by K. E. Mills
“I don’t know if I can,” said Monk, sounding helpless. “I mean-you’re me and you couldn’t stop him. How am I supposed to stop him if you couldn’t?”
Melissande felt her throat close hard. She’d never heard Monk so desperate. So despairing. She’d never seen such a look of distress on his face. And the other Monk’s face-his face “Reg!” she said alarmed. “Something’s wrong-something’s happeningMonk — ”
The other Monk’s eyes were flickering back and forth, madly, and he was shuddering so hard his teeth were chattering. No, this wasn’t shuddering. He was having some kind of seizure. Monk was holding on tight, trying to steady him, but it wasn’t doing any good. The other Monk shook and shook, teeth chattering, hair flopping, blood pouring from his nose like water from a tap left on full.
Bibbie went to pieces. “Monk, stop it! Monk, do something! Help him, call for an ambulance, Monk-”
“Shut up, you silly bint!” Reg shrieked, flapping into her face. “Pull yourself together! Is this any way for a witch to behave?”
“ You shut up, Reg!” shouted Bibbie, and batted her aside. “That’s my brother, you gobby old crow!”
And even though she was wrong, even though that wasn’t her Monktheir Monk-in the most horrible and confusing way, yes. It was.
“Come on, mate-come on, mate-” her Monk was crooning. “We can fix this. Hang on, hang onto me. We’ll get you some help. We’ll-we can-”
Melissande, one hand pressed to her mouth, watched through hot tears as her Monk did his best. But his best wasn’t enough. There was too much blood. Too much wrong. The other Monk shuddered again, one last huge convulsion, then sagged into stillness. Slowly, disbelievingly, her Monk lowered him to the sofa’s cushions.
The other Monk’s eyes opened, slowly, in his dreadful, dead-white and blood-daubed face. He saw her. Breathed out, softly. His bloodied lips curved in a smile.
“Melissande. I love you.”
A moment later, he died.
Reg flapped from the drinks trolley back to the sofa. Looking down at the other Monk, she tipped her head to one side. “Bugger,” she said heavily. “That’s all we need.”
Ignoring the wretched bird, Melissande dropped to her knees beside Monk. He was staring into the dead man’s face as though caught in some hideous dream. “Monk… Monk?”
“It’s my fault,” he whispered. “The shadbolt-there wasn’t time to be careful. I had to-and there was a trick in it-I did my best-but it was a bastard, Mel. I’ve never seen anything like it. I thought I could do it. I thought I could free him and save him but-” His voice broke. “I did my best.”
She slid her arm around his shoulder, her eyes burning. “I know you did. And so did he. He knew it was a risk and he wanted to take it. Monk…”
Horribly he laughed, then shrugged her arm free. Shoved to his feet and stared down at the dead man. “So here’s the thing, girls. Here’s the big question. What just happened-was it murder… or suicide? Can any of you tell me? ’Cause I’m jiggered if I know.”
Melissande. I love you. Aching, she risked a hand on her Monk’s arm. “It was neither. Monk, you can’t blame yourself.” She gulped. “This was his Gerald’s fault. There’s no use dwelling. The question that needs answering now is what are we going to do about this?”
Sighing, he scrubbed his hands over his face then got up to perch on the edge of the sofa. The other Monk-the dead Monk-stared at the ceiling with blank, cloudy eyes. In the fireplace, flames danced and crackled.
Monk looked up. Met her stony gaze briefly, then turned to Bibbie. His sister stood still and slender and silent, fresh tears drying on her cheeks.
“We’re going to call Sir Alec,” he said grimly. “We’re going to get Gerald back here. And then we’re going to take care of the madman who’s responsible for this.”
Sir Alec took a deep breath and furiously throttled the fear. Tried to throttle it-but the fear fought back. The last time he’d been this frightened was during his final janitorial field assignment. The one that had taken him out of the field permanently and thrust him with mixed emotions behind a desk. Since then, fear had become something of a memory… but, by God, he was bloody frightened now. Oh, yes. That heart he tried so hard to pretend he didn’t have was knock, knock, knocking against his broken-more-than-once ribs.
Bloody hell, Dunwoody. Where did you go?
Thanks to the bane of Ralph’s life, his irrepressible and annoyingly irreplaceable nephew Monk Markham, Nettleworth’s top secret tracking equipment was the best in the world. Barring certain atmospheric hiccups and the occasional idiosyncratic etheretic fluctuation, with the flip of a switch he could pinpoint the location-via thaumic signature-of every agent in his charge. Thanks to Monk Markham he knew where they all were tonight, every last one of them-save Gerald Dunwoody. Who wasn’t in Grande Splotze. Who-if that cryptic message was to be trusted-had never so much as set foot in Grande Splotze.
Which means he never made it all the way through the portal. I watched him walk in-but he never walked out.
Not being a portal mechanic he hadn’t driven back to the farm. It would have been a criminal waste of his time. But he’d sent his Department expert out there, was waiting even now to hear his report. But surely, surely, if there’d been some kind of catastrophic portal malfunction some alarm somewhere would have been triggered. If nothing else positive had emerged from the Wycliffe affair, Ottosland now boasted the best portal diagnostic and warning systems known to thaumaturgics.
It was the height of folly, but he couldn’t help it. Abandoning his office with its cheerfully crackling fire and small round crystal that remained stubbornly silent, Sir Alec made his way back down to the monitoring station and went in search of Gerald, again. Passing through the main office he noted that Dalby was still here, in the cubbyhole considered his by virtue of him being-well, Frank Dalby. Mr. Dalby. Scourge of the new recruits. Aloofly distant Sir Alec’s trusted right-hand man. But Frank, thank God, was nobody’s fool. One look at his superior’s face and he kept his nose well out of the way. If he was wanted he’d be called for, and that was good enough for him.
Baffled-and when the hell was the last time he’d been baffled — he stared at his Department’s exclusively upgraded thaumic monitor. Twenty-six steadily burning little blue lights. Twenty-six living, breathing agents, scattered all around the globe. Look, there was Frank, upstairs with his mug of ghastly stewed tea and an asphyxiating cigarette. And look. There’s me. But nowhere, nowhere, could he see Gerald Dunwoody. He wanted to swear. To stamp. To pound his fist in someone’s face. All his uncivilized impulses, roaring to be set free.
When Felix Saltman’s signal was lost the alarm had triggered seconds after his heart stopped beating. But no alarm had sounded for Agent Dunwoody. So either the monitor was malfunctioning-unlikely-or Gerald wasn’t dead, he just wasn’t registering on the etheretic plane.
But that would mean he’s no longer in this world. And that simply isn’t possible. Not even a wizard as powerful as Gerald Dunwoody can step between dimensions as though walking into another room.
Thwarted, he scowled his way back upstairs to his office. The phone started ringing just as he slammed the door.
“What?”
“Tokely, Sir Alec. Portal checks out. No malfunction.”
He stared at the phone’s receiver, disbelieving. “That can’t be right. Check it again.”
“Checked it three times, sir.”
To argue further would be ridiculous. When it came to portal thaumaturgics, Tokely was the expert’s expert. But-“Are you saying you found nothing unusual?”
“Didn’t say that, sir. There is a slight blip. And of course we’ve got one incomplete journey. Can’t say I’ve ever seen that happen before. Not without finding-well, you know. Remains.”
“You’re saying my agent simply vanished halfway to his destination?”
“Sorry, Sir Alec.” Now Tokely sounded defensive. “I know how it looks, but that’s my
finding. You want a second opinion, call one in. You’ll get the same answer.”
“No, a second opinion’s not necessary. Written report to me soonest, Tokely. My eyes only. This one’s off the books, yes?”
“Whatever you say, sir.”
He replaced the receiver, heart knocking hard again. So Gerald really had disappeared on his way to Grande Splotze, with no alarms triggered here or at the DoT. How was that possible? Who could begin to No, surely not. Not even Ralph’s nephew is stupid enough to try something like this. Is he? By God, if Monk Markham’s behind this I’ll On the corner of his desk his crystal marble buzzed. Swamped sickeningly with relief, he snatched it up and hexed open a channel.
“Dunwoody? Dunwoody, where the hell are-”
“Um, actually, no, this isn’t Gerald,” said a thin, nervous voice. “This is Monk, Sir Alec. Monk Markham. I need to see you urgently. At home. Can you come?”
“Markham?” he said, incredulous. “How the devil did you get this-” And then he ground his teeth together. “Never mind. I’m on my way.”
He was too angry to bid Frank a very late goodnight. Barely nodded at Chawtok, the agent on front desk duty. Swathed in coat and scarf and gloves and hat, he slammed out of the building and into his car and drove at reckless speed through the dark night streets, out to South-West Ott and Chatterly Crescent.
Monk Markham, the incorrigible reprobate, was waiting for him on his charming establishment’s front doorstep. “I’m sorry, Sir Alec. I didn’t know who else to call.”
There was blood on Markham’s face. Dried, but recent. His usually cheerful, slightly anarchic demeanor was absent. He was tense, his face pale, and there was something approaching dread in his wide eyes.
Raging temper receded, slightly “This had better be good, Mr. Markham.”
Ralph’s nephew swallowed. “Actually, sir, it’s pretty bad. Please-come in. You won’t believe me until you see it for yourself.”
So he followed Ralph’s nephew inside the old, comfortable house, through to the parlor where he found-surprise, surprise-not only the young troublemaker’s precocious sister Emmerabiblia but Melissande Cadwallader and the bird.
And another Monk Markham, dead and stiffening on a couch.
“I’m sorry?” he said, looking at them one by one. “Is this some kind of ridiculous joke?”
“Do we look like we’re laughing, sunshine?” said the bird. “Would you say this is my hysterically amused face?”
Ralph’s appalling nephew wiped his hands down his front. “It’s all right. I can explain,” he muttered. Then he sighed. “Um-well, actually, I can’t. Not really. But I can tell you what’s happened, Sir Alec. And then-I hope-you can tell us what to do about it.”
He listened to their story, growing colder by the minute. Some small, rational part of his mind was screaming, very rationally, This is not possible. There are laws of thaumaturgics. They can’t be bent like this. And then he remembered with whom he was dealing and he felt like screaming again, not rationally at all.
“So you see, sir,” said Ralph’s regrettable nephew, when his insane tale was finished, “I really think we need to get Gerald back here. You know, from wherever you sent him. Because if ever there was a case for your best janitor to work on, I think this is it.”
He was so angry he felt perfectly calm. “You constructed an interdimensional portal opener? By accident? And you failed to declare it?”
“He only used it the once,” said Ralph’s equally regrettable niece, firing up. “It’s been in his sock drawer ever since. And it was the other Monk-” she pointed without looking, “-that one, who got his opener to work between worlds. And he only did that because his Gerald’s gone insane and has to be stopped. So really it’s lucky our Monk made his, isn’t it, or he’d probably not understand how this other one works, would he? And then Gerald would have no way of getting through to the other world and stopping his mad self before he kills everyone. So-so you might remember that before you start being mean.”
“Really?” he said. “That’s your informed, experienced opinion is it, Miss Markham?”
As he’d intended, Miss Markham wilted.
“Sir Alec,” said Miss Cadwallader, her chin lifted, her green eyes grim. “I appreciate you’re upset but you need to focus on what’s relevant. This might be a mess but for once Monk didn’t make it. Not our Monk. He didn’t bring this poor man here and he’s not responsible for what’s gone wrong in the other world. But now that we know what’s happening there, I believe we are responsible for stopping it.”
He raised an eyebrow at her. “Are we?”
“Legally? No, of course not,” she retorted. “But morally? Ethically? Now that we know people are suffering and dying? Absolutely. So please, recall Gerald so we can sit down and work out how to fix this before it’s too late.”
She was an eminently reasonable, sensible and decent young woman. They were all of them, at heart, decent young people-well, except for the bird-and while they might frequently drive him to raving distraction they weren’t actively evil. Well, with the possible exception of the bird. But none of them seemed to have grasped the true import of these remarkable events. The shock of the other Monk Markham’s death, no doubt. Not that the reason mattered. What mattered was that if one man could breach the boundary between worlds then who was to say there wasn’t another coming close on his heels?
And if the next man turns out to be their Gerald Dunwoody… twisted by grimoire magic, his mind overturned by a lust for power…
“Given the circumstances,” he said, knowing it would be a long time before he slept easily again, “I would agree that our only viable course of action is to recall Mr. Dunwoody from his current mission and apprise him of these startling events. Unfortunately-” He cleared his throat. “Mr. Dunwoody has disappeared. And at this particular moment I have no idea where he is.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I t was the teasing and flirtatious scent of perfume that woke him. Perfume? In Grande Splotze? In his bachelor guesthouse room in Grande Splotze? Surprised-and just the slightest bit alarmed, because during his training there’d been any number of pointed lectures about inappropriate personal dalliances while on janitorial assignment — Gerald kept his eyes closed and waited for recent memory to return.
I was in the car with Sir Alec. There was a farmhouse, somewhere in the middle of nowhere. And a portal. I got into the portal. Sir Alec was operating it. I got into the portal. I had an overnight bag. Sir Alec gave it to me. Something to do with a yellow cravat. I got into the portal.
Hmm. There was a theme developing here. He got into the portal and then And then what happened? Did I reach Grande Splotze? Did I meet up with my contact? Perhaps my contact was a woman. Perhaps it’s her perfume I can smell. Perhaps things got a bit cozy. Were they supposed to get cozy? I don’t recall Sir Alec mentioning it. There was something about elk stew. But elk stew doesn’t sound terribly cozy. Actually it sounds bloody awful.
Slowly and carefully, still not opening his eyes, he groped around under the blankets. No. Perfume or no perfume, he was definitely alone in the bed. That was a relief. He couldn’t begin to imagine how he’d explain an inappropriate personal dalliance to Sir Alec. Not after all the other things he’d had to explain.
I got into the portal…
But did he get out again at the other end? Try as he might he could not summon the memory. Recollection ended with the secret Department portal in that remote, abandoned farmhouse and the dry, self-contained look on Sir Alec’s never-well, almost never-communicative face.
I got into the portal…
Well, obviously he must’ve got out of it again because he was lying in a bed now, wasn’t he? So the real question was, whose bed and where was it? And the only way he was going to find the answer to those questions was to stop delaying the inevitable and open his eyes.
“Hello, Gerald,” said Bibbie Markham, lounging nearby in a silk-covered chair. She was wearing som
ething startling and not altogether proper in red. No. Scarlet. “I was wondering how much longer you were going to keep up the charade.”
“Bibbie?” he said blankly. “What are you doing here?” Dressed like that. In Grande Splotze. In my bachelor guesthouse room in Grande And then he looked past Monk’s unexpectedly alarming sister to the wallpaper behind her-muddy beige with mustard stripes-and realized Wait a minute. That’s my wallpaper. In my room in Monk’s house. In Ott. So-I’m at home? How did that happen? And why is Bibbie waving that cigarette holder? She doesn’t smoke. Does she? Something’s not right here. I think I’m in the middle of a very strange dream.
“No, you’re not,” said Bibbie, cheerfully. With a tap of one elegantly manicured fingernail she ignited the cigarette in the gold-inlaid ivory holder. “You’re wide awake, Gerald.” And then she laughed. “How odd, having to call you Gerald. I might have to think up another name for you. Pity your parents didn’t give you any spares.”
What? What the devil was she talking about? Nonplussed, he stared a little closer at Monk’s sister. She looked… subtly different. Like Bibbie, and yet not. A thin stream of cigarette smoke curled ceilingwards in front of her face. Her-her painted face.
Good lord. I must be dreaming. Bibbie’s wearing makeup.
But how could that be possible? In Ottosland only socially inferior theatrical ladies and those fallen girls who regrettably sold their-their-charms-to unscrupulous gentlemen put paint and powder on their faces. A respectable girl who-who-what did they call it? Oh, yes. Tarting up. A respectable girl like Bibbie who tarted herself up would be subjected to the most astringent criticisms. From what he could understand, even tweed trousers were preferable. With her face painted like that, Markham or not Bibbie would be an instant social outcast. Her family would come down on her like the proverbial ton of bricks.
Reg disapproved of the restrictions, of course. Called them fuddy-duddy and anti-female. She’d worn her war paint every day when she was queen. Nothing wrong with it. Looking her best was the birthright of every woman and bugger the old sourpusses out to rain on the parade.
