by Caro King
‘I’ll deliver him right to his door,’ promised Elinor, ‘and he can take his memory pearl and be safe with his mother by lunchtime. She’ll be shocked at first, but if I know Quick minds she’ll put forgetting him down to the trauma of his disappearance.’
Nin nodded. She wanted so much to go home with Toby that her eyes stung with unshed tears. Jonas must have seen the look on her face, because he put an arm around her and squeezed, though he said nothing.
‘All right,’ said Nin, sniffing hard, ‘but I want to say goodbye.’
When they were all packed and ready to go, Elinor woke Toby and brought him along to the doorway that led out into Dark’s Mansion. By now the Lockheart Sanctuary was beginning to stir and other sisters, going about their morning business of waking up their patients, turned their heads to look at Nin. The shrinking seemed to have stopped for now – presumably because the BMs who were doing the damage were hiding from the daylight – but there was a feeling of tension in the air, of anxious waiting.
While Jonas stood by, Nin watched Toby hurrying up to her, his blond hair flopping over his face, his wide eyes so blue they were nearly purple. He gazed at her worriedly, but to Nin’s relief there were no tears.
‘I can help, if you like?’ he offered. He was wearing a pair of slightly too big pyjamas and was holding Monkey, the toy that had come all the way across the Drift with Nin to rescue him from the Terrible House of Strood. Nin shook her head.
‘It’s OK, Toby. But I’ve got another job for you, a really important one.’ Nin bobbed down so that she could talk to him eye to eye. ‘Look after Mum, right, because she won’t remember me at all. But when she does, she won’t know why she’s forgotten in the first place so she’ll be all upset. And when that happens, when she cries out my name or something, then it means I’m right outside the door. Do you understand?’
Toby nodded.
‘And then you can open the door for Mum and I’ll be there, waiting, see?’
She didn’t think about the ending where they didn’t make it, Strood won and she never came home, just in case it showed on her face. She gave him a hug and a kiss and then turned back to the door.
‘Ready?’ asked Jonas.
Nin paused, settling her rucksack more comfortably on her back. It was her old pink one, the one with the horrible fairy embroidered on it. Packed inside she had the rest of the beeswax candle that brought peace of mind, the bottle of bee venom painkiller and some food. Slung around her waist was a leather flask of fresh water. She still had her old boots and jacket and Elinor had found her a pair of someone’s jeans and a shocking pink T-shirt, to replace the things that had got ripped and bloodstained. The sister had even come up with a new black coat for Jonas, his having been ruined when they used it to wrap up Jik for their under-sea escape. He still had his old red scarf wound around his neck.
‘Ready,’ she said as firmly as she could.
Jonas pushed open the door to Dark’s Mansion and they stepped through into a howling wind that smelt of ice and early morning.
5
Getting Things Done
It was early morning in the Widdern on an ordinary high street in an ordinary town. People rushed in and out of shops, keen to get things done before the day wore too far on. Occasionally one or two of them paused in front of Sandy’s Electrical Store to stare at the images flickering across the TV screens, images of homes and cars, each one burned to a horrible wreck during the previous night by some cause unknown. Each one contained the charred remains of bodies that had been at the centre of the blaze. The morning newspapers were calling it ‘Britain’s Blowtorch Butchery’.
Next to the TV store was the Little Garden Shop, and here people who didn’t want to know any more horrible facts about the rash of fire tragedies sweeping the country were pausing to comment on the garden statues ranged along the front.
‘Very modern,’ said one old, but elegant woman with a floaty scarf, ‘rough hewn of natural materials, but with an almost occult feel about it.’
‘Give me a gnome any day,’ muttered her husband.
Something snuffled near Skerridge’s elbow and he squinted down at a small dog attached to a lead, which was attached to the woman with the scarf, who was studying Jik intently.
‘So organic, a wonderful representation of the Earth Incarnate,’ Floating Scarf went on.
‘Blimmin’ creepy if you ask me.’
Jik glared.
Skerridge chuckled. He was sitting on the pavement next to Jik and so right underneath Floating Scarf’s nose, but Skerridge was a bogeyman in the Widdern and to grown-up Quick he was invisible. They could hear him though, and Blimming Creepy backed off looking nervous.
‘Ya betta watchit. One of ’em’ll buy ya if yer not careful,’ Skerridge whispered.
Blimming Creepy went pale and grabbed Floating Scarf’s arm.
‘Did you hear that?’
‘What? For goodness’ sake, Bernie, it’s just a statue.’
‘It’s glaring at me and I heard something speak.’
Skerridge chuckled again. Floating Scarf blinked. The dog snuffled some more and made a nervous yipping sound. Skerridge hissed like an angry kettle. A small child being wheeled past in a pushchair burst into a fit of spontaneous screaming.
Floating Scarf squeezed Blimming Creepy’s arm. ‘On second thoughts, dear, you’re right. Definitely creepy.’
The dog whined. Skerridge leaned over and snapped twice. An empty lead dangled against Floating Scarf ’s legs, but she was already on the move, hurrying Blimming Creepy in the direction of home and not even noticing that her pet had gone. Skerridge munched thoughtfully as he watched her cross the road, clutching her husband tightly, the empty lead flapping along behind her. The inattentiveness of the Quick never ceased to amaze him.
He chuckled. Jik looked at him sternly.
‘Ik!’
‘I was ’ungry! ’S all right fer some of us what don’ ’ave a stomach, but we’re gonna be ’angin’ around ’ere ferever, so I gotta take some nourishment while it’s about.’
It was a good thing that BMs knew the name and address of every living Quick – at least, the ones that hadn’t already been stolen – as it meant that Jik and Skerridge had been able to go straight to the home address of Hilary Jones. Hilary was the last surviving descendant of the once-sorceress Senta Melana, who had cut off her own left hand and earthed herself, pouring all of her magic back into the Land before going to live in the Widdern and have babies. They knew that Hilary was the last surviving descendant because they had reached the homes of the other descendants far too late to save them. Strood’s BMs had been getting things done all right.
‘There’s two fings ’appenin’ in the Widdern, see,’ explained Skerridge heavily. ‘On the one ’and, ’e’s killin’ off Senta’s descendants so as to end ’er line altogevver; and on the ovver e’s killin’ off a bunch o’ Quick what I strongly suspec’ ’ave ’ad doin’s wiv Enid Lock’eart.’
Jik ikked quietly. It sounded right. It sounded just like Strood. The thought made him feel anxious, not just for the poor suffering Quick, but for some other, deeper reason that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. One thing was sure though, he knew in his mud that what Skerridge had said on the beach was right. There would be consequences.
Unfortunately, they had turned up at Hilary’s flat – two floors up in the elegant block opposite the garden store – a bit too late to stop her going out that morning.
‘’Spect she’s been called out ter identify the remains,’ sighed Skerridge. ‘Poor fing. That ain’t gonna be fun! But she’ll be ’ome soon cos I spect she’s gotta bit o’ cryin’ t’ do – well, a lot actually – and then we’ll stand ’ere an’ watch over ’er till somefin’ ’appens. Which it’s bound t’ do, though prob’ly not till nightfall. BMs don’ go out in the day.’
‘Yik dik.’
‘Yeah, but I made a choice see, ovver BMs jus’ wouldn’.’
Jik didn’t look con
vinced and Skerridge could see his point. If Skerridge could make a choice, surely so could the others? Not that they would, somehow Skerridge was sure of that.
Skerridge burped loudly, fished around in his teeth and then spat out a small silver disc with the name ‘Tuffin’ on it in curly letters. Jik sent him a look and then turned his gaze to the flickering TV screens next door. The many images were now showing an interview with a senior police official who looked pale but calm and who was answering a battery of questions from the press.
He sighed. Skerridge was right. Nothing more was likely to happen here until nightfall.
‘Well,’ said Skerridge cheerfully, scratching his ribs under his fancy waistcoat, ‘time fer me t’ be movin’ on.’
Jik glared.
‘Le’s face it, yer perfectly suited t’ standin’ in one spot impersonatin’ a statue an’ watchin’ over fings. An’ I’m perfectly suited t’ superspeedin’ back ter the Drift t’ look around an’ see wha’s goin’ on.’
Jik glared some more.
‘Tha’s the spirit. Keep that up an’ no one’ll buy ya!’
The air fizzed. Jik glared at the empty space where a bogeyman used to be, then he switched his gaze back to the block of flats across the road, heaved a sigh and stood guard.
In the Sunatorium, Mr Strood was getting even more things done.
Below Jibbit, who was still watching through the Sunatorium’s crystal roof, a large barrel of blood had been added to the bizarre collection of things in the wood. It stood to one side and was already covered in crowsmorte grown from the single bloom Strood had thrown into it a short while earlier. Guard Stanley, who was topping up the blood with a couple of bucket loads, had a job finding a gap to pour through. And as soon as the fresh blood tipped into the barrel, the whole thicket of blooms quivered and rippled, as if they were one great body sucking up the gore. And growing. Unfurling new blooms and putting out more shoots. Spreading.
Jibbit shuddered. He didn’t have any blood, but even so, he knew what it meant to a Quick to lose it all. He wondered how many humans and animals would be bled dry to feed this growing crop and where Strood would get them all from.
‘That will do for the present,’ said Strood cheerfully.
He was settled in his armchair, one silk-clad leg crossed tidily over the other, his quartz eye glittering with satisfaction. He went back to studying the bottle on the table beside him. It was full of a golden liquid, shot through with dark ripples. Essence of Tiger-Man.
In the machine, the remains of the original tiger-man bore no resemblance at all to the exotic creature of this morning. Its vitality and spirit had been distilled out of it and all that was left was a dried-out yellow skin with a few pale stripes. Scribbins was gingerly gathering it up to put in a sack, handling it carefully in case it crumbled into dust and got all over the place.
As he studied the essence, Strood hummed thoughtfully. It was the sort of hum that meant he was ready to move on to the next stage of an interesting experiment. Hearing it, Scribbins paused in his work and shuddered.
Strood got to his feet. He picked up the bottle carefully, carried it from the small table to the workbench and set it down again next to a beaker of blood.
‘A bloom, Scribbins.’
Scribbins laid down the sack and went to pick a crowsmorte flower. He didn’t have to go far. By now the plant was spreading across the Sunatorium floor. He took the bloom over to Strood who had opened the bottle and drawn off a syringe full of golden liquid.
‘Now, Scribbins, pay attention. I want this recorded in full.’
With a trembling hand, Scribbins reached for the notebook. Far over their heads, Jibbit leaned a little further forward, listening.
‘According to the story of the Seven Sorcerers – although as we all know there is always a large gap between story and truth – this plant was developed by Morgan Crow using the best of his magic and was meant to grow a new body for him. Crow’s plan is said to have failed, because the plant ate him instead. Whatever the truth of that tale the fact remains that he left behind a plant that has a taste for flesh and blood and is saturated with creative magical power. Now, it may be nothing more than a side effect, but crowsmorte is known to have amazing healing properties and to me that indicates a deep regenerative force, which, I suspect, has never been fully tested. You understand, I hope?’
Scribbins gulped. ‘The m-magic in the crowsmorte bloom g-grows people back?’
‘Well done, Scribbins.’ Strood leaned over the flower lying on the table and injected it with one tiny drop from the syringe. Next he laid down the still full syringe, dropped the flower on to the ground and tipped the beaker of blood over it. Then he stood back to watch.
The crowsmorte bloom quivered. It began to grow, its stem fattening and its petals growing broader and paler. The colour leaked out of it, purple turning to red and then to gold. Only streaks of darkness remained. Shoots split from the stem and thickened in their turn, coiling in on themselves, doubling back and twisting, some parts growing larger, some longer until the whole mass had a horrible innards kind of look.
‘More blood,’ snapped Strood.
Guard Stanley threw on more blood.
And now it went faster. The newly pale petals turned back on themselves, wrapping their soft velvet around the innards like skin. Four more shoots detached from the bulk, shoots that grew in an oddly jointed way, and the petal skin covered those too. The whole thing started to throb as if a pulse had begun to beat somewhere inside. Both ends lengthened. The bottom end grew longer and thinner in a tail that began to twitch. The top put out a short stem that soon stopped growing, then thickened and rounded, the front part hollowing and curving and splitting. Thorns grew in the split, but they looked horribly white and sharp to the watching Jibbit.
And then eyes opened in the hollows, the mouth yawned widely and the new tiger-man uncurled and rose to its feet in one sinuous movement.
This tiger-man was smaller than the original, though not by much. The pattern carried in the single drop of tiger-man essence had shaped it, but it was still grown from crowsmorte and the plant’s colouring showed through. The creature was softly golden, but the stripes across its velvet skin were dark purple and a scarlet flash ran down its spine from the top of its head to the tip of its tail. Its purple eyes somehow managed to glow red.
Guard Stanley shuddered. Scribbins nearly dropped his pencil. Strood beamed.
‘So, Scribbins, how many blooms do you think we have here?’ He waved an arm over the coated woodland. ‘And how many drops do you think a bottle that size can hold?’
‘Y-you’re going t-to make more?’
‘Oh lots more, Scribbins. We are going to war with Ninevah Redstone and anyone who dares to aid her.’
The tiger-man opened a mouth fringed with needle teeth.
‘Morrrr blood?’ it asked.
‘Plenty,’ said Strood quietly. ‘Do what I ask and you can have all the blood you want.’
The door opened and Dunvice came in.
‘Ahh, perfect timing,’ beamed Strood. ‘Now, while Scribbins gets on with making more tiger-men, you and I can start recruiting officers.’
6
Dark’s Mansion
Nin turned to send one last look back into the Lockheart Sanctuary. Through the doorway she could see Toby waving. She waved back and smiled. Then the door closed, shutting them out of the Sanctuary’s warmth and safety. They were alone in Dark’s Mansion, standing in a stairwell laced with narrow windows through which the wind howled, clean and clear and sharp as glass.
Leaning to look out of the window next to her, Nin could see nothing but sky, above, around and below. Far beneath them, clouds swirled in a grey mass. She couldn’t quite make out what they were being today; they looked like a tangle of wispy hair twisting and waving in the wind. One thing was sure though, Enid had been right when she said that Dark had built his home tall enough to touch the sky. And the Sanctuary had set itself right at the
very top.
Jonas had set off down the spiral stairs. Nin glanced back at the Sanctuary door for the last time. It had blended into the wood of the walls, only the thinnest crack betraying its presence. She wished they could go back in, but they had a job to do. Two jobs. Find Dark. Stop Strood. Sighing, she hurried after Jonas.
‘So,’ she said, catching him up, ‘tell me, just how do sick people manage to climb all the way up here to reach the Sanctuary?’
‘For the sick and desperate there are many ways into the Sanctuary. We’re neither, so we have to use the real door, the one that opens exactly where the Sanctuary is and not where the desires of Quick need it to be.’ Jonas laughed. ‘Just be glad Enid’s spell brought us here!’
‘It’s only trying to help itself,’ muttered Nin. ‘Anyway, where’s the Mansion in relation to Hilfian? I mean, when we’ve found the clue, whatever it is, we’re going on to Hilfian, right? To meet up with the others and find out what’s going on before we go and see Nemus?’
‘Right. Let’s hope the Drift folk are gathering there like Taggit thinks; we could do with some help against Strood. But the problem for us is that Hilfian is a long way from here. Dark’s Mansion is right down in the south-western part of the Drift. Hilfian is a lot further up and way over east, near the Giant’s wood, remember that? But we’ll find a way somehow. And if Taggit manages to find Skerridge, then he might be able to carry us there at sub-superspeed.’
‘And how is Taggit going to get to Skerridge? If Skerridge and Jik are still on the beach then Taggit’s got to go …’ she thought about it ‘…even further east and north, out beyond Hilfian and the Forest and even the Heart. And then get back again to meet us.’
Jonas laughed. ‘I dunno, but the Fabulous have their ways.’
They hurried on, winding down the narrow stairwell. The walls on either side of them were rough wood, touched here and there with twigs, moss and the occasional plant. They had to pay attention as they went, because the steps were uneven in height and depth, each tread different from the last, each surface dipped or raised underfoot as if they had formed naturally instead of being made.