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  Garden of Lilies

  A Victoria Cage Necromancer Novel

  Eli Constant

  Published by Eli Constant, 2018.

  Garden of Lilies: Victoria Cage Necromancer Novel, Book One © Copyright 2018, Eli Constant Books.

  Cover art © Copyright 2018, Covers by Christian

  This book may not be reproduced, in any fashion, without the explicit permission from Eli Constant/Eli Constant Books. Eli Constant asserts her right to hold ownership of this work, and all works, set inside the Victoria Cage Universe. The unauthorized reproduction and/or distribution of this work is illegal.

  This is a work of fiction. Any locations that resemble something in reality are used in a fictitious manner. Similarities to organizations and locales, existing now or in the past, are purely coincidental. Characters are creations of the author’s imagination. Similarities to actual persons, living or deceased, are also purely coincidental. The events in this book should not be construed as real in any capacity.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Garden of Lilies

  BLURB

  **Sex & Language Warning**

  To Claire. Who believed in Victoria before I did.

  Necromancy is a rare talent.

  Chapter One.

  Chapter Two.

  Chapter Three.

  Chapter Four.

  Chapter Five.

  Chapter Six.

  Chapter Seven.

  Chapter Eight.

  Chapter Nine.

  Chapter Ten.

  Chapter Eleven.

  Chapter Twelve.

  Chapter Thirteen.

  Chapter Fourteen.

  Chapter Fifteen.

  Chapter Sixteen.

  Chapter Seventeen.

  Chapter Eighteen.

  Chapter Nineteen.

  Chapter Twenty.

  Chapter Twenty-One.

  Chapter Twenty-Two.

  Chapter Twenty-Three.

  Chapter Twenty-Four.

  Chapter Twenty-Five.

  Chapter Twenty-Six.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine.

  Chapter Thirty.

  Chapter Thirty-One.

  Chapter Thirty-Two.

  Chapter Thirty-Three.

  Chapter Thirty-Four.

  Chapter Thirty-Five.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR.

  Garden of Lilies

  A Victoria Cage Necromancer Novel

  Book One

  By Speculative Fiction Author

  Eli Constant

  BLURB

  This time, helping a ghost might just kill her.

  Victoria Cage has one main objective in life—make sure that no one finds out she’s a necromancer. You know, a carrier of that pesky little power that caused zombies to rise back in World War III?

  Of course, it’s hard to stay hidden when you deal with dead bodies. Like, every freaking day.

  Maybe taking over the family funeral home wasn’t the smartest choice in the world, but sometimes being the local mortician and resident ‘crazy pants’ has its benefits. Like... when Victoria’s caught talking to thin air, folks just dismiss it as her own brand of strange. I mean, what person in the business of death isn’t a little weird?

  When a murder victim reanimates on her embalming table, Victoria is drawn into an unfinished business that puts her to the ultimate test. It yanks her in like a fish on a sharp shiny hook, until she’s knee-deep in a cocktail of blood magic, death power, and fairy meddling.

  Talk about complicated.

  Fans of Hamilton’s Merry Gentry series & Briggs’ Mercy Thompson series will fall in love with this world that mixes a little bit of this, a little bit of that, and a lot of kick-ass, relatable necromancer in size twelve jeans. And don’t worry, there are enough sexy AF men to go around.

  **Sex & Language Warning**

  Victoria Cage has sex... people around her curse. There are dead people sprinkled between instances of profanity (okay, maybe the language isn’t that bad). The Victoria Cage series will also deal with some heavy material—child trafficking, gender acceptance, rape. If you can take the dark with the light, you might just love this series. Me personally? I’m all about the shadows in between.

  -Eli

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  To Claire. Who believed in Victoria before I did.

  And to my editor April. Your supportive nature, kind heart, and quick wit are the stuff of dreams. So glad we found one another. Here’s to our first published project together. Who’s buying the cake and wine?

  Necromancy is a rare talent.

  Before The Rising, only a few Necromancers were born each generation and most never realized their powers. With violence on the rise, that was bound to change though. When the third world war sprang into being, the Earth was quickly colored by death. Blood soaked into the ground like crimson tendrils, reaching down to the core of the world and igniting. Unseen fireworks heralded the coming of a new era.

  Every casualty of war equaled power, a type of power that called to a singular type of person.

  A person like me.

  So much death magic going unused... it caused an awakening. The deeply buried genetic coding for the necromancer sprung to reality in person after person. And the new necromancers didn’t understand their power. They didn’t have control. Blood and death magic called to bone and rotting flesh.

  The dead began to rise. Hundreds at first. Then thousands.

  Thousands of reanimated corpses without true masters to keep them from turning into the nightmare monsters that crave flesh.

  It didn’t take long for the world to realize what was happening.

  For them to discover a solution to the problem.

  The war ended. Countries united under the banner of a singular, focused purpose. Kill the necromancers. End the plague of undead.

  My kind was hunted, slaughtered.

  Slaughtered.

  The humans now impose a test at birth to determine if a child carries the gene. And if they do, God help them. My parents were careful. I was born in a clinic beneath Columbia, in the seedy underbelly of the city where ‘doctors’ were less than reputable and you can get legal papers for the right price. I’ve never been tested. Never ended up in the hospital where my blood might be scrutinized. I’ve been lucky.

  The Preternatural Prevention Agency was established after the war ended, after the necromancy threat was quelled. Only a short time ago, President McKay put a bill before the reestablished Congress to dismantle the agency, saying the threat was eradicated and the country needed to move forward, use the funds for continued rebuilding.

  The bill had been shot down by a unanimous vote. The fear was still so strong.

  I know that we caused The Rising, that the people the zombies killed... those deaths lie upon our shoulders, but to kill children, children who have merely the potential to become what I am... it is wrong. That is the great abomination. Not me. Not us.

  Necromancy is a rare talent.

  Because those who carry the gift are always killed.

  Except for me. I’ll survive, by hiding the truth of what I am from the world. I don’t always do a good job of it—staying out of the line of fire—because I can’t turn my back on my power completely. I even help the police sometimes, pointing them in the right direction. They think I’m just a ‘sensitive’, the kind of person who sees ‘things’ now and again. A psychic—God, fake mediums still make crazy money, what with people being obsessed with death and the afterlife. But I’m not accepted? My kind is the plague of the world? It’s funny how humans
can tolerate a modicum of unusualness, but they persecute the truly different. I’m not sure all the cops of Bonneau like me of course, but I know at least one does—and having one person I can show a sliver of my true self to is a relief.

  Still though, it’s stupid to take the risk. And, yet, I keep taking it.

  Running a funeral parlor in a small southern town might seem like an awful way to stay hidden too, but it’s worked so far. And I pray every damn day that my luck holds.

  Bonneau, South Carolina in Berkley County was just a small town—farmland and houses with folks going about their daily, rural lives—before the third war and The Rising. Now, it’s much the same, but... also changed. It’s different in a way that’s not easily explained. If you pay attention closely though, you can see the small alterations, like one of those puzzles where you’re challenged to ‘spot the differences’ between two seemingly identical pictures.

  Like the graveyard.

  It looks the same until you lean in close and see that there is no grass growing above the graves now. Some opt for artificial turf, but most let the gray hard surface beyond the tombstone be exposed. It gives them peace, to know that their loved ones will never rise through the chains and poured concrete.

  And prejudice and fear still exist, which amazes me. How can a world go through such a damning War and not be changed for the better? But that’s the cloth of it. Prejudice and fear will always live on, like a cockroach at the end of the world. The focus of it will only change.

  Blacks versus whites.

  Heterosexual versus homosexual.

  Human versus necromancer.

  The weather is always shitty in Bonneau now. The clouds came one day and they stayed. It’s like The Rising left a permanent haze over the world. And it’s worse here, in my little town. There’s more spiritual activity than most places. Too many shadowed secrets. Too many bodies. Sometimes it feels like the very epicenter of gloom looms over my head.

  People here are still unkind and kind, whichever strikes their fancies. The population of Bonneau is a bit larger than before the last war, thanks to the bomb that was dropped on Charleston necessitating relocations during the rebuild. Many returned to their original homes once things were back in order, but some stayed.

  There are new businesses and old businesses. Family names that have been here since before the first war and others that are still considered outsiders. The Cages settled here not long after the second war ended. We are neither original to the land nor so new that people do not accept us.

  I say us. But I am the last, as far as I know. The final person of my name to carry on this legacy of death and decay.

  Death will always embrace me like a lover. That is a truth that will also never change.

  My name is Victoria Cage. Mortician. Funeral Director. Lonely, overweight girl. Necromancer. Whatever the hell you want to label me as.

  Isn’t life grand?

  Chapter One.

  My arms are crossed over my chest and my hands grip my upper arms tightly. If I hold myself firmly enough, maybe I’ll be safe. Maybe.

  I look through the glass of the window in front of me. It’s dirty, desperately in need of cleaning, but wiping away the grime will not brighten the day outside.

  The expanse of Lake Moultrie can be seen from the second floor of the large Victorian that houses both my business and my apartment. My mind reaches out to it and I find it clear and without a voice. That’s why I love it so. It’s not the body of water that eats at my mind and plagues my soul with its constant calling. About twelve miles away is Little Hellhole Bay. A dumping ground of refuse and murder.

  It’s a pillar of human immorality, murder sunken within the boggy water. Sometimes, at night, I can hear the mournful screaming of the long-deceased. It’s things like that, reeking of disposed bodies and trapped souls, which make it hard for me to hide my power.

  Of course, I also literally see dead people for a living. That was never going to do me any favors in the ‘keep my powers secret’ department.

  Sighing, I turn away from the waters beyond the window. I head towards my kitchen and the coffee pot still sputtering out dark, hot liquid. Coffee always makes things better.

  But there’s someone blocking my path. She is small, her eyes wide and pleading. We stand regarding one another for what feels an eternity. The space between us is a cavernous wasteland. Finally, when I can stand her staring no longer, I nod and a single tear runs a path down her see-through cheek.

  There is nothing so heartbreaking as a ghost crying.

  My phone is on the passenger seat as I pull away from the house. I debate calling Terrance and letting him know where I’m going. He doesn’t like it when I do things without his knowledge. I’m a ‘civvy’ and I don’t carry a gun, legal or otherwise. Terrance has also been at me to take self-defense courses. So far, I’ve succeeded in putting him off, even though I know he’s right.

  I need to learn to fight. I can only protect myself so much with the knives I carry into these sorts of situations. They’re sharp, but despite me being intimately familiar with human anatomy, it would likely be luck that kept me alive, not the blade.

  I can’t blame Terrance for being concerned. God, the man had taken a bullet for me because I’d gotten too deep in the shit to get myself out. A lot of people question why the Bonneau Chief of Police tolerates my meddling with cases. He doesn’t anymore though. I’ve given him too many good leads. We’ve saved people together. And he’s okay with... not being too curious as to how I know things. I worry that will change some day. Of course it will change some day.

  I just hope that day is a long way off.

  It’s a slow drive to my destination. I take my time, wondering what words to use. It doesn’t really matter how I ask the questions though. Nothing will bring the little girl back to life.

  She’s not in the car with me, yet I can feel her.

  A small reminder against my skin of how fleeting life can be.

  “VODKA ON THE ROCKS.” My words sound like something out of an old black and white gangster movie. I sound ridiculous; at least I believe I do. I’m not the kind of girl that can pull off the tough act, despite the little knife strapped to my forearm that peeks out each time my blouse sleeve sneaks away from my wrist. It’s nothing fancy, but the right weapon doesn’t have to be fancy.

  It just has to be effective.

  I push a wad of bills across the stained mahogany of the bar countertop towards Jim, the owner of the establishment I’m sat in. He doesn’t pick it up. He never picks up the money immediately.

  When he does take the money, I begin nervously thrumming my fingers against the once-dark surface of the counter. There are so many water rings on the wood from sweating glasses that I’ve lost count each time I’ve tried to number them. It’s a Monday afternoon. Late afternoon, with wisps of early evening starting to color the day. The room around me is pretty much filled with the types of people you’d expect to be drinking their troubles away in the middle of a day.

  I’m always out of sorts when I’m here. The bar sets me on edge. No, not the bar... it’s the people. They’re unsavory. I can smell rot and decay seeping through their pores, like the finality of death is only a heart’s beat away. Most of them have nicotine-damaged lungs and livers about to give up the ghost.

  Pun intended.

  “Just took a delivery of lemons. If you’d come in an hour ago, you’d be shit outta luck.” Jim knows how I like vodka, even though I don’t order it very often. Lemon twist at the bottom of the glass, ice on top. Liquor last. The portly man with the scraggly white beard and too-intelligent brown eyes moves deftly behind the counter, pouring me my usual. “Crappy day?” Jim puts the glass in front of me, pocketing the crumpled money instead of putting it in his cash register. He quirks an eyebrow, noticing that what I’ve laid down is too much for one glass of vodka. He thinks I want information. He’s right.

  My shoulders tense as I feel a slight chill race across my neck
. I’ve pulled my hair over one shoulder, leaving my back exposed where the thin sweater doesn’t cover. I don’t say anything. I don’t turn around.

  Yet I know she’s there. Moving within the shadows between the pendant lights hung above the booths and pool tables.

  “Yeah. Crappy day.” I answer him, my voice pitched low, and I press the glass to my mouth. It’s cold, like frozen peas on a busted lip. “I need to know if you’ve heard anything about a Donald Mayer.” I drink deeply now, letting the liquid burn a path down my throat. Despite the cooling effect of the ice, the drink is hot enough that I think it might scorch my stomach. I don’t really go for alcohol often, but you don’t go sit in a bar and order water. You just don’t.

  Jim doesn’t say anything at first, but the skin tightens around his eyes in a way that makes me know that he’s got something to say, and it’s not something I’m going to like. “I’ve heard of him.”

  I wait, patiently. And that says a lot about my relationship with Jim. I’m not a patient person, not unless I have to be.

  “He done something bad?” Jim swipes at a damp glass with a white towel.

  “Bad isn’t the word I’d use.” I take another drink, feeling the fire from the first sip wearing off. I find that I’m actually craving the alcohol today. Not the taste, but the life-affirming fire it sends racing through me. A soft whimper sounds in my head. She’s crying again.

  God, I hate it when they cry.

  I swallow and start talking once more. “The police think he’s leading a child trafficking ring in the area. Five girls have gone missing and all of them had social media contact with catfish accounts that lead straight back to good ole’ Donny boy. Only one girl’s been recovered.” Again, I want to sound tough, ‘bad guys will run’ tough; my voice is cracking too much for that though.