The Black Tattoo

by Sam Enthoven

  It was an odd sensation. When the Scourge had told him what was going to happen to him, he'd been expecting to panic when the time came. Now that it was here — now he could see it happening and feel the slow seeping cold moving all the way through him — he felt strangely calm. He looked down at his hands. Already they were becoming translucent. Another moment, and a dull metallic line began to make itself visible through the flesh of his wrists. The line was the other side of the handcuffs the Sons had put him in when they'd found him as he stepped back through the Fracture.

  When he'd returned from Hell, Felix had brought his death with him. Now he was fading away. Literally.

  "My message is this," he said. "The only thing that can stop the Scourge from waking the Dragon — the only thing that can stop the universe from being destroyed — is you, Esme. This is what I was summoned to tell you. Either you return to Hell and face the Scourge again, or, well..." He shrugged miserably. "You get the picture."

  The handcuffs fell to the floor with a dull clank.

  "That's it," he said. "That’s the end of the message. I don't know what the Scourge wants with you: it's obviously a trap. Bus as you can see," he said, holding his hands up in front of his face, "I had no choice."

  His hands were completely transparent now. Through the thin misty shapes that were all that remained of them, Felix and Esme looked at each other.

  "I'm sorry, Esme," said Felix, keeping his gaze on her thirstily for as long as he could. Esme was, after all, the only person he cared about in the whole world — even though she was the one person who could never have cared about him. He didn't mind, he realized. He loved her anyway, just the same: he loved her, he told himself, and the realization cast a last wisp of warmth through the freezing, creeping cold inside him.

  Esme stared back at him. Her eyes were bright.

  Then suddenly, silently, Felix disappeared.

  The Brotherhood of Sleep was finished: the last surviving member of the generation that had let the Scourge escape was gone, and the demon's vengeance on its jailers was complete.

  Almost.

  "Jack," Esme whispered.

  "What?" said Number 2.

  "Jack," she told him. "I need Jack."

  THE MISSION

  "So..." said Jack to Esme later. "What's the plan again?"

  They were standing in the Light of the Moon. It was late in the evening of the following day. Number 2 had finally bowed to Number 3's repeated requests and closed the pub down: the place was deserted apart from Jack, Esme, and the Sons of the Scorpion Flail, who were busily checking their equipment.

  The Sons looked tense. Fair enough, Jack decided: when he'd made his first trip to Hell, he'd done it without thinking. These guy, by contrast, had had a whole day to worry about what they were getting themselves into.

  Esme adjusted the strap of the pigeon sword on her back and gave him a tired look.

  "Jack," she said, "we've been through all this. Until we go in, we don't know what we're dealing with. I've got to tackle the Scourge — we know that much. You've got to do whatever you can with Charlie." She sighed. "That's all we can say for sure at this point."

  "But what about these Sons guys?" Jack asked quietly, taking a step closer to her. "D'you really trust them? After they, like, chained you up and everything?"

  Esme bit her lip.

  "I was dangerous," she said. "They didn't know what I might do." She shivered. "I don't know what I might do. Besides," she added, banishing the thought quickly, "Jessica sent for them. They can't be completely useless — can they?"

  "I suppose we need all the help we can get," said Jack dryly.

  "Not all the help," Esme replied, looking around. "Too many and I'll have to be watching their backs, as well as yours and mine."

  There was a pause.

  "So," said Jack. "That's it, then."

  "What is?"

  "The plan." Jack tried a grin. "The plan is there is no plan."

  "That's about the size of it," said Esme, with, Jack was glad to notice, a grim but definite smile. "Yeah."

  "Business as usual, eh?" Jack quipped. His own smile faded. "Listen, there's, er, something I've got to tell you. It's about Charlie."

  "What about him?" Esme asked.

  Jack took a deep breath. "Esme," he said, "you can't kill him."

  "Now, I know how it is," he went on quickly. "If it's a straight choice, Charlie, or, like, saving the universe, then I guess you've got to do what you've got to do. But before things get that far, I just wanted to say... well..."

  He looked at Esme.

  "Charlie's an idiot," he told her. "I know he's an idiot. He's stubborn, impatient, arrogant, pigheaded, and, you know, sometimes he's a bit of a knob. "But" — he shrugged helplessly — "he's my friend. He's got into this thing and it's gone over his head: he doesn't know what he's doing. And I want you to know that... well, whatever happens, I still think there's a chance we can save him. Okay?"

  There was another pause.

  Jack didn't claim to know very much about girls. He couldn't figure out what Esme was thinking. Her expression at that moment was, to him, unreadable.

  "Jack," she said, "I don’t know if we'll get the chance later, but..." She trailed off and looked down at her feet.

  "What?" asked Jack.

  "Well," said Esme, "I just wanted to thank you."

  Jack stared at her.

  "What for?"

  Esme looked up at him, and Jack found himself transfixed by her amber eyes. Suddenly, he noticed a strange kind of tightening in his chest. His right kneecap, of all things, seemed to be twitching uncontrollably by itself: he hoped she didn't notice it. She really was, he decided again, very pretty indeed, actually.

  "You brought me back," she said.

  "Back?"

  "Back from Hell," Esme prompted, smiling now. "When I was unconscious. That was you, right?"

  "Oh," said Jack. "Er, yeah."

  "Well, you know... thanks," Esme told him.

  "S'allright," Jack managed.

  "I'm glad you're coming with me," said Esme.

  And suddenly, she was giving him a hug! Esme was giving him — Jack! — a hug, and a stray hair from her elastic bands was tickling him on the nose! But just as suddenly as the hug had begun, it was over. Esme stood back.

  "Good luck," she told him, looking into his eyes again. "And try to stay out of trouble, all right?"

  "You too," said Jack. His ears were going red.

  Esme smiled bleakly and turned away.

  "Last check, gentlemen," said Number 2, and instantly the big pub was echoing with the nervous clicking and clinking of equipment — guns, ammo, who knew what else? — being rechecked for what must have been about the seventeenth time. Jack heard a flapping sound, then the Chinj swooped down to land on Jack's shoulder. Looking around, Jack caught its eye. The creature had arched one bushy eyebrow: it was smiling and giving Jack what looked suspiciously to him like a saucy look. Jack scowled. Then he noticed that the fiddling sounds of the Sons and their gear had stopped abruptly.

  "What,. may I ask," said Number 2, marching up to Jack in the sudden silence and pointing at the Chinj, "is that? "

  Jack sighed. "It's a Chinj," he said gamely.

  "How do you do?" asked the Chinj.

  "What," said Number 2, still managing not to shout, "is it doing here?"

  "He's not very polite, is he?" said the Chinj.

  "It's kind of a long story," said Jack quickly, "and I figured it would only hold things up if I mentioned it before. The main thing is, it's coming with us."

  "It most certainly is not!"

  "And since it actually comes from Hell, It might be able to, I don't know, show us around a bit," Jack finished.

  "I think you'll find I can really be quite helpful," put in the Chinj with a winning smile, doing its best.

  For a moment, Number 2 just stared. His face was going a strange gray-red color, and Jack could see some goodish-sized veins standing out on
is neck.

  "I am not," began Number 2, "going on this mission with—"

  "Hey," said Esme, walking up to Number 2 and looking up at him, right in the eye. "Me and Jack and... " She paused. "His, ah, friend here are going on this trip no matter what. As for you and your men..." She raked the room with a piercing gaze. "I still haven't decided yet whether I want any of you to come along — at all."

  Number 2 stared at her and gaped.

  "B-but," he spluttered. "But..."

  Esme's amber eyes narrowed. Her hard hands lifted fractionally for her sides.

  "Problem?" she asked.

  Number 2 fell silent.

  "Thought not," said Esme. "I'll let you take" — she considered — "three men. And you'd better stay out of our way. Now if you'll excuse us, we have a job to do."

  She stalked off, over toward the cold spot in the air that marked the Fracture, leaving Number 2 standing there seething.

  "Civilians," he said finally, and shook his head. He looked at his men and clicked his fingers: "Number Three? Number Nine? Number... Twelve? You're all with me. The rest of you, guard the Fracture till we come back." His face darkened. "If we come back."

  "Sir! Yes, sir!" barked the Sons — while the ones he'd called stepped forward.

  "All set, Number Nine?" asked Number 2, with a significant look at the enormous pack the younger Son was carrying. "Everything five-by-five?"

  "Yes, sir!" Number 9 snapped back proudly. The mysterious black rectangle on his back was so large that it stuck out all round his head, making his face look almost comically small. "Cocked and locked and ready to rock! Sir!"

  Jack winced.

  "Good man," said Number 2. "Suit up, gentlemen. It's time to hit the road."

  Four black gas masks were pulled into place with a simultaneous whisper. Looking at the effect, Jack had to admit it was a good one. With the simple addition of this one prop, the Sons had ceased to look quite so terrified and had become — well, if not actually terrifying, they certainly looked a lot more formidable than they had before.

  Gesturing at the Fracture, Number 2 turned to Esme. "After you, Miss Leverton."

  Esme didn't bother to acknowledge this. She didn't even turn round. She just lifted her hands, and immediately the patch of air in front of her too on its glowing sheen.

  Jack sighed. Well, he thought, here we go ag—"

  "This is it, gentlemen," said Number 2, interrupting. "This is what we've been training for. You," he added, turning to his men — and conspicuously ignoring Jack, "have been picked for this mission for one simple reason: you're the best. You hear me?"

  "Sir! Yes, sir!" barked the three Sons, their voices now muffled by their masks.

  "Make me proud," said Number 2.

  Wallies, thought Jack conclusively.

  The Fracture began to open, and the dull red gave way to crisp, whispering white. Number 2 took a step forward, so he stood shoulder to shoulder with Esme.

  "Let's do it," he said.

  They stepped into the light and vanished. The three other Sons went after.

  "Here we go, sir," murmured the Chinj in Jack's ear. "Home sweet home."

  "Sure," said Jack, not looking at it. Right. He stepped into the whiteness, feeling it take him.

  When he opened his eyes, he was in the throne room.

  * * * * *

  "And Mr. Farrell!" said a voice. "What a surprise."

  A glance around the great red room was all it took. Jack saw that the Sons had already been unmasked and were now struggling in the grip of the same jelly stuff he'd encountered on his first trip to Hell.

  The Scourge stood up from its throne.

  "Overminister," it said, "if you'd be so good, I'd like these people transported to the gladiator pits." It glanced at Jack. "That's where they belong, after all."

  My pleasure, Sire, Gukumat replied.

  "Esme, you're coming with me. Take my hand, please."

  And that, really, was when Jack began to be scared.

  Esme was standing before the throne. Her arm was lifting as if it were being pulled by invisible strings. As Esme put herself into the hands of her enemy, all Jack could do was watch in horror. Then, together, they disappeared.

  Jack sighed bitterly. More jelly stuff was already climbing his legs, running up his back, surrounding him all over from head to toe. He felt an all-too-familiar squeezing sensation — a moment of unbelievable tension — then Gukumat, the Sons, and the throne room all vanished, and Jack found himself back in his cell.

  * * * * *

  The Chinj wasn't with him, he realized. It was the first time Jack had thought of the little creature since they'd stepped through the Fracture, and for a moment he felt a little guilty: he hoped it had got away all right. To be honest, though, as he reflected, looking around himself, he had enough problems to be getting on with on his own.

  The cell was exactly the same. He was surrounded by the same ceiling — or lack of one; there was the same floor. It was almost as if he'd never left.

  "Can anyone hear me?" he shouted quickly before his voice betrayed him. "Hello? Is anyone there?"

  For a long moment there was silence. Then — and the sound was like tow pieces of sandpaper rubbing together — Jack heard laughter.

  "Well, well, well," said a voice. "If it isn't fresh meat."

  Jack did not reply.

  "How are you, fresh meat?" asked Shargle. "Did you miss me? I sure missed you."

  Jack walked over to the nearest wall and leaned against it. Then he let his legs sag and his back slide down it, until he was sitting on the floor in the corner. Oh, perfect, he thought, this was just perfect. Of all the demons in Hell he could've had for a next-door neighbor, it had to be this one. How completely, utterly—

  "I knew you'd come back," the worm hissed through the wall. "I've been waiting. And we're going to have fun, you an' me. I know it."

  Well, thought Jack, that was that. His second trip to Hell had already gone about as well as his first. He sighed, rested his head on his hands, and waited for whatever was going to go wrong next.

  BLOOD

  "I'm glad you decided to come," said the Scourge.

  "You didn't exactly leave me much of a choice," Esme replied.

  "Perhaps not. But before that, before Felix passed on my message, you had already made another choice, had you not?"

  Esme could feel warm air slipping by on the bare skin of her face. Although the darkness surrounding her was total, she knew they were traveling downward, and at a great speed. The Scourge's hand was still holding hers; it was cool and smooth and nothing like a human hand at all.

  "What are you talking about?" she asked.

  "When we last fought, when I showed you what you are, you reacted strangely," said the Scourge. "For a while, I was even afraid that you might not recover. Your attempt to deny the truth about yourself might easily have destroyed you utterly. Instead, you woke up — and that is a choice, of a kind. The question is, why?"

  "Why do you think?" asked Esme through her teeth.

  "I was hoping," said the Scourge, "it was because you've accepted the situation: you've understood what you are at last, and you've realized that it's pointless to resist me."

  "Guess again."

  "But in fact," the Scourge went on wearily, "you've only come back because you still think you can defeat me."

  "Bingo," said Esme.

  "Oh, dear," said the Scourge. "How tiresomely human of you. Well, we shall see."

  A glimmer of light appeared far below them, quietly growing to a chilly white glow as they continued their plummeting descent. Esme now saw they were traveling at a blurring speed down an arterial red-colored tunnel. The tunnel was becoming narrower and narrower, unit there was barely enough room to pass without touching its moist-looking sides. Then it opened out suddenly into a space so vast that for a moment it took Esme's breath away.

  Beneath Esme's feet, to begin with, was nothing more than a kind of steamy red mist
: wherever the floor was, it was too far away to see, and the same was true of the walls. The ceiling, the only part of the room she could make out so far, seemed to stretch out forever in any direction she looked. It was made of the same wet-looking fleshy red stuff as the tunnel. All across it ran a series of meandering raised strips, like gigantic dark blue pipes of some kind. What Esme was seeing wasn't making a whole lot of sense to her, so as she and the demon hurtled on downward, she waited as calmly as she could for whatever the Scourge was going to show her next. But when at last the floor of the vast room did finally loom into view, Esme found herself staring again.

  From here — from the altitude she was at now — the raised bluish pipe things didn't look like pipes anymore. They were more like blood vessels. Veins, she realized. Vast as it was, the room looked like it was alive. And gigantic. Bigger than anything she could possibly have imagined.

  "The heart of the Dragon," said the Scourge.

  For the past few minutes, Esme had noticed an odd sensation inside herself. It was a kind of quickening: a shivering sense of electric anticipation, spreading through her whole being, sending rushes of goose bumps up her arms and the back of her neck. It wasn't fear or nerves — she'd learned to control those. It was something else. Something—

  "Yes!" said the scourge delightedly. "You feel it. I knew you would."

  "Feel what?" said Esme, and scowled at her own stubbornmess forcing her into so weak a lie.

  "Don't you know what that is? That sensation?"

  "No."

  "I'll tell you. It is the demon in you."

  "Yeah, right."

  "This place," said the Scourge, gesturing grandly with its free hand, "is where our power comes from. This is where our people began: the first people, the rulers of Creation, and the ones who will bring it to its conclusion. All that is strong and good in you — all that is demon — has its origin in here. That is why you're feeling what you feel now."

  "Why don't you just cut the nonsense," Esme suggested, "and show me whatever it is you want to show me?"