Your friend is a necromancer. And your friend’s necromancer is a werewolf.

If I wanted to write a romance novel, I could write about a necromancer/werewolf. The most I’ve ever written in my life was a were-were romance novel. A little background here: I grew up in the Midwest, in a family where the mainstay of our diet was the local church. The church forbid necromancy, and my father fought in World War 1, which was at the time considered a disgrace. My father was a werewolf, which made him stronger. However, at the time, we were not allowed to keep any pets, and our house was on a hill where no one could see the ground from our window. It’s a bit hard to explain, but a werewolf is basically a muscular body with a bodyguard. It is much like a boxer, but with much more bodyguard muscle. So I was a werewolf during this time, until my father died in a car crash, during a crossing patrol. I didn’t really feel guilty for what I had done, because at the time, I didn’t really care, I was just glad to be alive. Well, my father was in a coma, for a few weeks. But when he woke up, he was able to tell me that the werewolf he had been fighting in had actually survived. So I was really sad about that, because it wasn’t my battle.