Christopher Buehlman - The Necromancer's House

One chance only.

He watches the monsters come to life, sends them through the screen, thinks he has Chicagohoney85. Thinks she needs her computer, like him, that she will be weak without it, like him. Such creatures would have torn him apart with little difficulty.

But she is not weak.

The spell with the outlet is superlative.

Genius!

“Xhm,” he says, watching it all like a video game that has taken an unfortunate turn. He realizes, intellectually, that he will be in danger now, but he doesn’t feel it in his gut until he sees her notice him, see the eye, feels her lock on to him.

He clicks the camera off, but it is too late.

She pushes a hand through the screen.

He clicks the camera back on, leans away from the grasping hand.

He senses the electricity stored in her, knows she’ll fry him like a herring if she touches him.

He squeals, rolls his chair away.

Now her head is pushing through.

Slowly, as if through clear taffy.

She sees him!

Behind her, one of the horse-men, the one that bit her, is on its knees, puking, barely alive.

But alive enough.

“Plug!” Yuri says in Russian.

It shambles that way.

Radha’s head is halfway through.

He senses powerful magic, knows he’ll die if she speaks.

Now her mouth is through.

Behind her, the monster in her room disappears as it crawls under her computer desk, whinnying in pain.

She hears the whinny.

Hears it crawling, hitting its head on the desk.

Knows what’s about to happen.

No time to reverse direction.

She fucked up.

Instead of saying the Brazilian word that would have made the small man die horribly, she says “No.”

Just says it.

Like a disappointed child.

The monster pulls the plug.

Most of her head and one hand, neatly shorn, fall onto Yuri’s keyboard, the head continuing on to the floor.

Yuri watches the head empty itself on his linoleum, a pool spreading, the girl’s pretty, terrified eyes looking up at the ceiling, seeing it, then not seeing it.

The cat comes to investigate, then skitters away, its one wet paw leaving prints on the floor.

Yuri passes out.

Back in her room, the body, missing one hand, cropped above a severe diagonal line starting at her chin and continuing up through her ears, falls onto the horse-headed man, releasing its stored charge. Both bodies burst into flames. The one that shouldn’t have existed disappears, as do the other two like it.

The police will say Radha Rostami died in a freak power surge.

Her roommate will tell his boyfriend it was spontaneous human combustion.

He will never sleep in that apartment again.

Andrew finds this on his Facebook events page.

Soon! until ???

online

Things look not so good for American who has tried too much too big for his breeches. This dying will be even more fun than CHICAGOHONEY85’s BAD HAIR-CUT!!!! (YOU should check event invites, is not polite to not respond) (BUT me and three friends were there, said hellos for U)

Result: No more help hiding money$$$ for taxes, no more histories from long ago, but, Hey! Still pornography is available! Until ????

This will also be for killing of good man, Mikhail Yevgenievitch D.

And killing of old babushka in Ukraine.

(You’ve been a busy boy!!!!)

To Bring: Just yourself! Books and relics stolen long ago will go back to there true home and if any are missing or destroyed—more people on friends list have similar event planning as yours! (I hope it is so)

Going: Andrew Blankenship

Maybe: Everybody on Andrew’s friends list.

Declined: Radha Rostami

Andrew can’t raise Radha by computer or by telephone.

He doesn’t know if this was a lie, meant to off-balance him, but he suspects it’s not.

This makes him blearily angry where he should be sad.

It puts him in a very bad mood.

He calls Chancho.

Chancho drills him hard, makes him knee the kicking pad in his yard until he feels like he can’t lift his leg again.

Makes him work on “the plum,” wrestling your opponent’s head forward in the A-shaped trap of your arms so you can knee the face and head.

Chancho leaves.

The coin that turns bullets arrives by UPS.

The driver honks cheerily as the brown truck lumbers off.

Morning.

Andrew stands before his brass mirror, surveying himself. His bruising has mostly gone greeny-yellow or faded out. He heals quickly with the youth magic running. He’s about to amp that up, ink in the runners of gray that he allowed in.

Then he remembers a sound.

The sound of glass breaking.

The glass that he charmed not to be broken.

This is what’s draining the magic.

My vanity.

He knows that youth spells burn a lot of fuel; he’s had to finesse his apparent age up a bit—looking twenty-five burns almost everything you’ve got when you’re over fifty, but thirty-five is doable.

Was doable.

It gets exponentially harder every year.

I wonder if you’re too pretty to fight?

He lets a little more gray in.

Feels the house get stronger around him.

It had weakened by degrees, so slowly he hadn’t even noticed.

Only things he used stayed strong, like the gate in the tub.

Would the things in the attic still work?

The vacuum-cockatrice?

The doll’s house?

And now he is going to need offensive magic.

As much as he can muster.

Where else could he economize?

The hiding spells.

I spent months on those!

They’ll be so hard to raise again.

But you know good and goddamned well she’s the one you’re hiding from.

She already knows where the house is.

Fine.

Fine.

I’ll make the house visible.

I’ll shut down the youth spells.

What you see is what you get.

He lets himself get older.

Feels his body stoop just a little.

Feels his muscles thin, develops a pain in his knee.

He sees the fifty-two-year-old smoker with the long hair looking back at him, bruised and hollow in the jaws.

He wants to pin his gray, dry hair up with his cherrywood fork, samurai-style, but sees this as vanity, too. Hair is an antenna for magic; Indians knew this.

Wizards know it.

He leaves his hair down, fans it over his shoulders.

I’m older than my dad ever got.

I’m an old man.

But I’m strong now.

Stronger than ever.

I’m not a fucking user.

I’m a warlock.

He spends the next three hours unweaving the spell he cast to hide the house. The neighbors could already see it, but now passing motorists and kids on bikes would see it, too. Anyone can find it now without first being told or shown.

But if they have bad intentions toward Andrew Ranulf Blankenship, they might wish they hadn’t.

It’s high time to make war magic.

1978.

Yellow Springs, Ohio.