Fast food, fast cars, fast magic

Vyx, moon-bled witch, black lace and bad intentions.
She learned necromancy the only way it made sense — behind a goth club where the bass always felt like a dying heartbeat. In 1986, she learned that resurrection works best with the cheap grease of cold fries for the hungry dead, purple wax for the restless ones, and an engine still warm to cast a curse sharp enough to carve open midnight.
Now the risen trails behind her in pastel rot and ruined glamour, silent as grave soil, loyal as a shadow.
He moves when she moves, and she always moves toward the dark.