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Devil Bound: The Devil’s Necromancer Part One

The Beginning: How I Met the Devil

Four years ago.

~Lionel

It was past midnight, and the stars looked like sprinkles of white chocolate in the velvety night sky, overshadowed by the city lights and the waxing moon. I lay on the embankment, North Bridge’s metal frame rising just to my right and further hiding the chocolate sprinkle stars. Pebbles pressed against my back and spine, and a particularly big one dug into my right butt cheek.

My feet were wet, but I didn’t mind, not the embankment or the wet feet or the stars melting away in the light of the artificial structures around me. The zombie was oozing all over me from its—his caved-in skull though, and I did mind that. Zombie ooze was a bitch to get out of clothes, even if I’d given up on wearing colors years ago. Black was always the safest bet for a necromancer.

Zombies reeked when they weren’t really fresh, and this one was ripe, like, “fish market in the middle of summer three days after closing” ripe. I looked at the mess of zombie sprawled on top of me and reconsidered my life choices, all of which had led me here.

My thoughts were interrupted by someone talking to me.

“Do you need CPR?” a voice asked from behind me. It was a warm, manly voice, and I was reasonably sure it could make chocolate melt, star shaped or otherwise.

I stuffed my self-pity away and turned my head to get a better look at the speaker. He was as handsome as a devil, with skin that looked like marble in the glow of the city lights. His hair shimmered, liquid black, but it might have been some shade of brown in proper lighting. It went well past his ears and looked like it had been styled with care to get that messy, “I just got out of bed after a night of hard fucking” look.

“Why the fuck would I need CPR?” I asked. My voice didn’t sound at all like I’d been considering crying just a moment ago, and I was proud of that.

The guy shrugged. “It’s hard to tell with humans. Your kind are so accident prone, and you seem to be having trouble breathing. Or maybe you hit your head. Do you remember how you got here?”

Did he think I was suffering from a concussion or something?

“I’m having trouble breathing because I have a dead fucking zombie on my chest, asshat,” I said. In my considered necromantic opinion, I was being perfectly polite, even though I couldn’t be sure what kind of creature the guy was. I’d given him a quick glance with my mage sight, and human he was not. His kind were called immortals among magic users, but just like people, those came in flavors.

Jeez, I hated gods and otherworldly beings. It was a bad day when you got oozed on by a zombie and had to deal with an immortal at the same time. At least, thanks to my all-black clothing regimen, there wasn’t a ruined hoodie in the mix.

“All zombies are dead,” Mr. Sexy said. “It’s a prerequisite. This one seems to have had its brainstem properly destroyed, however. Sloppy, but effective.”

“Okay, smartypants, thanks a bunch for the lecture. The basics of necromancy have ever escaped me, even after I raised my very first corpse thirteen fucking years ago. And my grandest apologies if my dispatching technique doesn’t meet your standards.”

Those thirteen years ago, it had been a blackbird who’d died when he crashed into a window at my school. I’d cradled the poor thing in my hands as it breathed its last. I’d cried, and that had triggered my necromancer power. Pretty boy did not need to know that though. Every other person I’d ever told had made fun of me for it, and lying there under the zombie and thinking about it really made me worry I’d end up crying.

Mr. Sexy hummed, tapping his chin with a long index finger. “You could have suffered a head injury with amnesia. How am I supposed to know what you know?”

He walked toward me. His movements were silent, catlike, and more elegant than seemed right. Even with the zombie oozing out on me, my cock couldn’t quite ignore him. Or maybe it was that pebble under my right butt cheek that got me excited. Seriously though, what was up with his fixation on first aid and amnesia?

He grabbed the zombie by the legs and pulled the dead-dead corpse off of me. “Oh. You caved in its skull with a rock,” he said when he saw the murder weapon in question, the goo glistening on its rough surface. Well, it wasn’t really a murder weapon, seeing as how the zombie had been dead already, but that was just semantics. “How traditional.”

He held a hand out to me, and I took it and let him pull me back to my feet.

“I’m Lucy, by the way. Short for Lucifer, but I like Lucy. As in Lucy Westenra, the woman who almost single handedly turned Dracula into the first reverse harem romance novel ever before she made the wise decision to claim immortality instead. She was such an underrated character, and I really don’t know why people don’t like her more.”

I dusted myself off. Didn’t help with the wet feet or the zombie ooze, which I really only distributed like soft butter on hot toast. The shirt I was wearing under my hoodie was ruined, and the hoodie too might not make it. Apparently the day could get worse.

I sighed. “Maybe she was so underrated because she fucking ate children.”

He shrugged. “Well, everyone has a craving now and then. No one judges women’s monthly chocolate cravings, and I don’t see how that was so much worse.”

I stopped wiping at my hoodie when my brain caught up with the conversation. Lucifer? The Lucifer? The fucking Morning Star, seducer of stuffy virgins and lover of apples? I looked at him. Up at him. Asshole was tall and handsome; the kind of guy I could only ever talk to with about three drinks in me.

“You’re the Devil? Satan? Beelzebub?”

“Lu-cy,” he said, slowing it down as if he was reconsidering the brain damage thing. Even his eyebrows were perfect, which I only noticed because he raised one at me. Made him look even sexier. I hated and loved it at the same time.

“Fuck. Why are you here? What do you want from me?”

“I was checking to see if you needed CPR. I don’t even know who you are.” He tilted his head, looking all inquisitive. “Do you know your name?”

He seemed to have an unhealthy fixation on that amnesia thing. He ran a hand through his hair as he waited for me to recall my own name. Ugh. He’d dragged the zombie off me with that hand. Personally, I wanted to shower, scrub, and disinfect, but he didn’t seem to mind.

“I’m Lionel Hawkes,” I said, raining on his amnesia parade. “Necromancer and necromantic consultant to Brunswick PD.” I had to force down the urge to dig a card out of my pocket. I wouldn’t give the Devil my card. He might get ideas. Or call me. I didn’t want to be on his contact list. “And I don’t need CPR,” I added, because he kept looking at me, unimpressed by my knowledge of my own name.

“You need to practice your zombie killing, Lionel Hawkes.”

A performance report, delivered by none other than the Devil himself. Well, fuck my life.

“Shut the fuck up, Lucy.”

I tried to straighten, but having to look up at him made that hard. He had gorgeous eyelashes too, which just didn’t seem fair.

The Devil grinned as if I’d passed a cognitive exam. Fucking immortals. “You are energetic for a necromancer, Lionel Hawkes.”

“It’s adrenaline from killing the zombie, who was raised by his son so the latter could get to his inheritance. Also, stop calling me by my full name. It’s weird.” Lionel Hawkes wasn’t really my full name, but that was another thing I certainly would not tell the Devil. Most immortals knew name magic, and the Devil, even if only half the myths were about half true, knew a great deal of that.

He looked down at me, and I couldn’t help noticing that his lips were extraordinarily plump, in a way no gloss or lipstick could ever achieve. I tried to think back to the zombie collapsing on top of me, because the more I looked at the Devil and watched amusement spread over his face, the more my cock was taking note and liking what I saw too damn much.

“Very well. I’ll call you Nelly then, short for Lionel. And since you require no further assistance in your nightly exploits, I’ll leave you to it.”

And with that, the ass clown turned and left. I was very tempted to call after him and tell him to shove his stupid nickname for me up his ass—which was a damn fine-looking ass, I had to admit—but what would be the point? He was the Devil, and I was a necromancer working for the cops. There was no way in hell our paths would cross again.