by Debi Gliori
Over the previous twelve months, a succession of explosions had destroyed SapienTech's high-security facilities around the globe and forced them to relocate to this dump in Argyll. Not that Argyll was so unpleasant when compared to, say, Archangel, but the main problem with Scotland was the difficulty in finding enough human tissue for proper research. Unlike in Angola or Panama, no one here was desperate enough to volunteer themselves for medical trials, and Dr. Umbra had been forced to limit her experimental efforts to laboratory mice, stray dogs and cats, and, all too infrequently, the odd tramp or derelict who had the misfortune to cross her path.
Taking a fortifying swig from the bottle of bourbon and chasing it with three extra-strong mints to disguise her whiskey breath, she wondered if this was the day she'd been dreading most of her adult life. The day when the evidence of her scientific sins came back to haunt her. And judging by the massive monsters in the parking lot, there was evidence aplenty….
She risked another look through the window, down to the tarmac, where one of the “visitors” was apparently wrestling with a smaller version of itself and producing an alarming quantity of green slime in the process…. What on earth were they? Mutations from the fatally irradiated lake in Archangel? She was so sure they'd all been eliminated, along with the human by-products of the chimera fiasco in Angola. Perhaps they were escapees from the Panamanian mind-canal disaster…but that didn't bear thinking about. Didn't they still have a death penalty in Panama? Half choking on a mint, she realized that she could speculate endlessly, but it was utterly pointless to do so. Whatever the things in the parking lot were, she vowed, by tomorrow they'd be yet more toxic sludge to fly-tip into the lake. Too much was at stake now. The drug trial had reached critical mass and was hurtling toward completion like a deranged snowball, rolling over people and places with ruthless velocity, flattening everything in its path.
Roars of outrage came from the parking lot below, agonized shrieks and screams that didn't cause so much as a frown to cross Dr. Umbra's brow, although, she had to admit, the smallest monster did have an excellent pair of lungs, which it was using to deafening effect….
Picking up her phone, she redialed. “Security? Me again. Let's not be too brutal, shall we? Take the intruders to the containment area. Not the incinerator, no. I'd like to run a few tests before disposal.” And snapping on a pair of disposable rubber gloves, Dr. Umbra headed downstairs to greet the beasts.
Out to Lunch
here is everyone?” Luciano muttered to Damp as they came downstairs into a deserted kitchen. Helping his daughter into her high chair, Luciano grumbled to himself as he plucked cereal packets from the pantry and laid them out for Damp's approval.
“This is the height of madness…. We shell out a king's ransom in staff wages, and in return we get a cook who won't cook, but can sulk for Scotland, we get a nanny who's spread so thin she's invisible, a butler who's forgotten who he is, and a replacement—” Luciano broke off and checked the view through the kitchen window down to the loch before continuing, “A replacement who eats like a rabbit, speaks in conundrums, and spends every morning communing with Lochnagargoyle instead of doing his job.”
“That one,” Damp said, pointing to her breakfast of choice. “Want it, Dada.”
“That's not how to ask properly.” Luciano frowned through the window, distracted by Damp's lack of manners. “Come on, bambina, you know better than that, surely? What's the magic word?”
“Abracadabra,” Damp replied automatically, before remembering that this was perhaps, on reflection, not a good idea, and rapidly amending it to, “Please,” for her father's benefit. Recalling the abracadabra invocation required enough energy to fuel a small electrical substation, and to Luciano's alarm, when he turned from the window to grant Damp's request, he saw his daughter facedown in her empty breakfast bowl, fast asleep.
“Cara mia,” he breathed, “are you unwell?” She was so small and vulnerable it hurt him to look at her. Nearly paralyzed by a sudden fear, he gathered Damp's unresisting body in his arms, stroking her forehead and smoothing her hair away from her eyes. “Wake up, my little one,” he begged, struck by how limp she felt in his arms. “Damp? Open your eyes. Speak to me! Wake up! ”
The child's eyes fluttered open, their vast dark pupils shrinking against the light. “Go 'way, Dada,” she mumbled, her eyelids barely able to resist the pull of gravity. “Nightnight.”
Luciano panicked. Having spent huge periods of his life as a parent cajoling his children to bed and then persuading them that sleep was A Good Thing, it felt totally wrong to find himself trying to do the opposite.
“BACI!” he shrieked, running out of the kitchen with Damp flopping like a rag doll over his shoulder. He took the stairs three at a time, arriving breathless and incoherent in the master bedroom where, judging by the trail of sheets, pajamas, discarded clothing, and shoes of varying heights and repair, Baci had locked herself in the bathroom to have a wardrobe crisis of epic proportions. Indeed, through the door, he could hear his wife bawling at her reflection.
“Nothing to wear… Hate my clothes…Fat and horrible … nothing fits anymore… hideous mumsy tents… Eughhhh —I look like a bloody whale. …” And in response to Luciano's knock on the door, she howled, “Go away!” loud enough to make his teeth rattle. Looking down at his daughter, he noticed that the little girl was smiling….
Laying her in the middle of the bed, Luciano whispered, “Precioza …my principessa … will you speak to me? Just one word? Let your dada know if you're OK?”
Damp's eyes opened. To her father's immense relief, she looked straight at him, yawned cavernously, and, stretching herself in all directions, lolled across the sheets, perfectly at home, luxuriating in the huge space of her parents' bed, wriggly, giggly, and, thankfully, awake. From behind the bathroom door came a despairing wail followed by a crash.
“Horrible stuff. It's bringing me out in spots ! Like some ghastly adolescent. I can't stand it. How on earth did I manage to forget this bit? Tired, spotty, sick as a parrot…I hate being pregnant, horrible, horrible, horrblurrrgh…”
Damp and her father winced simultaneously, wishing that somehow they could muffle the ghastly eruptions now coming from behind the bathroom door. Four months into her nine-month stretch, Baci still couldn't believe that she had to go through this every morning. Each day she would wake up feeling perfectly normal, but ten minutes later she'd be draped over the bathroom sink moaning fitfully as her previous night's supper popped back for a gruesome encore. Morning sickness was one of the little clauses in teeny-tiny print at the bottom of the child-rearing contract that few, if any, parents stopped to consider in the heady rush of baby-creation. Fortunately, morning sickness wasn't fatal, no matter how much its sufferers might have desired it to be so. It was also curable—in a hundred percent of cases, the birth of the baby could be guaranteed to produce a full recovery. Aware that this information would provide scant comfort to his tearstained, pale wife, Luciano waited until she'd staggered out of the bathroom and pitched facedown on the bed before he suggested a spot of retail therapy by way of distraction.
“Let's go and buy you something beautiful to wear,” he murmured, stroking Baci's heaving shoulders. “Something really special. Something to make you feel good …” Not being a natural-born shopaholic, Luciano was unsure what exactly this something might be. Shoes? A dress? A handbag? He patted Baci silently, wary of suggesting anything that might cause offense and bring about a renewed fit of prenatal hysterics. Jewelry? Perfume? Flowers? What did she need ? His eyes roamed desperately around their disheveled bedroom, alighting on their huge cedar-lined wardrobe. The doors to this lay wide open, exposing the colossal acreage of Baci's garments—countless laden hangers marching along the rails… and, in a tiny monochrome huddle, his own meager selection of clothes, completely overwhelmed by the volume of his wife's collection. Blinking rapidly, his eyes skidded across their dressing table, where the same rules applied, except his presence th
ere was confined to a single bottle of cologne, surrounded by the superior number of Baci's unguents. There simply isn't room for another moisturizer in her life, he decided. One bottle more and she'd slither out of his life entirely, her passage lubricated by this cosmetic oil slick….
“Luciano.”
“Cara mia?”
“D'you know what would really cheer me up?”
“For you—anything. Say the word and we'll move heaven and earth to find it for you.”
“Um. You won't be able to buy it in Auchenlochtermuchty.”
Since you could hardly buy anything in Auchenlochtermuchty, this statement came as no surprise. Sensing an impending assault on the family finances, Luciano braced himself. Baci was sitting up now, a strangely enigmatic smile on her face…. Let it not be too expensive, he begged silently. What did she want ?
“Damp, sweetheart, not the lipstick, please. Put it back, darling. Mummy needs it, yes, and Mummy needs those ones, too.” Baci leapt to her feet with surprising speed for someone who'd spent the previous half hour prostrate over the basin. Marveling at his wife's powers of recuperation, Luciano suddenly remembered he'd been in this situation before. Three times before. Two years ago with an unborn Damp, eleven years past with Pandora-as-a-bump, and thirteen years prior with Titus in her tummy. Like many women, Baci was prone to food fetishes while pregnant; but unlike most women, her cravings ran to dishes so spicy and hot they required fire extinguishers to be placed on the table next to the salt and pepper….
And Baci was quite right—the shopkeepers of Auchenlochtermuchty were united in their loathing of any food they perceived as “foreign.” The local population's desire to remain untainted by twenty-first-century food fashion was best summed up by a conversation Luciano had overheard in the village store. One grizzled ancient clutching a basket laden with frozen meals had inquired where he might find a tin of chicken korma, only to be met with a walleyed stare from the shopkeeper, followed by, “If God had meant the likes o' us tae eat yon curries, he'd hae made us wi' asbestos tongues.”
So. Not Auchenlochtermuchty, then. Luciano smiled, half watching as Baci buttoned up a large linen shirt over a pair of elasticized maternity tents, items of clothing for which the word “mumsy” might have been invented. Temporarily substituting greed for vanity, Baci reeled off the dishes of her choice.
“Vindaloo or Gulnar's Rooflifter would be my first thought. But if you prefer Mexican, I'd love huevos rancheros, salsa muerte con quesadillas, or even a humble carne con jalapeños. On the other hand, if you want to eat Italian, I could cheerfully choke down penne diavolo, rigatoni puttanesca, or even orrecchiette arrabiata. …” And Luciano was so happy to see his wife thus transformed, it wasn't until they were standing outside on the rose-quartz drive that he remembered the rest of his family.
“Are we just taking Damp?” Baci asked, opening the car door and lifting the little girl into her car seat. Guiltily, Luciano squinted upward to where Titus and Pandora's bedroom curtains were closed to the possibility of daylight. Like most adolescents, once woken up they would require two full hours to wash, brush, dress, eat, pack, eat some more, repack, change outfits at least once…
“Yes,” Luciano said, with rather more force than necessary. “Just Damp. Titus hates curries and we can't take Pandora if we go and buy her birthday present after lunch, can we? Quick, get in the car. I'll leave a note for them on the fridge— that way they'll be bound to see it… once we're gone.”
A Silent Proposal
he rattle of the departing family car woke Titus from a sleep so deep, he found it almost impossible to bring his eyes into focus. StregaSchloss was unusually quiet; most mornings he would awake to clanking plumbing, footsteps thundering up and down stairs, the din of Nestor demanding breakfast … all accompanied by the background chirruping of birdsong. What time is it? he wondered, rolling onto his side and looking for his watch.
Ten seconds later, he was in the shower, cross at himself for sleeping in. Last night, when he'd finally put his laptop to sleep and crawled beneath the covers, it must have been three—four o'clock? I'll have missed breakfast, he thought gloomily; the milk will all be gone and Pandora will have Hoovered down the last bagel and—Catching sight of his reflection in the steamed-up bathroom mirror, he gave a roar of alarm. What on earth ? In the misty blur of his face, strange red blotches had appeared overnight. Touching his cheek, he found it to be covered in hard little lumps. Frantically wiping the mirror clear, Titus regarded the alien landscape of his face in appalled silence. It was bad. It was…very bad. In fact, it was utterly, totally, absolutely catastrophic. Titus closed his eyes and emitted a small moan. Nope, enough, he decided. I can't bear to look anymore. I have metamorphosed into a pizza. I look like I've had the bubonic plague…. I am a human pustule, and thus will have to spend the rest of my life with my head inside a brown paper bag. I'll have to get a guide dog … no, I just won't ever go out except when it's dark. Oh my God, my life is in ruins. …
Still, he decided, throwing on some clothes, there's no point in starving to death as well. Praying that no one would be around, Titus headed downstairs, aware for the first time exactly how many reflective surfaces there were between his bedroom and the kitchen. His hideously altered face swam out at him from suits of armor, shiny dark oil paintings, and highly polished banisters and newel posts, each bearing a scowling variant of Mr. Zitty, the world's first pimple persona…. Hearing a door close on the landing above, Titus raced for the kitchen.
“Vaw—vawl—vawlunt—vawlunt-ears wanted,” Multitudina pronounced triumphantly, her whiskery nose pressed against the newspaper on the kitchen table, her pink eyes blinking rapidly with the effort. “Phewwww, that was a tough one. Er… what's a vawl-unt-ear, Tarantella?”
“A volunteer is someone who doesn't want to do something, but ends up being morally blackmailed into doing it anyway.” Tarantella tapped the magnetic letters on the fridge door with ill-disguised impatience. “Leave the newspaper alone. Or else read it quietly to yourself. I'm sick of hearing stuff about LOCAL MAN BREEDS CHAMPION PIGEON or WEATHER FAIR FOR SHEEP TRIALS or even TEMPORARY TRAFFIC LIGHTS INSTALLED IN AUCHENLOCHTERMUCHTY. That news-paper's got as much in the way of dramatic tension as a shopping list.”
“But I need to learn,” Multitudina said, sitting back on her haunches and clawing at an itch behind her ear. “How am I supposed to become a litterat if I can't read?”
“Literate, not a litter-rat.”
“Whatever. I want to read. I want to learn. You said you'd teach me, but all you ever do is give me children's picture books to read. I'm not a child.”
“No. You're a rat,” Tarantella pointed out unhelpfully. Then, relenting when she saw Multitudina's whiskers droop, she dragged a blu-tacked note off the fridge and handed it across to the delighted rat.
“Wow! Excellent!” Multitudina squeaked. “And some blue chewing gum as well? Yum. My lucky day.” And popping the blu-tack into her mouth, she settled down to read Luciano's note to Titus and Pandora.
Walking across the meadow, Zander was too absorbed in his own thoughts to notice that he was being observed from a first-floor window of StregaSchloss. As he disappeared into the shadows of the house, a lace curtain twitched as it swung back into place, and Mrs. McLachlan turned to Latch with an unreadable expression on her face.
“Your thoughts?” she said. “That wee laddie?” Latch snorted dismissively. “I could eat ten of him for breakfast and still have room for a dish of kippers.”
Mrs. McLachlan smiled sweetly. “I don't think that will be necessary, Latch. Just keep an eye on him. I'm not sure what he's doing here, but I'm positive it has little to do with furthering his career as a butler in domestic service.”
“Him? He wouldn't know a butler if one bit him in the leg. I mean, look at him—sitting on the grass and doing that yo-yo nonsense—”
“Yoga.” Mrs. McLachlan's eyes twinkled. “Oh, Latch, dear—we've missed you so much. I'm delighted you're back
.”
A deep crimson blush suffused the portion of Latch's neck visible above his crisp white collar. The blush raced across his cheeks like a flash flood of embarrassment, the biggest wave flooding his face all the way up to the high-tide mark of his hairline before mercifully receding, ebbing away and leaving the butler damp with self-consciousness.
“Ah…um… Flora, I've been meaning to…I, er…” Mrs. McLachlan laid a gentle hand on his arm. “Hush, dear,” she murmured. “This isn't the right time.”
“Ever since I saw you…,” the butler babbled, unable now to stop himself, “it's as if I've always known I…you… we …” He looked down into her face, his expression that of a man who cannot believe what is issuing from his mouth.
“Latch”—Mrs. McLachlan's voice was no louder than a whisper, but the grip of her hand on his arm spoke volumes— “this isn't the right time. I know what you're going to say. I think you might even be about to ask me something very important, indeed…”
Latch lowered his eyes, unable to meet her bright gaze. “… to which, after due consideration, I would reply in the affirmative…”
“Flora? You would?”
“…however, my dear, you and I are professionals. And, as such, we know that no matter how pressing our…personal circumstances might be, we must always put our employers' well-being first.”
“But yes. Yes would be your answer?” Latch persisted, adding for clarity, “To my question? Which you won't allow me to ask… yet.”
“Och, my dear Latch”—Mrs. McLachlan smiled wistfully and shook her head as if to clear her thoughts—“there is something I must do first. In order to protect us all. The man you told me about—the one you thought was Death himself come to claim you—he will not rest, nor leave us be until he finds what he came for.”