Sanctified

by Uncanny Kingdom

  As I sped down the street, arms pumping, running faster than I ever had, I saw a sweep of headlights as a car slowed down to drive alongside me. Without stopping, I snatched a look over my shoulder and saw an overweight man leering from the driver’s window of a second-hand Audi.

  ‘Where are you rushing off to, Morticia?’ he shouted over the sound of his purring engine. ‘Late for a funeral?’

  He was making a crack about my outfit, of course. We goths get that a lot...

  ‘What's another name for a goth girl? A crow-ho!’

  ‘How do you get a goth out of a tree? Cut the rope!’

  ‘How many goths does it take to change a light bulb? Three. One to change it, and two to talk about patchouli oil and creative uses of laudanum.’ (Okay, that last one we get less often).

  Mostly, I let it glide off me. I don’t know about you, but in a world full of Kardashians, I take pride in being an Addams. This guy though, this guy caught me on the wrong day.

  ‘Get to fuck, you bloated shit-juggler,’ I called back, still not breaking my stride.

  ‘What did you just say to me?’ he cried. ‘Come ‘ere!’

  He put his foot down, but I accelerated too. ‘Catch me if you can, numb-nuts.’

  I picked up the pace, running faster still, my adrenaline pumping so hard I felt like my eyes were going to burst out of my skull. It was as if I’d found a way to turn that dickhead’s catcall into pure rocket fuel. His idiocy was my power. The juice that I needed to catch that revenant and send it back to Hell.

  I shot down the rain-slick street like a bullet from a gun. I don’t know how fast I was travelling exactly, but it was fast enough that I heard the driver have to shift into second to keep up with me. He howled obscenities from his window as he gave chase, but I didn’t look back, just kept pumping my arms as I sprinted onwards, eyes fixed straight ahead.

  A little way in the distance I saw the road narrow, pinched off by a couple of traffic-calming bollards. For a pedestrian, the obstruction wouldn’t prove a challenge, but for a driver?

  The car continued to hurtle along in my rearview. My pursuer wasn’t giving up. He was going to carry on chasing me, no matter what. Going to take his chances with those concrete bollards, confident that he could slip between them unscathed.

  I flew through effortlessly as the driver shifted into third and attempted to thread the needle...

  SCREECH!

  A sound like Freddy Krueger petting a kitten – the sound of rending metal as the car clipped a bollard, glanced off it, and ground to a sudden halt.

  I looked over my shoulder to see the crumpled vehicle inserted between the two concrete posts, nose to tail and belching engine smoke. The collision had caused it to spin and become wedged lengthwise across the road, completely immobilising it. The sound of my laughing masked the curse words flying out of the shit-juggler’s mouth as I carried on running after the revenant, leaving the world of dickhead catcallers in my wake.

  A moment later I was running by Gen’s side, raindrops popping on my shoulders as the deluge from above thrummed against the pavement below. Our prey was only a short way ahead of us now, but having drawn closer, I could see that something about it had changed. The revenant was transforming; losing its translucency, turning solid, becoming flesh. No longer drifting above the ground, its feet had touched down on the pavement, shuffling at first, then moving with purpose. Scorched clothing clung to the revenant’s body, and beneath the tatters I saw burned skin, dripping from its bones like melted candle wax. Its fingers dangled from the bone in long sloughs that swung from side to side as it ran, accompanied by more molten flesh, flapping beneath its underarms like the wings of Icarus.

  ‘What’s happening?’ I asked Gen.

  ‘The longer the revenant exists on the physical plane, the more corporeal it becomes,’ she replied.

  Without slowing one bit, our quarry arrived at the entrance to Bethnal Green Tube. It headed down the stairs and into the station, taking the steps three at a time, not letting up. Gen and I followed suit, barging past terrified commuters and landing in the ticket hall. Our wet feet skidded perilously on the slippery floor as we chased the revenant deeper into the station, through the parting crowd and over the ticket barriers.

  ‘We have to catch it,’ shouted Gen. ‘If it makes it into the tunnels, we’ve lost it for good.’

  I couldn’t let that happen.

  No way.

  20

  The last of the revenant’s tattered rags shed from its body as we gave chase, revealing smooth marble skin beneath, healed and tight. The ghost had been reborn to the land of the living, given form, made athletic. The revenant was completely solid now, muscles bobbing on its frame as it ran. The only thing that separated it from an ordinary, naked man was the eerie, radioactive glow it gave off, and the eyes I saw as it cast a glance over its shoulder; a pair of frantic black scribbles.

  The revenant was almost at the escalator now. If it made it down there and reached a platform, it was only a hop skip and a jump into the tunnels, where we were bound to lose sight of the thing.

  I knew what I had to do.

  Pulling back my arm, I drew the dagger alongside my sightline, took aim, and sent it flying.

  The dagger’s metal caught the station’s sickly striplighting as it spun towards its target, flashing yellow as it turned over and over, then extinguishing like a snuffed flame as it sank between the revenant’s shoulder blades.

  ‘Yes!’ I cried, punching the air.

  But my celebration had come too soon. Without breaking its stride, the revenant shrugged, causing the dagger to slip from the wound and clatter to the ground in its wake

  ‘It’s too strong,’ said Gen. ‘Even the dagger won’t hurt it now.’

  I called the weapon back to my hand and chased the revenant down the moving escalator. The creature carried on, shouldering commuters aside as it made its way deeper into the station. It was too fast. Too powerful. I wasn’t going to catch it, and even if I did, I had no idea where to go from there. The revenant was going to escape and I’d be forced to hand over the mantle of Nightstalker to someone more deserving. Another defeat to add to a long list of failures. A lifetime of fielding the question, What’s that big N on your hand for, Abbey?

  “Nobody”. That’s what it stands for. A big fat Nobody.

  Then I saw it.

  A woman hung over the handrail of the escalator, barged aside by the fleeing revenant and left paralysed with fear. Around her neck was a long woollen scarf, which I snatched from her as I sped by. She tried to protest, but her objection came out as little more than a stifled squeak.

  Below me, the revenant had hit a panicked swell of commuters, and was struggling to force its way between the throng.

  I’d only get one shot at this.

  I looped the end of the scarf in on itself, turning it into a rudimentary lasso, then, just as the revenant was about to step off the bottom of the escalator, I tossed the thing at its head.

  The lasso closed around its neck and went taut. Score! I pulled sharply on the scarf, yanking the creature off its feet, then quickly threw my end of the scarf to the ground.

  The discarded end disappeared beneath the metal teeth of the escalator, which gobbled the neckwear up like a mouthful of spaghetti.

  The revenant threw out its arms for something to grab hold of, but found only the sheer walls of the stairway’s balustrade. Its nails screeched against the metal as it tried to find purchase, only to be drowned out by an even more distressing sound as its head met the escalator’s metal teeth.

  The stairway made short work of the revenant. Bones crunched and popped as the creature’s freshly-regenerated body tangled with the people-mover’s unforgiving machinery, and within moments it had disappeared completely into the guts of the stairway, leaving behind only a wet red stain.

  Silence as the escalator ground to a halt.

  I looked around to see dozens of dumbstruck Londoners staring in my
direction, each of them a witness to a paranormal bloodbath. So much for our so-called secret war.

  I turned to Gendith, who had arrived by my side. ‘Um, what do we do about that?’ I asked.

  The angel stared at the stunned crowd, then turned back to me. ‘The dagger,’ she said, taking it from my hand.

  Turning it upside down, she raised the weapon’s jewelled end in the air, told me to shield my eyes, then spoke something in Latin.

  I cupped a hand to my eyes as a blinding flash of light swamped the station, so bright that I could see my finger bones through my skin. When I lowered my hand, I saw the dagger’s jewel go dim, and all at once the scene around us returned to normal. The commuters carried on as though nothing had happened, going about their business as they had been before we showed up and started garroting ghosts.

  ‘What the hell just happened?’ I asked.

  ‘I used the dagger’s magic to blank their memories,’ Gen replied, slipping the knife discretely back into the sheath beneath my jacket. ‘No witnesses.’

  ‘Cool,’ I said. ‘So, it’s kind of like the flashing stick thingie in Men in Black?’

  ‘I have absolutely no idea what that you’re talking about,’ Gen replied, and headed for the up escalator.

  Of course she didn’t.

  21

  Much to my surprise, Gendith insisted we do something to celebrate my first success as the Nightstalker.

  Pleased to hear we were in agreement for a change, my immediate thought was to hit the nearest boozer and down a few pints, only Gen had other ideas. Never one to make things simple, the pub she insisted on was all the way across the other side of town in Ealing, and quite unlike any pub I’d ever set foot in.

  The Beehive seemed to be going out of its way not to advertise itself. As a matter of fact, the old cobbled backstreet that it was located on didn’t even exist. Not really. The only entrance to the alley was through a solid brick wall, which conveniently parted at Gen’s behest. Even once we were past that, the only evidence of the pub was a small, flaky picture of a beehive painted on a stout, oaken door. No swinging pub sign, no welcoming music, just a tiny, barely distinguishable mark, left there like a clue to some mysterious puzzle.

  ‘So what is this?’ I asked. ‘One of those speakeasy places?’

  ‘You could say that,’ Gen replied, pushing her way inside.

  As I passed through the threshold after her, I felt a warm tingle wash across me. It was as though my body had punctured some kind of bubble that separated this place from the ordinary world outside.

  What The Beehive lacked in friendliness, it more than made up for in quirk. Unlike most of the pubs in London these days—the Wetherspoons’, the O’Neills’, the All Bar Ones’—The Beehive wasn’t part of some chain. It was barely part of planet Earth in fact.

  Judging by the rattling old fan on the ceiling that stirred air as thick as gravy, The Beehive had elected to disregard the smoking ban, and if the baby—the actual baby—sat drinking at the bar was anything to go by, the premises played fast and loose with just about every other licensing law.

  ‘Is that baby drinking a pint of bitter?’ I asked.

  ‘Take a closer look,’ suggested Gen.

  I did, and noticed a tiny pair of white bird wings sprouting from the infant’s pudgy little back.

  ‘Is that…?’

  ‘—A cherub,’ Gen cut in. ‘Don’t worry, he’s well over the drinking age.’

  ‘He looks about two.’

  ‘Trust me, he’s been on this rock a lot longer than you have.’

  I followed Gen deeper inside the establishment, sticking close to her heels and doing my best to remain nondescript. As it turned out, looking nondescript in this place would only make me stand out all the more.

  The bar’s patrons were a colourful lot, and I’m not talking bunch-of-lads-on-a-stag-night-dressed-in-matching-Smurf-suits colourful. I’m talking Star Wars cantina colourful. As we passed the gawping locals on our way to the bar, I saw a werewolf, a cyclops, and something I can only imagine was a gnome (at least if the little white beard and pointy red hat were anything to go by). The cyclops paid close attention to Gen’s behind as she pushed by him, then turned and gave me the… well, eye.

  ‘What do you think of the place?’ asked Gen, slapping her wallet down on the bar.

  ‘It’s definitely got ambience,’ I replied.

  Too scared to turn my back to the bar’s patrons, I cast a nervous glance over my shoulder, only to find the werewolf licking his black lips and looking at me like I was a microwave with five seconds left on the clock.

  ‘Is this place, you know, safe?’ I asked.

  ‘In a manner of speaking, yes,’ Gen replied. ‘The Beehive is a neutral zone. People who come here know better than to start trouble. For the most part, anyway.’

  ‘What stops them?’

  Gen didn’t need to reply. I got my answer the moment I clapped eyes on the pub’s proprietor, a rafter-scraping man-mountain named Lenny. The Beehive’s landlord was a giant—an actual giant—standing at least eight feet tall. His shoulders were square, strong and burly like a lumberjack’s, his face shaggier than an unshorn sheep.

  He placed his hands palms-down on the bar and I saw the thick cords of his veins knotting beneath the skin of his forearms. ‘What’ll it be?’ he asked in a voice that sounded like he was gargling gravel.

  Without batting an eyelid, Gen ordered a round of beer, and Lenny went about pulling a couple of pints.

  I cast another look over my shoulder and saw the cyclops still ogling us beneath his monobrow.

  ‘Shouldn’t we be, like, slaying everyone in here?’ I asked my companion.

  ‘Not all Uncanny are evil,’ Gen replied. ‘Just because they’re not like you, doesn’t mean they’re dangerous. You see that gnome over there?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘He’s an actor. Been in just about every George Lucas film there is. The werewolf: he works for an animal charity when he’s not busy howling at the moon.’

  ‘And what about the one-eyed guy?’

  ‘The cyclops? Oh, he’s a royal shit, but we can deal with him another time.’

  The giant barman returned and set two beers down on a pair of cork coasters. Gen thanked him and we took our drinks to a nearby seating area positioned beneath a stuffed unicorn head. The leather booth burped a whoof of cigarette stink as I set my arse on it.

  Gen and I chatted between sips of beer. I don’t know if I’d have called what we did “bonding” exactly, at least not at first, but it was something. I suppose you’d call it more of a ceasefire than anything else. Smalltalk without the edge. A polite exchange of light conversation that didn’t end in either of us trying to bludgeon the other to death.

  ‘So, why do you dress like that?’ Gen asked.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like you’re grieving.’

  ‘I don’t know. I suppose I just dress the way I feel.’

  ‘Okay,’ Gen replied, rolling her eyes. ‘And how do you feel right now?’

  ‘Pretty great, actually,’ I said, stretching my legs out under the table. ‘I just kicked my first ghost butt.’

  ‘Yes,’ Gen conceded. ‘Eventually, anyway.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  Without hesitating, she put her hands in the air, started shaking, and did her best impression of yours truly. ‘So… cold…’ she chattered, throwing her limbs about in a shiver.

  ‘Hey! It just wasn’t what I was expecting, that’s all.’

  ‘And what were you expecting?’ she asked. ‘A white bedsheet with two eyeholes punched in it?’

  ‘No. Okay, maybe.’

  ‘You succeeded in offing a single ghost. I wouldn’t try walking on water just yet.’

  I smiled and went for another slug of beer, only to discover that I was getting perilously close to the bottom of my pint. I checked my phone and cursed under my breath.

  ‘What’s the matter?’
Gen asked.

  ‘The time,’ I sighed. ‘I really want another pint, but I have to be up at the crack of dawn for work. Christ, I hate my boss.’

  ‘I know how that goes.’

  ‘With Viz?’

  ‘No, the boss I had before him. The one who fired me.’

  ‘Who was he?’

  ‘God.’

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘Of course,’ as if it were the most natural thing in the world to be speaking to someone who’d answered directly to The Great Almighty. ‘So, why did God fire you?’ I asked. ‘I always thought He was supposed to be a good guy.’

  Gen offered a wry smile. ‘You didn't hear it from me, but the man can be a bit of a dick.’

  I laughed. ‘I’ll drink to that.’

  I went to clink glasses, but her face soured all of a sudden.

  ‘We’re a long way from that,’ she said.

  ‘Come on, Gen. Why do you have to give me such a hard time?’

  ‘Why? You know why.’ She reached out, took me by the wrist, and turned over my hand until it was palm-side up. ‘You stole my birthright when you got that brand. That was my destiny. That was my whole purpose in life, and you took it from me.’

  She might have been a dick to me most of the time, but I can’t say I didn’t feel a little tickle of guilt.

  ‘I’m sorry, okay, but I can’t take this back. If I could, I really would. Honestly. I mean, maybe. Actually, maybe not, you’ve no idea how shit and unexceptional my life was.’

  ‘My heart bleeds.’

  I held the brand up to her. ‘This means I get to be something. You were already an arse-kicking angel, I was just me. A skinny goth in a temporary job I’d already been stuck in for years, and was probably still going to be stuck in a decade later.’

  Gen leaned back and yawned in an overly dramatic fashion. I was ninety percent sure it was a fake yawn.