“I don’t even believe this,” he said, scowling.
The studio, too, faded away. All that was left was the ship, adrift in a gray void, an indeterminate nothingness.
“Telemachus” was still there. He said, “You’ll drift alone, forever, through eternity.”
“Better that than this charade.”
“You might change your mind,” came the warning. “But then it will be too late, Ed.”
“Let me worry about that. By the way, my name is Incarnadine.”
He jumped from the rail.
And fell … and fell … and fell …
Twenty-six
Malnovia
The house stood at the end of a cul-de-sac off a side street in the middle-class section of the city. It wasn’t a bad house. Big oak beams alternated with off-white stucco, steep gables topping it all off. Otherwise undistinguished. It was a quiet little lane; a mews, really; an alley.
But it was definitely the source of the spookiness.
Trent stood at the corner and checked things out. This was a very tranquil location, tucked away from the bustle of the city yet right in the heart of things. Perfect neighborhood for a little pied-à-terre. For trysts. Afternoon assignations. A sordid affair or two.
He walked down the lane, checking each house as he passed. Discreet neighbors; keep to themselves. Never gossip. Oh, no.
Even a pleasant tree or two at the curb; beeches. Some shrubbery. Clean sidewalk. Very nice indeed.
He stopped in front of the pseudo-Tudor affair and stood arms akimbo, casing the joint. Rather narrow. Nice windows. Oops, one cracked, there. The place could use a coat of whitewash. Or maybe a warm earth-tone — buff, beige, whatever. Be daring — puce.
The door was one step up from the sidewalk. Again, coated with what looked like black lacquer. This one had a knob and a bronze knocker, though.
He tried the knocker and waited.
“Read your meter!” he called.
He tried the knob. It turned. The door opened.
“Well, now.”
He went in and shut the door. Inside was a vestibule with a coat rack and a tall mirror. He passed through this and entered a hallway that continued past a stairway to a distant kitchen. The top of the stairs was dark. To the right lay the parlor, and this he decided to explore first.
The room was dark and stuffy, chock full of curios and bric-a-brac: stuffed birds; statuary of low-brow taste favoring the theme of mythical animals; horological charts and other posters featuring things astrological; a chart on the science of metoposcopy, showing the salient features of the human visage, especially the lines of the forehead; many incense burners — in fact the place was redolent of sandalwood — hundreds of decorative candles, many of them black; a number of pieces of primitive art, medicine masks and such; an ancient mummy case, standing in a corner; innumerable pentacles and mystical signs; decorated cups and chalices and bowls having a ceremonial look about them; more candles; more pentacles; more paraphernalia associated with a wide variety of occult disciplines: phrenology, cheiromancy, cartomancy, alchemy, and on and on.
The place reeked of magic. Cheap magic.
He rolled back a wooden door and walked into a dining area usurped by more quaint clutter.
The kitchen was a mess.
He came down the hall to the foot of the stairs and listened. Faint music.
As he mounted the staircase he recognized the piece: the “Moonlight” sonata, in C-sharp minor. Good spooky tune.
Something was coalescing at the top of the stairs. At least, something was trying to come together. He stopped to let it.
The thing finally materialized. Another demon, rather haphazardly formed. Botched around the legs. It was properly scaled and fanged, though, and looked fearsome enough.
Demon and human locked eyes for a moment.
The demon said, “You’re violating private property.”
“The real estate agent said to go right in.”
“Oh … huh?”
“Actually, I’m selling Girl Scout cookies. You want S’mores?”
“Don’t toy with me!”
The demon made swiping motions with sharp claws and snapped its crooked yellow teeth.
Trent observed, arms folded.
The demon presently ceased these blandishments. It stared vacantly.
Trent said loudly, “Well?”
The thing raised its arms in a gesture of exasperated hopelessness. “Oh,shit! Forget it! Forget I said anything! Excuse me, I’ll just go back to my needlepoint.”
It stalked off, grumbling its disgust. A door slammed.
Trent chuckled as he went up the steps.
There were three bedrooms. He didn’t bother with the one the demon had entered. The one at the top of the stairs was stuffed with crates and boxes. That left the front bedroom.
This door was locked.
He tried a spell and got the lock unlocked all right, but he sensed a redundancy of chains and latches and deadbolts and such on the other side. Deciding to drop subtlety, he blew the son-of-a-bitching thing in with a moderate blast.
The door became a puff of sawdust mixed with plaster dust from sections of wall. When the dust settled, he walked in.
And there, in a room full of books, sitting at a large circular table, was a man in black robes and conical hat, playing solitaire. He was middle-aged with mutton-chop sideburns and thick black-framed glasses. He looked up with a cheery, confident smile, showing small feral teeth.
“Glad you could come. Prince Trent, I presume.”
“The same,” Trent answered. “What goes on here?”
The man chuckled. “You know, you did break into my house. I really should protest.”
“Your front door was open. Now, this is an interesting device.”
He referred to what lay in the middle of the table. It was an oblong block of some transparent substance — not glass; most likely Plexiglas. Embedded inside it was a miniature figure, a doll. The block had been positioned in the middle of a very primitive-looking pentacle carved into the wood of the circular table.
Trent bent to peer at the figure. It was a good likeness.
“What the heck is this?” Trent studied the patterns. “Don’t tell me it’s … voodoo?”
The man chuckled again. “You got it.”
Trent straightened, pushed back his plumed hat and laughed. “Well, I’ll be damned. You blind-sided Inky with a zombie spell?”
“Sometimes the simplest approach works best. I like primitive magic. It works well against sophisticates. As you said, “blind-sided.””
“You sucker-punched him.”
The man laughed. “It worked.”
“But —” Trent had to laugh, too. He began a tour of the room, reading book spines and examining curios. Mostly there were books; stuffed shelves reached to the ceiling and blanketed the walls. It wasn’t a bad collection, mostly on the occult.
An old Victrola was scratchily playing the “Moonlight.”
The man said, “By the way, the name is Ruthven.”
“So, Ruthven,” Trent said. “Let me guess. You do most of your business running the little con. F’rinstance, you hex a field of barley and then hoodwink the poor farmer into hiring you to ward off the evil spirits causing the blight.”
“That one’s older than dirt.”
“Or put the kibosh on a tinker’s business and sell him liability insurance, so to speak.”
“Always a good one. You’re right, the standard scams. I like to keep to basics. I make a fair living.”
Trent gestured toward the table. “But this …this, for all its primitivism, is rather ambitious.”
“Yeah.” Ruthven played another card. “I want to retire soon. I don’t have much money saved. I like the ladies, if you know what I mean. I like a good time. So I’ve been something less than prudent. Consequently, when someone at the castle came to me with a proposition, I jumped at the chance.”