HP Lovecraft's Magazine of Horror - Weird Tales

8 H .P . L O V E C R A F T ’S M A G A Z IN E O F H O R R O R
markings there, carefully took stock. His eyes gazed at, and
then beyond, each wand-as-walking-stick and his expression
changed with every new contact. He could feel his forehead
tense and relax with the exertions.
He closed the book with a satisfied sigh and leaned back in
the chair. “Almost there,” he whispered to himself. “Three
more pieces and the Tree will be whole.”
Setting the book down upon the inlaid wood floor, Donald
moved to a small bookcase in the corner, where he lifted a
parchment scroll from the top shelf. His heels echoed on the
warm, shiny surface with the precise click, click, click of a fine
watch. He settled back into the chair and unrolled the scroll.
Donald breathed deeply, the incense from a thurible hanging
in a stand near his chair filling his nostrils. His eyelids fluttered
shut, heavy. With the next breath, he opened his eyes,
drawn to the flame of one of the candles. Slowly, deliberately,
he read the words which he had penned over one hundred
years before:
Teacher, student; victor, victim—hear me.
Partner parted—come to me, be with me, speak.
Out of the depths I call unto thee, blood of my blood,
Kin that was and is now in me.
Thou who wast Arthur Lawson, show thyself.
As he finished the incantation, he placed a pinch of
incense into the thurible. The coal flared with the contact for a
moment, crackled red hot as the powdered resins burned on its
surface. Smoke rose and hovered before him. Then, slowly, a
face appeared in the haze—lean, angular, silver hair swept back
from a regal forehead. It bore a strong resemblance to his own.
“Why have you dared disturb my rest, Cousin?”
“I just thought it was time you and I had a chat,” Donald
answered evenly.
The face of Arthur Lawson sneered through the smoke.
“Oh, come now, Donald. Do you expect me to believe that
you’ve gone through this considerable effort that we might
have tea again, for old time’s sake? I’d thought poison to be
beneath my best student. Careless of me, that.”
Donald bristled, but continued. “I did what had to be done
and now we need to discuss one last bit of business before I
can complete our work.”
The cloud vibrated with Lawson’s wry chuckle. “ ‘Our’
work? It was my work—death has not granted me the luxury of
forgetfulness, Donald—but I’d have shared it all with you. The
last piece would have been yours, as well. Eternity’s too vast to
have spent it alone. Mortals would come and go, turn to dust,
and not understand.”
The mage stood and drew closer to the spectre he had conjured,
the old connection pulling him in. But he would not be
swayed.
“I have my daughter. For now, that is enough.”
Lawson’s voice sounded impatient. “Your daughter,
Donald? Didn’t you learn anything from my . . . personal follies?
Blood cannot be fooled forever. It knows.”
Donald shook his head. “Julia’s not like us,” he insisted.
“Her mother was delicate, charming, a protector of life, and
utterly unversed in the arcane. I can manage Julia. She’s no
threat to me or the work.”
The image seemed to look away, up. There was a long pause
before he next spoke. Donald found himself holding his breath.
“Yet she is her father’s daughter,” Lawson informed him.
“Even now her signature aura vibrates in the rooms above us—
not even oblivion has made me numb, after all—and it is
almost identical to yours. Have you denied it for so long that
the obvious hides in plain sight before you?”
“That’s how she passed my wards,” the words escaped the
mage’s lips. He cut off the next fearful thought before he could
articulate it, his eyes never leaving the phantom Lawson.
Donald began to weave a pattern in the air before him, his
motions sure, feline.
“Banishing me so soon, Donald? That won’t undo what’s
been done. The Wheel turns, with or without us.”
Donald never missed a beat. The smoke began to dissipate,
grew dimmer with each pass.
“She stands in your way.” Lawson’s voice was softer now.
“You’ve made two costly errors in your unnaturally long life—
destroying me and living the illusion of a happy family,
untouched by your past or present practices.”
The mage glared at the visage in the smoke as he completed
his spell. “You talk too much for a dead man, Arthur. I liked
you better in life. At any rate, I will succeed. The Tree will come
to life for me, feed me their lives. Then four-by-four-by-four
hundred years will be mine, as it is written.”
The image of Lawson vanished, but the scent of incense
lingered long after he was gone.
“HAVE you considered that somebody’s trying to frame you,
Donald?” Jamison said over lunch at the Stanhope, the white
stonework of the Metropolitan Museum and the greenery of
Central Park filling their view across the street.
The antique dealer stopped, soup spoon level at his chin,
and said, “Excuse me?”
“Look, Donald, you engage me to protect your assets. It’s
my job to be suspicious of everyone around you. The news about
that breeder’s being attacked by his own dogs, just after he’d won
here at last year’s Westminster, was all over the Times, along with
the shot of him and his signature wolf’s head cane. He was a
client and that is one of your pieces, isn’t it? And now Peters.”
Donald nodded, set the spoon down beside his plate, and
sat back.
Jamison took this as a cue to continue. “Have the police
been by?”
“This morning. Nothing out of the ordinary. Purely routine.
They seemed perfectly satisfied.” He’d made sure of that,
Donald reassured himself. Artful misdirection became easy
after 200 years of practice, he mused. People believed what they
wanted to believe.
“I’d like to make a suggestion, if I may, just to be on the
safe side. Buy back the other sticks, whatever it takes, even if
you have to play on your clients’ superstitions—tell them that
the items are cursed, or something. Anything. Diplomacy’s
your job, Donald. Just don’t sell any more, at least for a while.
Let things settle, blow over.”