And then there’s the question of the things that aren’t there in those patterns under his skin. No engraved language skills no knowledge of the local culture not even a ward of hiding to show his wards as something more local.
To an Eastern Witch this man would stand out like a sore thumb.
If I didn’t know better, I would guess that Mr Thomas spends no more time around these parts than I do. He has an odd taste in fingerless gloves. A good pair of woollens is entirely sensible given the climate, it’s colder here than any place on earth has a right to be, but gloves without fingers is either fashion gone mad or a reflection of a practical issue.
He sees me looking and holds up a hand to give me a closer look. “As you’re interested. Helps with the blisters from all those beatings I engage in.”
“Good to know, Mr. Thomas.”
“Anyway.” His carefully enunciated but flat English seems to drain the life out of his words and tickle away the vitality around him. I swear the mushrooms on the ceiling are shrivelling. “Message. Though you could say it’s more of an offer.”
Ariadne huffs out an exasperated groan. “Get on with it, we’re done measuring dicks here…”
And that elicits a slow smile. How peculiar. “We know a little about you, Master Albrecht. Done our research. You have a history of accepting help when you need it and paying it back in full when you don’t. Hence the witch I guess, though what use that bunch of shut-ins are is beyond me.”
“Pushing it, beanpole.”
“Where’s the fun in not pushing boundaries, little lady?” He turns his gaze back to me as Ariadne pretends to vomit. “Here’s the offer. We know what you’re up to, and we know you might just be able to pull it off. That works for us. We want in and we can make your life a lot easier if you let us. Contacts, and powers and…”
“And ponies,” adds Ariadne.
“Yes, we have ponies. What is up with your witch and ponies?”
“I think she just likes ponies.”
Ariadne nods. “Nothing not to like.”
Mr. Thomas is becoming annoyed, turning red at the edges. He is not a patient type. “Okay, now that whatever the hell that was is out of the way we get to the price of all that help we can give you. It’s a great deal. I tag along with you and make sure our interests are protected. Not like it’s something new. You’ve got a witch under a glamour spell..”
“You can feck right off,”
“You’ve got a ‘cat’, you have that bloody golem with his truckasaurus hands. You may as well let me tag along. I have some useful skills if we get into a fix. I know the area so I can guide you around the little civil war going on at the moment and I have access to some clever stuff which your hatty friends don’t because they’re,” he swaps to the worst Scottish accent I have ever heard. “Agin’ anythin’ past the swamp-years.”
“You still listening to this prick, Lumpy? Or can I throw him out on his ear.” I hold up a hand. It’s rude to stop a man in the middle of an offer. Contracts, law are sacred.
“I can even keep the Union off your back which is a bigger thing than you know now, there’s more to them than that nosey Mr. Pole.”
I close my eyes. The group dynamics of this do not look hopeful. Let us investigate further. “A couple of follow up questions if I may, Mr. Thomas. The first is what is in it for you, I feel a lot of reticence in your offer.”
“Yeah. I don’t want to be doing this. You’re a monster, you associate with bitches… I mean witches. You have a history that your friends don’t seem aware of, exception of that stone golem. What’s in it for me? I get to obey orders and that’s as good as it gets. Top types get sketchy if you don’t. Plus to sweeten the deal I get to leave this shithole assignment staring at bovine farmers and thuggish Voyniks, who really do spend most of their time beating the locals or watching their even more atavistic witch class divining the future in the entrails of captured vampires.”
“Anything else?”
“I also get to go back home, after. This pays off a debt. You get that, don’t you.” He stands and paces around the room followed by Ariadne’s suspicious green-eyed stare. “So I’m about as fired up and ready to go as it gets.”
Ariadne lets out a snort of utmost derision before I get the chance to ask my final question. “Oh that all sounds so very convincing Thomas me old mate. But I have to be asking, who are those people you mentioned who you’re working for? The way I’m hearing it you’ve told us nothing and I think me and rocky over there and even the Vamp would agree that it’s a bit weird you turning up here in the middle of this crap hole icebox on your adorable little pony asking to sign up for whatever it is that we’re doing.”
“You don’t know what you’re doing here?” Thomas is incredulous And sneers again. Objectionable!
Ariadne turns to me. “I really don’t know, Lumpy. It’s eating at me a bit.”
I look at her questioningly.
“Honestly. We just got a bloody golem from a castle and you say you’re going to… do something about the Catastrophe but it happened years ago. I don’t get it, Lumpy. What use is a golem, even a good one?”
“All in good time young lady.”
I turn to Mr. Thomas who is by the door, running his fingers over the bristles of his stubble, they turn to dust under his fingertips.
“My friend does make a fair point Mr Thomas.” I make a decision. “There is something a bit off about you I’m afraid, I pride myself on being a good judge of character and I have a feeling that someone who causes the local plant, or is it fungal, life to shrivel up around him when he talks could be a difficult travelling companion for all that he has friends in the right places. And Ariadne is correct, you have not told me who you are or for whom you perform your services. Try as I might cannot recall any organisation of my time who demonstrate the specific aspects of the arcane that apply to you. So I fear I may have to turn your kind offer down unless you say something compelling. Right now.”
Mr. Thomas takes the point in good grace. “My friends did say you were the sort to make snap decisions but let’s try the long way. You want a CV. I get that. I’m sure I wouldn’t trust me at first blush but... my name is Simon Thomas. I work for the local Protectorate...”
“There is no local Protectorate in the Baronies you jackass.” Ariadne says. “Its sad lost Mother Russia in all her widow’s weeds right up to the cloud line, which is why you’re in green rather than black and we’re in a stinking gatehouse rather than sitting in one of your nice warm well-lit torture chambers.”
Hemlock looks on sadly, clearly liking the sound of a toasty torture chamber. Maybe something with a nice comfy pile of clothes next to the braziers to settle into. Cats do have some unsavoury preferences.
“Hmm. Protectorates exist all over Old Europe you dumb witch. You shouldn’t listen to this moron, Master Albrecht. She’s misleading you. In fact if I wanted to I could probably arrange something in that line around abouts here. Something sharp and traditional for you Miss. Witch.” He seems to take a perverse delight in the thought. There are literal sparks flying between the two of them at this point.
“You could try…” Ariadne’s voice is mocking and sing-song.
“But I don’t want that. I want to go along with you. For your information this is the God forsaken West Poland Protectorate. Current staffing three operators including me, and a couple of alert choppers out of Gotland. Johnson-Pole said you were an arse, Mistress witch.”
“He did, eh?” Ariadne gives me a meaningful look and I nod.
He sighs. “He sent me here. You know him? Miserable bastard. Doesn’t like me much. This isn’t exactly a plum assignment.”
“And you knew we were here…” That was my second question. Hardly seems worth asking it now.
“You’re not the sneakiest intruders in history, fighting ambush beasts and shooting down the local witches. So you aren’t that difficult to find. And the huge bastard great forest shifting across Europe was a bit
of a giveaway.”
“And you claim to want to assist me with putting things back how they were. You, the Union, the erm… Protectorate? Which you will ‘keep off my back?’”
“Not many people like the way things are. And we think you have access to resources that compliment ours like that Golem who had better not be eating my pony...”
“Why would you think such a thing of Emmet? He’s more civilised than the rest of you put together.”
“Plus he can’t open his mouth. To eat. Or talk come to that. Quiet buggers golems,” Ariadne chimes in. “Whole being made of stone thing.”
I give her a glare. “I assure you that even if Emmet did have the physical capacity to feel hunger, your pony is safe.”
Mr Thomas points at Ariadne. She makes a sign of aversion to turn aside anything malicious and Mr Thomas lets out a nasty chuckle. I’m not good with emotions nowadays but that was definitely a chuckle of witch-like malice. Maybe they would get on. “Oh come on mistress witch. I want to come with you and that wouldn’t happen if I do anything untoward to you.”
Ariadne is bubbling with repressed rage at this point. “You go ahead and try, you creepy crawly little man with your funny scrawls and hoity toity nonsense accent...”
Mr. Thomas is about to reply when I raise my hand, “enough Mr Thomas. You were explaining why I should take you where I am going before you started insulting my travelling companions. I fear your time is nearly up. Finish that offer, in full, so we can be on our way.”
“My point is you have links to these ladies. You’ve got help like that Golem stashed about and you’ll definitely be in with what passes for the vamp community now. That gives you access to resources we don’t have, information, muscle, and then there’s you. Your lot has a bad press what with the whole near genocide of the human race thing. And what happened to Russia and China. And Argentina... and...”
I pull a sour face. “This wasn’t us Mr Thomas. And it wasn’t me. This is not the sort of environment that I would have inflicted on anyone for eternity.”
“The Vamps today aren’t you. Another reason to change things. The Masters did destroy China. They did pull the clouds down on Russia and the leftovers without anyone in charge have overrun a dozen safe areas that we know of, and could have overrun a dozen more for all the Union press reports. You’re half the reason the can’t hold on to what it already has is keeping... well you’ll see.”
“I’ll see what?”
“To finish this off you’ll need to get to the Family records in Paris. We can’t get there. It’s overrun with wild blood suckers. You can. Anyone with you can. You’re the last Vampire Master in the world and you can get us all in there. Find out what they know. Then we all pool our knowledge and Bob’s your uncle.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Then... we know who did this and what that person or thing is all about, we track them down and get them to tell us how to get things back how they were, or you just do your thing. Wherever they are we can get you there better than those stupid mobile forests. That’s the offer. Really. Quid quo pro. Our information for what you put together.”
“And then?”
“And then you go your way we go ours and I’m sure everyone will be a lot happier. And you can get your bloody monster kids back in line. They’re killing everything.”
“Is that everything Mr. Thomas?”
He nods.
“Well, as you are our guest, and you have put your case so eloquently, I suppose I should let you remain inside whilst we make our decision on your thoughtful offer.”
He looks at me, then at Ariadne who glares back. The cat is watching him intently from the side bag.
The faint patter of sleet falling on the roof helps to make up his mind. “Fine with me. If you need more by way of credentials just ask. Can’t promise references but I can probably dig up a friend or two who might be able to speak to you on short notice...”
We make our way outside to where Emmet has begun to resemble a very large snowman. Hemlock in the carry sack and Ariadne an interesting shade of red.
“Never heard such a crock of shite Lumpy. Paris is a good idea but I guessed we’d go there sometime. Mr. Thomas on the other hand, if that’s his real name which I doubt, is as bent as a nine-bob note.”
A supporting meow from Hemlock. Or at least a loud one.
“I mean he’s just wrong. I don’t want him around. He’s a creepy fucker who probably spends his time unearthing old servers and downloading dodgy porn.”
I sigh. “I know. I know. I’m not entirely clueless. Let’s get Emmet in our confidence and then work out how to deal with Mr. Thomas and his putative friends in a firm but fair manner. If they really want to be helpful I think our counteroffer is basically, stop following us around.”
“Oh. And no way is he Protectorate, nor Union for that matter. Only thing he is, is a lying sack of shit and he thinks I’m a shut-in like the rest of the coven. I’ve dealt with his sort before. Do you see the hand sigils he’s got?”
I stop. Emmet turns his glowing eyes on me but keeps his own counsel. “What sigils?”
Ariadne gives a twisted half smile. “Yeah thought so. After your time I guess. That twisted little arse has state of the art wards coming out the wazoo, ones you can’t see. Probably didn’t know I’d be here. But I can tell you one thing, he’s one of them. A fecking culty. The cut off biker gloves? The dying veg? They cover their hands in devotion scripts that are supposed to protect them from the clouds. Least a bit. They have to kill a whole heap of people to get the raw materials for them and the death sticks around. And a Union Operator would be kicked out the service faster than... well fast if he had so much as a hint of cultists tats. I hate those smug arses but on this we’re all on the same page. Cloud shit, the things below, blood magic from the dead, all those post-apocalyptic nasties, they can all feck themselves sideways.”
“Ah.” I really do need to talk to what’s left of my people. What on earth is a contract machine? “it would appear I’m a bit behind the times in some unexpected ways Ariadne.”
“He even tried to blot me out of the conversation with that shitty under voice little chant that was killing the plant life. Fungal life? Whatever...”
The hand wiggle. I’m missing things. This is embarrassing.
“You are worth your weight in gold Mistress Witch. Thank you.”
She gives a sad little smile. “You’re not a bad ‘un yourself Lumpy but please listen to me a bit more. It’s for your own good. I know you think you’re the biggest baddest thing around, and you know what? You’re probably right, but you missed... couple of centuries? Couple of world wars, horrible stuff and some if it stuck. There are things out here that...”
I give her a consoling pat on the shoulder. My hand coming away damp from the sleet. “I read a little about it but reading and understanding are different. In my younger days things seemed a lot more personal, if someone insulted you, you hit them with a sword, burned down their city, overthrew their walls. Now, I may be missing the subtleties. I promise I will try and listen young lady, and please, I beg you, have a little patience with a foolish old vampire. You just say when you think I’m off on a frolic of my own and I’ll take you deadly seriously.”
My shoulders are damp, and my friend is cold. We should go back in.
“So, in the spirit of taking you a lot more seriously I take it that’s a firm no on Mr. Thomas?”
She looks at me with a quizzical look in her eyes. “seriously Lumpy... oh you’re fecking with me.”
I grin. Disconcerting given the teeth I know but still sincere. “That I am! I do have a sense of humour you know.”
She gives me a sisterly hug. “Stupid vampire.” Then she looks up. “Is it me or has the weather gone even more to shit?”
Emmet is looking over my shoulder. “The gatehouse,” He rumbles.
19
Mr. Thomas
I turn and meet the steady gaze of a smiling Mr. Th
omas who is standing outside the gatehouse, his eyes have a maniacal gleam to them and he has taken his gloves off, adopting a more pugilistic pose than his previous sneering cringe.
“What was that they always say in the films? ‘What a touching moment Mr. Bond’ or some bullshit like that.” He cracks his neck left and right. “Just for the record let’s confirm that you don’t want me tagging along, despite the obvious upside to it?”
“I’m afraid not Mr. Thomas.” I shout over the rumble of distant thunder. “Your bona fides have been called into question.”
“Dang. Well that’s a shame.” He wraps his hands together and twists his fingers. There is something wrong with the bones and joints, a form of disarticulation which makes them writhe like worms. “Can I live with the rejection? Yes. I suppose I can. Not sure you’ll be able to say the same given the circumstances.” There is movement from inside the castle, a mix of cracking and hissing. “I think you’re going to regret turning down the references. I think you’ll find them very convincing.”
A bony foot steps out of the gates. It is attached to a half rotten leg which is attached to... another leg and then a thigh and… it’s a little like that old song about the articulation of the skeleton which was quite the favourite of the children’s programmes of the days gone and which I have absorbed from my poor desecrated crystal library.
But there are too many articulations and too many limbs attached one to the next, with the overall effect being a nightmare in bone and sinew and a song that would go on too long. A twenty-foot undead monster with multiple legs and arms and tails and a whipping articulated tail, rather than a cheery anatomical model eminently suited to supporting a puppet-based show.
It also has too many heads as demonstrated when it turns three of them towards Mr. Thomas who decisively jabs one of his worm fingers at us.
“Sic ‘em gents.”
Sigil tattooed palms flare with power. The golem of bone and sinew crawls with blood magic signifiers knitting and pulling it together with writhing words of binding. The mud squirms under mass trying to escape its touch.
Master In His Tomb Page 17
