Forces from Beyond

by Green, Simon R.

  “Did we really just take down an ancient Egyptian god?”

  “Hard core,” said Melody. “Let’s just hope it didn’t have any friends or family that might come to avenge it.”

  Chang sniffed delicately at the air. “No trace of a departing spirit. Pity. I wonder what a god’s soul would have tasted like . . .”

  “You are an appalling person,” said Kim.

  Natasha Chang nodded demurely. “I try.”

  “What do we do with the body, Boss?” said JC.

  “Leave it,” said Latimer. “The Club Management will take care of it. They’re used to cleaning up after raucous parties.”

  “Are you sure?” said Chang. “I can’t help feeling the Hound would look really cool, stuffed and mounted and on display at Project Headquarters lobby.”

  “Things like that don’t always stay dead,” said Latimer.

  “Leave it to the Management,” said Chang. “Nasty thing.”

  “Get us another limousine,” said JC. “I think we’ve outstayed our welcome.”

  SIX

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  SECRETS WITHIN SECRETS

  The dog-faced god lay curled up in the alley-way, as dead as any other dead thing.

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  Natasha Chang stood just outside the entrance to the alley, her back firmly presented to the steel cube that had once been her limousine, speaking loudly and determinedly into her phone as she ordered a new car. Someone on the other end was trying to give her problems, and Chang was having none of it. She wanted a new car, right now if not sooner, or someone was going to suffer, and it sure as hell wasn’t going to be her. JC stood on the other side of the steel cube, listening with one ear while keeping a watchful eye on everyone. Because somebody had to; and no-one else seemed in the mood.

  Catherine Latimer was leaning against the alley wall, her face studiedly calm as she smoked another of her black Turkish cigarettes in the long ivory holder. But something in the way she stood suggested she was feeling tired. Or old. Her gaze was far away. JC wondered what she was remembering, from her very long life. It occurred to him that he really didn’t know much about his Boss’s past, from before she became Head of the Carnacki Institute. He knew she started out as a field agent, just like him. He’d seen the souvenirs she kept from her old cases. But he had no idea what kind of agent, what kind of person, she’d been. Certainly, the knife up her sleeve had come as a complete surprise.

  It was obvious she’d killed before. And equally clear that the killing hadn’t bothered her in the least. It wasn’t that she’d seemed cold-blooded about it—more . . . practical, professional. So JC had to wonder who or what else she’d killed in the field, in her time. And why. Killing wasn’t usually part of a Ghost Finder’s job. Normally, field agents only turned up after the killing was over, so they could deal with the mess it left behind. JC didn’t even consider asking the Boss about any of this; he knew she wouldn’t tell him. Catherine Latimer kept her past a mystery, quite deliberately. For reasons of her own. JC had always known she was dangerous, and scary; everyone did. But for the first time, it occurred to him to wonder what had made her that way.

  What had turned the grand-daughter of one of England’s most legendary heroes into the feared Boss of the Carnacki Institute.

  JC decided he’d think about that later. He had more immediate concerns. He looked back down the alley, to where Happy was sitting on the ground, his back propped against the wall for support. The filthy conditions of the alley-way didn’t seem to be bothering Happy at all. He looked . . . old. Worn-down, worn-out. He looked like what he was: dying. JC wished he could do something for him, and at the same time wondered just how much of Happy’s current condition might be down to him. All the demands he’d put on the telepath in the field. Because he needed Happy’s amazing mental powers to help the Ghost Finders win the day. JC looked past Happy, to where Melody was standing alone, and wondered how much she blamed him.

  Melody stood stiffly in the middle of the alley-way, her arms tightly folded, back straight, and chin up, glaring sullenly at the whole damned world. She was deliberately not looking at Happy because he’d made her move off a way, so he could be on his own. It was taking everything he had to cope, to hold himself together, and he couldn’t do that if he had to worry about her as well. Seeing her suffer, as she watched him suffer. So he sent her away out of kindness, for purely practical reasons; but all Melody could see was that he’d pushed her away. When she was only trying to help.

  She still wasn’t ready to admit what everyone else knew—that there was nothing useful she could do to help.

  Furthest apart of them all, Kim the ghost girl sat cross-legged in mid air, among the darker shadows of the alley. In the dim light, she looked almost transparent, as though she was fading away. JC wanted to go and be with her; but she didn’t want him there, for much the same reasons as Happy with Melody. JC and Kim didn’t like to talk about it, but they both knew she was finding it increasingly difficult to maintain her presence in the world. The after-life was calling to her, in a voice that could not be denied. And sooner or later, she would have to go.

  JC and Kim, Happy and Melody—both couples had been so happy when they had first found each other. They still believed in happy-ever-afters, back then. Before life and death taught them differently. Love conquers all only happens in the movies. Life, and death, are more complicated.

  JC leaned casually on the compacted steel cube, then winced as the wounds the Hound had given him flared up. He looked up and down the empty city street. No-one about to walk the pavements, no traffic moving on the road for as far as the eye could see. Just empty space and an ominous quiet. Whoever sent the Hound had cleared out the surrounding area very thoroughly. Presumably they were still waiting for the Hound to report back and lay the still-steaming hearts of its victims at their feet. JC frowned; he’d been assuming the Institute cabal had sent the Hound after them; but the Boss had upset a great many people during her long career. Hell, JC and his team had made their own share of enemies, out in the field. If someone had heard that they were on the run, and vulnerable . . . And, of course, there was always the chance that this could be down to agents of the Flesh Undying.

  JC smiled briefly as he wondered just when his life had become so very complicated.

  As if he didn’t have enough to worry about.

  A car arrived. A sleek white stretched limousine with tinted windows, complete with handsome liveried chauffeur at the wheel. The car glided to a halt before the entrance to the alley, its engine barely purring, and the chauffeur tipped his peaked cap to Natasha Chang. She nodded briskly back and smiled cheerfully down the alley.

  “Get your hats and coats, boys and girls, your ride is here! Time to leave this appallingly aromatic alley for somewhere far more civilised.”

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  It turned out there was space for everyone in the back of the limousine. Gleaming, leather-upholstered seats, and lots of leg room. Chang demonstrated the capabilities of the built-in bar; and it was a sign of how bad Happy was feeling that he didn’t give a damn. He was shaking and trembling and biting his lower lip to keep from crying out. Melody put an arm around him, so he could rest his head on her shoulder. Chang leaned in close to JC.

  “Is he going to be a problem?”

  “No,” said JC.

  “We could always drop him off somewhere, like a hospital, or a funeral home.”

  “No we couldn’t,” said JC. “We’re going to need him.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because we always do.”

  He accepted a glass of brandy from the bar, to keep Chang company. And so she wouldn’t sulk. Catherine Latimer stared quietly out the side window, taking the whole limousine experience in her stride. Presumably, she was used to such luxu
ry.

  “Hold it!” Chang said suddenly, looking quickly around. “What happened to ghost girl? She was here just a minute ago.”

  “She often disappears for a while, about her own business,” said JC. “And no, I never ask. Pretty sure I don’t want to know. She’ll turn up again when she’s needed.”

  Chang looked unconvinced. She turned away to give the chauffeur his driving orders and so never saw the small smile JC allowed himself.

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  The limousine carried them smoothly off through the streets of London, moving at high speed and breaking all the traffic laws there were with cheerful abandon. Traffic reappeared the moment they left the alley behind, and they were soon surrounded by cars and trucks and buses. The chauffeur treated them all with equal contempt, aiming his car at oncoming vehicles like a weapon. He never needed to use his horn to intimidate other drivers. Other vehicles seemed to take one look at the limousine and decide it was in everyone’s best interests to get the hell out of its way.

  “Don’t worry,” Chang said cheerfully. “No-one’s going to stop us. The Crowley Project has connections, in high and low places. It’s like having CD plates, only better. We don’t just have diplomatic immunity; we have Project immunity! From everything!”

  “You wish,” said Latimer, not looking around.

  JC looked out the window, taking in the bright lights and tall buildings, and people everywhere. It was hard for him to see the real world as real any longer, not when he knew what was really at large in it. He was surprised to suddenly notice it was night. Already? When did it get to be night? Where did the day go? Had he been so busy, so menaced, he simply hadn’t noticed the time? He watched crowds of people surging up and down the packed pavements, all intent on squeezing every last bit of enjoyment out of the city’s night-life. Part of him wanted to stop the car and get out, plunge into the crowds and disappear into them. Lose himself in the mass of humanity, so he could be forgotten, and safe. Except, of course, he would never be safe or forgotten as long as the agents of the Flesh Undying were still out there. With his name on their list of things to do.

  His lacerated arms and shoulders ached fiercely from the damage the Hound had inflicted. Nothing serious, but enough for every cut and gouge to shout at him each time he moved. Now he couldn’t distract himself with conspiracy theories and having to be strong for everyone else. He could feel the weight of the brass knuckles in his jacket pocket, the ones he used to put a hurt on the Hound. He still couldn’t believe he’d gone head to head with a living god. He normally had more sense . . . but that was what the Boss did best. Make you more afraid of failing her than what you were facing. He made a mental note to get the brass knuckles recharged. The blessings and curses were gone; all used up getting past the Hound’s supernatural defences. He felt suddenly defenceless in the face of an angry and hostile world. He needed an edge. He leaned over to address Natasha Chang.

  “We need to make a stop along the way.”

  “No we don’t,” Chang said briskly. “My instructions are to deliver you straight to Project Headquarters.”

  “We need to make a stop,” said JC. “It’s important.”

  “Why?” said Chang, immediately suspicious. “What for?”

  “I need to pick up a few things,” said JC. “From another of my secret bolt-holes.”

  “Another one?” said Melody, her ears pricking up. “How many have you got?”

  “As many as I need,” said JC.

  “Don’t try to be mysterious and enigmatic,” said Latimer. “You don’t have the experience. I know all of your hiding places, Mr. Chance. I make it a point to know everything that matters about everyone who works for me.”

  “If that was true,” said Melody, “Allbright wouldn’t be sitting at your desk as the new Boss, and you wouldn’t be on the run with us.”

  “Saucer of cream for little miss cat,” said Chang, grinning.

  “You don’t know about this particular bolt-hole, Boss,” said JC. “Because if you did, and you knew what I keep there, you’d have shut it down ages ago. And if you don’t know, I can be pretty sure no-one else does.”

  He gave the chauffeur directions, and the man looked into the rear-view mirror at Chang for confirmation. She nodded curtly, and the chauffeur swung the car around.

  “You’re right,” said Latimer. “I didn’t recognise those directions. What have you been up to, Mr. Chance?”

  “I have always believed in putting a little something aside for a rainy day,” said JC. “Dangerous, deadly, and downright spiteful somethings. On the grounds that if someone should bring my world crashing down around me, I wanted to be in a position where I could express my extreme displeasure in a truly appalling and destructive way. Which is why you only know about the hiding places I wanted you to know about, Boss. Enough that you’d feel secure and stop looking.”

  “I like the way you think,” said Chang. “You’re going to feel really at home at the Crowley Project.”

  “Now you’re just being nasty,” said JC.

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  They ended up in a quiet grimy back street, where old buildings slumped and huddled together as though for comfort, holding out stubbornly against the tide of progress. Dirty, soot-stained walls, whitewashed windows, and doors with no numbers on them. And yet again, nobody out and about. At the end of the street, a series of old railway tunnels had been bricked up and made over into lock-ups and garages. The limousine slowed to a halt before the door JC indicated, and everyone got out. The night air had a bitter chill to it, and the sounds of the city seemed far away.

  “These lock-ups have been let and sub-let so many times, no-one really knows who owns what or what’s inside them,” said JC.

  “I remember,” said Latimer. “Back during the London bombings in the seventies, the police set out to identify all garage owners, so they could check whether places like this were being used for storage by terrorists; but they couldn’t even find the keys to half of them.”

  “Precisely,” said JC. “This whole area is distinctly dodgy, every deal border-line illegal, so everyone around here can be relied on to keep their mouths shut.”

  The sleek white limousine looked very out of place in the grim surroundings. The chauffer, who’d already refused to leave the car, made a point of hitting the central locking. Chang gave JC a hard look.

  “Is this stop really necessary? I don’t want to come back and find my car stripped and the chauffeur up on bricks.”

  “Relax,” said JC. “No-one will bother us. Everyone minds their own business, for fear of being barred. It’s all part of London’s long tradition of subterranean economies, where shady entrepreneurs buy and sell the things people aren’t supposed to want but do anyway.”

  “Illegal things?” said Latimer.

  “Illegal, immoral, and occasionally unnatural,” said JC.

  “I feel right at home,” said Chang. “I’m not really bothered about the car. It’s armed and armoured, and can look after itself. And the chauffeur’s just a preprogrammed homunculus, so . . .”

  “I am not!” said the chauffeur.

  “It’s sweet when they think that,” said Chang.

  “Memories,” Happy said dreamily, peering about with heavy-lidded eyes. “Layer upon layer of memories, imprinted on the surroundings, going back generations. All human life is here; and quite a bit of death, too. We’re all standing in blood.”

  “Maybe you should stay in the car, sweetie,” said Melody.

  “There’s blood in the car, too,” said Happy.

  “No there isn’t!” said Chang. “I had the upholstery dry-cleaned.”

  “Moving on,” said JC, determinedly.

  He hauled out a heavy key-ring and unlocked his garage. The door looked like all the others, but he opened it with a key made f
rom human bone.

  “It’s a skeleton key,” he said calmly.

  “Whose skeleton?” said Latimer.

  “No-one you’d know,” said JC.

  He pushed the door all the way open and ushered them inside. The garage interior turned out to be a stone cavern, with curving walls and ceiling, lit by buzzing, overhead fluorescents. Boxes and crates were piled up everywhere, with only stencilled numbers on the sides to identify their contents. Along with any number of glass display cases, full of interesting items and curios. JC gestured grandly.

  “Welcome to my lair. Weapons, devices, and a whole bunch of really weird stuff I’ve collected down the years.”

  Melody grinned broadly, spoilt for where to look first. “Your very own Aladdin’s Cave! Why did you never mention this before?”

  “Because he knew I wouldn’t approve!” said Latimer, openly outraged at the size of the collection. “You were supposed to hand over everything of interest you encountered or acquired in the field!”

  “Man’s entitled to a few souvenirs,” said JC. “You kept yours in your office; I’m just a little more private.”

  “Boys and their toys,” said Chang.

  Melody helped Happy sit down on a nearby crate, then went scurrying up and down the narrow aisles, looking at everything. JC helped Happy stand up, moved him to a somewhat less dangerous crate, and sat him down again. Happy nodded understandingly. JC made sure he was comfortable, then turned back to Chang and Latimer.