Julius Lockwood – Necro Detective

Muse for one of the scroll guardians – Image borrowed. The website is visible at the lower left of the image.

Here is the synopsis and an excerpt for Julius Lockwood and the Guardian Scrolls


Julius Lockwood is a Necromancer working with the Police, raising the dead in cases that are just too grim and disturbing to be solved in any other way. When all else fails, the special unit team are called in, usually for cases that are either cold, seriously so, or where the cadaver has been tampered with in a magical or mysterious way. These are cases the police have doubts concerning the possibility of solving.

Abigail has only ever known about her brother and herself. Their father demanded their mother to keep them away from the magical society, fearing for their futures. Abigail knew nothing about the society, or that there were others like her. Her mother was a non-magical, which was another factor behind the two children riding under the radar.

The scrolls send them across the globe to gather the clues that have been left behind 1200 years before, in a world that has undoubtably changed, altered and been destroyed. Only the clues that her father, Fingal, has left them, their teamwork and affinity together, as well as some kick-ass investigative skills, enable the pair to stay one step ahead of the enemy. The maps are ancient, crumbling and unclear, while the modern world’s new technology is interfering.

They need to stop the rogue, at any cost, because the continuation of the magical society and the whole of humankind, depends on their efforts, even if they don’t know it yet.

Excerpt: This is an excerpt of unedited work-in-progress


Fingal crouched on the stool watching the play of fire as it leapt and rushed over the metal grate in the hearth. The night was cool. Colder than it had been for many moons and Fingal worried that the omen he had seen in the bay a few nights ago was coming to pass. He’d had no idea who the man was that had approached him and asked for the thing he had no idea he had in his possession.
After all, it was a small clay piece that had been passed down to him from his father all those years ago, before he knew who he was. Or what he was. Before the villagers had begun to avoid him, before the war and the people who sought him out. As much as they loved him they feared him. They asked him to go to war with them, and Fingal had, leading many a charge. Leaving many behind.
He knew when he was to die, and he knew by whose hand. The people had no idea what Fingal knew only that he would tell them of things they didn’t want to hear and relay to them prophecies that caught them up and gave them dreams. None realised that dreams were just that, and a need to be awake was also important. When Fingal could not, or more importantly, would not give them the ease in life they sought, they shunned him. It was their loss, for Fingal knew more than he ever let on.
The wind whipped across the window, rattling the frame and easing the itself across the floor the play around Fingal’s exposed ankles. He shivered involuntarily. His wife had yet to return and a feeling of dread settled itself like lead in his stomach.
Night was approaching and the last thing Fingal wanted to do was to traipse around the moor seeking her, especially in the dark. She could be anywhere. She could be everywhere. She should have been here. Fingal knew the moment she’d stepped through the door that afternoon that he would never see her again. That was the thing about the sight, it was obvious for everyone else, but never so obvious about oneself. He knew he should have insisted. But some things inevitably always came to pass and there was usually very little that could be done to prevent it. Unless the images were so vague that the outcome was changeable .
The visions Fingal and been assaulted with had been strong, so strong that he had sought to snatch Grianne from the teeth of prophecy before they had closed on her and she was no more. But that was not to be. Fingal had awoken, his large body coated in a cold, nervous sweat. His long dark hair more matted and tangled than usual. The gap between his front teeth whistling with anxiety as his breath passed through rapidly.
He’d scrubbed at his face ruffling the red streaked beard, and looked upon the face of his beautiful Grianne. The wife of his heart, mother of his dead children, soul companion. She had supported him when all others had fled from him as though he was in possession of the plague, a deadly plague where his knowledge was other’s downfall. They had no idea who or what Fingal was. Only he’s phenomenon on the battle field caused them to think twice before they tried to destroy him. They knew that to kill the seer within their midst would send down upon them a far greater wrath than the one they assumed they lived. Fingal had no sympathy for them.
He had parted Grianne’s red hair from her face, looking at her long and hard. He sought to fix her face in his mind before she was lost to him. He knew there was nothing that could be done, not against a vision like the one he’d had.
But he could make plans. He could take precautions from being the victim of his own weakness. And that is what he’d done. He had set in motion that night, plans only Fingal knew would come to pass. That had been another part of the startlingly clear vision.
He waited. Not for Grianne. He knew she was lost to him now. He waited for the Betrayer, the one who sought to change the nature of death and reap rewards that did not belong to him. The one who came to seek that which Fingal had no right to give him. Which no man had a right to possess, this is why the artefact had been separated. After the last who sought possession of it had demanded dominion, the artefact had been shattered and scattered, as it should have been. It should have been destroyed, in Fingal’s opinion, but it wasn’t.
So now, he waited.
The door boomed with the force of the hammer blow upon it, as though Fingal had in mind to keep them out. Petty.