Necroscope by Brian Lumley

‘I said you should ask no questions,’ he reminded, a low, dark rumble in his voice. ‘I am the one who seeks answers, Gregor. Now tell me: who did you decide would be your replacement? Indeed, have you yet decided? And if so, have you made a record of your decision?’

Borowitz was astonished, outraged. ‘You dare . . .?’ he scowled, his eyes bulging. ‘You dare . . .? You forget yourself, Dragosani. You forget who! am and where you are. And apparently you forget – or choose to ignore the fact – that I am recently bereaved! Well damn you, Dragosani! But in answer to your questions: no, I have committed nothing to paper – there’s nothing to commit for I’ll be going on as the head of E-Branch for a long time yet, I assure you. Moreover, even if I had chosen a successor, as of this moment you could erase from your mind any thoughts of yourself in that position!’ He stood up, shaking with rage. ‘Now get your damned arse out of here! Get out before I -‘

Dragosani took off his dark, wide-rimmed spectacles.

Borowitz looked at Dragosani’s face and was suddenly staggered by the massive metamorphosis taken place in him. Why, it hardly seemed like Dragosani at all standing there but someone else entirely. And those eyes – those incredible scarlet eyes!

‘I am retiring you, Gregor,’ Dragosani rumbled. ‘But .you don’t go empty-handed. Not after so many years of faithful service.’ He crouched down into himself, his shoulders and back seeming to bunch up with a grotesque life of their own.

‘Retiring me?’ Borowitz tried to back away from Dragosani but the couch was right behind him. ‘You, retiring me?’

Dragosani nodded, opened his long jaws and smiled,

displayed fangs like scythes. ‘We have a small retirement gift for you, Gregor.’ ‘We?’ Borowitz croaked.

‘Me and Max Batu,’ said Dragosani. And in the next moment Borowitz looked into the face of hell itself.

Then – it was as if a mule had kicked him in the chest. He flew backward, his arms thrown wide, crashed into the wall and bounced off. Small shelves and pictures were brought crashing down. Borowitz fell, half-sprawling on the couch. He clutched at his chest, fought to take control of his rubber limbs and climb to his feet, gulped air to his straining lungs. His heart felt crushed – and if he didn’t know how, at least he knew what Dragosani had done to him.

Finally he struggled upright. ‘Dragosani!’ he held out wildly fluttering, pudgy hands towards the necromancer. ‘Drago -‘

Again Dragosani hurled his psychic bolt, and again. Borowitz was swatted like a fly by the first blast, knocked over backwards on to the couch. He actually managed to sit up, to finish the last word he would ever speak, before the second blast hit him: ‘-sani!’

Then it was done. The ex-boss of E-Branch sat there, upright, dead as a doornail, showing all the signs of a heart attack.

‘Classic!’ Dragosani grunted his approval. He glanced about the room. The door of a corner cupboard stood open, displaying a battered old typewriter on a shelf with papers, envelopes and other items of stationery. He quickly carried the machine to a table, inserted a blank sheet of paper, began to type laboriously:

I feel unwell. I think it is my heart. Natasha’s death has affected me badly. I think I am finished. Since I have not yet nominated another to carry on my work, I do so now. The only man who can be trusted to carry on where I leave off is

Boris Dragosani. He is completely faithful to the USSR, and especially to the aims and welfare of the Party Leader.

Also, if as I fear the end is coming, I want my body put in Dragosani’s care. He knows my wishes in this respect. . .

Dragosani grinned as he rolled the typewritten sheet up a space or two. He read over the note, took up a pen and scrawled ‘G.B.’ as nearly as possible in the style of Borowitz at the end of the last line, then dusted the keys with his handkerchief where he’d touched them and carried the machine to the couch. Sitting down beside the dead man, He took his hands and laid his fingers briefly on the keys. And all the time Borowitz watching him through sightless, popping eyes.

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