The Necromancer's House by Christopher Buehlman Read Free Book Online Page B

feeling dizzy with exhaustion, but Chancho wants him to push through it, so he does, the sweat drenching his long hair even in its ponytail, making his bare chest glisten and soaking the waistband of his jeans.
    â€œNow you. Twist at the hips so I feel it. You’re little, so it’s even more important for you to get your hips in it. I want twenty on each side.”
    When the drenched and reeking pads are lying on the table and the panting men sit down on their benches, Salvador walks from the back door carrying Mexican Coca-Cola bottles on a tray.
    â€œGood boy,” Andrew says. “Thank you.”
    Six years now since he used his secret books to bring the dog back. Chancho watches Salvador with a fixed eye; looking away from the clockwork figure is difficult, especially when he swivels his Dalí head around to meet your gaze. The thing moves so . . . fluidly.
    Chancho likes Mexican Coke because it’s in glass bottles and has sugar, not that corn syrup crap they drench everything in now.
    He likes it so much he doesn’t cross himself when he takes the bottle from the stick-man.
    Instead he turns his gaze on Andrew.
    â€œYou’ve got to quit smoking.”
    Andrew, who knows how green he looks, just nods, sipping his cola.
    â€œI know. But isn’t that pretty pot-kettle? You smoke.”
    The sweat on the green bottles looks heavenly to Chancho and he studies his, pressing it now to the side of his temple.
    â€œI know.”
    â€œYou smoke
my
cigarettes, for fuck’s sake.”
    â€œYour cigarettes are
good
.”
    â€œSo buy some. They’ll sell ’em to you.”
    â€œGot to go to the hippie shop for that.”
    â€œI’m just saying a smoker ought not tell a man to quit.”
    â€œI don’t wheeze like a busted vacuum. I ought to quit. You
got
to quit.”
    â€œMaybe.”
    â€œAin’t there a
pinché
spell for that?”
    â€œYeah. It’s right next to the one for quitting drinking.”
    Chancho smiles.
    â€œMaybe we could get you a hip’motist.”
    â€œEver seen one?”
    â€œHeard about ’em.”
    â€œWell, they scare me fuckless,” Andrew says. “I saw one make a guy think he came all over himself right at a café table, so that when the waitress came the guy pulled the tablecloth half off trying to cover up his lap.”
    Chancho laughs, broadly enough to show the gap where the tooth behind the canine should have been.
    â€œFunny. A man scaring
you
. Just a man, I mean. When you play with dead girls and dead dogs and stuff. That fishy girl, you said she kilt herself, right?”
    â€œHer sister stole her man and she threw herself off the bluffs.”
    â€œMcIntyre Bluffs?” Chancho asked.
    Andrew nodded.
    â€œâ€™Cause I know a guy took his lady there and they both fell off f’ing. Only nobody died. But he got his back broke, but could still walk. I think she landed on him.”
    â€œNadia died. Broke that pretty neck back in 1926.”
    Chancho squints at him and tilts his head up, assessing.
    â€œYou need to get right with Jésus.”
    â€œI’m fine with Jésus.”
    Silence.
    â€œCan I drive the Mustang?”
    â€œIf you shut up about Jésus.”
    Chancho smiles.

17
    Years ago.
    Night.
    Another Mustang, the ’65.
    Upside down, wheels spinning, engine running. Andrew uncomfortable, scratched, confused. Can’t reach the keys to shut the motor off because there’s a branch in the way. Led Zeppelin is singing about California but it sounds wrong because only one speaker works.
    He climbs out into cool spring air, smelling radiator fluid and oil.
    Nearly falls; something is wrong with his leg.
    The peasants! The peasants cut my leg off!
    He looks down, but his leg is there.
    Mostly.
    His jeans are ripped and lots of little somethings hurt, far away.
    His heart is pounding.
    Just breathe.
    Just walk.
    Andrew walks, his back to the