The Necromancer's House

by Christopher Buehlman

  Andrew white-knuckles the table.

  Now the piano man aborts the Doobie Brothers song he had just started, bangs his hands discordantly on the keys, looks at Andrew, and says, “May I sit?”

  Nobody else notices.

  They sway and drink and talk as if they’re still hearing the song.

  The harmonica man plays on.

  “Sure,” Andrew says.

  The chair opposite him pulls out on its own and the empty Dionysus collapses into it, the grape leaf garland and mask landing on top, the eyeholes fixed on the ceiling.

  The waitress, a depressive woman with a lazy eye and a Who Dat? T-shirt, plucks the crown of grape leaves from the chair and walks it over to the piano player, fitting it down over his hat.

  “Thank you, Felicity. Your next period will be crampless.”

  “Awesome,” she says, sounding upbeat for the first time tonight.

  The piano player tickles the keys and speaks to Andrew again.

  “I believe you’re the only person in this establishment drinking virgin soda water. You profane my temple, sir.”

  “Ichabod?”

  “At your service, as ever.”

  “I called you hours ago.”

  “You commanded me to appear before you. You did not specify a time.”

  Everyone around the piano claps and cheers.

  A man in a ridiculous toupee reaches past other celebrants to tuck a fiver in the well-stuffed tip pitcher.

  The waitress points at the musician’s near-empty glass by way of asking him if he’d like another drink.

  “Absinthe,” he calls to her.

  Looks back at Andrew.

  “What is your pleasure, O magus?”

  “I have a question, but I’d like to ask it in private.”

  “Ask away! Nobody’s listening.”

  Now everyone in the bar turns and looks at Andrew.

  “Ichabod.”

  “I know. The manners in this city aren’t what they used to be. Friends, might we have a little privacy?”

  The drinkers all put their fingers in their ears, still staring at Andrew.

  Andrew’s fear grows, but then he remembers he’s in charge.

  Sort of.

  “That was good,” he tells it.

  “They’re easier to control when they’re drunk. But you know about that.”

  He plays a little piano riff.

  “Make them stop.”

  “MAKE THEM STOP!” they all say.

  “I command you.”

  “I COMMAND YOU!”

  “Do you really?” the piano player says.

  His buddy starts making a train noise with the harmonica.

  “Yes,” Andrew says.

  The harmonica choos like a train whistle.

  The harmonica player now lowers his harmonica, looks at Andrew too.

  Silence.

  The piano man spins his garlanded hat, puts it back on his head at a more rakish angle.

  “I choose to interpret ‘Make them stop’ as ‘Make them stop living.’ That’s a tall order. Forty souls in this room, including the piano man. I’ll have to tamper with a gas line.”

  “That’s not . . .”

  The waitress comes back with a glass of liquid that glows green like antifreeze. The piano man takes it.

  Nods at her and says, “Forty-one!”

  “My life sucks anyway!” she says.

  “Forty-one dead in New Orleans gas explosion, America’s oldest bar destroyed. You and I will survive, of course. But this is going to be on CNN!” says the piano player.

  “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

  “I don’t have to know what you meant. I only have to know what you said. Now either you insist and they all die, or I disobey. Your call entirely.”

  Now everyone in the bar drops to both knees, bowing their heads, their hands extended palms up in supplication.

  “No, that’s more classical, isn’t it? Let’s do something modern.”

  Now they all look up, interlace their fingers, tears streaming down their cheeks as if they were all attached to the same irrigation system.

  Andrew can’t speak.

  “Just say ‘live’ or ‘die.’ I won’t insist on protocol.”

  Andrew’s mind races. He can’t think of a way out of this.

  “Friends,” it says. “I believe the wizard fears to slacken my leash, even just a little. If you have any last words, now would be a good time to say them.”

  They speak in chorus.

  “NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO SLEEP

  I PRAY THE LORD MY SOUL TO KEEP

  IF I DIE BEFORE I WAKE

  THE PIANO MAN MY SOUL TO TAKE.”

  All eyes rest on the magus.

  The sound of gas hissing rises up.

  One of the candles leaps.

  “Live!” Andrew says.

  The hissing stops.

  The candle leaps again, throwing too much light, casting the piano man’s shadow against the brick wall behind him, but of course it isn’t a man—tentacles, a writhing squid, just a split second of that.

  Now he bangs out “Happy Days Are Here Again” on the piano.

  All the drinkers look at each other, reach out to each other. They kiss indiscriminately, with no regard to age or gender. They begin to reach down pants, up skirts, fish out breasts.

  A wild-eyed Asian man on his knees begins to stroke Andrew’s thigh. Andrew moves away forcefully, stands up. The Asian man attaches himself to another couple, pets them, is petted in return.

  “Shall I make them stop?” asks the grinning piano man.

  Andrew speaks slowly, considering every word.

  “I, Andrew Ranulf Blankenship, command you by the conditions of your entry into this sphere, and by the power of the words I here intone, which bind you to my service, to release all men and women currently in your power from said power, and to restore them to the state of independent thought and action in which you discovered them upon your entry to this building.”

  The piano player stops playing.

  “Nicely done.”

  Raises his glass to Andrew.

  It’s going to leave before I can ask it if the witch is really dead.

  “To you, sir. And to wormwood.”

  He knocks back his absinthe.

  “Ichabod, wait . . .”

  The room blurs.

  The bearded boy in the bowler hat belts out “Werewolves of London,” his friend accompanying him on the harmonica.

  The entity

  it’s a demon just say it

  is gone.

  It came on its own terms and fucked with him until it got him to make a mistake.

  It inched that much closer to liberty.

  It kicked his ass.

  Haint never comes, does not answer subsequent texts.

  When Andrew gets back to the restaurant, he finds it closed and locked.

  He will sleep among the crypts in the cemetery north of the Quarter, not far from Marie Laveau. He will sleep there, unafraid of molestation; he will make himself invisible.

  Failing that, he has other means of self-defense.

  Very persuasive means, indeed.

  It will be the next day before Andrew takes his Hand of Glory and his unanswered question back through the rabbit hole, back to Dog Neck Harbor, New York.

  To you, sir.

  And to wormwood.

  64

  Cayuga County Deputy Brant McGowan follows the red Toyota on a hunch.

  Just slips behind it as it pulls out of the Fair Haven gas station, decides to try to get a look at the driver.

  A child abduction in Syracuse has everybody from here to Watertown on edge. This is the s
econd one in two weeks, but the only one they’ve got a lead on. First one was an infant snatched from its stroller, just gone and nobody knows when or how, and that was in Red Creek. Mother is the primary person of interest. This time, some creep yanked a toddler off his sister’s arm while they were walking back from the park just two blocks from home. The suspect appears in flashes on a security camera, swooping up from his parked red Toyota Prius, the action reminding Brant of a trap-door spider he saw at an insect zoo when he was a kid. Not so long ago. Deputy McGowan is a young man.

  So was the perp in the video. Young, and dirty to be in that kind of car.

  Deputy McGowan is off duty, coming home from Auburn in his own Saturn—not the kind of vehicle to draw attention, although he would freely admit his sunglasses look a bit coppish.

  He doesn’t think the driver knows he has a tail.

  He’s seen maybe three of the distinctive Toyota hybrids in red since he saw the footage, but this is the first one driven by a male. Also the first one that makes his guts crawl. He has only seen the driver from behind so far, sees that it’s a bald or short-haired man, indeterminate age. He needs to get up beside him for a proper peek, but the one-lane roads here in farm country won’t allow for that unless he goes to pass.

  Might as well stick with him for a while.

  As it turns out, he sticks with him all the way to Marsh Road.

  When he sees the Prius slow down and signal to turn off 104A, he has to decide whether to turn with it; if he does, there will be no ambiguity. The guy will know he’s being followed. If it’s the guy, that is. Most honest citizens don’t notice shit unless they’ve got a good reason to.

  He turns, too, keeping a good distance behind, almost letting him get out of sight.

  Got a glimpse of him as he turned.

  Older guy, big beard.

  Too old to be the perp.

  But maybe he’s not the only one who drives that car.

  When the beardy guy turns up the dead-end road leading to the cabins, the game is definitely up; he can’t just swivel in there after him. He drives past the turn, pulls in the driveway of a house, sits there until the Toyota is out of sight.

  Wasn’t there a disappearance out this way, maybe these cabins?

  Yeah . . . German tourist or something. State police said they got some weird DNA, but no body, no suspect.

  A woman peeps at him through drapes.

  He pretends to be checking something on his phone, pulls out, parks a bit farther down.

  Heads down the road to the cabins on foot.

  Just a guy taking a stroll.

  In cop glasses.

  I really suck at this.

  I left my gun in the car.

  I’ll never be a detective.

  I need a story in case he talks to me.

  He sees the Prius now.

  Walks closer to the trees, in shadow now, pretends to look at his phone again.

  Sees the man getting out.

  Kind of a smarty-arty-looking old dude.

  Getting something out of the back now.

  A cage?

  A cage.

  With a rooster in it!

  Flapping its wings halfheartedly, feathers floating.

  The man wrinkles his nose.

  Takes the cage in the house.

  What does a latte-drinking guy like that want with a rooster?

  Should I go talk to him?

  I’ll say I’m looking for a buddy’s cabin.

  Bob?

  Too generic.

  Kyle.

  Big guy with a red beard, having a keg party.

  He’ll hate that, he’ll be so busy hating it he won’t stop to wonder if I’m a cop, if he’s not involved.

  If he’s not, who cares?

  Might tip him off if he’s involved.

  Looks twitchy, wonder if he’s scared about something.

  I’d like to know what.

  If anyone else lives there, I might see who.

  Movement behind him.

  He turns around, but whatever it was is still or gone.

  Squirrel.

  No, bigger than a squirrel.

  He looks back toward the house.

  All still and quiet.

  Don’t think anyone else lives there.

  This is stupid.

  He stands with his arms folded, weighing the pros and cons of approaching the house.

  Something weird’s going on here, but weird isn’t illegal. I don’t think this is the guy. And if it is, I’m more likely to fuck things up than make myself useful. Still, I’ll tell Syracuse about the car and chicken-man, see if they want somebody on duty to roll by and ask questions.

  He senses motion behind him now, turns around just too late again.

  Birds flutter near the crowns of the trees.

  His hand strays to where his gun should be.

  He decides it’s official.

  He’s creeped out.

  Hell with this.

  He walks back down the road now, feeling watched.

  He walks more quickly.

  Strong late-afternoon sun, not even close to dark, and he feels like a teenaged girl in a graveyard.

  Laughs at himself.

  Still walks fast, though.

  He sees his car.

  Something’s different.

  I had the window up.

  Now it’s down.

  Did I have it up?

  He approaches the car from the blind spot just in case.

  Pops his trunk with the fob.

  A slate-gray Volkswagen Jetta slides by, the driver eyeing him suspiciously.

  He waves without meaning to, an instinct.

  Puts on his gun belt.

  Feels better.

  Looks in the window, sees nobody, relaxes a bit.

  Sits down, a chill going through him.

  Damn it’s cold in here, I was running the air but damn.

  Freon leak or something?

  He starts the car.

  Cocks the mirror to look at himself, thinks he looks ridiculous in his badass shades.

  Opens the glove box to put them away and get a piece of gum.

  Sees it.

  The antler.

  He checks his windows and mirrors again to make sure there’s nobody near the car, then looks at it again.

  It’s a goddamned antler, an antler from a young buck.

  He nearly picks it up, then thinks about DNA and prints and decides not to touch it until he has a sandwich bag.

  It really is cold in the car, cold enough to make him put the heat on.

  He closes the glove box and drives off with his sunglasses on, chewing no gum.

  65

  The men in the slate-gray Volkswagen Jetta don’t talk much.

  They are on their way to avenge Mikhail Dragomirov, whom Georgi believes was murdered by a female associate of one Andrew Blankenship, who lives on Willow Fork Road, but whose dwelling should be identified by a turquoise Mustang from the late sixties, what Americans of a certain age call a muscle car.

  Sergei Alexandrovich Rozhkov doesn’t like this.

  He doesn’t like Georgi, either.

  Sergei is nearly seventy-seven, but still vigorous. Still dangerous. His son back in Brooklyn looks older than he does now, ever since the liver problems turned him the color of bad salmon.

  Georgi is not his son.

  Georgi is the nephew of an old friend, the kind of friend you do inconvenient things for.

  Even when that friend is dead.

  Georgi has stumbled into his midthirties, neither fully American nor truly Russian, too scared to join the mob, an honest citizen who doesn’t notice shit. The man they passed on the road was a policeman
putting on a gun. Georgi looked at him obviously, drawing his attention. Getting his own face looked at. There would have been no room for such a man in the Odessa operation, but that was a long time ago now.

  What’s more, he’s clearly in love with his estranged cousin, the niece, and wants to impress her by killing those who may or may not have killed Misha. The little niece believes it was this Blankenship, a man of small consequence, who killed Misha over a whore, and she won’t say how she knows this.

  Sergei is all but sure Misha drowned.

  It’s always this way. When we lose someone we love, we want a villain. What if the villain was the whiskey Misha was drinking and the currents in the lake? He should shoot a bottle of scotch, empty a clip into the lake, and go home.

  Misha was a good man, strong at chess, a genius with numbers, but he comes from a degenerate tribe with their best days behind them. Everybody’s best days are behind them. The world has become a playground of idiots and zealots, where the ever-shrinking center of reasonable men must work harder and harder to keep the lights on and the bombs from going off.

  Sergei wants to go back to Brooklyn and get out of this paradise of horseshit and apples where you must drive everywhere.

  He misses the pastrami at the deli on the street full of Greeks.

  Now they wind their way up Willow Fork Road, looking for a house that doesn’t seem to be there.

  “This address she gave us is correct?”

  Sergei speaks English because Georgi spends too long searching for his words in Russian and this is annoying.

  Georgi answers him in Russian anyway.

  “I don’t know. She says so, but his address is not listed. The Mustang is known; the . . . what is the word? sales record has been found. On the Internet. And this color, blue-green and bright.”

  Sergei says the Russian word for turquoise.

  Georgi switches to English.

  “Yes, biryuzoviy. It’s an unusual color, and an unusual car. Look,” he says, showing him a cut-out page from an auto sales magazine, a 1968 Mustang circled in red pen, a tiny skull drawn badly near it.

  “It’s a nice car,” Sergei says.

  They come to the end of the road, execute a three-point turn, and go back.

  And then, good luck!

  The turquoise Mustang appears from a tree-hidden drive that seems to lead to no house; it has to be the same car. And it is a magnificent beast. It takes a right onto the road and tears out, using its big, Vietnam-era motor to vault down the winding road. The motor is louder than those in modern cars; it sounds powerful, like a predator. And classic. The man who owns such a car will be good with his hands, a good worker. It occurs to Sergei that he may like the man in the Mustang more than the nephew of his old associate.