Exeunt Demon King Read Online Free PDF Page A

the audience, how much deeper the
respect?
    It is a
madness, of course. To meddle with such profound and dangerous
forces simply for personal gratification is pure folly, worse than
suicidal. But vanity can do it to a man and Maleficarus was such a
man, it seemed. He had pulled too many rabbits from too many hats;
insanity had claimed him.
    Show me
a stage magician who values the writings of Dee over Houdin, the
works of Simon Magus over John Maskelyne, and I shall show you a
disaster in the making. In this case, alas, the disaster had
already occurred two decades before.
    The
dressing room door swung open and there was nobody beyond it. It
appeared the late magician was summoning me for another interview.
Late in a very loose sense if my suspicions were correct. I folded
up the piece of paper and pushed it in my pantaloons for
safekeeping before walking outside. The door to the prop store was
already opening as I picked up the electric torch by the star trap
mechanism and walked into the darkness. The torch was almost no
use, its tired yellow beam seeming to grow weaker by the second as
the batteries exhausted themselves.
    The
magician’s spirit didn’t waste any time with pleasantries. “You
were warned,” it whispered harshly in my ear.
    “ Yes. I believe I was.”
    “ You will die.”
    “ We all do, Maleficarus. Even you, despite your best efforts.”
It seemed that this wasn’t going to be one of those chinwag sorts
of séances. I decided to leave and walked unhurriedly to the
door.
    I had
just reached the door when a massive blow caught me between the
shoulder blades, picking me up and carrying me ten feet or more
before dumping me to the floor. It’s difficult to describe the
nature of the force that struck me. Although it carried the force
of a bull’s charge, it didn’t strike me quite instantaneously.
There was a sense of being borne aloft as if picked up by a high
wind. I felt more like a kite than a victim right until I crashed
into the floor and was sent sprawling. I was on my feet again in a
second, whirling to face the open door to the prop store. But there
was nothing there.
    “ You were warned,” the voice repeated, its anger grating over
my bones. It seemed foolish to argue the point. Instead I ran for
the stairs. I didn’t even get close.
    The
force of Maleficarus’ wrath entwined around my legs like a
quicksilver cat and I fell again. This time it held me and I was
dragged back across the floor. As I tried vainly to stop myself, I
noticed movement out of the corner of my eye. Can you imagine a
sandbag walking, Parkin? That’s what it looked like. Like rats in
sacks, sandbags were processing from their pile in the corner and
into the pile on the cradle of the star trap. It took me a moment
to understand Maleficarus’ intention, but when I did, I redoubled
my efforts to escape. The weight in the cradle had been carefully
calculated to impel me with just enough force to make a dramatic
entrance through the trap and no more. Too much weight meant too
much acceleration. If I hit the star trap too quickly, my skull
would crumple faster than the leaves could move aside. Maleficarus
was engineering another accident. This one wouldn’t be on his
schedule and would doubtless be less efficacious than the previous
sacrifices to his ambition, but I don’t think that really concerned
him very much by that point. Almost below the limit of hearing, I
became aware of a throbbing of syllables; an incantation delivered
with the sheer melodrama only a stage artiste would feel necessary.
He was awakening the Maw. Not only did he intend to kill me, he
also meant to burn my soul for his greater glory.
    I am a
necromancer. At that point in my life I was a necrothologist. The
difference is largely technical to the layman and I won’t bore you
with definitions. I was already aware of many different methods of
“raising the dead” to use a vulgar term and also very aware of
their shortcomings. Maleficarus had