Then there was a click, and Aza stopped.

"Who–"

There was a noise like an explosion, and another like emptying a slopbucket onto the dirt. Someone fell to the ground, along with something metal. Midul gathered himself up, keeping the weight off his twisted ankle and peering out from under the rock; Aza's head was gone, blood spurting from his neck, the lantern on its side next to him. Two pairs of boots stomped into view, standing over his body, and the two bounty hunters came to Midul's mind. His stomach was already twisting itself into knots imagining what was about to happen to them. He wanted

to warn them, but his voice died in his throat.

One of the two knelt beside Aza's body, placing a hand on his chest. Two voices spoke to each other easily, calmly; one sounded like a woman.

"How many in this one?"

"Two. Look, he's already recovering, get ready."

Neither seemed at all surprised when the mess of blood, bone, and skin that had been Aza's head started to pull itself back together chunk-by-chunk. Midul could see some part of a gun swing into sight, but it wasn't anything like father's hunting rifle, not least because of the point of metal sticking out from under the muzzle, shining in the failing lantern light. Once Aza sprang back to life, Midul thought he would lash out at the two, but something had changed. He sucked down breath like he'd been drowning and crawled back away from them, looking confused.

"What was that? What did you do?"

"We know who you are, and we know what you are," the kneeling one said, standing back up. Midul heard what sounded like a revolver cocking. "I've loosened your hold on those two dead souls, that's probably what you're feeling."

"You're necromancers," Aza said.

"You've got three choices. You can try to run, and we'll kill you. You can try to fight, and we'll kill you. Or you can come quietly, face the noose, and we'll do what we can to see your soul off proper and free."

"Nothing you can do for me," Aza said. He threw himself up off the ground and disappeared from Midul's sight–shots, the two pairs of boots stepping aside, Aza falling face-first to the ground, separated from one arm, screaming as he grabbed at the spot where his whole shoulder had been blown apart. He grit his teeth and twisted onto his side, writhing and inching like a worm towards his arm. A pale blue mist rose from his

body, curling up into the air like the smoke of a freshly-snuffed candle.

"No, I won't go like this," Aza said, rolling onto his back, swiping his hand at the mist. "Come back here!" He let out another cry, more horrible than the first, as his arm slowly drew back to his body and reattached. He sprung toward the rocks with all the ferocity of a hungry wolf and Midul thought for a moment that he'd been spotted. The largest of the rocks that made the roof of his shelter shook, then came away: dust, dried roots, and lichen shaking over him.

Something let out a hideous roar; with the stone aloft, Midul could see the whole scene: Aza holding the huge rock overhead, the two figures in identical boots, long coats, and black-on-white masks; one holding the rifle with the metal spike, the other with two revolvers drawn. They shot once more, bullets ripping through Aza. His whole body shook, then fell back, dropping the stone on himself with a squelching and crushing of bone; the crevice shook with the weight of it, and Midul cried out.

He made himself as small as he could, covered his head, squeezing his eyes shut, no longer able to quiet his breathing. A gurgle behind him turned to a rattle and wheeze.

"H-help me boy," a weak voice called. "Help me, don't let them . . ."

Midul felt the voice was meant for him, and he slowly looked over his shoulder, gawping with horror as he saw Aza crushed under the boulder from the neck down, head bent back to stare at him with wide eyes, a pool of blood quivering as it retreated into him and spilled out over and over. Blue mist poured from his mouth, his nostrils, his eyes. Then stillness. Footsteps on the other side of the boulder; the two masked figures peered down into the gap, crouched down and reached out to Midul. He recoiled, his held breath breaking into panicked gasps. Up close, the dark whorls seemed to be gripping at the edges of the white ground of the masks, pulling empty faces into the night.

"It's okay. It's all over now," one said, gloved hand lifting the mask. The woman must have been mother's age, maybe even a bit older. She smiled at him, looked thoughtful for a moment, then slapped the other on the arm lightly. Behind that mask was a face a bit younger-looking than Aza's, but with harder eyes than any Midul had ever seen. He thought this one might be less scary with the mask on. The skin around the woman's eyes crinkled up around the edges when she smiled, just like mother's did. Midul slowly reached out and let her take his hand and pull him up to her. He closed his eyes tight as he realized how close his face was to Aza's.

"The head?" the man asked.

"No way we can bring the whole body like this," the woman said, stroking Midul's hair, carrying him around to the other side of the boulder. "You

did well. Nothing to be afraid of now."

Midul's body understood even if his mind didn't; he bawled with all that was left in him.

"Let's get going, there's the othe–" The man paused, cleared his throat.

"What's your name?" the woman asked, setting Midul down gently. Concern filled her eyes when Midul winced from the pain in his foot. "Poor thing, are you hurt?"

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Midul nodded, but couldn't speak. The woman picked him up again and found a rock high enough for him to sit on, crouching in front of him, stroking his face softly.

"My name is Sidri, and his is Jiriga." She nodded at the scary man who was holding a bulging burlap sack.

"M-Midul." He sniffled, wiping furiously at his tears though his eyes hurt.

"Midul. Did you have an older brother?"

"Ishey, he . . ." The brief spark of hope guttered when he saw how sad

the woman looked.

"I'm a necromancer, do you know what that means?"

"You help peoples' spirits get home when they . . . th-they . . ."

"That's right. I will help your brother and your parents before we leave. Do you want to be there? I know it might be hard, but they w–"

"I want to!" Midul couldn't help crying again. "I want to."

Sidri nodded, tousling his hair. "That's a good boy. Jiriga, can you go on ahead and take care of things?" She watched him walk down the slope before turning back to Midul. "Let's see if we can do anything about that foot." She reached into one of the small packs on her belt and drew out a small bottle, popping the cap and knocking the mouth against her palm. She replaced the cap and bottle, then pressed a thick jelly against Midul's ankle. His skin tingled, then felt cool, and the pain dulled.

"Better?"

"Uh-huh."

"Good. You'll still need to keep the weight off it for a bit, though." She stood and turned her back to him, looking up at the sky. It felt wrong somehow that the stars didn't look any different on such a night. Mother and father and Ishey were gone–his entire world–something should have fallen from the sky or stopped shining.

"Let's get going. I'll carry you," Sidri said, offering her back to climb on. Midul barely managed it with her help; she stood once she had her hands under his legs, and they set off down the slope with slow, steady steps. Midul was running out of tears, but sobs still wracked his body. Eventually they met up with Jiriga again, who had picked up two rucksacks somewhere along the way and tied something covered onto one

side of a center-wheel barrow. There was a pit in his stomach forming as he kept his eyes on the covered form.

"Do you want to sit with him?" Sidri asked softly.

Midul swallowed hard, nodded. Jiriga set the rucksacks on the opposite side from the covered form, and Sidri set him down next to it, Jiriga taking up the handles. Midul reached out a hand, paused, placed it on what looked and felt like a hand under the rough linen.

"You said your brother's name was Ishey?" Sidri asked. It hadn't really hit him whose hand he was holding until she asked; he held back a sob

and nodded. "What about your mother and father? It will help me reach them if I know their names."

"Mama's name is Dira. Papa's name is Gahan." Midul met Sidri's eyes of his own will for the first time; she looked kind, he thought. "Can you

really help them?"

"I can."

The silence, the darkness, and the smooth roll of the wheelbarrow lulled Midul to sleep. When he woke, the horizon teased dawn, and looking

around he recognized the back of his house. The two men who'd come in the night were nowhere to be seen; nor were his parents. The wheelbarrow was at rest, and Sidri had a hand on his shoulder. His breath caught in his throat as he remembered Aza waking him up the same way hours before, but the woman's soft eyes full of pity told him it was almost over.

"Are you ready? It's time."

Midul slid off the wheelbarrow and took Sidri's hand; she was no longer wearing her jacket, but the fur shawl and loose wraps of a shaman. In

her free hand she held a staff that looked made from a rainbeggar tree, the head of it split in places. Jiriga was leaning against the wall by the back door; his patchy brown linen suit would have made him look like a traveler from some big city if not for his rifle propped up next to him. The spectacles perched on his nose only made him scarier.

Sidri led him to the kitchen, where the furniture had been cleared away, and three bodies lay side-by-side on the floor: Ishey with Mother to the

left and Father to the right, holding one of each of their hands. Their clothes had been changed, and no sign of what had happened remained. Midul thought they might wake up at any moment. Just above Ishey's head was a small bronze dish with something black and curled giving off a sweet scent as it burned. Sidri knelt at their feet and motioned for Midul to join her.

What came next? He'd heard stories about necromancers just like everyone else, but he'd never met one–didn't even know anyone who had.

"Dira, Gahan, Ishey, hear my voice," Sidri said, closing her eyes, limbs still. "It calls you back to bid your farewells to the world of the living. Midul is here; the threat to his life is past. Let him see you one last time."

At first Midul thought it was a trick of the dawning light through the window, but he soon realized that he was seeing the same strange mist that had risen from Aza's body thicken and whirl over the bodies of his family. It formed first as a cloud, then splitting into three, each turning into a human shape–though he could just about see through them, they were surely his parents, his brother, floating a hand's span above their own bodies. They looked around confused, looked to each other, then to Midul.

"What's happening?" Mother was the first to ask. "Some men had come for Aza . . . "

"They shot him." Father furrowed his brow. "But he didn't die."

"He killed them," Ishey said. "Then he . . ."

As they searched Midul's face for an answer, he lost the battle with his own instinct, jumping to his feet, walking to them and reaching out his hands. Mother reached out in kind, only for Midul's hand to pass through hers as easily as through the air. The three looked at her hand for a

long, quiet moment.

"What is this?" Mother tried to touch Midul again. She turned to Sidri for the first time "Who are you?"

"My name is Sidri; I'm a necromancer, and the three of you have died."

The words ripped through the three ghosts, nearly causing their forms to break. When they had finally settled, they looked as though they'd all

forgotten something important and were just then remembering it.

"Be at peace. Aza has been taken care of. If you have somewhere you want Midul to go, I'll see to it that he makes it there safely."

"In the town over the hills, there's a marshal we know well," Father said after a pause. His ghost knelt on a plane of air before Midul, reached for his face but withdrew his hand before it passed through. "You'll be safe with him, son."

Again they started to lose form, growing fainter as the mist rose and vanished. They looked at themselves with alarm; Midul knew somehow that

they did not feel pain or fear, but his heart told him that they would soon be gone.

"We love you, Midul," mother said, trying to be brave.

"Don't go!" Midul said, trying vainly to hug their images to him. He saw them wrap themselves around him, embracing him from all sides.

"I hope it's a long time before we see you again," Ishey said, voice fading. The mist rose up to and through the ceiling boards, and they

were gone. Sidri took in a long, deep breath.

"I know it hurts to see them and lose them again, but you've given them a great gift, Midul. Their souls might not have found the peace they

needed to leave this world behind without seeing you safe."

She stood and took Midul's hand; he looked up at her and nodded slowly. She knew he didn't really understand what she'd said, or even what had happened to him. After a proper night's rest under a different roof, he could start to wrestle with it. On the other side of it, she hoped he would take his brother's last words to heart and choose not only to continue, but to live.