The Shadow Arts

by Damien Love

  “How’s the improvising going?”

  “Have to confess, I’m having a bit of an off day on that front, Alex.”

  Alex noticed the old man’s hand was trembling badly. Sweat stood out on his brow. “Grandad, couldn’t you just . . . take the potion again? To stop you aging?”

  “Hmm? Oh. No.” The old man wiped his brow, then looked down at his shaking hand, tightening it into a fist. “No, I’ll never do that.” His voice dropped to a murmur. “Alex, you asked me why I left my father. Why I turned against them. Well then. It was because I found out the truth. I found out about the deaths.”

  “Deaths?” It came out as a dry whisper. The scraping sounds from the kitchen were now joined by a mighty banging. The barricade at the door across the room shuddered as something slammed against it from the other side.

  His grandfather nodded. “I told you, my father uses an extract from the flower, the flower we took from the Black Forest that awful night. Ghastly stories surrounded the thing, Alex. It grew out at an abandoned crossroads, under a tree that had once been used as the local gallows. Legend was, it had grown there by absorbing the lives of all the killers and thieves that perished over it. It was said its roots ran . . . very deep. But there were other legends about it.”

  The buzzing beneath their feet had become a high, horrific whine, shuddering angrily as it bored into wood.

  “After we brought it home, I became aware my father was going out some nights, going out late. Going out with his spring-heels. My suspicions grew. I started following him, or trying to. Long story short, one night I finally saw it happen. It was all part of the hideous bargain of keeping that demonic flower alive, and the flower keeping him—us—alive.”

  They watched the floorboards. There was a puff of sawdust. Wood began coiling away in strips

  “Every once in a while, Alex, the flower produces a ghastly new leaf. And when this leaf grows, my father must cut it off, then press it to the neck of . . . a victim. The leaf takes the . . . life force away from a person. It absorbs it—totally, and at once. Every mote of energy in the body. Instant decomposition. Nothing left, not even bones. Then the leaf is pulped into their mixture and . . .”

  For a moment the old man seemed unable to go on. “That night, the night I finally put it all together, is the night I left them, Alex. I was almost out of my mind. I stole his spring-heels, hoping it might hinder him in his hunting, and I ran—”

  With a sudden final scream from the wood, a metal awl came tearing through the floor. Alex caught a glimpse of the robot attached, like a happy toy mole, with this nightmarish drill-bit as its nose.

  As it touched the mound of salt, the machine fell back through the hole it had created, roughly four inches in diameter. More salt fell in after it. Scuttling sounds came from under the floor, then silence.

  Alex’s grandfather raised his cane. Across the room, the barricade collapsed a little as the door was forced open a crack. The dogs gave a low growl.

  “Mon dieu,” Metz whispered, on the verge of blind panic. Alex followed the man’s wild, wide-eyed stare.

  What looked like two pieces of long, thin wire had appeared out of the hole. They reached up from below, wavered in the air a moment, then bent to start tapping delicately around the opening, testing the ground. After a second, they were joined by another six wires—then the strands stopped moving, braced against the floor, and something came hauling itself up through the hole, followed rapidly by another, and then another and another.

  More kept coming. Spiderlike things. Fat, fuzzy black bodies supported on glistening, hairlike wire legs. Each sported a pair of cartoonish felt eyes. More than twenty had come out and were scurrying toward them.

  Metz suddenly rolled his chair forward and laughed, half-hysterical. “These? These are what we are hiding from? No need to waste ammunition on these,” he said, turning his shotgun and holding it by the barrel, like a club.

  “Ah, please be careful,” Alex’s grandfather called. “Probably safer if you just come back here, old chap.”

  “What do they do?” Alex asked.

  “No idea,” the old man replied. “These are new to me. What’ll we call them? I’ve already used crawlers for something else. Spiders?”

  The spider-things had come to a stop at the salt semicircle. They lined up along it, fat bodies bobbing grotesquely on spindly legs. Then, with a sudden flex, one jumped, fast and high.

  Metz swung his gun. When it connected, the little machine exploded with a ferocious blast that ripped off the shotgun’s stock and sent Metz crashing to the floor, lying across the salt line.

  A flier shot out from the hole in the floor straight for him, fastening itself to his neck.

  Eardrums ringing, Alex ran with Kingdom to help Metz. The little machine buzzed hungrily at the man’s throat like an awkward metal vampire bat as they tried to drag him back. Alex flung more salt. The robot darted off, disappearing beneath the floorboards.

  Alex’s grandfather leapt forward, scattering salt at the rest of the spiders. Most jumped out of reach, but two were caught and started sprinting crazily, before running into one another with another horrendous explosion. Alex felt the heat on his face. Kingdom bent to inspect what was left of Metz’s mangled weapon, then kicked it away.

  The barricade across the room fell in as the door was shoved open wider. Two life-sizers could now be seen, struggling in the doorway. One managed to reach in and began shifting the blockage, tossing chairs away.

  “C’est la fin.” Metz lay cowering on the floor, staring at the giant robots. He kept repeating the phrase, hoarsely, woozily, fainter all the time. “C’est la fin.”

  “Philippe,” Kingdom said. “We need you. If you can. Philippe?”

  She spoke without looking at him, holding her shotgun trained on the door, studying the life-sizers as they dismantled the barricade. Alex’s grandfather stood with his box of salt, not much left now, watching the spiders warily.

  Alex glanced at Metz. He lay motionless, a red, raw spot on his neck. Alex knelt to listen at the man’s chest.

  “Alex?” his grandfather said.

  “He’s alive. Unconscious.”

  Alex stood and pulled the toy robot from his pocket. His fist tightened as he screwed his eyes shut, picturing the toy, picturing the tablet, lining up the doors he needed to move through. He strained to connect.

  There was a sudden wispy scuttling on the floorboards. Alex looked to see spiders darting forward, then stopping as his grandfather scattered a meager handful of salt. He closed his eyes, pushing harder. No use. No time.

  He opened his eyes at another sound. The last of the barricade had been pushed away. A life-sizer was striding across the room.

  When it was ten feet away, Kingdom fired. The giant robot went into a frenzy, then fell, landing on four of the spiders. The resulting explosion ripped off its arm and sent the metal limb flying across the room, where the ragged shoulder embedded itself into the wall. The disembodied arm hung there, hand groping hideously for a few seconds, before falling lifeless.

  “That’s one,” Kingdom said. She suddenly lifted her gun higher.

  A flier was racing at her. She shot again. The thing rocked back, dropped dead. A shower of salt from the cartridge rained down with it, sending three of the spiders running into the wall with another ferocious blast.

  “That’s two.” Kingdom leveled the shotgun again, aiming toward the other life-sizer that hulked unmoving in the doorway, seeming to watch her. Other things gathered at its feet and in the air behind it. An awful pause settled.

  Alex felt his back touch the wall. Looking up, he realized he was directly beneath the painting. The target of all of this. He looked down at the toy robot, absurd in his hand, then gave up, stuffing it back in his coat.

  His dad’s old coat, he thought. With the thought came a stray memory: his grandf
ather burning his hooded top. Across the room, there was another small fire burning, blackening the wall where the spiders had exploded. Fire flashed across his mind. He started for the kitchen.

  The nearest spider came scurrying at him.

  “Alex!” his grandfather shouted, chucking salt. The thing jumped safely back.

  “Just hold them another second!” Alex shouted over his shoulder.

  In the kitchen, the furious scratching at the door continued. A huge gloved fist came smashing through the wood, started searching blindly for the handle. Alex ignored it, tore open the cupboard, and grabbed the little blowtorch, checking that it worked.

  Another gunshot sounded starkly from behind, followed by Kingdom’s apologetic voice: “And that was three.”

  Sprinting back to the ballroom, he was aware of his grandfather’s confused, questioning look, and, beyond the old man, of a brightly colored torrent of things pouring in through the door, swarming around the prone body of another life-sizer: small things, flying things, things rolling and crawling. But he focused on the painting. He clicked frantically at the blowtorch. The little flame caught the second time, strong, sharp, blue.

  “Stop!” he shouted, holding it up to the old wooden frame. The varnish started to blister. The parade of robots froze instantly. The banging from the kitchen halted. The silence was absolute.

  “Anything moves, the painting’s getting torched.”

  Alex’s grandfather frowned. “Why didn’t I think of something like that? I really am losing my touch. Evelyn, would you mind helping me take the picture down from the wall?”

  As Alex moved slightly for them to get at the painting, he accidentally let the flame go out. Instantly, the machines started closing in. It took three attempts to click the blowtorch to life. The robots halted.

  The old man held the framed picture awkwardly under one arm. Kingdom hauled the prone Metz into his wheelchair.

  “So, we all ready?” Alex’s grandfather said. “Oh, actually, hang on.” He reached to the drinks trolley and slipped the cognac into his coat pocket. “Shame to let that go to waste. Okay. Let’s go.”

  They made their way toward the wrecked door. Kingdom led, pushing the unconscious Metz with one hand, rapier drawn in the other. Alex walked behind his grandfather, keeping the blue flame held close to the picture frame. The seven dogs pressed around them as Kingdom shoved aside the last of the barricade.

  Alex had his other hand in his pocket, clutching the toy robot. He ordered his panic to calm. He thought about the way he had controlled the flier—that sense of sectioning off his mind, so different parts did different things. He tried it again now while he walked.

  First the robot, then the tablet, then . . . Kenzie. Then the light.

  In the hallway, they threaded through a frozen army of machines.

  “Looks like they’ve brought everything,” his grandfather marveled quietly. “All or nothing. Why so desperate?” The only other sounds were the squeak of Metz’s wheelchair, the whine of fliers hovering motionless in the air.

  Outside in the pale afternoon, yet more things lined up silently along the path. Fliers sat on hedges and on the shoulders of four more life-sizers. The lifeless eyes watched them pass.

  Figures had gathered far across the lawn, at the tree line: the bald man; a tubby blur that must have been von Sudenfeld; the dark smudge and pale, round face of the ancient little girl. Behind her stood the tall man in black, massive, motionless, merging with the shadows. Kingdom was studying them closely, Alex noticed. He could almost feel Zia’s vehemence on the breeze.

  But one missing, Alex thought distantly, trying not to disturb the process of his other thoughts. All this time, he had seen no sign of little Hans Beckman, he realized, the toy shop owner who had helped design all these robots in the first place. He recalled the little man’s unctuous, treacly voice and shivered. He supposed Beckman must be around the back of the house, directing operations at the kitchen door. He stopped wondering about it when he realized his flame had gone out.

  The dogs growled as the frozen tableau around them came to life. Machines started moving, crawling, rolling, jumping. Alex clicked uselessly at the blowtorch. It spat sparks, but nothing more.

  “Really would be awfully good if you could get that going again, Alex,” his grandfather said. The old man whipped his Swiss Army knife from his pocket and held it to the canvas. The machines kept coming. After a second Alex got the vicious little blue flame going. It guttered alarmingly, then steadied. The robots froze again, as though they were all playing a hellish game of Statues.

  “I think it’s almost out of gas,” Alex said. He tried to swallow.

  An engine roared, coming closer. Through the trees that lined the driveway, Alex saw their rental car, moving fast.

  “Harry,” he said in reply to Kingdom’s questioning glance.

  The dark, distant shape of a life-sizer stepped from the trees to meet it, raising its hands. The car rammed into the giant robot and was halted. There came a grinding, complaining sound as Harry gunned the engine uselessly, car and machine locked in a growling stalemate.

  One part of Alex’s mind had gone past the tablet and opened the second door. He was getting faster. And there was Kenzie ahead, standing quietly, not even trying to speak now. Alex could sense the door to the light beyond the other boy. But it seemed much farther away than before. He thought briefly about his grandfather’s theory of powerful places, boosting the signal, bringing it closer. He’d just have to shove Kenzie back harder, for longer. He tensed his thoughts and pushed.

  As they crept on through the garden, Alex watched the blue flame he held by the painting’s frame. He thought about the varnish bubbling. He thought about the way the machines hadn’t stopped when his grandfather had threatened to rip the canvas with his knife. Why? Can’t see the woods for the trees. Seen this close, the wooden frame looked very old. Can’t see the woods. Can’t see the wood. The wood.

  “The Shadow Gate,” Alex suddenly gasped, striving to keep everything going in his mind at once. “I mean—what was it?”

  “Eh?” His grandfather grunted grimly. “Well, I told you, some magical doodad. A portal the magician conjured up, an opening.”

  “But was it an actual gate? I mean, did he build a . . . structure? What would it have been made of?”

  “Well, I don’t know. But back then, I suppose they probably used iron, or wood, or . . . Is this really the time, do you think?”

  Alex fell silent. In his thought journey, Kenzie was staggering backward as he shoved him again and again. But Kenzie was struggling, and the distance to the last door was much too far. He was never going to get there in time.

  They were at the garage. It looked like it had once been a stable. More fliers perched on the roof. As Kingdom struggled to get Metz inside, Alex’s blowtorch died again, for good.

  Things started coming at them, fast, from all directions.

  “Get inside, Alex,” the old man said, then suddenly spun, hoisting the painting. Alex realized he was going to throw it, Frisbee-like.

  “No, don’t!”

  Too late. The old man sent it spinning over the heads of the nearest robots. The fliers lifted from the garage roof and darted after it, caught it in the air, and carried it away. Then the rest of the machines rushed at Alex and his grandfather.

  Alex was almost at the last door, the door to the light. He shoved Kenzie with a wild mental force that drew strength from his fear. The door slammed open as Kenzie fell back into the curtain of light beyond. Alex felt the light roaring at him. He took it in, sent it roaring back out, shaped it with words as loud as the sun.

  The light flickered, Alex heard a hissing on the wind, and, for a second, the old tin robot moved in his grip. Then he and his grandfather were lifted from their feet and thrown back against the rough garage wall by a concussive wave. For a moment,
the day was blindingly bright. Kingdom leapt from the garage, shielding her eyes, and started helping them inside. The light faded. She slammed the door.

  “Alex,” the old man said. “What did you . . . Are you okay? Can you hear me?”

  Alex nodded. He couldn’t do much more.

  “What just . . . What did he just do?” Kingdom said. She stood with her back to the door, staring at Alex as though she had never seen him before.

  Alex’s grandfather shook his head. “He saved us. Let’s leave it at that. I’m more worried about what it might have done to him.”

  “Good lord,” Kingdom whispered. She stood peering through the small garage window. The old man helped Alex to his feet and they joined her.

  Machines lay lifeless everywhere, spread over a vast arc of scorched white grass and smoking black gravel. The figures across the smoldering lawn had been knocked to their hands and knees. Slowly, groggily, Zia got to her knees. Some of the paralyzed fliers began twitching weakly.

  “Best to get moving,” Alex’s grandfather muttered. He considered Alex with grave concern. “You okay?”

  “Just need a minute,” Alex said. “Or two.”

  Kingdom bent by his side and whispered confidentially. “When we tangled with you, back in the office in Paris . . . I was never sure, the light was so bad, but . . . did you turn invisible?”

  “Uh . . . yeah. Kind of.”

  Kingdom nodded. “Strange day. Still, glad to know my eyes are okay.”

  Alex’s grandfather turned to the big car behind them. “Oh, Rolls-Royce Phantom! Little ostentatious for my tastes, but a decent old tank to have in the circumstances. Harry’ll love this.”

  The old man practically carried Alex and put him on the back seat beside the prone Metz, then ducked into the front as Kingdom started the engine. The car was spacious, but most of the space was filled with a tangle of dogs. The one named Maia put its chin on Alex’s lap and gazed at him, grumbling contentedly.