Ignoring the incessant ringing of the phone, I reached Gareth, my hands extended and more than ready both to defend myself and finish him.

He arced his head up towards me, pain mingled with something indecipherable in his eyes. Whoever he’d been expecting, it wasn’t me. His mouth dropped open. ‘Ivy?’

I kept my distance on the off-chance that he might try something. ‘Why, Gareth? Why did you do it? Was it the power?’

He stared at me. ‘Wh – what?’

For good measure – and because I had to ensure that Gareth didn’t get up again – I cast my next rune, pinning his body flat to the ground. If he’d been an Order witch, he probably could have countered it. Fortunately for me, death magic appeared to be rather limiting. With my safety assured – for now – I stepped closer to him as my phone rang off again once more.

‘Who’s Alistair? Is this your partner in crime?’ I knelt down to get a better look at his face. I’d definitely managed to draw blood but it was still too dark to tell how much, beyond the fact that it was wet and dribbling down his cheek. ‘Tell me where he is.’

Gareth’s jaw worked uselessly. He was trying to talk – even I could tell that – but my last spell must have hit him harder than I’d realised. Either that or he’d already set the next raising in motion and he was exhausted from the effort.

With one eye on him, I scanned round anxiously. There was police tape around one grave, a mound of earth next to a gaping hole and the name emblazoned on the headstone was Mark Fulwright, rest in peace. Then I spotted more police tape a metre away around one of the graves on the next row. Swallowing, I took a step over to see. Scott McGuthrie.

Wrinkling my nose, I focused on Gareth. ‘Why these two?’ I asked. ‘Why did you raise these two men as zombies?’

‘Unghhh.’

Arse. I wanted answers. Unfortunately Gareth was in no position to give them. ‘Unghhh,’ he repeated, his eyes flicking to the right.

I followed his gaze, finally noticing that the untouched grave next to Mark Fulwright and in front of Scott McGuthrie belonged to someone who had once been Morag McAllan. Born 1761. Died 1799.

Suppressing a chill, I closed my eyes momentarily. In terms of necromancy, Gareth was a baby. He’d been aiming for Morag, one of his direct ancestors; instead he’d brought up two strangers whose only crime was being buried next to her. The catalogue of mistakes that had brought both of us to this point was staggering. I slumped down beside him.

‘You fucked up,’ I told him frankly. I leaned over, holding my breath as I slid my index finger along the blood on his cheek and held it up to the moonlight to get a better look. ‘So did I.’ I sighed and reached for my phone once again. ‘You don’t really have any idea about what you’ve unleashed, do you? No matter what your blood reveals, you’re a dead man. There’s no other option. Necromancy is too powerful and too uncontrollable. The only thing that remains to be seen is whether I’ll be joining you.’