The Necromancer’s Identity
I walk up the red floors of Ochre to the senior’s lockers. I am skipping history, which pains me, but the notion of allowing that… that fucking bodysnatcher to walk around is worse. I absently wonder if the reason why I hate skipping school is related to one of the repetetive behaviours people with Aspergers usually manifest or actual OCD, or maybe I am just plain old-fashioned.
I reach the third floor of Ochre, and I turn left towards room 606, where 3A’s home-classroom is located. I peer inside the room, where a bunch of seniors are waiting for class to start. I spot one in particular, a young man with skintone not so different from my own, but with red dyed hair.
“Riviera”, I say, not loud, but not quiet either. He looks up. “Could I have, say ten minutes of your time?” He frowns, but eventually gets up from his seat and closes the door as he leaves the classroom. By silent decision we walk around the corner, until we are certain we can’t be heard.
Riviera inspects me. He has nice eyes, I think. Nice. Warm. Inviting even. But looks can deceive. “You’re Fallowfell, right? Alexandra’s little brother?” I nod. ” So what can I do for you?”, he asks in a humoring tone.
“You can tell me where you were Friday night, to start with”, I state. “What is this? Some kind of interrogation?” I can almost visualize the cogs in his head spinning. He continues. ” You think I dug up Alexandra’s rotten corpse and what?”, he asks seemingly insulted. “Forget this– I am going back to class.” He makes a move to leave… /Let me borrow your mouth for a second? If you can make him answer my question, sure.
“Alexander Riviera”, I say, but not with my own voice. This voice is larger, hoarser. It rattles the nearby windows. Riviera stops and turns back. He says something in Portuguese, which I respond to, yet again, but not with my own voice.
/There. I think he’ll talk to you now./ There is a faint but detectable satisfaction to his voice. Whatever it is Verde said using my voice, it sure shook Riviera up. He is paler, and doesn’t look so belligerent anymore. “You’re mad Fallowfell… to think you’re carrying one of Boiúna’s kin inside your soul”, he ends on disturbed note.
“But I am not your killer”, he continues before I have time to ask who or what Boiúna is. He holds up a hand, and a finger. “Last Friday night I was… in the company of a lady who shall remain nameless. But anyhow, I was tangled up we might say. That’s my alibi.” A second finger goes up. “This barrowman as I have heard some in the community name him, was created with Norse magic, not my own tradition. I wouldn’t even know how to wake one, let alone control one such as he.” Third finger up. Riviera removes something from a pocket, an odd taliman made from a patch of leather with a strange-looking letter on it.
/Careful. That’s his fetish. With it he calls on a lesser god./
Magic fills the air. I frown; it smells like semen and blood, and burning candles. A creature fades into being behind Riviera. It’s as if someone have squeezed a toad into the shape of man, a toad-man wearing a suit and fedora. And cigarrs. Which the-toad man is chewing, rather than smoking. Except… they aren’t cigarrs, not real ones, but chocolate ones, the kind small children eat.
“My orisha doesn’t deal in death. Oh she”- that is a she?!-” could probably ask one who does, but that’s a bit convoluted, don’t you think?” I struggle with coming up with something that could be a counter-argument. He has alibi, he lacks the proper power…. “No, you’re not the killer”, I finally concede. “So can I get back to my class now?” “Yes”, I grit between teeth. Riviera nods, and says something in Portuguese before walking back to the classroom. The… the orisha, the lesser god stares at me with a curious expression.
[ Beware Greeks bearing gifts, young Berserker ]. The words bore inside my head without warning, then the god fades away. Okay, what the hell was that? / I cannot tell, not with certainty. But the gods know things. Strange things.Prophecy. I think its for the best if we do not forget what she said./
I squeeze my nose. Okay next on the list is Friedrich Lugers. I walk down the three levels of Ochre, and out towards the Hangar. Damn, I wish had brought my leather jacket or something warmer. I enter the Hangar to the the sight of dozen or so seniors fighting in a frenzied game of soccer.
I recognize Lugers; a big guy with a scar on his left cheek. My scars make me look hideous I think, but Lugers’ scar gives him an badboy air. I walk as close as I can to the game, and breathe deeply. Lugers pass me–
— and I can instantly tell that he isn’t the necromancer. To put it succinctly; he is your garden-variety human. Oh, he might be able to obscure his scent, but according to Hermann that is only something older supernaturals might do. I sniff again. Sweat, something that I think might be an ache or pain, cologne but nothing else that isn’t human.
I look at the other soccer players and reconsider. One of them is Malin Sif, who Verde named as valkerie. Now how to get an opportunity to talk to her…. I spot Gomagog and walk up to him. “Fallowfell”, he rumbles before looking back at the game. ” Could I talk to Sif, for say, three minutes?”, I ask, pleading.
“Why”, he asks without taking his eyes off the game. How do I tell him that I want to interrogate her as to regards of my dead sister’s corpse? “I want to ask her out”, I throw out. “You’re together with somebody already, and you don’t strike me as the polyamorous sort, Fallowfell. The real reason, please.”
“I want to ask her if she is the necromancer”, I state, deadpanning. “Alright”, he says, just like that. “Sif, come over here for a second”, he shouts across the Hangar. She siddles up to us, well me as Gomagog gives us some space.
“Hey…?” she asks with curiosity. I give her a winning smile. At least I think of it is a winning smile. I have practised it in the mirror, and it looks winning to me.
Malin Sif is about a head shorter than me, with a mannish nose and long blond hair. I don’t think I have ever heard anything bad about her, but Verde refered to her as a valkerie…/Be careful. Odin’s get are proud and powerful like so very few./
Alright, be polite; I can do that.