“Tell me again, why do you want me to work for you?”

I paused, watching the man in the tweed jacket across the table from me. He appeared to be a quiet librarian type, a real Lavar Burton with a greying beard. His horn-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, in what seemed to be a perpetual low state of disbelief. We sat in a high-backed booth in my favorite coffee shop, in Sulfide, LA.

“Mostly because apparently you have taken up residence next to my school for years and we haven’t detected you,” he said, intent on gauging my reaction.

I greatly desired to give him a reason to now have found me. Sometimes you have to throw the bones that you get.

“Ah, so you’ve found my little cottage behind my shop, have you?” I said, pausing to adjust my shawl.

“Miss…?” He asked.

“Miss Ada, but you can call me Ada, youngster.” 

“Well, I’m Dean Thomas, of the Quatrefoil School of Magic, which you should know as the only historically black college of magic in America.”

 To me, it sounded like he was about to go into a prepared speech on the merits of his institution.

“I’m well versed in magic as you can probably guess. Did you want something special? A potion perhaps? A coffee? The location of the fountain of youth?”

“Nothing so mundane. We’re looking for a new professor, someone with the skills you apparently possess. Wait, do you know where the fountain of youth is?”

I eyed him carefully trying to hold back anything even close to a smile.

“Young man,” I said, “I have no way to get any sort of diploma or transcript from any school I’ve ever been to. However, that said, this is quite an interesting proposition. I haven’t worked with other magicians in what feels like a long time. And as for the fountain of youth, you’ll need to do your own research. This face is made through shea butter and hope.”

“You keep saying young man, but you do see my grey hairs, right? I’m turning forty-seven next month.”

He leaned in conspiratorially, so no one could overhear us in the coffee shop. He knew that I had our booth warded so this was probably just for show. Either way, he might not know about anything I had going on.

“All I am asking for is… we’re having an opening event a week before the students arrive. It’s next week and the president himself has asked me to extend an invitation to you. Consider it a trial,” Dean Thomas sat back in his chair, fussing with his glasses.

“You know, young man, my hips don’t work the way that they used to, and I’m feeling the effects of age,” I pantomimed swooning.

“You walk like a spry cat. You appear to be not a day over sixty,” he said, flatly.

“An old lady never reveals her tricks,” I said.

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“One of our professors thinks that you’ve been here since the 1840s. I didn’t believe her at first but,” he gestured to me, “ Now I can see that her idea might have some merit.”

He slid a ticket over the table to me. It had a time and place listed, as well as directions.

“To anyone else, this will look like a regular ticket to the summer teachers conference, but head to the location listed, and … we’ll let you in,” he sighed, once again with the glasses, he pushed them onto his forehead this time.

“There’s something else that isn't there? You’re not telling me something,” I said.

“There is a reason I came to you. We had an incident, and the same professor…”

“You’re referring to Isis, who may be the professor in question, you don’t have to beat around the bush. The two of us have known each other for some time.”

When you’re a half-fae demigod you tend to notice people who are around for more than a century. I wasn’t but I respected her hustle. We’d met on many occasions, but the last place I expected to find her was here.

“Well, even if you don’t decide to work for us, I do have a need for someone with your special ability.” 

My ears perked up.

“I’m afraid it’s something that I don’t know much about. You see, yesterday one of the faculty was murdered, and unfortunately, we cannot rely on local law enforcement… and…”

“It was necromancy, wasn’t it, you can say it. I’m old, not stupid,” I said, sighing as I leaned in.

“We have good reason to believe,” he said.

“Stop right there. Has it been more than seventy-two hours?” I said, picking up my bag.

“I, uh well no, it’s been a day.” 

“Take me there,” I said.

“I’m sorry,” he sputtered, “what?”

“If you want me to help, it has to be now. After three days, the image on their soul will fade, if it is indeed necromancy,” I said. 

“That’s helpful. I wish I knew more about it myself but, you understand of course.”

“Of course.”

I gave the look to the barista. Greg was a transplant, who had come to Louisiana following his fiancée to her college. She hadn’t realized that there were other boys out there besides Greg, leaving the poor boy to work here in a cajun small town. Of course, this was the Cajun Coffee underneath my shop so I was there frequently.

“I am going to open a teleportation gate to his place.. follow me.”

Dean Thomas took me around the corner to the back of the building. We passed the stairs and the sign advertising “Miss Adas Psychic Services”.

We looked around. For a second I tapped into my soul vision, and seeing nothing, I gestured to him. One quick incantation and then a regular teleportation door appeared against the back wall.

Dean Thomas strode through, and I paced behind him, adjusting my purple shawl so that it didn’t flare out. 

On the other side of the door, he stood in a second-floor hallway. Windows gave the impression that we hadn’t moved much. 

Then, after setting another round of warding spells, this time on the area, we walked to the next doorway down. He rattled the doorknob and the red door opened up with a creak.

I smelled it. Back on the battlefields of the civil wars, the smell of death permeated the atmosphere, giving a pungent reminder that you were among the living. This was a tiny reminder that death went through the same phases for most of us. 

Here and now, more than a hundred and fifty years later, I smelled it fresh.

“I’ll let you do your thing,” he said, stepping back.

“Wise choice,” I said.

I reached into my pouch drawing some essence of (y) to spread around. Drawing the circle around the living room, I breathed out soul, inhaled soul.

Soul in. Soul out.

“Where is the body? Did someone move it?” I said.

Dean Thomas cleared his throat and in the most apologetic tone I’ve heard said,”It is in the other room. There’s a sheet on it, but no one else besides myself and Isis has seen the body. One of my charms on him activated upon his death and, well.”

I closed the circle.

“Take me to him,” I said.

He walked into a room on my right, the elbows of his tweed jacket making him look every bit the professor. He still had his glasses on his forehead. It would have been cute if you were into that sort of thing.

“Right here.”

In the center of a cold unfeeling bedroom, a body lay, feet jutting out from under the sheets. Black feet, with yellow soles, told me that this had been a tall man while he was alive. 

I reached out, searching with my soul sense. Usually, the dearly departed stayed attached to their bodies for three days. 

“I’m sorry… How long ago did you say he passed? Be as precise as possible if you could?”

Dean Thomas made a show of checking the time on his ornate timepiece, even though we both knew. We both knew that he had that answer readily prepared.

“Twenty-two hours.”

“Impossible.”

I searched, not finding what I wanted.

“Dean Thomas, this man has been soul-killed. There is no remnant left of him, not even a trace.”