The Angel was like a hibernating frog pulled from the cold ground and thrown into a fire, nerves incapable of relaying the message that its circumstances had changed.
“What would happen,” Canon asked, “if you were to touch him?”
Realising, perhaps, that he wasn’t going to get a rise out of his boring grown-up minion tonight – or probably any night – Troy pulled his hands out of his pockets. The pockets promptly sealed up and melted back into the cardigan, which darkened a little in hue. “I’ll show you, if you like,” he offered.
Canon rose to his feet. “Please.”
“You might want to stand back.”
Raising his eyebrows, Canon obliged. Haussman approached the concrete block, and the incongruous sight of the man’s head sticking from its end. He looked down at the Angel with bright hate in his eyes.
Then, in a swift and delicate movement, he pecked his head forward and spat.
The effect was immediate and appalling, especially considering the dazed slowness with which the Angel had previously moved. As soon as the wad of spittle splashed on the captive’s face, the whole head thrashed from side to side and the hanging jaws gave vent to a high, agonised scream. The sound went on and on, rending and hideous, an unspeakable mish-mash of sobs, babbled pleas, and hoarse, racking pain. Canon had heard a lot of screams in his centuries on Earth, but he had never heard anything so irretrievably damned. The head lashed again, so violently it was impossible to think the neck wasn’t breaking again and again.
Even over the sound of that scream, though, Canon could make out the soft and lethal hiss of burning fat and crackling skin. He’d heard that sound plenty of times before, too. The whipping head suddenly sported a gaping, spreading, collapsing black crater, a melted patch that swallowed one eye, the surrounding ridges of bone, and half the Angel’s nose. The flesh around that foul tarry blackness was sizzling and red and ran like molten wax, the etched edges of skull folding and shifting like sheets of broken ice on a pond after a stone has been thrown into its centre. And as the shuddering continued, several thick clots of decaying meat sprayed from the exposed and desperately-snuffling nasal cavity and spattered on the concrete floor. Canon immediately realised why the Demon had suggested standing back – the vile liquid bubbled and hissed before vanishing, and while it didn’t seem to leave marks on the cement floor there was no telling what it might do to Vampiric flesh. A greasy fan of smoke spread out from the wound, smelling of burned spices.
As suddenly as it had begun, the screaming ended, and the distant thudding of nightclub music from above returned to fill the echoing silence. The Angel sighed, whimpered, and returned to his zombie-like state of vegetation. His face was totally without blemish. Only the lingering stink of sour cinnamon and amber gave any hint as to what had happened.
“My God,” Canon murmured.
“If I actually touched him with my hand, it’d be worse,” Haussman said, “and it affects both of us. That time didn’t, of course, because I wasn’t actually touching-touching him just then. But it probably hurt the spit a lot,” he giggled, and looked very impressed with himself.
“He healed quickly,” Canon said. Vampires regenerated from injuries with great speed as well, and could continue to function while sporting damaged that would render a human incapacitated. He might never have recovered from the damage dealt to him on the Monday night of August the 20th, but from most damage he could rebuild over the course of a couple of days. This, like the reconstruction the Demon had performed, had been practically instantaneous.
“Of course he did,” Troy shrugged. “He hasn’t lost all his powers. It’s concrete, not kryptonite.”
“What other powers does he still have?”
The Demon scowled, which Canon briefly took to mean he didn’t know. “Hardly any,” he said defiantly. “He’s immortal, same as us, and he can heal his injuries. But he’s weak, maybe even weaker than a human is, and he doesn’t have any of the other powers he used to.”
“Such as?” Canon probed, crouching back beside the Angel.
“Why do you want to know?”
“I’m curious,” Canon said honestly. “Can you blame me? I’ve never seen an Angel or a Demon before,” Troy continued to scowl, and Canon rested his elbows on his knees and spread his hands. “He killed my creatures in some way,” he said. “It was like cold incineration. And I’m sure he had some way of sensing me, some sort of precognition. He moved incredibly fast, even if he doesn’t seem to have access to the … teleportation you can perform.”
Troy seemed slightly mollified by this. “Yeah,” he said, “they’re not allowed in there. But Demons don’t ask permission. There’s a lot of the stuff … the stuff that makes the shadows, the stuff that’s in there, there’s a lot of that stuff in us already. It’s like going home. Still dangerous, though.”
“Going home sometimes is,” Canon said philosophically.
Troy laughed shortly. “Yeah.”
Canon turned back to his study of the Angel. “He has to be on holy ground in daylight, you say,” he went on, and added smoothly, “and you know best about that. Now it is night time, though, and – again, like you say – he should have no trouble breaking free of this concrete. And yet he seems to be almost comatose.”
“What’s your point?” Troy asked, although his mood swung back to cordial again.
“Only his involuntary powers may be working,” Canon theorised. “The ones keeping him alive,” he reached out, coiled a thick hank of the limp-yet-brilliant hair in his hand, and tugged. It came free with a soft ripping sound, another moan from their prisoner, and a momentary flush of beading blood from the torn scalp. It healed over immediately, and hair sprang and curled back to shoulder-length in the bare patch, leaving Canon with a fistful of glossy bronze-brown strands and some scraps of skin which shook free even as he watched.
He palmed the hair. Troy Haussman wasn’t even watching anymore, although he’d leaned forward with a grin as Canon had reached for the Angel’s head. In fact, for a moment Canon had hesitated, wondering if the Demon was about to play an unpleasant trick on him, but apparently not. As quickly as it had come his good mood seemed to have evaporated again, and now he was pouting away towards a corner of the basement.
“Whatever,” the Demon said. Canon wondered if he’d been expecting the Angel to dissolve him – maybe even hoping for it.
“What I mean is, whatever abilities he seems to have now, they don’t look like anything we need to worry about,” Canon said.
“I wasn’t worried,” Haussman sneered. “You were the one wetting your pants.”
Canon stood with another inaudible sigh. “What are we going to do with him?”
“I don’t know,” Haussman shrugged, face reddening. “Who cares? Let’s take him on a boat, and drop him into the ocean. No more problem.”
Canon considered this. Not on its face a bad idea, although he would have preferred to keep an eye on the creature, perhaps even study it. Troy might not allow this, of course. And if the Demon’s last surly statement was anything to go by, it seemed entirely likely he was acting on – and awaiting – instructions from elsewhere. The erstwhile other Demons in the world, perhaps. “The Fremantle Council is involved in building surf-breaks, docks and artificial reefs off the nearby coast,” he remarked. “A lot of it seems like foolishness, but a few blocks of concrete more or less would not raise an eyebrow,” Haussman shrugged again, as if the details were of little importance. This was, Canon reflected, why the Demon needed him. “Then perhaps we can think about how to deal with the other Angels,” he suggested.
“Yeah, sure. We could start a collection,” still sneering, the Demon stepped forward, leaned over the Angel, and smiled. Canon thought he was going to spit again, but Haussman had other plans. He rounded the block so he stood between the Vampire and the Angel with his back to Canon, and began to fumble unhurriedly with the fastenings of his jeans.
“Um. Are you sure that’s a good idea?�
�� Canon asked when it became clear what sort of show was in the offing. As interested as he would have been to see the result, his conscientiousness at this point could only benefit him. He would be seen to be looking after his new partner’s interests.
“Yes,” Haussman scowled over his shoulder. “Why? As long as I’m not touching him…”
“You’re not directly touching him, no,” Canon agreed, and made a delicate gesture. “But if you do that … then in a way, you see, there will be something of a connection to you, much in the same way as if you were pissing on an electric fence…” he waited for the hint to penetrate.
Troy’s eyes widened, and his hand strayed unconsciously to his as-yet unexposed crotch. Then his scowl deepened.
“Shit,” he muttered grudgingly. “Maybe you’re right.”
“Of course, if you need to relieve yourself,” the Vampire went on, “you could piss on the block itself. It might manage to soak through the concrete and touch him that way, when you’re at a nice safe disconnect,” Troy’s eyes lit up. “And if it did soak through, it would soak through very slowly,” Canon went on. “And it would last a very long time.”
He tended to doubt even Demon-urine could seep through a foot of cement, even if it was still drying. But Canon was getting a certain perverse pleasure from delighting the Demon with his sadism, and the enthusiasm with which his patronising suggestions were being met had an entertainment value all of their own. He had, he liked to think, the advantage of experience and at least Troy seemed to appreciate that.
“Good idea, Canon!” Troy squeaked happily.
Canon turned his back, smiling, and headed for the metal stairs leading up to the club’s main basement. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said, “I’ll check on things on the main floors. I’m sure you don’t need me to help you here. When you’re done, you might like to join me for a drink.”
“Right,” Troy said agreeably. The Demon was extremely pliant and easy to get along with, as long as he was being treated like the adult he so clearly wasn’t. “I won’t be long here.”
With a courteous nod, Canon mounted the stairs and ascended into the bestial, endless thump of the music.
He curled the thick lock of hair around his finger, looped it into a neat circle, and tucked it into his pocket as he opened the door. He tucked it away, like the whole conversation he’d just had and the reactions that had led him to suspect there were even greater depths to the things the Demon didn’t know or understand.
In the meantime, there were things to be seen to before Saturday evening, and nightclub business was the least of it. He had an immortal plaything to rescue, before she was irrevocably spoiled … and he had to feed.
The Vampire’s hunting pattern had long since become routine, and obviously his haunts of choice catered to his tastes. He ascended to an access corridor that led around to the back of the main stage, and slipped through. Once the soundproof door was open, the full assault of the sound checks and rehearsals reached his ears, the dazzling play of lights reached his eyes, the rich darkness in between called to him. Across the stage, a single earphone-wearing computer technician who had usurped the position of ‘performer’ in these modern times stood playing with his consoles. He gave Canon a sloppy salute, and Canon smiled thinly back.
The Vampire skirted the edge of the stage and stopped at the small security barrier. There were no customers here tonight, but this was as close to a live rehearsal as they were going to get so all the staff were on duty. When the customers did arrive on Saturday evening, people would try to get up on the stage, or bother the technician in various ways. The technician, who considered himself a musician, didn’t like that.
Canon nodded coolly at the enormous man who wore his head shaved and didn’t understand how humorous this looked when combined with a bow tie. Canon didn’t make the dress-code rules, however, and saw no reason to go against tradition. The man nodded back as much as his bull-neck would allow, and opened the barrier for him. Canon passed through and crossed the empty dance floor towards the nearest bar, where he noticed with faint amusement that Troy Haussman had somehow managed to conclude his business, then move from the basement to a comfortable stool at the main horseshoe-bar in the time it had taken Canon to climb the stairs and cross the upper basement.
The teenage Demon spotted Canon as he crossed the floor through the jarring play of light and shadow. Troy grinned proudly at his magical performance, and gestured to the empty stool next to him. When he spoke, his voice was clearly audible over the racket.
“I wasn’t sure what sort of drink you were thinking of,” Haussman said, lifting his own glass, “so I didn’t order you one.”
“Quite alright,” Canon replied, waving away the barmaid who obviously didn’t have anyone else to serve at that time so was alternating between reading cocktail recipes, making rehearsal-grabs for different ingredients from shelves, and watching the owner and his young friend attentively in case they needed something. “What’s that you’ve got?”
“Bourbon,” Haussman said with a silly little jut of his chin.
“Ah,” the Vampire nodded and smiled, keeping his shudder on the inside. It was difficult to imagine a liquor that could actually be improved by adding cola-flavoured syrup and carbonated water. He’d always been something of a snob when it came to American whiskey, on the occasions he drank anything out of a glass. “I hope you don’t mind…”
Troy waved a hand, grinned, and leaned his elbows on the bar. The Demon, it seemed, was more interested in the barmaid than in his conversation with Canon. Canon didn’t approve of involving employees directly in anything that might turn harmful – he was, after all, legally responsible for them and any questions would ultimately wind up at his feet – but his approval or lack of it had little bearing on what Haussman did.
Still, Canon preferred not to hunt in his own house. He bade Troy a pleasant evening, nodded to the barmaid, and continued out of the deafening nightclub. He strolled up the street, crossed the cappuccino strip, and vanished into the rambling series of shops, construction sites and residential blocks the locals sometimes referred to as feral central.
It started to rain.
TOMMO STEPS UP
Tommo walked up from the train station and into the little church carpark, bypassing the tempting open doors of the Bad Cow. It felt absolutely unconscionable.
The old coot who lives here’s going to start thinking I’m a born-again Bible Basher, he thought morosely, looking at the vicar’s car as he passed it, hitching the duffel bag over his shoulder to prevent it from scraping the windows.
It was pissing with rain, and had been all day and most of the preceding night, which was the main reason Tommo had left his visit so late. When it was raining, he slept in. There was nothing more pleasant, and no amount of incentive could pressure him to change his habits. He was already soaked from his walk from the train, so he trudged without any particular rush to the church door, looked up and down the street a little self-consciously, and ducked inside.
“Oh, hello again,” Father Bryant was shuffling up the aisle towards him, smiling. He’d come to recognise most of the Sheepbreezers on sight if not by name, and he didn’t seem to mind that his new set of devotees had no interest in kneeling at the altar or singing hymns at the pews or pulling snakes out of cages and waving them around or whatever else people at church were meant to do.
“Morning,” Tommo gave his customary weekday greeting, to which the actual position of the sun was completely irrelevant, and tried to decide – as usual – what sort of gesture was required when meeting a member of the clergy. As had happened several times already, he panicked and settled on a little bow. This time, thanks to the bag slung over his shoulder, he managed to leave off the palms-together praying gesture that he’d attempted on previous visits, which made him look as though he was about to Kung Fu the poor old bastard in the head.
Either way, the holy man beamed and overlooked any faults in Tommo’s present
ation. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything from … that friend of yours?” he asked a little plaintively, and Tommo had to shake his head. That was that question answered, then – Barry hadn’t returned in the night. “Oh. Well, I’ll just keep his things where he left them, they’re not in the way, and you all know where they are.”
“That’s fine, um, Father,” Tommo took a guess. “Um, actually, aside from Nails – uh sorry, I mean Barry, uh, our friend … I had to come and check on something, if it’s alright,” but he’d already walked through and crossed the doorway to one of the little side-chambers where Barry had left the gleaming silver-chased coffin, and a glance into the shadows there had shown him the answer to his next question. “Um, I was just, um, I need to check that little coffin that was left here. Is it still, um, around, or…?”
The old man shook his head slowly, the frown on his face entirely too cluey, hardly baffled at all. “No,” he said, carefully, “no, it’s not.”
Tommo panicked again. Some things Father Bryant went along with, and others wiped the smile right off his face. Before too much longer, it was likely that not even mentioning the Angel would solve everything anymore. “It was Barry’s,” he said, “he was getting it for a friend of the family.”
“Oh,” the wrinkled face cleared, briefly. “Oh, well then…” but the frown returned. “But it’s not possible, I’m afraid. Another young man came for it last night – this morning, actually, it was a terribly early hour, I had to come across from my unit, in the rain, to sign papers.”
“You … signed papers?”
“Well, yes,” Father Bryant said kindly. “He was from the Metropolitan Cemeteries Board, all the paperwork was in order, I believe there was some sort of contract … he had it loaded into his truck and he drove away with it. I have a copy of the receipt here, there were lots of forms…”
I bet there were, Tommo thought wearily, and shook his head. “Don’t worry about it, Father,” he said. It wasn’t as if the receipt would prove anything. It might even be a completely legal release of human remains and funerary wossnames. If Barry or the other Angels, or even the Imago Vampires, had come for the coffin and the little girl metamorphosing inside it … well, they were connected. There would be no loopholes. “I can go to the, uh, the Cemeteries Board and find out, and then let Barry know when I see him. He just wanted to … you know, know what was happening.”
Bad Cow Page 18
