It is said that beneath every city, every town, there is another just like it that many can not see. Some call it the City of the Dead. It's residents call it Necropolis. Those few that can see through the thin fabric into this Underworld of the non-living, are called Necromantic Warriors. These Warriors are chosen from birth because of their special gifts. Abilities that would brand them an outcast to normal society. Emphatic, or telekenetic gifts mostly. Very few obtain pyrokenetic and those that do, become the most powerful and respected Warriors, Generals in an Undead Army.

Necropolis is not for the weak willed, or the feint of heart. There are many grotesque creatures that could only be deemed as creations from someones nightmare. {Think Hellraiser} Although they may appear to be evil, their sole purpose is to protect Humanity from falling into their world through a hole created by Demons that seek the souls of Humans for the greater good of the Man himself. You know which one I speak of. We need not say his name, for names have power.

The Past

Narkissa stretched like a contented cat beneath the sea of silk sheets, allowing herself to come to her senses and sleep to fade away from reality. Almost instantly, her vision turned from normal, to hypersensitive. The lower portion of her keen sight, allowed the Necromancer to see the Realm of the Dead. The upper portion, allowed Narkissa to keep her sight locked on the World of the Living at the same time. It was a special gift she had been granted. For years, centuries, she had trained, learning the ways of the Necromantic Warrior. For nearly two thousand years, she had been the protector, the Guardian of Humanity. For two thousand years, she had been away from her Mentor, Eamon. A feat that she never thought that her heart would withstand. But, it did, and as much as his desires for her to be his, Narkissa wouldn't allow it. She was bound to him only through Magick and Magick could be broken.

With a soft groan, Narkissa slid from the sheets, and let her feet hit the cool marble floor underfoot. She blinked her brightorange eyes, brushing a few strands of straight ebony hair out of her face. It was sunset. The fading colors of the sun were being chased away by the darkness of the coming night. A sweet comfort to Narkissa's kind. Although not many Necromantic Warriors were Vampiric, and only a few of the Chosen got the gift of Immortality.

Narkissa allowed her bare feet to carry her across the ebony marble of the floor and towards the closet. The doors slid aside with a mere press of a single button, and she removed a few selected items. She tossed them onto the bed and began to dress. The black leather of her tank top was form fitting and open in the back, revealing the tattoo of the insignia of Necropolis that took up most of her back. Narkissa’s pants were made of the same form fitting black leather and fastened at the back with a few laces. Her boots were lace up, and knee high, the heels approximately two and a half to three inches high. Even for her, it was skill to fight in these kind of boots if the need arose.

"Miss Narkissa."

"The door is open, Jazel."

Jazel was a middle aged woman, almost like the mother Narkissa never had. Her salt and peppered hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, revealing her almond shaped green eyes. There were crows feet just at the corners of her eyes and laugh lines forming around her mouth. "I just wanted to make sure you were up." Jazel and her husband Fernando were her Daytime Guardians, Cerebants as they were titled. They knew her secrets and had sworn a Blood Oath to secrecy.

"Of course. I never miss a sunset."

The older woman smiled. "Shall I have Fernando get the car ready?"

"Not tonight."

"I shall let him know."

"Thank you, Jazel. You and Fernando get some rest."

Narkissa followed the woman out the door and closed it. Once in the foyer, she grabbed her ankle length black leather coat with the hidden pockets for weapons, and slid her arms into the sleeves. Her boots made a confident sound as they tredded across the foyer and into the entrance of the garage. The brand new black Harley Davidson V-Rod gleamed beneath the bright lights. Narkissa took one step, and slung her leg over the bike. She turned the key, and the two wheeled machine purred to life. The garage doors opened, and the back tire squealed as she shot out into the night.

Necropolis; The Underworld

Eamon sat quietly petting his wraith-wolf. His eyes were hidden under the darkened hood over his head. His expression was not a happy one. It seldom was. The wraith growled with a deep warning. Eamon had no need of electronic surveillance. What his own eyes and ears could not perceive, his magic and attentive miscreants provided. He closed his eyes and visualized the long, stone entranceway that led to his private chamber. The dark had just fallen in the above world, leaving its nether shadow across Necropolis. The creature that stepped down the long, open-air entranceway could feel Eamon’s powerful mind probe him. He stopped and gripped his forehead before continuing toward the double doors ahead. The doors opened of their own accord, or so it seemed. Eamon did not so much as breath as the creature approached his chair and the snarling wraith-wolf beside it.

"There is a problem in the south bank in Metropolis."

"I know, Skektus."

"Then you know we need a Necromantic Warrior of an exceptional grade."

"Yes." Eamon’s voice rang clear and deep through the room. His eyes glowed faintly as he spoke, a deep rich amber color, shifting to a darker shade of purple. His mind was in deep meditation on the one who would be needed now.

"Eamon, Sire. Forgive me, but we must use Narkissa." Skektus’ voice was like a saw across glass, a side effect of having his vocal cords tied open, the skin stapled back against his neck. Something October had personally done. "I’ll search for her, Sire."

"You’ll do no such thing, Skektus. I know where she is. I always know where she is."

"Of course, Sire." Skektus grew nervous ... anxious. It was never a good idea to press Eamon on anything. "But Sire ... there is not time to ..."

"GET OUT!" Eamon barked in a clear, loud voice. No anger could be detected in the urgent command.

"Yes, Sire," Skektus replied as he turned and stepped quickly out of the room.

Eamon stroked the wraith-wolf’s hair several times, and then gazed into its green eyes. His command was instantly understood by the wraith. It rose quickly from its seat and took several steps toward the stone wall ... then jumped into it, disappearing instantly.

"My beloved ..." Eamon whispered. For two thousand years he had kept his distance. In all that time his love for her had never weakened or grew faint. Only stronger. But now she was needed. For the threat that now hung over Necropolis. It was her time. And Eamon was the only one who could unlock the hidden gift within her that Necropolis needed to survive. It was a day he both wanted ... and hoped would never come. He knew that her wrath would be great.

Narkissa stood just outside the gates of a large, well cared for cemetery. The grass glowed with a faint silver tint from the full moon over head. Her double vision allowed her to see what lay beneath the layers of soil. Some graves contained skeltal remains, others, nothing at all. This cemetery was old. All the souls that had once inhabited this place were long gone. A sound drew her attention away from the unmarked graves. Narkissa turned her gaze away from a large marble structure and saw the faint glow of something green within the distance.

The wraith-wolf erupted from the ground behind a large gravestone. He was deathly quiet, making not a sound a human could hear. His instincts were perfected over several centuries as a hunter-seeker wraith. His intelligence was greater than an above average human. Although he could not speak, he had no need of utterances. His mind was his telephone and fax machine.

The wraith-wolf stepped carefully around a series of stones until his eyes made contact with his target. Just ahead of him stood Narkissa. He flashed his eyes naturally, then with a gentle rhythm that only she would recognize ... Eamon's signal. He stepped closer until he was a foot from her knee, then sat back on his haunches and smiled a canine smile.

Narkissa knelt before the wolf-wraith and scratched behind his ear.

"I see Eamon requires my presence. Lead the way, Anu."

She stood, straightening her stance. Narkissa did not need Anu to show her the way, but she knew the wraith well. He had practically grown up with her. A sudden wind began to pick up, billowing the dark strands of her hair behind her. Anu took a step behind the massive stone he had sprung out from, and seemed to sink beneath the earth. When he disappeared, she followed.

Eamon kept the hood of his cloak pulled up, shadows hiding his face in darkness. Her presence was close and it tugged at his heart. Here he was the most ruthless ruler that the nation of Necropolis had ever known, but all his merciless intentions fled at the mere thought of his warrior. He longed to see her, to touch her soft skin. Sighing inwardly, he was aware of Sketus’ aggrivating presence.

"What?" It was almost a snap. Eamon’s patience was wearing thin.

"Narkissa has returned to ussss." Sketus hissed, his stapled vocal cords vibrating audibly.

"I know."

Almost as if in que, the large double doors of the Throne Room opened inwardly at Anu’s mental command. The wolf-wraith strode in first. As he passed Sketus, he snapped at his heels, sending the slithery creature jumping a few feet into the air. A rumbling chuckle flowed from behind the wraith as Narkissa followed in behind Anu.

Eamon’s breath caught in his throat. He pushed himself up from the large ornate throne made from black polished skulls and bones set in an intricate design. "Narkissa." His voice was nothing more than an exhale of breath. She was still his Greek beauty. Her bright orange eyes flashed with the Power she held as well as the Power that was still locked deep within her. A Power that only he could release. Closing his eyes for a moment, Eamon allowed himself to breathe in her scent, savoring it before allowing himself to gaze upon her beauty once more. Her hair was longer than he had remembered, trailing down her back in a single braid, the ends curling along the nearly perfect curve of her backside. He had always loved running his fingers through that black hair of hers.

"Eamon." Her voice was just as soft as his, accented with the faint underlying Ancient dialect that all Nercoplians spoke. It was enough to send his blood boiling. "Something worries you."

A smile graced his lips beneath the shadows his cloak provided. Reaching up with pale hands, he pulled back the hood. His face was the same pale compexion as it always had been, his eyes ever changing in color. His hair was longer than she remembered, but still streaked with black and white. "The fabric between our world and the World of the Living is thin as it gets closer to Samhain. There are Demons from a region close by that are slipping through this Veil. I need your help, Narkissa."

"Sire, do you think she is ready?" Sketus interrupted, his voice sounding much like nails against a chalk board.

It wasn’t Eamon who answered his question. Narkissa’s eyes narrowed faintly, taking on a deeper shade of orange. Her arms rose, hands weaving a graceful pattern through the air. The Ancient language of her people, their people, passed her lips. Symbols of arcane Magick shimmered in the air in hues of crimson, amber and violet. A wind tugged at Narkissa’s hair, swirling around her in sheer Power. That Power lashed outwards at Sketus. His scream of agony pierced the air and he fell to his knees. The very Power that animated his walking corpse seemed to draw back, vortexing towards her. She was calling back the very Magick that had let Sketus reanimate. A painful experience, even to something that was already dead.

"Does that answer your question, Sketus?" This came from Eamon who stood beside Narkissa with a look of amusement and pride etched on his features. He reached out and let his hand settle gently on her shoulder. Her Power drew back into itself, and her eyes dulled to their normal pale hue. She let her hands settle back to her sides, her stance always the picture perfect warrior. Eamon had trained her himself in all things he knew. Their Power and abilities, for the most part, were equal. She shrugged out of the coat, draping it across the back of one of the chairs that sat around the round black table.

"This is not the only reason you sent for me. There is more to it than just rogue Demons making a spectal of themselves." She made it a statement rather than a question. Pulling out the chair, she sat, crossing her legs in a gesture of deadly grace. Her movements were fluid, almost like a dancer.

Eamon sighed softly and took a seat in the chair beside her. He turned it to face her and reached up, clasping her hands in his. "I need you here beside me in Necropolis, Narkissa. I fear that my position on the Throne is being threatened." Little did he knew, she knew exactly who threatened his position on the throne. Necros and Darkness. The true sons of the Throne.

"You need me to protect you?" A single brow arched delicately. He had taught her everything he knew and then some. They were perhaps equal in some aspects, but he still surpassed her in others.

"We need to protect each other. They can hurt me in many ways, love. Especially by harming you. That would cause me the greatest damage than any mere physical wound. I need you to rule Necropolis beside me as my Queen, Narkissa. There is a war brewing among the other Remenants of this Underworld. I can not protect this City and you at the same time. I would rather let this City fall than to loose you."

She shook her head faintly. "I do not need your protection, Eamon. My abilities have grown in the past two thousand years."

"Of that I have no doubt, but I would prefer not to have you risk your life."

Her teeth clenched faintly. She had survived countless battles and obviously won. She had nearly defeated Necros, at one point, in a friendly spar, but she always had this suspicion in the back of her head that he was going easy on her. Inwardly she smiled to herself. Eamon hadn’t known about Necros visiting her in the Physical Realm as often as he could slip away from Necropolis.

"I can not take the throne with you, Eamon. I am a Warrior, not a Queen."

"You can be both." Eamon took her hand in his, tilting her face to look at him. "I need you."

"I can not." She replied, moving her head before his lips came in contact with her own. Narkissa stood gracefully and grabbed her coat off of the chair she had draped it over. "I will protect Necropolis because this is my home, but I can not Rule by your side, Eamon. I’m sorry. I was created to fight not to sit on a throne."

Without another word, she strode from the Main Chamber.