Laz downed the nip of whisky on the table and winced. He leaned in and pointed at the Moroccan.
“Look. I went to almost every mark on that map Malik. Thin spots aren’t exactly stable. Most of them had collapsed long before I got there. The artefacts I did find barely covered my train fare. Whatever thaumaturgy was once in them had been spent. They were duds.”
Malik’s turn to shrug.
“That’s why customers don’t want to buy from you anymore Laz. These people are serious about their magic. They want artefacts that work.”
Laz tapped a cigarette from a softpack and leaned forward. It fizzled into life as it got close to the flickering candle that sat on the table.
“Well I’ve nearly burnt all my bridges Malik. You’re about the only supplier in London that will still talk to me.”
Malik regarded him for a long moment, his dark eyes drawing in the warmth of the candle. The backroom they sat in had bare floorboards and peeling walls. The sort of room petty criminals played poker in. The sounds of a busy restaurant filtered through from outside the door. The Moroccan sighed and smiled at the young man.
“Look, you’ve got a knack for finding secret things Laz, but it’s a buyer’s market now. Recently, more and more bits and bobs have been cropping up for sale. The real McCoy, things that actually work. If you want to make a real profit these days, you have to have something special on offer.”
“I’m desperate Malik. I’m in trouble.”
“How much?”
“Twenty, twenty five.”
Malik whistled.
“Who do you owe?”
“Who don’t I owe?”
Malik shook his head and poured Laz another shot of whisky.
“I’ll never understand how you get yourself in this much trouble Laz. Man of your talents. What is it with you?”
Laz knocked the shot back and sat with his eyes closed as it burned all the way down.
“School referred me to a psychiatrist when I was fifteen. They couldn’t reconcile how my grades could be so good and my behaviour so bad. I was waiting on a diagnosis of bi-polar or narcissistic personality disorder. Something that would explain away all my lying and thieving, the drugs, the drink.”
“What were you diagnosed as?”
Laz opened his eyes and stared at his supplier.
“An arsehole, Malik. I was diagnosed as an absolute arsehole.”
Malik waved a dismissive hand.
“If you don’t want to tell me that’s fine, but I’ve seen your kind before Laz.”
“My kind huh?”
“Yes. People that see something when they’re young and spend most of their adult lives desperately trying to pull the veil back on.”
“Great, now I’m being analysed by you.”
Malik sucked his Hookah, coughed, and then ran his fingers across the surface of the table.
“You’re like one of those pond skating insects. You skim across the surface of all this trying not to think about all the predators swimming just under the surface. But just a little too much pressure Laz, and down you go. That’s childhood trauma you’re suppressing. You wouldn’t be the first to witness something Unseelie as a child. What did you see?”
“Well there was this one thing.”
“Yes?”
“When I was eight. One winter’s night. I woke up in the witching hour and there he was. Just standing my room. Something from a myth made real.”
“What was it?”
Laz adopted a petted lip and pointed at various parts of himself.
“It was Santa, Malik. It was Santa-fucking-Claus. And he touched me here…here...and I hate to say…here.”
Malik tsked at him.
“Your psychiatrist was right, Laszlo. You are an arsehole.”
Laz drew deep on his cigarette and combed back his greasy hair with his fingers.
“Look Malik, do you have something for me or not?”
Malik seemed to be weighing up whether he should help the young man out or throw him out. After a painfully long moment he snapped his fingers at one of his assistants, who brought over an old wooden box.
“There is one thing.”
Laz’s bloodshot eyes lit up.
“What?”
“Something that the scavengers found up north. Some old ruin that caught on fire. The STG turned up, nearly caught them as they were bugging out of there.”
People like Laz relied on the findings of scavengers. They were opportunists who set up amateur thaumaturgic watch stations, listening out for surges and turning up to salvage whatever they could.
“An artefact?”
Malik shrugged and tapped the box.
“We think so. They can’t find any references to it in any of the books. It doesn’t seem to do anything Laz it’s probably another dud. Look it could be nothing, it could be valuable, we don’t know. Maybe if you can sell it, we can split the profits. See what you can do.”
“Well if it can’t be valued then how do I sell it?”
Malik seemed reluctant to speak his next words. He glanced at Laz from beneath hooded lids.
“You have a knack Laz. A knack for getting into trouble. But also a knack for selling rare artefacts no one quite knows what to do with. But mainly just for getting into trouble.”
Laz pointed at the box with his cigarette.
“You’re very perceptive. So you want me to try to shift this thing?”
Malik nodded. He opened the box and turned it to face Laszlo. Inside was a curious looking knife with a wavy blade. It looked old.
“See what you can do with it.”
Laz reached out and ran his finger along the blade. It was freezing cold. It certainly looked like something to be found at a Thinspot. Yet Laz didn’t think it looked Unseelie.
“What does it do?”
“As far as we can tell, nothing. With all the old defunct artefacts re-igniting all over the place recently, this thing has stayed conspicuously dormant. Which either means it’s not a lesser artefact at all and has something very powerful inside it…or-”
“-Or it’s just another dud.”
“It’s the best I can offer just now, Laz.”
Laz sighed and stood up. He buttoned up his leather jacket and smoothed back his hair. Malik closed the box and pushed it across the table to him.
“I’ll do what I can Malik. I need to go now. Gotta go to work.”
“They still got you doing IT?”
“Yeah, it was that or lose my benefits.”
Laz picked up the box and walked towards the door. When he turned the handle Malik called to him.
“Laszlo.”
“Hmmm?”
“Try to be careful. There’s something strange happening in London. It’s like everything is waking up. You don’t want the wrong people after you.”
Laz opened the door and shrugged.
“The wrong people? Who else comes after you, Malik?”
As he walked through the neon lit and rubbish smelling streets of SoHo, the memories did begin to surface.
Malik must have touched a nerve asking about that stuff. Fuck, I need a drink.
Laz didn’t need a shrink to tell him that was what the booze and drugs had been masking since he hit puberty. Malik was right, he had been trying to replace the veil for years, to un-know the things he had seen as a child. He should have run from the supernatural, run from thaumaturgy, run as far as he could from the weird subculture of London that delved into those things.
But he didn’t. Or couldn’t. Laz was like a moth to a flame, he just couldn’t stay away from the thing he hated.
Yeah that’s right…Because I’m an arsehole.
I’m a genius arsehole who is about to hack into the STG and try to find out what this thing really is.
8
Two men entered an exclusive London gentlemen’s club.
One was a hereditary peer. Lord Bramley believed in the social pyramid with his kind at the top. He was a throw
back to the age of Empire and believed in his failing heart that it was the place of the superior culture to guide its inferiors. This had put him in an awkward position the past twenty years, since his discovery that his was not actually the superior culture on Earth. The real masters had hidden quietly in the background for centuries, influencing policy and sowing the seeds of trouble. Since his days playing cricket at Eton, Lord Bramley believed in only one thing more deeply than the sanctity of the social pyramid.
Always be on the winning team.
Except for men like Lord Alfred Bramley, the presence of the Unseelie Court would have been detected and exposed long ago on earth. His kind were facilitators and clean-up men with influence at the very top of society. He was influential in bribing and blackmailing, tangling the authorities and politicians up in red tape and legal wrangling, and slowly building a loyal following of human disciples. These loyal followers of the secret and deep gods were insinuated into human institutions and societies where they could change things, little by little, to ensure a smooth transference of power.
The other man was a tall lithe black African male in a very well-tailored suit. He wore dark glasses and his head was polished to a high shine.
A rodent featured man in spectacles greeted them as they sat down in the opulent leather chairs in a quiet corner of the club.
“Lord Bramley, it’s nice to see you again.”
Bramley relaxed into his chair and made himself at home. His smile was gracious but cold.
“Nice to see you Bellingham. We thought you were avoiding us.”
Bellingham nervously fiddled with his cufflinks.
“Not at all. I see you’ve brought your guide back with you this time. Struggle to find your way to the club?”
Bramley glanced at the African man, who sat completely still in his dark glasses.
“This is Xzaza he was my cultural attaché during my recent diplomatic visit to Jakanna. He’s come over to help smooth out a situation over here.”
“Always good to have a mascot, Lord Bramley, a face to highlight the plight in Jakanna and all that.”
“Yes, not exactly a mascot. He’s here under the radar, on behalf of our mutual friend.”
Bellingham shifted uncomfortable in his chair.
“You mean he’s…oh…he’s…one of them? I was expecting-”
“What? You thought I’d bring some manner of pustulating ogre into the Blackmore club. In a Dickie bow? You don’t think that might have drawn some attention?”
Bellingham glanced nervously at the African.
“Well no, I just…I’ve never seen Unseelie up close before…he looks quite-”
“Normal?”
“Well yes I suppose so.”
“Bellingham, the party guests do not unmask until the clock chimes midnight, do you understand?”
Bellingham only vaguely understood as usual. The African did not move a muscle.
“Vaguely.”
Bramley sighed and waved his hand like a classical orator.
“Throughout history, smooth transfers of powers are successful because all the pieces had been put in place well in advance. It takes the status quo by such surprise that there is no wiggle room left for resistance. It needs to be checkmate before the other player has even made their first move.”
Bellingham looked around at the collection of elderly gentlemen scattered throughout the club. They were old money, old Etonians, and old power. They believed they ran things. He watched them as they sat in their green leather chairs smoking cigars. Not one of them had a clue what was coming or what real power was. If he was honest Bellingham wasn’t entirely sure either. What he did know was that if he wasn’t on the right side he was going to end up a very short footnote in his family’s history.
“So…he’s here to make sure everything goes smoothly?”
“Exactly.”
“How exactly?”
“First things we need to do to secure a checkmate is remove the all the threatening chess pieces our opponent has to offer.”
Bellingham leaned forward conspiratorially. His voice was low and urgent.
“You mean like that incident at Piccadilly Circus? The police might be reporting a lone attacker with mental health issues but we both know different don’t we? Lord Bramley, we can’t have…assassinations…on British soil. This isn’t Jakanna. Your man here can’t just go gallivanting about London with a machete lopping off arms.”
Xzaza did not move or react in any way. He just sat there in his dark glasses like a blind man. Bramley smiled faintly.
“No. he can’t. Nor does he have to. His methods are more subtle.”
Bellingham was becoming irritated now and worried for his own neck.
“That bloody troop of soldiers and their obstinate bloody Colonel aren’t fools. They will figure out that someone tried to sabotage their operation and they will come hunting for him. For me.”
Bramley calmly puffed on his cigar and gestured for Bellingham to calm down. A few of the old regulars had sat up in their seats and turned around to glance at them. Bramley smiled and they resumed their quiet chatter.
“Our friend is concerned following the operation in Canada. That was supposed to kill two birds with one stone. That particular team of soldiers has been a thorn in our friend’s side for long enough. You were supposed to use your influence in the Ministry of Defence to ensure that they all came home in bags and their Colonel disgraced from his position. It was supposed to set a ball rolling that ultimately dismantled the Special Threats Group politically.”
Bellingham spread his hands in exasperation.
“Lord Bramley, we arranged everything, the odds were stacked against them, and they shouldn’t have come back from that mission. That Colonel of theirs, Greystone, he must know where all the bodies are buried because when he talks people bloody well listen to him, right to the top.”
Bramley’s bushy eyebrows knitted together at the mention of Greystone. He was still riled at the man’s impudence during their review of his unit’s performance. Still, that wouldn’t be a problem for much longer. Bramley had been slowly strangling them politically for months.
“Let me deal with Greystone. He’s a knuckle dragging foul mouthed brute but he actually has the pedigree and believe it or not he is a member of this club. I’ll handle him softly-softly. “
“And what about his team? Those men are professional killers, special forces chaps. I don’t want to get thrown into a car boot in the middle of the night never to be seen again. All the odds were against them in Canada and they still walked away from it.”
“I think by now it should be apparent that this particular group are rather good at defying odds. You played a poor chess game that day Bellingham, and now this lot are more determined than ever. I told you a good player removes all the opponent’s threats before they checkmate.”
“I’m sorry, there were unpredicted complications. They had allies. Thaumaturgy. That bloody Debruler fellow. They were tougher than expected.”
Bramley flicked his eyes to the African man at his side.
“Don’t tell me. Tell him.”
“Sorry?”
“There’s no point apologizing for your blunder to me, I’m not the offended party. He is. Tell him.”
“I…well I think if I’m forced to apologize I shouldn’t be apologizing to a, forgive me, a lackey, some strongarm send over here to do violence. I should be talking with the brass, the top boss.”
Bramley sighed.
“Do you know what a hive mind is, Bellingham?”
“I presume it’s something like ants and such?”
“Yes. The soldiers of Anansi’s Web operate on a sort of hive mind. They’re directly linked to the entire ‘board of directors’ if you will, via their leader, Uncle Good-Day. Think of Xzaza as a sort of intercom system. When you speak with him, you speak with the Unseelie en masse.”
Bellingham sat back and raised a quizzical eyebrow at the silent African.
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“Really? I find that hard to believe. I mean I have had my own Veil lifted and I’ve seen the odd parlour trick or two, but nothing truly-”
“Tell. Him.”
Bellingham turned to the silent man in the Chesterfield chair. He cleared his throat and smoothed out his Saville Row suit.
“Uh, Mr Xzaza. May I say on behalf of all of our number in the Cabal, that it was never our intention to cause-”
Xzaza removed his dark glasses and stared blankly at Bellingham. His eyes were just black orbs without expression. His incredibly long thin fingers grasped the armrests of his chair and his head cocked to one side. He gave the horrible impression of something that could move incredibly fast but would give no indication of when he would do so. Like a spider.
Bellingham stared into the lifeless eyes, unable to recall the words he was searching for. The rest of the room began to blur and the entire Universe started to revolve around those terrible eyes, dark drains that sucked all the life from the world.
Bellingham had the awful awareness that it was not Xzaza that was looking at him. He knew that those eyes were conduits into a blackness that was not of this Earth, windows that every creeping thing on the other side could press their faces against and see him for what he was. A coward of the highest order.
In that moment Bellingham suddenly realized what he had done. He had sold his soul and his species to a horde of devils to save his own skin. He was the worst kind of human evil, an administrator, the kind of man who does the book-keeping for the Final Solution. It was too late to back out now. He had stared into their world now via this predatory creature’s eyes. He had finally realized what he was dealing with.
“I...I’m sorry…I’m so sorry.”
Xzaza broke into a sinister grin, his teeth sharp and brilliantly white. When he spoke his voice was rich and deep.
“Apology accepted Mr Bellingham. We know that this will be your last mistake.”
Bellingham was still entranced by those voids that peered out at him from Xzaza’s shiny skull. It was liked they sucked all hope and joy from a man’s soul.
The Last Line Series One Page 66