“Hold your horses”—he grunted while fumbling with the lock.
A gratifying “click” rewarded his efforts. Removing the padlock, he pushed the door open, reached for an invisible light switch inside the dark room beyond, and gestured to his unusual client to enter the smallish enclosure revealed by the single lightbulb.
As soon as Rashd penetrated the crowded room—all four walls were lined with ancient-looking books, and a large desk, covered with papers, occupied most of the remaining space—Jack Davis followed him, carefully closing the door and padlocking it from the inside.
A musty odor of rotting paper seemed to float thickly in the cramped quarters, mixed with other, more disturbing scents of decay, but Rashd didn’t seem to notice, nor did he object to the almost unbearable heat in the poorly ventilated room. Davis, on the other hand, perspired profusely as he slipped around the desk to drop his body on the single chair behind it.
“The Necrotic Book, huh? Do you have any idea what you are getting into?” The diminutive dealer seemed genuinely concerned.
“N’am… yes, yes, of course”—uttered his interlocutor, impatiently—“and I have the price—you give me the book…”
“Let’s see what you got, first.” Davis’s voice revealed a touch of irritation.
The tall cadaveric Arab quickly unbuttoned his shirt and reached inside, producing in rapid succession five elongated plastic bags, which he deposited carefully on the desk, facing the sweaty and now slightly agitated dealer.
“Here… hashish”—he said, matter-of-factly. “Pure… good quality… khirun… hashish of the best… wal-lh!”
Davis carefully opened each of the bags, touched with his index finger the darkish substance within, then the tip of his tongue.
“Yes, it seems to be all right—awfully good stuff—where the hell did you get it? Never mind. But are you really aware of what you are trying to buy with it? How about settling for some other book of equal value—look, I have here an original of the Book of Eibon, no less, and…”
Rashd snarled and his right hand darted out with incredible speed, fastening itself on Davis’s windpipe. Jack Davis’s mouth opened soundlessly, and for an instant he stared right into the cold eyes of death incarnated.
“Give me the nekrutic book!” The words of the Arab cut through the thick air like knives.
“O.K.”—Davis choked, struggling to free himself from the painful hold. “All right. Let me go, dammit! There—let me warn you, although I’m tempted not to… that Necrotic Book is too dangerous! I saw what it did to the guy who had it before. Gawd, I can’t even think about it without my stomach turning over. A fate I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy—and believe me, I have several! An end that was just not human—or perhaps all too human, but not like that… Damn, if the boss hadn’t insisted that I keep the blasted thing again, I would’ve…”
“Nekrutic KITB! Where?!” interrupted the Arab, his patience obviously exhausted.
“I don’t think you realize…” Jack Davis made a last, desperate effort. “The accursed book, scroll, or parchment—I’ve been spared actually seeing the damned thing—really has necrotic powers! Do you know what that means?…”
For the first time a faint smile appeared in the olivaceous face of Rashd Abdul Wahb Al-’Iraqui.
“Yes, I know—we know. Kitb of Thumarn Al-Miit-ui-Majnn has the power not of other books, not even of Kitb-ul-Azif. My master knows, too—him great collector of forbidden—he knows—he ’lim-ul-kitb! Yes, Thumarn… Tomeron?… found something other men and djinni have never found. Book necrotic can make flesh rot—rotting in life—like spider venom that my master study… Loxosceles… ah, laeta… necrotic toxin… must be careful when handling. We also very careful when dealing with necrotic kitb of Thumarn. See, we never touch, work from space away… ah, distance… very safe, see, and besides al-duktr… ah, al-master, master collector, he many other books—we protection of other books, no? We with many forbidden books, many powerful kitb, strong protection against… outside. Now, where is the book? Which is kitb?”
“You people are nuts! Stark-raving lunatics! I don’t see how you think you can…”
“KITB!” Rashd’s tone had changed again. A thin dagger appeared in his left hand. “Enough games, kfir! The book!” he demanded imperiously. “O.K., crap, it’s your life, and that of the nut who hired you! I tried to warn you… here… here…”
With quivering hands Davis removed four thick volumes from one of the musty shelves that covered the wall to his right, revealing a strangely sealed and decorated box behind. Pointing, he whispered:
“Here, take the damn box, take it… the book or whatever the damn hell it is, is in there…”
In an instant Rashd moved around the desk. His arms darted out and without hesitation greedily removed the closed box from its hidden niche, turning it around in the air while fingering the large wax seals and the thin greenish chain wrapped around it.
“Ah, seal of Ar-Rajm, as promised… but must open and check…”
Jack Davis jumped up, livid, and pointed a small bluish revolver that appeared to have materialized miraculously in his hand.
“The hell you are going to open that thing in here!”—he shrieked, his sweaty face contorted with a curious mixture of anger and fear. The gun pointed straight at Rashd’s head, as he continued, practically out of breath. “I told you I saw what happened to the last idiot who fooled around with that crazy thing, and I’m not about to take any chances with you opening that damn box while I’m around—you touch one of those seals again, and I swear I’ll blow your brains out—hell, I would be doing you a favor! Take the damn thing and get the hell out of here!”
Rashd’s features contorted into a grin, and he seemed to be strangely amused.
“Wal-lh! No need to threaten me, kfir! I’m going… I’m going! I’m sure you realize that if you have betrayed us and the book of Tomeron is not in the box you will die a death worse than… than… a thousand hells…wa la’nnat-ul-’alamn ’aleikum!”
The Arab burst into insane laughter, then pointed at the padlocked door:
“Open it!”
The agitated dealer hastened to the door, keeping his gun pointed at his visitor. Removing the padlock, he threw the door open in an instant, getting out of the way to allow his client to march past him. Rashd walked out of the bookshop without glancing back.
* * *
Carlo Corelli looked up from the newspaper spread out on his ornate desk, as the diminutive man with the gray beard was ushered into the office by one of his bodyguards.
“Hi, Jack, caro amico, how are you? Here, sit down, make yourself comfortable. Hey, did you see the paper this morning? Quite a mess, no?… Awful, the things that happen in this town, tsk, tsk.”
“Damn, Mr. Corelli, how can you take it all so calmly?” Davis seemed to be tied in knots.
“Oh, c’mon, Jack! You are not only getting old—you’re getting soft! I think those kooks were actually funny! Imagine, all the trouble they took… They get la cosa from you and place the crazy thing under a glass bowl, and use remote control and mechanical arms to open the box from another room, for goodness sake, as if they expected the thing to go boom! Giuseppe got there later, posing as a reporter, and swears they had also drawn pentagrams, had a bunch of candles burning, and books on funny pedestals in front of their observation window. C’mon, Jack, loosen up! We have been together in this for quite some time…”