The Bandalore

by D K Girl

  ‘Ah, but now Satty is losing her touch, so she has claimed me so I might clean up her mess for her.’ Pitch sauntered back to the armchair, bottle in hand.

  ‘I have no idea why her ladyship saw fit to bring you into service, Tobias. I truly do not.’ Mr Ahari shook his head, the look upon his face leaving no doubt he rather thought the idea ludicrous. ‘But there we are. You are here, and we must make the most of it.’

  Silas took in Mr Ahari’s words but the strangeness of what he was hearing belied belief. A darkness at the core of the world?

  ‘Mr Ahari, I’m afraid I don’t quite understand—’

  ‘Now there’s an oddity.’ Pitch smirked.

  Silas did what he grew ever more adept at doing, he ignored the man. ‘What effect does this…Blight…have upon the land?’

  ‘It varies.’ Mr Ahari pursed his lips. ‘And its effect is felt by human and supernatural alike, and can be as mild as a headache, or severe as unnatural fits of violence, paranoias, or madness. But where you will note its effect most readily Mr Mercer is upon the souls of the dead. The human dead, of course. Lost souls left to wander too long are terribly susceptible. The Blight will transform meek and harmless souls into…well, into rather unsavoury things. Teratisms, they are called. Mindless creatures with violent intent. All that remains of their humanity has rotted away, leaving a monster in its stead. Ensuring teratisms do not develop is at the crux of why ankou exist to begin with. You must move on the lost souls before the Blight can take a hold. Once the souls are fouled though, the ankou lack the ability to destroy a Teratism. The Lady Satine deals with those creatures. Every world holds its share of monsters you see, Mr Mercer, and they are watched and dealt with accordingly.’

  ‘That’s a wonderful story, old man,’ Pitch said. ‘But I do so wish you would make your point. I’ll hazard a guess here and say that you are suggesting a link between the Blight and the behaviour of the harpies.’

  ‘I am indeed,’ Mr Ahari said with a solemn nod.

  ‘Let it be said I have beauty and brains in equal spades.’ Tobias sunk low into his armchair, his eyes bright with self-congratulations.

  The curry stirred in Silas’s gut. ‘But what sort of link exists?’

  Mr Ahari tilted his glass to and fro, allowing the vanishing ice-cubes there to tinkle back and forth. ‘I can assure you that such a pointless yet vicious attack upon yourself is most definitely not the usual behaviour of the harpies. Even those who indulge themselves in the protective energies around the Village. From what Matilda shared with us of what she saw, they were quite callous, and acting with a wild violence we would expect of Mr Astaroth perhaps but not the harpies themselves. We are concerned, Mr Mercer, I’ll not lie to you. But it would appear that the Blight rises more frequently than before. ’

  ‘Oh bloody hell, you melodramatic old bastard.’ Pitch released a vehement belch, the sweet scent reached Silas where he sat. ‘Just direct me to where you wish your monsters taken care of.’ Pitch raised his glass. ‘I shall cut down whoever needs cutting. You know, you could have just sent word to the Lodge. No need for all this clandestine rubbish.’ He waved at the surrounds. ‘But seeing as we are here, I’d like to order another serve of cake, some eclairs if you have them, too.’

  Silas’s thoughts swam like tadpoles, darting this way and that. He wished to run from here. Disappear into the crowds beyond the pub door where there was no talk of real monsters and awful dark energy seeping into the world.

  ‘There is purpose for you at last, Mr Astaroth. You shall kill only those who seek harm to Mr Mercer,’ Mr Ahari said. ‘You are to be his guardian till times have settled.’

  ‘What?’ Pitch and Silas spoke in perfect, raised voices of unison.

  ‘You heard me well enough, Mr Astaroth. It is best that you stay at Mr Mercer’s side for the time being, while he is still rather vulnerable with youth.’

  ‘I am to be a nanny to the giant oaf?’ Pitch perched on the edge of his chair, the sharp lines of his face tense with anger.

  ‘If you so wish to view it that way, then yes.’ Mr Ahari was an oasis of calm.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Ahari,’ Silas stuttered. ‘But I’m not sure what concerns me most, another such attack…or…’ He glanced at Pitch and went no further.

  ‘Certainly, Tobias can be…challenging at times.’

  ‘I will happily grow to be unbearable.’

  ‘Tobias, please.’ Mr Ahari grew stern. ‘You prowess for the fight is without equal, but if you have issue with the request then you can take it up with the Lady Satine, for it was she who decided upon this. She would see Mr Mercer protected in these uncertain times. His ability to handle you, Tobias, has proved impressive so far, but she worries he can handle himself far less well, as today’s events suggest. As wondrous as one of Izanami’s scythes may be against the dead, it is paltry defence against the living. Aside from giving one a nasty knock on the head. How is your head, by the way, Tobias?’

  Pitch sneered, and touched at his temple where Silas had struck him, but remained silent. The bandalore pressed against Silas’s hip in the folds of his trouser pocket, and for a moment he enjoyed the memory of Pitch being hurled through the air with the force of Silas’s strike. Despite what Mr Ahari said, the scythe had served him well.

  Mr Ahari continued. ‘The Lady and I agree that Mr Mercer must learn his task quickly so that he can do his death-given job and no greater number of teratisms can be birthed. If the Blight does indeed grow more intense we should endeavour to ensure we do not have a host of lost souls for it to feed upon.’

  The heat of the fire failed to reach Silas, as though the room had grown too vast for it to penetrate. ‘What is it exactly, this Blight?’

  ‘A part of this world, my friend.’ Mr Ahari said brightly. ‘Just as the skies cast catastrophic storms and mountains on occasion spew forth, so too does the core of this world have its own natural violence, and we have always dealt with it. I’m sure these measures are temporary. So there it is. Tobias shall deal with natural monsters, you Silas, will deal with the lost souls, and the Teratisms shall fall to Lady Satine. I’ve no doubt we shall reminisce on this before too long and laugh at our concerns. Are you quite well, Mr Mercer? You’ve gone an odd shade.’

  ‘I’m not sure I am equipped to deal with all of this.’ Silas Mercer was far from well. He was quite sick to his stomach.

  ‘No, you are right. Which is why we shall begin your training in earnest the day after tomorrow. There is an appointment that I think will suit you, I had thought to attend to it but instead you shall both head north, to Leicester.’ With a lot of grunting, Mr Ahari wobbled to his feet. ‘Fear not, Mr Mercer. It is a simple enough task. An undesirable haunting such as you attended to at the Baron’s.’

  Pitch groaned, pressing his glass against his forehead. ‘North? The weather is so dreary—’

  ‘I shall arrange first class seating on the train.’ Mr Ahari stretched his arms. ‘I must leave you for now, enjoy the rest of your meal, Silas. Tobias I shall see to it that those eclairs are delivered to you, along with another bottle of red. Try not to look so concerned, Mr Mercer.’ He laughed as though Silas were a child refusing to take their first pony ride. ‘I understand this must all sound quite overwhelming, but I’ve no doubt you’ll find a way to deal with it. May this be the start of a fruitful partnership, for the Order of the Golden Dawn, and for you both.’

  ‘Oh for the love of Raphael’s asshole, stop prattling,’ Pitch growled.

  ‘A pleasure as always, Tobias.’ Mr Ahari’s rich brown eyes sparkled with bemusement, his irritation subdued. ‘Mr Mercer, I will assume you would like another ale? Perhaps some eclairs as well?’

  Silas shook his head, wondering if he would ever again harbour a desire to eat. ‘The ale alone will suffice.’

  ‘Wonderful. Good day, gentleman, and best of luck.’ Mr Ahari left them, breezing out of the room at quite the speed, as though he were quite tired of being there.

  Unsu
re if he should wait for his new ale or retrieve it himself, Silas got to his feet and made his way to the bar. He was watching Kaneko pour the next pint when it suddenly occurred to him that he walked across the room without any discomfort. His ankle know entirely repaired.

  Chapter 14

  Silas had been tired when he took his unfortunate stroll through the graveyard, now two days later and two restless nights, he was positively exhausted. His head was far too full of monsters and oozing darkness to grant him rest. The morning of their departure for Leicester, bound for the residence of one Mr Alfred Donisthrope, Silas awoke to find a dreary day awaiting him. And it did not improve. By mid-morning it appeared as though the day were close to dusk, the cloud cover so thick, the rain so constant and heavy. The coldness of the day was more reminiscent of the heart of winter than mid-Autumn.

  Silas shrugged deeper into his coat, freshly laundered with some mending work upon the hem where Pitch’s fight had seen it torn. There had been a moment, the image of Pitch standing naked and bloodied in the folds of the royal blue Inverness coat fresh in his mind, when Silas considered telling Gilmore he could discard the item. Burn it preferably. But that moment had quickly passed despite Gilmore’s clear annoyance at being asked to repair it.

  ‘You’ve got a cupboard full of bloody coats,’ he huffed.

  True enough, but Silas found a strange comfort in the Inverness coat. A sense of familiarity that he enjoyed though could not place in the slightest way. There was every chance his memory threw up false images, perhaps by way of dealing with a vanished past, but at least this memory kept him very warm. Most particularly now, for the coat’s thick weave aided Silas in not freezing entirely as he sat in the carriage, waiting on Tobias Asteroth. Silas was equally grateful for his choice of headwear, a homburg of black wool that was rather stiff but barred the chill from his crown.

  Isaac had halted the carriage—the same impressive Clarence with its gold trim and set of chestnuts geldings that had borne Silas and Pitch to The Atlas—beneath a covered area of driveway directly in front of Holly Lodge’s front doors. It was the first time that Silas had been this close to Lady Satine’s residence. For all the talk of her power and importance, the house was rather modest and inviting. More akin to a summer home, than the imposing fortress he might assume she would reside in.

  The carriage shifted with the movement of the horses, grown restless after near on half an hour of waiting. Isaac murmured to the animals, soothing them into steadiness with ungloved hands. Silas supposed the man did not notice the cold. Surely being a fire elemental meant heating simply came with being.

  Silas pressed down the window, a pane of glass that was next to useless in blocking out the chill.

  ‘Do you think I should go and hurry him along?’ he asked of the driver. In truth he expected no answer, Silas was simply looking for an excuse to move before he lost sensation in his toes.

  Isaac released a gruff laugh. ‘You’ve a lot to learn if you think that a good idea. He ain’t been home since you left The Atlas two days ago. Jane only pulled him out of someone’s bed about an hour ago.’

  Grasping at the rare conversation, Silas asked, ‘Will we still be able to make the train?’

  ‘That’s why we’re ‘ere three hours before it goes anywhere.’

  ‘Oh.’ Now Silas was not so keen for Pitch to arrive. The train journey would be arduous enough, an hour or so in that unsettling man’s company, without draining conversation dry in the wait beforehand.

  As though he sensed Silas’s hope that he might take longer to ready himself, the front doors swung open, stained glass sending a swathe of coloured patterns rushing across the ground, and Jane strode out. She carried two large brown leather suitcases. Pitch was just a few paces behind, clad in a coat of the most stunning teal, with a black satin shirt beneath, and a scarf of checkered red draped around his shoulders. He wore black gloves, and his hair was slicked against his skull, highlighting the drastic angles of his face. His cheeks were flushed pink, as though he had run to meet them. A scenario Silas doubted very much was the case.

  ‘Right,’ Jane declared. ‘That was much more arduous than it needed to be.’

  Silas moved to alight from the carriage. ‘Can I help with—’

  His sentence could not be completed before Jane was at the luggage hold. She unstrapped Silas’s small solitary case, setting it on the ground, and hoisted Pitch’s much larger cases onto the storage rack at the back of the carriage.

  ‘I’m fine, thank you, Mr Mercer.’ Jane dusted off her hands against her day dress, a pretty white cotton with a dusting of pink flowers. He had barely seen her these past few days, save for a single visit where she had advised him about a particular cafe in Leicester she thought he should try to visit while there. ‘Tobias you are going for several nights, not months. You do realise that don’t you?’

  ‘Aren’t you preciously amusing.’ Pitch’s gloved finger touched against her nose before Jane had opportunity to swipe him away. She did so a second later and only fended off thin air. ‘This is my first official appearance for the Order, and both they and I have reputations to uphold. How am I to know what dreadful things the weather has in store for us?’

  ‘What would your reputation be?’ Declared a gruff and familiar voice. ‘Most adept at dropping to your knees and sucking a—’

  ‘Gilmore,’ Jane sighed. ‘The sooner you hand over the lunch basket, the sooner you and Mr Astaroth can part ways. Wouldn’t you like that?’

  ‘More than all the gold in the world.’ Gilmore stepped from behind Pitch, ignoring the sly and frightening gaze being directed at him, focused on the large wicker basket he carried. He lifted it as high as his stature would allow towards the carriage. ‘Here you go, Mr Mercer. There’s some wine in there I think you’re going to need.’

  Being as he was mostly still inside the carriage, Silas had to lean at a substantial angle to accept the gift. The basket was heavier than he’d anticipated and he almost succeeded in dropping it upon the diminutive man. Gilmore scowled up at him.

  ‘Some bloody thanks that is. Crush a man, why don’t you?’

  ‘Thank you, Gilmore. This is very thoughtful of you.’

  ‘Wasn’t my bloody idea.’ He turned on stubby legs to be on his way.

  ‘Get in.’ Isaac grunted. ‘We are leaving.’

  Silas shifted into his seat, taking the forward facing bench seat as was his preference. Jane stood just behind Pitch who had taken it upon himself to remove his black gloves, finger by finger, before he got in the carriage. She waved her hand, looking for Silas’s attention. When she had it, she pointed at the seat on the opposite side of the carriage. Silas pointed to himself. Was he to move? A firm nod. For the very briefest of moments Silas considered remaining where he was. But the rebellion was fleeting.

  Silas shifted into the other seat. He’d deal with the nausea of travelling backwards if and when it arose. Pitch pressed his gloves into Jane’s hands, despite her frown.

  ‘Use these as you wish, while you think of me,’ he declared.

  Pitch entered the carriage, smelling faintly of lavender. Far more pleasant than stale whisky, Silas supposed.

  ‘Goodbye, Gilmore.’ Pitch blew the departing man a kiss but Gilmore shoved open the front door and disappeared inside without glancing back.

  ‘Good luck, gentlemen. If nothing else it will be interesting.’ Jane gave Silas a meaningful glance. ‘Don’t let him bully you, Silas. Let your instinct take hold, and guide you. It is there, you just need to listen for it.’

  Though he nodded, Silas was not certain. And with the added weight of what Mr Ahari had told him about the Blight, Silas felt even less so.

  ‘So terribly dramatic, sylph, I’ll only bully him if he asks me sweetly, and pays me well.’ Pitch sat heavily in his seat, lifting his legs up beneath him, settling his head into the crux between seat back and side of the carriage. ‘Mr Mercer, wake me when we’re at the station.’

  Isaac set
the chestnuts into motion with a sharp whistle, and the carriage jerked forward.

  ‘Goodbye, Jane.’ Silas was surprised at the sudden pang that came at parting. In the midst of his strange transition, Jane had been a constant presence. And, he realised, a very welcome one. But as Isaac set the horses into an eager trot the carriage curved around the circular drive and Jane was lost from sight. By the time they reached the main road, and set off in earnest, Pitch was snoring in soft, rhythmic waves of breath. His lips were an unnatural shade of red, as though a winter wind had left them chapped. With his head tilted to one side, his neck was bared, revealing several thin marks upon his alabaster skin. Scratches. Fresh enough that Silas did not believe they were remnants of the fight with the harpies. Silas’s own cheeks reddened as the reason for such markings, and red lips, dawned upon him.

  Silas transferred his scrutiny to the outside world. It rushed by as the horses pulled them through central London. Isaac had to slow as they travelled down Highgate West Hill and approached Oakeshott Avenue, a funeral procession slowing the traffic. A hearse of spotless glass and a beautifully carved black and gold exterior was drawn by six magnificent midnight steeds with lashings of mane and tail. Plumes of black feathers were attached to their bridles, as though great birds sat between their ears. A walnut oak casket sat in place on the carriage, an enormous bunch of white roses resting upon it. Silas twisted in his seat, so that he might view the procession as far as possible as it made its way down Oakeshott Avenue. Highgate Cemetery was situated further down that same road. The very place he’d wandered into two days earlier, Jane had informed him. Silas tugged at the window, pulling the glass down so that he could thrust his head out into the elements, straining to catch sight of the main entrance. Despite the trauma of his last visit, the hunger to step foot among the graves swelled within him. He bit his tongue, so he would not call on Isaac to take a detour and follow that corpse in its polished wooden box. The Clarence gathered pace once more, and the hearse and any chance of glimpsing the cemetery were stolen away. Silas withdrew into the cabin, his hair damp and eyes watering with the cold air. He exhaled a breath he’d not known he was holding and the strange longing ebbed into nothingness.