To Kill a Sorcerer Read Online Free Page A

into the dead soldier, a curtain of warmth started at my head and, pulled by gravity, descended to my toes. “If you’ve got a bottle of tequila back there, I’ll add three more Franklins to your take—four if you have another bottle of Don Julio.”
    Studying me carefully, he raised his right hand, reached out with his index finger extended, and prodded me in the chest, as if to confirm I was actually there.
    “How come you’re not on the ground? No one can drink like that.”
    “This is Houdini’s place. It’s a magic trick. How about that tequila?” I handed him the empty. Four more hundreds slid into his pocket to join their brothers. Three more and he’d have enough for a jury. I got a cigarette in my mouth and lit it, then glanced around. The bartender and I were alone.
    He handed me the bottle of tequila, a frown on his face. “Mister, you’re gonna kill yourself.”
    “I told you, it’s a trick. As incredible as his illusions were, Houdini did say they were all accomplished mechanically.”
    “So how are you mechanically not drinking that booze?”
    “Ah, just as the Great Houdini never passed on the secrets of his illusions, I cannot tell you the solution to mine.”
    It wasn’t usually my nature to behave recklessly, but when you are seven centuries old, tempting the devil can occasionally offer irresistible mental stimulation. I loved seeing how far I could push it, yet have a plausible explanation. My supernatural metabolism gave me an obvious advantage. I could drink alcohol, pop pills, inject heroin, and snort cocaine, yet be clear of eye and sweet of breath as long as I had five or ten minutes to recover. If my body could develop an addiction to drugs, I would have the most expensive habit in history.
    I blew smoke, set my cigarette in the ashtray, tugged the cork out of the bottle’s neck, saluted the bartender, and tipped the liquor into my mouth. The raw sweet smell filled my nostrils. I gulped it down, draining the bottle like the drunken pirate I once had been.
    That one I felt.
    “It’s not possible,” my Samoan friend said.
    “My dear fellow,” I told him, “it is merely sleight of hand. Or in this case, sleight of throat.” I patted him on the shoulder, beaming. “The solution is alimentary, Dr. Watson.” I brayed at my sally, loudly enough to draw some attention from the other side of the bar.
    “I knew it,” he said. “You’re hammered.”
    “An interesting way of phrasing it. New to me, I must admit.” I puffed on my cigarette, thinking my speech a bit slow.
    “Can I get you some food, mister?”
    “No, thank you. I’m going to have a look round the place, see if Harry’s hiding inside.”
    “Whatever, man.”
    Walking while inebriated always offered a fascinating experience, especially when one must do it under observation. I sauntered across the deck to the house, feeling as if everyone was watching me and wondering if they could tell I was snockered. Suppressing an urge to laugh, I felt envious that mortals could remain in this unsteady, euphoric state for hours.
    The living room had grown dark. The music thumped, and bodies swayed around the giant Christmas tree. The holiday gala had shifted into late party mode.
    I turned down an unlit hallway, ambling along, my head buzzing pleasantly, when a door opened at the end. I froze. Three young women spilled out, adjusting their clothes, chattering gaily, and gripping blinking devices.
    I did not waste time determining if Sofia stood among them. Still shrouded in darkness, I quickly turned to my right, twisted the knob, slipped inside, eased the door shut. The breathless babble and electronic beeps approached and swept past.
    A rattling breath behind me. I whirled. The room was too dim for me to see the person in bed, but the timbre of the snore convinced me a woman made the sound. The party music had enough bass to vibrate the entire room. Some people could sleep through anything.
    I crossed to a set of French