Christopher Buehlman - The Necromancer's House

He texts.

Andrew B-ship

HOW?

Anneke Zautke

Just is

Slips the phone back in his pocket.

Andrew and Chancho stand under the Mini Cooper on its elevated lift. Chancho raises a stubby finger, crescent-mooned with oil on the cuticle, and points.

“The cat-back exhaust, that’s performance, like a double-barrel shotgun, BANG! BANG! ’Cept a quiet shotgun, she’s got a sweet purr, kitty-cat purr. This is a nice car, man. 2003, but cherry.”

“Dude came from Arizona.”

“Yeah, eff that road salt. What you get her for?”

“Six one.”

“I give you seventy-five hunnert right now.”

Andrew shakes his head.

“Eight.”

“Not selling. I have to fix her up.”

“You mean brujo the chicharrones out of her, right?”

Andrew smiles.

“Yep. Woman did me a favor, I do one back. Did you find why she was pulling?”

“Yeah. Strut towers are shroomin’. ’Specially the right one. Must be potholes in Arizona. Got Rick runnin’ back from Syracuse with parts, picked a coupla plates up from the import place. All polished and all. Bling.”

“This girl won’t care about bling. She probably won’t even pop the hood.”

“Yeah, but whoever does, BLINGITTY BLING!”

Gonzo looks over from the reception desk, where a big-eyed woman is mooning at him, about to hand over her keys.

Andrew’s smile widens.

“But she passes? The Cooper?”

“More than passes. You screwed that guy.”

—It was generous of you to advertise such a nice car for six thousand. Is everyone in Arizona this good-natured? And do you play tennis professionally?

—Professionally? No.

—You look like a tennis pro.

—I think you read it wrong. No Mini in this shape is going for six. It’s ten thousand. Have anyone you like check it out. Did you see the exhaust? The alloy wheels? The stereo alone is worth a grand.

—You’re right. It is a sweet machine. Sorry to hear you’ve been ill.

—Excuse me?

—All this damp New York air, a guy from Arizona’s bound to have a bad reaction. Even an athlete. Of course you’re under the weather.

—What are you talking about?

—Am I mistaken?

—Actually, yes. I never felt better.

Andrew blinks, looks confused.

—What did I say?

—That I was sick.

—What?

—You said I was sick.

—Six will be fine.

Now the young man looks confused, comes almost back to himself.

—I can’t…

—You’re what, five eleven?

—No.

—What then, six feet even?

—Six one.

The young man puffs up proudly.

—Sorry?

—Six one.

—Five ten?

—Six one, goddammit, six one!

Andrew smiles disarmingly.

—Sold!

He offers his hand.

The young man shakes.

“Just charmed him a little.”

“Effing brujo .”

Chancho smiles despite himself.

Claps Andrew on the back.

Leaves a smudge.

Andrew drives the Cooper down the farm roads from the North Star Garage, admiring the handling, the clockwork feel. A little rough on the bumps, but damned fine on curves. It doesn’t gobble road like the Mustang; it ticks off distance (the damned thing clearly thinks in kilometers, whatever the odometer says) like seconds on a runner’s watch. Radha is bound to be pleased. Six hours’ worth of incantations and directed thought, a pinch of hummingbird feathers in the gas tank, a good massage of the body with prepared wax.

Wax ingredients: beeswax, badger hair, ground snail shells, filings from a Slinky, ash from thirty burned parking citations. Getting the badger hair was going to suck until Andrew remembered that old-timey shaving brushes use it and rush-ordered a Vulfix #403 Best Badger from the mildly luminous but untrained young owner of Classicshaving.com.

Now the Cooper runs on water and will fit into any parking space so long as the owner believes it will.

Perfect for Chicagohoney85.

She believes any story that involves her success.

It’s why she’s so fucking powerful.

Andrew pulls up to his house, sees a man waiting on his porch.

An older man.

Michael Rudnick.

They exchange brief waves.

He pulls the plum-colored Mini in beside his Mustang, keeps going until he’s just in front of his separate garage.

Cuts that sweet watchmaker’s motor.

Michael is already walking over to him.

“You look the same,” the older magus says as Andrew gets out, stands.

It’s not a compliment.

Michael knows Andrew is burning magic to make himself look young.

Probably a lot of magic.

Michael doesn’t look the same. His hair was still mostly dark the last time Andrew saw him. His skin looks blotchier, too, the browns and reds more separated, less the healthy rancher’s tan Andrew remembers.

This man looks like a candidate for skin cancer.

“It’s good to see you, Michael.”

Andrew’s a bit of a hugger, but Michael isn’t, so Michael offers him a preemptive shake in the driveway, moves up to the porch.

“What do you think of Anneke?”

“Luminous as hell.”

“I thought just a little.”

“Just a little to you. Mechanics and the dead on film are your specialties. When it comes to stone, you’re just a little luminous. How big a rock can you move?”

“Maybe a brick.”

“She’ll be moving bricks by the end of the week, if she tries. Maybe more. I see what she can do with minerals, and it’s kind of scary. You were right to call me.”

“Where is she? Is she coming?”

“Not tonight. I gave her some homework.”

The two men don’t go inside just yet.

Michael walks to the installation of junk cars and boulders, lays hands and cheeks to the rocks.

Twines his fingers in the vines and touches the saplings and the shoots on the tree.

He climbs up and touches the horns on the skull of the longhorn steer. Wiggles one flat, yellow, herbivorous tooth in its socket as the skull grins, tied to its post, an out-of-place western exile in this damp, northern province.

Back to the biggest rocks, three of them: one the size of a large old-style television; one the size of a love seat; one the size of a Volkswagen Beetle, a proper boulder.

A scattering of smaller rocks, still too heavy to lift.

Cheek and hands on all of them, like a doctor.

Like he should have a stethoscope.

No hurry, maybe ten minutes of this.

“How is it?”

Michael smiles.

Whistles in appreciation.

The way older men do to say damn .

“Still there. Still all there.”

He looks as proud of himself as he ever lets himself look.

It had been ten years since they built this.

Since they put a spell in it.

Salvador had still been a dog.

Andrew had still been drinking.

Sarah.

Let’s not start thinking about Sarah, now.

This spell.

This big-ass spell.

Evidently he didn’t mess everything up in those days.

“Really?” he asks the other magus.

But he knows.

He puts his hand to the hood of the wrecked Mustang, feels the thrum of buried ferrous magic.