by Frazer Lee
Dedication
To Laura, Arthur and Rowan for making my glass full, never half empty.
And special thanks to Cathryn Weems, for gifting me that damned Lucifer glass.
Chapter One
The Looking Glass
Daniel Gates was falling. As he fell, he heard screams and the sickening crunch of bone.
And breaking glass.
He awoke from his nightmare, cold. His body temperature had dipped beneath a layer of freezing sweat. Throwing back the duvet of his hotel room bed, he looked over at the chair and trestle table where he had left the mirror. It was still there; exactly where he had left it the night before. Shaking after-images of the sinister dream from his eyes, he crawled from his tangled sheets.
The mirror was an imposing thing, about four feet tall by three feet wide. Its frame was faded yellow white. At first glance it looked like ivory but upon closer inspection of its intricate textures it revealed itself to be fashioned from bone. Bone that had been fused by way of techniques long since lost to human hands. The surround was exquisitely carved with a swirling mass of female figures, each cascading into the next in a sinuous display of the fairer form. Gates had rarely seen work of such quality; no wonder his client was willing to pay such a high price for it.
Bending his knees so as not to hurt his lower back, Daniel carefully lifted the mirror from the floor and carried it through to the bathroom. Heavy work, but he dare not let it out of his sight, not even for moment. Even with the door locked and the Do not disturb sign hanging outside on the handle, he must not become complacent. The price for securing such an artifact had not only been one borne by his client.
As he positioned the mirror on the white marble unit, which housed the sink and a neat little row of complementary toiletries, he cast his mind back to the night he had acquired it. Parts were hazy, due to the phenomenal volume of spirits that had been consumed that night, but he could still see the haunting look on the mirror’s previous owner’s face as he’d allowed Daniel to stagger from his study with it. Gates had, on the surface of things, won the mirror fair and square in a card game hosted by Baron Perdurabo at his countryside residence, the Palazzo Germaine, in the wilderness outside Turin. Also on the surface of things, Daniel was a maverick with the cards, outranking the competition until only he and the baron were left at the table.
On the surface of things.
But, as he’d left the palazzo, Daniel had placed the sum of a few thousand Euros in the pocket of the amiable butler who had brought their drinks; the agreed fee for the additional service of increasing the baron’s measures while watering Daniel’s down. The desired effect had ensued. While the baron’s card playing prowess had weakened, Daniel’s had increased. And it was much harder to spot Daniel’s sleight of hand when under the influence of so much alcohol.
Daniel showered, massaging the hotel’s complementary tea tree shower gel into his bruised collarbone. The getaway drive from the palazzo had almost killed him (again due to drink, even though he was somewhat less inebriated than the poor baron) and he still had the surface wounds to prove it. Soothed, and somewhat revived by the shower he towelled himself dry and studied himself in the mirror. The contusion across his collarbone and chest was two inches wide, a lasting impression of the seat belt that had bitten into his flesh. He stroked his chin, which had become darkened by the beginnings of a beard.
Shaving for the first time in a couple of days, he regarded his face in the mirror. He had good skin, an undiminished hairline and hazel eyes. If not for the dark shadows beneath his eyes, a relic of his previous assignment, he could easily pass for thirty. He was thirty-nine. Scraping the razor gently across his neck and chin, he closed the gap of years once again. Washed and shaved, he hefted the mirror back into the bedroom and leaned it against the wall, atop the little trestle table near the window. He took the last of his dry-cleaned suits, a black Paul Smith number with coffee-brown detailing, and slipped it on—his work uniform.
Buttoning his shirt and affixing his tie around his neck, he looked the part once more. He was a fixer. Whatever anyone wanted, he could get it. For a price, he could get it. Sure, that price might be way over the odds but then any client had to ask him or herself, “Just how much do I want that precious bauble; that fabled MacGuffin?
They would put it off for as long as they could, searching the Internet with its endless start-up loops of tantalising tease and crashing failure. They would lurk in dusty auction rooms along with all the other hopeless vultures, twitching and scratching over processions of overpriced flotsam and hopeless fakes. They would yawn into their coffee as they trawled the small ads in periodicals, or would fog the windows of murky antique shops with hot anticipatory breath. And, peering at the classified cards displayed there, they would have to admit that they would be no nearer their goal in a decade’s time. The sooner the client admitted that to him or herself, the better. And when they did, the sooner they’d find themselves reaching for that creased business card. They would not remember where they had picked it up, would not quite find themselves able to picture the face of the young man who handed it to them. But when they called, the man on the end of the line would be Daniel Gates—affable, efficient, and above all discreet. He was a fixer; he could get whatever they wanted for them—at a price.
Straightening his tie, Daniel took a holdall from the wardrobe, unzipped it and pulled out a couple rolls of bubble wrap and some packing tape. He set about wrapping the mirror, taking care to ensure the corners had extra padding. Gates picked up the phone and called down for a bellboy with a trolley, and ordered a cab.
Chapter Two
Master/Roth Inc.
Twenty minutes later and he was standing outside his client’s office with the bubble-wrapped mirror at his feet. He looked up at the dizzying summit of the building. The ridiculous height of the structure was no doubt a statement about the wealth and power of the company that made its headquarters there.
He peered up at the logo emblazoned in chrome above the entrance, a crown above a globe, which was gripped tight in the coils of a serpent. The logo read Master/Roth Incorporated – Import and Export. Gates smirked at the grandiose nature of it all before struggling inside with the mirror through a set of ever slowly revolving doors. The size and weight of the doors alone could account for the carbon footprint of a small nation. He checked his reflection in the heavy glass as he passed through into the foyer. His tousled brown hair was offset by the sharpness of his suit—the definitive “rogue trader” look. He was ready to take his meeting.
A cheerful, if rather robotic, receptionist requested Daniel take the elevator to the penthouse where someone would meet him. She offered to have someone take the bubble-wrapped mirror for him, but he politely declined. The elevator serenaded him with anodyne Muzak, before halting with a vertiginous lurch that was offset by a gleeful ping. The doors slid open and Daniel stepped out into the penthouse.
The space was impressive, immense. Onyx pillars thrust up into the gods, where a canopy of tinted glass arched its back far above, keeping the smoggy sky at bay. Floor-to-ceiling windows gave unobstructed VIP views over the cityscape. Alcove lighting glimmered on the polished marble surfaces of the floor and walls, giving the place the appearance of some vast mountaintop airstrip. Glassy footsteps rang out, echoing off the walls and windows, and Gates saw a figure approaching him from the shadow of one of the vast pillars. The fellow wore the smart-casual uniform of the cash-rich executive. His black roll-neck sweater was tucked into charcoal-grey flannel slacks, an alligator skin belt holding everything in place beneath the overspill of his gentlemen’s club belly.
“Mister Gates?”
Daniel nodded.
The fellow held out his hand.
“I’m Rothschild, Head of Acquisitions here at Master/Roth. Thank you for coming in to see us.”
Us. The “Royal We”, so commonly employed by corporate types. To Daniel, Rothschild was the company now. The client-facing mouthpiece behind which some board of directors no doubt pulled their strings. He shook Rothschild’s hand, smiled efficiently. The company man licked his lips, staring at the bubble-wrapped package.
“Let me help you with that.”
“It’s okay, I got it.”
Rothschild nodded and led the way over to a sunken area situated between two columns. More low-level spotlights were embedded in the steps beneath which sat two functional black leather benches.
Gates leaned the package up against a gleaming glass table, which hovered above barely discernable glass legs. Atop the table sat a crystal decanter filled with amber fluid and two thick-bottomed tumblers. Daniel stood and watched as Rothschild unwrapped the mirror, making sounds of approval as he ran his fingers across the carved surface of its frame.
“Everything in order?” Daniel asked.
It was a rhetorical question; his client knew it was the real deal, knew what Daniel had risked to obtain it.
“Oh yes,” the company man replied. “It is quite exquisite.”
“So, to the matter of my fee.” Daniel was eager to close and get out of the place. He did not care much for tall buildings and wide men.
“Please, take a seat and we will discuss,” Rothschild said.
Gates sat down and watched as Rothschild took the stopper from the decanter and poured about an inch of liquid into one of the glasses. He was about to pour a measure into the other glass when Daniel raised his hand.
“Not for me thanks.”
The businessman looked at him, quizzically. “Not a daytime drinker, Mister Gates? But I thought…?”
“You know what it took to get your damned mirror. I’ll never be able to cross the border into Italy again that’s for sure, probably for as long as I live.”
“Nonsense, Mr. Gates. All you need are the correct papers. With a few modifications to the right records, you’ll be free to hop across any border you wish.”
“Modifications like that come at quite a high price.”
“They do indeed.”
“Which is why I’m doubling my fee. Being smuggled out of the country with lacerations and a criminal record was not part of the deal.”
“There is also the small matter of the car. It was a write-off after your little accident. Scrapping the car was cheap. The disposal of the…mess, not so cheap. That we have the mirror is the important thing, Mr. Gates, but the issue of your ample cleaning bill remains.”
“Fine, fine. Deduct it from my fee. But don’t take the piss.”
Rothschild nodded, the embodiment of discretion. He stoppered the decanter and slid the filled glass across the table towards Daniel.
“Really, I don’t…”
“Just take a sniff, Mister Gates.”
“A sniff?”
“Indulge me.”
Daniel couldn’t help a frown creeping across his brow, but he picked up the glass all the same. The client was king after all. Especially when he was paying double. He lifted the glass to his chin and caught the first faint vapour of the liquor. It smelled like rich, moist earth. A peat bog in autumn. All the complexity and rustic richness of a season distilled into a single glass. The scent was nothing short of miraculous. Saliva moistened the corners of Daniel’s mouth and his airways opened up, inviting in the scent like it was an old friend come calling.
He put the glass down on the table.
“How was it?”
The podgy man was looking at him expectantly. Daniel rubbed his palms together, removing the light sweat that had appeared there as he searched for the right words. How to describe such a scent?
“It’s… Like no other whiskey I’ve ever smelled before.”
“Bravo. Oh bravo, Mister Gates.”
Rothschild let out a snorting, rib-tickling laugh. The sound echoed around the massive penthouse space. It was a disconcerting sound. Daniel looked up at the columns and rafters, feeling like Jonah trapped inside the whale. Rothschild’s laugh subsided into quick little piglike snorts. His belly wobbled beneath his sweater with each exhalation of breath until his mirth ceased. He picked up the glass and swallowed a gulp, smacking his lips at the taste.
“Any idea how much this whiskey might cost?” He held the glass aloft.
Daniel had no idea. He decided to answer the question with another.
“For a bottle, you mean?”
“Sure. Okay then, a bottle. How much?”
“I wouldn’t like to hazard a guess,” Daniel began. But the look in Rothschild’s eye told him his host would not be satisfied until he had an answer. “A thousand?”
“Much more than that, Mr Gates. Much, much more. A barrel could buy you a cruise ship. A cellar could acquire you the deeds to an archipelago.”
The businessman’s eyes twinkled. He glanced at the glass mischievously, then mouthed the rim of the glass once more, glugging back the drink until it was all gone—every last drop.
“It’s that rare?”
Daniel’s eyes widened. If Rothschild’s claims were true, then he had just swallowed a beachfront.
“It is. That rare. Some like to call it The Zero Malt.”
“So why drink it? Why offer to waste it on a reformed drinker like me?”
“We wanted you to taste it in order for you to know it. But as you don’t indulge, a sniff will have to suffice. You won’t forget that scent believe me. You won’t find its equal anywhere.”
Rothschild leaned forward, clusters of airstrip lighting reflected in his eyeballs like tiny fires.
“Tell me, how would you like to quadruple your fee?”
Gates’s expression said it all.
“You more than proved yourself in the field. Our clients will be overjoyed to have the mirror safely in their possession. The circumstances surrounding its…extraction were regrettable to say the least, but…”
Daniel cleared his throat. Regrettable was something of an understatement.
“But in addition to the fee offer, we can arrange for those difficult modifications to be made on your behalf. Fresh papers, carte blanche if you will. Interested?”
Gates paused a moment, the intoxicating vapour of the whiskey still lingering in his nostrils.
“Sure.”
The rotund company man fixed him with a smile.
“We’d like to hire you again, Mister Gates, to acquire more of The Zero Malt for us.”
Chapter Three
Lilyth’s Mirror
The station conductor’s whistle screamed in Daniel’s ears as he clattered down the platform to meet his train. Heavy traffic out of the town had threatened to scupper his travel plans, and his taxi had gotten caught in the usual high street bottleneck. He’d tossed a bank note at the driver and told him to keep the change before undertaking the remainder of the journey on foot. He had a wallet filled with blank taxi receipts; he’d use one to add the fare to his expenses. Rothschild had already booked the train ticket for him before he’d even said yes, the sly, podgy dog. The Royal We clearly had total faith he’d be game for their little assignment; perhaps not surprising considering the price tag attached, not to mention the “get out of jail quick” card Rothschild had dangled over him like a carrot.
Maybe he’d go off-grid once this latest assignment was complete. Visions of holiday destinations propelled Daniel on through the crowds to the station. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d spent more than a couple of days off. The last long weekend he’d tried to indulge in, at a four-star in Siena, had led to the mirror job in Turin before he could even spend his first night at the hotel. Such was the fixer’s lot. Maybe this time he really would go under for a while, disappear. Hell, he could do a Lord Lucan on the back of the advance for this gig alone.
Another conductor scowled at him as
he rushed to the door of the nearest carriage. Daniel felt certain the jobsworth was about to tell him the carriage was First Class, Standard farther along the train. He wrenched the ticket from the inside pocket of his jacket and put the man straight. The conductor’s gait straightened automatically in well-rehearsed deference to the “golden ticket” and he stood aside, opening the door flamboyantly for him as he did so. Daniel felt that if he had a hat, he would have doffed it. He made do with a nod of the head and a breathless grin and piled into the carriage. An attractive brunette hostess greeted him brightly and transferred his coat to a polished wooden hanger before showing him to his seat.
Menus, napkins, and complementary beverages were offered as the train lurched out of the station. Daniel ordered a light meal and, exhausted, stretched his toes out in the direction of his destination. Glasgow.
Daniel kicked back in his dining car seat and watched the world whizz by in blurred watercolours.
The journey afforded plenty of opportunity to mull over the task to which he’d been appointed. His fee for the mirror job, times two, was to be wired to his offshore account. He was to take the train to Glasgow, where a driver would meet him and deliver him to a village some miles away from the city. From there, a boat would ferry him across to the small distillery on a tiny isle where the whiskey was made. Once there, he would do an exchange for the so-called Zero Malt. He was under strict instructions not to return without exchanging the rare item he carried in his inside pocket for a consignment of the precious liquor.
Daniel reached into his pocket and pulled out the package Rothschild had given to him at the corporate penthouse. Opening the plain manila envelope, he carefully removed the book from inside. It was at least fifty years old, and in amazing condition for its age. The leather binding was pale, like animal skin that had faded over the years, and the cover was embossed with a still-brilliant gold leaf title that glittered in the overhead lamps of the dining car:
CHORONZON’S GRIMOIRE