Jorg looked left and right. He could swear that someone was following him. Was it someone who didn’t like his information? Perhaps. Or maybe it was that librarian? He never liked it when Jorg checked out the same book again and again.

But he could go suck on a lemon for all Jorg cared. The mage hummed and went back home. It was shabby on the outside, with peeling paint and rusted hinges of the windows, but it was luxurious on the inside.

Jorg threw away his moth-eaten robe and his hat. Underneath he wore a good quality wool pants and sweater. Perfect for home, where no one would ask him where he got his money from.

Possibly, it was a mistake to tell the kid. But he saw, so what was the harm? Jorg patted his pocket where the fifty-silver jingled merely. A slow day, but fifty silvers was enough for a good meal.

With tomorrow’s breakfast guaranteed, Jorg decided not to bother going to the dark alleyways of Wandermere to peddle his trade. He felt a slight breeze and then heard a knock. If it was that salesman again, Jorg was going to muddy the man’s shoes.

Muttering to himself, Jorg opened the door. A pale, dark-haired woman with the brightest green eyes he had ever seen stared back at him.

“Those darn healers! My boy was alive…” Jorg slammed the door in her face and barricaded it with the little shoe cabinet. Panting, he backed away and ran towards the bathroom, grabbing a package of salt from the kitchen on the way.

That was a wraith! The eyes always gave them away. And they couldn’t say anything but something along the lines of the last thing they said. So, that explained the weird sentence.

Jorg closed the bathroom door and began sprinkling the rims of the door with salt. Salt kept spirits at bay. And it was downright poisonous to necromancers. The aged mage kept about a third of the package and got in the bath tub.

That Black guy that the boy had looked up was a necromancer, wasn’t he? A necromancer and a vampire. Jorg shuddered. No, he was not going to end up on the news. Not going to end up as just a name in a statistic about vampire attacks. He may be old, but he was still strong!

Loud knocking was heard on the bathroom door. Jorg had picked this room because it didn’t have any windows. Only one entrance to guard was always a good thing.

“My son! Those darn healers buried him alive! My boy!” The wraith seemed to reel itself up the more it spoke. It must be a recent one, to still be able to have emotions. Old wraiths didn’t even speak.

A breeze began to sweep the salt away. A breeze in a closed room?

“No, no!” Screamed Jorg as he clutched the salt to himself. The necromancer was near. And he could work more magic than simple necromancy, darn it all.

“My boy!”

“Shut up, wench!” Yelled Jorg. He was shivering so hard he feared he would break the bath tub. Finally, the knocking stopped. But, Jorg noticed with fear, the salt was gone from below the door too. And the door didn’t have a lock.

“They…” the doorknob turned and Jorg got a handful of salt, ready to throw it at the thing.

“I told them…” the door creaked open. Now, there were tear tracks on the wraith’s face. She was new, and salt would be to her like lava to a human. Might even destroy her. Jorg could only mutter a prayer as he waited for the thing to come within range.

“Alive!” The ghost screeched the last part and lunged at Jorg, nails first. Jorg screamed and threw the salt. Big gashes appeared in the woman’s skin, living something like black puss to leak from them. Jorg got out of the tub and bolted.

He ran, not knowing where he was going. The salt hadn’t destroyed the wraith. Probably made it madder. Just as he was about to open the front door and run outside to the nearest church of Harika, he saw the librarian on the other side.

“Run, there is a wraith inside and…” Whatever Jorg was about to say was cut off by a dagger to his throat. The last thing he heard was the wraith’s unintelligent wails for her son.

Sebastian regarded the corpse and the wraith, who looked at it hungrily.

“Well? Go for it,” he closed the door with a click and watched with disinterest as the wraith began to tear into the flesh of the man. The more meat she ate, the smaller the holes in her face became.

“Get salt in the face again, and I won’t bring back your son,” Sebastian turned to smile at the wraith, who looked at him with murder in her eyes and a finger between her teeth. She swallowed the finger and bend down to eat more.

Wraiths were not like shadows. How Sebastian wished he could create a shadow. But for one to create those, they had to have a certain…favor of Harika. And the goddess must despise him, for he was incapable of making anything more than shambling corpses and wraiths.

But every tool had its uses. Sebastian tuned out the chewing sounds and went searching for his book. Had the man not taken it, he would have let him live. But the annoyance was living from Sebastian, and that simply couldn’t stand.

The necromancer found his grimoire next to the couch. He sat down and opened it. There was a history of recent searches. Now, why was the mage looking him up right after looking at smut?

The thought that these two searches were linked disturbed Sebastian. But there was one small detail that he had nearly overlooked. There, under the person who last used the book, was not Jorg’s name, but one Ben Roberts.

“Ben Roberts,” commanded Sebastian, and the book supplied him with a picture of a familiar boy with a familiar adoptive father. Ah, he did love it when things became linked like that.