Free The Darkness of Shadows by Chris Little Page B

all the graphics, tie them together in a certain way …”
    He looked over the top of his glasses, waiting.
    “I think maybe my father was trying to raise the dead.”
    The wave of laughter never hit. Walter studied the drawing, pursed his lips, gave it more thought than I’d expected.
    “I … I believe you’re correct. I didn’t look at it in that manner.” He studied some more. “You certainly inherited your parents’ intellect. I misinterpreted this by a country mile.”
    “How so?”
    “The more I look at it, the more I think your father created these sigils to call spirits. It helps to know the true name of the particular spirit one is calling, but certain sigils can be considered the equal of the spirit’s true name. And connecting all the symbols would allow him a measure of control over the beings he has summoned.
    “There’s a work by Edward Wilson and Wes Unruh by the name of The Art of Memetics that’s rather enlightening. There’s a specific quote that might help—‘From the threads of these four energies a knot is tied on the altar of the mage’s consciousness. This fifth energy, this secret knot now tied, is the true sigil.’”
    Color me confused.
    “The other day I asked you about the missing pages.”
    “Sir, I didn’t know then and I still don’t know now.”
    “Too bad. It would help us tremendously—more clues to decipher. But this find is so exciting! And to think you brought it to light!”
    Huh. “So why would my father want to raise the dead?”
    “Your father was a Necromancer.”
    No wonder I was so screwed up. “What’s a—”
    “A Necromancer is one who conjures the spirits of the dead. To reveal the future or the past, among other things. Do you understand now?” he said.
    “Not really. My father was a businessman.”
    “What you need to understand is just because you’re given a gift, doesn’t mean you need to embrace it. It’s not like the old days. Back then, if I was born a Healer, that would be my station in life. But free will has taken precedence over the old ways.”
    “Um … what are you talking about?”
    “Oh dear.” I think it finally dawned on him that I wasn’t being intentionally dense. “Your parents never told you. You come from a family of preternaturals.”
    “Preter-what?” I leaned forward, giving me better access to my gun.
    “You have gifts that human’s don’t.” He leaned forward and pressed his fingertips together. “You asked why someone would bring the dead back. A Necromancer’s job is to provide closure. Take your grandparents, John and Beth, for instance. They were the cream of the crop. They helped so many move on.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “There’s a brief period after a person dies where his soul makes peace with his life. A Necromancer can bring the dead person back for a short time so he can say good-bye or say what needs to be said and everybody can move on.”
    “So being able to do that is a good thing?”
    “It can be,” he said. “Your mother had a gift as well. Did you know she was a Healer?”
    I was still trying to understand the reviving-of-the-dead-people stuff. “Sir, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “Karen Benson Gannon, your mother. She’s a Healer, just like Rita.”
    My eyes narrowed. “My mom and Mrs. Guerrero? What’s a healer?”
    “Capital H, not lower case.”
    He could tell that from the inflection in my voice?
    “A Healer speeds up the healing process,” he said. “One who can cure ills, wounds, injuries, things of that sort. Not all, mind you, but many.” He frowned and shoved his glasses back into place. “Valerie has a gift. Tina does not. Perhaps Valerie was never told …? But I digress. The drawing is why you came here.”
    Confusion swirled in my head like a dust devil in the desert. Mrs. Guerrero would never be involved in this weirdness. I wanted to know more, but was he telling me the truth?
    “Val’s a Healer?”
    “No, she’s a