Robert Weinberg - The Devils Auction

ROBERT WEINBERG TWICE WINNER OF THE WORLD FANTASY AWARD

"Marvelous!"Philip Jose Farmer

"This novel is reminiscent of the supernatural and fantastic adventure stories of... Dennis Wheatley and ... A. Merritt!" The Science Fiction Chronicle

"I liked everything about this book, including the title!"Robert Bloch

"I haven't had this much fun since I beat my pet hamster to death with a chair leg! A rootin-tootin booger of a book! Fresh as a spring daisy, but mean and nasty as a rattlesnake bite!"Joe Lansdale

AUCTION

ROBERT WEINBERG

To Phyllis

A LEISURE BOOK August 1990 Published by

Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc. 276 Fifth Avenue New York, NY 10001

Copyright 1988 by Robert Weinberg

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.

The name "Leisure Books"and the stylized "L" with design are trademarks of Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

Printed in the United States of America.

THE

AUCTION

Chapter One

The pain hit Jake Lancaster in a wave that swept across his chest. It burned deep within him, a sharp, intense shock unlike anything he had ever experienced.

Terribly scared, he stood motionless in the center of the kitchen. He had felt finer all day. Supper had been at Levine's Deli on the corner. None of his usual cronies were about, so he had come home early. As always, his first stop had been the kitchen. Mrs. Davidson, his housekeeper, had turned on the lights and left the mail on the kitchen table before going home for the day. Jake was a creature of habit. Checking the mail was the first thing he did when he got home, even before he removed his coat. He had just lifted the letters from the table when the attack started.

Now he staggered to a kitchen chair. The burning within him grew worse. It couldn't be a heart attack, he thought.; his heart was in fine condition. He had just gone through a complete physical last month and been pronounced in exceptional health for a man his age. There was nothing wrong with him, yet the pain was increasing. His neck and shoulders were on fire and the heat was spreading up his neck to his head. Suddenly, he knew what was coming. "No, not again," he begged, but already it was too late. With one hand clutching desperately at the letters, the other at the top of the kitchen table, he was swept up by the dark force of a premonition.

The fury of the vision roared in his mind. It lasted only a bare instant, but that was long enough. Jake bit his lip hard, tasted salt. He tried to sort out the incredible melange of images that assaulted his senses.

Time and space condensed, as the present and the future swirled together and combined into something that held a trace of both. Jake felt nothing and yet felt everything. Then the future engulfed him in a powerful embrace.

Incredible, devastating pain swept across his body again. Jake screamed, his bones cracking and breaking in a dozen places, blood spurting from a dozen wounds, agony searing through his mind as flesh and muscle ripped and tore. He felt huge teeth clamped onto his neck. Even as he screamed, loud and terrible cries rang in his ears. Jake recognized his own voice, echoing back to him from the future.

Whimpering, he fell from the chair to the floor. He knew without thinking that death claimed him with that final screama violent, terrible death.

The vision departed as swiftly at it arrived. Jake's eyes cleared. The kitchen looked no different; his body felt unharmed. The premonition had lasted only a few seconds.

For the third time in his life he knew what the future promised. As with his previous visions, this one warned of approaching death. In the other two instances, though, he had experienced the death of others.

At sixty-seven, death no longer had any fear for Jake Lancaster. A short, slightly overweight man with a thick thatch of white hair and bright blue eyes, he had accepted the inevitability of his passing long ago. Even a master of the black arts did not control mortality. Magic might prolong life a few years, but it could never defeat old age. Age brought a certain wisdom. His wife had died six years before, and many of his close friends had passed to the great beyond. He worked in a dangerous field; only a few magicians ever survived to their sixties, since no one retired from the black arts.

At times, when he felt very lonely and his work overwhelmed him, Jake wondered if perhaps death might not be a welcome rest. But not tonight. Not after that vision of his end. Tonight, Jake Lancaster wanted very much to live.

He stared at the letters he still held. Death's messenger was in this sheaf of mail. The touch of one had been the trigger which fired the psychic gun.

He forced himself to his feet. For the first he realized his lip was bleeding. Depositing the mail on the kitchen table, he went over to the sink and got a drink of cold water. He rinsed his mouth out several times to get rid of the lingering taste, then washed his hands and splashed a little water on his face. Feeling somewhat better, he returned to his chair. Now he was ready for the worst.

Quickly he sorted through the letters. Two bills, a flyer from a record club, an advertisement sent to 'Occupant,' an aerogram from Conrad Stein in England, and an ornate, hand addressed letter with no return address.

Jake dropped everything but the letter. He just stared at it for a moment, then ripped open the fancy envelope. A card fell out. Except for the dates, the card was exactly the same as the one he had seen in his friend Vassily Romanov's study thirty years ago. He had been smart that time and had not gotten involved. Romanov should have given the invitation away, but hadn't been able to resist the temptation it represented. Unfortunately, he had not been powerful enough to hold it.

Jake remembered his friend's funeral quite well. There had been several that month, all the result of the mad scramble for possession of that invitation. Now the cycle was starting again. Jake's murder would be only one of many. Death was an integral part of the Devil's Auction.

Closing his eyes, Jake let the feel of his house filter into his mind. Was his adversary already about? From room to room his sixth sense explored, carefully searching for anything unusual. His mental probings encountered nothing out of the ordinary. Whatever stalked him was not here yet. He had a little time. He was not sure exactly how long, so he had to act as if every moment were his last.

Rising from the table, he returned to the front hallway and locked and bolted his door not that such precautions would stop his attackers. It was habit, and habit settled his nerves. He had lived in this house for over forty years and followed the same routines nearly every day. His wife and daughter, and now his housekeeper, humored him in this one quirk. Magic was ritual and ceremony, and doing things by habit strengthened his magical abilities. The more he could do by habit, the better. It left his mind free for the more difficult tasks.

Needless to say, this was not something he could ever tell Mrs. Davidson. Like most people, she thought black magic and sorcery were the stuff of horror novels and movies. She had no idea the nice old man whose home she kept clean was actually a powerful warlock. Mrs. Davidson was a pleasant if somewhat simple-minded woman, and Jake was glad she wouldn't be back till Monday morning, four days from now. At least she wouldn't be involved in whatever happened. Let her live in peace in her ignorance of the darkness all around us, Jake prayed as he stood by the front door.