Billy shook his head in disbelief.
“I don’t understand, Jake. What is this, some kind of Satanist meeting place? A cult? Is that a person, they put wings on ‘em or something? How they do that? Uncle Jake? I don’t understand.”
Jake was staring at the fissure in the centre of the tree, a void that looked like it went on forever. Leading up to it and disappearing inside it was the trail of blood they had followed through the woods.
“It took him into the tree. Fucking thing dragged him in there, into the tree.”
Billy peered down at the obvious source of the blood soaked mist, the tree with the winged creature sacrificed upon it, the trail of blood that vanished into the dark cracked mouth in the bark. “People didn’t do this Jake, this ain’t natural. We gotta go, we gotta get the Sherriff.”
Then they heard the strange chattering sound echo out from the hole in the tree.
Clack-clack-clack-clack-clack.
The two men raised their shotguns and strained to see through the mist.
Clack-clack-clack-clack-clack.
Something slowly edged forward from the fissure into the dim twilight.
A smile.
It was the smile of a something dead, the atrophied blue lips shrunken and pulled back in a rictus parody of friendliness. Rotten brown pegs longer than the men’s fingers met in two impossibly wide rows. The pale lamps of two blind yellow eyes flickered open above the huge grin.
Some part of Billy thought of the Alice in Wonderland tales he had seen a cartoon of on TV.
The Cheshire Cat.
Billy grabbed his uncle by the arm and was about to drag him backwards out of the bizarre grotto, when the grinning teeth in the tree began to chatter together again.
Clack-clack-clack-clack. Clackety clack.
Chattering suddenly erupted in the red mist around Billy and Jake. It sounded like a response en masse.
Billy and Jake spun around, pointing their shotguns wildly into the mist but the chattering seemed to come from every angle. Billy felt the warmth of his own water run down his leg. Despite their predicament he still felt the shame.
“Jake they’re everywhere! They’re all around us!”
They began to see shadowy forms silhouetted in the mist, crooked and tall.
Jake slowly grabbed his nephew by the arm. He spat out a gobbet of greasy mucous onto the ground in front of them and nodded.
“This here, son, ain’t even close to being from this world. This is what’s known as evil, Billy, pure undiluted fuckin evil. It’s judgement day for us all. Now I want you to run. Get back to town, get the family, and run as far as you can.”
“You know I ain’t any kind of runner, Jake. I can go at my own pace is all.”
Jake scanned the shotgun at the figures in the mist. The horrible chattering was getting louder by the second.
“I know son. Don’t worry. I’ll be right with you, we go at your pace. But I want you to fucking will those useless legs of yours to carry you faster than they ever have. As if Gina from the diner was hollering up from town saying that her pussy is just itching for you. You understand me?”
Billy nodded.
Then Jake fired of both barrels of his shotgun into the tree and screamed at the top of his voice. “Run!”
The two hunters moved as fast as they could through the mist in the direction they thought Carnival lay. As soon as their backs were turned they heard the chattering closed in behind them, faster than they could ever have imagined.
5.
The gramophone needle was placed onto the disc by a feathered hand tipped with talons.
The red horn of the phonograph hissed and crackled as the needle jumped.
Hssssssssssssssssss.
The hands moved to a tray next to the gramophone. With deft, expert moves, half a blood orange was twisted onto a squeezer. The fine spray and sharp scent bloomed up into the room and screamed good morning.
The plunger was pressed on a cafetiere, mixing a moodier fugue into the carefree happiness of the orange zest.
Triangles of toast were stacked neatly together in a rack next to a steaming boiled egg.
The music began to breathe lazily out of the gramophone horn, an old jazz classic by the Ray Noble orchestra that spoke of more sophisticated times.
Midnight, with the stars and you……midnight, with a rendezvous….
The figure moved through the gloom, silhouetted against the pale morning light filtering through the curtains. The head turned as if to check it was not being watched, a curved proboscis creating a stark profile against the light.
Then, certain it was unobserved, the figure began to dance.
It slid across the polished tiles with the grace of Astaire, its long fingers spread out in a flourish as it swayed to the jazz.
In the half light, the creature stole a few moments of precious personal time, moving almost sensually around the room, its curved yellow talons swishing through the coffee steam.
It writhed and shuffled and struck poses of sublime elegance as the music drifted around it, the talons of its feet clicking lightly against the tiles.
Then as quickly as it began, the private dance stopped and the figure resumed a formal elegant stance. It turned to the heavy curtains and slid them wide, anticipating the cool pale light of dawn.
Instead, a dull rose light spilled into the room like a wounded sunset.
‘Muscadet’ was a creature that appreciated routine. Every morning he made the Master’s breakfast, enjoyed a few moments of dance, then watched as the sun god Ra sent his scarabs to push the reluctant sun back up into position.
This was most unorthodox. His face, being that of an Egyptian Vulture, was incapable of any expression except a sort of quizzical formality. Muscadet continued to stare out at the strange blood-red mist that was making its way through the forest below, slowly, inexorably, towards the mansion.
Hmmmm.
His shiny little black eyes registered none of the concern he felt.
The master wouldn’t like this, he thought, not first thing in the morning. He simply isn’t prepared for this without coffee.
Muscadet turned and straightened his immaculate black suit, smoothed down the feathers that he had neatly arranged into a side parting, and picked up the breakfast tray.
He stood at the foot of the four poster bed and gave the closest he could to a polite cough, which came out more as a shy squawk.
A figure sat suddenly up in the bed, fought its way frantically out of the heavy quilts. It looked around this way and that, seemingly confused as to why the world was still pitch black.
Muscadet coughed again and the figure tore the sleeping mask from its face. Manic blue eyes darted around the room then focused on the aquiline face of the valet.
“Ah. Good morning old boy. Breakfast time?”
Muscadet gave a curt nod and then placed the tray across his master’s knees. Then he stood and pointed a yellow talon out towards the bedroom window with an insistent chirp.
Edward Debruler already had a triangle of toast in his mouth when he looked up.
“Oh.”
Another chirp, indicating concern.
Debruler swung his legs out of bed and shivered as his bare feet touched the cold tiles.
As he padded across the room in his purple silk pyjamas, the valet slung a heavy dressing gown over his master’s shoulders and gave a couple of beaky clicks.
Debruler nodded and absent mindedly slipped his arms into the gown. He stepped into his waiting, pre-warmed slippers and stood at the window. The triangle of toast was still captured between his teeth.
“Muscadet, you’re quite right. That does look like a chilly one.”
Debruler peered out the window at the red mist creeping through the trees towards them. Somewhere down in that valley the town of Carnival, that his great great grandfather had founded, was immersed in the unnatural fog. Edward hoped against all his reason that somehow the dark forces that crept within that
mist had bypassed the townsfolk, let them be seen as irrelevant to their goal. Those people were innocent, and unbeknown to them, under his care for many a year.
“Oh dear. It looks like the Unseelie Court has finally found us.”
The valet clacked his beak and made a low guttural noise. Debruler furrowed his brow as he tore off another corner of toast.
“I suppose I should get dressed. We’re probably going to be under a full scale attack soon I’d imagine. If that’s a necromantic bloodmist, and I suspect it is Muscadet, I must level with you we’re unlikely to survive until tomorrow morning. We can’t keep it out for long.”
Muscadet walked over to the wardrobe and brought out a Harris Tweed suit, Oxford shirt and brown brogues. He draped the suit over his arm and presented it in front of Debruler with a flourish. The master studied it for a moment then nodded.
“Yes, I think that would be my choice of outfit for a last stand. Warm, practical, hardwearing, stylish but not ostentatious. Let’s go with the tweeds.”
Muscadet laid the suit and shirt out on the bed and then got to work polishing the brogues up to a high shine. “Yes, just a brush shine, Muscadet, I imagine this may get rather muddy. Do you know what would accompany that suit rather well?”
Debruler walked over to a large cabinet and flung open the doors to reveal a row of well-maintained and oiled shotguns. He turned and flashed a nervous grin to his valet.
“The over and under with the cherry red stock is my weapon of choice. Take one for yourself obviously, I’m going to need your help holding them off.”
Muscadet chirped in a way that instantly dismissed the idea of a firearm.
“Quite right, not your style. I sometimes forget what your original job was. It certainly wasn’t making me martinis.”
Debruler stood in his pyjamas with a shotgun crooked over his arm, looking with grave concern out of the window at the approaching red mist, as it snaked through the trees.
“I suppose it’s time to see if our magical defences actually work.”
The servant cocked his vulture head to one side then continued polishing a shoe
“Oh and Muscadet, would you be dear and go down to the storeroom, and bring up several boxes of shotgun shells?”
A chirp.
“No regular buckshot won’t do it for this enemy. In the cabinet marked thaumaturgic ammunition there are various labelled boxes. Bring me the ones marked Carrion, Revenant, and while you’re at it, bring one marked Vampire too.”
A singsong whistle of surprise.
“Oh yes I’ve made lot’s magical ammunition. Clever eh? I doubt anyone else in the world has ever thought of that.”
6.
“You want an extra shot?”
“No, thanks, just as it comes.”
“Sit in or take away?”
“Take away.”
Usher handed over a five pound note and then turned and leaned backwards against the counter as the coffee machine spluttered and hissed his coffee out into the takeaway cup.
Usher’s mind was still reeling from the footage Greystone had shown him. He had held a cherished image of his wife and child in his heart for the past seven years, just as they were when they were ripped from him. The creature he saw running from the bank in Paris, guns blazing and sorcery crackling from her fingers was like a stranger to him.
I watched her kill. The mother of my child who would faint at the sight of a paper cut. I don’t believe it’s true. I can’t. If Marie is alive, really alive, then where is our son?
He absent mindedly picked up a sachet of brown sugar and stirred it into the froth of his coffee.
Usher tightened his scarf around his neck and took his coffee and his change. He warmed his hands on the cup and walked back out into the busy main street. The chill evening air hit him and he hurried down the thronged main road towards his flat.
The rest of Empire One had been called back off leave or their active duty and Usher was due to meet them back at base for 2100hrs that evening. From there a military plane was to fly them out to Canada to liaise with their STG counterparts there. Within about five hours of that they would be deployed to the site of the paranormal incident out in the wilderness. This little backwater town called Carnival that he doubted anyone had ever even heard of before.
He turned right off the main road and down the long curving residential street where he had lived for the past two years. A warm light spilled from most living room windows as he passed.
Usher turned the key to his flat and stepped inside, kicking snow and dampness from his boots. He hung his overcoat and scarf on the hook next to the door and walked into the living room. A battered old sofa that had travelled with him from flat to flat for years sat there welcoming him with lumpy uneven cushions. Usher slumped down in this, and flicked on the television as he finished his drink. He blew out a short whistle and from the kitchen a solid thick furred Alsatian trotted through and settled down at Usher’s feet.
“Hey Max, Where you been, boy? You usually meet me at the door. Busy day licking your balls?”
The dog looked up at him indignantly and gave a small yelp then nuzzled down into Usher’s feet. He loved the mutt, and the Colonel was always kind enough to send one of his private secretaries out to the house to feed him whenever Usher was deployed. It was little gestures like that which inspired loyalty amongst the troops. Usher just had to pack a couple of things and he’d head back to base a few miles away.
“Your Uncle Greystone is gonna be looking after you for the next few days pal. So expect to be spoiled and dining on steak every night.”
On television a BBC documentary was covering story that Usher was familiar with. The newscaster spoke in earnest tones;
“For several months speculation had gathered around the Canary Wharf terrorist attack in August in which over sixty people were killed and over two hundred injured. In October this year known cyber-criminal and anarchist Jonathan Cray-White was arrested by the Metropolitan police in connection with alleged doctoring of footage and distribution of fraudulent material on the internet. The images, which went viral in a matter of hours, displayed the attack being perpetrated by what have been variously described as ogres, giants and werewolves. A spokesman for the security services stated that “This was a callous and opportunistic attempt to manipulate a tragic event for the shock value and advancement of a personal agenda. The Metropolitan police take this sort of action very seriously and an individual is assisting us with our enquiries.”
Usher grinned as he finished his coffee. “So they found a scapegoat and spun the story. Back in the shadows where we belong, eh Max? For now at least.”
Max the Alsatian gave a small bark and looked up at Usher, then further up at the ceiling. Usher smiled down at him then a look of suspicion came over his face.
The dog continued to look up at the ceiling, agitated and jittery. In a quiet voice Usher spoke.
“Why weren’t you at the door, Max?”
Usher heard a bump coming from upstairs.
Rush of adrenaline, goose bumps. Trouble.
He smoothly reached down the back of the sofa and wrapped his hand around the pistol that was taped there. There were weapons stashed all over the house in easy reach. Ripping the Glock free, Usher stood up and cautiously moved out into the hall and then stood looking up the stairs.
Max was an ex-army attack dog and the entire time Usher had owned him he had had never shown the slightest fear of any man. Now he was cowering and wincing. That was what set Usher’s hair prickling on the back of his neck. “Stay here boy.”
Usher moved slowly and silently up the stair, gun held angled close to his chest for instinctive shooting. He set himself against the wall next to his bedroom door, trying to gain the widest angle of vision inside. A light was on and he could sense a presence inside but could not see anyone. Usher took deep silent breaths to steady his limbs before he entered. This was the most dangerous part, exposing a silhouette in a doorway to any
threats inside. For a moment Usher felt an effervescence rising in his blood and his eyes took on a faint crimson hue. The residual Feral inside him had never really left, it bubbled beneath the skin in times of stress. Usher closed his eyes and forced it to diminish.
Then he moved swiftly into the doorway with his pistol up covering the area of greatest threat.
A husky female voice greeted him.
“I like your dog Usher. He’s beautiful. He tells me he doesn’t much like when you leave him alone all day.”
Usher scanned the rest of the room, but the only creature there was the six foot five winged demi-human shield maiden. The Valkyrie Ursula.
She lounged on an armchair next to the window with her long taloned legs stretched out. He kept the pistol trained on her as he used his peripheral sense to anticipate any additional threats in the room. After a few moments he spoke.
“You…you can talk to my dog?”
“A little.”
“Wanna ask him to stop letting strange bird-girls into my house?”
“I’ll mention it.” Ursula stood up and her powerful wings stretched a little then relaxed. She looked incredibly out of place in a suburban bedroom, standing next to the laundry basket and a pile of magazines. “Usher I needed to see you. Our war is escalating and I’ve been called back to the other side. I needed to give you a warning before I go. And I…I missed you a little and didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye.” She gestured awkwardly to the bedside table. “I brought wine.”
Usher glanced over at the bottle of Chateauneuf du Pape on the bedside table. It was open and breathing next to two glasses.
“You brought wine. Because that makes this normal.”
He had to admit he was glad to see her too. Usher was pretty sure where his government stood on inter-species sexual relations but he found his hormones begin to bubble as they always did when she was near. Usually at exactly the same time every alarm bell in his trained mind went off in unison.
The Last Line Series One Page 38