The creature screamed and then hissed in a dry whisper.
“He was sent. I was told he would come. He was to be given to me, as a gift.”
“Sent by whom?”
The creature writhed and kicked but was too weakened to escape. It turned its ugly head away from Usher, who sprinkled more powder onto the back of its skull. The Unseelie gritted its teeth and glared at him in agony and contempt.
“Bramley! Lord Bramley! One of your own!”
Usher had met the man and was not entirely surprised. What was worrying however was how much political control a man like Bramley had over the STG. Now it made sense why they were being shut down.
“He’s taken Ghostcoin? He’s the mole in the STG?”
“Yes, yes!”
Bramley was influential. He had been involved in sending Empire One to Canada for the Bloodmist Operation. He would have been involved in the setting up of the watch stations, and no doubt had orchestrated sending Ariel to his doom. But judging by the state of the creature in front of Usher, it hadn’t quite gone as planned. Usher couldn’t resist a bitter smile.
“He knew there was a mole you know. That’s why he started keeping his research to himself.”
Usher’s smile faded as he stared down at the wretched monster.
“Ariel told me I would find something here. An artefact. A knife. Where is it?”
“I do not know, I swear. I was aflame, I hid in the darkest corners. When the people came I made myself small. They did not see me.”
“What people?”
The thieves. Not your people. The ones who profit from artefacts.”
“Scavengers? There were artefact scavengers here?
“When I came from hiding the knife was gone. They took it. I was too weak to stop them.”
Usher sighed and his shoulders sagged.
Fucking scavengers. Trying to make a quick buck from the end of the world. Now the knife could be anywhere.
Usher looked at the damaged bonsai and tried to imagine that his friend was somewhere on the other side, looking back.
“Did you hurt him?”
Despite its pain the creature managed a sly grin.
“He cannot survive. There is nothing on my side that will not flay him. ”
Usher’s brow furrowed. He was tempted to pour the rest of the thaumaturgic weedkiller into the Unseelie’s crooked mouth. Instead he took out a crumpled pencil sketch from his pocket.
“We’ll see. What do you know about that knife?”
The Unseelie barely glanced at it.
“Nothing…it’s a mere bauble.”
Usher tipped some more powder. The creature’s skin was swelling up in burning pustules.
“No? Whoops sorry about that, you ok?”
The creature’s next sentence came out in a pain induced flurry.
“It’s the First Blade. It was created by the Valkyrie to stop Lilith the first time she crossed over.”
“So it really can hurt her?”
The Unseelie nodded and curled up in a miserable ball.
“If.. if you let me cross over…I will find him for you…your friend…bring him back.”
“Aw, you’d do that for me…you’re not all bad are you?”
The creature raised its head and a trail of green drool trailed from the floor. Usher glared at it.
“Just remind me again…who killed those children that are hanging up on the walls.”
The Unseelie gave him a look of pure hate.
I…was…surviving…more than your kind will do…”
Usher looked up at the poor people stuck with thorns that adorned the walls.
“Survive this.”
He poured the remainder of the powder into the creature’s mouth and it fell back spasming. The creature continued reducing and desiccating for the next minute. It choked and gasped but in less than a writhing minute it was nothing but powder. The effect spread to the walls, each clinging vine falling to the floor and crumbling to dust. The bodies they had merged with did the same, an unfitting cremation for humans already subject to enough indignation. Usher knew that it was best that any family they may have had carried on believing that their loved ones perished in the fire, bravely rescuing stragglers from a burning death.
Within a few minutes the Thaumaturgic weedkiller had cleaned the room of all traces of Unseelie magic, miniature world trees and drained bodies. Usher looked around, making sure the clean-up was thorough.
Just a regular old creepy basement in a mental institution. Nothing weird here.
When Usher arrived outside it was full dark. Heavy clouds hung over Marksley Willows shrouding the moon. As he crunched back along the gravel driveway towards his car, Usher had rarely felt so alone. He felt the emotion rise but compartmentalized it. His special talent that only just kept him sane. He didn’t want to think about the fate of his friend.
As he revved up his Jaguar, Usher took something out of his jacket pocket. A broken item he had seen on the floor of the cellar once the vines had cleared. He ran his finger and thumb along the black plastic, felt the cracked glass of the lens.
Ariel’s glasses.
I miss you old friend. Wherever you are.
Usher’s car took a three point turn and drove off down the dark country road towards civilization. His headlights caught the sign for Marksley Willows as he turned.
BRING US YOUR LOST.
11
Laz zipped up his leather jacket and stubbed out his cigarette. A few shady characters spilled out of the bar and into the rainy street. One of them cast him a dirty look before popping his collar and tramping off down the alley.
The flickering neon sign above his head read THE STANDING STONE.
As a drinking establishment it didn’t get much passing trade. It was intentionally modelled to be one of those dinghy threatening places that people assumed was for locals only. The Standing Stone was a word of mouth sort of place. In its smoky corners, conspiracy theorists and amateur thaumaturgists mixed with those whose veil had been lifted. Whispered tales of nameless horrors were told over cheap whisky.
Laz had soon realized that the thing with amateur thaumaturgists is that they can’t do much thaumaturgy without the proper reagents, talismans and magical artefacts.
Laz had built up enough shady contacts and become enough of a name on the shadiest depths of the internet, that he could get his hands on many of these sought after items. The majority of these deals were done under the tables of The Standing Stone.
Occultists and collectors of the bizarre skulked in gloomy booths. The sort of person that in the Victorian era would have owned a cabinet of curiosities drank absinthe there and told tales of the latest eldritch artefact to appear on the black market.
Laz took a deep breath and strolled through the door into the bar. He was hit with a fug of spicy smoke and a few pairs of eyes turned to regard him suspiciously.
Laz was known here as a man who could get his hands on things for the right price. He was known as a talented hacker who could obtain secrets for the right price. Unfortunately he was also known as an unreliable gambling reprobate by most of the clientele that drunk there. He wandered through the bar with as much of a nonchalant air as he could muster. In the farthest corner he saw a heavy set man, grey around the temples and cruel mouthed. Around this man stood three very large Turkish looking thugs in black leather jackets.
Mr Lackland was a local in the bar. He was also a local gangster and obsessive amateur thaumaturgist. He lapped up rare and exotic artefacts the way many people do with gadgets and technology. It was a power thing with him.
Laz tried to calm his fluttering heart and walked up to their table. The three bruisers took a step towards him.
“Mr Lackland, lovely to see you. It’s like Gorillas in the Mist watching you surrounded by those big fellas.”
Mr Lackland shot back a nip of vodka. His gold rings caught the candlelight and Laz squinted.
“Laz, nice to see you, y
ou’re late.”
Laz shot a grin to the frowning henchmen.
“Fashionably.”
Lackland looked the young man up and down with thinly veiled contempt.
“Fashion is not a word I’d associate with you young man.”
Laz smoothed down his retro leather jacket and 1970’s tie.
“Well I walk my own path Mr Lackland.”
“Ever wonder where it leads?”
“I’m a purveyor of wonders, Mr Lackland. It leads everywhere.”
“Not for you, I’m afraid. For you it’s a dead end.”
Lackland nodded his head and one of the big men grabbed Laz and wrenched his arms up behind his back. His other hand wrapped like a python around his slender neck.
“Wait, wait! What is this?”
“Don’t play the innocent with me. You’ve fallen behind in your debts. And you’ve sold me hooky magic.”
“Look, you know me, you know I’m good for it. You can trust me.”
“You already owe us twenty thousand pounds Laszlo. With the interest on top of that. You’re an inveterate gambler a liar and a thief. What could I possibly trust you with?”
“You can trust me to lie and steal shit. But Mr Lackland, I am awaiting a spectacular payday.”
“Oh?”
“Oh yes. I’ve recently come into an extremely rare artefact. Practically priceless.”
“As priceless as that bottle of Unseelie wine you sold me? As priceless as the Troll’s stomach acid? As priceless as the summoning stone for a fire sprite? All shit.”
“Well admittedly, these things don’t come with a certificate of authenticity.”
“Fakes, son.”
“I sell these things in good faith Mr Lackland.”
“Faith is something you clearly lack entirely Mr Mozolowski. It’s clear to me, to almost every buyer in London in fact, that you have not the slightest clue what half the things you sell even are. You have no interest in the Unseelie or in thaumaturgy. Your interest is solely in financial gain.”
“I like to be paid I admit, that’s no crime.”
“Selling me fake goods is. Although, to my surprise, the troll stomach acid you sold me was actually legitimate.”
Laz stared wide eyed.
“It was?”
Lackland produced a bottle of dark green liquid from under the table.
“It is. In fact I’ve got it right here.”
“Ah.”
“Amazing stuff. There’s almost nothing it can’t eat through.”
Laz gave a nervous laugh.
“Bit like my friend Buller. Well I’m glad you’re happy with the product, I’ll go back to my contacts and see about getting you some more.”
“But I haven’t had the chance to use this stuff yet. Hold him down.”
“Wait!”
The bruiser wrenched Laz around and pinned him onto the table.
“I wonder what would happen if we poured this stuff down your throat?”
“Look, you don’t want to miss out on this deal, it’ll take you to the big league. Trust me this thing is worth millions. Even the Special Threats Group are after it. .”
“How would you know what the STG want?”
“Because they nearly caught the scavengers that found this thing. If you had this artefact it would clear my debts and give you a bargaining chip with almost anyone.”
“And you’ll bring it me eh?”
“Yes. I’ll bring it to you. Just email me and we can arrange. It will clear my debts a hundred times over.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a knife. Carved bone handle, funny shape blade, like wavy, you know?”
“A Kris knife?”
Laz nodded. Mr Lackland cast a curious look over to his associates.
“What was the handle?”
“It’s got a white jewel in the hilt, held in by sort of spider legs.”
Lackland signalled for his man to release his grip, and Laz had to lean on a chair to catch his breath.
“You know it?”
“If what you’re describing is true, then you bring it to me. You tell no one else and you advertise it nowhere. I’ll contact you.”
“Ok. Ok.”
Lackland signalled his man, who released Laz. He sat up coughing.
“All right Laszlo. I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. But if try to fuck me over this time, I’ll be making a special cocktail for you, and we’re all going to watch you drink it.”
Laz nodded and backed apologetically out of the bar.
As he walked down the rain soaked alley, he nervously tapped out a cigarette into his shaking hand. He wasn’t quite sure how he had just escaped having acid poured down his throat, but Lackland seemed to want that artefact pretty bad.
Christ, I better have actually found something real here! I need to find out what this is. Before whoever really owns it finds out that I have it.
12
The village was in a state of panic.
The soldiers of Anansi’s Web were coming and all agreed that when they did it was better for them to kill you than to take you prisoner. None of the villagers knew for sure what happened to those that were kidnapped but most believed that they were taken to the underworld to be fed to the spider goddess.
Three weeks earlier, a boy had stumbled into town from the forest, emaciated and in shock. He was dressed in rags and decorated with a network of lashes and half healed bruises. His vacant eyes rolled wildly back towards the jungle as the adults had tried to get some sense out of him.
Only old Edna, the village herbalist, had eventually been able to bring him back to some level of normality.
Still in a fugue state, he spoke of being taken deep into the jungle where all the demons of their folk tales walked on earthly feet and then deeper still into a temple where he did not see the sun for months. Underground he had seen horrors that even Edna could not get him to speak of.
Now the horrors were coming to them, to where they lived, to steal their wives, their children, and their souls.
The menfolk of the village gathered in the sweltering afternoon sun. They were sweating and terrified but determined that they would fight off the impending attack. They passed around a bottle of Lokoto, a blisteringly strong local moonshine made from maize. The men called it pétrole amongst themselves and it was their war gin, giving them courage against a force that had devastated the entire region.
Lionel Makanda took the bottle and slugged back the Lokoto. He felt the burn all the way to his stomach and for a moment it killed the butterflies within.
His hand was sweaty on the grip of his old rifle. It had sat gathering dust in his house for twenty years and he was not entirely sure it still worked. He was a shopkeeper and his hands were more used to carrying a pencil to mark up the day’s accounts. There had been little to mark up lately and only a few tins of rice pudding and bags of maize still lingered on his shelves. The delivery truck had stopped arriving five weeks ago along with all the news of the region it traditionally brought with it.
These were not men that they fought. The soldiers of Anansi’s Web were once men but had been given blessings by their evil Loa. They fell into a black sleep and felt only hunger and lust for suffering.
Lionel Makanda knew that most of the soldiers of Anansi’s Web had not been good men to begin with. These were no pressed men. This new threat was recruited from a violent underclass that had terrorized Jakanna for twenty eight years. They were bandits and murderers that had been drug-addled with heroin, marijuana and Lokoto before the truly hardcore poison of Anansi was offered. The soldiers of Anansi’s Web were volunteers. They had freely given their souls up to this dark Loa in exchange for power and a war to fight. That was their mentality.
Lionel knew what was in store for them as the jeeps hurtled into the village, laden with whooping soldiers.
“We must take cover! Get behind my truck or into the store. Put the refrigerator on its side and against the wi
ndow.”
“What about our families Lionel? What will they do to them?”
Lionel looked the local farmer Benjamin Dimbisi in his searching eyes. He thought about lying, telling him something to ease his worry, but what would be the point of his fantasies as his family endured the inevitable trials as he was forced to watch.
“Run, get your families in the storeroom at the back of the shop. Make sure someone with a rifle stands by the door and does not move from it, no matter what they see or hear.”
Lionel noticed that Edna Cephu, the village herbalist, had appeared from the shop and was ushering the children inside. She looked calm and patient, like an old teacher taking the kids on a school trip. The old woman did not speak unnecessarily but when she did she always showed a great deal of intelligence and compassion.
The shouts of the Anansi’s Web soldiers drew closer, their war cries sending shivers through the menfolk of the village.
Lionel took another swig of Lokoto and gritted his teeth. The other men grasped their farming implements, machetes and the few old firearms they had and took cover behind the cars that were still left in the village. Lionel crouched behind his own old delivery van and waited.
The noon sun glared down upon his balding head causing salty sweat to nip his eyes. He blinked and when he rubbed the sleeve of his shirt across his face he realized his hand was shaking.
Suddenly a shot punched through the rusted van with a screech of tearing metal. Lionel instinctively ducked and shielded his face as shards of aluminium flew through the air next to him.
Next to him, Benjamin brought his shovel head up to protect his face, screaming through gritted teeth.
“How did our country become this place Lionel? I just want to be a farmer.”
Lionel reached out to him as another volley of rounds hit the van, tearing through the aluminium sheeting and puncturing Benjamin through his chest. The farmer tensed, his limbs extending as if in a morning stretch, and then he went limp. Lionel leapt across and rolled him over but the eyes that faced upwards held no more life.
Lionel screamed and stood up. He leaned over the bonnet of the truck and pointed his old rifle at the advancing soldiers.
The Last Line Series One Page 69