Necromancing the Stone

by Lish McBride

  I grinned.

  Murray looked first at Ramon and then at my stupidly grinning face. “You seem like such nice boys, but I think that, in the future, I will try not to cross you.”

  “I can honestly say that’s probably very wise of you,” Ramon said, returning to his march as he began whistling a merry tune, Nick’s head bobbing in counterpoint the whole way.

  21

  I GOT CAT CLASS, AND I GOT CAT STYLE

  Douglas was drifting. He didn’t dare keep the Stygian coin on all the time. It was unlikely that anyone would think to search for him—that was one of the positives of being dead—but if they did, the coin would make their job easier.

  The problem was, when he didn’t wear it, he had a hard time staying anchored in the here and now. It was so easy to drift into the past and away from what mattered. Douglas had spent most of his life as a focused kind of individual, so he found this development disturbing, to say the least. He didn’t particularly enjoy remembering the past.…

  *

  The driver had been chattering incessantly since he’d picked Douglas up from the train station.

  “So after I got back, I spent all my clams on this beauty. Hits on all sixes, she does. How ’bout you, young man, you in the war?”

  “I was … at school.” Nicely vague. You couldn’t really tell people you weren’t out performing your civic duties because you were too busy raising the dead. Something about his tone put the driver off, and the rest of the trip, while not entirely silent, was at least free from questions.

  Douglas was surprised when the taxi took him to a middle-class neighborhood. The merchandise he’d come for was top end, which meant wealth. Sure, unexplainable wealth sometimes led to questions or made one stick out, but conversely he knew that this was the kind of neighborhood that asked questions. The houses, lined up in neat little brick rows, were close enough for gossip to slither easily amongst them.

  None of his business, he supposed. He asked the taxi driver to wait, slipping him the fare he owed already to keep the car idling. Then he stepped into the cold spring rain, buttoning up his overcoat as he did so.

  He used the brass knocker, noticing that the paint on the door was chipped and worn. Negligence, or more camouflage? He’d have to inspect carefully in case the former was a habit. Purchasing something that would get sick and die ran counter to the purpose of buying a live assistant in the first place. Not that Douglas had ever had an assistant. Since Auntie Lynn had died—and didn’t that thought bring a smile to his lips?—he’d been content to be on his own. But a few years had gone by now, and while he didn’t feel lonely per se, he figured that an extra set of hands would be useful.

  A beleaguered old woman opened the door and ushered him in. She shambled into the back, beckoning him to follow. Taking in her tattered skirts and head covering, Douglas decided she originated from somewhere in Eastern Europe. Without a word, she deposited him into a room where a man sat drinking brandy by the fire. The man was much younger than the woman, but there was some resemblance, enough to make Douglas guess that this was her son.

  “Mr. Smith, I presume?” He smiled at the obviously fake name. This man was no more a Smith than he was a kangaroo.

  “Ah, Mr. Montgomery!” The man stressed the Mr., a small jibe at Douglas’s obvious youth, and grabbed him roughly and joyously by the arms, kissing his cheeks briskly. “It is fine to see you! As they say, at last we meet!” He let go and waved him to a moth-eaten chair. “Come, come! Enjoy the fire! May I offer you a refreshment?” Smith’s eyes narrowed as he said this.

  This is where things got thorny. To refuse would be rude. To accept could prove folly. What if the man poisoned his drink? That way he could pocket the money Douglas had on him for the sale, dump the body, and then keep using the merchandise as a lure. Not a wise business practice in the long run, but Douglas had no evidence to suggest that the man in front of him had any more wisdom than a wooden post.

  Then again, if he didn’t accept, he was showing weakness. He took a small brandy, watching as the man poured himself some from the same bottle. Douglas’s shoulder relaxed a fraction, and the man smiled. They drank to health and wealth before the man sat and got down to business.

  “You wish to see him now, yes? Why waste time with words when you could judge with eyes.” The man shouted something in another language, and not one of the ones Douglas was familiar with. Eastern European, he was sure now, but beyond that, he couldn’t guess. A few seconds passed and then the old lady returned, followed by a young boy.

  “He’s still learning English, but he speaks it well enough,” Smith said.

  Douglas ignored him and focused on the child. He looked no more than ten, possibly a little younger, though it was hard for Douglas to judge such things, as he hadn’t spent much time around other children while he was growing up. Tall and thin, either due to a growth spurt or being underfed. Considering the boy’s worth, he’d be surprised if it was out of neglect, but then again people abused things of worth all the time. Carriage drivers beat their horses, lords beat their servants, and husbands beat their wives. It was a very human thing to do.

  The child waited calmly, and if being scrutinized bothered him, he didn’t show it. Douglas looked him over slowly, even going so far as to examine the boy’s teeth. And still he stood there, hands behind his back, silver eyes watching Douglas calmly.

  “They say you speak English?”

  “Yes,” he said, with a similar accent to Smith’s.

  Douglas nodded. “What is your name?” From his research he knew that if the boy answered, it would tell him that he’d been owned before. The man could have taught him not to answer, of course, but Douglas felt he should try anyway. He could most likely tell if the youth was lying.

  The boy regarded him with amusement, like he’d performed a funny trick. “I do not have a name yet. We are named by our first masters, and I have not had one.”

  “What do they call you, then?”

  This amused the boy even more. “Boy. You. It does not matter.”

  “Have you mastered both forms?”

  The amusement was transformed into a look of approval, making Douglas feel like he’d finally asked a proper question.

  The boy reached up and took the small hat off his head, with a smile. Then, without a word or movement, he shifted like smoke. A dragon the size of a puppy fluttered in his place. He zipped around the room with a tiny roar, stretching his wings out, barrel-rolling with obvious joy. This went on for a minute or two, then the dragon hovered closer to the ground and shifted again. It was like watching the sands of an hourglass pour out from the shape of a dragon to a white-and-black kitten.

  The kitten mewed at him, the quicksilver eyes large in the minute face. Though the sound was the scratch-crackle of a kitten, the message was unmistakable. A sort of “See? Now ask for something difficult.” The kitten began cleaning its paw and ignoring him completely.

  Douglas fished a quarter out of his pocket surreptitiously before tossing it quickly into the air. The silver flashed as it flipped; the picture of Lady Liberty on the newly minted coin flopping to the flying eagle so quickly that they were a blur. It never hit the floor—it didn’t even make it to the top of its arc. The kitten so focused on cleaning between its toes became the dragon in a blink, caught the coin, and turned into the boy before landing. The quarter, Lady Liberty side up, sat in his pink palm, which he held out to Douglas.

  He leaned in and curled the boy’s fingers around the coin. Before he could say “keep it,” the coin was gone, secreted away in some pocket or hidey-hole.

  Smith grunted. “So? You made a decision, or are we going to do the parlor tricks all day?”

  Douglas put a hand on the boy’s shoulder and pulled a stack of bills out of his inner suit pocket. He tossed them at Smith. “The price that we discussed.”

  The man grabbed the money greedily, and Douglas could see the urge to count it out making the man’s fingers twitch. Only t
he fear that Douglas would take it as an insult kept him from doing so. Though still young, his reputation was already spreading.

  Smith pocketed the cash and, without looking at the boy, said, “Go get your things.” The boy didn’t move. The man scowled. “I said go get your things.”

  “You are not my master,” the boy said, matter-of-factly. “You are not even my caretaker. Money has changed hands, and so have I.”

  The glower deepened on Smith’s face, and his skin took on a reddish hue. The tart behavior might have angered Smith, but it pleased Douglas to no end. After all, a good companion should have a bit of spine to him.

  Before Smith could start yelling, Douglas gave the boy a small push and told him to get his things. Without a second look at the angry man, he did just that.

  *

  “Don’t you want to know where we are going?” Douglas asked. They were in the car and well away from Smith’s house. The boy hadn’t said a word.

  Without taking his silver eyes off the scenery flashing by the window, he said, “Would you like me to ask?”

  “Boy—” Douglas said and then stopped. “I can’t keep calling you that.”

  “Then give me a name.” They might have been discussing the weather for as much interest as the child showed.

  He put his hands in his lap and watched Douglas. He showed no interest, no sign that he was invested in the conversation at all, but Douglas felt this might be a ruse. Perhaps a test to see what kind of master he would be, that this naming would set up the paradigm that they would follow from now on.

  Having come to this conclusion, Douglas had an idea how to handle the situation. “What would you like to be called?”

  When the boy looked at him, he had the same expression that he’d had earlier when Douglas asked whether he could change forms, the one that said he’d done something properly.

  He thought for a moment, hands folded calmly in his lap, his eyes looking to the heavens. “James,” he said. “I’ve always been partial to ‘James.’ When we were staying in London, there was a man who sold sweets in the shop on the corner. That was his name. He always gave me an extra bit of licorice. I had to smile for it, though.” He mused on that for a moment. “Do they have licorice in this country?”

  “They do.”

  The boy digested this. “May I have some?”

  Douglas nodded in agreement. “I won’t even make you smile for it.” He held out his hand. “Welcome to the family, James.”

  James shook it solemnly before letting it go and returning to his vigil. “So, Master, where are we going?”

  “We’re going home, James. We’re going home.”

  22

  GET OUTTA MY DREAMS, GET INTO MY CAR

  Uncle Nick came to sometime on the hike down. He didn’t look super happy, but then again, he didn’t complain either. He kept an eye on Ramon for the rest of the trip, even though my friend was just smiling and whistling. I scratched Taco’s head and tried to hide my own smile.

  Ramon offered to drive, since he wasn’t nearly as worn out as I was. Or as angry. He didn’t have a license yet, but Pello was a poor choice, and I was exhausted. No one asked Nick. I’d have to add sending Ramon to the DMV to my to-do list. As I curled up in the back seat, my brain already going fuzzy with sleep, it occurred to me that if we’d done this hike last year, Ramon would have been as beat as I was. Floating on that thought was the fact that I was probably the only one in the car—besides my uncle, and I was choosing to ignore his presence—who could still be considered human. If I could still be considered that at all. I was still human, wasn’t I? It hurt to think about, and I was too tired, so I stored it for another day. I put it right under the festering guilt that the reason my best friend was probably out of the human category was completely on my head.

  My uncle was letting me ignore him, which was difficult since he was sitting right next to me. Ramon had to be in the front to drive, of course, and it was hard for Pello to sit in the back with his goat legs. I had a pretty complicated relationship with my uncle Nick, considering I hadn’t seen him since I was an infant. When I was only a few hours old, my mother and Nick had decided that it would be best if I could remain under Douglas Montgomery’s radar. So out of fear, they bound my powers and didn’t tell me about it until recently. It had made me extremely vulnerable, and though I kept telling myself that they did it out of kindness, I still got mad sometimes.

  I know the two aren’t completely analogous, but my binding reminds me of a spiritual chastity belt. You know, the big metal underpants that noblemen used to put on their wives and daughters when they weren’t around to “keep them pure for their own good”? Apparently, their own good meant no physical comfort and the risk of infection, and added a strange hitch to their step. Mine didn’t involve something so humiliating as metal underwear, but spiritually it was the same thing. They cut me off from a natural part of myself, hobbling my growth. Yes, they did it because they thought it was their most viable course of action, but I bet those noblemen thought the same thing. The phrase “for your own good” always makes me hesitate, because sometimes it is, but usually what they actually mean is “for my own good.”

  Ramon broke the tense silence. “So where are we taking you?”

  I caught Nick glancing at me from the corner of my eye. I didn’t look over.

  “Tia’s,” he said. “If that’s okay.”

  I felt my jaw tighten involuntarily. Taco, who had been sleeping in my lap, rolled over and growled softly at him.

  “You’re angry, and you have every right to be, but we did what we thought was best.”

  “I know,” I said. “But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.” Then I childishly turned away from him, curled up around Taco, and went to sleep.

  *

  I was in the basement again. That’s how I knew it was a dream. No way in hell I’d voluntarily be down there hanging out. I was sitting in an old wooden chair, staring at the cage. Douglas was in it. He looked like I’d last seen him—hole in his throat, blood staining his front, but his manner was calm as he stared back at me.

  “Let me out,” he said. “I can’t search in here.”

  I shook my head. “No way, bucko. You put yourself there, not me.”

  “You think this can hold me?” He knocked the cage door open with a shove.

  Fear seeped into my core, but I stayed in my chair. “You can’t do that,” I said. “You’re dead.” Douglas laughed his cold, creepy laugh, and we were suddenly in the Tongue & Buckle drinking at the bar. Our pint glasses were filled with blood, and I didn’t want to drink mine.

  “You have to,” Douglas said. “It’s part of who you are.”

  I shoved the glass away, and it shattered on the floor. Aengus came up carrying a jar of pickled eggs, which I’ve never actually seen in a bar, but for some reason I associate them with bars anyway. He looked down at the spilled blood with a sigh and handed me the jar of pickled eggs. They were a sickly greenish color, and I gagged.

  “Don’t just sit there,” he said, tossing a bar rag on the counter. “Come clean up your mess.”

  “It’s not my fault,” I said, even though I had shoved the glass.

  Aengus shrugged. “Still a mess. Still needs cleaning.” Then he walked away. I tried to get up and walk over to the other side of the bar, but the jar kept getting heavier and heavier. The floorboards cracked and gave way. I was underground, the roots grabbing at me, dirt spilling into my eyes and mouth. I screamed.

  Douglas’s face appeared in the hole above my head. I yelled at him to get me out, but he just shook his head.

  “Not until you hand it over.”

  I didn’t know what he meant, so I just kept screaming. Well, I kept screaming until Pello whacked me with a soda bottle and I jerked up in my seat. Sweaty and shaking, I rolled down the window and gulped at the fresh air.

  “You okay?” Ramon asked. Nick stared at me, concerned. I leaned my head against the side of the car, letting the
breeze cool me down. I closed my eyes and grabbed the pouch around my neck. The beads bit into my hand—it felt strangely reassuring.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Just a bad dream.”

  “If you say so,” Ramon said, his voice tinged with worry. I didn’t respond, but kept my eyes closed, allowing the breeze to push the last of my dream away.

  I’d become pretty used to nightmares the last few months. You don’t survive getting kidnapped, thrown in a cage, tortured, and then killing a man without experiencing a few restless nights. Unless you’re a sociopath, I guess. But I wasn’t, or at least I was pretty sure I wasn’t, and the dreams had been pretty regular. My mom had a natural sleep aid that she made, and I’d taken to putting a few drops of it in some water before I went to bed every night. It helped me sleep heavily, and I tended to remember my dreams less. It also helped for those times when I didn’t want to spend the whole night chatting with restless spirits.

  But the last few nightmares felt different, and I couldn’t quite figure out what it was. Something tucked away somewhere in the folds of my brain was nagging me, and I tried to coax it out, but no deal. I put my medicine bag back under my shirt.

  “You want to talk about it?” Nick asked softly.

  “No, and with you, double no.”

  “Okay, but the guys have been filling me in with what’s been happening in town, and it seems like it might be a good idea—”

  “I really don’t want to talk about it right now.” My brain was still fuzzy with sleep, and I was having a hard time dislodging the nightmare from it.

  Nick wearily rubbed his face with his hand. “Look, Murray got me a temporary pass so I could help him out for a few weeks, but I came up here to apply to the Council for a permanent stay.”

  “Is that so?” I said softly.

  His shoulders slumped slightly in a defeated fashion. “I know you need time to process, but I’m not sure we have that time. So for now, while things are the way they are, do you think we could call a truce? You can hate me all you want, but you might need me.”