The Necromancer Trilogy: Prophecy

Chapter Thirteen - Life Is An Inferior Prologue

“So,” Sophie looked around. “What happens now?”

Blue shrugged. “We hang around for a bit and wait for the others, I guess.”

Sophie stiffened. “The others. Of course. What is the Society’s got them?”

Blue laughed. “Tala’s pretty much uncatchable. And Chrysanthemum might be caught but cannot be contained.”

“Why not?”

“Linguist, remember? A few quick symbols, maybe an ancient poem or two, and she’s out of there.”

“That would be a useful skill,” Sophie considered.

Blue shook his head. “You don’t stand a chance. Linguists tend to be calm and patient. You’re far too explosive.”

“I never exploded,” Sophie sounded hurt.

Blue rolled his eyes. “You will.”

“You can’t know that.”

“Bet you a fiver?”

Sophie glared at him. “All of this is very interesting but it doesn’t really answer my question. What do we do now?”

“Stay calm.”

Both of them swung round to see where the new voice was coming from.

“You stay calm,” it repeated, “and listen to what I have to say.”

Out of the shadows in the shade of a spread-branched oak tree walked two figures.

  The first was female, about Chrysanthemum’s age, with gothic white skin and glorious black hair. She was tall, intimidating, with piercing black eyes set deep in shadows. She wore black. Dusty black coat, with strange edges, over deep, impressive black dress and ordinary mid-black boots.

   She was absolutely colourless, made purely of black and white, except for the rather worrying red scarf tied loosely around her neck. Sophie found herself staring at it.

  Her companion was a man, his age impossible to guess at. He was shorter than her by a few inches and broader by a great deal. His hair was deep brown and curled and, to Sophie’s delight and fascination, he had sideburns. His eyes were shockingly blue and Sophie felt as if they could read her soul.

   He wore black, but serviceable black. He had no dramatic cloak, no sweeping, trailing ribbons of fabric. But he did have a pistol stuffed in his belt, which detracted from the ordinary and harmless appearance somewhat.

   Just as the lady before him, he had only one touch of colour and it was a red line painted on the handle of the pistol. The colour was frighteningly bright, as if everything else were darker in comparison. It drew the gaze, blurred everything to nothing and Sophie was sure she could see it moving….