Thirty Seven
20 December, 2001, Amsterdam, Netherlands
The rain steadily grew harder and soon it was sleeting. During the night, no doubt, it would turn to snow. The sleet pattered on the windows of the great house as Loki and Oz stood in the front hall.
A servant of some kind had already taken their jackets and had advised them that the master would be along shortly. They were not kept waiting long.
From a tall arched doorway set behind the sweeping staircase, beneath a decidedly stunning chandelier, strode the master of the house.
Rather short and wide, Indris walked with all the pomp and circumstance of a baron or duke. He wore black fur-trimmed scarlet robes with a black cord at the waist. There was even a tassel hanging from each end of the cord which hung by his hip. The robe itself was a bit long to be functional, skirting along behind him, collecting dust.
His hair was as black as the fur that lined his collar, impeccably trimmed and glossy, hanging down in small, severe locks across his brow, just to his thin eyebrows of the same color.
His eyes, though struggling to be charming and bright, were small and deep-set in his round pallid face. His smile was as falsely pleasant as he drew his thick lips away from too many perfectly even teeth.
“Welcome to my house,” he said with a slow and deliberate bow.
“Mister Indris, I presume,” Loki bowed in return.
Indris nodded. “How does one say? Come of your own free will and leave some of the happiness you bring.”
“He’s a necromancer?” Oz whispered through a plastered smile. Loki’s answer was interrupted by Indris himself.
“Please, I do not like that term. Death is not my profession, merely an unavoidable side effect of ending lives.”
“We would like to make use of your talents, if you would allow-” the conjurer was silenced when Indris raised a hand.
“Please— First things must come first. Introductions always come first.” He made a small nod of his head, as if greeting them again for the first time. “I am Indris, but of that you are already aware.”
“Of course,” Loki nodded his own head. “I am Loki, and this is Oz my...” he took on a puzzled look for a moment, “friend,” he finished. Oz nodded once during his introduction.
Indris closed his eyes took a deep breath, then opened them again. His smile was unchanged. “You are the same Loki of Tibet? The Loki of Estonia?”
Loki cocked his head. He had nearly forgotten about Estonia. He had no idea his reputation could have preceded him. His entire existence had been geared towards keeping things low key. “The same Loki of many continents,” he acknowledged.
Indris nodded, satisfied. “And what do a conjurer and a werewolf want of a necromancer?”
Oz raised ab eyebrow. “I thought you didn’t like that term.”
Indris nodded, patiently. “I refer to the necromancer you seek, not necessarily to myself, since I do not yet know why it is you have sought me out.”
“We need you to kill someone,” Loki answered reasonably.
The smile melted from the necromancer’s face. It had been a fake smile after all, and it was now replaced with a much more sincere glower. “Follow me,” he said simply, turning and almost gliding back behind the broad stairs.
Loki and Oz followed, entering a high, broad hallway with large wooden, double doors every few dozen feet. Finally, they reached the end of the hallway and two very large glass and mahogany doors opened before them.
Beyond, led by Indris who continued to glide almost without moving his legs, Loki and Oz found themselves in a large, ornate dining room of sorts. With plants and shrubs in pots and tall vases and paintings on the wall, and even a tapestry depicting some winged creature, the room looked like the foyer of some museum. But where, at its center, a beautiful statue or exotic sculpture might have been; a simple wooden table rested.
Set in the ceiling was a particularly bright light which shone down on the head of the table – giving away the only clue that it was for something other than dining.
Two servants stood submissively near the far exit, one on either side of the door, their eyes locked on the floor before their feet. They wore simple suits, complete with white gloves, and their faces, down-turned as they were, were in shadow.
Indris ignored the servants and glided past the central table to a small shelf near the wall which held several old books and a tall candelabrum. He removed a file folder from under one of the books and brought it back to Loki and Oz.
Opening it, he sighed. “Very well — we’ve got sacrificial cows, calves, birds of all sorts, virgins– virgin cows if you want, priests, priestesses, a few nuns – none of these are guaranteed to be immaculate, you understand–”
Loki held up a hand when he realized what Indris was offering. “No, no, no. We don’t need a ritual sacrifice.” He took a breath to explain. “We just need someone to die and tell us what’s there.”
“There?” Indris asked, blankly
“Yes — there,” Loki shrugged, “after, beyond — whatever you want to call it. We want a description: names and faces of people they see there.”
Indris, trying to pretend he wasn’t confused, began to nod. “A description, you say. Alright, — I think I can accommodate you,” he glanced down at his file again, turning over the top page. “An artist is what you’d want. Here we are,” he began to read from the page. “We have a reincarnation of Michelangelo, someone who claims he’s channeling Da Vinci — ah, here we are: we have a whole class of senior art students from the local college. On tour.” There was a little shrug. “None of them likely to be virgins, but—”
“No, no — anyone will do; but obviously we need cooperation,” Loki emphasized, “so they have to volunteer.”
Indris looked up sharply at this. “Volunteers are quite rare, you must realize. And obviously quite expensive. Even with your... substantial reputation, I doubt you could afford a volunteer.”
“Well, first of all,” Loki said casually, “we have no intention of paying you at all unless we are completely satisfied, and secondly,” he held up a finger to prevent any objection, “I happen to have at my disposal the entire Dagon relic collection — so I assure you: money will not be a problem.”
Indris raised an eyebrow. “I do not deal in money or relics. I deal in the dead — and their lives.” He turned from them, snapping the folder closed. “Come, my friends,” he said, his back turned as he headed for the far door. The two servants bowed and opened the double doors for him. “Come and I will show you my life’s work.”
Loki and Oz followed the necromancer into the next room. At first it was quite dark, but with a clap of his hands, Indris had the servants turn on the lights. It took a moment for the sight to impact both Oz and Loki. Then Oz backed up, almost completely out of the room, while Loki simply stared – his mouth hanging open.
“You have your collection,” Indris smiled, “and I have mine.”
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