“Thank you for your help with this matter, Special Agent Dandridge,” Dr. Sheehan said.
“Of course,” Anika said, slipping out of her wool coat and handing it to Dabrowski. “Is that the body?”
Patrick looked over at the corpse laid out on an exam table, white paint having been brushed over the burned skin. The sigils on the corpse’s chest were there to keep the body from turning into a zombie and walking out of the building.
The videographer had set up in the corner, his camera aimed at the body. He had a visitor badge clipped to his suit jacket, a coffee cup by his feet, and looked a little nervous.
“We have, uh, the chicken?” Dr. Sheehan said.
He pointed at the cage sitting on the adjacent exam table. The chicken standing inside it blinked at them and fluttered its wings before pecking at the metal cage. It let out a loud squawk before going to the bathroom.
Anika nodded. “Yes, that will do. Let me get out my tools before we officially begin the session.”
Patrick took up a position that put him outside the frame of the video camera. He didn’t care if his name was on the record for this, but he didn’t want his face anywhere viewable. He watched as Anika knelt and opened her luggage. Inside were the personal supplies she used to do her magic, nestled inside padded pockets and boxes secured in the luggage with a multitude of straps.
Magic was personal, and always would be. Necromancy was a mystery to Patrick, mostly because it was rarely performed. Messing with a person’s soul, whether they were alive or dead, was illegal. Necromancy was restricted for a reason, not the least for the blood magic it involved.
He watched as Anika pulled out a marble mortar and pestle set, two vials of different-colored liquid, a packet of dried ingredients, a box of matches, and a sharp, clean machete, its blade etched with spellwork. She laid everything out at the foot of the exam table, then clucked her tongue at Selene.
