by Debi Gliori
Latch's gaze drifted down to the herb garden, where Zander was now working on a series of t'ai chi exercises. Choosing his words carefully, he turned his full attention to Mrs. McLachlan and said, “Promise me something.” Laying one hand on top of hers, he repeated, “Promise me you'll not go without saying good-bye—no, don't pretend, Flora. I can see it in your eyes. You're afraid, but you're going to do it anyway. Just do me the kindness of not pretending anymore. And when you do go …”
“Yes. I promise I'll say good-bye.”
“Good lass,” Latch said firmly, his expression resolute, his entire body language radiating quiet efficiency. Taking a deep breath, he said, “Right. Let the day's work begin, Mrs. McLachlan. To our duties.”
And holding the door open, he almost broke down when she whispered, “And as for your very important question, dear”—she paused and looked up at him, her eyes even brighter than before—“if I cannot answer you in person, because I am…otherwise detained, I will find a way into your dreams, and you'll have your answer there.” And slipping past him, she ran down the corridor like a schoolgirl, fleet of foot and laughing as she left him beached, blushing, and terrified on her behalf.
A Demon Disguised
sagoth stood in the arrivals area of Glasgow Airport, waiting for his luggage to appear. He'd decided against wearing the bland business suit, and for today had gone for the rumpled chinos with Goretex jacket combo; anonymous with a faint hint of Action Man. In keeping with this, he'd razored his hair to two millimeters all over and covered his chin with spray-on designer stubble in a selection of colors from youthful black to pushing-fifty gray. His eyeballs smarted beneath the green contact lenses he'd been forced to adopt to disguise his state of permanent red-eye. As a final precaution, he'd showered till his skin almost bled, slathered himself in pungent aftershave, and marinated his teeth in such industrial-strength mouthwash that his eyes watered. No trace of his normal sulfurous stench remained, which was just as well, for Glasgow Airport had employed sniffer dogs ever since nine naked stowaways had appeared off a flight from Milan. Consequently, the arrivals area was full of patrolling Alsatians, which set up a furious barking each time they heard a cell phone launch into a mangled version of the overture from William Tell. Furthermore, the airport was undergoing a major refurbishment, so from behind a screened-off section of the arrivals lounge came a continual din of badly tuned radios, sporadic bursts of hammering, and the deafening screeeee of power saws on metal.
Isagoth retrieved his luggage off the carousel and headed in the direction of the rental-car desk, where to his frustration he found himself waiting in line behind a large party of Japanese tourists whose command of Glaswegian was understandably nonexistent. Behind the disguised demon, a man and a woman joined the queue: their overladen luggage trolley and matching brand-new sneakers marked them out as visitors from America. Unable to avoid overhearing their conversation, Isagoth rolled his eyes and hissed as the couple loudly discussed the lamentable lack of facilities in this primitive country, the general surliness of the native population, and their concerns regarding the mental health of their only son and heir who, if Isagoth had understood correctly, had flown the parental coop to join a commune in Scotland.
“He's probably grown his hair right down his back by now,” the man observed, morosely kicking the brake bar of his luggage trolley. “How're we supposed to recognize him, looking like some kind of hippie flower child?”
“Aw, sugar,” his wife replied, accidentally nudging the trolley against Isagoth's ankles, “I'd know my baby boy anywhere. He can run, but he can't hide from his ever-loving mommy.”
Ahead, the Japanese party were dispersing, smiling and bowing, their faces lit up like sunflowers as they spilled forth to conquer Scotland by camera. Isagoth stepped forward, placed the relevant paperwork on the desk before him, added a credit card like a cardsharp producing a hidden ace, and stood back, every inch the world-weary frequent flier.
“How long would you like the car for, sir?” The girl barely looked up from her computer screen, her long nails tippytapping on the keyboard.
“A week,” Isagoth replied. That ought to be plenty of time, and besides, he thought, I've got no intention of returning the car anyway. Not that I'm about to mention that.
“Would you like a map, sir?”
A map. Not a bad thought, actually. He'd been driven by a minion last time, so he hadn't really paid any attention to where he was going. He nodded, his eyes hooded, his fingers drumming on the desk as the girl processed his details.
“We've got the Western Isles, Argyll, Perthshire, the Lothians, the Borders…. ”
Behind him, Isagoth could hear the Americans go into raptures over this litany of Scottish place-names.
“Oh my gosh,” the woman gasped. “It's just so romantic, isn't it, hon? Like something out of the movies—all those locks and brocks and islands—d'you think if we can find our boy, then we could maybe take some time to explore?”
“Well, Jolene, honey, if you've set your heart on seeing Scotland, I'm sure we could take a few hours off to tour. I mean, it can't take more than three hours to drive all the way around—you could fit this entire country into the state of Arizona and still have room for a coupla Grand Canyons. …”
“Argyll,” Isagoth said firmly, his voice raised in competition with a resurgence of the din from the builders behind the screen. “Argyll,” he repeated, realizing the girl behind the desk hadn't heard.
“Say, mister …” The man behind broke off his discussion of Scotland's tiny acreage and muscled up to the desk. “Couldn't help but overhear you mention Argyll to this young lady here—'scuse me, ma'am, for butting in like this, but see, thing is, my wife and I are heading for Argyll ourselves.”
Like I care, thought Isagoth, giving the American a dark stare before turning back to the girl, who had paused to examine her manicure in minute detail.
“And we're strangers in these parts ourselves, but when I heard you speak I knew you weren't from here, neither. Say, mister—'scuse my big mouth—my wife here's always chewing my ahh—giving me a hard time about doing this, but I always say, Jolene, how in tarnation are we ever supposed to make new friends if we just keep our mouths shut? And yeah, mister, you probably think I'm a fool, muscling in here, but, like I said, we're heading for Argyll too.”
Isagoth turned to face his tormentor. “And your point is?”
“My point?” The American smiled broadly and threw his arms outward in a gesture clearly intended to convey surprise at having to explain such a blindingly obvious concept. “My wife's just like you, mister. She likes things to be spelled out. Jolene, I say, sometimes it's good to circle around something before nailing it to the floor. Sometimes, Jolene, I say, it pays to take your time. Like hunting. Ever go hunting, mister? You get that critter right bang in your sights—a deer, say, pinned on the crosshairs of your big old rifle—and—”
The girl behind the desk seemed to awaken from a long sleep and spring back to full efficiency. Passing Isagoth his credit card, a sheaf of paperwork, and a set of car keys, she smiled coldly and turned her attention to the Americans.
“Next?” she said, with little enthusiasm. “Not so fast, ma'am. Just hang on, mister.” The American laid one meaty hand on Isagoth's arm and then, catching the expression on the demon's face, withdrew it instantly. “Now I can tell you just think I'm a gigantic pain in the fa—”
“Lex! Will you shut right up and let me handle this? Go and sit quietly over there and take your medication while I speak with Mr.—ahh…I don't believe I caught your name, sir?”
Isagoth turned to leave, but Jolene had blocked his escape with her vast trolley.
“Mister. What my poor fool of a husband was trying to say was: you're headed for Argyll and so are we. What d'you say we hook up? Share a vehicle? Save time, money, and—who knows?—we might end up sharing something more…ah, meaningful besides.”
Isagoth pushed the trolley clear with such
force that it barreled straight across the concourse, ripped through the screen hiding the building work from public view, and embedded itself on the business end of a circular saw. Interrupted in the middle of their tenth coffee break of the morning, several men wearing dirty jeans slung halfway down their buttocks rose to their feet in protest.
“Oh my goodness!” Jolene squeaked, then, recovering rapidly, added, “So I guess that means your answer is no?”
“Madam”—Isagoth bared his teeth—“frankly, I'd rather stick pins in my eyes.” And, stalking out of the airport, he realized to his annoyance that for once he'd spoken the truth.
Zander Smells a Rat
itus sidled into the kitchen poised for flight in case anyone was in there to witness his ruined complexion. Thank you, thank you, thank you, Great Spot Deity, he thought. They've all gone, leaving me to suppurate in peace. Carefully avoiding the possibility of encountering his reflection, he fumbled blindly in the fridge, producing a lump of dried-out cheddar, an unopened jar of pickled gherkins, and the scrapings at the bottom of a jar of mayonnaise. Better and better, he decided. Things are definitely looking up; all I need is bread and I'm in business.
Minutes later, carrying a quintuple-decker cheese-andpickle toastie over to the table, he forgot to avoid the pot rack and consequently found himself mirrored tenfold in the polished steel of the many dangling casseroles. The distortion effect of these—spotty and bloated—caused him to lose his appetite altogether. Collapsing onto a chair and sinking his head into his hands, Titus failed to notice the presence of Multitudina next to the packet of Honey Nut Miserablios. The rat observed Titus with interest, wondering if she had been responsible for the plague of buboes marching across his face.
“Shame,” she said, exercising all her reserves of compassion in a process that took approximately two seconds and returning to her forbidden reading matter. “Sap—sappy—sappyent—sappy-ent-ech have vac—vacan— Oh, for Pete's sake, why can't they write this stuff in English?”
Titus's head rose from the table and, to her credit, Multitudina didn't remark on his altered appearance.
“What are you reading?” he demanded, his attention caught by this reference to SapienTech.
“I wish I knew,” Multitudina sighed, patting the newspaper under her belly. “I think I'll just go back to eating these things instead of reading them.” And as she was about to sink her yellow fangs into the newspaper, she looked up to see Zander strolling into the kitchen from the garden. “Uh-oh,” the rat whispered. “Trouble.” And in front of Titus's astonished gaze, she leapt into the open box of Miserablios with a discreet crunch, leaving her bald tail dangling conspicuously over the edge of the package.
“Morning,” Zander said, causing Titus to wish he could slip down a crack in the flagstones and disappear into a zit-zone where no one would notice or care about his spotty appearance.
“Lovely day,” the proto-butler continued breezily, adding, “especially since it's my day off. D'you fancy a wee spin on the bike? We could take off down the shore, have a bite to eat in Auchenlochtermuchty…. What d'you think?”
I think I want to die, Titus decided. Now? Please? Before he notices that he's being matey with a human pustule. Oh, sigh. Better get it over with … and gritting his teeth, he looked up into Zander's face and—
Zander's identically pitted, bat-bitten, red, blotchy, hideously altered face looked back at him.
Titus's thoughts did an abrupt 180 degree turnaround and he managed to say, “Yeah, great, give me ten minutes,” before realizing that now he was utterly starving.
A little later, flushed with the sudden chumminess that comes from discovering that one's companion is in an identical mess as oneself, Titus pointed to the newspaper ad and mumbled through a mouthful of cheese sandwich, “D'you know anything about these guys?”
Zander's eyes flickered. Oh yes, he thought, I know everything there is to know about SapienTech. Including the exact time they'll cease to exist…
“Nope,” he lied, “not a thing. Why d'you ask?”
On the point of blurting out the details of his attempts to gain access to the SapienTech Web site, Titus became aware of two things at once. One, Pandora was standing at the kitchen door, her face ashen and her eyes widening as she saw who was sitting at the kitchen table; and two, Multitudina's tail was flicking back and forth in ecstasy as the rat discovered just how good Miserablios tasted.
Act normally, Titus told himself. Zander hasn't seen it yet.
Calm down, Pandora told herself. Zander doesn't know it was you—
“AUGHHHHHHH!” Zander roared. “It's a rat ! On the table !”
“So it is,” Pandora remarked, stepping to one side as Zander stumbled into the safety of the corridor. Hearing the voice of her trained human, Multitudina climbed back out of the cereal box, her whiskers glittering with sugar. Pandora crossed the kitchen, stroked the rat's head, and peered at her brother in some confusion.
Here we go again, Titus thought, zit city, not to mention rat planet…. Don't react, don't react, don't react.
“Heck, Titus, what were you doing last night? You've been eaten alive. I've never seen so many gnat bites on one person ever before. Yeurrrrch, you look awful.”
Gnat bites? Titus felt like sobbing with relief. Only gnat bites ? In a week's time he'd be back to normal? He was so delighted at this reprieve he wanted to kiss his sister. However, this was out of the question, so instead, grateful and babbling, Titus opened his mouth and inadvertently popped both feet straight in.
“Uh, yeah—by the way, Pan, I don't think it's a good idea to wander around the hills on your own at night.”
Pandora's head jerked upright, away from her reunion with her pet rat.
“I mean, all sorts of weird stuff goes on after dark…. ”
Despite the presence of a rodent on the table, Zander edged back into the kitchen, causing Pandora to clutch Multitudina so tightly, the rat gave a squeak of indignation.
“All I'm saying is, like …next time you fancy a walk in the dark, I'll come with you, OK? Just ask. I saw you out there last—”
“AOWWWWWWW! You wee beast !” Pandora dropped Multitudina onto the table and howled, “OUCH! That hurts. Ow. Ow. OWWWWW!”
“What?” Titus was utterly at sea. What was she on about now?
Pandora stood up, glared at him, and fled into the garden, leaving Titus staring at Zander in embarrassment. Unjustly slandered, Multitudina disappeared back into the cereal box in disgust.
“Phwoaaaah,” Titus groaned. “What was that all about?”
“I haven't the faintest idea,” Zander lied, stuffing his hands into his pockets to stop them shaking. They knew. Both of them. Her, in the woods, hiding in the coire; him, asking questions about SapienTech. What a mess. How much Pandora had overheard didn't matter. Not now. The main thing was to silence them. Quickly. He didn't have much time. Zander looked at Titus and smiled. “Grab your stuff—I'll be waiting outside.”
Dragon Agony
arantella hid beneath a dandelion leaf and waited till the danger had passed, keeping one eye on the seagull wheeling overhead, while the others scrutinized her reflection as she applied lipstick to her mouthparts. Determined not to turn into a raddled frump after the efforts of spiderbirth, Tarantella was the arachnid equivalent of a yummymummy: fragrant, groomed, and impeccably made up. Day after day she'd commute down to the loch, tiptoe into the nursery she'd created under a seat in Titus's rowboat, gently kiss each of her tiny daughters, straighten the egg sac, and then settle down for some quality time with her unhatched children. Overhead, the seagull cawed, and then, performing one last orbit in search of the outsized spider, the bird gave up and headed out over Lochnagargoyle toward the sea.
Tucking her lipstick and tiny mirror in a hidden cache under her belly, Tarantella hooked one leg onto a dangling length of spider silk and pushed off into the air— Lochnagargoyle's very own Tarzanella, queen of escapes.
Landing on the jetty,
Tarantella scampered along its wooden planks and vaulted into Titus's rowboat. To her annoyance, she realized that she was not alone. Just offshore, out in the deeper water, the giant Sleeper was shaving barnacles off his chin using a razor-clam shell. He turned one vast eye in the tarantula's direction and flipped the end of his tail by way of greeting.
“Your wee gurrls are jis' fine,” he roared. “Ah checked oan them this mornin'.”
As a babysitter, the Sleeper left a lot to be desired, but as a nursery bodyguard he was unsurpassed. Tarantella tiptoed along the wooden seat and dropped underneath, hanging upside down and regarding her daughters with devotion. This bit was easy, she reminded herself. All that was required at this stage was for her to show up, make the appropriate maternal clucking sounds, check that her babies were warm and dry, then head home to put her feet up, safe in the knowledge that she'd done her duty. But all too soon, all three hundred sixty-five of them would hatch, look around, and demand room service…. Tarantella poked the silk-wrapped egg sac. Soon, she thought, very soon indeed. Then she could commence her plans for her daughters' education. Her babies were going to hit the ground running. To this end she had woven a “To Do” list into the silk of the egg sac. The list ran thus:
A shadow fell across the rowboat and the air filled with the smell of fish. Tarantella looked up to where the Sleeper's gigantic head blocked the sky from view.
“Huv youse seen ma wumman today?” he inquired, his ghastly teeth bared in a grin.
“Briefly,” Tarantella admitted. “She's gone out for the day.”
“Did she say whit fir? It's jist… weel…I've a big surprise for her and ah kin hardly wait to see her wee face when I gie her it.”
“She's gone with the others to offer up her body on the altar of scientific discovery. For money.”
The blank look of incomprehension on the Sleeper's face prompted Tarantella to try again.
