Perhaps I should do just that. What manner of Lazarus witch am I if I allow such a spirit to make me a reluctant necromancer? Should I always step cautiously in fear of him? Might that not be the very thing the Sentinels want? No, better that I face him. Better that I make him see I will not be cowed. Not be frightened.

I set my feet flatly on the ground, place my hands in my lap, palms up, bow my head forward, eyes still closed, and allow my mind to quiet and settle. My breathing slows and deepens. My pulse steadies and lightens. Slowly the earthly sounds about me grow fainter and more distant until they seem to come from some far-off place and have nothing whatever to do with me. My lips move as I silently recite the common prayer for calling those who have passed on to the Land of Night. I repeat the arcane words, which are as familiar to me as the Christian prayers I was taught to say by my nanny before bed. The rhythm builds to a chant, over and over and over, until my mind has entered an altered, meditative state. At last I stop, sitting motionless, listening, waiting. Within seconds there comes the familiar chill of the cool, airless breath of the deceased upon my neck.

So close! Who is there? Who has answered my call?

There is no reply, but I know beyond doubt that I am no longer alone. The simple request has brought forth a spirit willing to talk with me. It is not my father, of that I am sure, for I spoke with him only last night in the crypt and the frequency of our meetings has begun to tire him. He would not come unless I specifically asked for him.

Who are you?

When this spirit speaks the words have no sounds as such, but feel as if they are laid, one by one, directly onto my consciousness. I understand this to be an indication that the person is very long dead. Decades at the least. Centuries, maybe. The language the deceased has chosen to communicate in is an ancient English, peppered with phrases of Latin. I sense the presence is male. I focus on what I am being told. Although the presence is strong the words are indistinct and somewhat muddled.

The challenger? Can you tell me about the challenger, Gentle Spirit?

More words form and drift through my mind, seemingly unconnected, snippets of what appear to be archaic ritual mantras or creeds. Words referring to power and strength. Words that tell of great sorrow to come.

Sorrow for whom?

The message remains unclear, though its tone, its strength of feeling, are unmistakable. And now, suddenly, I feel someone else close, someone threatening. And I know it is the Dark Spirit.

You look to the wrong people for help, Daughter of the Night.