Christopher Buehlman - The Necromancer's House

She smiles at him.

He’s still waiting for an answer about the sake, wondering what game she’s playing.

As he’ll find out in less than a minute, she’s playing the “finish her sake and leave her date at the restaurant” game.

She’s also playing the “steal his wallet with a spell” game.

She’s also just about to play the “what’s in its pocketses?” game.

When he fishes for his wallet, he’ll find a piece of paper with a child’s crayon drawing of a crying man getting arrested outside FUGU SOOSHI. When he shows it to the manager as evidence that somebody must be playing a prank on him, the manager will not see the child’s drawing. What he will see will be a newspaper blurb about local actor Michael Scott’s dine-and-dash arrest at a Ravenswood pizza parlor, complete with mug shot.

Radha, sitting on the zebra-skin seat of her idling Mini Cooper, dictates the nature of the drawing, the photo and text of the article, and where she wants these articles placed into her phone, into an app she made for herself, clicks Preview, giggles, then presses Cast.

She drives off toward home.

As she turns onto Damen, she sees a homeless man sitting on cardboard, two dusty-looking heeler dogs napping near him.

She rolls down her window.

Throws the wallet.

It skids to a stop between his legs.

“Do as thou wilt,” she says.

He grins, gives her a thumbs-up.

Plays a peppy version of “Blue Skies” on his kazoo.

Later.

Radha sits before her computer.

She wears her Muppet Show onesie, a footed onesie with Animal on each foot.

Her roommate, a flamingly, fabulously gay dancer, a Michael who spells his name with a Y and has no idea she’s a witch, won’t be home from rehearsal until well past midnight; Equus opens in less than a week. She designed the poster graphic, three dancers in horse masks frozen in synchronicitous movement against a pear-green backdrop. The masks have a dystopian look, something H. R. Giger might have designed, and they appear off-balance, about to topple. She’s really proud of this graphic.

She is less proud about the persistent low-grade infection her computer seems to have. No amount of flushing, warding, or spell encryption seems able to do more than keep it busy. It has interfered with her ability to track the Ukrainian, it won’t let her corner it, and it finds and infects any other devices she tries to use the web from.

I’m the vector.

It hides in me somehow.

This is masterclass cybermagic.

How’s he doing this?

She’s working on a spell to create a sort of antibody for the system, and she’s pretty sure it will work, but writing the intruder-specific code takes time; and she has to get the blood of a watchdog. She has the dog picked out, a German shepherd that has barked at her from behind the white wrought-iron gates of a house two blocks from her complex, on the way to the chocolate shop. She can make the pooch take a nap with a spell, but she’s not good with animal magic and it will cost her juice she needs to find the computer bug.

She’ll go no-frills on the tranquilizer, get it from a vet.

But she really hates needles.

Maybe she’ll charm or pay a phlebotomist to come with her.

And once the infection is flushed, she’ll be able to take the offensive. She found a really ugly Brazilian spell that liquefies bones, and she’s already practiced on a lamb shank. The poor thing actually danced a spastic little dance and smoked from its holes before it balloonishly collapsed; she’s more than ready to try it on her Slavic friend.

She’s never been in a duel with another user before, and, if she’s a little scared, she’s even more excited. Americans have the best computer magic, and she’s one of the best in America. It’s a game for young witches. Maybe only sealiongod@me.com is better, but he’s out in San Francisco.

All right.

A Greek yogurt with almonds and honey.

A glass of Gewürztraminer.

An hour of code.

Then another glass of Gewürztraminer while Mykel rubs his calves with tiger balm and bitches about the director’s choices.

When she comes back from the kitchen, something’s wrong.

The screen saver with the three horse-men has turned into a GIF; the figures now move in a loop, executing a plié and scoop over and over again.

Fuck! He’s through!

She spits the yogurt-covered spoon out of her mouth.

One of the horse heads now noses against the screen, bulbs it out like soft plastic, pokes through.

It happens slowly, then fast, as if someone sped a film up.

A real horse’s head, a real man’s body, and the monster births itself through her computer, knocking over her chair.

The other two simply appear behind it, piggybacking on its magical entry.

She’s about to use her Brazilian spell when it occurs to her she’s not sure what these things are made of, if they even have bones.

Now the first one lunges for her, grabs her shoulders, drives her back against the wall.

The violence shocks her— nobody manhandles her.

So strong, so fast.

I’m really in trouble.

No.

I AM trouble.

The first rule of magical combat is Be the most dangerous thing in the fight .

Believe it and it’s true.

She relaxes as best she can, feels the tingle of magic waking up in her, but before she can pronounce a spell, the horse-man’s hand is in and on her mouth. She bites, but it doesn’t seem to care. It begins to choke her. The second one ducks under its fellow’s arm and bites her.

Bit my fucking nipple off!!!

She can’t even scream.

Tears of pain well in her eyes, blurring the image of the thing killing her, the third one behind it picking up the baseball bat she keeps by her bed.

They have bones

Mistake not to use the spell

Dying

She remembers another spell.

Imagines her left footie ripping, and it rips, exposing her bare foot. She probes for the outlet, but it’s too far.

So she stretches her leg out magically, the length of two legs, finds the outlet, lays the sole of her foot against it.

Imagines herself made of copper.

Becomes a conduit.

The second one has started biting her ear off.

Bad timing.

To touch her just then.

She dumps so much electricity into the horse-men that they scream horse-screams, hop on their flexed man-feet, convulsing.

She smells equine hair burning.

They drop.

Her windpipe is damaged, but not crushed.

She sucks air.

Coughs.

The third one is almost on her now, bat upraised, a second and a half away from staving in her skull.

It doesn’t get that long.

She cables out her forearm, slamming her palm into its muzzle, grabbing.

She hears a pop! And watches an almost comical plume of smoke ascend from its head as it, too, jerks stiff, then drops and twitches.

Now she’s angry.

She looks at the computer, sees an eye in the corner of the screen.

It blinks twice and vanishes, but too late.

Radha runs at the computer.

Sees her reflection in the black screen, dim, getting larger, blood from her insulted breast blotching the onesie.

She leaps.

Yuri has prepared this spell for a week.

He made the horse-head men in 3-D using the woman’s art as a model. He taught them to kill, taught them not to let her speak.

Now it is time.

He must succeed.

His veiling spell can’t hold much longer, burns too much fuel, and if she finds him, she will destroy him. He knows he’s not as strong as she is. Knows he’s only strong because Baba made him strong, dumped magic into him that she stole from others.