Differently Morphous

by Yahtzee Croshaw

  The room beyond reminded her of the classrooms at the monastery, but now the tables were packed with grown adults, sitting comfortably, checking personal notes, and talking among themselves. The exceptions were Adam and Victor, seated near the back. Victor was slouched in disinterest, while Adam was straight backed and eager, like the teacher’s pet waiting for the first precious opportunity to tattle.

  Adam beckoned vaguely as she entered, so Alison glided down the narrow aisle between the rows of desks and took a seat directly behind the pair. Not a single agent so much as glanced at her or paused their private, whispered conversations with their partners.

  The moment she was settled, Victor Casin leaned back on two of his chair legs. “Did you really say what you said to Danvers’s dad this morning?” he said, out of the corner of his mouth but not in the least bit quiet.

  Alison reddened and attempted to retract her head into her jacket.

  That was all the confirmation Victor needed. His happy grin stretched across his skull, his facial muscles struggling with the unfamiliar action. “Is it true you called him a miserable old bastard without even the common decency to hurry up and die?”

  “Of course she didn’t, Victor,” said Adam, looking ahead in an I’m-totally-not-part-of-this-conversation kind of way.

  “That’s what you said she said.”

  “No, I didn’t! I said she called him a clueless, doddering scrote who needs to stop poking his nose into real-people problems.”

  “Oh, whatever. I heard five different versions over lunch break anyway.”

  “I didn’t say any of that!” hissed Alison, flustered.

  “So what did you say?” asked Victor.

  “I just said he was an old fart!” She suddenly became aware that the rest of the conversation in the room had mysteriously died down, so she gathered herself and went down to the lowest whisper she could manage. “Mr. Danvers wrote it. I didn’t know. It just slipped out.”

  One of Victor’s eyebrows rocketed upwards. “So what you’re saying is that you let an old fart slip out? Yeah, I’ve been there.”

  Adam leaned close to him confrontationally. “You’re harassing her now, Victor,” he warned.

  Victor displayed his hands, almost losing his balance before slamming one foot onto the top of his desk. “No, I’m not! That was good-natured ribbing. It shows we’re at ease with each other. What, you think I fancy her?” He placed a hand between his mouth and Alison as if to talk privately, then spoke at full volume. “I only go out with girls that aren’t Dictaphones on legs.”

  “What are you talking about?” said Adam. “You’ve never gone out with any girls. Neither of us have.”

  “Shut up, shush.” Victor turned to Alison and tried to look casual. “The old lady chew you out?”

  “No, she said it wasn’t my fault.”

  This time, Victor did lose his balance, slamming his shoulders against Alison’s desk and shoving it into her midsection. He kicked his legs wildly to shift his weight back onto all four legs of the chair, then scooted it awkwardly back into place, under the disapproving looks of the rest of the agents. “She what?”

  “She said it wasn’t my fault. Said it showed I was good at following instructions.” She gave an unruffled little smile.

  Victor was silent for a moment, his jaw swaying in the breeze like a pub sign. “We are talking about the same person, here, right? The Dread Pirate Pegleg?”

  “Keep it down,” whispered Adam urgently. “She knows we started that.”

  “She gave me a job as an assistant field agent,” concluded Alison.

  Both Adam and Victor’s expressions froze. Adam with eyes wide and lips parted, not daring to hope, and Victor with staring disgust. “Assisting us?” asked Adam.

  “No. Agent Diablerie.”

  Victor’s face didn’t look like it was used to grinning much, but it was a ten-year veteran of smiles compared to how strange it looked when he laughed. All the air flew from his lungs in a single guffaw, and he had to rest his forehead on the desk.

  Adam’s eyes were on stalks even while his voice was level. “I could talk to her if you want. Move you to someone else.”

  “Oh, I actually believed it for a second,” said Victor, wiping his eyes. “Pegleg Pirate being nice. The depressing thing is, this is probably the best day I’ve had all year.”

  “What?” said Alison. “What’s so funny about Agent Diablerie?”

  “He’s a villain,” said Victor, before descending into sniggers again.

  “Yeeeah,” said Adam. “That’s pretty much the only word for it. He’s a villain.”

  The door opened and Richard Danvers entered, silencing all conversation when he dropped a brand-new tablet onto the lectern with a thunderous clap. Alison tried her best to tunnel inside her jacket again, but amid the small ocean of shirts and ties it only made her more noticeable.

  “What are you doing here?” asked Danvers, with the voice of a man trapped in hell bumping into his usual tormentor outside work hours.

  “I’m supposed to work with Agent Diablerie,” said Alison, as quickly as she could.

  “She’s the Doctor’s new glamorous assistant,” said Victor, manfully keeping a perfectly straight face.

  “What?” said Danvers. He consulted his tablet, and the corner of his mouth made a sudden dash to the side before he got it under control. “Oh. So she is. Well, the good Doctor doesn’t seem to be present, but I’m sure—”

  The door opened a crack with the quick, furtive motion of someone attempting to go unnoticed. A metal sphere, not much larger than a marble, rolled into the room and came to rest a few feet from the door. Danvers put a hand on a hip and rolled his eyes.

  The sphere exploded into copious clouds of red smoke, building quickly until it filled the surrounding area from floor to ceiling, at which point there came the sound of the door hastily opening and closing. As the smoke dissipated, it coalesced into a dark figure, at least seven feet tall, with broad, looming shoulders and long, slender legs.

  The effect was swiftly spoiled by Richard Danvers, who sprayed the contents of a handheld fire extinguisher at the pellet. “You’ve been warned about this, Doctor,” he said, with more exhaustion than anger. “We don’t want the carpet catching fire again.”

  The last of the red smoke faded, and only Doctor Diablerie remained. He was a thin man, wearing jet-black evening dress, complete with a red-lined waist-length cloak, white gloves, and walking cane with misshapen silver head. His height was not as impressive as his silhouette had implied, as it was significantly augmented by his absurd silk top hat.

  His face seemed to be unusually small, but that may have been because it was staring out from the gap between his hat, his absurdly high collar, and his tightly knotted scarf. He was pale and ratty, and the sneer he was wearing made his thin mustache even more steeply curved than it was by default. “Trifle not with forces you do not understand, son of Danvers,” he declared, for his deep voice seemed capable only of declaring, never saying. “Doctor Diablerie has been summoned to this realm. What trivia requires my dark expertise?”

  “Oh, I’m glad you asked me that,” said Danvers, returning to his lectern. “We have a new number-one priority, courtesy of the Hand. We need someone to inspect the secondary school and provide a full report on how it’s running. I can think of no one better qualified among all the agents of the Sword.”

  Diablerie’s hand flew up, covering the lower half of his face with his cloak. “Doctor Diablerie is no mere enforcer of your petty bureaucracy!”

  “Well, he’s not a doctor, either, but he still insists on being called one.”

  Diablerie and Danvers stared each other down, the mad, blazing gimlet glare facing off against bored, half-lidded professionalism. Finally, the Doctor lowered the cloak from his face. “Very well. I, Diablerie, will see to this trivial matter.” His cloak barely had time to fall back down to waist level before he threw it over his face again. “But know this! The a
rcane power of Diablerie runs deep, and thirsts always to be tested against the forces of evil! You would be wise not to trifle!”

  “Sorry, I seem to be trifling an awful lot this afternoon,” said Danvers. “Oh, I almost forgot,” he lied. “This is Alison Arkin. She’s going to be your assistant from now on.”

  Alison was already on her feet, drawn up almost against her will by wary fascination. “Hello, n-nice to meet you, Doctor,” she said, out of habit.

  Diablerie’s sneer deepened by several notches. His hand tightened around the head of his cane, and his other hand flew to his hip with a flourish, fluttering his cape. “What nonsense is this? Diablerie is no child minder!”

  “Orders from the Master Apprentice herself,” said Danvers, waving his tablet with the relevant email open. “So if you have an objection, take it up with her.”

  Diablerie’s eyes narrowed like those of a cornered beast, and his cloak flew up over his face again. “Girl!” he barked, slightly muffled. “You will meet me outside Barnstaple train station, tomorrow at noon, and no later. So says your new master, Diablerie!” He made a strange movement behind his cloak with his free hand, and then another pellet hit the floor, quickly obscuring his form in more clouds of red smoke.

  “Wait!” called Alison. “How do I get to Barnstaple?”

  “It’s not complicated,” said Danvers, as he irritably sorted through his notes. “I think you take the Penzance train from Euston and change at Yeoford.”

  “Silence, fool!” said Diablerie, his voice coming from somewhere near the door. “You have to change at Exeter St. David’s now.” Alison heard the door open. “Heed the esoteric wisdom of Diablerie! Exeter St. Daaaaviiiiid’s!” His voice grew faint and the door slammed shut, sending the remaining tendrils of smoke into a swirl.

  09

  Alison spent the night on a bunk in one of the disused barracks in the deepest section of the catacombs. No one had told her where to go, but no one had stopped her either. Danvers, Hesketh, Casin, and every other normal person had gone home at five p.m., leaving only a minority of unspeaking monks to do the cleaning.

  Sleep came easily enough after the sound of vacuuming carpets and sanding walls had died down. When Alison awoke just after seven, she opted to head to Euston station straightaway, before the agents started arriving again.

  Danvers had provided her with a government credit card, and she used it to buy the cheapest ticket available. She settled into a cramped window seat and pretended to be concentrating fiercely on the countryside as she replayed the events of the previous day over and over again in her head, trying to determine the precise point at which she had botched it completely beyond salvage.

  Barnstaple train station was one of the many traditional brick stations that dotted the land, surrounded by flat, open countryside that was only slightly let down by the inevitable industrial-sized Tesco. Alison stepped out into the station car park at around half past eleven, raising one hand to protect her eyes from the sun, and glanced around for something to sit on while she waited for noon.

  “Girl,” boomed a familiar voice from behind her.

  She spun on her heel. Diablerie was leaning, arms folded, on the Barnstaple station sign. He was wearing exactly the same clothes as yesterday, his cloak gathered tightly around him so he resembled a sleeping bat turned upside down.

  “Doctor,” she said, clasping her hands behind her back. “I just wanted to say I’m really looking forward to working with you, and, uh . . .” She faltered as his withering stare bore into her. “I promise to do my best to . . .”

  He waited, unblinking, until she had stammered her way to silence. “Can you drive, girl?”

  “You mean like a car?” said Alison, caught off guard. Diablerie didn’t dignify her question with a reply. “Y-yes, I have a license.” Her mother had let her take lessons after she turned seventeen, on the proviso that Alison pay for them herself and understand that the heat death of the universe would occur before she would be allowed to borrow the family car.

  “Then drive,” said Diablerie, unfolding a skinny arm towards a nearby vehicle.

  Alison had expected something like a jet-black hearse, or some Victorian automobile one step above horse-drawn technology, but Diablerie’s car turned out to be a surprisingly modern four-seater convertible (although it was jet black; that much was inevitable). Diablerie glided fluidly into the back seat, and Alison wondered if he had chosen an open-top car because it meant he wouldn’t have to remove his hat.

  Obediently, Alison climbed into the driver’s seat. It was a far cry from the beaten-up Metro in which she had learned to drive—the interior was covered entirely in bone-white leather and what looked like imitation marble, the clutch pedal was shaped like a crow’s foot, and there was a carved ivory skull on the gear lever—but the basic functionality seemed to be unchanged.

  “I really like your car,” she tried.

  Another few seconds of silent, blistering contempt passed before Diablerie deigned to respond. “Stow your facile pleasantries. We delve now into the world beyond the gossamer threads you so innocently think of as normalcy. You are unprepared.” He steepled his gloved fingers. “Our destination lurks, preprogrammed, within the satnav.”

  There was a touchscreen embedded in the dashboard, shaped like an ancient church window. Alison prodded it, and a synthesized voice that sounded not dissimilar to Diablerie’s own directed her north.

  “Your name,” said Diablerie. In the rearview mirror, Alison saw him put one hand to his temple and extend the other towards her, fingers half pointing, half clawed. “No. Say nothing. I can read it in the eddies of your aura. I see the letter A. And an N . . .”

  “Er . . . I’m pretty sure Mr. Danvers said my name when he introduced—”

  “Natalie,” said Diablerie, displaying his hands mystically. “I divine your name to be Natalie.”

  “Alison.”

  “—son. Natalison. Alison. Of course. Do not be afeared. The dark powers that are but playthings in my grasp grant me Sight most uncanny.”

  “It’s . . . very impressive, Doctor.”

  “Silence. I must gather my energies for the challenges ahead.” He arranged his fingers crookedly and held his hands either side of his head. “Do not interrupt. If the spirits are disturbed, the results could be disastrous.”

  For the next twenty minutes, Diablerie emitted a series of noises from the back of his throat, rolling his eyes back into his head and keeping his hands perfectly still. He started with the traditional oms, drawing them out for up to thirty seconds each as his mouth formed circles of every size and shape. Then he raised in pitch and started making eeee sounds, quickly transitioning to widdly widdly widdlys.

  Alison kept her eyes on the road as her new mentor went through his repertoire of vowels. She struggled to maintain interest in the countryside, having seen it all when she and Adam had come through it in the opposite direction, so instead she considered the prospect of returning to the school. She thought of the shame she had felt when Adam had clumsily dropped the bomb. She thought of Rana and Craig Turbrook. And then, out of nowhere, she thought of Elizabeth’s words. Tainted ones.

  Diablerie abruptly stopped making sounds, and Alison glanced at the rearview mirror just in time to see him holding a hip flask to his mouth, which he hurriedly returned to his pocket before putting his hands into vaguely mystical positions again. “You have questions you wish me to answer,” he said, opening one eye.

  “Ye-uh-es,” garbled Alison, her instincts clashing violently.

  “It is only natural to be intrigued by Diablerie,” he replied, steepling his hands again. “You are a blank canvas, across which the hidden world has yet to splatter its essence. Very well.” He sat bolt upright, very nearly losing his hat to air currents. “You shall enjoy the enormous privilege of a boon, in return for your paltry oath of service. I will answer three questions. You may ask one additional question each time you show promise.”

  “Three qu
estions?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Yes. Two questions remain.”

  “Oh! Sorry, um . . . I didn’t think we’d started.”

  Diablerie glared at her intensely. “Diablerie does not word his pacts carelessly!” he boomed. “Careless wording is the most vital tool in the demon trickster’s arsenal. Seal a vicious, starving weretrout in a poorly phrased rune circle and try telling it you didn’t think you’d started before your very soul is sucked out through your nose. What is your second question?”

  “What . . .” Alison came very close to asking what a weretrout was, but bit off the sentence at the last moment. On reflection, it seemed self-explanatory anyway. “Sorry. Okay. I’ve got a question now. What does ‘tainted ones’ mean?”

  Diablerie used his cloak to cover the lower half of his face again. “Heed now the bottomless arcane wisdom of Diablerie,” he said, turning some impressive eyebrow gymnastics to emphasize the words. “ ‘Tainted ones’ are ones that are tainted. Heed now this second piece of esoteric wisdom. Diablerie is considering withdrawing your boon and waiting for an acolyte with harder questions to come along.”

  “I heard someone at the Ministry call magic users ‘tainted ones,’ ” said Alison, carefully checking her statement to make sure it couldn’t be interpreted as a question.

  He sniffed. “Indeed. For they carry the taint of magic. Does that satisfy, or art thou in need of a dictionary?”

  “But doesn’t it . . . I mean, they make it sound like a bad thing.”

  Diablerie’s permanent sneer took on a slightly baffled subtext. “They carry the taint of the Ethereal Realm! Their very bodies are infused with the essence of the Ancient Ones, in aid of their sinister otherworldly agenda! What would you have us call them, the sugarplum fairies of Cuddletown? By all the sources, when will it be enough for you Ministry fools? Was it not concession enough to employ the wretched things? To start teaching them instead of burning them at the stake?”