The Necromancer's House

by Christopher Buehlman

A satellite hurtles, a bright grain of fairy dust, a second hand overtaking the flashing minute hand of an airplane far and farther below it. The wonders one sees for the price of a head-tilt, a second of humility and presence.

People who shoot themselves with powerful guns are selfish, vulgar.

And just like that it is awake again. The big electric animal under his skin that doesn’t understand the word no.