Breaking the Lore

by Breaking the Lore (retail) (epub)

  ‘Right,’ said Paris, still baffled. ‘They’ve invented a story about rampaging demons as a cover-up. So, just to be sure, you’re not one?’

  ‘Of course not, you idiot! Don’t you know who I am?’

  Paris shook his head.

  The man snarled. ‘My name is Damien Renwick. My brother is Stephen Renwick.’

  The policeman gaped, his bewilderment reaching a whole new level.

  ‘Your brother,’ he said, ‘is the Fallowfield Arsonist?’

  ‘The so-called Fallowfield Arsonist. The innocent man, who you sent to jail!’

  ‘Innocent? We caught him in a shop basement, pouring petrol on the floor.’

  ‘It was filthy!’ said Renwick. ‘He was cleaning the bricks!’

  Paris’s mind reeled. He’d mentally prepared himself to fight a hulking brute wielding a sword. The notion of a magician proved hard to handle. And he ended up facing a pyromaniac’s demented brother. In a way, he supposed, it made sense. Ever since the fairy, things had been relatively mad. Now he had to cope with a mad relative. He tried to concentrate, to collect his thoughts. Over many years as a cop he’d learnt two important lessons. One: never argue with someone who is obviously a nutter. Two: nutters always make a speech before they try to kill you. He didn’t understand why. It always seemed easier to simply shoot the good guy as soon as you got the chance. Apparently that wasn’t in the lunatic handbook.

  Paris glanced nervously about. The thick grey smoke hung all around them, hiding the rest of the world from sight. The only thing he could see was this person who wanted to kill him, maybe three metres away. He pondered. He might be able to rush the guy. However, if Renwick had set off the bomb, he’d probably be carrying more of them, or even have others strapped round himself. Rushing him wouldn’t be a good strategy.

  Renwick grinned a stereotypical maniac’s grin. Bloody hell, thought Paris. It’s not just a handbook, there’s a whole training course.

  ‘If you’re expecting to be rescued,’ said Renwick, ‘don’t bother. At the same time as I attacked you, I set off extra explosions at the hospital and the back of your station. Everyone will be far too busy with their own problems.’

  ‘More bombs?’ said Paris. ‘There might be people killed.’

  ‘They’ll be very unlucky if they are. You saw the first one; it was only done to attract attention. My own special recipe. Lots of noise, lots of gas, but hardly any effect. I call it; the Politician.’

  Paris pointed towards the grey cloud surrounding them. ‘What about the ones you set off here?’

  ‘These are grenades, designed to produce smoke. I call them; smoke grenades.’

  He shook a clenched fist, his fingers wrapped tight around a sealed red tube. Speech time, decided Paris. Right on cue.

  ‘When my brother was sentenced, I swore I would get revenge. I gave up my job as a chemist and put my scientific training into practice. For two long years I developed my weapons, working out the precise combination of elements. Then I found out where you live. I drove to your house. When your sergeant turned up and those other people emerged, I changed my mind. Went home to devise a better plan. I came to your station last night, preparing for today. Saw you outside the building. I wanted to attack you there, but I’d placed all of my bombs by then. So I retreated, ready to come back this morning. Everything had been arranged perfectly. I knew you’d run over to the hospital when the explosion happened, you and the other do-gooders. I knew you’d come back too. Just a matter of waiting.’

  By now Paris’s brain was reeling more than a Scottish country dancer on steroids. Instead of the Vanethria following him, it was this loony? A dangerous, homicidal fruitcake – with a really bad plan.

  ‘What if I hadn’t?’ he asked.

  ‘Hadn’t what?’

  ‘What if I didn’t go over to the hospital? What if I didn’t come back?’

  Renwick glared at him. ‘It’s just as well you did.’

  ‘You’ve got an even nastier back-up scheme?’

  ‘No. But these chemicals aren’t cheap.’ He held up the red tube. ‘This,’ he said, ‘is my ultimate achievement. It will burn you alive, in horrible agony, until you are dead. Then, it will burn you even further. Admittedly, you might not notice that bit. All I have to do is break this test tube. And there’s no chance you can escape. My aim is deadly accurate. Every day, for two years, I made weapons. And every night, for two years, I practised my throwing.’

  ‘You should get out more.’

  ‘You think I don’t know that? You think I haven’t tried? The smell of the chemicals is in my hair, on my skin, permeating my clothes. Because of you, I can’t get a date!’

  Paris scoffed. ‘Don’t give me all the credit. Have you looked in the mirror lately?’

  He wished straight away he hadn’t said it. He’d forgotten his own lesson and argued with a nutter. Big mistake.

  Renwick’s eyes narrowed. He pulled back his hand to throw.

  ‘For my brother!’ he screamed. ‘Burn, copper!’

  Paris thought about leaping at him. He knew he wouldn’t make it. Closing his eyes and clenching his fists, he waited for searing agony to strike him. And waited. He opened one eye. A pair of knees met his gaze. Standing up straight, Paris opened both eyes. Renwick was a metre off the ground, limbs flailing wildly. Grarf stood behind him, holding him up by the back of his collar.

  ‘Let me go!’ shouted Renwick. ‘Whoever you are, put me down!’

  Grarf twisted his wrist slowly, turning the scientist round to face him. Thrashing arms and legs became limp as their owner stared into the enormous horned face.

  ‘I be Grarf,’ said Grarf. ‘Who be thee?’

  ‘Oh my God,’ mumbled Renwick. ‘It’s true.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Paris. ‘There really are demons.’

  ‘No, you moron!’ snapped Renwick. ‘The cover-up is true. The police are hiding aliens!’ He jerked himself around in mid-air. ‘But even aliens won’t save you!’

  He threw the test tube with unerring accuracy. Paris watched in horror as it hurtled towards him. It smashed against his chest – and did nothing. Bits of plastic tumbled to the floor as the inspector stared down at it. He sniffed.

  ‘Soap,’ he said. ‘You’ve bombed me with soap.’

  ‘Oh bugger,’ said Renwick. ‘I’ve picked up the wrong tube.’

  Paris let out a deep sigh. He noticed the cloud around them beginning to evaporate. Officers were coming out of the station, staring at Grarf holding up a forlorn, bedraggled figure. Paris waved at two of them.

  ‘Jones, MacIntyre, take him away. Lock him up. Throw away the bloody key.’

  Grarf lowered his arm. The two policemen grabbed Renwick’s and led him away. Paris released another long sigh.

  ‘I need a drink,’ he said, thinking out loud. ‘And a cigarette. Most of all, I need some new underpants.’ He looked up at the massive red shape in front of him. ‘Told you to stay inside.’

  ‘I didst see yon smoke,’ replied Grarf. ‘I didst believe ’twas dragon breath.’

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Paris. ‘But thanks.’

  Grarf grinned his huge terrifying grin. For once, Paris didn’t mind it in the slightest.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Get back in before the smoke clears completely and somebody sees you.’

  ‘Thinkest thou humans hath still anxiety with seeing demons?’

  ‘Yeah. Only that’s not the big problem. From what I’ve just heard, the Vanethria haven’t been watching us. It’s time we devised a better plan.’

  31

  ‘Well,’ said Bonetti. ‘It’s been an interesting day.’

  Paris groaned to himself as they walked along the corridor. He knew you sometimes had to downplay things, but this was understatement in overdrive.

  ‘Interesting?’ he said. ‘I’ve spent the morning battling demons in a school and the afternoon trying to avoid being blown up by a loony. In between I’ve found out the army are going to arrive to
morrow, probably to instigate martial law. And you call that “interesting”?’

  ‘You’re right,’ replied Bonetti. ‘Fairly interesting.’

  He glanced down at Paris.

  ‘I wasn’t in the school though, Boss. I only did sort of second-hand fighting with the bomber too. It’s a bit like listening to the cup final on the radio instead of going to the match. I’ve heard the scores, but I’ve missed out on all the excitement.’

  The inspector rolled his eyes. Somehow the fun of today had passed him by.

  ‘Tell you what,’ he said. ‘Next time somebody wants to kill me, I’ll make sure they try to kill you too. Deal?’

  ‘Thanks, Boss.’

  Paris shook his head. Some people were very easy to please.

  ‘So,’ he said. ‘After the excitement at the hospital, what’s the final score over there?’

  ‘Twenty-six people with cuts and bruises,’ replied Bonetti. ‘A few minor injuries.’

  ‘Just the one fatality?’

  ‘Yes, Boss. If we are actually counting a pigeon getting run over by an ambulance.’

  ‘I’ll take it,’ said Paris. ‘That’s a level of collateral damage we can cope with. Damien Renwick may be off his head, but at least he worked out his explosions properly. Is everyone lined up for the meeting about him?’

  ‘The super can’t come; she’s briefing the press. Grarf’s gone back to guarding Rocky. So I’ve got Malbus, Tergil, Cassandra and Eric the dwarf.’

  Paris was surprised to find himself almost impressed. He’d not even considered inviting the dwarves. They were just there, like part of the furniture. Really, however, they had as much right to be involved as the other magical creatures. And Eric had been impressive during the fight in the school.

  ‘Good thinking,’ he said. ‘The dwarves should have representation. So what tactical decision-making process made you pick this particular delegate?’

  ‘Well, all the rest of them were busy with their families. He looked lonely.’

  Paris clenched his teeth, saying nothing. Probably the correct dwarf to pick, although the process that chose him was only fractionally better than lucky dip.

  He opened the door as he reached the staffroom. Bonetti’s promised quartet turned to face him. Malbus stood on one of the tables, with the rest of the group sitting around it. All four wore different expressions. Eric displayed eagerness, obviously glad to be there. Tergil seemed slightly concerned, as if he wanted to know what was going on. Cassandra’s face showed mild amusement. And Malbus, sniffing the air, looked irritated. Even for a crow.

  ‘What’s up?’ Paris asked him.

  ‘You’ve gone out for a fag,’ replied the bird.

  ‘I have,’ said the cop. ‘Finally!’

  ‘Why didn’t you invite me?’

  Paris scoffed.

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ he said. ‘We’re trying our best to keep things quiet, remember. The press are still hovering round the building. They’d love a photo of a crow smoking a ciggy. It’s about as inconspicuous as Grarf in a nativity play.’

  Malbus tutted, muttering something under his breath. Paris watched thoughtfully for a moment. He didn’t need anybody sulking right now. Plus, he felt in a reasonable mood – partly because he had managed to smoke and partly because he hadn’t managed to be killed today. He reached into his jacket pocket to pull out his cigarettes.

  ‘What the hell,’ he said, opening the packet. ‘Here you go.’

  He took out a fag. Malbus eyed it suspiciously.

  ‘I ain’t supposed to smoke in here,’ said the crow.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Paris. ‘But normal rules only apply in normal circumstances.’

  He produced a lighter as Malbus clamped his beak around the cigarette. Paris pondered as the bird puffed away, with an elf on one side of him and a dwarf on the other. Yup, this had long since stopped being normal.

  Malbus tilted his head back, blowing a smoke ring up at the ceiling. Paris put the lighter away and plonked himself down on the chair next to Cassandra.

  ‘Welcome back,’ she said. ‘Haven’t seen you since the explosion.’

  ‘I’ve been kind of busy.’

  ‘You okay now?’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ replied Paris. ‘Never better.’

  Cassandra smiled at him. ‘Liar.’

  Paris didn’t argue. He already knew he’d be wasting his time trying to fool her. Also pointless trying to put on a brave face. Some people were very hard to please.

  He turned his head so he could look around the table.

  ‘Right, folks,’ he said. ‘It’s an hour since a nutter tried to blow us up. He’s safely locked away and things are calming down again. But before we get back to working out what the demons are up to, there’s a few more things I need to tell you. Such as: they weren’t hanging round the station last night, it was this nutter. No demons at my house the other day either, just him again.’

  Paris observed surprise creep over Tergil’s face. He thought he saw Malbus’s eyes widen too, although he realised it was probably wishful thinking. He had no idea if birds even showed amazement in that way.

  ‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ said the crow.

  Paris smiled to himself. Curses gave a much better indication of avian emotion.

  Tergil leant forward onto the table.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he asked. ‘Not the Vanethria?’

  Paris shook his head. ‘Turns out they haven’t been following me after all. We got it wrong.’

  ‘Happens sometimes,’ said Bonetti, from behind him. ‘What we thought we know – we don’t. Now, me, I used to think seals are mammals. Turns out they’re birds.’

  Paris gave it his best shot. He tried as hard as he could. He gave up. ‘What?’

  ‘My Uncle Jim,’ said Bonetti, ‘he had this boat, see? We’d go out on it with him, when we were kids. I’d always get queasy. And Uncle Jim would say, “It’s because you’re not used to it. You’ll be alright once you get your seal eggs”.’

  Paris stared at him. Somehow this bucket of lard had passed a sergeant’s exam. Police examiners these days must be extremely easy to please.

  He turned to face forward again.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, slowly. ‘Moving on. The Vanethria haven’t monitored us as closely as we reckoned. Plus they haven’t done everything we thought they’d done. The only things we know for certain they’ve done are killing the fairy, the assault on the school, and the fight with the centaurs.’

  ‘I heard about the scrap,’ said Eric. ‘In the middle of the street, weren’t it?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘The folks who live there called for the police?’

  Paris gave him a puzzled look. ‘What do you expect?’

  Eric shrugged. ‘Shame it wasn’t a street in a dwarven town, that’s all. If it was in a dwarven town, everyone would’ve gone out to help the centaurs.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Malbus. ‘It don’t work the same here. Most humans ain’t got any weapons. Their houses don’t have battleaxes hanging on the walls.’

  ‘Not usually,’ said Cassandra. ‘Unless they’ve shot the mother-in-law as a trophy.’ She grinned at Paris. ‘At least, this is how I’m led to believe people regard their mother-in-law. I don’t have one, because I’m not married. Just in case you’re getting worried.’

  Paris didn’t reply. Plenty of things worried him about this woman, but her marital status hadn’t even entered the equation.

  ‘It does not matter what the local residents did,’ said Tergil. ‘The thing which concerns us is the motivation of the demons. According to Olian, the Vanethria fought the centaurs because an argument grew out of hand. Nothing more. Also, the dead fairy is part of their standard practice. So we simply have to work out their reason for attacking the children.’

  Paris sat scrutinising Tergil. The elf might be humourless and probably untrustworthy, yet he spoke a lot of sense. And when he did, everyone listened. For the second time in as many minutes, Paris found hims
elf being impressed. This time by somebody who wouldn’t immediately screw it up.

  ‘Tergil’s right,’ he said. ‘They evidently weren’t after me, so we need to rethink why they were in the school. Anyone got any ideas?’

  Tergil, Malbus and Eric looked blank. Paris couldn’t see Bonetti but he was pretty confident his sergeant did too. Only Cassandra seemed willing to offer anything.

  ‘Do you want a bizarre suggestion?’ she asked. ‘What if they went there to learn?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, Grarf’s knowledge of our world is very limited. This group might be in the same boat. One of them discovers a place of learning not too far from the portal, then takes his friends to see what they can find out.’

  Paris raised an eyebrow at her. ‘Have you been spending time with Bonetti?’

  The witch held up her hands. ‘I’m putting it out there as a possibility. Maybe demons don’t know as much about us as Tergil and the others do. There’s a good reason if that is the case.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Paris.

  Cassandra folded her arms and sat back in her chair. ‘This is why I’m here, isn’t it? Manchester’s foremost authority, remember. I know sightings of magical creatures – all of them – have reduced significantly over the last two hundred or so years. Present company excepted, of course.’

  ‘So?’ replied Paris. ‘I can find this on the Internet.’

  ‘True. But would the Internet tell you the number of demon sightings has gone down more dramatically than any other race? We’re talking a handful. And every single one has been hunted down and killed. No photos, obviously, everything gets hushed up. The fact of the matter is that, apart from what’s going on now, no demon has made it back to the magic world for almost two centuries.’

  Paris gazed back at her, saying nothing. Slowly but surely, the gears in his brain started clicking into action. After all, Grarf had thought the smoke from the grenades was dragon breath. At first it sounded like a silly comment. On reflection, perhaps there could be more to it. Maybe, just maybe, Cassandra was onto something. Possibly not quite the thing she intended, but something worth pursuing.