I’m a fertility specialist, though my clients whisper a different title for me in the dark corners of high society: The Resurrectionist. By day, I handle standard IVF cases at a private clinic. By night, I use a lost, archaic technique to harvest viable genetic material—sperm—from men who have just died. It’s a bizarre, exhausting, and highly illegal trade, so I only work for the ultra-wealthy. My starting price is three million dollars. Today, I had just finished sipping champagne at a client’s grandson’s christening when a rush order came in. If I take this job, he will be my seventeenth "husband." 1 I hadn’t even finished my crab cake when Mrs. Vanderbilt dragged me into the coatroom. "Raven, you have to help. The sky is falling over at the Sterling estate!" "Sterling?" I asked, pulling my sequined headband off. "Julian Sterling. The second son of the billionaire Arthur Sterling. He died this morning. It’s a tragedy—he was supposed to get married next month." Mrs. Vanderbilt looked frantic. "The body is barely cold. They need an heir, Raven. If they don't get a child, the Sterling legacy ends." "If you agree, they’ll pay twenty million. The jet is already on its way." An out-of-state job? I instinctively wanted to refuse. But then I remembered who the Sterlings were. Old money. Real estate tycoons. I held up five fingers. "Fifty million?" Mrs. Vanderbilt blinked, then made a quick call. She hung up and sighed in relief. "They agreed. But they want to talk to you." I took the phone. A raspy, grief-stricken male voice spoke on the other end. It was Arthur Sterling himself. "Keep the room warm," I instructed, skipping the pleasantries. "Body temperature matters. And get me there fast." The fresher the corpse, the better the harvest. And I hated touching cold bodies. I hung up, burned a piece of paper with Julian’s name on it—my standard ritual to sever ties with the previous client—and headed for the airstrip. Three hours later, I landed at the Sterling estate in the Hudson Valley. It looked less like a house and more like a fortress built of stone and money. Before I could even take in the architecture, a young man in a wheelchair rolled toward me, weeping into a silk handkerchief. "The men of the Sterling family are cursed," he sobbed. He was dressed in a white suit, his eyes swollen. Despite the mess, he was strikingly handsome. "I’ve been paralyzed since childhood, unable to have children," he explained. "Who knew Julian would go first? The Sterling line is broken..." This was Adrian Sterling, the older twin brother of the deceased. According to him, Julian, 28, had gone fishing early that morning to catch a prize bass for his brother. He slipped, hit his head, and drowned in the family’s private lake. "We need an heir, Ms. Darkwood. If you succeed, there will be a bonus on top of the fifty million." "A bonus?" My ears perked up. "How much?" "Ten million more." Perfect. My grandfather’s dilapidated sanctuary needed a new roof. I kept my face professional. "Mr. Sterling, for a client who cares so deeply about his family, I can offer a premium package. For an additional twenty million, I can guarantee a male heir. Twins, even." Adrian paused. "Is that... possible?" "With my methods? Anything is possible," I lied smoothly. Technically, it was a long shot, but I needed the cash. Adrian paid the $35 million deposit without blinking. I was satisfied. I burned a sigil with Julian’s birthdate by the lake where he died, signaling the start of the ritual. "Alright," I said as the sun went down. "Take me to him." 2 I was led to Julian’s bedroom. Arthur Sterling, the patriarch, was sitting by the bed, holding his dead son’s hand. He stood up as I entered. "Ms. Darkwood. I assume you understand the need for discretion. I’ll need your phone." Standard procedure. Rich people hated evidence. "Fine," I said. "But I have a condition." "Name it." "No cameras. No peeping toms. My methods are... proprietary. And ancient. Observing the ritual brings bad luck. Blood luck." I made it sound spooky, but I just didn't want anyone seeing my trade secrets. "The room is soundproofed and secluded. There are no cameras," Arthur assured me. He lied. After they left, I swept the room with my detector. I found a lens hidden in the eye of a priceless collectible figurine on the shelf. Sneaky old fox. I placed a bottle of lotion in front of the figurine, blocking the view. Then, I lit thick, heavy incense and turned on my electronic jammer. The room filled with smoke. Now, I could work. I turned to the bed. Julian Sterling lay there, silent and still. Even pale and slightly bloated from the water, he was devastatingly handsome. I’d seen plenty of corpses, but Julian was a work of art. Broad chest, defined muscles—he clearly lived at the gym. As I began to undress him for the procedure, I couldn't help but admire the goods. "Well, Your Highness," I whispered to the body, keeping up the charade in case there were audio bugs. "Tonight, you belong to me. Let's make some magic happen." His skin was surprisingly warm. The Sterlings had done a good job preserving the temperature. I took out my kit of silver needles. "Great hair," I muttered, inserting a needle into a pressure point on his scalp. "Better than the British royals, that's for sure." I worked my way down, inserting needles to unlock the post-mortem flow. "And look at these abs. Eight pack. A shame to waste them." I reached the critical zone. "Impressive equipment, Your Highness. Your future wife would have been a happy woman." I inserted seven needles to lock the lower meridians and began the specialized massage technique. Thirty minutes later, I prepped the extraction syringe. Nothing. I frowned. I massaged for another fifteen minutes. Tried again. Still nothing. Sweat beaded on my forehead. This had never happened before. I had a 100% success rate with sixteen corpses. I climbed onto the bed, straddling him to get better leverage, using both hands to adjust the needles and massage simultaneously. Suddenly, I froze. I felt something. A pulse. 3 I scrambled off the bed and grabbed my stethoscope. No heartbeat. So, he was dead. I let out a breath. But if he was dead, my technique should work. It only worked on the dead. Unless... I placed my hand on his chest again. The warmth, the elasticity of the skin... it wasn't right for a body that had been dead for fourteen hours. I glanced at the heart monitor they had disconnected. The family doctor had declared him dead. Wait. I quickly pulled the silver needles from his body. I mixed a special compound of ash and herbs and smeared it on his back. Minutes later, a pattern of red markings appeared on his skin. The Lazarus Trance. It was my grandfather’s secret technique. A state of suspended animation so deep it mimicked death perfectly. Only three people alive knew it: my grandfather, me, and the "Chosen Successor" my grandfather always rambled about. Julian was the Successor? I grabbed my needles and pierced the release points to break the trance. Half an hour passed. He should be awake. But he wasn't. The storm outside intensified. The room temperature dropped. Julian’s body started to cool rapidly. "Hey! Don't you dare die on me!" I panicked. If he actually died while I was messing with him, I’d be the prime suspect. I cranked the heat, but he kept getting colder. Desperate, I climbed into bed and wrapped my body around his, trying to share my warmth. "Wake up, Julian! My grandfather is waiting for you!" I slapped his chest rhythmically, chanting the wake-up mantra. After what felt like hours, I heard a faint, raspy whisper near my ear. "Why... did you stop calling me 'Your Highness'?" I froze. I looked down. Julian’s eyes were open, dark and amused. "You're alive!" I scrambled back, trying to cover myself with the sheet. "I'll call the family. They'll be thrilled. This bonus is going to be huge—" He grabbed the hem of my red ceremonial robe. His grip was weak but firm. "Don't," he rasped. "They... they're the ones who killed me." I stopped dead. "What?" He pulled me closer, his voice barely a breath. "My brother... he thinks I caused his paralysis years ago. He pushed me into the lake. He wants me dead so he can marry Vanessa... my fiancée." "Wait," I whispered. "You couldn't fight off a guy in a wheelchair?" "I didn't want to fight him. He's my brother. I would have given him anything. Even my life..." He coughed. "But I didn't expect my father to be in on it." I swallowed hard. "Your father?" "My father married into money. He killed my mother to seize the family fortune years ago. I found the evidence. I told him to turn himself in. He pretended to agree, then told Adrian to get rid of me." "How do you know all this?" "Dead men hear everything," Julian smirked bitterly. "They confessed everything to my 'corpse' while they were crying over me today." He looked at me. "You know the technique. You're from the Sanctuary?" We established our connection. He was indeed the Successor. 4 "Okay," I said, fixing his pillow. "Since you're family, I'll get you out." "How?" Julian looked hopeless. "They took your phone. The estate is a fortress. Sensors everywhere. A bird can't fly in without them knowing." "I have a jammer." "There's a camera right outside the window." I grabbed my jammer, cranked it to max, and peeked through the curtain. The camera's red light blinked erratically and died. "See?" WOOP-WOOP-WOOP! A siren wailed through the estate. Floodlights blinded me. Heavy footsteps thundered down the hallway. I scrambled back, dialing down the jammer. The footsteps stopped at the door. Okay, brute force escape was out. "Can we pretend your corpse needs to be moved? Like, for feng shui reasons?" I asked. "They want to bury me ASAP to hide the murder wounds," Julian whispered. "They won't let the body leave their sight." I tapped my chin. "What about your fiancée? Vanessa. Is she trustworthy?" "Vanessa?" Julian’s eyes softened. "Yes. We grew up together. She loves me." "Okay. You stay dead. I'll handle the rest." I handed him a specimen cup. "What's this?" "I need a sample. To show them I'm doing my job." He turned red. "Now?" "Yes, now. Chop chop." The next morning, I walked out with my toolkit. Adrian was waiting in his wheelchair right outside the door. He hadn't slept. "Well?" "Success," I said, tapping the container. "Twins are a definite possibility." Adrian’s eyes lit up.
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