"Good afternoon," I turned to face the man. Up close, he looked even more unsightly. Somewhere very deep down, a feeling vaguely resembling fear stirred, but it quickly vanished. I caught a whiff of something sweet, and for some reason, the scent thrilled me immensely. "Ah..."

Truth be told, I didn't know how to answer him, since I myself had no idea what exactly I was up to.

"Are you following me?" the stranger narrowed his eyes. "Who sent you?"

Probably to intimidate me further, he reached into his coat and pulled out a knife of terrifying proportions. The flaps of his filthy cloak parted slightly, and I saw a massive red stain on his dark-gray shirt.

My hand shot forward on its own, claws flashing, and a guttural snarl ripped from my throat.

The knife clattered out of the vagrant's grip; he flinched, screamed, and bolted as fast as his legs could carry him, leaving me holding his cloak, its rotten ties having snapped.

"Undead!"

I cleared my throat, watching the terrified man flee. Alright, apparently what I had mistaken for a survival instinct compelling me to follow the homeless man was actually a reaction to the faint scent of blood, which for some reason was incredibly alluring to me. The "what should we devour" instinct.

Ugh, what vile thoughts were creeping into my head!

Fighting oneself is always a difficult task. But when your alter ego is a bit too independent, the battle takes on an entirely new dimension.

It took a tremendous effort of will to shove that bloodthirsty thing back into the recesses of my mind. It objected, hissing in irritation, but in the end, I managed to reclaim my clarity of thought.

I wearily rubbed the bridge of my nose. This was starting to reek of an asylum for the insane. Martin—my other brother—used to scare me with that place all the time. He claimed that husbands often declared unwanted wives mad and shipped them off there, locking them away for the rest of their lives.

I clenched the dirty fabric of the cloak in my fist. No matter, they wouldn't let me in there anyway—whether the undead even had a soul was highly debatable. Probably... I wasn't a mage, and certainly not a necromancer who understood such things.

Where was I supposed to find one who was sympathetic to murdered girls returning from the dead? And skilled enough to figure out my problem, too. I needed some... amateur sleuth. Young enough to entertain the possibility of negotiating with the undead, but already graduated from the Academy. I didn't have much faith in the adepts of our capital's sanctuary of knowledge. Mainly because a prime example of their absolute brainlessness lived right in my house. I'd heard so many stories from Dominic... Besides, how would I even sneak into the Academy to find the right mage? The grounds were heavily guarded, and a simple passerby couldn't just wander in. It would be easier to go to the police. After all, the best of the best worked there.

And they would incinerate me before I even got near the precinct.

Lost in thought, I put on my captured cloak and pulled the hood down as far as possible to hide my face. Out of habit, I shoved my hands into the pockets and unexpectedly felt something velvety in the left one.

"Wow!" It turned out to be a pouch, stuffed to the brim with coins. Gold ones. So that vagrant had been a thief? That explained why he got so nervous when he thought he was being followed.

A pity that gold couldn't bring me back to life. Or tell me what to do next. It would be absolutely wonderful if a solution would just magically appear out of nowhere.

Something else appeared instead. Something incomprehensible. It was as if I took a blow to the chest that knocked me straight out of my body, and I found myself... somewhere. There was nothing here. Just one massive Nothingness; I wasn't even sure if I still existed myself. Maybe that was the point, that I didn't anymore?

I didn't have time to get completely lost in this incomprehensible void—I was kicked back out, and with such force that I felt like I'd been dragged across the ground for two meters. But the sensation proved to be phantom: I was lying curled up against the grimy wall in the exact same alley, playing dead. Then again, that was becoming a rather familiar routine.

The day was gone; dusk had fallen over the city. And late dusk, judging by the looks of it—the first stars would soon begin appearing in the sky.

My head was splitting mercilessly. With difficulty, I got onto all fours first, and only then managed to stand up. I leaned a hand against the wall. Black spots danced before my eyes, and I think I started to feel nauseous.

The cemetery! commanded the inner monster, clawing its way back to the surface, and I didn't even argue, sensing it was right. It felt like a matter of life and death.

Hobbling along somehow, I moved forward. Purely on instinct, not even understanding how I was doing it. I couldn't even remember the route itself; it all blurred into one continuous, indistinct smear. I only managed to regain control over my body when I was practically at the crypt. And this time, it wasn't me fighting to take it back—I was forcibly shoved back into place. It was as if my bloodthirsty ego had gotten scared of something.

I ducked behind one of the gravestones, not understanding what had triggered such a reaction. Did the undead even have emotions? I'd thought I had lost them all, completely and irrevocably.

Our family vault was a bit further ahead, and it was impossible to approach it unnoticed—it was built on a slight elevation, and there were no graves right next to it.

Crouching low, I dashed to another statue that stood a bit closer to the building. Beyond that lay only a line of flower beds, and nothing else. I carefully peeked out, trying to figure out where the threat might be coming from.

It emerged from the crypt. It froze for a moment, then sat down on the steps, lost in thought. I ground my teeth. That mage!