Black Tattoo, The

by Sam Enthoven

  Gukumat bowed.

  The arena floor seemed to ripple—

  —and the remaining raptors, plus the body of their opponent, suddenly vanished. In another moment, the stains of the battle were gone too. It was as if none of it had happened.

  "Now," said the Emperor, settling back once more. "I've got something rather special lined up next, I believe. Gukumat?"

  Sire?

  "Is it time?"

  Time for what, Sire?

  "The boy," said the Emperor, annoyed. "Is he in position?"

  Yes, my lord.

  "Splendid." The Emperor looked down at Charlie, smiling again. "Here's something that might interest you." He gestured lazily at the next gladiator as he stumbled uncertainly out into the center of the arena. "This little chap arrived just after you did. Said he was a friend of yours. Now, what was his name?" He looked up at the ceiling as if trying to remember.

  "Oh, God," whispered Charlie. "Jack."

  "Oh yes," said the Emperor. "That was it. Jack. Gukumat?" he barked. "Open the gates. Let's see what the little fellow is made of."

  His grin widened.

  "Quite literally, I should imagine," he added.

  "GLADIATOR JACK"

  Jack had been waiting in his cell when the jelly stuff came for him again. It had appeared from nowhere, swallowed him as before — and deposited him, this time in some sort of short passageway.

  He was standing in front of a blank wall of cool, slate-gray stone. The passageway was empty and, apart from his breathing, entirely silent. Also, he had a knife in his hand.

  The knife's blade was very short, an elongated half oval of glinting blue-gray metal. The black stuff the handle was made of was smooth and vaguely rubbery: against its dark surface Jack's knuckles looked whiter than he was expecting, until he noticed how tightly he was holding it.

  His having a knife wasn't, he realized, particularly good news. He had not missed the Emperor's earlier words about gladiator pits. The knife meant, in all probability, that Jack was going to be expected to fight with it — and knife-fighting was not, as it happened, something that he had ever done before. Forcing his hands to relax, Jack tried a couple of jabbing and stabbing movements in the air and only succeeded in making himself feel very silly indeed. No, he decided: this whole situation was really getting worse and worse all the time.

  That was when, with a low rumbling sound, the wall lifted to reveal what was beyond.

  Gladiator Jack, step forward into the arena, please, said a voice in his head. The voice sounded bored and unfriendly, but suddenly, Jack wasn't really listening to it.

  Step forward, gladiator. In accordance with the rules of the pit, if you do not step forward, you will be disemboweled, slowly and carefully. You have four seconds to comply.

  Three.

  Two.

  One.

  Jack blinked and stepped out.

  Thank you. Please proceed toward the center of the arena and await the start of the bout.

  Numbly, on legs that felt distant and rubbery, like they belonged to someone else, Jack did as he was told.

  The arena was the size of a football pitch — bigger, probably — and surrounded all the way round by huge black slabs of rock, identical to the one that was rumbling down behind him, cutting off the only exit.

  And above the slabs was the audience. Each and every row was filled to bursting by thousands — hundreds of thousands — of monsters. They were all looking at him. They were all screaming, howling, and jeering at him. The noise alone was incredible enough; the overall effect of the scene, Jack found, was really very alarming indeed.

  As Gladiator Jack's opponent in this next bout, intoned the voice in his head (the crowd quieted a little, so Jack knew that they voice wasn't just talking to just him anymore), we present to you an undisputed master of the pit — the most feared fighter of our time. No quarter has he asked or given in a career that has now spanned some fifteen years.

  Terrific, thought Jack limply. Oh, terrific.

  His speed is unmatched, the voice went on. His cruelty is unparalleled. His name alone strikes ice-cold terror deep in the hearts of all who hear it. Fight fans, we present to you the Black Prince himself: LEO THE UNSPEAKABLE!

  Well, thought Jack, the name wasn't exactly the scariest he'd ever heard.

  But now, on the opposite side of the ring from where Jack had come in, another of the black slabs was lifting.

  It came slowly at first. Extending two long black — what? legs? feelers? — out into the blazing light, the thing seemed to test the ground, flexing. Then it took a whole step and moved into view.

  It was a giant spider, and quite the most vile creature that Jack had ever seen in his life. Its body, slung at the center of its arched, oddly delicate-looking legs, was a good twenty feet long by itself, massively bloated and covered all over with spines like large screwdrivers. Its fangs glistened with slime, and its rows of eyes regarded Jack greedily.

  BEGIN! Barked the voice, and as Jack watched, the spider bounced twice in a preparatory way, then began to scuttle toward him, its long legs striking eagerly at the sandy ground. Jack was still staring at the spider, rigid with horror, when it leaped, knocking Jack flat on his back.

  And now it was standing over him! It was bending down at him, blotting out the sky, and the distant roaring of the crowd was reaching a fever pitch. Jack's nostrils were filled with the spider's damp, musty smell. Layers of wet fangs split open like terrible flowers in front of him. There was nothing else in the world, nothing else to see but the dark maw and dripping fangs reaching toward him. And then—

  "Stab me," said a voice.

  There was a pause.

  Jack had been screaming a bit. He screamed once more, but without quite so much conviction this time.

  "Stab me," the voice repeated.

  Jack stared. The dreadful mouth was still there, but it hadn't moved.

  "Can you hear me?" asked the voice. The words were appearing in Jack's head, much as the others had done before, but the effect was strangely soothing, as if soft, cool fingers were stroking his mind.

  "Can you hear me?" the voice asked again.

  "Y-yes?" said Jack's aloud.

  "Good," said the voice. "We don't have much time. Listen carefully."

  As far as Jack was concerned, this instruction wasn't going to pose any problems. He had never listened more carefully to anything in his entire life, ever.

  "The tip of your knife," said the voice, "is only a short distance from my abdomen. If you drive your hand upward, right now, then you will stab me."

  Jack did nothing, just gaped.

  "Is there a problem?" asked the voice. "Can you move?"

  "Er, yes," said Jack. "It's just — you want me to stab you?"

  "Of course not. But it will be better for you if you are seen to put up a struggle, yes? So do it. Do it now."

  Drawing on all his strength, Jack gripped the knife and jerked it upward. The spider had him pinned down; he couldn't see what effect the blow had had, but he felt something warm and slimy drip down and over his hand.

  "Like — like that?" he asked.

  "That's the best you can manage?" asked the voice.

  "Yes," said Jack.

  "Then it'll have to do. YEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"

  With a noise like hideously amplified chalk on a blackboard, the spider reared up over him, screeching. Jack watched the spider's massive black underside in awe as its legs twitched and shook, giving every impression of terrible agony. He could hear the crowd roaring and baying and clamoring, and for a moment he felt a strange kind of exhilaration.

  Then the jaws came down. They closed around his neck.

  And the spider bit him.

  Jack could feel the spider's fangs in his neck, and a weird, wet, itchy dripping sensation as his blood began to well out around the punctures. But almost as soon as he had identified it, the feeling was gone. Jack wanted to scream some more — and why not? The situation certainly me
rited it — but he found he couldn't open his mouth. The blood seemed to be clogging in his veins, the breath was sticking in his chest, and Jack's vision was fading, filling with purple splashes that swam and spread, turning everything dark.

  "There," said the spider. "Before you lose consciousness, I want you to know that — well, this isn't personal. I don't know you, I've never seen you before, and in any other circumstances it's quite possible that we might have become friends. I just want you to know," the spider repeated, "that I find that thought very distressing."

  Oh, great, thought Jack weakly. Thanks a bunch.

  "Goodbye, Jack," said the spider's voice. "Go with my blessing."

  Then the purple patches spread to cover everything.

  Well, Jack thought, that's the last time I try and rescue anybody.

  Typical, he just had time to add. This whole thing. It's absolutely bloody TYP—

  Then everything went black.

  * * * * *

  "Well," said the Emperor, looking down at Charlie. "That wasn't too exciting, was it? Really," he added, "was that the best you people can do?"

  Charlie said nothing.

  "I mean," the Emperor went on, gesturing out at the arena floor, "we've had shorter bouts, of course we have. But they've always been a bit more interesting than that."

  The Emperor was looking at Charlie carefully, studying his reaction. A small smile played across his lips.

  Charlie didn't move.

  "Wait, Charlie," the Scourge told him firmly, speaking directly into his mind so the Emperor wouldn't hear. "Our time will come, but only if you wait."

  "You may leave us, Khentimentu," said the Emperor, still smiling. "Now."

  "Thank you, Sire," the Scourge replied. "Come, Charlie."

  They vanished.

  When Charlie and the Scourge had gone, the Emperor relaxed on his mountain of cushions and munched meditatively on a sweetmeat.

  Gukumat, at his side, bowed once more.

  Shall I dispose of the small human in the usual way?

  "No!" said the Emperor. "Heavens, no! What possible use could we have for a puny little blood-sack like that? I won't have my powers diluted, you know."

  Indeed not, Sire, the Overminister replied. How foolish of me.

  "Still," said the Emperor slowly.

  Sire?

  "Send him to Godfrey."

  As you wish, my lord.

  As soon as the command was given, it was done.

  The Emperor settled back. Already the next combatants were entering the pit.

  * * * * *

  "He killed him," Charlie was saying. His eyes were unfocused: he was white and shaking. "He killed Jack!"

  He and the Scourge were standing on the Needle again — the highest point of Hell, the place the demon had taken Charlie to first.

  "Charlie—"

  "Jack's dead!" said Charlie. "Jack followed me here, and now he's—"

  "Charlie, listen to me," said the Scourge gently. "What do you want to do?"

  Staring at the Scourge, Charlie thought about it.

  He thought about staying up with Jack until four in the morning, watching zombie movies when they were supposed to be asleep.

  He thought about the time in the Chinese restaurant with his dad: how he'd known Jack would come in with him and back him up, almost without having to ask him. Jack had always come with him, in all the time Charlie'd known him — even here, to Hell.

  Jack's music taste was thoroughly dubious. His clothes were all bought by his mum. But Jack was Charlie's friend. And now he was gone. He was gone, and the Emperor had smiled.

  Charlie drew one hand across his nose, wiping away the tears and snot onto the leg of his black jeans. He blinked.

  "The Emperor," he said slowly, figuring it out. "I want to kill the Emperor."

  "I do too," said the Scourge.

  They looked at each other.

  "Killing him," said Charlie. "That's what you—?"

  "If we kill the Emperor," said the Scourge, "we can take his place on the throne. And then all his power — all Hell itself — will be ours, to do with as we wish."

  "Can we do it?" asked Charlie. "Do you think it's possible?"

  "As I said," the Scourge replied, "it won't be easy. But our chances will be greatly improved, I believe, if we work together."

  Charlie sniffed again and looked out at the view. All around them, Hell glittered like dewdrops on a spiderweb. Already, the warm breeze was drying his tears to a crust.

  "All right," he said. "Let's do it."

  "Good," said the Scourge. "Very Good."

  ORIGINS

  Holding steady in the air seven floors up outside Alembic House, Esme reached out one hand and knocked.

  After a long pause, the curtains on the other side of the window slid open by perhaps a foot, and a white-faced, stunned-looking Felix loomed up out of the shadows of the room beyond.

  "We have to talk," Esme mouthed through the glass.

  Floating smoothly some two feet away from the wall, she slid through the air round the corner and came upon a small balcony, accessible from an open French window. Felix was waiting for her there. Esme spread her arms, drifted up over the balustrade, and touched down, her bare feet cold on the stone. Then she looked at him.

  "Hi," said Felix, attempting a smile.

  "Hello," said Esme.

  "Are you up early?" Or late?" Felix asked, once he'd closed the window. "I was just, ah, having a drink. The president of Paraguay has sent me some rather wonderful brandy. I don't suppose you'd—?"

  Esme shook her head.

  "Quite right!" said Felix awkwardly. "Very well, then. Do come through."

  Silently, Esme followed him into the sitting room. The thick curtains were drawn tight: only one or two shafts of daylight betrayed the fact that it was early morning.

  "All right," said Felix. "What can I do for you?"

  "What do you know about a group called the Sons of the Scorpion Flail?" Esme asked bluntly.

  Felix blinked. "Well," he said, "officially, they don't exist, of course. Off the record, I've heard... rumors. They started out as a branch of the Freemasons, would you believe. They've been peddling their supernatural cloak-and-dagger act all over the world for more than three hundred years. Why do you ask?"

  "They've taken over the theater," Esme told him.

  "Esme," said Felix slowly, looking at her, "would you mind telling me what's going on? The Scourge attacked me, and the next thing I knew I was lying on a table in the butterfly room. No one was around, so I called my driver and now—"

  "The Scourge has escaped to Hell," Esme interrupted. "Raymond is dead."

  "Oh, Esme," said Felix, shocked. "I'm so sorry."

  Esme just shook her head. She wasn't interested in sympathy.

  "Just before the Scourge killed him," she began, then stopped. The word killed seemed to have a physical shape: it left a tingling mark on her tongue. "It said something. It said that it's too late for me. It said that it's always been too late for me and that I should 'just ask Felix.' What do you think it meant?"

  She looked at him. He had gone very still.

  "It killed them all, Felix," she said, when he didn't answer. "Nick, Jessica, Raymond — everyone. But you woke up and went home like nothing had happened. It left you alive, Felix. Why?"

  For another long moment there was silence.

  "What did Raymond tell you," Felix asked, turning his glass in his hands, "about why I let out the Scourge?"

  "He said that you did it for power," Esme answered. "He said you released the Scourge because the others in the Brotherhood were always better at stuff than you: you did it because you were jealous."

  "Jealous?" echoed Felix with a sad smile. "Well, that's true in a way, I suppose. But I didn't release the Scourge just for power."

  "No? Why, then?"

  Felix took a deep breath. "I suppose it's time you heard the truth." Gesturing at another chair, he sat down and took a s
ip of his brandy.

  Esme crossed her arms and just waited.

  "A long time ago," said Felix slowly, "I... met someone." He looked up at Esme. "She was beautiful, clever, and thoroughly wonderful, and I loved her with an intensity that I scarcely would've believed possible. There was, however, one problem." He paused. "She was in love with somebody else."

  Esme just looked at him.

  "We worked together, she and I," said Felix, "so I was lucky enough to see her every day. I told myself I'd learn to be content with that. Perhaps I even believed it. But as time dragged past and my feelings didn't change, I began to become sick."

  Felix sipped again.

  "The color drained out of my life," he said. "My love was eating me up inside like a disease: sometimes I thought I could feel it killing me. And then, one day, one horrible day, I thought of something I could do about it."

  "What?"

  "Magic," said Felix simply.

  Esme stared at him.

  "Nick taught us how to use our power in different ways," Felix explained. "Disguise was one. My attempts were always short-lived — partial, at best — but the potential of it began to obsess me. You see, with enough power, it seemed to me, a person could make themselves resemble anyone. You could even make yourself look so much like someone else that nobody would know the difference.

  "Of course," he added, "I knew I couldn't do it alone. As you say, I just wasn't strong enough. But it occurred to me that I knew someone who might be."

  "Who?" Esme asked.

  "One night," said Felix, "that was all I wanted: one night with the woman I loved. And I realized that there was a way I could be granted that." He looked at Esme, hard. "For a price."

  There was a pause.

  "You don't—" said Esme.

  Then, "No. You're not seriously telling me that's what you—"

  Her brain was reeling. She could hardly get the words out.

  "I mean, that's why you did it? That's why you let out the Scourge? So it could help you pretend to be my dad and..." She made a face. "With my mother? "

  "I loved her," said Felix solemnly, "more than my own life. More than life itself — more than anything. And if I could have her love, even just once—"