* * *
Through the mayor’s window, Paddington saw the Team emerge onto the street and repeat their routine of aiming guns at everything, mostly the fountain. Baldwin guided Paddington away with a gentle hand. “Your friends have a number of interesting ideas. Are they always so…”
“Trigger-happy?” Paddington said.
“I was going to say ‘enthusiastic’. Boys and their toys. And girls and their garlic. What was that about?”
“I’ll ask them.” Not that there was much point; so far all their information had been wrong.
“Don’t bother,” Baldwin said. “I’ve endured worse in judging pies at the Church of Idryo’s annual fair. Gladys, may the Three-God bless her, is very inventive in her use of sprouts.”
Paddington nodded politely, staring at the mayor’s smile. It was the same as the duke’s, with a disconcerting edge of tooth over the bottom lip. When Baldwin had removed his dentures, Paddington had seen two long teeth on the bottom row as well.
“Tell me of Mitchell,” Baldwin said. “Will he bring press?”
“He’s not interested in publicity, sir, but he’ll have to write reports.” Whatever magic had kept Archi off the maps would fail once Mitchell filed his reports.
“I’ll let Adonis know, not that he doesn’t already.” Baldwin waved a hand to dismiss Paddington.
As he walked back downstairs, an idea niggled at Paddington’s mind: the mayor was a relatively new position, created a hundred years ago to take over some of the duke’s duties. The wardrobe, the office, the teeth, were all homages to Adonis.
Traits that had immediately shouted “vampire” to the Team, a term Paddington had never heard. Baldwin wasn’t a vampire, but… what about Adonis? If the duke didn’t want anyone knowing he was a vampire, the best way to keep his secret would be to cut his subjects off from outside communication and travel. Create an aura of fear toward those who knew the truth.
Which was exactly what he’d done.
The Embargo, the technophobia, the severe anti-Mainland sentiments… all ensured that no one could find out the truth and that in the unlikely event that someone arrived who did – say, some paranormal investigators – they’d be distrusted and despised and their warnings viewed as abuse.
Honestly, Paddington couldn’t help but admire the way Adonis had completely controlled the Archian consciousness. One could almost say “manipulated”.
On the upside, that was one mystery solved. Archi was weird because its ruler had something to hide. Tick that one off the list. Now it was just the werewolves, finding out what vampires were, keeping his girlfriend alive, and getting rid of the Team.
Easy.
Paddington emerged into the chilly night and met the barrels of seven rifles.
“All good, detective?” Mitchell stepped away from the statue of Idryo’s Champion and lowered his weapon, which was always a relief.
“Fine.”
Mitchell grinned. “Dandy. First thing tomorrow I’ll talk to your duke about the radio blackout, but right now I want to check on our prisoner.”
If Mitchell was going to try to kill his girlfriend, Paddington at least wanted him to acknowledge that she was a real person. “She has a name, you know,” Paddington said.
“I’ll be sure to learn it. Let’s move.”
They climbed into the police van and putted away. Why did Mitchell want to see Lisa now? Did he suspect Paddington? What would happen when they found Lisa gone? Or what if Quentin was still there, keys in hand?
From what Paddington had seen so far, it would involve executions.
Paddington jumped at a loud banging just behind his head and nearly ploughed the overweight van into a tree. As he wrestled the vehicle under control, Mitchell opened the flap to the cell at the back, where McGregor was slamming his hand against the divider. “Go back! That church!” he yelled over the cries of discomfort. The back of the van hadn’t been designed to fit seven; Archi didn’t have crimes that big.
After circling the block, Paddington parked in front of the Church of Idryo and opened the back doors. McGregor ran straight to the entrance. The others clamoured out, stretched their spines, and stared up at the tall spires.
“What’s this?” McGregor asked, pointing at a set of black symbols beside the double-doors.
“It’s graffiti,” Paddington said. “They’ll clean it off in a day or two.”
There was an awkward silence in which Paddington assumed he’d missed something important. “Don’t you have graffiti where you come from?” he asked.
“Not in ancient Greek!” McGregor said.
Worry tunnelled up Paddington’s spine and nested in his neck. Add that one to the list. “In what?”
“Ancient Greek, one of the oldest written languages.” McGregor looked hopefully at Mitchell, who looked less hopeful and more weary.
“You’re sure?” Mitchell asked.
“Positive.” McGregor pulled a notepad out of a black pocket and copied the text. “Roughly translated, uh… ‘Demons are people too’.”
“Detective,” Mitchell said, “any idea who’s defacing your religious institutions with daft proverbs written in dead languages?”
Paddington hated the graffiti: he always felt he should recognise the handwriting. “No.”
“Probably just some kids who’re using it as their tag,” Skylar said.
“No, it’s been around since I was a kid, maybe longer,” Paddington said. “And it’s always different; it’s not the same thing over and over.”
“There’s more?” McGregor sounded hungry.
“Sorry; we tend to clean it off,” Paddington said. “But if you like this, you should see the Book of Three.”
“What’s that?”
Paddington remembered – vividly – Erato explaining how secret the Book was. “Probably nothing,” he muttered. “Oh! There’s the Tree in the city garden! Its carvings look like this.”
The Team didn’t seem to care. Most were shuffling their feet. Only Truman remained vigilant, staring at the nearby rooftops with a slight frown. Paddington saw nothing of interest there.
“Is this relevant to the case?” Mitchell asked McGregor.
“It’s an anomaly,” McGregor said.
“We’ve had our share of those already, thanks,” Mitchell said.
“Sir, I can’t know if it’s relevant unless we check.”
Mitchell sighed and closed his eyes. “Fine, but quickly.”
They piled into the van and headed five minutes toward the centre of the island before unloading again at the edge of the Garden of Terpo. The Team stared up at the ten-foot stone walls with the same awe Paddington had as a child.
Inside there were no buildings and few paths. The trees were ancient and gnarled, twisting around themselves like a nest of wooden vipers. People came here for solitude and peace. There was no law prohibiting using the garden for picnics or football, but no one ever did. It wouldn’t be right.
Paddington led them in. After a minute, Truman said, “There.”
“They’ve been following us since the station,” Mitchell said calmly.
Paddington stopped and turned around. “Who have?”
“Things in the trees,” Truman said.
“Things? Like… werewolves?” Paddington asked.
“In the trees?” Mitchell asked him. He pointed and the four mutes left to investigate. “Don’t they teach you anything on Archee?”
“It’s pronounced Ark-eye,” Paddington said. “And they teach us fine.”
“Then why isn’t it spelled Ark-eye?” Mitchell asked. “Another stupid tradition, or are you so inbred you can’t even spell?”
Paddington was sick of this. “What’s the matter, Jerry?” he asked. “Did you find spelling hard at school? Didn’t mummy ever read to you?”
“I’m an orphan, thanks for asking,” Mitchell said, stepping closer. “Didn’t your daddy teach you any manners?”
“He died, ju
st after I was born,” Paddington yelled, sure that they were about to come to blows and that he’d come off second-best. Then Mitchell turned away and the night turned very cold. What had just happened? He never talked about his father. Or stood up to people.
Still, he felt… good.
The mutes had returned from checking the trees. “If anything was following us,” Clarkson said, “it’s probably halfway to Albuquerque by now.”
“Stay on guard.” Mitchell readjusted his grip of his rifle; he was breathing just as hard as Paddington. “Detective, lead on.”
He did. The mutes left every minute or so to check the trees, from which came the occasional rustle of a branch or glimpse of a shape among the leaves, but they never found anything and it was too dark to be sure there was even anything to find.
Finally they arrived at the Tree. “Well, there it is,” Paddington said. A usually redundant statement, this time it caused a series of short inhalations as each member considered stating the obvious, then lost his nerve. Finally Mitchell spoke out.
“That’s what you call a tree, is it?”
“It’s… tradition?” Paddington said. Honestly, he wasn’t sure why it was called the Tree when it was obviously a nine-foot tall rock. Some things made so little sense he’d always just assumed that there was a very good reason for such nonsense.
“It’s a rock, right?” Skylar asked. “I’m not missing something?”
McGregor approached the Tree and examined the obelisk’s three faces. The area around it was dirt for ten feet in every direction, after which were trees – real trees, wooden ones – and shrubs.
Something rustled behind them. McGregor didn’t notice, but the other seven pointed their guns at it. “Clarkson, Normson, check it out,” Mitchell said.
The two men entered the foliage and soon all that could be seen of them were beams of white torchlight in the dark. Paddington approached McGregor. “Anything?”
“Absolutely.” McGregor ran around to another side of the obelisk, then the third. “It’s ancient Greek, same as the graffiti, carved deep into the rock. Looks like it’s been here for hundreds of years.”
The two soldiers returned from their search with an empty shrug.
“Doctor,” Mitchell said, “any chance we can do this in daylight?”
McGregor covered his goatee with one hand and pointed to the top of the Tree with the other. “What are these runes?”
“That’s the mark of Idryo,” Paddington said, of the crescent bending down on both sides. He rounded the corner and saw another rune at the pinnacle, this one a left-to-down curl. “That one’s Enanti, and the blank side is Tipote.” They saw the third rune, this one a right-to-down curve. He was a bit surprised they didn’t recognise them, but maybe theology wasn’t a compulsory subject in Mainland schools.
“And who’re they when they’re at home?” Mitchell asked.
Paddington blinked. Was Mitchell serious?
Apparently, because he was still glaring.
“They’re God,” Paddington said.
“You guys have your own God?” Skylar asked.
“And don’t tell me it’s tradition,” Mitchell said.
Paddington wanted to ask why none of them had ever heard of the Three-God, but was distracted by the digital camera McGregor had pulled from one of the many pockets on his black flak jacket. It was barely the size of a wallet, and the flash was built-in! And when he took photos, they popped up on the little screen. No more developing fluid or dark rooms. In seconds, McGregor had captured all three sides of the obelisk and Mitchell was leading the way back to the van.
They heard no more rustling, but Paddington felt something watching them. He thought perhaps there were shapes on the rooftops as well, but they might have been weathervanes. They drove to the headquarters to collect a book to aid McGregor in his translation and then continued on to the station.
By the time they arrived, Paddington’s nerves were shot from watching the skyline. He headed straight to the kettle, flicking the lights on as he went. “Anyone thirsty?”
“Got anything stronger than tea on this island?” Skylar asked as she dropped into a seat.
McGregor sat at Quentin’s desk and bent over his camera. The others sat or leaned against any available surface.
“Detective!” Mitchell roared.
The Team were all on their feet again, some with groans but all with guns.
“What?” Paddington asked. Had they been followed here? Were they under attack?
“Why the fuck is this empty?” Mitchell’s rifle pointed at the holding cell. “Who has access to the station at night?”
Paddington tried to keep his voice casual. And innocent. This was common knowledge. “Anyone, I suppose. The door isn’t locked.”
Mitchell glared, nostrils flared. “What?”
“There’s no need,” he said. “If you’ve got an emergency, you yell. Mobs are very good at stopping on-the-spot crimes.”
“What about records, reports? Privacy?” Mitchell asked, horrified.
“Everyone already knows everything about everyone,” Paddington said. He shrugged, trying to indicate that this was clearly Mitchell’s fault. “If you were so concerned, why did you pull the guards from the door?”
“Because at that point the station was still staffed,” Mitchell said.
But that argument didn’t make sense. It was better to have twice the necessary guard than none at all. Mitchell wasn’t the careless type; if he removed men from here, he wanted them somewhere else – with him, when he confronted Mayor Baldwin. He’d wanted the mayor to see his full strength.
“By your mother, in fact,” Mitchell continued. “Perhaps I should call her.”
“Off you go,” Paddington said. Behind him, the kettle shrieked and he shut off the stove. “Look, Lisa can’t go far. There’s no way off the island. We’ll find her first thing tomorrow. Okay?”
Mitchell watched him, looking for deceit. Paddington hid his beneath a mask of a simple, small-town bobby. Since that was all Mitchell thought he was, he didn’t have trouble believing it.
Mitchell turned to the Team. “In pairs, radio contact every fifteen minutes. Go.”
“Wait!” McGregor said. “I’ve translated the characters on the… Tree.” He placed a piece of paper on the bench beside the kettle. As the Team crowded in, Paddington squeezed his way out of the centre and read over Skylar’s shoulder.
On the third night of the moon,
Three Brothers of Three Races
Reunite at creation’s origin,
And commence her rebirth.
Three from one came,
And to one three shall return.
The words hung in the air a moment after reading. They drew Paddington back to his primary school days, topping the class in theology, moved by the language and the stories but lost by their meaning.
It was also another problem to add to the list.
“What the hell is this?” Mitchell asked.
“Seems like a, well, prophecy, sir,” McGregor said.
“Aren’t prophecies usually about the end of the world?” Truman asked.
They all stared at the paper again, with distrust.
“There’s more, on the other side of the rock,” McGregor said, placing another sheet beside the first.
The demon summons their destruction.
Though his mouth begets peace,
He decries Archi.
Death spreads across the globe.
“Another prophecy,” Mitchell said, “which contradicts the first.”
“Yes, it does,” McGregor said. “I was expecting more, to be honest, but the third side of the obelisk is blank.”
“It’s probably on the sides of buildings,” Mitchell said. “Thoughts detective?”
Paddington had several, none of which he wanted to tell Mitchell. He’d be in enough trouble because of the Mainlanders; he didn’t need them storming the duke’s mansion to steal the Book of Three. �
�We assumed the writing on the Tree was gibberish,” he said, “decorative.”
“We should investigate,” Truman said.
“Really? Why’s that?” Mitchell asked.
“Well… we have a werewolf.”
“Which is hormones, right doc? Not the moon, not demons, not a race.”
“Well, yes,” McGregor said, “but whoever wrote this might not know that.”
“Then their prophecies aren’t worth a damn!” Mitchell said. He straightened his spine, drawing himself up to his full height and width. “We are not spending another second on this. We came for a werewolf, not vague prophecies and wannabe vampires. The end of the world can wait until they feel like being a bit more specific.”
Mitchell waited until everyone had nodded, even Paddington.
“Good. Now go find me that bitch.”
Bovicide, Zombie Diaries, and the Legend of the Brothers Brown Page 25
