Death Valley

Bitterroot woke up with her head pounding. At least she woke up.

The floor was jagged beneath her. Had she been thrown into one of the cages? …She still knew about the cages. The vampires hadn’t been wiped from her memories and her tongue was basically the only thing that didn’t hurt. Hopefully, the memory potions couldn’t be brewed quickly. She managed to open her eyes. She was indeed in one of the cages in the lab. It was basically large enough for her to stand and not much more.

With some difficulty, she uncurled. She flexed her jaw and winced at the pain. Gingerly, she poked at her face. The cuts from the beaker hadn’t been bandaged; they’d just scabbed over. How long had she been out? The worst of the ridges from the bars on the cage floor was muted by her furs. Having her clothes on was a small comfort, in more ways than one. She shuffled around into a sitting position to finally get a look outside the cage.

Something was looking at her.

Bitterroot was jolted back to full awareness immediately. It was another one of those beasts that had followed Arc into the room. It did not look any better up close. The- seams on the limbs looked less grating on this one, smoother and subtler, but the clashing colors still made Bitterroot want to hurl. It was even more obvious that all the parts had come from different ponies, with the hairs on opposite sides of any given join having different densities or textures. She clenched her jaw as her stomach-

Wait.

Finally, the actual colors on the shape registered in Bitterroot’s head.

It had dark red wings.

It had a gray head.

And it had a horn.

“Oh, come on!” said Bitterroot, standing up. “You’re the thief?! Some- flesh golem I didn’t even know existed?”

“Homunculus, actually! Ha!”

Bitterroot flinched as her heart rate jolted. Arc was on the other side of the room, whistling as he wrote something down. “Our life’s work!” he said. “The ultimate expression of art and magic. Creating life itself!”

“Or you could get laid,” Bitterroot heard herself mutter.

“Oh, I have, angel eyes. Ha! But sex is so passé. There’s so much left to chance. And besides, this is quicker, and if you do it right, you can even command the life. Ha! Foals can be real brats. You can’t even use them as servants!”

Shuddering, Bitterroot returned her attention to the… homunculus. It was probably a mistake, but it was better than looking at Arc. The homunculus stared at her expressionlessly with dull, pallid, watery eyes that got more disturbing the more she looked at it. It stood unnaturally still, not swaying the slightest bit as it stared at her. How had she missed it the first time around? Was she that tunnel-visioned?

“And, see, that one? It’s special, precious. Something resembling clever. Ha! And after hearing about your wonderful Amanita’s Tempus Mortis, I figured I’d take a look at her notes. And I really wanted to flex this guy’s capabilities, so off he went! Ha! And he worked practically flawlessly.” Arc made a chef’s-kiss gesture. “Shame he didn’t find much, but that’s not his fault.”

“Wait, hold up.” Bitterroot looked between Arc and the homunculus. “You make- something like- that… and you just sent it out into Tratonmane?” Not very far, but still. “…Why?”

“Data, sunshine! I need to see how it works in the real world, don’t I? Ha! It was going to happen eventually. And I even got some nice data out of you in the process. Lixivia did, too! Turns out, moonlight is enough to trigger the transformation if you’re not from around here! You made Lixivia verrrrrry happy in her last twelve hours. Thanks, honey mustard!”

Bitterroot certainly didn’t feel thanked.

“So how’d you beat it?”

“Beat what?”

“Ha! The memory wipe, you silly goose!” Arc darted up to her cage and grinned. Bitterroot shied back as best she could; there were metal bars between them and she still didn’t feel safe. “It’s worked for decades! And yet, here you are! Plus, oh, I’m flattered, you recognize me, cookie! Ha!”

Bitterroot managed to keep silent. When she looked at him, her skin wanted to writhe, crawl away. She felt like she was breathing too loudly.

“And not just you! You brought your friends, too! Ha! They all know about us and I really wanna know how, muffin. Because, whoof, my alchemical skills aren’t that bad.”

Still, Bitterroot stayed silent. Given what Arc had done to her, she didn’t know why. Spite, maybe. If he was going to do whatever he wished to her, she at least wouldn’t make it easy.

“Come ooooooon, sugar booger,” said Arc, bouncing up and down on his hind legs. “Tell me tell me tell me tellllllllllll meeeeee…” His smile was rancid and sweet at the same time. “Pretty please?”

Bitterroot found it in herself to grin. “Sorry. Trade secret.”

“Ha! Well. I’ll find it eventually anyway.” Arc seized Bitterroot’s head in his magic and yanked her forward, right up to the bars. He reached through and tapped her temple. The shoe of his exoskeleton was cold. “Lotta information in that head of yours! And I wanna look through it allllllll. Ha!”

Arc let her fall back to the floor and strode away, whistling off-key.

Bitterroot inched forward, engaged in a staring contest with the homunculus. It won immediately as Bitterroot couldn’t last a moment before looking away. Its eyes tracked her, but it didn’t otherwise move. She waved a hoof around. No response. What that meant, she couldn’t say.

She looked to one side. Amanita, Arrastra, and Whippletree were all there in cages of their own, stirring. Alive, then, for all the good that did. Arrastra’s chainsaw and Whippletree’s spear were resting on a desk, just out of reach. Bitterroot patted down her furs. She hadn’t been searched; the foal’s breath pills were still tucked away.

The door back to Tratonmane groaned and opened. Midwinter walked in, the gem in her necklace glinting. Behind her walked Charcoal — a Charcoal with dead eyes, her throat ripped open, dried blood covering her side. Bitterroot clapped a hoof to her mouth and doubled over, barely managing to not retch. Once they were in, Charcoal’s body turned and closed the door. Numerous clicks and gear-rattles indicated it was being very firmly locked.

“Honey!” Arc galloped over to Midwinter and swung her around in a hug. “Oh, I’ve missed you the way a blade misses a heart! Ha!”

Midwinter returned the embrace, even around his metal frame. “And I you, Arc. Varnish and Carnelian ought to return soon. It’s good to see you again.”

“Oh, you.” Arc’s smile faltered when he saw Charcoal. “Aw, you killed the twighorn? You promised I could study her, pumpkin!”

With a sigh, Midwinter gestured towards the table. Charcoal’s corpse immediately climbed on and laid itself out. “She tracked down our memory suppressants and put up quite a fight when I came to stop her. I had no choice but to put her down. I was barely able to even get a taste of her blood.”

“But you did get a taste, right?”

“It was no different from unicorn blood. You’re missing nothing.”

“Ha. Fiddlesticks.”

Midwinter turned her attention to the cages. Her eyes narrowed. “Why are they still here? Why haven’t you-”

“Oh, cupcake, if I could’ve, I would’ve!” simpered Arc. “But they dumped out all our amnestics. Ha! I’m making more now, but it’s a process. And I didn’t want to kill them just in case you wanted to do something with them.”

“Hmph.” Midwinter squinted into Bitterroot’s cage; Bitterroot found herself not reacting, like her well of emotions was spent.

By now, the others were up. Amanita and Whippletree stayed silent and downcast, but not Arrastra. When Midwinter looked at her, Arrastra looked right back without flinching and pulled her mouth apart in such a way that its corners turned upward to expose her teeth. She smiled, in other words. “I’m a-goin’ tae kill ye,” she said.

“Best of luck,” Midwinter replied. She returned her attention to Arc. “Are Varnish and Carnelian back yet? I swear, those two-”

From the other door emerged those two, dragging a terrified Tallbush between them, followed by Fuligin. “Got him,” said Carnelian. “The other one put up a nasty fight, though.”

A few cages over, Amanita’s head whipped up and she sucked in a breath. Varnish gave a low whistle. “Like you wouldn’t believe. We had to kill her to keep Tallbush alive.”

Amanita wilted, her head and ears drooping as she collapsed against the wall of the cage. Her body was wracked with small gasps as she put a hoof to her face.

Midwinter, however, wasn’t impressed. “Hmph.” She turned her back on them, which meant she didn’t notice Fuligin’s raised-head reaction or Carnelian giving him a small, ungentle buck. “If you think yourself a warrior, do better next time. Throw him into the cage. The- intruders dumped out our supply of amnestics and Arc is brewing more. And in the meantime…”

Her eyes fell on Amanita again. She crouched outside the cage and smiled. “Hello, necromancer.”

Code was dead. Charcoal was dead. And Amanita was locked in this cage.

Maybe she could resurrect Charcoal if she could get out. Somehow. But Code? Who knew where her body was. Deep underground, maybe, buried beneath thousands of tons of rubble. She was staying dead. Amanita slouched against the side of her cage, breathing dully. Part of her wanted to just give up, let Midwinter and Arc and everyone have their fun. It’d be easier.

But if that was the way she worked, she’d never have escaped Circe. She was alive. She just needed to watch for opportunities.

“Hello, necromancer.”

Amanita looked up. Midwinter was looking at her the same way a sociopathic rich foal would a new toy. Amanita just waved. “Hey.”

Midwinter smacked her lips. “You resurrected… What was her name? Crosscut?”

“Yep.”

“By the way,” Arc said, sidling up to Whippletree’s cage, “if it makes you feel any better, I had nothing to do with that. Ha! Varnish thought you’d convince the rest of Podunk to reveal the Deormont. And, to be fair, you probably would’ve.”

Whippletree stared at him levelly.

“Arc,” said Midwinter sternly.

“Lixivia asked if she could do it,” Arc continued, “but really, all she wanted to do was play with her food. I mean, so do I, but not until it’s actually food, y’know. Ha! Her magic was spreading upriver and after that timberwolf attack-”

“Arc,” snapped Midwinter.

“Hey.” Arc grinned and raised his hooves. “I’m just being nice, honey.”

Midwinter snorted and returned her gaze to Amanita. Her eyes were bright, but hollow. “Your watchdog is dead, you know. The High Ritualist.”

Amanita nodded. It was all she could manage. “I heard.”

“Tell me the truth: how do you feel about your work in necromancy?”

“It’s kinda all I’ve got going for me, so… I like it.” She really did, to be honest. It certainly wasn’t Midwinter’s work, which… yeegh.

“Even now? Even in the Guard?”

…That was a… strange question. What else was there? Amanita shrugged. “Sure.”

Midwinter eyed Amanita for a long, lingering moment. Then she stood up. “Varnish, Carnelian, take her to the library,” she said. “I’ll be waiting there. Fuligin, I’ll send you some more homunculi. Watch over the prisoners.” She flicked her tail and strode away. Arc followed after her, ambling and whistling.

“No respect,” muttered Carnelian. “We bring her Tallbush and receive not a shred of thanks.”

“Oh, quit whining,” said Varnish. “We’re doing good work.” He pressed a hoof to the cage and the door swung open. Before she could do anything, Amanita was yanked out and shoved along.

She settled into a sort of hurried stumble as Varnish kept pushing her. Carnelian led her along a hallway, wide with rough stone walls and doors leading out from the sides. When Amanita glanced into one of the doorways, she saw a small room with a bloody pile of bones lying on the table. Necromantic experiments? There were enough other doors to make her shudder.

It didn’t take long before Amanita was pushed into another, larger room. Bookshelves and lamps filled with sourceless light lined the walls. The center was taken up by a table and a set of luxurious chairs, where Midwinter was already sitting as Arc paced behind her. With smooth floors and walls, not unlike what she saw in Canterlot, it was almost a pleasant place to be.

She sniffed. The air reeked of stale blood.

Varnish shoved her forward. Amanita staggered into one of the chairs, opposite Midwinter. She forced herself to keep breathing and looking at Midwinter. She was surrounded by vampires, any of whom would probably rip open her carotid and drain her dry without a second thought. They’d been experimenting on Tratonmane for over half a century. And all their attentions were focused on her.

Midwinter smiled amicably. “Amanita. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you properly. Maybe we can have some intelligent conversation now. Stars above, I despise the backwards hicks in Tratonmane.”

Amanita jerkily nodded. “Um. Sorry about, uh, Lixivia.” Maybe being obsequious would get her on their good side.

But Midwinter waved a hoof dismissively. “Oh, you saw her, it had to happen eventually. Regrettable, but not surprising.”

“That idiot had it coming, if you ask me,” muttered Carnelian.

“And she’s not here right now, while you are. You had to learn necromancy from somewhere. Tell me, who was your master? Maybe I knew them.”

“Circe,” Amanita said, almost reflexively. Circe had very much tried impressing on her who was who in their relationship. It didn’t save her once Amanita had learned to fake it, though.

Arc’s ears went up. “Circe? Ha!”

“Circe,” mused Midwinter. “Hmm. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised she’s still alive.”

“She’s not. Her phylactery was destroyed nearly three years ago.”

“Really? How interesting. Circe destroyed, her apprentice roped into working with the Guard. I wonder why.”

Amanita shrugged. They could figure it out.

Midwinter leaned forward, staring at Amanita with an intensity that was all too familiar; it reminded her of Circe’s look whenever Amanita made something new. “That… death-viewing spell-”

“Tempus Mortis,” Amanita said reflexively.

“Yes, that. That is something Circe never could have come up with.”

“Well…” Just one word in, and Amanita’s objection was sounding hollow, even to herself. “Maybe, given time-”

“Never,” Midwinter said, shaking her head. “She was a brilliant mare, to be sure, but she was also something of a brute. Once she had her techniques, she stuck with them, and would hear no deviation from them. Even if the new techniques were better versions of her old ones. She had no refinement, no innovative spark, no curiosity. The only boundaries she wanted to push were moral ones. And Celestia knows our nation’s hidebound morality could use some pushing, but it needs more than that.”

“Talk about a one-trick pony! Ha!” said Arc. “Lichdom and enthrallment. The only things she was good at! Not that she knew about being good at other things, not if you asked her.”

That sounded like Circe, all right. Amanita kept her mouth shut about talking to the dead. Of all the ponies whose dignity she’d defend, Circe was at the very bottom of that list.

“And then there’s you,” Midwinter said. “Tempus Mortis is already a magnificent spell-”

Carnelian snorted. “It’s alright,” she muttered.

Midwinter didn’t bat an eye or even look at Carnelian. “The ability to see a person’s death is more impressive than anything you have ever come up with, Carnelian. It might not seem so to you, but the sheer number of varying fields that need to be brought to bear is merely the tip of the iceberg. I’ve never seen its like in all my life. Amanita here is smart.”

Amanita would’ve felt warm and fuzzy if the compliment had come from somepony else. Coming from Midwinter, it was almost enough to get her to curl up in a fetal position.

“And in a hundred years, all that intelligence will be gone. Because you’ll be dead.”

Amanita hid some of her shaking with a shrug. “Yeah. That happens.”

“It doesn’t need to, though.” Midwinter smiled. “Amanita, you deserve to live forever.”

Bitterroot didn’t watch Amanita as she was led away. Instead, she watched Fuligin.

He stood out like a sore hoof from the rest of Arc’s group in multiple ways. His accent. His demeanor, a mixture of downbeat and irritated. The way he was ignored or bossed around by them, like they were forced to put up with his presence. He didn’t belong there, for multiple reasons.

And more than once, Bitterroot had tracked down a bounty by speaking to someone they’d jilted who wanted revenge. She knew an opening when she saw one.

But she couldn’t plunge right into it immediately. No, that’d be coming on too hard, too fast. She needed to ease into it somehow. She cast an eye across the lab, looking for something.

She instinctively cringed back as several more homunculi entered the room and took positions in front of the cages. Where hers arguably could’ve been called refined, these ones were much more crude. Their limbs were almost connected poorly, with visible flesh ridges and gigantic metal staples over unhealed scars. Large patches of skin had also been swapped around, making them look even more patchwork. Older versions, maybe.

Then she noticed Fuligin was also cringing away from them. Oh-ho.

Working backwards from that… She soon had something like a plan. A course, at least.

She looked down the line of cages. Whippletree was sitting despondently in his, Tallbush was curled up into a ball and shaking in spite of still looking utterly terrifying, and Arrastra was staring at Fuligin intently. She probably couldn’t get any help from them. She’d live.

Bitterroot stared at the homunculus staring at her. She’d talked to the thing while trying to find the thief. And just because she wasn’t expecting alicorns… That wasn’t fair. “You’re ugly, aren’t you?” she said. She spoke loudly, hoping Fuligin would respond.

His ears twitched, but that was it. The homunculus didn’t even blink.

“You look like you’ve been knitted together from about a dozen other ponies. …Maybe you were. Necromancers and all.”

No response.

“I wouldn’t know. The only necromancer I know is… Well, to be honest, she’s a bit of a dork. She’d never do something like this. But she’s good ponies. She’s resurrected me twice.”

Fuligin looked over in her direction, frowning. Finally, something. “Is that all it takes? Tae be a good pony? Jes’ resurrect somepony.”

And not just “something”; Fuligin’s words were heavy with… something else. Memories, maybe? “Nah,” said Bitterroot. “I knew another necromancer who resurrected somepony just to use them as a beast of burden. ’Course, I didn’t know she was a necromancer at the time, but…”

Another ear-twitch from Fuligin. “Oh.” He looked back down.

Unfortunate, but expected. Still, now Bitterroot had an in, so she could start pushing. “Why?” she asked. “Did they resurrect you?”

For a moment, nothing. Fuligin flicked his tail. Then: “Aye, Midwinter. She saved me life.”

Which could lead to a sense of obligation towards her. But if Bitterroot could convince him that Midwinter hadn’t saved him for altruistic reasons… “What happened?”

Another pause. “Wolf attack, she tells me. Six moon back.”

In her cage, Arrastra’s wings rustled violently and she stood up. Bitterroot ignored her. “That’s what she tells you? You don’t remember?”

“Nay. Death’s right awful an’ ye dinnae recomember it.”

Hmm. Suspicious, between their own use of memory potions and- “Really? I remember mine. Bleeding out from a slit throat.”

Fuligin said nothing.

Bitterroot took a stab at something she hadn’t fully confirmed yet. “Good thing she didn’t use your body in a homunculus, huh?”

Fuligin cringed and nodded. “Aye.”

There it was. Homunculi were stitched-together bodies. Something Fuligin didn’t like. And yet he stuck around anyway. “So what’re you doing here? Working with someone who makes…” Bitterroot gestured at the homunculus. “…things like that.”

“She saved my life. I owe her.” The words came out automatically, like Fuligin had thought it over before. And like he didn’t want to admit that was what he thought.

“Do you think so or did she say that?”

Fuligin stood up and walked over to Bitterroot, looking for all the world like an old stallion forcing his way through arthritis. He sat on his haunches to look Bitterroot in the eye. “The work they’re doin’ here is fer the best,” he said. From his voice, Bitterroot guessed he was trying to convince himself, too. “I seen ponies die, an’… An’ Midwinter an’ her family jes’ want tae put a stop tae that.”

“By building that.” Bitterroot pointed at the homunculus, still unmoving.

“Aye.” But Fuligin flinched. “If’n we can we send ’em intae- dangerful places, ponies willnae need tae go.”

“You heard how they talked. Do you think that’s their plan?”

Fuligin began having trouble meeting her eyes. “…A-aye. ’Tis more’n-”

“Listen to yourself. This doesn’t feel right, and you know it.” Bitterroot rested her front hooves on the bars. “Just be honest.”

“I- owe her.”

“The necromancer I know, Amanita, she didn’t declare that somepony owed her for something they had no say in. Sounds like exploitation to me.”

Fuligin said nothing, pawed at the ground. One of his rear legs twitched.

“They made me a timberwolf,” Whippletree spoke up. “I killed my wife. An’ they dinnae care. But even though the town reckoned she was a fake, Amanita stepped up an’ brought my wife back.”

“Exactly that,” Bitterroot said, pointing at Whippletree. “Amanita doesn’t ask for anything when she raises someone. What do you think you’re doing?”

Fuligin looked at Bitterroot. Bitterroot looked at Fuligin. She held her breath. Had she pushed too hard? Not hard enough? Just right? What was he thinking? There was definitely a lot going on behind those eyes, she could tell, but it was impossible for her to know what that was.

Finally, Fuligin forced out, “Y’ain’t goin’ tae recomember this. Dinnae fret.” He stood up and turned around, heading back to his seat.

Bitterroot’s mouth went dry. “Whoa, hey, hey,” she said. She tried to press herself through the bars, reaching out to Fuligin. “C’mon. I’m curious.”

No response.

“Do you really believe that? You don’t sound like it.”

No response.

“Come- Hey, hey! Arc implanted me with- something! Stuffed it into my throat! You really think he’s good?”

No response.

“Sun blast it, you’re talking to a pony locked in a bloodstained cage, for Celestia’s sake! Open your eyes!”

No response.

Bitterroot opened her mouth again, then collapsed back onto the floor, cursing under her breath. There went her chance, probably her only chance. Gone. Unless Amanita could manage to escape somehow, she couldn’t expect to get out. Her cage was strong and the lock was solid.

But she was still alive. And she still had foal’s breath.

She started batting at her face, wincing in pain as she touched each scab. Were there any glass shards still embedded in them? Maybe she could use one of them to carve a message into-

A few cages over, Arrastra cleared her throat. “Fuligin?” she asked quietly.

“Aye,” said Fuligin reluctantly. “What dae ye want?”

“Pa?”

There it was. The hook. Immortality. A pretty sweet gig, all things considered.

But like most such gigs, this one came with an awfully steep price tag.

She didn’t know the full process of vampirization, but she’d seen enough of Arc’s notes (maybe they were Midwinter’s as well) to know the effects. Normal lichdom, at least according to Circe, worked by severing the soul from the body and putting it in a phylactery, thereby slowing the process of change. Vampires used their own bodies as phylacteries, twisting and cutting the metaphysical connections in just the right way that they got the same result with no messy soul jar that needed protecting. But how were those changes maintained?

Blood.

Blood had metaphysical properties that hit people hard. Smears of blood were synonyms for violence. Ponies died if they lost enough of it. Even a drop of blood outside the body could make some ponies wince. Bloodlines could hold power. Blood was life. Vampires were essentially stealing other ponies’ lives to extend their own. And that wasn’t all; by absorbing a pony’s blood, they could absorb a pony’s power, use it for themselves. Drink enough blood, and you could tweak your own metaphysical qualities, make yourself more. Get more magic, more strength, more speed, more more. Midwinter and the others were probably hiding powers Amanita had never seen before.

And how much blood was required to maintain this? Amanita wasn’t sure of the exact amount. But she knew it was too high.

She had her answer. But they didn’t need to know that just yet. She could pretend to mull it over, buy herself some time as she thought. She opened her mouth-

“You cannot be serious,” mumbled Varnish. “Her? She can’t even speak up when she’s stressed! She-”

“Quiet, Varnish,” snapped Midwinter. “I am not asking your opinion.”

“Apologies,” Varnish said quickly. He sounded… nervous?

Midwinter paid him no attention. “Amanita, I know you’re working with the Royal Guard now. You must chafe, yes? All those restrictions, limitations… Your horizon is so small.”

Amanita twitched. “W-what?” she asked, sitting up straight. Why was Midwinter talking like-

“In some ways, it’s clever, pal,” said Arc, rearing and slouching over the back of Midwinter’s chair. “Getting a deal with the Guard to stay alive, making yourself indispensable. Ha! But come on, I bet they don’t even let you make cadavers dance! You can make your own musicals that way, you know. Ha!”

…Oh, Celestia.

“You’ve so much raw talent, all going to waste there,” said Midwinter. Her ears were turned towards Amanita and she was leaning forward, her wings opening slightly. “You said so yourself, it’s all you have going for you.”

They didn’t think she’d run.

“And the freedom it would provide! Nopony comes out here. You are the first outsiders to come in over half a century. If you ever need a specimen, living or dead, fresh or rotten, we can get it for you, easily. Their ponies already disappear thanks to Lixivia. Nothing would even change for them.”

They thought she’d been press-ganged.

Amanita’s thoughts started racing. They thought she’d enjoyed her time under Circe. Or at least hadn’t been the one to give her phylactery to the Guard. They didn’t know about her turning herself in. So maybe- “W-well, I don’t know about- working here,” she said, trying to keep her voice casual. “You- might not- be working in the ways I’m good at.”

Arc grinned. Amanita swore she could see crusted blood between his teeth. “If you worked with Circe? You bet your biscuits we’re doing things you’re good at, buddy! Ha! Midwinter, could you-”

Midwinter didn’t do anything, but her necklace glowed. A few moments later, a homunculus walked in, its motions stiff and uncanny, its coat awkwardly dry. Amanita managed to keep herself from flinching as Arc pranced over to it. “This!” he said, gesturing like he was presenting a trophy. “A homunculus, ready and willing to serve! Ha! And how did we make it, you may ask? Well, funny thing, Tratonmane itself showed us. It’s kinda like sharing, as stupid as that name is. Ha! Just…” He made a twirling motion with his hoof. “…mixing all the metaphysical aspects together in just the right way to get them to work together. As for the actual moving part, methods kinda like enthrallment. And as one of Circe’s apprentices, you’ll know enthrallment. Else, you’d be dead. Or worse. Ha!”

Part of Amanita was intrigued in spite of herself. Maybe it’d make her sound more genuine. “I thought souls could only be bound-”

“-to their original bodies? Ha! That’s just Circe’s preferred method. Oh, that way may be easier, but it’s definitely not the only way. You just need to do a little bit of rejiggering, as Carnelian found out!” Arc gestured at Carnelian and bowed.

Carnelian smiled and nodded at Amanita. “It took a great many sleepless nights to finally crack that problem. It was quite a thorny one. Yet I was the only one in our family able to overcome it.”

Amanita found herself wondering. If it was possible, then- “But what’s the point? If one soul is equal to another-”

“But what if the body never had a soul to begin with?” Midwinter said. “Such as…” And she gestured towards the homunculus.

Immediately, Amanita’s throat dried up. Somepony was trapped in there, had been for Celestia knew how long, unable to even think outside the whims of their masters. But then, if she could free them-

“But wait, there’s more!” said Arc. “You don’t need much of a soul to animate it, if all you want is it serving you. Ha!” He hung a leg over the homunculus’s withers and dangled from it, grinning. The homunculus didn’t move. “So if you just slice off smaller chunks of your soul, bam! You can animate it juuuuust enough for it to follow your will while expending less effort to keep it suppressed! Ha! You can even look through its memories like they were your own, which is pretty neat.”

“Slice up your soul?” Amanita asked, sitting up straighter. “That- That sounds dangerous.” On the one hoof, at least there wasn’t anypony trapped in there, but on the other, yeesh. How could he be so cavalier about it?

“Idiot,” mumbled Varnish.

“Varnish, we are talking,” snapped Midwinter. “Say nothing unless it contributes.”

Amanita heard Varnish flinch, but Arc stroked his chin with exaggerated concern. “Mmm, I dunno, honey, he’s got a point.”

“Of course he does,” snorted Carnelian. “Our esteemed guest learned from Circe. Would you expect anything more from her?”

“Hmm.” One of Midwinter’s ears drooped and she flexed her wings. “A… fair point, admittedly. Amanita, just know-”

“Physicality doesn’t matter for the soul!” Arc said cheerfully. “Separating the soul doesn’t damage it any more than ripping pages out of a book damages the story. It’s just in a different place from the rest of it. Your heart beats even when your head’s not thinking about it, doesn’t it? Well, not ours. Ha! In fact, the process is so simple that- Hey, honey, show her the Binder.”

Carnelian sat up, her wings rustling and her jaw clenched. “Father,” she said through gritted teeth, “that’s mine-”

“True, but you are hardly the pony using it,” Midwinter said coolly. She lifted up the pendant around her neck, displaying the gem inset in it. “The gems around here are uniquely suited for holding spells thanks to the ley line. And this…” She gazed hungrily at the pendant as it twisted around. “This makes animating a body with your own soul so much easier. Everything you need — the separation of soul, the binding to the body, even linking to your will and sending commands — all contained within one simple artifact.”

“That I designed,” hissed Carnelian.

“And it’s rather sloppy compared to the full ritual,” Midwinter said to her. “The binding hardly lasts for more than twenty minutes at a time.” To Amanita, “Of course, there’s nothing stopping you from using it as many times as you wish.”

Ah. Perfect. Amanita’s eyes latched onto the Binder. She just needed to get her hooves on it, and then… how many homunculi had she seen? Enough, maybe. She’d developed some thrall-freeing spells in the Crazy Eights. Would they work on homunculi? Maybe. Subvert their wills, get the others out, rally Tratonmane. Or something. It was hazy, but her last hazy plan had gotten Circe destroyed. Her hooves twitched; it wasn’t entirely an act. “Incredible,” she breathed. (And, in a way, it was.) “May I see that?”

Midwinter smiled and pulled the necklace back. “Oh, Tartarus, no,” she tutted. “Not when you haven’t given us an answer yet. Perhaps when you join us. Consider this the carrot.”

Ah, booger. Amanita couldn’t stop staring at the Binder. There had to be a way to get it. Her mind was racing, trying to come up with an idea based on everything she knew. But they’d notice if she said nothing, so she cleared her throat. “Well, uh, thanks for the offer,” she said, “but I’m going to have to decline.”

The vampires around Amanita stirred. She heard Varnish shifting his weight around behind her while Arc and Carnelian exchanged glances. Midwinter, however, smiled. “Why, pray tell? I’m sure we can come to a compromise.”

“Well, for starters,” said Amanita, “I want to be able to see the sun again.”

After about a moment, Midwinter’s smile vanished and she groaned. “The sun,” she said. “I… cannot suppose why such a thing would affect us in that manner. It is… regrettable, admittedly, and I cannot fault you for missing it.”

Amanita kept her mouth shut. The reason behind sunlight killing them was simple: the sun was life. It was bright, it was cheery, it was how plants got their food… The phrase “the living daylights” hadn’t come from nowhere. Sunlight bathed the vampire in enough life that the spells keeping the soul and body separate were overwhelmed and the metaphysical forcibly rejoined the physical. Then the arcane energy that had once been part of the spells was released in the quickest way possible: fire. (There was a similar argument for wooden stakes to the heart, but that’d kill her, anyway.) No need to let the bloodthirsty vampires know that, though.

“But we are working on a solution,” said Midwinter. “Enchantments and rituals to suppress the sun’s effects. Spells of such immense complexity that we’ve only been able to cast them once-”

“And it was a fluke, at that,” added Carnelian.

Midwinter glared briefly at Carnelian, making her flinch and tighten her wings. Turning back to Amanita, Midwinter continued, “But you could help us. A fresh set of eyes could work wonders.”

“Intelligent eyes, anyway!” said Arc. He leaned against Midwinter’s chair. “We’ve got some unintelligent eyes in here.” He jerked his head towards the homunculus.

“Oh, you’re smart,” Amanita said. “You’ll figure it out. It’s just…” She steepled her hooves and tapped her lips, hmming and hahing. Maybe she could just rip the Binder off and run? She looked around, trying to judge her chances. “Normal lichdom doesn’t actually have those problems and I’m more familiar with it.”

“And how will you achieve it, with the Guard looking over your shoulder?” asked Midwinter. “They will never trust you. Never.”

“Hey, I’m a necromancer who was able to parley herself into the Royal Guard,” Amanita said. She found it in herself to smile amicably. “Give it a few years of acting nice and I bet I could convince them to drag me out to some sunforsaken spot in the North, kill my escort, and use their deaths to fuel the ritual. Simple.”

Varnish snickered — in amusement, not in derision. Midwinter opened her mouth.

“And a necromancer just disappearing up here would be suspicious,” Amanita continued, “so they’ll probably come looking for me. And that means they’ll find you. So: thanks, but no thanks.”

She held her breath. The key motive for every form of immortality necromancers sought was self-preservation. A fear of death. If she was lucky, the threat of the Royal Guard would be enough to convince them she wasn’t worth it, and she could buy a little more time.

“This is… unexpected,” Midwinter said softly. “I figured you would want to escape the yoke of your oppressors.”

“It’s not that bad,” Amanita said, shrugging. “I’m indispensable. They can’t do much to me.” Or, wait, maybe she should’ve asked what their process entailed and delayed that way, sun blast it-

“I’ve seen her,” said Varnish. “She’s just too meek to speak up-”

“Varnish.”

Silence.

Midwinter’s gaze bored into Amanita, pinning her to the chair. Her face was utterly still; Amanita realized she was missing all sorts of little twitches and tics people normally had. If Amanita was getting goosebumps, none of the vampires said anything.

Finally, Midwinter said, “I will give you a chance to reconsider. You will find it in your best interest to accept.”

“How come?” But Amanita could already feel her nerves chilling.

Midwinter grinned, that sign of aggression in predators. “Because if you don’t, we will gladly eat you raw.”

“What?” asked Fuligin. He looked over his shoulder, frowning. “What’re ye sayin’?”

“Pa, it’s, it’s me, it’s Arrastra,” Arrastra said, pushing against the cage bars. “I’m yer daughter.” Her voice was like nothing Bitterroot had heard from her before, soft and full of hope.

“Ye- Ye cannae be.” Fuligin said, shaking his head. “Ye’re too plumb old. My Arrastra d-dinnae even have ten year yet.”

“Pa, ’tis been sixty year.”

Fuligin froze. Shook his head again. Very unsteadily. “Nay. It- ’Tis been six moon. N-no more.”

“Pa, please.” Arrastra’s wings were beating fitfully in what little space they had. “When I turned five, Ma made me a rye cake. I-” She shuddered and wiped at her eye, but she was smiling. “I told her ’twas the most terriblest cake I’d ever tasted of. Then I took ill that night after eatin’ half of it. Remember?”

“…A-aye. I- recall Arrastra doin’ that.”

“I c-came in a little bit o’ hittin’ Ma with an ax w-when she taked me tae the forest when I was six.”

“Ye- Ye’re not her, ye cannae be her-”

“Pa-” Arrastra’s voice was getting weak, pleading. “I h-helped ye build m-me an’ Pyrita beds. I c-carved yer name intae-”

“You’un ain’t Arrastra!” Fuligin screamed, whirling on Arrastra.

She stumbled and fell backwards in shock. “Pa-”

“Y’ain’t Arrastra,” Fuligin said quietly. Tears were glistening in his eyes. “Fer- Fer if y’are, I- I dinnae ken how ye ken me. But you’un. Ain’t. My daughter. An’ I beg ye tae stop afore I-” He cut himself short, holding his face in a hoof. His voice was shaking as he said, “P-please. Cease playin’ wi’ m-me.” His entire body shaking, his ears drooping and his tucked tightly against his body, Fuligin plodded over to the opposite side of the lab, head low.

Bitterroot’s insides squirmed. She felt like she’d walked in on a private family spat. Maybe she had. What either of them was going through was far removed from anything she’d experienced, anything she could experience. The most she could offer was a shoulder to cry on. She pressed against the side of her cage and reached through to tap the bars next to her. “Um. Hey. Arrastra?”

Arrastra didn’t seem to be paying attention. She was looking at Fuligin with the unique hurt of betrayal, panting and trying to get her thoughts and her body under control. She closed her eye. For a moment, Bitterroot thought she was going to start wailing.

That wasn’t what happened.

“Oh, go tae sleep, oh my dear little devil…”

Fuligin froze.

“Fer yer night shall be filled wi’ yer dreams and yer revels…”

He turned around, looking like he’d been stabbed in the heart.

“Though the Midwich wind may blow, an’ it may shake…”

He walked with the nervous caution of one already burned.

“Swathed within yer bed, nay, ye shall not wake.”

He stood in front of the cage, looking at Arrastra, scrutinizing her, examining her up and down. She looked back, eye large. He dug at the ground. Her wings twitched. The tension between them was tighter than a drum. The silence was oppressive, preventing them from speaking, until:

“I need tae speak wi’ Midwinter,” he said quietly.

Then he turned on his heel and marched for the door.

“Pa?” said Arrastra. “Where’re ye…”

“They saved me life,” Fuligin said. “I- I need tae speak with ’em. Abouten… a great many things.” He stopped and looked over his shoulder, his stance oddly tight. “But I’ll be back. I promise ye.”

“Pa, p-please, i-it’s…”

But Fuligin was already gone.

Arrastra collapsed onto the haunches, staring out blankly. Bitterroot had never seen her so drained. “They keep takin’ my family…” Arrastra mumbled. “They… k-keep takin’ my…”

Her voice was too weak to finish.

Amanita blinked and felt her muscles tense. “W-well, uh… That’s… a bit extreme, don’t you think?” she asked, fighting to keep her breathing level. “Eating me.” Vampires. Using others’ blood to extend their own lives. She didn’t realize she was rubbing at her neck.

“You are aware of how we maintain the metaphysical separation of the soul, yes?” Midwinter asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, but, you know, I can, I can keep mum.”

“Can you? Revealing and killing another group of necromancers would be quite the feather in your cap, would it not?”

Great. Because of course their thinking she was press-ganged could swing both ways. “You can wipe my memories! Just like, just like you did before, with the- I don’t even know how you did it, it’s so clever!”

“So it did work!” squawked Arc. “And you found a way to get around it! Dadgum, I’ve been worried sick about that!” He laid a hoof on his chest and faked a swoon. “Imagine, me losing my-” Then he turned on Midwinter, frowning. “Hey, you said-”

“Amanita, even if you were to receive a memory wipe, you’ve already broken it once. You will do so again. Perhaps unintentionally.” Midwinter’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps so. And if the Guard even thinks of interrogating you-”

“She’ll cave,” snorted Varnish. “She’s a sniveling coward and-”

“Son, if you interrupt me again, I shall let you age for another year,” growled Midwinter.

Varnish pulled his hooves together and hung his head. “Yes, Mother.”

Amanita squirmed in her chair. Could she turn them against each other? Anyone against anyone. Maybe if-

“Hey, hey, look,” said Arc. He jumped into the group waving his hooves to get them to stop. “You’re going about this the wrong way, my friends! Too much stick, not enough carrot! Ha!” He spun to face Amanita and put a hoof on her shoulder, to her dismay. “Amanita. Baby. Do you know why Lixivia was out there?”

Amanita risked brushing his hoof off; he didn’t object. “Keeping Tratonmane hemmed in?”

“Well. That, too. But she was studying transformations. Like those changelings, you know. Ha! And let me tell you, pony to timberwolf is something, alright.”

Amanita nodded appeasingly.

“But we can apply transformations in other ways, too! The same way changelings do. Appearance modification as we wish. A little nip here, a tuck there-”

“Father, must you be so flamboyant?” groaned Carnelian. “Tell her.”

“See, this is why you’re boring,” tutted Arc, shaking his head. “No sense of presentation. Ha! But, Amanita, more importantly, we can smooth out these bad colts.” He elbowed the homunculus in the ribs. “Get them looking more like actual ponies. And, see, that’s more important than you think. Ha! It’s what got Pyrita.”

Amanita flinched. Part of her had completely forgotten about Pyrita’s first death. “What? H-how do you know that?”

“She came around after 6,” Carnelian growled. “We always tell ponies to never come around after 6.”

“Because that’s when this little guy does the cleaning upstairs,” Arc said. “But little Pyrita decided her water pressure just couldn’t wait. So, in the middle of the night, she opens the door to talk to us, sees this beautiful monstrosity walking around, and what do you know, she gets certain ideas about us! Ha!”

“An ordinary thrall probably would’ve done something about her,” Amanita said. If she kept talking about necromancy, maybe they wouldn’t guess.

“It was animated with the Binder, so smarts absolutely weren’t its strong suit. Anyway, Pyrita sees him, and off she goes into the mine for who knows why. But enough about her! We’re talking about these!” Arc squeezed the homunculus’s cheeks like it was something adorable. The homunculus was impassive. “Ha! Now, you might be thinking: why would we make them alicorns, anyway?”

“Scientific curiosity?” At least the thoughts of eating her seemed to be gone.

“The best kind! Nothing on here is for show, my gal! It all works! Ha! Because, see, here’s the thing. If you can put part of your soul into an alicorn’s body… what happens if you manage the whole thing?”

Amanita’s eyes went wide. It was only slightly faked. “Oh…”

Arc’s teeth gleamed as he smiled. “Imagine! Transplanting your soul and being an alicorn yourself! Ha! Building your own perfect body! Got a drop-dead gorgeous actor you want to look like? We can arrange that! Even if they need to have a sudden accident. Ha!”

Okay. Okay. They were giving her another road in. Some of her shakes calmed down. “Well…” Amanita batted at an ear. “When you put it that way… But there’s still the matter of the sun…”

“Then perhaps you wish the familiar method of lichdom to start with,” Midwinter said. “We have an entire town to work with. We are already taking ponies to work with, and it would be a trivial matter to-”

“I beg your pardon, stop the post. We’d stop taking ponies for her?” Carnelian asked, springing out of her seat. “Sacrifice them to her lichdom instead? It would take years to collect them all without killing the whole town!”

Amanita looked at the Binder around Midwinter’s neck. Maybe she ought to just snatch it now and run like a thief-

“If that’s her price,” Midwinter said, flaring her wings, “it’s one I’m willing to pay. Tempus Mortis is-”

“Tempus Mortis is one thing! Her first resurrection failed, remember! And she doesn’t know why it failed!” Carnelian shot a nasty smirk at Amanita.

“She must have figured it out, because she was able to resurrect Crosscut. Correct?” Midwinter asked Amanita.

Amanita nodded, realized her mistake at the last second. “Y- No.” If she knew so much they couldn’t let her go-

Carnelian’s smirk vanished. In the space of an instant, Midwinter was in Amanita’s face, looking down on her. “What?” she said. “You know?”

“No. No. It’s, it’s confusing and I still don’t-”

“Then tell me why you-”

The door banged open. Fuligin stood in the doorway, his legs splayed, his head down. The only reason his body wasn’t heaving with his breaths was because he wasn’t breathing. “How long’ve I been a-workin’ here?” he asked in a deathly low voice.

Silence fell too heavily for the answer to be innocuous.

“About half a year,” Midwinter said quickly. “You remember, don’t you?” She made a quick gesture to the other vampires, one that looked like she was telling them to keep quiet.

“Then why’s me daughter older’n me?” Fuligin started walking towards them, his steps high with anger.

Amanita held her breath. She didn’t know what he was talking about, but it was a distraction. Maybe, if she let it run its course, Fuligin might turn against the other vampires and help her escape. Maybe. Maybe, maybe, maybe… It was a long shot, but she let that hope kindle in her heart.

“If she’s older than you, how do you recognize her as your daughter?” Midwinter asked.

“A parent kens his foals,” said Fuligin. “Why’s. She. Older’n. Me?”

“Fuligin, I’m busy,” said Midwinter. Her voice was still level, but Amanita noticed her wings tightening, almost imperceptibly. “Can we discuss this later?”

“We’re a-talkin’ now,” said Fuligin, stomping on the ground. The entire room shuddered. “That mare told me things only my daughter’d ken. She kens the song I sang fer her every night!”

“C’mon, Fully-” said Arc.

“An’ I heard tell that Pyrita went intae the mine,” Fuligin said. “Pyrita. She kens better’n that! Ye nair told me!”

“I didn’t want to upset you. Fuligin-”

“Well, then, ye failed, ’cause I’m upset! I-” Fuligin started pacing and tossing his head. Magic was thrumming where he walked. “I ain’t been outside since ye saved me,” he said. “Are ye keepin’ me safe ’r penned up?”

“It’s for your protection, since-”

“Y’all lot can go outside! It’s Midwich! I’ve been livin’ here longer’n ary o’ you’uns! I ken how tae be safe!”

“But you’ve never worked with this magic before, have you?”

“Nay, but-”

“This spell works differently for everyone. We simply want to be sure-”

“Be certain o’ what?”

“Well, you tell me, if you think I’m doing you wrong, since you obviously know better.”

And just like that, Fuligin stopped talking. He stomped on the ground, bobbed his head, flicked his tail. He was frustrated, frustrated beyond belief, the kind of frustrated that usually resulted in things getting broken. Particularly bad for an earth pony. The earth was nearly quaking beneath him. “I- I dinnae remember my death,” he said. He looked over at Amanita, seemingly just to avoid looking at Midwinter.

Praying he could read lips, Amanita started mouthing, She wipes memories, she did it to me- If she could get him to turn on them without revealing her true feelings-

“You died in a wolf attack and I saved you,” said Midwinter calmly. “It’s only natural you don’t remember. Death is traumatic. I’ve told you this.”

Fuligin bit his lip and flicked an ear. Clenching his eyes shut tight, he lowered his head and pawed at the air.

“It’s only natural you’d want to go back to your old life,” said Midwinter. Her voice was measured, soothing, the kind of voice you wanted to believe. “But you can’t. Not yet. And it’s not as far away as you’re thinking right now. Does it feel like it’s been sixty years?”

“Some days it does, aye,” said Fuligin, glancing at Amanita. “This- This past week-”

“You’re stressed,” said Midwinter, “and your mind’s dredging up faint memories to make you feel better. It has been a rough week for you. Besides, if I were the sort to lie to you for as long as you say, would I have kept you alive to begin with?”

Screw it. Everything or nothing. “Yes!” yelped Amanita. “She’s using you! She’s-” But Varnish’s horn sparked and Amanita’s jaw was clamped shut.

“I saved you,” Midwinter continued, spreading her wings. “I wouldn’t do that for just anypony. And I’m sorry your feelings are so tangled. Pay her no mind.” She gestured at Amanita. “She’s in the middle of a difficult time.”

Fuligin raised his head and looked at Amanita, his gaze heavy with his thoughts. Amanita shook her head vigorously, trying to say something, anything around Varnish’s magic, even to just get Fuligin to think…

“Don’t worry.” Midwinter laid a hoof on Fuligin’s withers and smiled. It made Amanita’s skin crawl. “I’ll conclude this matter as swiftly as possible, and then we can talk.”

Then, to Amanita’s horror, Fuligin nodded. “Aye,” he said. “I…” He groaned and rubbed his head. “I dinnae ken what tae think…”

Amanita stopped struggling. Why bother? Her best chance for escape, gone. Just like that. With just a few words. And she’d thrown away the element of surprise to do so.

“Don’t worry,” Midwinter repeated. “We’ll get your mind sorted out. Now, please. Be off.”

Fuligin nodded again and turned like he was going to leave, but he spared one last look for Amanita. His tail flicked.

Varnish released Amanita’s mouth. She couldn’t find it in herself to say anything more than, “Fuligin… Please…”

Fuligin opened his mouth, closed it again. That was all he did. Why wouldn’t it be? It was Amanita’s word against Midwinter’s, and Midwinter knew all the right buttons to push. But if he couldn’t remember anything… But how was she supposed to jog his memory? She didn’t even know how the spell worked.

Amanita felt the air stir as Carnelian leaned close to her, sneering. “He’s ours,” she whispered, her breath cold in Amanita’s face.

Cold breath.

Dead.

Ding.

“You’re a corpse,” Amanita said, gaping at Fuligin.

A baffled silence fell. Fuligin’s ears twitched as he furrowed his brow. “I… reckon so,” he said. His voice had gained a slight edge after pure confusion knocked away his meekness. “In a sense. But I dinnae-”

Amanita tackled him. Before anyone could react, she was pressing her hooves against his face, her horn was weaving magic, and she bellowed, “Meminerim mortem!”