Fearless Genre Warriors

by Steve Lockley

  Reynard looked at Fey. ‘Alright, I suppose we owe Glenn a ride after losing him his job. Get in, Doug.’

  ‘Yeah, okay. Whatever.’

  Glenn sneezed. ‘Sorry.’ Doug dropped his wolfsbane garland out the window onto the parking lot.

  Nobody said anything as they drove. They looked at the headlights on the highway and the moon and thought.

  Tits Up in Wonderland

  Chloe Yates

  From: Missing Monarchs

  For the Prof

  The dress was a wreck. A pouty-lipped red full-length evening gown with a thigh high split, it had been entirely embroidered with diamantes and sequins that made it shimmer and sparkle under the lights of the club. Now it was nothing more than a rag. Queenie picked it up and sniffed it, her jet-black bob falling around her face as she closed her eyes. The reek of cigarette smoke with a tang of waning vanilla – the King’s preferred scent when he became The Duchess (more for the joke than the scent itself) – crawled up her nose and made its way down to form a hard lump in her throat.

  Someone had taken him.

  God’s knackers, she hoped he wasn’t already dead.

  The dress, the last thing the King had been seen wearing, had turned up in the mail that morning. A lovingly crafted package of black paper with a purple bow. It reminded her of the vicious Drag Turf warfare, when Big Alice and her cohorts with their big ideas and desire for monopoly had wreaked havoc on the city; but Big Alice hadn’t been seen since the Jack’s Tarts debacle and if anyone was thinking of upending the status quo or, god forbid, Big Alice had come back, Queenie would have known about it. She’d made it her business to know about every droplet of piss that swirled its way down the drains of every drag club between here and…

  That rat bastard.

  It was clearly meant to remind her of the Body Part Boxes that had once signalled the kind of ransom expected for a hostage, but the colours that had been used were…

  That devious, pinch-faced, jealous rat bastard.

  She should have realised straightaway. Black and purple. The colours of the wedding dress he’d had made for her all those years ago. She hadn’t added two and two, had almost laughed when she’d seen the box, a subconsciously nervous reaction even after so long.

  Funny, however, it was not.

  The King was missing and she had a very good idea who had him. It was time to get the Tweedy brothers up and at ‘em.

  Queenie stared at the Tweedy boys. Identical great lugs, their similarity extended to their epic stupidity. One was sporting a neck brace and looked like his face had been through a mangle while the other had gashes and bruises over his arms and chest that made his brother’s two black eyes look mild. A quick recce, that’s what she’d sent them over for and they’d come back looking like yesterday’s roast dinner leftovers. It was her fault, of course. She’d been angry. If she was honest, she’d wanted the bastards to see the boys scoping the joint and panic. Instead, they’d beaten the Seven Holy Bells of the Almighty Sky God Kar out of them. She would have done the same thing.

  They had, however, come back with a note.

  My Beloved Queenie Flower,

  We have your King. I’m guessing you already know this. You know what we want, still.

  Your eternal champion, Mo.

  Some champion. Queenie crumpled the note in her fist and thought about stuffing it in her mouth. Maybe she’d choke to death on that shonky little ballbag’s words and this nonsense would finally be over. She’d nearly lost Wonderland because of her involvement with Mr Mo, had been so smitten with him that nothing else had mattered. Of course when the King had discovered the woodland witch who’d given Mr Mo the love potion (the only rational explanation for her going within a yard of that sneaky little rat) she’d been as mad as Kar’s trapped gonads. The man was a menace and she’d been hoodwinked – her! When he’d tried to get back into her good graces, apologising, grovelling, killing a couple of her minor enemies, she’d seriously toyed with the idea of revenge (massive unassailable sweet revenge) but the King had been the one to talk her down. He had been there for her for more years than she could remember, had been with her when she’d started Wonderland – had been the reason for it – and she wasn’t about to let that little toad fuck with him more than he already had.

  Time to play.

  The Louche Lounge. What a consummate idiot. Queenie took a long last drag on her kretek, tossed the butt and ground it into the pavement with the tip of her red stiletto heel. Well, if you were going to open a shithole, you might as well call it a shithole. Big Curly was about as imaginative as a tin of shagwort meat but somehow he’d gotten in with Mr Mo and things had worked well for them. What had once been a spit and sawdust dive in a dodgy part of town had become a roaring success. The Louche wasn’t short on oddities; indeed they catered for every kind of deviance a twisted mind could imagine. In this town, that stretched the limits. Still, Big Curly and his mob of freaks might be the face of the operation, but the brains were entirely that little shitkicker’s, Mr Mo.

  He’d been unbelievably patient; she had to give him that. He’d been biding his time for over six years. So why now? Had he simply run out of that legendary patience? It didn’t matter why, Queenie reminded herself for the umpteenth time, it just mattered that he had stopped waiting. The thing he had forgotten, however, was that she was no longer under his spell. He might have the King, but she had ways too, same as him. He was going to be chowing down on his balls come suppertime. No one crossed Queenie McCaw.

  It was time for action.

  ‘Put it over there, then let’s get out of here.’ Groaning and bitching about their aches and pains the whole time, the Tweedy boys set the bomb by the crates in the alley. It wasn’t anything major, just a useful distraction. Her contortionist, Hardheart Whiplash (stage name) was already winding his way through the Louche’s ventilation system, such as it was. Queenie checked her watch. By now he should be almost over where her spy had said they were keeping the King. While Mr Mo’s lugs dealt with the explosion out back, Hardheart would take the duplicate set of keys Queenie had had made and get the King out – right through the front of the club. The dancers wouldn’t care and the punters would be too drunk to notice.

  Queenie and the Tweedys made their way carefully out of the alleyway and across the street. Once in position, she counted down the seconds, watching her watch like a hawk because her heart was beating so hard she was worried she might get ahead of herself.

  Ten, Nine, Eight…

  Hardheart should be right in position…

  Three, Two, One…

  Queenie hit the switch in her pocket.

  A blast of white light and a bang that was surprisingly more like a boom exploded from the Louche’s back alley. Firework flowers punched the air, whizzing and banging as they erupted, brightening both the night sky and the shabby district below. Glitter poured down like rain. The lugs who’d been manning the front doors hot-footed it round to the back of the building, coughing and spluttering as they inhaled the sparkly air. Several others emerged from the depths of the club to assist their colleagues and they were soon choking on the swirling sparkles too. As they disappeared from view, Queenie turned her attention to the front doors. Any moment now. Any moment…

  ‘What in the Lords of the Deeps’ balls do you mean he wasn’t there?’

  ‘Exactly that, Queenie. He wasn’t there.’ Hardheart took a step back as Queenie’s face turned a distinct shade of red – it was the colour she always went when fury had a hold on her. Only the King could calm her down from one of her tempers. ‘Whoever told you he was there was either lying or mistaken. I don’t know which.’

  ‘Shit and biscuits!’ Queenie kicked a waste paper basket across her office, not seeing Hardheart make a quick exit as the papers in it scattered across the carpet like crumpled white wasps fleeing a kicked nest. ‘I’ll kill that bitch,
Lanky Lottie. She’ll be wearing her stilts down her lying bloody throat by the time I’ve finished with her.’

  ‘Come now, darling flower, don’t be angry. It was simply a little ruse to get you to come to me. I misjudged. Your King said I had, but I did not believe him.’ Mr Mo stepped into Queenie’s office as though he had every right to be there.

  ‘You! What in the name of the gods’ teeth are you doing in here? How did you get in? How dare you …’

  ‘Queenie, you must not anger yourself so. I merely... convinced your doormen to let me in. I can be most charming when I want to be, can I not? As to why I am here, it is to bring you news.’ Mr Mo settled himself in one of her guest chairs, placing the brown bag he was carrying on his lap and waited, that shit-eating grin plastered across his face like he was one of Kar’s heavenly angels. Her fingers itched to slap it off him, but she knew it wouldn’t do any good. Mo was an old hand at pain, giving it and receiving it. It was how he’d made his way in the world. Once upon a time, she had found it exciting...

  Queenie determinedly shook the memory off. She perched on the edge of her desk and folded her arms.

  ‘Okay, so spill. What news?’

  ‘So impatient, my love. First, tell me, have you missed Mr Mo? He has missed you terribly.’

  ‘I’ve missed you like a hole in the head, Mo. Now, give. What’s the news?’

  Mr Mo chuckled. ‘Dearest Queenie, always down to business. It is one of the things I love about you.’ He winked at her and Queenie shuddered, not bothering to hide her distaste. It merely made Mr Mo laugh. ‘Well, since you insist, the news is this—’ he stood with a flourish, ‘—ding dong, your King is dead.’ With that, he threw the bag he’d been holding at Queenie, who caught it instinctively. Her fingers squished into it, as though it were a bag full of thick jelly. Holes appeared where her fingers sank into the damp material and something red oozed out of them. Dark red. Queenie shrieked and let go of the bag. As it splattered on the floor at her feet, the bag ripped to show what was inside – a still pumping heart. The King’s still pumping heart.

  Revulsion and outrage coursed through her, her heart cracking into a thousand pieces along with her temper. Shattered, she looked at Mr Mo in horror… but as she did, her course became crystal clear. Preternatural calm soothed through her, making her smile. Uncertainty flashed across Mr Mo’s face for the first time, pleasing her still further.

  ‘You know, there are easier ways to attract a mate, Mr Mo.’ Queenie slipped off the desk and circled behind it, keeping her movements slow and non-threatening.

  ‘I do not want a mate, Queenie pie, I want you.’

  ‘That’s… unfortunate.’ The button was easy to press, as had been her intention when she’d had it installed. With a soft click, she felt her smile widen. The door behind Mr Mo flew open, crashing into the wall. He spun around, his audacity palpably sinking into the ground at last. Had he really thought her that inept? That easy to harass?

  She was the motherfucking Queen and this was her house.

  The Tweedy boys grinned at Mr Mo, clearly eager to get their hands on him. Queenie wasn’t one to tease. She waved her hand in his direction and they grabbed him, Mr Mo shouting curses and threats as they wrestled him towards the door.

  ‘What do you want us to do with him, boss?’ The Tweedy boys asked in perfect syncopation.

  Sitting down at her desk, Queenie reached for the glass of Jawfoot Bourbon she’d been nursing before Mr Mo’s visit, downing it in one easy motion. There would be repercussions but she didn’t care. Without the King, her voice of reason was ominously silent.

  ‘Off with his head, boys.’

  Fragrance of You

  Steven Savile

  From: King Wolf & Other Stories

  The illustration was so much more than paper and ink. It was a farewell gift to a man he had loved without ever really knowing; a man whose few words in Princess Scapegoat, The Forgetting Wood and his last gift, Angel Home, had opened up a new world for so many children like him. Of course Jon wasn’t a child anymore but Hoke Berglund had written himself into his heart just the same. When he heard the old man had died it was as though a magic-shaped hole had opened itself in Jon Sieber’s life. The magic of childhood, innocence, wonder and the impossible, everything that was so wonderful about Hoke’s books, was suddenly gone. Snatched away. The crazy thing was they had never met. Not once.

  Jon looked at the drawing again: the old man with his head down and his hands on the Life Stone, praying to the very heart of Angel Home, and to the angels all around him who knew it was too late for prayers.

  It was raining. The branches of an old cypress offered little in the way of shelter. The handful of mourners had already begun to drift away, leaving a sad-faced women alone by the graveside. She held a white orchid in her hand.

  She was so lost in her maze of thoughts she didn’t hear him approach.

  Feeling self-conscious, Jon knelt by the grave and placed the drawing on the coffin lid. It looked pathetic lying there, a scrap of paper just waiting for the mud to fall but he thought the old man would understand. ‘Goodbye, Hoke.’ He whispered after a moment.

  ‘Did you know him?’

  She had come over to stand beside him. As Jon stood their eyes met. She had been crying.

  ‘Not as well as I would have liked to.’

  He tried to smile and she nodded that she understood. It wasn’t love at first sight. Amid the smells of wet grass, earth and spring was the sweet aroma of vanilla.

  ‘What do you think angels would smell of, daddy?’ The boy asked.

  ‘Vanilla,’ his father answered without a doubt.

  It was the opening line from Angel Home. The realisation did bring a smile to Jon’s face. It was her own way of saying goodbye.

  ‘Jon Sieber,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘I drew the illustrations for Angel Home.’

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘Daddy talked about you a lot. Said you understood the magic. He loved your pictures, you know. I’m Kirsten.’

  ‘Thank you, Kirsten. Knowing he liked my pictures means a lot. I grew up reading his books and somehow becoming a part of it, well, it’s a dream come true.’

  ‘That would have made him happy. All he ever wanted was for people to love his stories. He was a very simple man.’

  ‘I can’t imagine how anyone couldn’t love his stories. They tapped the magic that was so essentially childhood. They looked around the corners of our young minds and said boo to the shadows under the bed. He didn’t treat us like children. We were all part of this big secret and Hoke was showing us how the world worked. It always felt that every word he wrote was meant just for me… do you know what I mean?’

  Kirsten nodded. ‘Absolutely. It was Daddy’s gift. Look, do you want to go get a coffee or something. I don’t mean to be rude but I don’t want to stay here. Not with him down there. I’ve said goodbye a hundred times and now it just hurts to look at that wooden box and think of him inside it.’

  ‘Oh God, of course. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.’

  ‘It’s okay.’

  They walked out of the cemetery towards the city itself. The cemetery was older than any of the houses nearby, dating back to when the city was a few buildings on the hill and the gothic sculptures of the cherubs and martyrs were of the whitest marble. Now they were wrapped in ivy and soot-stained and the city had grown out past the cemetery, swallowing it whole.

  Jon’s illustrations decorated the window of a small corner bookstore, colourful display boards promising a classic children’s fable from Hoke Berglund.

  ‘He hated the story, you know. Thought it was too dark for kids.’

  ‘Well, it’s not exactly Elidor.’

  In Angel Home the angels were dying because God, their father, was forgetting them. Even in Angel Home itself they weren’t safe but a young boy, Thomas, who ha
d been killed in a stupid, stupid accident, held the key. If Thomas could learn the secret of Angel Home he could remember them in his own way and keep them all alive. Thomas, The Boy Who Saved The Angels.

  The book hadn’t sold well. Critics had said it was too dark, too depressing. Tackled too many issues children shouldn’t have to deal with.

  They turned away from the window. The rain was growing heavier so they ducked into a small cafe across the street from the bookstore and ordered: black coffee, strong, for Jon, whipped chocolate sprinkled with flakes of almond for Kirsten.

  ‘I don’t want to be alone, Jon.’ She said, staring into the layers of cream in her cup. ‘Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow but not tonight.’

  ‘You don’t have to be.’ He said softly, then realised what he had said. ‘I mean, if you want me to I can sleep on the couch, then I’ll only be a few feet away.’

  ‘You’re an angel,’ Kirsten said, putting her hand over his. ‘I would like that very much, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘I don’t mind.’

  ‘You must think I’m crazy.’

  ‘Not at all. I think you are beautiful and sad and if I can help take the sadness away then that is what I want to do.’

  ‘I think daddy was right about you.’

  They spent the day talking, walking and to some extent falling in love. Jon couldn’t help himself. He didn’t want to fall in love. Didn’t want to look at Kirsten and see the future so openly written in the lines of her cheekbones and the midnight blue of her eyes but there was something about her.

  They walked though the park in the rain, stopping to watch giggling children feed the swans with chunks of bread.

  ‘Did you know swans mate for life?’ she said.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. It’s beautiful but it’s sad as well.’ She pointed at a beautiful white swan alone in the middle of the lake whilst the others fed near the shore. ‘Her partner died last year, so she’s been alone ever since. She won’t find a new love. It’s not her way. She’ll grow old, alone.’