May Contain Traces of Magic

by Tom Holt

  “Derek,” he said. “You’re Derek, from Jill’s work. Piss off, I’m busy.”

  The human didn’t answer—of course not, because Chris had spoken in Pandemonian, the language of his own people, which humans couldn’t understand. like it mattered. He knew without needing to ask what the humans were doing here: they were Delendi Sunt, the demon-hunters, the enemy of his kind. That changed things. He let go of Angela’s neck and muttered, “You know who this lot are?”

  She nodded. “You’re still under arrest, though.”

  “Fine,” he replied. “Later.” She grinned.

  The humans were trying to surround them, which wasn’t good; they might be mere mortals, but they weren’t stupid. “Back to back,” Chris grunted, and thankfully Angela had the sense to do as she was told. He tried roaring, but although they were plainly scared—yum!—they kept their positions. He tried a couple of trial swipes, but collected nothing more than a few nailfuls of scalp.

  “Cover the female,” Derek was saying, “I’ll take the male.” Courage—a rich, slightly salty taste; not sweet, like terror. Odd, though. What did a stupid human have to feel courageous about?

  Then he saw something in Derek’s hand: a square yellow box, from which the human drew a long, thin steel tape. Oh, Chris thought. One of those.

  But so what? He was a demon, faster, stronger, infinitely better motivated, and still starving hungry. His eyes fixed on the yellow tape, Chris took a step forward, balanced his weight and went for the lunge—

  The pantacopt blade caught him on the neck, just above the collarbone, and carried on going until it came out through the thigh bone on the opposite side. He had just enough time to taste his opponent’s joyous relief and to mutter “Shit” under his breath, and then he died.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Chris’s life flashed in front of his eyes. The process can’t have taken more than a millionth of a second in real time, because that’s roughly how long it takes for the neural energy to drain out of the synapses as the brain starves of oxygen and dies, but it seemed ever so much longer. The first ten years were mostly embarrassing, like looking at photographs of yourself in your pram with chocolate all round your mouth. School was just dull, and by the time he hit puberty he was starting to fidget. Maths with Miss Whitworth was about as enthralling as it had been the first time round; ditto hanging round the Co-op car park with Danny and Neil. There were a couple of incidents, like his maiden hangover and the first time he got a ride home in a police car, that he’d much rather have fast-forwarded through, but no such luck. He was being treated to the director’s cut, with all the bits that should’ve been edited out pasted lovingly back in. Come to think of it, his life was little more than a bloopers compilation in any case. All that was missing was Denis Norden to do the commentary. Year ten. Danny bets him he wouldn’t sneak into the girls’ toilets, he accepts. Suddenly, he had his own undivided attention.

  I’m sitting in the cubicle. Someone’s written KH4CP on the wall in biro, just above the toilet-roll holder. I can hear voices. I can hear someone moving about in the. adjoining cubicle. What do I do now?

  SatNav? he thought.

  “What?”

  Her voice in his head. I’m lost, SatNav. Which way do I turn?

  “Well” she said, “that depends. Oh, sod it, stop time.” Time obligingly stopped; he checked his watch, and the second hand was frozen. “You do pick your moments, don’t you?”

  Thanks, SatNav. He stared at the door in front of him, the bolt he’d have to pull back in order to leave the cubicle. Well, here we are again.

  “You’re going to have to stop doing this before it becomes a habit.” SatNav said. “Right, what’s the matter?”

  I’m dead, aren’t I?

  “Yes” SatNav replied. “You have, to coin a phrase, arrived at your destination.”

  Shit.

  “Yes.”

  He frowned. That’s because I changed history, he thought. I came back here—you brought me back here—I stopped Jill from killing you, I killed Jill, you survived, so did Angela, but not me. Is that it, more or less?

  “Basically. You took the road less travelled by, and it has made all the difference. That’s a quotation” she pointed out. “Wasted on you, presumably.”

  If you say so, he thought. But, SatNav, if I don’t interfere, if I let Jill kill you—

  “Too late” SatNav interrupted. “It’s already happened. This is just your life flashing in front of your eyes. Well-attested neurobiological phenomenon. It’s not real, you can’t change anything.”

  You’re lying.

  “When have I ever lied to you?”

  He shifted a little and sat firmly on his hands. Thanks, you can start time again now.

  “You wouldn’t.” Just a hint of panic, maybe? “You wouldn’t just sit there and let me die.” Want to bet?

  “You couldn’t. You’re not capable of it. Your inherent decency and sense of fair play—” Whenever you’re ready.

  “Oh come on,” SatNav said nervously, “be reasonable. I mean, what the hell have you possibly got to live for?”

  He smiled. About fifty years, he replied, assuming I lay off the carbohydrates and always look twice before crossing the road. That’s enough. You’ve got to be in the game if you want to stand a chance of winning.

  “Someone’s been reading the Reader’s Digest again,” SatNav said. “Face it, your life’s a mess. You’ll be better off without it, trust me.”

  No. And besides, there’s stuff I’ve got to do.

  “Too late for that now,” SatNav said. “Besides, wouldn’t you rather leave it to someone else, let it be their problem? Think of all the aggravation.”

  Restart time, SatNav. Now.

  “I don’t think you quite grasp the dynamics of the situation,” SatNav said desperately. “All right, you can change things back, but it won’t solve anything. You’ll still be dead. You got cut in two, remember. Sorry, but that’s not negotiable.”

  Tick took, SatNav. Now.

  The second hand of Chris’s watch jerked forward one division. He heard the door of the neighbouring cubicle open. I hope I’m right about this, he thought. He stayed where he was.

  “Bastard,” said Honest John.

  Chris opened his eyes. “Hello,” he said.

  “Selfish, inconsiderate bastard,” John said, reaching out a hand to pull him out of the toilet. “You chickened out, then.”

  “Yes.” He frowned. “How did you—?”

  “That was the deal,” John’s head said. It was propped up in the sink. “You’d go back and change history, and in the altered timeline you wouldn’t cut my head off.”

  “You knew, didn’t you? You knew if I changed history, I’d die.”

  John’s body hauled him out, and Chris stood on the bathroom floor, shaking a little. “Not noticeably dead, though, are you?”

  So, he’d been right after all. “That’s because it wasn’t me that got cut in two,” he said. “It was the demon.”

  John’s head grunted. “You figured it out,” he said, with grudging respect. “Pity. I never thought you’d be smart enough.”

  Chris put the toilet seat down and sat on it. “The demon got killed,” he said, “not me. I got set free. I’m alive and I’m human again, and I’m back where I belong. That wasn’t just my life flashing in front of my eyes, that was me getting my life back again.”

  “Quite,” said John’s head. “You get to survive, and the hell with everybody else.” His body picked up his head. “You got any parcel tape, anything like that?”

  Chris thought. “Sorry,” he said. “We used to have some, but I think Karen used it all.”

  “Bugger. All right,” John said wearily. “In that case, I’ll get you to cut two holes in a carrier bag for me. To see through,” he explained.

  Once John had left the flat, Chris made himself a nice cup of tea, then got the superglue out and glued the toilet seat firmly shut, just in case. Then he flum
ped down on the bed and started to shake all over.

  Music, if you could call it that. ‘Shake It Loose’, by the Lizard Headed Women.

  “You fell asleep,” the nice Fey explained. “Hardly surprising, after the day you’ve had.”

  Chris sat up, looked down at the body lying on the bed. “I’m still alive, aren’t I?” he said anxiously. “I mean, I’m not—”

  The nice Fey laughed. “Calm down,” she said, “it’s all right. You’re alive, this is just a perfecdy ordinary dream. And yes, you’re back. It worked. It was the demon who got killed, not you.”

  He sighed with relief. “That’s all right, then,” he said.

  “Quite,” the nice Fey said. She looked at Chris for a moment or so, then said, “Did you really figure it all out by yourself? I’m impressed.”

  At any other time he’d have relished the flattery. “Depends,” he said cautiously. “Exactly what did I figure out?”

  “That once the demon surfaced and took you over, it’d be killed and not you. Because that’s A-level-grade demonology—not bad if you worked it out from first principles.”

  “It was luck,” Chris admitted. “And intuition as well, I suppose.”

  She nodded. “I suppose so,” she said. “After all, it was pure chance that the demon-hunters happened to raid your flat at exactly the right moment.”

  He grinned weakly. “Not quite,” he said. “I phoned them.”

  “Oh.” She sounded impressed. “So you had got it all worked out.”

  Shrug. “It was something you said, actually,” he replied. “You kept telling me that I was stuck with being a demon for the rest of my life.” Chris looked away; he was trying to remember what had made him so certain it’d work, but he couldn’t. Scary thought, that. “I came to the conclusion that it was worth a try and I didn’t have a hell of a lot to lose. But what I was expecting to happen was that the Delendi Sunt boys would kill the demon and I’d be left over, so to speak, but still marooned in the other timeline. This—” He waved vaguely at the universe. “It’s a bonus I really wasn’t expecting. Which means there’s got to be more to it than just having the demon killed.” He shook his head. “I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me, are you?”

  The Fey smiled sadly. “Sorry, can’t. You’re on the right lines, but you’re going to have to work it out for yourself. Otherwise it’d be cheating.”

  “What’s wrong with cheating?”

  She gave him a cold look. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” she said.

  “Fine. What happened to Angela, by the way?”

  “Dead. Oh, don’t look all sad about it. Just means she’s back on her side of the line, explaining to her bosses how she came to cock up the mission. But I don’t suppose they’ll be too hard on her. After all, she more or less succeeded.”

  Chris wasn’t expecting that. “No, she didn’t,” he objected. “She was supposed to find the dissident ringleader.”

  The nice Fey smiled at him, the reassuring smile you use—when talking to an amiable idiot. “Yes, she did,” she said. “And maybe she didn’t bring it back, but that hardly mattered, since it came back of its own accord at more or less the same time as she did. Think about it,” she added, as she vanished in a cloud of blinding light and deafening noise.

  Which turned out to be the phone, ringing in the hall. Chris swore, extended his cricked neck and cramped legs, and hobbled out to answer it.

  He recognised the voice, though it gave him a nasty jolt when he heard it. “Hi, Jill,” he said. “Talk of the—”

  “What the hell do you think you’re playing at?” Jill yelled at him.

  “Nice to hear your voice too, Jill. What can I do for—?”

  “I’ve just got off the phone with the permanent secretary,” Jill snarled at him. “I’ve been trying to explain to him why the demon high commissioner in London’s just thanked him officially for extraditing the dissident ringleader back across the line. But we haven’t, I said. Yes, we bloody well have, he said, and your name was expressly mentioned, you and some old school friend of yours. I have no idea who you could possibly mean, I lied, let me look into it and get back to you. You bastard,” she added, with enough pressure of feeling to power a steam turbine. “What’ve you been up to?”

  Chris sighed. He’d always liked Jill, a lot, but this time he wasn’t in the mood. He put the phone down, counted to three and then lifted the receiver off the cradle and laid it gently on the table. “I just saved your life, you ungrateful cow,” he said aloud. Then he tottered into the kitchen and cut himself a sandwich.

  Amazing what two slices of processed bread and a thin layer of stale cheese can do. Unfed, the most he could say for himself was that he’d somehow managed to survive the past. With a cheese sandwich inside him, he was very nearly ready to face the future. Whichever future it turned out to be.

  So: the demon had left him, gone back to its side of the line. All well and good, and he was delighted to be rid of it. (He munched a mouthful of sandwich.) But there were still far too many questions hanging over him. Where had the demon come from in the first place? And which one was it?

  Chris chewed steadily until he’d finished the sandwich to the last crumb. Then he took out his wallet, found a business card and dialled a number.

  While he was waiting for the visitor he’d summoned to arrive, he hoovered and dusted the flat, washed up, cleaned the kitchen floor and did two loads of washing. He was surprised how much it helped; to the point where, when Derek from the department arrived, Chris was much calmer than he had any right to be.

  “Thanks for the loan of them,” Derek said, handing over Frank Slade’s special sunglasses. “I wouldn’t mind borrowing them again some time, if you’re not using them.” Derek didn’t look nearly so terrifying in this timeline. In fact, he wasn’t scary at all.

  “My pleasure,” Chris said. “Oh, and I wonder if you’d mind getting rid of this for me. I’ve only just found out what it is, and I don’t like having it in the house.”

  Derek recognised the tape-measure instantly, just as he’d recognised the sunglasses. “Where the hell did you get—?”

  “Little old lady found it in her attic,” Chris replied.

  “You do know what this is?”

  “Yes, and so do you. Just take it away and put it somewhere safe.”

  (Somewhere I’ll never be able to get hold of it again, he didn’t say.)

  As soon as Derek had gone, Chris went into the bathroom, stood in front of the mirror and put the sunglasses on. “Shit,” he said aloud.

  They all looked alike to him, of course, so he couldn’t be sure, but if he had to express an opinion he’d have to say he was sure it was the same demon face he’d seen in this very mirror in the other timeline. Wonderful, he said to himself, I’m a demon.

  But now at least he understood why.

  So.

  Typical bloody Karen, he thought, she buggers off in a huff and doesn’t think to let me know where she’s gone. Grand gesture, but utterly inconsiderate.

  There was, of course, one person who could be relied on to know where she’d got to. Information central, the social hub. Chris took a deep breath and phoned Jill’s number.

  “If you’ve called to apologise, you can—”

  “No,” he said. “I need to talk to Karen.”

  “I don’t know where she—”

  “Yes, you do.”

  (In spite of everything, the stress, the aggravation, the threats of death and serious injury, a tiny bit of him was smirking.)

  “All right,” Jill conceded, “maybe I do, but she told me that she doesn’t want to see you. She was absolutely clear about it. Look, I’m really sorry, but—”

  “This isn’t true love,” Chris interrupted harshly. “This is business.”

  She reacted as though she’d never heard the word before. “I don’t understand,” she said. “How can it be—?”

  “I’ve found the one who is to come,” he said
. “You know, the dissident ringleader. The real one,” he added, a trifle spitefully. “You want it, you fetch Karen over right now. No,” he added quickly, as a tiny cog slid into place in the gear-train of his mind, “this evening, here, the flat. Let’s all three of us go out to dinner.”

  “What? Chris, are you feeling all right?”

  He grinned. “Never better.”

  He rang off, then phoned the Indian restaurant across the road and booked a table.

  Lots of things to do before then. First, Chris nipped down to the car and rummaged about among the boxes of samples until he found what he was looking for. Just the one packet; he hoped it’d be enough. He took it through into the kitchen, read the directions on the back of the packet (they were delightfully simple: just add water) and emptied the contents into the biggest bowl he could find. Then he filled the measuring jug with water and slopped it in. It didn’t say you had to stir it, but he thought it couldn’t do any harm. Wrong. Two seconds, and it dissolved the head off the wooden spoon.

  And to think (he thought) it’s taken me all this time to figure out what it’s for. How thick can you get?

  Add dried water to pure distilled water and you get pure distilled water. JWW Retail DW6 powder is essence of nothing—because if it was anything at all, when you added it to pure water you’d get pure water plus something: impure water.

  Conventional science recognises matter and anti-matter; DW6 is neutral matter. Make it into something, and that something won’t exist, definitively; but it’s still matter, and has 1001 handy applications around the home, workshop and office. Mix with turpentine to create an easily moulded putty which sets hard to the consistency and with the properties of brick, and you can build a solid, useful structure that isn’t actually there. Make a saturated solution of DW6, pour it into an ordinary household ice-cube tray and pop it into the freezer, and you end up with the philosopher’s stone of applied demonology, null ice. Ten cubes of null ice (roughly the amount you get out of one standard-size sachet of DW6) is sufficient to embody one average adult male demon.