by Debi Gliori
His voice faded away, leaving the DS staring aghast at the door. Waiting till the red mist cleared from his vision, he counted to ten, cleared his throat, and muttered, “Sorry, sir. Not me, sir. Me, I’m keen as mustard, sir. In fact, sir, I’ll bring the car round now, sir. Won’t bother going home at all, sir. Anything for you, sir. Slurp, slurp, grovel, grovel, lick your boots, sir. Hate your guts, sir; same goes for your voice, sir—Oh, hell’s teeth.” This last remark was occasioned by his discovery that the tape machine was still running quietly in the corner, recording everything he’d just said onto two identical cassettes. For legal reasons, these had been locked into the machine by the duty sergeant; under express orders to unlock and retrieve them only in the presence of his commanding officer, the universally loathed DCI Finbar McIntosh.
For the Love of Lucre
Damp was beginning to feel as if, while her attention was elsewhere, some unseen hand had laid a vanishing cloak around her shoulders. It is quite astonishing how invisible a small person can become if everyone around her is preoccupied with matters of consequence. Latch was lighting the fire in the library, Mama was still in hostiple, Titus and his friend were asleep upstairs, Pandora was curled up in bed reading, and Toothpaste … Damp’s eyebrows plunged toward her nose with a nearly audible thud.
Minty was in the kitchen, surrounded by piles of cookery books and assorted mixing bowls, all of which she had unpacked from her luggage and ferried downstairs in a manner indicating that she intended to stay at StregaSchloss for a while. Now she was trying to find a suitable place to plug in her massive stainless-steel food mixer—an alarmingly industrial machine which looked as if it could whip up an airy batch of concrete along with whatever else Minty cared to hurl into its gaping bowl.
Puzzled, Damp watched as Minty wrapped her arms around the huge machine, heaved it aloft, staggered across the kitchen, and placed it tenderly on top of a cupboard before standing back to admire the effect. She repeated this procedure several times before finally dumping the mixer in the middle of the kitchen table and, in rapid succession, whipping up a three-tier chocolate hazelnut meringue ice-cream cake, kneading a batch of honey and cinnamon bagels, and, getting into her stride, rolling out pastry and effortlessly blind-baking two dozen tiny tartlets. Moments after she had plucked these golden pastry cases from the oven, she filled them with sweet vanilla cream onto which she grated some dark chocolate.
At which point Damp’s traitorous stomach had roared its approval, and she decided that Something Had To Be Done. Minty was employing guerrilla tactics to win the family’s approval, filling first the kitchen, then the house, and finally all their hearts with the deeply evocative scents of home baking: vanilla, cinnamon, and dark melted chocolate. Soon it would be time for elevenses, when the calorific seduction of the Strega-Borgias would commence, and Damp knew that, with Mummy and Daddy missing, none of them would be able to resist. Furthermore she suspected that when their resistance crumbled, the past would rapidly become a fading memory and Mrs. McLachlan would vanish forever. Scowling like Beethoven, Damp retrieved the silver thread from under her seat cushion and blinked, her fists squeezed so tight that her knuckles ached. She didn’t want to forget Mrs. McLachlan, ever. She didn’t want to bury memories of her old nanny under a lava flow of sugar; nor did she want to seek solace in the soft and gently perfumed embrace of this new not-nanny.
Feeling Damp’s hot and furious gaze upon her, Minty turned from the table and squatted down so that her eyes were on the same level as the child’s. She smiled at the poor little thing and held out her hands in an unmistakable gesture of friendship. Damp regarded her balefully and suppressed a deep desire to be enfolded in those outstretched arms. The seconds ticked by, Minty holding the pose, Damp likewise, hands now jammed in pockets, her eyes prickling as she bit down hard on her bottom lip.
Then the thread wrapped round Damp’s fingers twitched, tightened, and gave two distinct movements. Tug. Tug. Damp’s heart clenched and her eyes widened. Sensing that something was wrong, Minty broke the silence.
“Oh, poppet—what’s the matter? You look terrified. I won’t bite, really—I promise …”
But it was too late. Like an animal breaking cover, Damp bolted out of the door to the garden at the same moment as the oven timer reminded Minty that a cherry cake needed her immediate attention. When the nanny finally looked up from her culinary labors, Damp had vanished entirely.
Marie Bain peered out of the windows of the police car, her fishy eyes glittering with malice. All those years of slaving over dinner for the Borgias and for what?
Certainly not the money. The pay was pitiful, insulting even. Low wages had forced her to seek other means of earning an income while she wasted her life cooking for the Strega-Borgias. Pressing her thin lips together so tightly that they turned white, Marie Bain recalled all those dishes she had created. Exquisite morsel after exquisite morsel, picked over, sneered at, and ultimately discarded. Day after day of her life wasted in service to a family who’d made plain their preference for greasy Italian muck over the finest French cuisine. In vain had she simmered, strained, moulied, pared, reduced, grated, whipped, folded, and zested. Countless vegetables and fruits had been boiled to mush; the finest fish, fowl, and game had been roasted to carbon; she had transformed the firm flesh of assorted farmyard beasts into gray string in the quest for a dish to please her employer’s fickle palate.
At the thought of her now ex-employer, Marie Bain’s eyes glittered and her mouth curved upward into a rictal smile. Luciano. Luciano Strega-Borgia, probably now dressed in prison suiting—shapeless, itchy, and undoubtedly bloodstained to boot. Her smile turned into a smirk as she considered her future. Waiting for her, glittering with the promise of fabulous wealth, were thirteen uncut diamonds, their street value more than enough to ensure that she never had to overboil a Brussels sprout ever again. Thirteen rough gems—payment to make sure Luciano Strega-Borgia spent the remainder of his life behind bars.
And her vindictive benefactor? None other than Luciano’s half brother Lucifer; Lucifer di S’Embowelli Borgia, Mafioso, murderer, and, recently, multimillionaire. Lucifer, whose wealth was courtesy of the Borgia Inheritance, which made him richer than Croesus but simultaneously ensnared him in a centuries-old pact with the Devil. Lucifer, who, thanks to the money, plus a bungled episode of plastic surgery, was now as ugly on the outside as he was undoubtedly on the inside. Lucifer, who, post-surgery, could only communicate in mangled squeaks, most of which concerned his avowed mission to destroy his half brother. It is a fact that money can’t buy you love, but money certainly had helped Lucifer buy most other things he desired, including the fanatical loyalty of a vengeful employee.
And now, speeding toward StregaSchloss, Marie Bain blessed the fate that had brought Lucifer and his diamonds into her life. For the first time ever she felt important. Lucifer had told her how essential her evidence was to Luciano’s trial and eventual imprisonment; so too had the policemen, impressing upon her that she, and no other, was the key witness for the prosecution.
“Moi,” she whispered. “Moi, Madame Bain. The twenty-first century’s answer to Madame Lafarge. Perrrrhaps I too shall sit by the guillotine and work on my embonpoint.”
“I beg your pardon?” Sitting rigid with embarrassment beside her on the backseat, DCI McIntosh took a deep, shuddering breath. This witness was a total flake. Her head must button up the back or something, because there they were, nearly at the scene of the crime, and she was rapidly unraveling before his very eyes, talking about guillotines. Beam me up, Scotty, he begged silently as he closed his eyes. Full warp speed for home and fazers on stun.
Just as the police car’s tires met the rose-quartz drive, DS Waters swung the steering wheel sharply to the right and slammed on the brakes just in time to avoid hitting a small girl who’d run out in front of the car with no warning whatsoever. Before he could sound his horn or roll down his window to roar at her, the most extraordinary thing happened. The k
id was still running, legging it away from the house toward the open countryside, but her feet were no longer touching the ground. Impossible as it sounded, she was rising up into the air, arms flapping, legs tucked up against her chest. DS Waters’s mouth fell open. There was a ragged black shape flying alongside the child, swooping and circling around her, almost as if it were offering … encouragement.
The policeman shook his head. Stress, he decided. They’d been taught at police academy how to recognize the signs, except it was well-nigh impossible to separate stress-related symptoms from the ailments that had come bundled along with his fiftieth birthday wrinkles. Sleeplessness, irritability, indigestion—he ticked them off—and then added visual hallucinations to the list as, overhead, Damp made a final orbit of the chimneys of StregaSchloss and, clasping Vesper firmly in her arms, went supersonic.
There was a boom, then a popping sound as all the displaced air rushed back in to fill the space they’d just vacated, but Damp was blissfully unaware. She was paying rapt attention to the silver thread that spun through her fingers, reeling her closer to something—someone she dared not yet name. Together, she and her familiar flew high over Lochnagargoyle—so fast that they began to turn time backward. Battling the slipstream, wings flapping, Vesper muttered something under his breath that sounded like “Cabin crew, doors to manual and cross-check.” Then he turned his attention to Damp. “We’d like to extend a warm welcome to you on board this flight today. For your comfort and safety, the cabin crew will now take you through the safety demonstration. Although you may have flown before, we would appreciate it if you give this demonstration your fullest attention. Please ensure your back is in the upright position and that your legs are stowed away for takeoff. Place all bags in the overhead lockers or below the seat in front of you. Please take a moment to locate the nearest exit to you … seat belts are fastened … and adjusted, so … masks will drop … place over nose and mouth and breathe normally … inflate by pulling on the red … top up by means of … a light and whistle for attracting attention—”
“Vesper?”
The little bat’s mouth snapped shut and he sighed deeply. “I know, I know. I’m talking nonsense. There are no seat belts, life jackets, oxygen masks, or emergency exits. I just made them up to take my mind off the blue, blue sky and big white clouds and that unforgivingly hard thing called planet Earth. We’re undoubtedly flying too high. We’re definitely going too fast. We’re probably going to die. In fact, we may be dead already. Whoooh, we’re flying by the seat of our pants today, ma’am. Where are we going? Terra incognita. How many miles? Lordy, how I do babble on. Three score miles and ten. Will I get there by candlelight—?”
“Vesper,” Damp groaned. “Shoosh. Nearly there.”
Following the silver thread to wherever it led, Damp and Vesper clung together, hardly daring to look down. Miles below, a gray and misty abyss reached up toward the blue heaven. A blink later they were in the fog; cold, wet, and without radar, blinded.
Desert Island Risks
The demon Isagoth paced back and forth along the shoreline, head down, hands clasped behind his back, his boots viciously splintering shells and stamping a pattern of ridges into the wet sand as he tried to buy a one-way ticket home to Hades. Ignoring him, Death’s two boatmen stood knee-deep in the incoming tide and held their bladeless oars aloft.
“Ssssso, let me get this straight,” Isagoth hissed. “I should assume from your silence that you guys are immune to bribery? That no matter what, I can’t buy a safe passage off this island? You mean to say you don’t want gold, jewels, camels, oil wells, palaces, or peerages? You’re telling me that you don’t have a burning desire for unlimited business-class air travel, vast wealth salted away in a secret Swiss bank account, get-out-of-jail-free cards, and the unspoken loyalty of several senior politicians who owe you big?”
Isagoth massaged the bridge of his nose, where the faintest prickle of an incoming migraine signaled its arrival. Next his temples would begin to beat out a rhythm, followed closely by his stomach announcing its intention to eject all contents, after which the only thing he’d be fit for was lying down in the heather and wishing he was dead. This, Isagoth decided, was one of the true horrors of being immortal. You just knew a headache couldn’t kill you, no matter how much you might desire it to. Rolling his eyes, he turned his attention back to the silent oarsmen.
“Right. I get it. You’d rather stand there like twin rocks, like pillars of lumpen flesh, too dumb to realize their hems are getting wet. Again.”
Dumba-dumba-thud came the herald of the headache, and realizing that he had approximately five minutes left before the migraine claimed him utterly, Isagoth lost his temper.
“You two are—are—stupid, stupid, and stupid. What’s wrong with everybody? Like, how hard does this have to be? I’m more than happy to pay whatever it takes to get me out of here. Like—are you there? Hello? Anybody home? Why doesn’t anybody listen to me? I WANT TO LEAVE!”
In the ensuing silence Isagoth almost wept with frustration. He’d wasted hours trying to persuade these morons, these specters with Swiss cheese for brains, that all he wanted was a means of escape from his imprisonment on the island—in vain did he promise wealth, knighthoods, vast chunks of real estate—anything: you name it, Izzy will provide. But no. Nothing worked. He was trapped. His imprisonment here was like the ultimate island-holiday-from-hell scenario. Nightmare fellow castaways, ghastly food, uncomfortable beds, and no hot water …
“DAMN YOU ALL!” Isagoth shrieked. “GET ME OUT OF HERE.”
Dumba-dumba-thud, insisted the migraine, and Isagoth stamped on a mussel so hard its shell splintered under his boot and splattered him with vivid orange pulp. Trying to rise above a wave of nausea, the demon focused on his frustration at having no one to vent his spleen upon. He longed to wrap his fingers round a pale white neck and squeeze; if that was off-menu, he’d settle for dishing out a monster of an Indian burn. It was insufferable. He would go insane if he had to stay here any longer. Knowing that somewhere out there S’tan would be waiting to rip him limb from limb didn’t exactly help his mental health either. He’d promised to deliver the Chronostone to the Boss by the autumnal equinox, the twenty-second of September, but here he was, in the first week of October, still stoneless and likely to remain so, unless …
Unless he could escape. Somehow he had to get away from this island, muster help, and return for the stone. Then he could face S’tan’s wrath. With the stone on board, he could face anything. Yes, Isagoth thought, I need to assemble a task force of mindless demons; mindless and obedient. Get them to the island and put them to work sifting through the stones and rocks for the Chronostone. After all, he reminded himself, he was far too important a minister in the Hadean Executive to spend months trawling through the millions of pebbles fringing the shore in search of S’tan’s precious bauble. Let the lower echelons of demons sieve the pebbles and destroy their manicures in the process. He, Isagoth, one-time Defense Minister of Hades, had had enough. As if to underline this decision, the demon leaned forward and was copiously sick all over his black boots, and thus was last to witness the arrival of two more castaways.
Unlike Isagoth, Mrs. McLachlan had no intention of trying to bribe her way off the island. She had spent the previous night, while Isagoth slept, making a passionate appeal to Death; beseeching him to help her remember where she’d hidden the Chronostone and take both it and her with him when he returned to his realm of shadows. Death had heard her out, nodding from time to time, his long narrow fingers steepled under his chin, his gray eyes impassive. When Flora’s words ran down like an unwound clock spring, Death did not rush to fill the silence. Instead, he sat utterly still as the tide washed in and out and the temperature began to fall. In the deepening chill Flora was forced to jam her hands into the pockets of her cardigan, and that was when her fingers rediscovered the forgotten thread.
Across from her, Death took a deep breath and shook his head. “I do apol
ogize, Flora,” he began, “but I’m not going to be able to give you the answer you seek.”
Hardly aware of she was doing, Flora wound the thread round and round her fingers in a one-handed cat’s cradle as a wave of exhaustion swept over her. So … did this mean that her sacrifice was for nothing? Had she effectively drowned herself in order to bring the stone into Death’s realm; to defuse its power; to ensure that S’tan and his kind could never again use it to further their foul schemes—all for nothing?
Death leaned forward and spoke urgently, his words scarcely audible as if he was afraid of being overheard. “Flora … Flora, Flora. Come now, my dear. You of all people. You know the rules. My realm is not some kind of dumping ground for unwanted magical artifacts. You came here, to the island, to hide the stone from the Lord of Darkness. He cannot see it now, nor can he feel its power, nor feed from its energies. Even though the stone had been mislaid by the Dark Lord for two centuries, it was still on the Earth, and thus its power could still be used by demons and angels alike. Seeking to insulate the stone from the Dark Lord, you hid it in the Etheric Library, with catastrophic results for the Librarian. Now you have brought it here and summoned me, Death, to your aid. I understand why you want me to take the stone back with me: You correctly reason that I alone am beyond the reach of Heaven or Hades, and thus would be a neutral, unbiased curator for the Chronostone. And yes, in this you are quite correct. Once the stone was with me, so would it remain for all eternity.”
Oh, please, Flora begged silently, please bend the rules. Just once? And then, suddenly, all thoughts of stones and rules were driven from her mind. In her pocket the thread which bound her fingers gave a determined quiver. Just as the thought, Did that really happen? flashed across her mind, the impossible occurred:
