Christopher Buehlman - The Necromancer's House

She found her hand, too, the withered Hand of Glory that takes life.

It was in the Thief’s jacket pocket, as if it were a wallet or a bunch of keys!

He respected nothing. This is an American disease.

And now he lies in the melting snow with a coat of ravens barking over him, fighting over his eyes.

The police will come soon, she knows, but they will be easy to charm away; she is good at charming, almost as good as a vampire.

She will need to fill a sack, take what she wants, burn the rest.

She already destroyed the tub in the Thief’s bathroom so the old man could not return.

She will burn the professor in the hut.

She will burn the new witch, too.

Baba drained the new witch close to death to make herself stronger for the fighting, to power the hut and the doll-soldiers without compromising her own strength. As she used to drain the Thief, and many others.

Now she gets nothing from her—she is unconscious or dead.

She will also burn the stick-man with the painting for a head.

It whimpers in the Thief’s bedroom and will not leave. She thought about destroying it, but it is a harmless thing, good for fetching and spying, but unable to think for itself. She will take it apart and smell its magic out before she burns it, though—it is a good spell, one she is unfamiliar with.

The library is safe now.

Various booby-traps sprung at her; a drill broke itself on her head, a minor Hand of Glory tried pathetically to punch her, a rubber snake became a real cobra, which she ate. A nasty bug even tried to slither up her privates, but she turned herself caustic and burned it to a crisp.

She was obliged to play Russian roulette so she could collect the Book of Sorrows ; there’s just no getting around the risk of death to handle that book.

But death is no obstacle to her.

She’s too good at resisting the pull, at finding another warm body to wedge herself into.

Most of them don’t know how to fight to hold on to their skin.

Mostly it’s an easy thing.

And even a witch can be pushed out if taken by surprise.

Now she takes up the sack.

It is heavy—she didn’t stop with her books.

She will take a French book on shapeshifting and an American text on automobiles and a book by Saint Delphinia of Amiens that claims the Revelation of St. John happened in 1348; that angels and devils fought a second war that destroyed Lucifer and left Mammon in charge.

She remembers that time dimly, thinks it may well be true that greed and envy replaced wrath and pride as man’s chief evils.

A pity.

She hoists her sack.

She is about to leave the library when she notices a pretty carved box she had not seen before.

Up on the mantelpiece of the library’s fireplace.

Beneath a painting of an oak tree.

She sets the bag down.

Examines the box, a box of cedar and ivory.

She tries to open it but finds it locked.

She spits in the keyhole and the lock smokes, opens.

A rabbit?

A stuffed rabbit.

She sees her reflection in its shiny, convex eyes, and it surprises her. It always surprises her to see herself young. She prefers the body of a crone, prefers to be underestimated and ignored, to make clear decisions because she is not distracted by a quick womb and its siren song of sex and children.

And she can always make herself look pretty when she needs to seduce.

What is this rabbit?

A relic?

She tries to feel magic, feels only an odd, flat deadness.

She picks it up.

When she does, it opens its mouth and, impossibly, an egg rolls out.

Breaks on the hardwood floor.

This triggers a memory in her, but too late.

“Here is the devil!” she says.

And then it happens.

Andrew Ranulf Blankenship, or his death, or his life essence, or his soul, if you prefer, rushes up from the broken shell and the mess of yolk and albumen on the floor of his library, rushes at the body of his onetime lover.

If he hesitates, she will become aware of him, will defend herself, and he will be a ghost.

He doesn’t give her time.

He pushes for all he’s worth, leaps into her body and crowds it, gives her no room to hide, feels himself in all of her at once.

For a dizzying moment, both of them occupy the flesh of the unfortunate Marina Yaganishna, but the old witch is surprised. Off-balance.

She tries to hold on.

If she gains purchase, he will lose.

He does something he understands as bracing his foot against her hip bone and straining at her, pushing her up and out through the nose and mouth.

The mouth of Marina Yaganishna opens and she wails as if in labor. Clenches her fists. But she can’t hold. Momentum and surprise are his, and he pushes her out of the body she stole.

And takes it for himself.

Baba Yaga, or her death, or her life essence, or her soul if you prefer, sees the body of Marina Yaganishna from the outside. Sees that it has clenched its muscles, sees that the warlock is breathing slowly out, keeping rigid. She rushes at him, tries to push, but it is an easier thing to defend a body than to take one, provided you know you are under attack.

She sees herself drop to her knees, clutch them against her chest.

The Thief has done his reading—if he tried to stand up in that new body, with all his strange muscles twitching and the matter of the brain rippling to accommodate the new thought patterns and the new thinker, he would be vulnerable, and she could push him right back out.

But he, or she now, drops to the ground and breathes.

Throws up the pork and apples she had for lunch—nausea is normal.

Keeps breathing, keeps her muscles tensed so she is aware of her perimeter, so she can inventory all her parts.

Baba sees this is fruitless.

She is being shut out.

For now.

And then.

Oh God.

It comes.

The light.

The warm and welcoming light.

Her son, sweet, weak Misha, went into the light already to play with kittens and sit on the lap of Jesus and play the balalaika or whatever people do there where all are equal.

To hell with that!

All are not equal.

The warm light waits just outside the wall of the library and she knows she could move right through that wall and into it, but then she would not be smarter or stronger than anyone else, and that sounds like hell to her.

She might even be judged, if the priests are right.

But she was there before the priests came to her land.

She was there when the dead were burned in huts on little hills with rings of poles all around.

She was still a girl when she asked the woman who talked to Chërt, the dark-god, to help her get rid of her mother’s new husband, the sneering one who preferred fucking her, fucked her whenever her mother went out. And he sent her out a lot. How she hated the sight of his teeth as he sneered and grunted over her, sweated down on her. Hated the sound of him standing and pissing outside the hut.

Mother Damp-Earth never answered her prayers, but dark-god did.

Her mother’s husband fell in a hole; his brothers saw hands grab him, saw a hand with a rock break his teeth out, saw another hand rip his cock off before the black earth stopped his screams and he was gone forever.

What was her own name then?

It was too long ago to remember. She used to write it down, but then she lost it and lost interest in finding it again.

She thinks she hears Misha’s voice coming from the light.

Baba. Come to me here. It’s good here.

Are you my father to tell me what to do? You come here.

I don’t want to.