She turned to me. "It's a dark artifact. That's an object that's acquired an energy aura. They store some of the energy, and if you know what you're at, you can use it—directly or indirectly, depending on your skill and the object. You can tell a great deal about the object and what's happened to it by looking at the color, size, and activity of the energy corona around it. 'Dark' is usually a misnomer.

"But that one is dark in fact. Means there's been something rather nasty associated with it for a long time. Bleak things, grim doings. Dreadful, as I said."

I sighed. "And my client wants it. He claims it's a family heirloom, but having seen it—and him—I'm starting to wonder."

"He must be a rather unusual person."

"I don't know if he's a human being. He's… Grey, but I don't know what. Not a vampire, though."

"That would explain why signs point to you. I don't like the idea of a thing like that on the loose with someone Grey. Why does he want it? I mean really?"

"It's certainly no sentimental heirloom. I have a bad feeling there's a purpose for that thing."

Mara thought a moment. "We'll have to do something about it, if for no other reason than that it's blocking magic that could be useful other places." She wrinkled her brow and toyed with the steering wheel. "If we could discover why it's a dark artifact, we might be able to figure out what to do about it. I don't usually care for them, but a necromancer would be useful here."

"What? Why?"

"A necromancer manipulates magic through the auspices of death."

"Hang on. They kill things?"

"Not necessarily, though a large number of their rituals can only be effective in the presence of death, and the easiest way to get that is to kill some sacrificial animal. When I say death, I mean not just dead bodies or something of that ilk, but the change in the power state that happens when someone or something dies. Y'see, the force, or energy, of a living thing becomes free at the moment of death—it's one of the things which causes ghosts, too. The right kind of magical attractor in the immediate area can capture the energy, and a great deal of energy and information are available for a little while to anyone who can manipulate that attractor. It's terribly dangerous stuff, though, to those who can touch it at all. Many of us feel it, but necromancers are among the few who can use it. The necromancer exchanges some of his own life-force energy for control of the new energy source, so long as it lasts—giving up life for the knowledge and power of death, for a time."

"Ugh," I said with a shudder. "What good would that do us?"

"A necromancer can create dark artifacts or examine their history. Necromantic artifacts are always grim and lowering like that organ because of the thread of death tied up in their creation." "Are they worse than any other kind?"

"Can be. The power of most dark artifacts comes from a sort of accreting process, where layers of use, power, and purpose adhere to the object and become bound up in it. Many necromantic dark artifacts are relatively harmless. Since they are created for specific purposes and only used once or twice, they don't build up that sort of power. But that one…" She shuddered.

"All right," I said. "So why would we want a necromancer here?" "A necromancer can look back to a dark artifacts moment of creation and see what caused it. Don't know how they do it—it's bloody spooky. If we knew what the artifacts purpose and process of creation was, we would know how to neutralize or destroy it. This is not going to be easy. If we go about it wrong, we run the risk of increasing its power by having our own sucked into the artifact."

"I'd rather not see that thing get any stronger," I said. "You don't know any necromancers then?"

"No. I find their practices a bit disgusting, and they're a dying breed. Necromancers aren't just created out of practice and determination. They're born with the potential talent and develop it as they age. It's not a very politically correct profession, you can imagine. Boys and girls who kill their pets so they can 'touch the power' usually end up in mental institutions. The right type of conditioning and therapy breaks the potential and steers them into more normal courses."

"So psychos who torture animals are potential necromancers?" "Oh, no. One in a million children is a potential necromancer, and he—or very rarely, she—may never tap the power, never even know that there is any power to tap. They never harm anyone or anything, but some slip through and survive long enough to learn. That's the one who becomes a necromancer. They're very secretive and paranoid. Well, wouldn't you be?"

A connection closed in my mind. "Mara, what happens to necromancers when they die?"

"I suppose that would depend on how they died. I suspect that many of them don't truly die, but linger in some fashion or become something new. If they survive bodily death and still have their minds intact, they could still wield their powers, but I think it would be very dangerous for them. Casting would suck away a lot of whatever life energies they still had, and the recuperation afterward would be extraordinary. But their relationship to the power would be different, and they could probably conserve a great deal of their own energies— even feed them—by killing as part of the ritual. If they're corporeal enough to use the knife or what have you." Then she stared sharply at me. "That's a rather strange question to ask. Why did you?"

"Because I think I've met a necromancer."

"My God, Harper. Where?" "I can't say."

She glowered at me. "You must be very careful. Use what I've taught you to protect yourself, or these powers may harm you. I know you don't quite believe it all—"

"I'm beginning to."

Chapter 23

Mara dropped me near my office. Before I took another step for Sergeyev, I wanted to know more about that organ in the normal world, and though it made me uncomfortable, I knew where to start. I didn't even bother going up to the office, I just went straight to the Rover.

The street outside the Ingstrom house was full of cars. The auction of the personal property was under way and the house was packed with bidders. I wished I felt something more useful—like anger—but all I felt as I stepped up onto the screened porch was an uncomfortable confusion.

Michael was at his table inside. His eyes got wider when he saw me. "Hi, Michael," I said. "H-hi, Ms. Blaine." "Is Will on the podium?" He replied slowly. "Yeah." "Is Brandon around?" "Brandon's not here." "Why not?"

Michael shrank. "I don't know. He was supposed to be here but he didn't show up. Did you want to talk to him?" "No. I wanted to avoid him." He nodded. "Yeah, he's not too cool lately."

I heard Will's gavel drop, and then a murmur of sound rose to a growl and people began to boil toward the outer doors. I stepped back and hid in the crowd-shadow of the table.

Michael shot me a quick look of nervous apology. "Lunch," he explained. "Without Brandon, we're running kinda late."

"That's OK."

He smiled and turned to face the first of the exiting bidders. I was pushed farther into the corner by the eddying humanity and trapped there when Will came out.

He patted his brother on the shoulder and glanced at the screen of the laptop computer. "Everything OK out here, Mikey?"

"Yeah." Michael shot a quick glance in my direction and went back to his computer and the couple in front of him.

Will raised his head and turned. He stiffened when he saw me and froze in place behind Michael's chair, until his brother elbowed him in the side.

"Hey, I'm trying to work here," Michael growled.

Jarred, Will walked toward me but kept the table between us. He stopped and clasped his hands in front of his belt buckle. His long fingers squeezed white. "What… what can I do for you?" His voice was cool, but I could almost see it, like a staff of music quivering on the air, thin as smoke.