About

As a necromancer in court-mandated therapy, Xeron's among his own kind. The seven other masked wizards who join him in Necromancers Anonymous are equally addicted to the dark arts. From Spence, the timid and remorseful youth who accidentally raised the dead with his grandfather’s magic wand; to Timothy, the group’s cringeworthy and cripplingly self-conscious leader; to Ratface, the group’s—well, whatever he is—each member brings their own bizarre psychology and origin story, and Xeron finds himself fascinated, repulsed, and curious to learn more.

When the skeleton of young Spence shuffles into their next meeting, murdered and raised from the dead, Xeron and the others launch an investigation to unmask the culprit. Who among them has relapsed? What’s up with Ratface? How are Tim’s jokes so bad? And who the hell is Larry? As the interrogations begin, the wizards turn on each other and accusations fly. Wading through a sea of red herrings and emotional instability, the group digs deep into their grave situation, determined to see the mystery through to the other side while still hanging onto their gallows humor.

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First Chapter Sample

“Hello, my name is Xeron, and I am a necromancer.” Half-hearted applause echoed throughout the room. Seven men in fantastical attire, such as robes, armor, helmets, and wizard hats, gathered in a circle as they sat praising the eighth who had just spoken. Usually when necromancers drew circles together, they rose entire armies of the dead to unleash upon the forces of virtue, thought Xeron. But this was no summoning spell. Instead, it was a rather mundane affair.

Xeron, a newcomer to the group, looked the most wizard-like of them all, with his standard-issue purple robes and pointy hat bent downward in a diagonal slope. His face was hidden behind a mask, keeping his identity anonymous, just like the others gathered in the circle. Although Xeron’s mask in particular stood out for its wide grin, quite unlike the grimace the man was likely making beneath it. It beamed so happily, as if mocking those he spoke to—it was hard to take one seriously when they were hidden behind a smiling mask. Xeron preferred to keep any serious sincerity behind his words as anonymous as his face. In contrast to the smile though, the eyes were crossed out with tiny slits he could peer through. Wisps of long black hair fell from beneath the purple wizard hat, dangling in front of the mask and narrowly hiding a crack that split across the forehead. He gazed through the narrow eye slits of his mask as he turned his attention toward the self-proclaimed leader of the group.

“You are so brave,” said one of the necromancers, his voice emanating from a rather fearsome mask, that of a bloodied skull wearing a knight’s helm and a five-pointed iron crown upon his head. Apparently he was the one who led these meetings. Everything about him screamed hardcore. He was clad in spikes that protruded from armored shoulder pads. Beneath the shoulders was the dread lord’s armored breastplate, decorated by pieces of bone, which dangled all around his attire. Hopefully the man didn’t have to take a bio-break very often as he seemed to be clad in full-plate armor at all times. It was a miracle he could sit and stand without falling over from the weight of the evil trinkets and spikes draped across his suit of black-iron. Yet, every time he spoke, that intimidating image he must have worked so hard to foster died a premature death. Without a hint of irony, he pressed his palms together more enthusiastically than the rest of the flesh bags. “Admitting you are a necromancer is the first step to a journey of recovery!”

Xeron shifted in his seat uncomfortably and acknowledged the praise with a shrug. His gaze lingered a moment longer on skull-face, as if trying to gather a hint of recognition. Failing that, his stare sloped downward and his eyes fell upon a name tag punctuated by a joyously happy yellow smiling face. “Timothy”. What kind of great dark overlord of the dead called himself ‘Tim’?

Every other wizard sitting in the circle was similarly masked and tagged. Each had their own path leading them to attend, but they had all gathered that day in this particular room for the same reason.

“Welcome to Necromancers Anonymous, Xeron!” the armor-clad sorcerer named Tim exclaimed jovially. “We are delighted to have you here today. I hope you will share your story with us and you’ll stay to listen to your peers.” With a sage nod, Tim sat back down and slapped his hands together, beginning yet another round of that incessant noise.

The clapping died down once again as the wizard to the right of Tim gestured for silence. “Alright, now, we don’t need to go applauding every little thing now, do we?” This new speaker had a grim voice. He sounded like he’d seen death—as had the rest of them—but unlike them, he’d then decided to marry death itself. He wore a plague doctor’s mask with a bird’s beak protruding from the nose and a black and olive-colored robe. A pointed hood covered the back of his head, and there was no hint of hair on his head; presumably it was all safely tucked inside the mask which seemed to cover his entire head, front and back. There was also not a single hint of skin visible on the man as he was covered head to toe. Jet black gloves were fastened tightly over his hands and sealed at his wrists, and beneath his robes was yet another darkened body suit. Xeron raised an eyebrow beneath his mask as he wondered why this particular man had gone to such extremes to hide his body and face.

Tim pouted as he waved a hand, dismissing the beaked one. “Nonsense, we must make our newest member feel welcomed!”

“Larry wouldn’t have made us clap any more than we wanted,” remarked a younger voice, coming from what appeared to be a kid. He was shivering with anxiety as he ran a nervous hand over his sleeve.

Now the leader of the group started to live up to his appearance as he steamed with rage. “Well, I’m not Larry. I am better than Larry!” Well, he tried, anyways. His anger really sounded more like the tantrum of an overgrown child once he actually started speaking, thought Xeron.

“Who is Larry, anyways?” Xeron asked. He wasn’t really interested but thought it would be a great way to distract from having to talk about himself.

The frightened looking pipsqueak perked up with a sense of joy. “Oh, Larry is—”

“Absolutely nobody to be concerned with,” Tim cut him off rudely. “So anyways, you’re new here, why don’t you tell us about yourself, Xeron?” He raised a finger as a great joke entered his mind that he just had to tell. “We’re all just dying to meet you!” His skulled helmet looked to the left and right in anticipation of applause at his extremely funny and hilarious joke. “Eh, eh?”

Nobody moved a single muscle in their cheeks beneath their masks. Awkwardly, the one in the beaked mask coughed to break the silence. “Right, anyways. Xeron, was it?”

Xeron yawned loudly, demonstrating how he felt about the group thus far. “Yeah.”

“I believe our dear leader suggested you tell your own story,” the plague-bearer duly noted. “Of course, we will all introduce ourselves in time, but it is important that the new blood tells their story.”

Tim snapped his fingers and interjected once more. “That’s right!” He shot an accusing glare at the plague-bearer. “And since I am the leader here—the best leader there ever was, mind you—it should be me who asks you to share your story!”

“Right.”

The dark lord sat there waiting for something to happen before once again realizing it was actually his cue to speak. “Ahem. As our dear, long-term member Corvus was saying,” he began as he gestured to the man wearing the plague doctor’s mask, “this therapy is really for self-improvement, and the best way to start is by just speaking about your own experience and sharing with the group.”

Again, there was an awkward silence. Xeron was fiddling with his hands and looked up. “I’m sorry, were you asking me something?”

The man in the plague doctor’s mask came to Tim’s rescue once more. “Perhaps he is feeling shy; why don’t we instead start today’s meeting with some introductions for the new blood first?” Murmurs of agreement prompted the plague-bearer to continue. “Very well then, I’ll go first. I am called Corvus. And I am a necromancer.” A deathly silence lingered a moment too long before it was finally broken by a familiar dread lord.

“Sorry I didn’t introduce myself when I first spoke earlier.” Laughing, Skull-face waved his hand in greeting. The bones dangling from his spiked gauntlet rattled out a laughter of their own. “I’m Timothy, but there are those who call me Tim, Lord of the Dead, and I am a necromancer!”

“I seriously doubt anybody calls you that,” Xeron muttered to himself as he ran a hand across the temple of his own mask in growing frustration and impatience.

“What was that?” Tim asked in a sing-song cheery voice.

“Pleased to meet you, Tim.” Xeron bit his tongue. Corvus had given him a murderous glare after his earlier comment, or so he imagined. He felt a nervous chill whenever he looked upon the beaked mask. In any case, Xeron had already grown familiar enough with the dark lord Tim and his antics and was ready for the introductions to move on.

Next was an oddball—what one would reluctantly call a man. He wore a gray cloak of fur around his shoulders and hunched over as he sat. Instead of a hat, he wore the literal skull of a giant rat as a helm, with a decorated veil in place of a mask and some sewn-on rat-like ears made from some kind of beast. Rubies shined from the eye sockets and gave a sort of twinkle as he spoke in his delirious manner. “Yes, I—me am Ratface, most fearsome of spelly wizards!” An elongated hiss of the last syllable pierced the brief pause. “Necromancer, I am, be!” He threw his hands aside in dramatic fashion, revealing all sorts of bracelets made of odd trinkets like bones and loose garbage dangling from his wrists. His fingernails were untrimmed and dirty, clearly neglected, which only made them look like a feral beast’s claws.

An actual rat curiously poked its head out of one of the weird necromancer’s pockets, and Ratface’s outstretched hands flew into a panicked frenzy. “No! No food-yum things for little rattie. Skitter back to banish-exile with you! BEGONE!” He scolded the poor confused animal. Xeron could only assume it must be related to the kooky sorcerer. Black magic was overwhelming and could lead to all sorts of strange fates. Transmutation of the souls of animals was not exactly impossible, to say the least. No one else seemed to bat an eye, so Xeron bowed his head and extended his hand in greeting. After all, this was still his peer, and he honestly had a bit of a soft spot for rats, human sized or not. He turned his head to the next wizard. After that large, rat-like weirdo, he was prepared for anything.

“Yeah, uh, hi, I’m Bob.” This necromancer’s speech came in broken stutters, as though not quite certain about speaking in front of the group. In contrast to his predecessor, Bob was fairly normal and boring despite his fantastic sense of style. He sported a simple, long-sleeved white tunic and a matching eyeless snow-white mask with a drooping black mustache. He also wore a black vest with slacks, completing quite a gentlemanly look. Even his footwear proved fancy. He maintained a nice pair of black dress shoes that sparkled with a polished shine. What really topped off his style though was his taste in accessories. He wore a black magician’s top hat with a white ribbon wrapped above the brim. “Oh, right. And I am, uh, a necromancer.” He tapped his cane twice, then gestured to the next wizard.

A hooded figure slumped in his chair, clearly wishing to be invisible. Unfortunately for him, he was next up to speak. He reluctantly rolled his head up in greeting, revealing a wooden mask with a painted white-toothed grimace and a single blue tear under the left eye. Each eye was a mere black dot, painted on in a manner that made him look scared and full of terror—a reflection of the wearer rather than the beholder.

“My name is Spence.” He sounded young, perhaps a teenager. When he spoke earlier in the meeting, Xeron had honestly mistaken him for a kid. He was certainly timid and small enough. “And I—” his voice cracked as he gasped for breath, “am, a, umph, a necromancer.” He sobbed in between his words. Once again, his face slumped into his hands, and he shook his head back and forth as he wailed in horror at the revelation.

“Alright then.” Xeron pointed at the young man with a sharp index finger. “What’s his story?”

“No, I don’t want to!” Spence cried out. “Please!” The youngster pulled on two strings dangling at this neck. The dark green cloak he wore tightened around his neck, and the hood around his head fastened shut, leaving only a small glimpse of his mask visible.

Bob placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder and patted him gently in comfort. “There, there, uh, young chap. No need to, uh, share if you don’t want to.”

“No! No!” Ratface echoed the cries as he slapped at his pockets once again.

“Right.” Xeron rolled his eyes beneath his own mask. “Forget I asked. I suppose not everybody willingly dived into the magic of death and decay then.”

Tim shook his head. “Yes, indeed. His story is a tragic one. I am sure you’ll hear it in due time, when he is ready. But just remember, this is a support group and we’re all here to help each other past the addiction and corruption. We can live a life past the magic!”

Spence nodded and rubbed at the tear upon his mask. “I never wanted to be a necromancer, but you can’t take back death, and unfortunately, I have risen them. Meant to or not.” His voice rang hollow and was filled with pain and guilt. Xeron almost felt sorry for him. Almost. Perhaps it was the fact that the mask was always teary-eyed. A real guilt-tripper, it was.

Xeron turned to the next wizard. “Right. Well then, and you are?”

A creepy crooked grin was hidden beneath an executioner’s hooded mask. All that could be seen were bloodshot eyes glaring from diagonal slits in the blood-red hood. Really, the man was definitely a fan of the color red—for blood, perhaps? His hood was red without relief—not even for a mouth. It was a blank face, except for the cut-out triangles of his eyes. Beneath the hood was yet more red in the form of a robe and pants. Finally, there was one different color with some blackened gloves and boots. “Malice.” He threw his head back and cackled with laughter. “I am a necromancer and no stranger to death’s embrace.” He stared coldly at Xeron, who met his gaze head on without any semblance of fear. Well, maybe the red hood was for anger or rage then, like a bull drawn to aggression.

Personally, Xeron thought the hooded necromancer was trying a little too hard to be evil, especially with a name like Malice. Imagine meeting a hero named ‘Benevolence’—nah, that’d be too much for him to handle. “Nice to meet you, Malice.” Xeron held back a laugh, still amused. He suspected the name could only have been plucked from the villain’s teenage diary, full of angst.

Finally, there was one last necromancer to meet. This one seemed quiet and stoic, not once did he bother to clap when prompted by Tim. He just stared straight ahead through the lifeless eyes of his humanoid mask, which looked as if it’d been carved from stone. A tilted crown of thorns rung around the tip of his white priestly hood. His stature was large. If Spence was a valid form of measurement, Xeron estimated that this particular necromancer stood at least five Spences tall and perhaps two-and-a-half Spences wide. It was a miracle of physics that the chair beneath him didn’t break. Still, as large and intimidating as the man was, something seemed off. There was just too much white on him for a self-proclaimed necromancer. His clothes seemed saint-like, as if he were a cleric or priest of some sort. Aware that it was his turn, the large, stoic man slowly turned to face Xeron and in a monotone voice introduced himself. “I am Benevolence.”

Xeron choked on his own breath, unable to contain his stifled laughter anymore. Benevolence! And it was not a hero’s name, but a necromancer’s! Or was this some sort of twisted, heroic necromancer? After all, what sort of necromancer wore white? Whatever. That could not possibly be his real name. Yet, the man didn’t seem the joking type.

“You are gasping for breath, Xeron. Are you unwell?” asked the statue-like man quite seriously. “This is most unfortunate. Shall I put you out of your misery?”

“What?” sputtered Xeron. “No! I’m not here to die today, thanks.”

“Acknowledged,” said Benevolence. “You shall not die this day then.”

Xeron shook his head. “Malice and Benevolence. Really?” he asked nobody in particular.

“Well, we sometimes just call them Mal and Ben,” Spence offered timidly. “Short names can be nice, yeah?”

“Confirmed. I am Ben, and I am a necromancer.”

“I’d rather be called Malice.” The hooded wizard pouted.

Xeron ignored him. “Okay, Mal, Ben. So that’s everyone then? Or was there a Larry?”

A quick glance around the room turned up no empty chairs. It was just a plain white room with little to no decoration. At the center of the group was a small table with various snacks. Xeron grabbed an apple from the table and partly lifted his mask to take a bite.

Tim hurriedly agreed, eager to brush off any mention of Larry. “That’s everyone!”

“Great,” Xeron said in between bites. “So, we can leave now?”

“No!” Tim—or Skull-face, as Xeron had begun to think of him—exclaimed. “We’ve only just started!”

“No! No!” screamed Ratface for entirely different reasons.

Corvus turned his murderous stare toward Xeron. “You’re new. Why don’t you share your own story, and then we’ll return the favor?”

Xeron wagged a finger. “Ah, but you guys lied to me. I was promised everyone was introduced, but I still haven’t heard about Larry.”

Corvus stared blankly, seemingly unamused. “He’s retired, not worth mentioning.”

Tim nodded, happy to have the support of Corvus for once. “That’s right, you’re at Tim’s meeting, and therefore, there is absolutely no reason to talk about anyone named Larry.”

Spence spoke up meekly, “But I liked Larry.”

“He was, uh, a good chap—really knew how to run a place.” Bob echoed the sentiment with his usual halting speech.

Tim reached for an apple in the middle of the snack table, pretending to bring it to his skull-face for a second before quickly pelting Bob on the head. “Oh, clumsy me. It must have slipped!”

“Well, uh, ow!”

“Anyways, quite enough about he who shall not be named. Xeron, we are all rather eager to hear about you. Won’t you please indulge us?”

Xeron tipped his droopy wizard hat down over one of the crossed-out eyes of his grinning mask. It seemed he could stall no longer, and unfortunately, the clock wasn’t ticking any faster. “Fine, I suppose it’s only fair.” Tap, tap. He drummed his fingers along the teeth of his mask. “Let’s see, where do I begin?”

Copyright © 2023 Joel Dawn
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