Pure Dead Trouble

by Debi Gliori

  Now, with Alpha missing and his library in ruins, Mrs. McLachlan didn't feel quite so sure. By bringing the Chronostone to the library, had she unwittingly put Alpha in danger? Turned the Hadean radar toward the library? Alerted some devilish entity to the centaur? Mrs. McLachlan shuddered, her attention returning to the present, where, to her extreme annoyance, she discovered she'd made a large iron-shaped burn mark right in the middle of one of Signor StregaBorgia's shirts.

  “Oh, for goodness' sake, Flora! Get a grip,” she muttered, turning around to check that Damp hadn't spotted her nanny cremating the laundry. The room was empty save for herself. Damp had disappeared.

  Tock cowered behind a dripping oak tree, wishing his beloved mistress would just call it a day and accept that into each life some rain must fall. The crocodile peered around the tree trunk and sighed. Someone should tell his mistress that lying sprawled across the soggy grasses of the meadow with limbs extended like a mutant starfish wasn't going to make a blind bit of difference to the weather. He was just about to amble across to where Baci lay getting wetter by the minute and suggest that she consider emigrating to somewhere with less in the way of precipitation, when suddenly, as if some unseen hand had turned off a heavenly tap, the rain stopped.

  “Excuse me?” he honked, wrinkling his eyes in the dazzling sunshine that, impossibly, was now painting the meadow in golden light. Squinting upward, Tock saw an unbroken expanse of blue stretching from Lochnagargoyle to the far peaks of Mhoire Ochone. Has…was…did she? his mind stuttered, finally clawing its way to the unlikeliest of conclusions. My mistress? Did my mistress do this?

  Mrs. McLachlan raced around those parts of StregaSchloss frequented by Damp, barreling through doors, scanning rooms, calling the little girl's name over and over, but hearing nothing in reply. Breathless with anxiety, she ran out into the rain, searching for the littlest Strega-Borgia in the old icehouse, the greenhouse, and the potting shed, but all to no avail. Mrs. McLachlan was catching her breath under the partial shelter of an apple tree, debating whether to sprint down to the lochside or enlist the help of the beasts in aerial reconnaissance, when she heard Damp singing nearby: “Rain, rain, go 'way, cummergenan other day.”

  Mrs. McLachlan's relief was short-lived. As Damp drew a breath and belted out another verse, the nanny caught sight of her, or at least she caught sight of the multicolored golf umbrella that the little girl was using to stunning effect as a wand.

  “RAIN, RAIN, GO 'WAY…”

  The umbrella spun around, faster and faster…

  “CUMMERGENAN…”

  …the colors blurring, merging to form a dazzling white circle of light…

  “NO! DAMP!” Mrs. McLachlan screamed. “STOP!”

  “OTHER DAY,” Damp sang firmly, then hurled her umbrella-wand into the air.

  Instead of falling back to earth, the umbrella appeared to gather speed, rising through the leaden skies like a reverse comet, ripping through the cloud cover as if tearing away the dull gray wrapping paper from a dazzling blue present.

  “Oh bother,” said Mrs. McLachlan with feeling. The rain stopped, the gray fell away to the horizon, and the sun came out with an almost audible ta-daaaa. Mrs. McLachlan closed her eyes in despair; unwittingly, Damp had turned a vast spotlight on herself, the magical equivalent of Beauty inviting the Wicked Fairy around for a wee game of darts….

  “Och, my wee pet,” Mrs. McLachlan whispered. “What have you done?”

  Hell's Bells and Buckets of Blood

  eading a wellthumbed paperback novel to while away the boredom of the night shift, the duty demon was mouthing the trickier bits of the story under his breath when the Hadean search engine registered a hit. Barely lifting his eyes off the page, the demon reached out a nailbitten finger and pressed the PRINT INCOMING MAIL button on the keyboard, before rapidly turning to the last-but-one page of his book.

  Such are the deplorable lack of reading skills in Hades that it was a full two hours later that the demon closed his book with a feeling of acute dissatisfaction bordering on acid indigestion, and turned his attention to the recent printout curled in his in-tray.

  “Loh—loh—location: Argyll,” he read effortfully. “Subject: unknown. Send on?”

  The demon scratched his head, his claws poised over the keyboard. SEND ON? blinked on and off, the screen demanding that he assign this unknown event in Argyll to some department of Hades for further investigation. The demon paused. How big an event in Argyll? he wondered. Was it just a wee squitty magical hiccup? A rabbits-out-of-the-hat trick, barely worthy of a two on a scale of one to ten? Or perhaps it might be a smattering of vengeful voodoo—say, a four for effort? His claws clattering on the keyboard, he typed in a query:

  SCALE OF EVENT—ONE TO TEN

  Sitting back to wait while the computer replied, the demon was aware that he'd heard of Argyll before. The faintest bell of recognition began to chime far away down a dusty corridor of his memory; faint but persistent, it clanged repeatedly in his mind. The computer sprang to life and supplied the answer to his question.

  SCALE OF EVENT—ONE TO TEN: THIRTEEN.

  Behind the boarded-up door of a room in the basement of the demon's memory, something stirred, shook itself, stood up and hurled itself straight through the door, thundered along the dusty corridors, and arrived screaming blue murder in the middle of the gray porridge of the demon's brain.

  “ARGYLL!” it shrieked. “CLASSIFIED INFORMATION.

  SECURITY CODE: XXX. EYES ONLY. DO NOT, REPEAT, NOT, OPEN WITHOUT CLEARANCE FROM BELOW.”

  Giving a little sob of terror, the duty demon picked up a cell phone and began to key in an unlisted number.

  Stuck in traffic on the Hades Orbital, Isagoth lit his fortieth cigar of the day with an underpowered salamander and tossed the wriggling creature out of his window without a second thought. All roads into Hades were part of a colossal one-way system; the city planners reasoned that there would be little traffic heading in the opposite direction. Consequently, the motorways were designed to encourage easy access with no possibility of exit. A steady stream of battered white vans and bloated SUVs poured into Hades, their leaky exhausts belching fumes as they inched blindly forward, horns blaring, engines screaming, a tide of automotive lemmings rushing toward towns with names like Perdition, Purgatory, and, ominously, Evisceration (population 666 and falling). As traffic hit the Orbital, speeds dropped still further, to a pace equal to that achieved by a growing fingernail. Isagoth's blood pressure rose higher and higher as the hours ticked by, and when his cell phone rang, he could barely hear it over the hammering of blood in his veins.

  However, replacing the phone in his breast pocket and catching sight of his gleeful reflection in the rearview mirror, he suddenly decided that Things Were Looking Up. If his informant had been correct, an event scoring thirteen on a scale of one to ten was cause for celebration. In fact, events scoring anything higher than nine allowed ministers such as himself to exercise privileges only permitted in full-on emergencies.

  “I've waited an entire lifetime to be allowed to do this,” Isagoth remarked, turning a dial on the dashboard and flicking a concealed switch below the steering wheel. A warning light flashed on the speedometer and a computerized voice informed him that his vehicle was now armed and had automatically initiated countdown.

  “Excellent,” Isagoth hissed. “I love playing dirty…” Removing a pair of armored goggles from the glove compartment, the demon secured them round his head, took a deep breath, and floored the accelerator.

  Everything within a radius of twenty kilometers vanished in the blast from six chassis-mounted plasma cannons—cars, roads, houses, and their occupants. Blood, bone, and bitumen rained down on the ruined Orbital but, to his extreme delight, Isagoth made it to work in record time. Moments later, he strode across the metal walkway linking Administration with Wet Affairs, drawing respectful glances from the lesser demons who guarded the entrance to the Pit.

  “Nice evenin', yer ho
norship,” one of these ventured, bowing obsequiously as Isagoth swept past, and, on receiving no reply, muttered, “Snotty git,” at the Defense Minister's retreating back. This was a mistake, an Absolute No-No, he realized, for as soon as the words had left his mouth, Isagoth stopped, turned on his heel, and rapidly retraced his steps to appear in front of the lesser demon like a bad case of acid reflux.

  “I BEG YOUR PARDON?” Isagoth demanded, his voice loaded with the promise of future pain.

  “I, erm … I, um … I, errr,” the demon gulped. “I said, yer worshipful eminence, ‘Mind 'ow yez go—there's a snotty bit.' I mean, look at it—tchhhhh, them sinners; once we've finished wiv 'em, they just leak and ooze and drip like you wouldn't believe…. ”

  “Nope, you're right. I wouldn't believe,” Isagoth agreed. “GUARD! Take this one down. He's outlived his usefulness. Tongue, eyes, ears… you know the drill.”

  “Your 'ighness?” the demon quailed. “Mercy. What did I do? Why me? I was jis' bein' 'elpful, me. No, nooo, aaarghhh—” Enveloped in the massive arms of a guard, the demon's pleas for clemency were instantly muffled, as if someone had turned down his volume control. The guard impassively dragged his prisoner off in search of a rusty pair of shears, and Isagoth strode on until he reached his office.

  Closing the door behind himself, he nearly screamed out loud when he realized Who was waiting for him, drumming His fingers on the obsidian desktop.

  “CONGRATULATIONS, MINISTER,” the Boss purred. “FINALLY, YOU MADE IT INTO WORK ON TIME. SHAME ABOUT THE COLLATERAL DAMAGE TO THE ORBITAL, THOUGH—IT'S GOING TO COST AN ARM, A LEG, AND SEVERAL EYEBALLS TO REBUILD WHAT YOU DESTROYED IN YOUR HASTE TO BEAT THE TRAFFIC, WOULDN'T YOU AGREE?”

  “Yes, Your Foulness.” Isagoth could barely force the words out through a throat so clenched with terror it hardly allowed the passage of enough air to breathe, let alone speak.

  “SO… WHY THE RUSH? WHAT'S THE EXCUSE? AND, BY THE WAY, KNEEL, SCUM. I LIKE MY MINISTERS TO KNOW THEIR PLACE.”

  Isagoth fell to the floor, noting that the cleaners hadn't been in his office for a while, judging by the litter of cigar butts and crushed salamanders strewn underneath his desk.

  “Your Evil Eminence,” he began. “Most Vile Viscount of the Verruca…”

  “CUT TO THE CHASE, WRETCH,” the Boss commanded. “JUST CALL ME S'TAN AND GET ON WITH IT.”

  S'tan? Isagoth reeled inwardly. What kind of name was that ? Swallowing with difficulty, he did as he was bid.

  “Our man from Wet Affairs intercepted the centaur, Alpha, and began the usual… procedures. I'm sure You don't need to hear the gory details. However, when he paused to allow the prisoner time to regain consciousness, our man was hunting for his lighter to rekindle the pyre under the prisoner—”

  “UGH,” S'tan moaned. “SPARE ME, PURLEEEASE. TOO MUCH INFORMATION.”

  “Indeed. My apologies. So, S'tan, as our man searched for this missing lighter, the centaur slipped his chains and escaped.”

  “HOW UNFORTUNATE,” S'tan tutted. “DEAR, DEAR …”

  “Um, no. Actually, centaurs are half man, half horse; no Bambis in their genetic makeup whatsoev—” Catching sight of S'tan's expression, Isagoth flinched. “Anyway, S'tan,” he babbled, “we're pretty sure the centaur had the Chronostone with him when he vanished. But he was somewhat damaged by that time—a bit of a crispy critter due to the… procedures used to extract information from—”

  “HOW CRISPY A CRITTER? RAW? MEDIUM RARE? WELL DONE…OR BURNT?”

  “Half burnt, your Satanic S'tan-ness. Probably in need of medical attention, if not immediate immersion in salt water, perish the thought—which brings me to—”

  “I HAVE TO SAY YOU'RE SURPRISINGLY CHILLED FOR SOMEONE WHO'S LOST MY CHRONOSTONE THROUGH SHEER INCOMPETENCE.” S'tan stood up and strolled across the office to where Isagoth knelt quaking before Him. “LET ME JUST REFRESH YOUR MEMORY. YOU. LOST. MY. CHRONOSTONE.”

  Taking a deep breath and praying that for once his hunch was correct and he was speaking the truth, Isagoth said, “With all due respect, Your Stainless Steeliness, I am delighted to tell you that I have found the Chronostone.”

  Just then, a muted ringing tone came from S'tan's person. It grew louder and more insistently shrill until, emitting a hiss of frustration, the Boss rooted in His pocket and produced a personal organizer. Flipping it open, He sighed.

  “A POX ON IT. I'M LATE FOR MY APPOINTMENT WITH MY AROMATHERAPIST, THEN I'M OFF ON TOUR FOR THE NEXT FORTNIGHT… WEEK AFTER, I'VE A PRODUCTION BUDGET COMMITTEE…EDITORIAL MEETING…BOARD OF GOVERNORS… BAND PRACTICE… CRIMINAL JUSTICE LAWYERS EXECUTIVE PAINTBALL WEEKEND … LOOK, SCUM—HAVE MY CHRONOSTONE ON MY DESK BY THE STROKE OF MIDNIGHT OF THE AUTUMNAL EQUINOX—UNDERSTOOD?”

  “Implicitly, Your Gruesome Greatness. Count on it.”

  “TWENTY-SECOND OF SEPTEMBER, AND NOT A NANO-SECOND LATER.” And with this, the Boss swept out of Isagoth's office, His fur-lined cloak swirling majestically in His wake.

  The Witness in the Water

  ut in the glassy deep of Lochnagargoyle, the Sleeper surfaced, his head breaking water first, followed by three vast arcs, the only visible portions of the beast's massive body, the remaining ninety percent of it submerged and hidden beneath the water.

  “Ochhh, ah'm no feeling very weel,” he observed, giving a forlorn belch, which echoed off the distant shore. “Dearie me, was it something ah ate?” he wondered out loud, trying to determine which of the shoals of fish he'd recently devoured might have been responsible.

  In the shadows beneath a cluster of scrub oaks clinging to the shore, the centaur Alpha struggled back to consciousness, a state he'd been keen to avoid since fleeing from the library with his tail on fire. Now, all too awake, he dragged himself centimeter by painful centimeter across the pebbles of the foreshore and, giving a groan of agony, rolled into the healing chill of the loch. Aware that time was fast running out, Alpha lay in the shallows and curled around the Chronostone lodged deep in his belly. Bleakly, he considered what to do. One option was to take the stone with him into the realms of Death, but that offended his sensibilities as a librarian. That, he decided, was like burning all the books rather than allowing them to fall into the wrong hands. The only alternative was to pass the Chronostone on. Pass it on like an Olympic torch to the next in line. The trouble with that plan was the lack of suitable candidates. Any old mythical creature would do: a centaur, a dragon, a griffin… even an abominable snowman. Unlike humans, mythical beasts could withstand the power of the Chronostone, but, unsurprisingly, the lochside wasn't exactly thronged with wannabe Chronostone custodians, be they legendary, mythical, or otherwise.

  High overhead, seagulls circled, their watchful eyes marking the movements of Alpha dying on the foreshore and the Sleeper feeling like he was dying out in the middle of the loch.

  “Ah dinnae want to throw up, ken?” the Sleeper moaned to himself, for once wishing that his bride-to-be was around to hold his head, even if as she did so, she would be bound to nag him about her singular lack of an engagement ring. “Ochhh, ah reely hate throwing up, me, 'specially when ah haftae swim aroond in it efterward. …” With this in mind, the giant beast made for the shore in the hope of evacuating his stomach on land instead of water.

  What he found, as he lunged out of the water and onto the beach, was so surprising that it quite overcame his temporary stomach upset.

  “Whoor youse?” the Sleeper demanded, skidding to a halt in a shower of pebbles. A winged horse fluttered in front of him, its once-white coat covered in blackened patches, its outspread wings pitted with burn marks where entire layers of feathers appeared to have been consumed by fire. The horse turned its golden eyes on the Sleeper, blinked… and changed.

  “Eh? Whit?” The Sleeper took several slithers backward, his initial surprise turning to feelings of unease, his stomach once more sending out a signal of deep disquiet. The burnt horse had been replaced by a charred centaur, its hooves clattering on the pebbles of the shore
as it lurched toward him, its mouth effortfully framing the word, “Help.” To the Sleeper's horror, the centaur's mouth opened still wider, and from it fell a shiny stone, a glittering gem that looked, to his inexperienced eyes, very much like an egg.

  “Now, jist hang oan a wee minute,” the Sleeper said in a shaky voice. “Dinnae give me yon egg, pal. Last time anybody gied me yin of those, it came attached to a paternity suit. That egg's no' mine. I'm no' its father.”

  In front of him, the centaur shape-shifted again, as if by changing form it could somehow escape the pain of its terrible burns.

  “Tell me it's a' a bad dream,” the Sleeper whispered, unable to tear his gaze away from the sight of the centaur as it became a burning wooden horse, its timber ribs exposed by the flames that licked greedily around its flanks. Unable to move on its rigid wooden legs, the horse burnt silently, and would have been completely destroyed by fire, had not the Sleeper finally decided to intervene.

  “NO WAY, PAL!” he roared, dragging the blazing horse into the loch and holding it underwater until it was completely extinguished. “You're no leaving your egg an orphan, right?” he muttered, his coils unwinding to release the horse into the shallows, where it lay floating in the tidal ebb and flow of the water.

  “Right?” The Sleeper's voice dropped to a whisper as the wooden horse shape-shifted for the last time.

  It grew smaller and smaller, as if immersion in water had caused it to shrink. For a moment then, it lay still. Peering at the tiny blackened shape, the Sleeper was reminded of a twig, wizened and lifeless in winter, miraculously bursting into life by spring. From below the horse's neck, twin buds grew, swelled, and burst open. At first their crumpled shape did look uncannily like young leaves, but as they rapidly unfurled, they revealed themselves to be rudimentary wings. Simultaneously the creature's two hind legs melted together to form a long, extended tail. When the Sleeper leant down for an exploratory sniff, this tail rolled itself up into a tight coil, and its owner emitted a loud snort from flared nostrils.