‘Why should we trust you?’ said Denny. ‘You wanted him dead before. You said it yourself; it would solve all your problems.’
‘Why are you so certain that this Ran-Kur is an impostor?’ asked Tamar.
‘I am 500 years dead,’ said Peirce. ‘I’ve been around a pretty long time, but I never heard of this Ran-Kur until about 150 years ago, where was he before then? Gods don’t just pop up out of nowhere. And the prophecy! – Bit convenient isn’t it?’
‘The prophecy dates back at least 3000 years,’ said Denny.
‘Granted, granted, it does, but so do they all. I’ve seen a lot of prophecies; most of them are bunk – one for every occasion. But this Ran-Kur, he knew his target audience. Vampires in general, are a superstitious lot, worse than humans are. They’re real “suckers” (geddit?) for a prophecy.’
‘And what if the prophecy turns out to be true?’ asked Denny, earning himself a kick from Tamar.
‘It’s not,’ said Peirce. ‘And if it is, well, I’ll deal with that when it happens – who wants to live forever right?’
‘Okay, so say we take your word for it,’ said Tamar. ‘How can you help us? Do you know where he is? Can you take us to him?’
‘Well, no, not exactly,’ admitted Peirce.
‘What does he look like?’ asked Denny.
‘I’ve never actually seen him – sorry.’
‘If we do find him, how do we kill him? I mean if he’s a god, or posing as a god, he must be powerful.’ This was Tamar.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Well, what use are you?’ said Denny. ‘You don’t know anything useful, do you?’
‘I could find out, maybe.’
‘Oh no,’ said Denny. ‘You needn’t think we’re going to let you out of here now you know all about us.’
‘Oh Please!’ said Peirce, scornfully. ‘Who am I going to tell? If you think Ran-Kur doesn’t know all about you already, you’re kidding yourselves.’
They returned to confer again.
‘He’s definitely lying,’ said Denny. ‘I didn’t say anything, but I looked up Ran-Kur on the Aethernet, the stories of him go back much further than 150 years. Ask him to explain that.’
‘So, he is a god?’ asked Stiles.
‘More than likely, yes.’
‘It doesn’t mean he’s lying,’ said Tamar. ‘Just that he’s wrong. The thing is, he’s not much use to us either way. I think we have to stick to the original plan. If we assume that Ran Kur is a god, then we have to find a way to kill gods and summon him here, like we did with Hecaté.’
‘Hecaté wouldn’t help us.’
‘But she did hint that there might be another way.’
‘I’ll hit the computer,’ said Denny. ‘See if I can turn anything up on god-slaying.’
‘Are you sure?’ said Tamar. ‘You haven’t slept in three days.’
‘I’m fine,’ he said. But he did not look it.
~ Chapter Seventeen ~
Mrs. Pittencherry – first name Cindy – had in, fact, never been married. She was a well preserved forty, very well preserved actually. She looked no more than twenty-five. She subscribed to the Tamar school of vanity, and believed that there’s no point in being a witch if you cannot use it to look good, and that it was cheaper and easier than make-up or plastic surgery.
She was currently doing the magic mirror thing. That is, she was scrying, pausing intermittently to admire her flawless, unlined face and shining blonde hair. She was trying to get a fix on Tamar, although she did not know it exactly, but she had sensed the magic when Tamar had stopped outside her house, and was curious.
She was startled when a face other than her own appeared in the mirror; it had never worked before. Cindy was not terribly interested in magic that was not about herself. She jumped backwards in surprise, knocking over a vase of roses from one of her many admirers.
The face in the mirror was beautiful and noble, with a piercing gaze that emanated power. What was more surprising was that it spoke to her.
‘Sister,’ it said. ‘Do you know me?’ The voice was soft, deep and melodious.
‘H – H – Hecaté?’ stammered Cindy in disbelief. (Not a good beginning for a manifestation – since gods rely on belief to exist)
‘Ah, I see you do,’ said Hecaté.
Cindy fell on her knees and gibbered.
‘Be calm, beloved,’ said Hecaté. She stepped out of the mirror and laid her hands on Cindy’s shoulders. ‘I have come with a message for you.’
‘F – For me?’
‘Yes beloved, for you. Listen carefully; there is one who will come to you, to seek your aid, a powerful being.’
‘I have sensed it, my goddess.’
‘Of course you have, my sister. You must not admit her to your home, she brings great danger with her, do you understand?’
‘Yes, my goddess.’
‘Even more dangerous, is her companion. Beware of them both beloved, and I will give you my protection.’
‘Thank you my lady, I will do as you say.’
‘My blessing on you, beloved. Now, there is just one more thing I would have you do for me …’
* * *
Peirce was tied up in the bath. Since he could, theoretically, turn himself into a small rodent or even a cloud of fog at will, Stiles considered this to be an exercise in futility. But Tamar said it showed that they meant business, and anyway, not all vampires could perform such parlour tricks, as she called it.
Denny was out again, having so far come up empty on the god-slaying, he was spending more and more time roaming the streets, and when he was at home, he was moody and withdrawn, and would sometimes pace for hours, like a caged beast. Even Tamar was beginning to notice, but then, Stiles was now getting the same way, and even she was feeling oppressed by the constant darkness and gloomy prognostications of Peirce, who now seemed convinced that they were all going to die horribly.
* * *
Someone else was also convinced of this, and was, in fact, relishing the idea; he was contemplating the reports of their actions, and rubbing his hands together in satisfaction. Peirce had acted exactly as predicted. After the terrorist fiasco, the “Master” had known exactly what his next move would be, and it was exactly what the “Master” had wanted. Still, he was technically a traitor, and, as such, should suffer the most horrible penalty that could be meted out to a vampire. Perhaps the tar pit, or a thousand knives, anyway he would have his day in the sun – ha! And as for Tamar Black … He rubbed his hands together in gleeful anticipation. ‘Causing suffering,’ he thought, ‘is good for the soul.’
~ Chapter Eighteen ~
Denny wandered along the pitch-dark streets. He felt at home in the darkness now, he could see almost as well as in the light. The air was stuffy, and it was sweltering, like a hot summer night, even though it was November. It had been getting hotter and hotter on the streets ever since the darkness had come. Tamar thought it might be a side effect of whatever the vampires were doing to keep it dark, but Denny looked it up and came to the conclusion that it was done deliberately to raise the body temperature of potential victims. Tamar’s reaction to this was a predictable ‘Yuck!’
He stopped to listen; all around him was the sound of a soft, gentle fluttering, like a thousand moths – large moths. A velvety wing brushed his face. They appeared out of nowhere, and suddenly he was surrounded. Some of them were lit up like fireflies, and some glowed dimly, in the streetlight’s glare, with a gentle phosphoresce. They fluttered all around, creating a gentle wind and making the sky flicker. It was quite beautiful in its way, but eerie at the same time. It made the night seem blacker by comparison; he could see nothing beyond the radiant cloud they created.
Denny imagined them lifting him into the air and spinning a huge cocoon around him, pinning him to the side of the building. Slowly he would disappear behind a woven wall of silken threads and be entombed forever. This fancy was so vivid he could almost feel them, their wings brus
hing his face, buried in his hair, the threads, binding him tightly, until his breath was short. He began to sweat.
But it would almost be a relief if they did, he thought, at least then, he could do no more harm. He wondered where this idea had come from. Denny was not given to flights of imagination.
They were hovering thickly around him, glimmering faintly, but leaving a space all around him, like a black aura, as if he was surrounded by a barrier that they could not, or would not penetrate. He watched them, fascinated, he stretched out a hand and one landed on his finger, flapping lazily. It was huge, like those Jurassic insects you see fossilised in the Natural History Museum, about the size of a bat, perhaps. He turned his hand over slowly, until it sat in the palm of his hand, and then he closed his fingers and crushed it. The others flew away immediately. ‘Strange’, he thought, ‘do moths have a hive mind?’ He examined the remains of the one in his hand, it was not quite dead. It examined him back, or so it seemed. Then, although nobody spoke, he heard, clear as a bell in his head, the words. ‘You bastard!’
He dropped the mangled moth, startled. Surely it could not have …?
He looked around. ‘Who said that?’ he called; there was a dead silence. ‘I must have imagined it,’ he thought. ‘I’ll be talking to myself next.’
The street behind him lit up for a moment, and then dimmed. Tamar, he thought. She did not often put on the light show when she teleported, even in the dark, but he guessed that tonight (was it night? Whatever!) even she needed a guiding light. He turned around.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.
‘That’s what I was going to ask you,’ she said ‘I was worried about you, why do you keep going out on your own like this?’
‘You shouldn’t be here,’ said Denny. ‘How could you leave Jack on his own with that pasty faced bloodsucker?’
‘He’s tied up, besides he’ll be all right, he won’t do anything; he wouldn’t dare.’
‘You don’t know that, you should go back.’
‘Not unless you come with me. Please, whatever it is, we can sort it out.’
‘I’m fine, nothing’s wrong, I’ll come back soon. Please, just go back home.’
‘No,’ she said, stubbornly. ‘I’ve had enough of this.’ She reached out a hand and touched his arm gently. ‘Please, come home.’
‘You don’t understand,’ he snapped, shaking her off.
‘I would if you’d tell me,’ she said angrily.
‘Oh, Saint Tamar,’ he said, scathingly. ‘You may be a lot of things, but a psychologist you ain’t.’ He disappeared.
‘Oh no you don’t,’ she said, and also vanished.
‘How do you think I found you in the first place?’ was the first thing she said as she reappeared beside him.
‘I was hoping you would take the hint,’ he said.
There was a rustling behind them. They stopped fighting, and tensed.
‘Vampires?’ whispered Tamar.
‘Probably,’ he answered. ‘The whole city’s lousy with them.’
‘Let’s get out of here,’ she hissed, just as three figures jumped them.
‘Too late,’ one of them mocked, as he landed on her back; damn! She spun and twisted and threw him off.
Denny held out his hand, palm up. There was a blue flame flickering there. ‘Choose gas,’ he laughed, and made a throwing action. The small flame shot out of his hand in a long steady stream. He hit Tamar’s attacker right in the face, he screamed and clutched his head, Denny hit him again, and he became an inferno. Denny spun and hit another one smack in the chest; he went up like a Roman Candle. Denny whooped as the third one took to his heels.
‘Denny,’ Tamar croaked, over his crowing. ‘Denny!’
‘What?’
‘They weren’t vampires; they would have exploded into dust. Those guys were humans.’
Denny looked at her; he was bouncing a ball of flame in his palm. ‘Whatever,’ he said.
‘Did you hear me?’
‘Yeah. Look they weren’t exactly models of virtue, were they? Just because they weren’t vampires, doesn’t mean they weren’t still bad guys, calm down.’
Tamar was backing away from him. ‘I don’t believe you, who are you?’ You’re not Denny, I’m bloody sure of that.’
‘Of course I am, look, I didn’t know, okay? It was an accident, I’m sorry.’
‘That’s just it, you’re not sorry, and Denny would be. So who are you? Are you some kind of spy? Did you body- snatch him?’
‘Tamar, you’re being ridiculous, I’m Denny, look at me for God’s sake. I – I – just – I – never – I – never – killed anyone before … I – oh God, what …?’ He sank down to his knees, his head in his hands, genuinely distraught.
She knelt beside him. ‘It’s okay, it’s okay,’ she soothed.
He looked up at her. ‘Help me,’ he said
~ Chapter Nineteen ~
Dark, dark world. Sick sad world.
All I see are hollow men. And all around are shadows
I died so quietly, just slipped away one day
My soul went up in ashes. And my future blew away
Still it doesn’t matter. I’m taking it with me
Cause no one’s getting out of life alive
Now the love has gone. And the pain is gone
All the hope has gone. Still I’m hanging on
Cold cruel world. Dead drained world
There’s no redemption on this, earth, and all I know are
ghosts
Living a lie, it hurts like hell. Sinking into death
Find I’m liking it as well.
As death fills my soul. I carry it with me
And no one’s getting out of here alive
It tastes so sweet. It tastes so vile
Send up a prayer. To an empty sky
To wash these sins from off my hands
Now the love has gone. And the pain has gone
All the hope has gone. Still I’m hanging on
Bleak black world. Lost lonely world
I cannot break free, and I’m, not sure I want to anyway
Why should I care? I’m not running away
Cause no-one’s getting out of here alive
Three days later, Denny was still holed up in his room for most of the time, playing this miserable song on his guitar and others like it. Whenever he did emerge, which was not often, he continued his policy of moody silence. Tamar could not get near him. Not that she ever could, the Athame had not changed that after all. Still, at least she knew where he was.
‘Just leave him alone. He’ll be all right,’ she told Stiles, when he complained that it was like living with a moody teenager in a permanent funk.
‘Next thing you know, he’ll be painting his room black and smoking pot,’ he said.
‘You should have more compassion,’ she retorted. ‘You know he’s been through a lot.’
‘I’m more concerned with what he’s put you through.’
‘It’s not his fault.’
‘Well whose fault is it, then, if it’s not his? He’s the one who …’
‘It’s my fault.’
Stiles stared. What the hell did that mean? He decided not to ask.
‘Well,’ he said tactfully. ‘At least he plays well even if the songs are a bit …’ he bit his tongue. ‘He’s really good isn’t he? I wish I could play an instrument.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I said at least he plays well,’ repeated Stiles uncomprehendingly.
It was Tamar’s turn to stare.
* * *
Peirce was another problem; he was increasingly morose and demanding. His demands included: - better accommodation, (‘how would you like to sleep in a bathtub?’) A better CD collection, (‘haven’t you got any Iron Maiden?’) He was nonplussed for a moment when Denny in a moment of rare joviality asked him. ‘Wouldn’t you blunt your teeth on her?’ – Typical Denny. No one was sure whether it was a joke or not.
A change of clothes, Tamar eventually acceded to this one. The dead apparently smell just as bad as the living if they do not change their socks. And last, but not least, human blood, as opposed to the variety that the local butcher provided – variously, pigs, cows chicken and once an ox, which he almost approved of.
And Stiles was getting restless. ‘What are we going to do?’ he asked repeatedly. ‘We have to do something. Or are we just going to sit here while the darkness spreads and the bodies pile up in the streets?’ He wanted to let Peirce go and find out what he could about the location of Ran-Kur.
‘And we have to get Denny back on board, he’s the expert, isn’t he? I thought he was going to research ways to kill gods.’
‘There aren’t any.’ Denny had appeared at his bedroom door, looking disturbingly corpse like.
‘Christ,’ said Stiles. ‘You look deader than him.’ He meant Peirce of course. Denny scowled.
‘And what do you mean,’ Stiles continued, ‘there aren’t any’? How do you know? You haven’t even been looking.’
‘No, he’s right,’ interjected Tamar. ‘We need another god. There’s nothing we can do.’
‘So, we’re stuck? I think it’s time we fetched the witch.’
‘We could kill every single vampire in the world,’ said Denny. ‘That’d do it.’ The idea of this appealed strongly to him. His taste for violence had certainly increased lately.
‘Be realistic,’ said Stiles. And Denny laughed somewhat hysterically.
‘What?’ said Stiles, looking at Tamar, who was also smiling.
‘The world is covered in darkness,’ she told him. ‘The un-dead are roaming the streets, and there’s a god of vampires out there somewhere, who wants to kill you. Last week we summoned Hecaté into our living room, and we have a vampire sleeping in our bathtub, and you just told him to be realistic. You have to see the irony.’
Now Stiles also smiled. ‘I suppose,’ he said, ruefully. ‘Still, we have to do something, I can’t just sit on my rear; it’s not in my nature. If it’s up to us to save the world, then I say we just get on with it.’
Reality Bites Page 11
