The dirty looks being shot in Raizia's direction were almost enough to make her wish she would die for a third time.

Almost, but not quite.

The market was packed this time of day. Hot sweaty bodies pressed against each other in the summer heat, pushing through the labyrinth of wooden stalls selling produce, cured meats, enchanted amulets, jewelry, herbals brews, and more. Everyone seemed to be in a rush, and it was nearly impossible to get through without bumping into someone else.

This wouldn't have been an issue for anyone else but Raizia.

The 20-year-old brushed against one man inadvertently, and when he turned to glance at her, his eyes immediately widened and he stumbled backwards, as if even slightly grazing her skin was akin to drinking poison.

"Sorry," Raizia mumbled, putting her head down. This is why I should never shop when there's daylight still out. But she had to. Her right hand had been aching something fierce since this morning, and she had run out of healing balm earlier in the week. Normally she'd wait until it was dark out, when she knew the market was quieter and the shadows could better hide her identity, but after a few hours of cradling her hand in agonizing pain, she had forced herself to go out.

And now she was paying the price with the glares and the stares and the flinching, over and over again.

She was well known in the city of Taaz. Everyone had an opinion of her—and nearly none of them were flattering. She was a necromancer after all, and dealing with the dead carried a certain stigma. About half of the city hated her because of the church. At their pulpits, the priests would cry out that "death was death," and that any interference with the natural order was a slight against the gods. And then there were the others, people who didn't care about the churches and wanted her services, but couldn't afford her prices. People who thought that she was cruel and selfish for not raising every dead grandmother in the city free of charge. Those people didn't seem to realize the costs of resurrection, costs that Raizia knew far too well.

The necromancer was finally able to peel away from the large crowd, reaching her stall of choice. It was much smaller than the others, tucked away in the corner of the market. Not as many villagers traveled to this end of the labyrinth; this is where the sorcerers typically sat, ones who dealt with "dark" magicks. Of course, "dark" was a made-up term in Raizia's experience. It was the priests who categorized magick, listing certain skills as either "light" or "dark." Acceptable vs. non-acceptable. It wasn't as if Raizia had had a choice. Being a necromancer was a part of her, something she hadn't been able to hide ever since she had died the first time at six years old.

There was an old woman sitting behind this stall, fanning herself from the unbearable heat. She was wrinkled, with deep umber skin, and her eyes were cloudy with cataracts. But despite her poor vision, her ears were as sharp as ever. She heard Raizia's steps, boots squelching in the mud, and she smiled.

"My Raizia," she said. "What are you doing out in the heat like this? Gonna burn your pasty skin."

"It's my hand, Zaidi," Raizia mumbled, looking down at her gloved right hand. "It feels like it's going to fall off, and I ran out of your salve."

Zaidi gestured, inviting Raizia to take off her glove.

Raizia looked around, a habit she had developed. She didn't like removing her glove. But thankfully, no one else was present. Satisfied that she was alone, she removed the glove.

Zaidi took her hand, running her own fingers over Raizia's flesh, assessing it with her touch. She traced the lines in Raizia's palm and then delicately went down each finger, only pausing when she reached the third and fourth digits, both of which were missing several inches of length.

"It's these two fingers that are bothering you again, isn't it?"

Raizia nodded. "They always do. But this week they're really acting up. It's odd. It almost feels like... like something is about to happen." She shook her head. "I know it sounds crazy..."

Zaidi shrugged. "Those fingers are directly linked to your necromancy. They might be right... Or it could be that we're expecting rain. To be honest, my knee has been acting up all day."

Raizia cracked a small smile, took her hand back, and replaced her glove. Sewn inside the third and fourth fingers were two carved wooden inserts. When her glove was on, it gave her the appearance of an intact right hand.

As much as she hated that hand and how it constantly reminded her of her failings and oversteps as a necromancer, she was secretly grateful that both times she had lost fingers, it had happened on her non-dominant hand—her non-spellcasting hand. Perhaps that was the first clue I was cursed, she had thought to herself once. When she was a child, people would rap on her knuckle when they saw her using her left hand, telling her it was "sinister" and trying to get her to switch hands. But she had never kicked the habit. She had accepted the simple fact: she was sinister through and through.

"Here you are, my dear," Zaidi said, passing her a small jar of salve. "You know what to do with it."

"Thanks Zaidi," Raizia said, passing her the coins to pay for the balm. Her coin purse was embarrassingly empty; she hadn't performed a resurrection in nearly two months, which meant money was running dry.

Zaidi seemed to sense this, for she passed back a few of the coins. "A discount," she said, "for my favorite customer."

The discount stung Raizia's pride, but her wallet stung more, so she accepted the coins. She could feel a bright flush hot on her cheeks and was grateful that Zaidi couldn't see it. "Thanks, Zaidi," she whispered, and then turned and left the market.

Raizia was relieved when she finally got home.

She lived in a small apartment with a doorway that was only accessible if you side-stepped into an alley. When it rained, water would seep in through the floorboards, and the whole place smelled of damp and mold, but she didn't mind it, because it was dark and oddly cozy and was home.

Once inside, she immediately tore off her glove and rubbed some salve over her fingers, looking around the cramped space. There were no windows, so the only light was from a few jars filled with bioluminescent algae. Even for someone who preferred the dark, the subtle blue glow wasn't enough. So once the aching in her fingers was manageable, she used her left hand to draw a sign in the air and then pointed to the fireplace. Immediately, a purple fire roared to life, lighting up the space without providing any of the heat—it was much too hot for real fire.

She wrinkled her nose, eyes skimming the apartment. It had gotten a bit messy. The wooden table that served as her eating and cooking space was cluttered with unwashed glasses and stacks of books. Clothes were strewn about the floor and draped over chairs—leather bodices, ratted skirts, stained trousers, and her other pair of boots (still caked in mud from the last rainstorm). She was grateful that the bedroom was hidden behind a closed door, since that was a mess as well.

She hadn't had much energy to clean recently. She had been spiraling a bit more into a dark place when she realized how little money she had. She needed a resurrection, otherwise she'd have to start begging, and she doubted anyone would toss a coin to a necromancer on the street.

As if hearing her wish, there was a sudden rap on her door.

Raizia's eyes widened. "Shit!" she whispered, taking a moment to gather up the worst offenders in the apartment—mostly the clothes on the floor—and throw them into the bedroom. Then, straightening her bodice, she rushed to the door and threw it open.

Standing in the doorway, face hidden by the shadow of a hood, was a man. He would have looked intimidating had Raizia not heard the hesitation in his voice. "Is... is this the home of... the necromancer? R-Raizia?"

Raizia had to hide a grin. Payday. "Come on in."

The man ducked under the doorway and walked into the apartment. When he took his hood off, Raizia was able to see his face for the first time: tanned brown skin, dark hair—although not nearly as dark as hers—and a sharp jawline. And although he was tall, he wasn't scrawny—she could tell even through his clothes that this man had layers of muscle.

He must have been about her age. And from the looks of him, she guessed he was aristocracy of some sort. It wasn't a hard assumption to make. First and foremost, anyone who wanted her services had to have money. But secondly, only those with wealth could look as good as him. Good genes were one thing, but you needed money to nurture them. No matter what you were born with, years of a bad diet and poor living conditions could whittle at your bones, leaving you pockmarked, thin, and limping. This man, however, was the paradigm of health. A paradigm of privilege, Raizia thought.

The man's brown eyes flitted around the space nervously, taking in her home as if he expected to see skeletons hanging from the walls and reanimated corpses making dinner. Instead, Raizia knew he just saw a small, cramped apartment—which was embarrassing, to say the least, but something that Raizia was accustomed to.

She pointed to an armchair near the enchanted fire. "Have a seat," she said.

The man settled down as Raizia sat opposite him. She laced her fingers together, finding his nervous energy amusing. While she hated being gawked at out in the streets, here, in her home, the feeling was different. The only people who came to her apartment were people desperate enough to pay her well. Their fear meant more money. And more money meant she could go longer periods of time without seeing another soul, which, in her opinion, was the ideal situation. After her second death, she had become much more introverted and preferred being alone.

"What's your name?" she asked.

The man clenched his teeth, as if worried that giving his name away would make him susceptible to some spell. Poor thing didn't realize that she didn't need his name to cast a hex on him.

Finally, he said, "Aris."

Aris, Raizia thought. The name tickled at something in the back of her head; she must have heard it before, but couldn't quite remember where. Not that it mattered. Most of the well-to-dos came to her at some point. "I'm assuming you're here because you'd like a resurrection?"

He nodded.

"So, who is it?" she asked.

Again, he clenched his teeth, only this time, instead of holding back words, he seemed to be doing his best to hold back tears. "My mother."

Raizia felt a twinge of pity for him. He was young; his mother likely had been as well. Unexpected deaths were often the most painful. But she shoved aside her emotions and kept her mind on the task at hand. "When did she die?"

"Two days ago," Aris said quickly.

"Okay, good," Raizia said with a nod. "I only do resurrections for the recently deceased, three days maximum." She looked him in the eye. "You know the way this works, right? I can't bring her back for good."

Aris nodded stiffly. "I know. Five minutes."

"I see you've heard."

"I asked around. I know your rules."

"Then you likely know about my fee?"

Wordlessly he reached into his pocket and withdrew a coin purse. He passed it to her. "I'm assuming this will be enough."

Raizia peered inside and saw dozens and dozens of gold coins. It was more than what she typically charged, but she didn't correct him. Seems my reputation is growing—at least among the wealthy, she thought. What she said out loud was "This will do." Suddenly she stood up from her chair. "Where is the body?"

"The graveyard," Aris said, looking a little confused. "I hid her—"

"Come on," she said impatiently, gesturing for Aris to stand. "Get up. We're going."

The man blinked. "Going? Now?"

"Yes. Time is of the essence. Every second wasted makes the process more dangerous." When he remained frozen, Raizia sighed and put her hands on her hips. "Do you want to speak to your mother or not?"

This got his attention. He scrambled to his feet, put up his hood, and took a steadying breath.

Raizia smiled, gesturing to the front door. "Lead the way."

* * *

Hello everyone and thank you for checking out the first chapter of "Broken Pieces"! This was originally written as an entry for the 2021 Open Novella Contest, a contest where I had 13 weeks to write an original 20,000-word novella based off of at least one of several prompts. The one I chose was #66: When you die, you come back. But you never come back the same, there's always a price to pay for resurrection.

This novella was a Round 1 Ambassador Picks and also made the Short List!

I hope you enjoy this story. If you do, please vote and leave a comment with your thoughts--I love to read them :) And although I'm a stickler for grammar, if you catch a mistake, don't hesitate to let me know, and I'll be sure to go in and fix it.

Happy reading! ~Bdicocco