A Split Worlds Omnibus

by Emma Newman

  He looked at the gargoyle. There were two of them briefly. “I can’t bear this pain much longer,” it said. “Let’s find Ekstrand’s house. Wait a second.” It reached into one of Max’s coat pockets and its muzzle wrinkled as it pulled its paw back out again. “Our stuff, what happened to our stuff?” It was rubbing its claws together. “And where did all this powder come from?”

  “Ekstrand’s first,” Max said and limped along on his crutches, heading towards the end of the street. Expecting trouble, he sent the gargoyle off into the shadows when he heard a car pull up where the van had been but moments before.

  The click of his crutches on the pavement was much slower than the brisk clip of shoes behind him. He focused on making it to the anchor property as quickly as he could without passing out. There was a scrape of stone on tarmac, a loud thud and then the gargoyle was at his side, taking a crutch and half holding him up.

  “Was it an Arbiter?”

  “Yeah,” it replied. “Ex Arbiter.”

  “You killed him?”

  “I dunno. I think so. He was crooked anyway. He was pulling a silenced gun on you, would’ve shot you in the back.”

  “We could have questioned him.”

  “Oh. Sorry about that. Distracted.” It pointed at the leg in the velcro support. “I’ll clean up after you’re somewhere safe. Get painkillers. Lots of them, OK? Any flavour.”

  Max nodded. He saw familiar gates up ahead and the gargoyle didn’t need to be told what to do. It went ahead, bounding down the street and sounding like a stonemason’s hammer.

  The gargoyle held up the soul chain, brandishing the Sorcerer’s seal and speaking the words to open the Way. There was a faint shimmer; the gates looked as if they were reflected in water. Max doggedly made the final metres, his shirt soaking wet beneath his suit, his hands blistering on the wooden crutch handles.

  The gargoyle helped him step through into the Nether. Max was in so much pain he barely noticed the change in air.

  The Sorcerer’s house looked exactly the same as the anchor property; a large Georgian mansion in extensive grounds. But the stars were gone, as was the moon, the sky above them the pale misty silver of the Nether.

  The door to the house opened and Max expected the butler to step out but the librarian hurried out onto the drive instead.

  She was blonde too. What’s with all the blondes? he thought, now aware of a ringing in his ears.

  “It’s Max, isn’t it?” she said. “From the Bath Chapter?”

  He managed a nod.

  “Oh, you look terrible. Let me help you.” She came closer.

  Her hair was the colour of sunlight. He wanted to touch it. That didn’t seem right. He’d never wanted to touch a woman’s hair. She was slender as cigar smoke in a still room, her curves in the right places and very pleasant to the eye. She wore kitten heels and a suit straight out of the best of the Forties’ movies. He wanted popcorn and to stand there watching her all day.

  “What are you doing with that statue?”

  The gargoyle moved and she yelped.

  “Hello, beautiful.” Its grin made her shudder.

  “Slight problem,” Max said as she gawped at it. “Need to see the Sorcerer.”

  “I…I see. It’s not one of his better days,” she said, keeping an eye on the leering gargoyle. “Come in so Axon can give you some help. You look very ill.”

  “It’s urgent,” he added as one of the crutches clattered to the ground and the gargoyle shifted to take most of his weight.

  “Come inside,” she said and ran ahead calling for the butler.

  The gargoyle helped him towards the house. “She’s hot.”

  “She’s the librarian,” Max replied, struggling to manage the worry about his injuries and the first waves of lust he’d experienced since his soul’s dislocation. Both seemed to be seeping into him through his physical contact with the gargoyle.

  “A librarian? Even better. She could improve my mind at the same time.”

  He recognised the butler, Axon, as he came out and supported his other arm.

  “Good evening sir,” he said, as if a man on crutches being half carried by an animated statue were a normal arrival.

  “Sorry about the gargoyle, Axon.” Max remembered he was a nice guy, for a butler.

  “It’s no trouble sir,” Axon replied and Max believed him. This was probably quite dull for a Sorcerer’s butler.

  “If you two can manage, I need to clean that…” The gargoyle’s stone eyebrows twitched back in the direction of the gates.

  Max nodded. “Bring the body here.”

  “A body too, sir?” Axon enquired. Max nodded. “Very good, sir.”

  Max made it into the house and was steered towards a large, familiar sitting room. It was cluttered with several lifetimes’ worth of objects. On his previous visit, a collection of tiny ivory figurines had caught his eye. This time it was a clock lying partially dismantled on the writing desk in the corner of the room. The room smelt of camphor, a hint of engine oil and wood smoke from the fire.

  Two overstuffed sofas dominated the centre and he was eased onto one of them. Axon excused himself, promising to return swiftly, then the librarian reappeared, carrying a bowl and some muslin cloths.

  “It’s Petra, isn’t it?” he asked as she rearranged cushions and then helped him to take off his coat and jacket, and eased him down to lie flat.

  “That’s right.” She smiled. “What happened to you?”

  “Got shot and fell off a clock tower.”

  “Oh dear.”

  She rinsed out the cloth and wiped his forehead. The cloth was cool, and for the first time since waking up in that hospital Max felt unlikely to die any time soon. With the gargoyle elsewhere he was free of emotional distractions once more.

  Axon returned with a large leather doctor’s bag and Petra left the damp cloth on his forehead, promising to look for the Sorcerer. Something happened involving a syringe and the blissfully fuzzy feeling returned as he floated away from the pain.

  “Is the gargoyle back?” he asked.

  “It’s in the parlour,” Axon replied. “I thought it better to warn Mr Ekstrand first, rather than an animated statue be happened upon unprepared in the receiving room.”

  “And the body?”

  “All taken care of, sir. May I suggest a restorative cup of tea and some light refreshments?”

  Max nodded.

  “I will prepare a room for you too, sir. I imagine you will be staying here tonight.”

  “No, I’ll go back to the cloister when I’m done.”

  Axon conveyed concern, impending bad news and slight embarrassment at having to contradict a guest, all with just a minor adjustment of his eyebrows, in that way only butlers can. “I will leave that discussion to Mr Ekstrand.” He turned to go and then paused. “I assume the gargoyle does not require refreshments?”

  “I don’t think so. Should it?”

  “I imagine not, sir, being of a stone constitution, but I find it best to never assume anything when it comes to matters of unnatural animation.”

  Max watched him go, feeling exhaustion lapping at his edges in little waves. He almost drifted off to sleep, but the arrival of the promised tea perked him up.

  “I really do think you should speak to him, Mr Ekstrand. He may have important information.” Petra’s voice drifted in from the hall as he stuffed a sandwich into his mouth.

  There was a low mumble, then Axon’s voice adding to the mix. Max struggled into a seated position, breaking into a sweat again. He wondered if he’d ever be able to do anything without soaking his shirt.

  “He needs rest, sir. I think it advisable to have a brief conversation with him now so that he may be taken to his room to recuperate.”

  “Very well.” Mr Ekstrand came to the doorway. He looked very different compared to the last time Max had visited. Instead of an elegantly cut Edwardian suit, the Sorcerer was wearing loose cotton trousers made from un-dyed linen an
d a loose smock-style shirt. Both looked handmade, the design favouring comfort over style. He was barefoot, and around his neck hung close to three dozen pendants of different shapes and colours, each of them a magical artefact.

  Ekstrand’s long face was in keeping with his tall and thin frame, his black hair was in disarray and he hadn’t shaved that day. This was not the image that Sorcerers tended to offer of themselves. Max had the distinct impression he’d arrived at a bad time.

  “I recognise you.” The Sorcerer pointed a long index finger at him from the doorway. “You’re the one I gave the glasses to.”

  “Yes, sir,” Max replied. “Please excuse me for not getting up, I–”

  “Did they work?”

  “What?”

  “The glasses, fool!”

  “Yes, they did. But I need to tell you–”

  “Where are they?” Ekstrand came into the room, but stayed some distance away from Max’s sofa. “Are they in your pocket?”

  “No, sir, I was shot and fell from a clock tower and when I woke in the hospital they were gone.”

  “Gone!” Ekstrand shrieked. “They were with you yesterday, in Mundanus?”

  Max nodded.

  Ekstrand groaned. “They were unique!”

  “Tea, sir?” Axon picked up the teapot. Ekstrand peered at it suspiciously.

  “It is Assam, isn’t it, Axon?”

  “Indeed, sir.”

  “All right,” he muttered and started to pace. “It’s all happening at the same time. I never did trust Sundays and this only adds weight to my theory.”

  Petra followed him in and sat down with a notepad and pen. “Mr Ekstrand, I understand how troublesome Sundays can be, but I really do think you ought to sit down, have a cup of tea and listen to what Max has to say. It’s very important.”

  Ekstrand scowled at Petra for a moment and then relented, sitting down stiffly on the opposite sofa. Axon poured the tea as the Sorcerer peered over the tray at Max.

  “Are you here to apologise for losing my glasses?”

  “No, sir. I’m here because I think something has happened to the Chapter.”

  Ekstrand’s eyes narrowed. “You do, eh?” He accepted the cup and saucer presented to him by the butler and sipped at the tea. He visibly relaxed. “I’ll listen to you. It goes against all my rules, but when Petra and Axon agree on something being an emergency on a Sunday evening I’d be foolish not to listen. Battenberg?”

  Max nodded. He started at the beginning, explaining how Montgomery had got in touch, how he’d got permission from the Chapter Master to go and investigate purely off the record. He described the connections he’d made with the Judd Street agency, how the Arbiter had sat back as the kidnapping took place, the gunshot on the roof of the hotel.

  Ekstrand listened attentively as he chewed on the pink and yellow cake, Petra taking notes all the while. As he’d agreed with the gargoyle, Max didn’t mention the titanium pins in his leg. Seeing the Sorcerer dressed so strangely made him suspect he’d made the right decision. Then he told him about the gargoyle.

  “And that’s why I came straight to you,” he said as Axon took his plate and refilled his teacup. “I think the gargoyle…situation is an indication of something happening to the Chapter, as well as the lack of support and clean-up in London.”

  Ekstrand handed his cake plate to Axon, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Where is this gargoyle, Axon?”

  “In the parlour, sir.”

  “Bring it in here. And be careful.”

  Ekstrand stared at Max as they waited for the gargoyle to be brought in. Max stared back, wondering why the Sorcerer seemed so different from the capable and brilliant man who’d given him the glasses just days before. Had something happened to him too?

  “Do you know if something has happened to the Chapter, sir?” he asked.

  “I’m not going to talk to you about it. How do I know you’re not responsible?” Ekstrand replied.

  “Mr Ekstrand,” Petra said, her voice as smooth as a fine single malt. “Max needs our help.”

  The Sorcerer pursed his lips and said nothing more until Axon returned with the gargoyle. Ekstrand leapt to his feet, eyes wide as the gargoyle gave a small, awkward wave.

  “Evening,” it gravelled.

  “In all the worlds,” Ekstrand whispered. “I have never seen its like.”

  The gargoyle winked at Petra who looked down at her notepad.

  “Do you…feel anything?” Ekstrand asked.

  “Glad to be here,” the gargoyle replied. “It was getting a bit hairy at the hospital. I kept seeing Arbiters in all the shadows. One tried to kill us on the way here, you know. A London Arbiter. In Bath. It’s not right, I tell you.”

  “And how do you explain your state?” the Sorcerer asked, getting closer.

  “We were connected,” it said, jerking a claw towards Max. “Up on the clock tower.”

  “As I said, I was using a deep connection to gather evidence for the Chapter Master,” Max said, watching the Sorcerer just as carefully as the gargoyle was.

  Ekstrand nodded. “That’s the only reason you’re still alive. The soul vessels in the Cloister were destroyed, as far as I can tell, but you were in such close contact, the connection pulled your soul into Mundanus, into this gargoyle.”

  The gargoyle’s mouth dropped open. “Destroyed?” It clutched the sides of its head. “What about the others?”

  “All the Arbiters in the field dropped dead. I have no idea what happened to the rest; there’s been no contact.”

  “That’s…oh, shit…that’s terrible!”

  “It’s most certainly inconvenient. Luckily for you,” he said to Max, “I added an extra function to my formula, detailing that the soul chains should only be destroyed if the Arbiter were dead. Otherwise you’d have died too. Now you’re the only Arbiter left from the Bath Chapter.”

  Max recalled the powder in his pockets. “You worked a formula to destroy our field equipment?”

  “Of course. Arbiters were dropping dead in Mundanus, I couldn’t have mundane authorities finding a Peeper and working out what it was for. I should have added an exclusion clause for my glasses though.”

  The gargoyle sank down onto its haunches and looked as if it was trying to cry. Without tears it just looked miserable and made an awful rasping sound deep in its throat.

  “Absolutely fascinating,” commented Ekstrand, observing its distress. “And a terrible liability. If any of the Fae or their puppets were to get hold of him, we’d be in a lot of trouble. And you,” he pointed at Max, “would be susceptible to their magic. The gargoyle has to stay here. We can’t have your soul chain running around independently of you.”

  “Can’t we take it off it?” Max asked.

  “Too much of a risk for now. It’s probably the only thing keeping your soul inside it. You wouldn’t want to lose your connection.”

  “And what about me?”

  “I suppose you’ll have to stay as well,” Ekstrand said, clearly not happy about it. “You’re practically useless in your current state, and you have no cloister to be healed in.”

  Max nodded. “I’m the only eyewitness. When you approach the Essex Sorcerer you’ll need me to give evidence.”

  Ekstrand shook his head. “Not for that, for something in Bath, or rather Aquae Sulis. One of the most important people in Fae-touched society has disappeared, and with all this nonsense going on I haven’t had anyone to investigate it.”

  “But there are innocents being taken in London,” Max said. “There are corrupt Arbiters and now they’ve destroyed the Bath Chapter to cover it up.”

  “Don’t you care?” the gargoyle asked. “Arbiters are supposed to be incorruptible, how has this even happened? What else are they up to in London? Why are they working with the Rosa family?”

  “I’ll deal with that another time,” Ekstrand said, irritated.

  “Another time?” the gargoyle straightened up. “It has to be dealt with now, bef
ore more innocents are taken!”

  “You,” Ekstrand pointed at the gargoyle’s chest, “are nothing more than a dislocated soul trapped in an ugly statue and have no right to question my judgement. Besides, any sane individual knows it’s utter madness to deal with any serious problems on a Sunday.” He scratched his head and shivered. “Which reminds me, I need to check the wards, especially with the two of you in the house. Axon, find suitable arrangements for these two, would you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I haven’t finished with you,” he said, giving Max one last suspicious look, and then hurried out of the room.

  Max dropped his head back on the sofa cushions. Ekstrand was more concerned about a Fae puppet than his Chapter, Arbiters had tried to kill him – twice – and he was corrupted with Titanium. It hadn’t been the best weekend. The gargoyle’s head settled on the arm of the sofa with a suitably grim expression.

  “The Sorcerer of Wessex is mad as a nail,” the gargoyle whispered. “We’re buggered.”

  9

  Cathy watched the sun come up over the city. Everything she did was punctuated by a sense of finality. This might be the last time she saw in the dawn in Manchester. This might be the last morning she woke as a free woman. This was the last day she would ever see Josh.

  She had to end it. Her family could turn up any moment, and she wanted to make sure Josh didn’t worry about her after she’d gone. She didn’t want to do to him what she’d done to her family a year before. Again, the guilt. She banged her forehead against the window gently, hating herself.

  Perhaps this is what it’s like when you only have a week left to live, she caught herself thinking, and then immediately pulled herself up. She couldn’t think like that. It wasn’t over. Besides, millions of people suffered much worse every day.

  It didn’t make her feel any better.

  The appalling night’s sleep had been a mess of regrets and fears but she had managed to make one decision: she was going to make arrangements to keep the flat as long as she could and for all of her stuff to go into storage. She had to believe there was a way to escape again and when she did she’d want somewhere to go in Mundanus. If it took longer than the length of the lease at least her stuff wouldn’t be thrown out in her absence. There was enough money in her account to keep it going for the rest of the agreed lease and to pay for storage. Then she realised her mother might ask for the jewels she’d sold to fund her escape. The forehead was banged against the window again.