Page 5 of Deadly Deception (Necromancer Tales #2)

Chapter

Five

Erasmus

Shane Tompkins’s niece, Sara, walked us to an interview room where Navarre sat waiting. Tall and lean like her uncle, Sara’s hair was more silvery-gray than blond. She walked with a limp in her right leg that made me wonder if that was the on-the-job injury her uncle spoke of. I didn’t like prying into the living’s lives. I got nosy with the dead, not the living.

We’d had to leave Shane behind, cooling his heels in the lobby. While Shane had gotten a mix of irritated glares and warm welcomes, the glances sent my way were not so forgiving. Most were curiously wary, but some were downright hostile. One officer even plastered himself to the side of the hallway and made the sign of the cross across his chest as I walked by. Anticipating Franklin’s reaction, I grabbed his arm and squeezed tight. Whatever he thought of saying—or, Gaia help us, doing—would only get Franklin in trouble. Nothing he said or did was going to change the officers’ opinions.

Sara offered up an exasperated “really, Jarrod,” accompanied by a dramatic eyeroll. A quiet “idiot” passed her lips as we got farther down the hall. I was glad she didn’t try and apologize for him. It wasn’t her responsibility.

We reached the room Navarre was in and Sara hesitated, her hand on the doorknob and a pinched look to her eyes and mouth. “I’m not sure what Uncle Shane told you, but…” She sighed. “I don’t want you to think I don’t believe this is a good idea. I do. It’s just… I’m not sure how much you’re going to get out of him.”

I studied Sara and asked what I’d been wondering since Tompkins opened his mouth. “What makes you think he didn’t do it?” It was a fair question. While I liked thinking that Navarre wasn’t a murderer, did we really know that?

Sara shrugged and answered, “We don’t. If he’s guilty of a crime, then he needs to be behind bars, although I think a psychiatric prison would be better for him. Unfortunately, that’s not my call.” Looking toward the door, Sara added, “There’s just something about him that… I don’t know, call it a gut feeling. He doesn’t read murderer to me, but I’ve been wrong before. People fool you. I just don’t want him railroaded on something no one’s certain of, especially without a body.”

That sounded fair enough, and I nodded in the direction of the door. “Let’s see if I can make any sense of the situation.”

“Thank you,” Sara answered, sounding genuinely grateful. “Uncle Shane’s actions haven’t earned me any favors, but I don’t care much for office policies or politics.” With a soft grin and wink, Sara opened the door.

I started to walk inside but stopped just inside the door frame. Franklin’s larger body was a warm, reassuring press against my back. His hand on my shoulder stopped me from shaking but didn’t stop the well of sadness that dropped into the pit of my belly.

Navarre sat in a chair, wrists shackled and legs drawn up with his feet resting on the chair’s seat. I was somewhat surprised they hadn’t locked up his ankles too, but considering the chair was bolted to the floor, maybe they didn’t think it necessary. An armed police officer stood in the corner and a middle-aged woman in a business suit sat on the same side of the table, her chair scooted as far from Navarre as possible.

Franklin nudged me into the room and Sara followed us, making the introductions. “Officer Witkowski is in the corner, and this is Navarre’s state-appointed lawyer, Barbara Van. The room’s small and gets a little crowded. I’ll leave you to your interview. Let me know if you need anything.”

I heard the door close behind us and Franklin moved around me, walking toward the table and offering a brief, “Ms. Van.”

“I’m not certain what anyone expects by bringing you in, but I’m willing to go with it. Honestly, I don’t believe my client understands any of the rights he’s been read or that I’m here to represent him.” Barbara Van sounded both irritated and exasperated. Most likely she’d never had a client quite like Navarre.

Franklin and Barbara participated in more small talk. I tuned them out, listening to something they couldn’t hear, something I could barely latch onto. Yet it most likely sounded like a megaphone screaming in Navarre’s ears. Had he been able, I imagined Navarre would have his hands clasped over his ears, not that that would probably help much. As it was, he sat there, knees pulled up to his chest and rocking back and forth. His forehead was plastered against his knees, and he was curled up as much as possible. Navarre’s nearly-black hair fell in a curtain around his shoulders. The sheen was bright against the florescent lights flickering above.

When he realized I hadn’t moved, Franklin turned his attention back to me and questioned, “Boone?” When I didn’t answer, Franklin moved closer and whispered, “Erasmus, what is it?”

Keeping my attention on Navarre, I said, “There’s more than the five of us in this room.” I got the feeling there were a hell of a lot more spirits here, but one was a bit more persistent than the others.

Witkowski shifted in his corner, hand settling on the butt of his firearm. Witkowski’s gun wouldn’t do squat against the type of company we had. Barbara Van scooted even farther away from Navarre and gasped, “Are you a medium?”

I shook my head. “No, necromancer.” I ignored her spluttered disbelief before saying, “Although getting a medium in here wouldn’t be a bad idea. They could probably help more than me.”

Finally taking a step forward, I reached for one of the chairs on the opposite side of the table. Franklin grabbed the other one. My head cocked to the side, I tried pulling apart the different echoes swarming around Navarre, but they were a cacophony of noise and difficult to tease apart.

“What’s going on?” Franklin asked.

“I’m not certain. I meant what I said before, a medium would be more helpful than me.”

“Why?” Franklin sounded genuinely curious.

“Because what we’re dealing with are ghostly spirits, or at least that’s how I think you’d understand it.” I inhaled, trying to gather my thoughts well enough to explain the difference between a necromancer’s abilities and what mediums could do. “I bring souls back from the beyond, but this”—I waved a hand in Navarre’s direction—“is different.”

“But they’re spirits that you can hear?” Franklin asked.

“In a way. I get more feelings than actual words. I suspect Navarre’s getting the words. Remember, necromancer abilities vary. From what I understand, some of us attract lingering, disgruntled spirits. I’ve been told they’re attracted to our necromancer vibes.” I shook my head, unsure how to explain it any better. “I think on some level, they understand that there’s something different about us, that we might be able to help them. But here’s the thing—necromancers need a body, or the cremains of the body, to pull a soul back. I have to have that link to make the connection and get anything truly coherent. Mediums are different.”

“How so?” This time it was Officer Witkowski that asked instead of Franklin. It was good to know others were paying attention.

“I’m not entirely certain. I doubt I understand what they can do any better than a medium understands my abilities. Mediums are human. Most think they have some witch or warlock blood somewhere in their genetics. Most likely that’s true, but it’s not enough to categorize them as other . Mediums can speak with spirits. They can give them enough energy to make them coherent long enough to get some information, but it’s not for long. I can keep a soul on this side of the veil for lengthy periods of time. Mediums have finite minutes, or sometimes only seconds, to get what they need. The key here is that a medium wouldn’t need a body to communicate with the spirits surrounding Navarre. If the medium is strong enough, they can also send the spirit into the afterlife.”

“Banish them?” Franklin asked.

I shrugged. “I suppose that’s one word for it, though it sounds harsh. I’ve heard mediums say they view it as giving the soul peace. I’m not sure what the right answer is, and it might depend on the soul and what they think they’ve gotten out of the communication with the medium. If they’re satisfied and ready to move on, then giving them peace sounds accurate.”

“And if they aren’t satisfied?”

“Then banishment seems more accurate.” I shook my head and added, “I may not be a medium, but I’ve dealt with the dead long enough to understand that there’s no pleasing some souls. I don’t think the dead are special in that regard. Plenty of the living seem perpetually disgruntled.”

Officer Witkowski made a grunt of agreement and Barbara Van said, “You mean to tell me he’s got ghosts circling him?” She inclined her head Navarre’s direction, and I noticed Ms. Van’s features had gone beyond pale and were inching into the gray zone.

“Ghosts, spirits, lingering souls… There are a lot of different names you could give them.”

“H-how many?” she asked.

“You’d need a medium to say for certain. I can’t parse them out, although one seems stronger than the others. At best guess, I’d say that’s the soul of your most recent victim. Again, that’s only an educated guess. That one feels…fresher? Louder? I’m not really sure how to describe it.”

“Shit,” Ms. Van lamented. “This is way outside my purview and paygrade.” I halfway expected her to bolt. She looked like she was ready to flee. Or maybe vomit. I couldn’t tell which.

Leaning in, my chest hovered over the table separating Navarre and myself. “Navarre? Can you hear me? My name’s Erasmus, and I’m—”

“Go away.”

I startled and tried again, “I’m here to help, to try and—”

“Go away. Go away. Go away!” Each reiteration of those two words gained in volume. Raising his head, Navarre’s deep brown eyes appeared wild and unfocused. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was on some type of narcotic. Unfortunately, Navarre’s brand of crazy wasn’t drug-induced, but spirit-induced. Pulling at his restraints, Navarre began rocking violently, tossing his head back and forth.

Officer Witkowski moved toward Navarre while Barbara Van jumped up and finally ran from the room.

“Don’t hurt him,” I shouted, jumping to my feet. Franklin followed my lead and was headed around the table when Officer Witkowski placed his hands on Navarre’s shoulders, his grip looked firm but not painful. Navarre’s rocking slowed until he pulled his feet up again and rested his head on his knees.

Voice quiet, Officer Witkowski said, “I did that earlier and it seemed to calm him. Thought I’d try it again.”

“Thank you.” Those words came out like a whispered prayer.

The three of us stood around Navarre, our expressions variations on the same sad theme. Finally, Officer Witkowski broke the silence. “If he did kill someone, I don’t imagine it was intentional, or at least I don’t think he knew what he was doing. I’ve seen a lot of criminals try and fake mental illness. This guy’s not faking.”

“Sadly, no,” I agreed. “Honestly, I don’t know if Navarre can tell what’s real and what’s not any longer.” I thought about that statement and changed my mind. “Scratch that, the voices he’s hearing are very real to him. He’s not imagining them. What I wonder is if he’s able to tell the living from the dead.”

Franklin’s eyes caught mine and I wanted to fall into the well of sympathy filling them. “The first necromancer I met was on a slab in the morgue. He’d committed suicide.” Franklin inclined his head toward Navarre. “If he was going through anything like this, I can understand why.”

“Isn’t there someone who could help him?” Officer Witkowski asked na?vely. “I mean, it sounds like this is an issue plaguing more necromancers than this guy. You’d think someone would do something about it.”

I rubbed the fabric covering my aching chest. Officer Witkowski was right. Someone should have done something. Warlocks and the magical community had centuries to work on the problem, and yet no one seemed to care enough to even keep a record of necromancers, let alone set up some type of assistance.

Fuck, I was lucky. What if my necromancer abilities were similar to Navarre’s? I couldn’t imagine the strain that would have placed on Momma, let alone Pops, although one thing I never doubted was that they would have stood by me. Momma and Pops would have moved heaven and earth to get me the help I needed. Unfortunately, most necromancers didn’t have that type of support system.

My thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door. Sara poked her head in and said, “I just got word. A body’s been found. They’re bringing him in now. Sheriff Henson wants you there.” Sara sounded apologetic.

I hated to leave Navarre. Officer Witkowski must have seen my hesitance because he said, “I’ll take him back to holding. Trust me, you don’t want to keep the sheriff waiting.”

Franklin’s palm landed on my shoulder, and he pulled me away. “Come on, I think Navarre’s in good hands.”

I didn’t disagree. Officer Witkowski appeared unusually tolerant. He hadn’t hesitated touching Navarre. Besides, realistically, what could I even do to help?

Reluctantly walking toward the doorway, I looked at Sara and said, “Lead the way.”