Madame Margarita, Necromancer & Repeat Offender

My Probation Magistrate's office is bright. Golds, oranges, vibrant purples. Despite being located at the secret Society of Other, Worldly, and Otherworldly Creatures headquarters in a labyrinth connected by decommissioned subway tunnels, Nazira manages to make it cheery.

It hurt to look at.

Especially with my headache.

Guess I could appreciate her copious pots of flowering plants beneath the UV lamp and her children's crayon masterpieces tacked to the wall, if I was operating off more than, like, three hours of sleep.

She greeted me with an affectionate hug. Inhaling deep and balancing our respective coffee and herbal tea orders, I returned it, careful not to both squash her baby bump or give away the fact that I'd recently broken nearly every rule of my probation in a single night.

"You look radiant," I said.

"Oh stop," Nazira tenderly patted her belly.

"What are you, three months now?"

"Three? Four! Honey, keep up."

"Boy or girl?"

"Girl!" she squealed, plucking her tea from the cup holder. "Finally. Two boys later and we got our girl. I'm done now. Oh, speaking of, you're almost done!"

"Ah, almost," I answered, warily.

I could have been imaging it, but at that moment I swear a chill passed through the room. Nazira didn't notice my shiver, thankfully.

We both collapsed into the only two chairs that fit inside the tiny office. Hers was ergonomic for maximum back support. Mine was a medieval torture device that had been refurbished with mustard colored fabric sometime, I assume, in the late 70s.

Squirming to find some comfort, I crossed my legs, and my silver anklet dangled out from the hem of my cigarette pants. The bangle was thin and engraved with tiny sigils. A perfectly intact band, no clasps or chains or hooks, that hugged my ankle just loose enough for me to slip my razor under it while shaving. To the mortal eye, it was nothing more than a barely noticeable piece of jewelry. I waggled my foot at Nazira.

"Less than a year it comes off and I'm a free woman," I rapped a knuckle against her wooden desk. Oh, crud, my nails were filthy. I picked at them and Nazira chuckled. I didn't particularly think I was being funny.

"Uh huh, what's the first thing you plan on doing once your probation is up and your curse lifted?"

"There's this grave I've never been able to visit."

Woops. I hadn't meant for that to sound so bitter. I'd just been so tired. I mean, you can understand why, am I right?

Nazira's amber eyes narrowed behind her large glasses. The snakes under her floral hijab slithered and hissed, not so subtly reminding me that I was in a probation meeting with a gorgon.

"You feeling alright?" She asked, genuine, motherly concern lacing her voice. She tapped a pen against her forehead, referring to the purple bruise along my hairline.

"Yeah. Sorry, that was..." I ground a finger into the corner of my eye. My mascara stung as I smeared it, but, whatever, I was too exhausted to even brush my hair this morning and I'm pretty sure I was still wearing last night's makeup anyway. "Just not sleeping well lately."

Been cleansing every physical and metaphysical inch of my apartment. I performed two exorcism rituals. Ditched the bloody rug. Burned a pound of sage. Scrubbed the floor. Sprinkled Holy Water over the threshold. Bleached. Vacuumed the furniture. Wiped any and all traces of prints off my crystal ball. I even refreshed the pentacles carved in the corners of my walls ahead of their regularly scheduled maintenance. At least whatever ghost the girl summoned seemed to be gone with her.

"I'm good," I lied.

Nazira nodded and made a noise. It wasn't a hiss. But it wasn't exactly... approving, either. She flipped open a glittery notebook and clicked a pen five times before actually writing anything down. Uh oh, that generally wasn't good. I sat up straighter, peering over her desk for a better look, only to slouch back down again the moment she glanced up at me. Good thing those specks of hers were bespelled, or else I'd have been turned to stone with her first disapproving glance nearly a decade ago.

"And how's work?" she asked, still writing.

How's work? Oh, well, you know, a young Tourist keeled the heck over in my illegal psychic parlor last week, whom I stupidly resurrected to avoid getting caught with a dead body on my hands and I can't even believe that twice-alive hussy knocked me out on my own crystal ball and dipped mid séance, taking the cash she owed me, and then some, and tossing my apartment on her way out. Oh, plus she ripped a cushion on my chaise. With not even a thank you, Madame Margarita, for bringing me back to life!

That bitch.

I shrugged. "Waitressing is waitressing."

What? Of course I'm lying about my gig to my Probation Magistrate. She thinks I work at a haunted dive in South Philly. And I mean, I did, for a while. I just never happened to update her when I left, and my former manager, well, he loves his cats. To death. And back.

Nazira scribbled some more in her notebook.

A faint rattling noise emanated from the folds of her scarf. But, before I could distract her by asking about baby names and nursery décor, she marched the conversation forward. "I'm in the process of finding coverage while I'm on maternity."

I've been dreading this part. Nazira found the absolute worst subs ever for her first two kids. Groan.

"No, come on," she said, eyes rolling. "It won't be Rutkowski again, I promise you. His paperwork is always atrocious."

"Don't suppose you could let me off early so I don't have to deal with any temp for my final months?"

Nazira snorted with laughter. "Oh sweetie, nooo, you know that's not up to me. I'm just here to keep you on your best behavior. Besides, we've talked about this. Necromancy is—"

"An abomination and offense against all that is natural and preternatural," I recited Society law from memory. "A magic so cursed that it will blight all the practitioner touches, and said practitioner shall be considered an enemy of Society."

The dead earned their rest and to have a necromancer infect slumbering souls with their disgusting, enslaving curse is sacrilege in just about every supernatural creed.

What a bullshit law. If it was so cursed the witches who came before me shouldn't have made it so easy for a sixteen-year-old to learn it in my spare time between trying on prom dresses and skipping algebra class. Honestly, I think some 17th century vamps and ghouls way back when got all uppity about witches who held sway over death and wanted to nip that kind of independent spirit right in the bud.

Seems Society hasn't progressed much since the 17th century.

Well. At least they no longer tried teenagers as adults.

Nazira clapped. "Well done. Besides, you blew your chances for an early release years ago! I love you but do you know how hard I've worked for the last ten years just to guarantee you're released on time?"

I swallowed. My head throbbed. "Better not trip before the finish line, then."

"Right on," she clicked her pen, "now, let's push through the usual business. In the thirty days since your last check in have you communed, conjured, or contacted any spirits, ghosts, or souls on this side of the veil?"

"No." I said, gripping tight to that stupid cardboard cup of coffee.

"Have you communed, conjured, or contacted any passed over and/or moved on and/or lost spirits, ghosts, or souls from the other side of the veil?"

"No." Lie.

"Have you performed any resurrection and/or reanimation curses on human remains?"

"No." Lie.

"Have you performed any bloodletting, magic, or rituals of any kind?"

"No." Lie.

"Have you willfully entered onto consecrated burial grounds?"

"No." L— oh, you know what, I'm good on that one.

"Have you willfully been within six feet of human remains? Oh, hold on, let's pause here. I want to talk about your anklet."

Instinctively, I uncrossed my legs and hid my cursed ankle behind the other.

Nazira noted something in her book. "Yeah, it's funny, the curse on it triggered, oh, six days ago, I think?" she checked another page. "Yes, six. It was only for a moment, just a blep in the early morning hours, but you were certainly within six feet of human remains and we know that's a no-no. It was only for a moment, I said! Not even long enough to sound an alarm! Don't look so much like you've seen a ghost just now, oh, unless," she glanced over her shoulder, "there isn't one here, is there?"

I held my breath and shook my head.

"Good!" Nazira exhaled. "Because if you brought another ghost in here that's three strikes and we'd need to have a much more serious chat about your rehabilitation into a model member of Society."

I bit my lip, resisting the urge to shrink into my torture device and be sullen. It wasn't my fault that one ghost followed me through the turnstile. Nor was it really my fault that it was still haunting the place. Oh yes it is, my mother loves to remind me, you asked for this. But if the Society had only let me speak to him like the poor boy wanted in the first place, I probably could've wrapped up his unfinished business or what have you by brunch. Oh no. A necromancer cannot be fully reformed unless they quit cold turkey.

Nazira dropped her pen and rested her chin in her hands. "So go on. What was that trigger all about?"

Crap.

I'm an idiot. A necromoron. I should never have seen that Tourist, let alone... Oh God, what was I thinking? How did I not even notice she was bleeding to death the moment she walked in? An illegal resurrection spell? And then she just ghosts before I even got the chance to explain she was now an animate piece of magical contraband!

Yes, I know the smart thing would've been to just let the girl die, but how could I? I mean, not even morally, but logistically, with my Contraband Curse anklet? If I let her rot a moment longer then the alarm would've fully sounded and Magistrates would have swarmed my door and hauled me off to prison. Real prison. I aged out of juvie years ago. Damn it. And I thought I was quick enough!

I shrugged again, lamely, and gulped at my boiling coffee. "Beats me. Philly's full of bones."

Smooth.

The snakes slithered and hissed, their outlines bulging around Nazira's neck. "Come on. You can do better than that. Is this something that needs an Inquiry?"

"No!" I forced a laugh. The noise was somewhere between a goose honking and a fox dying. "Honestly, Nazira, what do you think I was doing in the middle of the night to jeopardize my sentence, reanimating fresh corpses in my living room and sending them on their merry way?"

Nazira cocked a brow. "That would certainly be a very serious offense."

"I was joking! Jeez."

"Oh! It's funny cause you know that, even with the city having the highest number of supernatural creatures per capita in the Northeast, that yours is still the first door the Magistrate would knock on should anybody find misplaced corpses just wandering up the turnpike! Regardless of whether or not I reported it," she said with an overexaggerated sigh. "Of course, I needn't remind you of what's at stake! It's only your last chance to regain your whole life. Yes, we both know you've had quite a few," she flipped through some notebook pages, reaching far back (I'm pretty sure it was just for show), "well more than just a few slip ups the last decade, but we really are on your last chance in your last stretch of probation, and I have every confidence you won't disappoint me." She smiled, warmly, "I will be so proud of you when you make it through this without dooming yourself to rot in a hexed cell striped of all magic and, you know, freedom for the rest of your life. And, of course, without costing me a chance at a promotion that could actually help me start a college savings for this girl," Nazira patted her belly.

"Ha!" I squawked and took another gulp of coffee. "Like I'd ever do something that stupid. I was probably running to Wawa for some cigs and, I don't know, wandered too close to the cemetery. You know, the one on Fourth?"

That cemetery was not in the path of the convenience store nearest to my apartment, but Nazira did not live in that part of town.

"Mm hmm."

A moment of silence.

A snake hissed.

Could it smell the sweat soaking through my pits?

Nazira clicked her pen. "You really shouldn't smoke, Isla. Here, sign your check-in."

She slid a sheet of parchment at me.

Gritty's hairy armpit that was close.

I grabbed another one of Nazira's pens, trying to steady my hand so as not to knock her mug full of them over. It rattled anyway.

Madame Margarita didn't exist to Nazira, or to the Society. Neither did my parlor. Because yes, I am that stupid. Anyhow, I signed the paperwork, declaring I had successfully completed this month's check-in without a hitch with my full, legal name:

𝐼𝓈𝓁𝒶 𝑀𝒶𝓇𝑔𝒶𝓇𝒾𝓉𝒶 𝒮𝒶𝓃𝓉𝒾𝒶𝑔𝑜-𝒞𝑜𝓇𝓇𝒾𝑔𝒶𝓃

Speak Philadelphian: [gri-tee]. Hero. Scoundrel. Elder God and Eldritch Horror. Orange.Googly eyes. Patron Saint of the city of Philadelphia.