The Black Tattoo

by Sam Enthoven

  The Light of the Moon looked like a bad West End pub. It sounded and smelled like a bad West End pub. But as well as being a pub, it was something else: it was a gateway to Hell. And the gateway was opening.

  Number 3 watched as the spot in the air that marked the Fracture went greenish-white, the began to send out lazy little tendrils of magical power — power that only Number 3, at that moment, with his special lenses, was able to see. Slowly, he let his right hand creep up and under his coat, toward where he let his right hand creep up and under his coat, toward where his weapons were waiting. Then, abruptly, his view was blocked by a hulking shadow, and his wrist was caught in a strong grip.

  "Oi! Just stop right there."

  "Let go of me, please," said Number 3 politely.

  "I don't care who you think you are," said the bouncer, "but I'm not letting you get your popgun out in here. There are people about. See?"

  "Let go now, please," said Number 3. "I 'ave no wish to 'urt you."

  Past the bouncer, a burst of whiteness filled Number 3's vision: for a moment, the bones of the bouncer's rib cage stood out like an X-ray against the light before the lenses' protective layers reacted nd dimmed down the transmission to a dull glow.

  "Listen, mate," said the bouncer, "you don't—OW!"

  Number 3 was already moving. In less than a second he had shifted his weight, breaking the bouncer's grip, spinning the man round, and driving the arm that had held his up the man's broad back in a vicious and immobilizing half nelson. With his left hand (Number 3 could shoot just as well with his left), he yanked out a second, identical machine-pistol, already drawing a bead on the thing that had emerged from the Fracture, tracking its flapping, desperate flight across the room.

  But already, Number 3 knew, he was too late.

  The intruder shot past, right over the oblivious pub-goers' heads, and up over the wide steps. It burst straight through one of the big plate-glass doors and out into the London night, leaving nothing but tinkling splinters behind it.

  Shoving his gun back into its holster, the Son of the Scorpion Flail applied a nerve-pinch to a certain spot: the bouncer slumped to the floor without protesting. The drinkers nearest the shattered door were only now just starting to scream.

  "Merde," said Number 3, with feeling.

  Whatever it was that had just come through from Hell — he'd lost it.

  * * * * *

  Alembic House, Same night. 3:47 a.m.

  Felix sat up in bed, coming awake instantly in the darkness. He was breathing hard, he was sweating, and as he felt for the lamp on his antique bedside table, his hand was shaking helplessly.

  He'd been dreaming. It was a long, slow, freezing kind of dream, full of darkness and falling and cold that squeezed stony fingers round his heart. It was a frightening dream. It was also a dream that Felix had had before: he knew what it was, and he knew what caused it.

  He was being summoned. The darkness still inside him from all those years ago was calling him again, and he knew he was powerless to resist. Felix sat up, sighing as he put on his glasses.

  And some time later, he was across the street from the Light of the Moon, standing in the shadows, watching the two men who were now guarding the door.

  "This is crazy," Number 12 was saying.

  His partner, Number 9, just sighed. This was the fourth time his fellow sentry had made this observation that night, and they'd only been on duty outside the Light of the Moon for about an hour and a half.

  "I'm serious," Number 12 went on. "If Number Three couldn't do anything, then what good can we do? Next time something comes through, it's gonna take more than the two of us to stop it."

  "Orders are orders," said Number 9 primly.

  Number 12 scowled. Since Number 9's recent promotion up the ranks and into single figures, he was really becoming insufferable: all the years they'd worked together, and now it was "Orders are orders." Suddenly, Number 12 decided that hinting at what he wanted to know wasn't going to be enough: he'd have to ask his partner out straight.

  "It's tonight, isn't it?" he said. "That's why they won't send more of us. They're bringing Project Justice in tonight."

  "What do you know about Project Justice?" asked Number 9.

  "Come on," said Number 12, enjoying the chance to scoff. "You don't think I've heard the rumors? They've done it: the Star Chamber finally pulled off the deal with the Russians. And now, if this Fracture thing really goes where they say it goes, then we can go in with a nuke!"

  "Why don't you shut up?" suggested Number 9. "Before I—"

  A simultaneous crackle in the men's ears cut him off.

  "Nine here," said Number 9. The signal was faint and full of interference. Both men cupped their hands to their earpieces in an effort to make it clearer.

  "Repeat, please," said Number 9, in a voice loud enough to get both Sons of the Scorpion Flail noticed if anyone had happened to be passing at that moment. "You're breaking up! Hello?"

  Silence.

  "I think," began Number 12, "he said there was movement round the back."

  "I know what he said!" snapped Number 9. Actually, this was a lie: he was glad Number 12 had been there to make sense of the message, though he would never have told him so to his face.

  "Well?" asked Number 12, looking at him.

  "All right," said Number 9, "Let's check it out. But remember, look casual, okay?"

  Number 12 sighed again, but he followed Number 9's lead. The two men set off.

  Felix watched them go. It would take the Sons at least two minutes to get round the block to reach the rear door of the pub and the same time again to get back: more than enough time. As he crossed the road, he smiled. That had been the first time he'd used magic since...

  His smile faded. He'd enjoyed himself for a moment there, but when he remembered the last time, his expression turned grim once more.

  Noting the broad wooden board that had been chained over the shattered pane of glass, Felix put his hands round the padlock that held the doors shut and concentrated: it fell open with a soft click. Felix straightened up, brushed his lapels, did up the button on the jacket of his impeccably expensive suit, and stepped through.

  The darkness inside him, a darkness blacker than that of the empty pub around him, was stirring: Felix could feel it. Unbidden, his feet took him to the spot at the end of the room, and his hands began the gestures by themselves. He watched, with a strange sort of detachment, as the Fracture's dull red glow widened to a fierce, freezing whiteness.

  Then he was there, in Hell. He was standing in a broad, tall, blood-colored dome-shaped room, with a round, raised dais at its center. On the dais was a throne. On the throne, sitting comfortably, was what had awoken him.

  "Good evening, Felix," said the Scourge. "Thank you for coming."

  "You say that like I had a choice," Felix replied.

  "My dear fellow, do let's be civil. After all, we've known each other quite a long time."

  "You destroyed my life," said Felix. "And now the only person left that I care about in the world is lying in a coma, because of you."

  "You destroyed your own life," the Scourge replied evenly, "when you made your bargain with me. Everything that has happened to you, you've brought upon yourself. Don’t tell me all this item you've been pretending otherwise, please."

  "All right," said Felix, after a moment. "Then how about you tell me what I'm doing here?"

  "I think you know the answer to that," said the Scourge. "You're here to die."

  Felix and the demon looked at each other. Once again, the Scourge was right about him: Felix had known this was the end. He'd known since he'd woken up.

  "But first," the Scourge went on, "there's something you're going to do for me."

  The demon settled back on the throne, and there was a short pause before it spoke again.

  "It's about Esme," it said. "You're going to give her a message."

  * * * * *

  The Palace Theatre. Same nig
ht. 4:49 a.m.

  Darkness. Freezing, black, bottomless. The darkness slid past her, taking her down, and a soft wince said—

  We're the same.

  What?

  We're the same, it repeated, you and me. In fact, there is no "you and me." I'm you. You're me. You've always been me. And the only reason I'm speaking to you like this is that you just won't admit it yet.

  Black water. Cold, darkness, and falling. There was a pause, then the voice spoke again.

  You know what I can offer you.

  Esme said nothing.

  You can feel it, said the voice. In your body, your blood: strength without limit. Power beyond imagining. And all you have to do is accept me.

  Open your heart, the voice told her, and Esme couldn't help but listen. Open your heart, and LET ME IN... YES !

  Then, suddenly, urgently, as if its owner were standing right next to her, another voice said, Remember your mother.

  Esme's eyes fluttered, then opened.

  She was wearing nothing but a long white cotton T-shirt, she realized: one of hers, an old one, one she never usually wore. Also, she saw, she was strapped to the bed. Three thick brown padded leather straps stretched from one side to the other: one across her legs just above her knees, one across her hips (with loops for her wrists), and another across her chest. The buckles on the straps were done up quite tightly, so Esme closed her eyes, reached inside herself, and concentrated. The air in the room turned thick for a moment. There was a soft clinking sound as the straps fell loose. Then Esme sat up.

  There was a door at the foot of the bed, with a thin crack of light beneath it. Hugging herself because the floor was cold under her feet, she walked over to it. She waited for a moment, listening, then she turned the handle. A young man was standing outside, dressed in black from head to toe, with a gun on his belt. On seeing Esme, he turned pale.

  "Oh," he said. "You're... uh—"

  "Where is it?" asked Esme. Her voice came out in a kind of croak.

  "I'm—I'm sorry?"

  "Where is it?" Esme repeated, already losing patience.

  "Where's what?" asked the man, genuinely puzzled.

  Esme frowned. She let her head fall to one side: a thick clump of her wild black hair swung down over one eye while the other fixed him unblinkingly.

  "Listen," said the man, suddenly having trouble getting his words out. "I've, ah, got to call someone. If you just stay right there, then—"

  Esme's arm shot out and she caught the man's hand when it had barely moved toward his hip. He found himself being pulled toward the girl as her hand crushed, mercilessly, on his. His vision was turning dark, but he could still see her face and her burning amber eyes.

  "Where. Is. It?" asked Esme, and her voice seemed to blossom like black flowers in his head.

  "I don't— I don't—" said the man, the last vestiges of his training making him reach, with his other hand, for his gun.

  Esme sighed — and the man flew back, smashing into the wall and landing in a heap on the floor.

  Esme looked down at the prone body for a moment. Then, still dressed only in her long T-shirt, she stepped over the guard and set off down the corridor.

  The next few minutes—

  "Freeze, or I'll— AAAGH! "

  — passed in a sort —

  "I repeat, subject is... NO! PLEASE! "

  — of blur. Esme was beginning to recognize her surroundings, but the loud alarm sounds were unfamiliar and, she found, quite irritating. Plus, there were all these people. At one point, on the landing outside the butterfly room, twenty-two more of the black-clad men fanned out and surrounded her. They were wearing gas masks and body armor. They were shouting. Their guns made a lot of clicking noises as they pointed them at her. It was all, she found, very irritating indeed.

  A burst of harsh light blasted in around the edges of the butterfly room's double doors, and Number 2 looked up just as, with a heavy crump, the doors buckled inward.

  He stood up, facing the doors, nodding to the two men he had stationed to either side, who took up position, waiting.

  The doors opened, and Esme came in.

  Her wild black hair stood out all around her. Her hands, as she stepped over the unconscious body of one of the men who had tried to get in her way, opened and closed on the empty air by her sides. Her amber eyes flicked once around the room, taking in her old dojo and the way that now it seemed to be filled with men and machinery. Then they fixed on Number 2.

  "So," said the Son's leader unhappily. "You're, er, awake, then."

  Esme just looked at him.

  "Now," Number 2 went on quickly. "There's no need to get, er, overexcited. For the last day or so you've been in... well, some kind of a coma. We had no idea when, of if, you'd wake up, but we thought — for your own protection, of course — that it might be best to put you in... well, in restraints. I can see that that might not have been quite the right thing to do, and I apologize, truly, so please, there's no reason for any violence. All right?"

  Still Esme said nothing.

  "This," said Number 2, gesturing at the oblong metal box behind him and the racks of improvised laboratory equipment that surrounded it, "is a, ah, rather dangerous piece of equipment."

  Esme raised an eyebrow.

  "All right," said Number 2. "I'll tell you. It's a bomb. It's rather a powerful one. We are, at present, engaged in quite a delicate stage of its preparation. So, you know, perhaps if you'd be good enough to wait outside or in your room for another twenty minutes or so, then we'd be able to discuss things a little more—"

  Esme brushed the cloud of words aside. "Where is it?" she asked.

  Number 2 frowned. "I'm sorry," he said slowly. "I'm not sure if I under—"

  "WHERE IS IT?" wailed Esme suddenly, as the sadness clawed at her.

  Number 2 stared. Some sort of horrible change had come over the girl. Her face was stricken with grief. "I'm afraid I don't understand what you're talking about," he finished uncertainly.

  "Look," said Esme, trying again. She looked down at her feet. Her hair swung down over her face again, and her eyes were going a bit watery. She bunched her fists and straightened up. "It was taken from me, all right? The Scourge took it, and I've got to have it back." She opened her hands and held them out, empty, trying to show how important it was.

  "It's all I've got — you see?" she explained. "It's all I've got left from... from Raymond." Her voice had gone wobbly again. The men were just looking at her blankly. She felt a stab of impatience. "I'm going to ask you again," she said. "Then I'm going to get very angry. Where is it?"

  Suddenly, the air in the room was heating up — the pressure building. Number 2's eyes narrowed, and he nodded to the two men standing behind her.

  Instantly, before Esme could react, they fired.

  The glowing tips of the Tasers hit home at her back, on either side of her spine. Esme's body began to convulse, and the bursts of bright current began to run in weird blue splashes down her T-shirt and her bare brown legs. The men kept their fingers pressed on the triggers of their specially adapted weapons. But Esme was still asking.

  "WHERE IS IT?" she cried, again and again. "WHERE IS IT? WHAT HAVE THEY DONE WITH MY SWORD?"

  The equipment rattled on the shelves.

  Everyone winced.

  Then, suddenly, she fell.

  "Tranquilizer," barked Number 2. There was a long, soft hiss as the injection was applied to the girl's neck. It was a large dose. It would have to be.

  FRIENDS

  Jack was in a foul mood.

  When he'd come back from Hell the day before, stepping out of the Fracture wheeling the trolley what Esme's lifeless body in front of him, he hadn't exactly known what to expect. Not flags and a brass band to welcome him or anything, of course not: the most he'd hoped for, he supposed, was a chance to get Esme back to the Brotherhood's headquarters before he decided what his next move should be. But no. Oh no. As had been the case, it seemed, with so much in J
ack's life, things had naturally turned out worse.

  What he'd got instead was a surprise encounter with a bunch of black-clad men in gas masks, all of whom seemed to be pointing guns at him. They'd whisked Esme off to who-knows-where before Jack barely had time to protest, and any attempts he'd made since to ask after her — let alone get to see her — had been met with total indifference from his captors. The men had proceeded to spend most of the next twenty-four hours grilling Jack for his story, making him go over it again and again while at the same time clearly not believing a word of it. They'd refused to explain who they were or what they were doing there. They'd refused to let him call his parents, and they had locked him in one of the rooms at the theater.

  And as if that weren't enough by itself, he felt sick.

  He'd first noticed the feeling just a couple of hours after his return from Hell: it hadn't been too bad at first — just a light, nagging sensation in the pit of his stomach, particularly whenever he looked at food. Over the following twenty-four hours, however, the feeling had got steadily worse. There was a feverish sort of tingle in his shoulders and under his arms. His mouth tasted furry and his stomach kept gurgling and twisting itself up, like he'd swallowed a snake and it was eating him alive down there, eating him from the inside.

  Typical, he thought. What a time to get ill. How absolutely bloody typ—

  He froze, staring.

  A patch of shadow in the corner of the room was moving, rippling — solidifying, as he watched, into a manlike shape of purest liquid black. The darkness vanished, and a figure stepped out of the shadows.

  "Charlie," said Jack.

  "Hey," said Charlie. He had a sword strapped to his back, and he looked very pleased with himself. "Got a minute?" he asked.

  "I suppose so," said Jack dryly. "I'm not exactly in the middle of anything here."