Stanley.
"You're not a pathologist, Stanley. You're a mortuary technician and this is the morgue. Why are you always taking bits out of people?" Stanley went to answer, but I'd heard it all before. He doesn't trust the pathologists, and sometimes he just has a feeling about certain corpses. The annoying thing is he is always right—of course. "Okay, how long will it last, Dancer?"
"I can give you a few days at most, but that should be enough, right?"
"More than enough. I just need him up and about to stop all this from getting out of hand and to get me off the hook. You can do that?" I left it at that, but truth is I felt terrible and thought a few days of life was the least I could do. I felt bad for the medical staff involved, but if it avoided a vampire uprising, well, it was worth it.
"They'll still be looking for you though, won't they? For blasting him with your, you know?"
"Nobody sees us, do they? They won't find me. It's a precaution so nobody thinks the guy was killed by magic, that it was a mistake."
"Fine, whatever. You owe me though. Twice."
"Yeah, yeah, just do it."
"Okay, give me some room."
"Stanley, are you cool with this? Will you do some of that acting you are so famous for and pretend he was banging on the drawer and you let him out?"
"I'd love to, dear boy, but I'm afraid my shift ends in ten minutes and then it's over to Elaine."
"Ah, okay. That might work out better." Elaine is a Regular. No magic, just a technician, same as Stanley. If we could get the Grandmaster up and about before she turned up then it would be perfect.
"Okay, Dancer, do your ju-ju." He gave me the daggers—I knew that annoyed the hell out of him.
We moved away, but we all watched. You never tire of seeing somebody brought back from the dead—it's as close as we get to a true miracle, and fascinating in its morbidity.
As the cool air continued to escape from the drawer, Dancer removed the shroud from the man's body and draped it over the metal rail of the examination table.
Already I could feel the magic build and the sickness spread out like it was a black smoke drifting across the floor and creeping up my legs, entering my mouth, clawing into my lungs like glass and infecting my brain with its poison.
Sickness enveloped us all, and I watched through a fog of clawing demon limbs scratching at the surface of reality as the darkness became real. I tried to stay upright but ended up sat on the floor surrounded by the half-formed dream lives of trapped miscreants in the nether worlds.
I wasn't surprised to see Stanley beside me. Only difference was he looked like he was enjoying the show. Second time round I guess, makes all the difference.
Oliver joined us, more used to the dying than the actual dead. He wasn't coping any better than me, but still had that smackable sneer he wore like a mask of superiority that fooled nobody.
Dancer stood over the corpse, teeth clenched, face ashen, a blue vein throbbing at his temple like a worm trying to escape. He muttered whatever necromancers mutter to call forth the power to bring a person back from the dead.
You may think this is all going to result in some kind of zombie but the reality is different. This is proper magic, not anything half-arsed, certainly no magic-based virus. Dancer may be annoying and really slimy, but he knows his business. This was to be full-on resurrection. For a bit.
He waved his arms about, did well to fight back the souls trying to take advantage of the gaps in reality that such deep immersion in the Empty creates, and took in dark magic he could channel into the traces of what was once a living human being.
It was only four hours since the old guy had met his untimely demise, so he should be able to bring him back to full sentience, for a while, but these things aren't an exact science and there is no telling how it will work out until they sit upright, gasp, and begin to freak out.
Which is exactly what happened.
Dancer took a step back
"You're not a pathologist, Stanley. You're a mortuary technician and this is the morgue. Why are you always taking bits out of people?" Stanley went to answer, but I'd heard it all before. He doesn't trust the pathologists, and sometimes he just has a feeling about certain corpses. The annoying thing is he is always right—of course. "Okay, how long will it last, Dancer?"
"I can give you a few days at most, but that should be enough, right?"
"More than enough. I just need him up and about to stop all this from getting out of hand and to get me off the hook. You can do that?" I left it at that, but truth is I felt terrible and thought a few days of life was the least I could do. I felt bad for the medical staff involved, but if it avoided a vampire uprising, well, it was worth it.
"They'll still be looking for you though, won't they? For blasting him with your, you know?"
"Nobody sees us, do they? They won't find me. It's a precaution so nobody thinks the guy was killed by magic, that it was a mistake."
"Fine, whatever. You owe me though. Twice."
"Yeah, yeah, just do it."
"Okay, give me some room."
"Stanley, are you cool with this? Will you do some of that acting you are so famous for and pretend he was banging on the drawer and you let him out?"
"I'd love to, dear boy, but I'm afraid my shift ends in ten minutes and then it's over to Elaine."
"Ah, okay. That might work out better." Elaine is a Regular. No magic, just a technician, same as Stanley. If we could get the Grandmaster up and about before she turned up then it would be perfect.
"Okay, Dancer, do your ju-ju." He gave me the daggers—I knew that annoyed the hell out of him.
We moved away, but we all watched. You never tire of seeing somebody brought back from the dead—it's as close as we get to a true miracle, and fascinating in its morbidity.
As the cool air continued to escape from the drawer, Dancer removed the shroud from the man's body and draped it over the metal rail of the examination table.
Already I could feel the magic build and the sickness spread out like it was a black smoke drifting across the floor and creeping up my legs, entering my mouth, clawing into my lungs like glass and infecting my brain with its poison.
Sickness enveloped us all, and I watched through a fog of clawing demon limbs scratching at the surface of reality as the darkness became real. I tried to stay upright but ended up sat on the floor surrounded by the half-formed dream lives of trapped miscreants in the nether worlds.
I wasn't surprised to see Stanley beside me. Only difference was he looked like he was enjoying the show. Second time round I guess, makes all the difference.
Oliver joined us, more used to the dying than the actual dead. He wasn't coping any better than me, but still had that smackable sneer he wore like a mask of superiority that fooled nobody.
Dancer stood over the corpse, teeth clenched, face ashen, a blue vein throbbing at his temple like a worm trying to escape. He muttered whatever necromancers mutter to call forth the power to bring a person back from the dead.
You may think this is all going to result in some kind of zombie but the reality is different. This is proper magic, not anything half-arsed, certainly no magic-based virus. Dancer may be annoying and really slimy, but he knows his business. This was to be full-on resurrection. For a bit.
He waved his arms about, did well to fight back the souls trying to take advantage of the gaps in reality that such deep immersion in the Empty creates, and took in dark magic he could channel into the traces of what was once a living human being.
It was only four hours since the old guy had met his untimely demise, so he should be able to bring him back to full sentience, for a while, but these things aren't an exact science and there is no telling how it will work out until they sit upright, gasp, and begin to freak out.
Which is exactly what happened.
Dancer took a step back
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