Four Summoner’s Tales

by Kelley Armstrong, Christopher Golden, David Liss

  That was true enough.

  “Now,” he said, “let’s get going. Drinks and whores.”

  “Very well,” I said. I supposed there was no hurry. Lady Caroline was not going to get any more dead than she was already.

  * * *

  We went to a bagnio toward which he felt a particular fondness, and soon he had his arms around a pair of scantily dressed beauties. The proprietress of the establishment appeared astonished to see him alive and healed in his face, but my father dismissed her questions. Rumors of his death were false, and his face was recovered. He then disappeared to a room with his two girls, and left me alone at a table with a bottle of wine and a healthy dose of regret.

  I had no interest in the temptresses employed within those walls, for my heart and my mind were absorbed with Lady Caroline, lying cold and dead somewhere, waiting for me to come to her. A foolish romp with a stranger had no charms to offer me. But as I continued to drink the very indifferent wine, and as I grew increasingly inebriated, it became difficult to fend off the advances of the charmers who sought my attention.

  At last I determined I could hardly be blamed for seeking comfort and release, and so I followed a fair-haired creature called Julia to a private room. There, in the near-darkness, broken only a single flickering candle, she began to kiss me, and for a moment I forgot my troubles and, to a lesser extent, the fact that Julia smelled most distressingly of other men.

  This lovely oblivion lasted but a moment, for soon the door burst open with a terrifying crash, and I jumped back, prepared to explain the misunderstanding. Of course, there was none. This was not some middling man’s wife or daughter, but a whore, and I had no need to explain my actions.

  However, it was no angered spouse come into the room, but my father. He was drunk and staggering, and held a bottle of wine loosely by its neck. He gestured at me with it, and its contents sloshed out upon the floor.

  “You like this one, do you?”

  “Well enough,” I said. “A bit rank, but I’m not inclined to fuss.”

  “Then I’ll have her,” he said.

  I opened my mouth to object but thought better of it. My conflict was not with my father. He was, again, alive, and no doubt that conflict would be coming, but until Sir Albert was dealt with, I was best served by staying out of my father’s way.

  “Very well,” I said. I moved toward the door.

  “No.” With his free hand, he shoved me hard. I staggered backward but did not fall. “You watch. You watch me do what you cannot.”

  “I could,” I said. “I simply choose not to. I also choose not to witness your intimate moments.”

  “You’ve spent so much time among these mincing danglers, you’ve come to speak like one. Now you watch how a real man takes a woman, and you sit there like the eunuch you are. You do what I say, or I leave you to your problems. Maybe I’ll even stick a knife in your back, like you never had the guts to do to me. A hammer to the face, indeed. A real man takes his weapon and thrusts it in, as I’m about to demonstrate.”

  There was no point in objecting. There was no point in refusing. I would indulge my father for the few hours it was necessary to indulge him, and then I would consider my next moves. And so I stayed. I shall spare the reader any more details of this scene. I am forever scarred by it. There is no reason you should be, too.

  * * *

  When he had taken his fill of drink and women and humiliating his only child, my father and I sat in a private room of the bagnio to discuss my situation. He leaned back in his chair, fire behind him, a mug of beer in his hand, and closed his eyes at the pleasure of it all.

  “Swiving whores beats the piss out of being dead,” he told me. “So tell me. How exactly did you, of all people, learn to raise the dead?”

  “There was a book. I found it among your possessions, in fact.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “I think I know the one. I always wanted to keep it, and I never could tell why. Figures though, don’t it? The only worthwhile thing you’ve ever done, and you got it from me.”

  I sighed. “You had the power to do worthwhile things, and you never knew it. I hardly think that is something worth bragging about.”

  He slammed his mug down on the table. “Don’t give me sass! You wanted me, and you got me. Keep your tongue civil, or I’ll beat you until you recall what it is, exactly, you got. Now, you tell me your problem, and don’t leave out none of the details, and I’ll figure out just what I’m going to do about it.”

  And so, I proceeded to tell him everything. I told him how I had found the book, and used it and brought Sir Albert back to life. I told him how I had extorted money from the others and how all of this had attracted the queen’s attention. Finally, I told him how Sir Albert had threatened me and killed Lady Caroline. With only a few hours left before Sir Albert sent his man Hubert after me, I needed a resolution that was both speedy and sure.

  “So, this Sir Albert is a thorny branch up your ass,” he observed, “but you can’t do nothing about him because he’s richer, stronger, smarter, and more ruthless than you.”

  It was not how I would have framed it, but my best course here was to make my father feel like he needed to show me up. “That is correct.”

  “And you want to bring this rich slut of yours back to life. Let me give you a little bit of advice. If you find her soon enough,” he told me, “before she starts to decay, you might want to have your way with her before you bring her back.” He set his feet up on the table. “It’s a pleasure few enough men sample, but I’ve never heard of a one who didn’t enjoy it.”

  I stared at him indignantly. “I shan’t violate her corpse!”

  “No, not a gentleman like you. You only lied to her, brought her dead husband back to life because you knew it would make her miserable, and then took all her friends for what they were worth. But a man’s got to draw the line somewhere, don’t he?”

  I made no answer to this.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me my price for helping you?” he said.

  “I thought, perhaps, bringing you back to life would be sufficient.”

  “You thought wrong,” he told me with a disturbing grin. It was the one he showed when he was pleased to demonstrate his power over me. “I want the method of resurrection. I want the power for myself.”

  “Only the owner of the book may possess the power,” I told him, repressing a smile of triumph. “And you cannot read.”

  “I’ll rip the lips off your face if I think you’re laughing at me, boy,” he said. “As for reading, I can learn, I suppose. But you will have to give me the book, and teach me the method. That will do for the nonce.”

  “Why do you want it?” I asked.

  “Power,” he said with a shrug. “And you met Mrs. Tyler.”

  “Yes,” I said, thinking of his landlady and wondering why she would make him wish to own the book.

  “She changed me,” he said wistfully. “She made me into a different kind of man.”

  “I haven’t seen any evidence of that,” I said.

  “Well, it’s all mixed up now, isn’t it?” he said. “I’m darker than I used to be. I can feel it. Coming back did something to me. And if she and I are going to be together, we need to even things up.”

  “So,” I summarized, “you wish for the book so you can kill the woman you love and then bring her back in the hopes of her being more like you.”

  “That’s it, exactly.”

  It seemed to me a very poor sort of idea to grant the power of life and death to my father, particularly as the first thing he would do is murder an innocent woman in the hopes that she would come back less good-natured. Nevertheless, I was not certain I saw an alternative. I needed a man such as he was, and such a man did not come without his price. I had to choose between saving Lady Caroline and granting godlike power to someone without pity or remorse. I chose to save Lady Caroline, and so I agreed to his terms.

  “It is a power you must handle with respect and
the utmost concern for the good of all mankind,” I said.

  “The devil take your respect and your care,” he said. “If you want to save your highborn bitch, you will give it to me. If you care about all mankind, you will not.”

  “Then I shall give it to you.”

  He took a long drink from his mug. “Grand.”

  * * *

  The next morning, we visited a series of stores that my father might purchase the items he required. We then proceeded at once to visit Sir Albert Worthington. My father stood there in his rough clothes, looking like a rustic. I was in my fine suit, a bit worn from escaping flames and a night in a whorehouse, but otherwise intact. My collar was clean, my buttons glittering, and my sword hung by my side. In sum, I looked ineffectual, and my father looked like a poor sort of servant. It was just the sort of impression I wished to make.

  It was Hubert who answered the door, and it rather surprised me that he would take upon himself so menial a task, but then I suspected I understood the meaning. Given that Sir Albert was going about killing his own wife and such, he had almost certainly sent the servants away. This was so much the better.

  Hubert said very little, perhaps not wishing to perform for us without the audience of his master. He merely led us to the parlor and vanished. Nearly an hour later, he returned, now with Sir Albert, and this time, Hubert appeared far more animated. That both men were amused by our presence, there could be no doubt. Each wore an easy, good-natured smile, as though they were chums freshly returned from an errand of mischief.

  “Well,” said Sir Albert, “you’ve come to pay me a visit. And you’ve brought an old ruffian who stinks of whores and drink. Very kind of you. Now, are you prepared to give me the book?”

  My father cleared his throat and rose to his feet. “Begging your pardon, Sir Albert. I am Mr. January’s father, and he has asked me to come here and speak a few words on his behalf.”

  “On his behalf!” cried Sir Albert. “I’ve never heard the like. Have you heard the like, Hubert?”

  “I have not, sir,” answered Hubert. “On his behalf indeed. This ain’t a funeral, nor nothing like one.”

  “If I may be so bold as to disagree,” said my father. “It is rather like one.”

  So saying he removed his pistols, one from each pocket, and proceeded to shoot both men in their respective heads.

  * * *

  A few minutes later, I revived Sir Albert. He lay on the floor, and when I was finished, he hopped to his feet with astonishing vigor.

  “How dare you!” he cried.

  My father stabbed him in the heart.

  * * *

  I shan’t bore the reader by rehearsing each separate murder. My father bludgeoned, asphyxiated, and beat Sir Albert to his death. He smashed his face into the fireplace stones until his head was a bloody pulp. He gouged out his eyes. He stuck a burning poker down his throat. In short, he died and was revived perhaps a dozen times. I lost count. He might have been garroted twice, though the details are hazy. I can assure my readers that my father rather enjoys garroting.

  I noticed, and this detail was not lost on my father, that after the sixth revival, Sir Albert appeared to have a marked decrease in energy. I did not know if that was a temporary effect or if a person can only be revived a certain number of times before his life energy begins to dissipate. The truth of it hardly mattered, because my father meant to make good use of this fact.

  When I revived Sir Albert after my father had killed him for the final time, I first propped him into a sitting position, and my father placed Hubert’s severed head in his lap, for he had decapitated that worthy, and had made clear that I would, under no circumstances, revive him. Sir Albert opened his eyes and stared in horror. He tried to get up, but he was apparently woozy. He rose and fell down to the floor twice, finally clawing at the wall to gain purchase. He slipped in Hubert’s blood, or perhaps it was his own, but did not fall over.

  “You ain’t what you were,” said my father. His face, his hands, and his clothes were now stained with Sir Albert’s and Hubert’s blood. All of this endless murder had filled him with a manic energy. His eyes were wide, his cheeks flushed, and he breathed heavily. He looked like the embodiment of terror that he, in fact, was. “The effects nibble at you. You don’t feel it the first time, and maybe not the second neither, but as many as we done you, you begin to feel it. Next it will be worse. Might be you don’t have the use of your mind rightly, or your legs don’t work. Can’t put you down for another go neither, since you might well come out the worse for it.”

  “This is preposterous,” said Sir Albert, his voice now slow and somewhat slurred. “How . . . dare you treat me so. Are you in the queen’s service? I demand . . . you tell me.”

  “You don’t demand nothing,” my father said. “Though I’ll tell you because it pleases me to do so that I don’t give a turd for Tory or Whig, Protestant or Papist. I’d take the queen’s coin if she were offering, but it’s too hard to get to at the moment, so I’ll take yours instead. Tell me where you put your wife’s body, and then tell me where you got your valuables, and in exchange, I’ll let you live.”

  “Do you . . . think you can use violence . . . to force my hand?” Sir Albert demanded.

  “You burned down my son’s house and killed your own wife, so I’d say violence is the order of the day.”

  “Your son,” Sir Albert sputtered with contempt. “He can’t . . . he can’t even fight his own battles. He needs . . . his papa to save his precious book.”

  My father laughed. “That’s true enough, but because he needed me, it ain’t his book no more, it’s mine. You have to deal with me now, my popinjay, and you’ve already wished you hadn’t forced my son’s hand, I’ll wager. So now, here’s how it is going to transpire. You will tell us where you put your wife, and if you then run as fast as your legs will carry you, and I never see you more, I shall let you live out your days as best you can without name or money or influence. That’s all there is. You ain’t going to get a better offer. Say no if you like. I’ll just keep on killing you until you say yes. I haven’t yet tried to kill you by cutting off what little you got between your legs. Now that sounds like a right good time.”

  Sir Albert stared at him, and he seemed to know he had been bested. “She’s upstairs . . . upon her bed.”

  “Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” my father said, and he cracked Sir Albert over the head with a fire iron.

  “I thought you weren’t going to kill him again,” I said.

  “I don’t think I did. I just put him to sleep while we make certain everything is as he says.”

  We went upstairs and searched through the various rooms until we found Lady Caroline, upon a bed, cold and still in the grip of death. Her skin was pale and waxy, her lips blue. Her eyes, which were open, looked like clouded marbles. Around her neck, a ring of black bruises told the tale of her brutal murder. I stood in the doorway staring at her, full of hatred for the monster who could have done this to her. There she was, dead, but within my power to restore. And yet, might she be different? Might she be vile? Would the Lady Caroline who came back be the same as the one who died?

  My father appeared behind me. “Now’s your chance,” he told me. “Lift her skirts and have yourself a little taste.”

  I chose to ignore this bit of advice. Instead, I went to work upon her at once, bending over her and beginning the procedure. I had only just started when I felt my father’s rough hand on my shoulder, yanking me back.

  “If you won’t take your fill, I’ll do it for you.” He grinned at me. “Let’s just say there’s one more payment to be made for my services. You can have a go at her or I can. But she ain’t coming back to life until one of us does.”

  I stared at him. “Why?”

  He laughed. “Because that is how I like it.”

  I shook my head. “Why must you be like this? For what possible reason do you wish to torture and crush your own son? Have you no capacity for lov
e or joy or sentiment?”

  He snorted. “This from the boy who struck me in the face with a hammer and stole my money.”

  “You had it coming, as you most certainly know. And, as you say, I might have stabbed you. Will you punish me for showing you that mercy?”

  “For being a coward, you mean,” he said with a derisive laugh. “Don’t pretend to be a saint when all you are is a boy who can’t ever be a man. That’s all there is to it. You’re afraid of me, and I have nothing but contempt for a coward. If you can’t do things as you like, then you’ll damn well do them as I like. Now, will you have a tumble with this dead woman or no?”

  “I will not,” I said with a noble dignity certain to fill him with disgust. “What would Mrs. Tyler say of you if she were here?”

  “Don’t you speak of her,” my father said, jabbing a finger into my chest. “Besides, once I break her neck and bring her back, she’ll be the first to cheer me on. Now, if you are not going to have at her, you shall see it done.” So saying, he began to unbutton his breeches.

  “No,” I said, my voice hardly more than a whisper.

  He continued to unbutton, but he looked at me with a wolfish grin. “What are you going to do about it, boy?”

  I said nothing.

  “That’s what I thought.” He turned away from me, having pulled down his breeches, laughing, no doubt, at the juvenile delight of thrusting his bare buttocks at me. He grabbed Lady Caroline’s skirts and began to lift. Then his eyes went wide, in surprise. He staggered backward, one hand straight out, the other reaching frantically for the waist of his breeches, that he might pull them up. He could not grab them, however, and he tripped over his own clothing, falling facedown onto the cold floor.

  After inserting it into his neck, I had pulled out my hanger at once, and now there was a gaping hole in the flesh, which bled copiously. My father, still lying facedown, raised one hand to the wound, but blood flowed freely past his fingers.

  “You wouldn’t dare,” he said. “You don’t have the courage to take a blade to me.”