“It didn’t work.”
Zabel sighed. “It worked as well as it could. It killed the wrong man, I admit, but that must be because Evergreen caused some distraction. He’s not without his own skills.”
“Can’t you control the thing? Tell it to try again.”
“It can’t,” Zabel insisted. “It was commanded to destroy itself after the kill. It wouldn’t do to have a golem lumbering around attracting unwanted attention. It probably threw itself off a cliff into the ocean.”
“Make another one,” Pascal said.
“Pay me, and I will. You cheaped out the first time. You should have sent me along, to make the thing on the spot, so I could control the situation, allow for changes and surprises. My resources are not unlimited.”
“Neither are the Society’s.” Pascal pulled a small automatic from his jacket pocket, aimed it at Zabel’s chest. “I must insist the Society get its money’s worth. You’ll make another golem.”
“Only if you pay me.”
“I don’t think you appreciate the implications of this 9 mm pistol.” Pascal stepped forward, trying to appear menacing.
“Threats, is it? Fine, let’s trade threats. You’re not going to leave here alive, Pascal. That’s my promise to you.”
“Are you deluded? Drunk? Too much port for you, my dear Zabel. I’ll draw your attention to the obvious one last time. I’m the one with the pistol.”
“Shoot then.”
“What?”
“Go on,” Zabel said. “Shoot.”
Pascal lifted the pistol, stood pointing it for five seconds. Ten seconds. A light sweat broke out on his forehead. The hand holding the pistol developed a subtle tremor. Pascal laughed, embarrassed and nervous. “I can’t seem to pull the trigger.”
“See the tapestry behind me? The paintings on either side of you?”
Pascal turned his head, looked at them. Abstract images with intricate patterns.
“The patterns are subtle, but woven into the mix are hypnotic suggestions reinforced by powerful spells,” Zabel explained. “Right now, your subconscious is being told that I am your best friend in the world and that you would never harm me. Every second you look at the pattern, the subliminal command grows stronger.”
Pascal jerked his gaze away from the painting, redoubled his efforts to shoot Zabel.
“It’s no use, Pascal. Even a glance is enough.”
“This isn’t over, Zabel. The Society won’t stand for it. They’ll dog your every step.”
“Lars!” Zabel raised his voice. “Lars, come here.”
The floor shook with heavy footsteps. The thing that appeared in the office doorway made Pascal wince and step back, a surprised gasp leaking out of him.
The wooden man was six and a half feet tall, put together with mismatched pieces of wood. He smelled like pine. The face was an agonized grimace, wide, hollow eyes carved in dark wood, the mouth slightly open, the corner of a folded piece of parchment stuck out from between the thickly carved lips.
“Lars, please dispose of our friend Pascal.”
The golem advanced on Pascal, who screamed and backed against the wall. This time the pistol fired. Pascal squeezed the trigger until he emptied the magazine, the shots scarring the golem’s chest, woodchips and splinters flying.
The golem didn’t flinch; it grabbed the wrist of Pascal’s gun hand and twisted. Snap. Pascal screamed again, and the gun fell to the floor. One of the golem’s powerful arms went around Pascal’s neck. The man squirmed and tried to pull free, panic aflame in his eyes. “Zabel, please. Zabel!”
The golem squeezed with one arm, put a gigantic hand on top of Pascal’s head, and twisted. Pascal screamed in raw agony, and the golem twisted again and pulled. A wet snap and a crunch. Pascal’s body went limp. The golem continued to wrench at the head, Pascal’s limbs flopping around like a rag doll’s.
With a final, mighty tug, the golem pulled off Pascal’s head with a wet pop. Blood sprayed.
Zabel looked at his servant, who was cradling the head in the crook of his arm like a football. Perhaps he’d been hasty. Information was never a bad idea. Zabel took a large serving tray from his small closet and set it on his desk. He instructed Lars to set the head there. “Clean up the body in the usual manner, please, Lars.”
The golem threw the corpse over his shoulder and carried it away.
Zabel sat at his desk, facing Pascal’s head. He pulled a small velvet bag from his desk drawer, spilled the materials in front of him. He took a polished, dark red stone and placed it into Pascal’s mouth. He lit a candle, mixed some powders and herbs in a small bowl, then mumbled a few syllables and blew the mixture into Pascal’s face.
The head’s eyes fluttered and opened. “Wha hammpned?”
“Move the stone to the side of your mouth with your tongue,” Zabel instructed. “You’ll be able to talk.”
“What happened?” Pascal asked. His eyes darted to either side. “Good God! What’s happened to me?”
“Did you tell anyone else in the Society you’d hired me to construct the golem?”
“No,” Pascal said. “I was ordered to eliminate Evergreen. That’s all. How I went about it was my own business. Damn, why did I tell you that?”
“You’re a Truth Head now,” Zabel said. “You can’t lie. Who ordered you to eliminate Evergreen?”
“Jackson Fay,” said the head.
Zabel sucked in breath. Jackson Fay. The name was not unknown to him. A very dangerous spellcaster. “Why eliminate Evergreen?”
“I was told he’d persisted with unholy associations and would cause trouble if not handled. Fay did not elaborate. He simply trusted me to get the job done without going through the bureaucracy of a full Council vote.”
Zabel’s lip curled into a mocking grin. “It seems Fay’s trust was misplaced.”
“The Society will still be suspicious when I don’t report in,” Pascal said. “They have ways. They will find you and avenge me.”
“Perhaps, but not anytime soon.”
“What the hell is this in my mouth?”
“A bloodstone,” Zabel said. “If you spit it out, you’ll break the spell.”
“Then I will spit it out and damn your spell, you son of a bitch.”
“Go ahead. Spit.”
Pascal shifted the stone from one side of his mouth to the other but didn’t spit.
Zabel laughed. “You see? It’s not so easy to give up life, is it? To resign yourself to oblivion. How we do cling to hope, we pitiful human creatures. Even now you’re thinking there must be some way out of this, some way to reverse what has happened. Some do, in fact, spit out the bloodstone, but not you, Pascal. Oh no, not you.”
“Damn you to hell, Zabel.”
“Lars!”
The golem returned carrying a mop and a bucket.
Zabel said, “Before you clean up the blood, take Pascal’s head to the cupboard with the others.”
The golem scooped up the head, then carried it out of the room under its arm.
“This isn’t over!” Pascal screamed back at Zabel. “Do you hear me, you bastard? I might just be a head, but I’ll get you. I’ll get you, Zabel. I’ll see you rot in hell!”
SIX
Dr. Evergreen’s party was almost no fun at all after the discovery of the headless corpse.
The police showed up. Guests were questioned and questioned again. Efficient men in white coats zipped the body into a black bag and wheeled it away in an ambulance. A few special people like Allen were asked to come down to the station for further questioning. Allen dutifully went along and answered what he guessed were routine questions.
As if there’s ever anything routine about a decapitation.
Allen sat in the bland interrogation room sipping tepid coffee under fluorescent lights. His stomach was upset. He was tired. He vaguely felt like the cops suspected him of something even though he’d been assured numerous times they only wanted to be as complete as possible and if Allen could just be patient, they’d wrap all this up as soon as possible.
The police evidently had a very different definition of “as soon as possible.”
Another cop asked him the same list of questions for the third time. There were forms to sign. They confirmed Allen’s contact information. Just as it looked like they were about to let Allen go, a particularly dour-looking cop had one more question for him.
“You have any knowledge of what this might be about?” The cop held up a tiny glass vial, sealed at the top. It was three-quarters full of thick, red liquid. Crescent-shaped particles floated in the liquid, in addition to strands of what appeared to be thread.
“I’ve never seen that,” Allen said.
“It’s blood and fingernail clippings and hair,” the cop said. “It was found in the victim’s jacket pocket.”
“Okay, gross,” Allen said. “Hey, I have nothing to do with that, okay? All I did was find the body.”
“You ran into the woods after you heard the scream. That’s right?”
“Yes. I told you that.” He’d said nothing about Penny. They hadn’t asked.
“And there was a wolf at the scene, which ran away when the other party guests approached the scene?”