“From now on,” the Ereba said, “each one of you may choose a destiny. Death, or residence within this golem until the time of its destruction. But if you stay you will speak only when spoken to and you will not control your vessel. What say you?”
Zal fell asleep to the sound of voices that slowly became soft and slurred like the wash of the sea. He held onto Mr. Head’s arm. It was warm. He was inside a woman. That was nice. He liked her very much and it was good of her to give the lost threads their new chance at being woven in again, even if there wasn’t much space for them left in the fabric after so long being lost.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Lila brought Malachi into the house, avoiding the closed, taped door, and said to Max’s back, “This might be a bad moment but, Max, this is Mal, my partner. Work partner,” she added the last quickly at the end, not wanting any romantic puzzles leading Max to make some joke or other. “Mal, this is my sister, Maxine.”
Max turned around and leaned back on the counter, chopping board behind her and her paring knife dangling loosely from her fingers. Her kitchen presence was loose-limbed and deadly, in a quiet way. Lila wouldn’t have wanted to be Max’s sous-chef for anything. She always reminded Lila of Clint Eastwood when she was in her kitchen; languid self-possession, tough as nails. Lila used to envy her so much, she even felt it now. Inside her chest Tath snickered with recognition and she gave him an internal shove.
Max gave Malachi the once-over, leaving no doubt that he could be whatever he wanted as long as he understood that, in the kitchen, she was the king. King was the only word, not because Max did drag, but because she had that kind of authority. For a moment his natural jungle cat and her Clint-ness had a brief stare-down, fey to human and man to man. Then some barrier was passed. Mal made a minor tip of one shoulder and Max grinned with the left half of her mouth, arrogant and pleased.
She put the knife down and came forward to offer him a garlicky hand. His nostrils twitched but he took it without flinching. Lila knew how much he hated having clinging odours on him, so it was a mark of major approval on his part. She sighed, not even knowing until then that she’d been holding her breath.
“I’ve been done over by one of your lot in the past,” Max said, as if she were making small talk. “So, just as a fair warning, and I’m not saying you will, but if you let anything happen to my sis, you’re gonna be hamburger on my grill.”
Mal raised his eyebrows and grinned. “Pleasure.”
Max nodded, her eyes shrewd. “Always takin’ it that you aren’t responsible for everything else around here.”
“That was the elves,” Malachi said without a pause, dismissing the entire notion that faeries could be responsible for anything unfortunate. He sniffed, and Lila saw his glance flick to the pounds of ground meat waiting to be browned. “And the humans,” he added, his eyes roving over the rest of the room before going back to Max, but lower; he tended to look up at her with his chin down, Lila noticed.
Deference, Tath said.
Maybe you should come out too, Lila said.
Do you really think that would be wise? Even your cat does not know me.
Mmn, Lila was suddenly unhappy at the idea of having secrets from Max, who would take it very badly if she knew. She wanted, needed, to have Max back on her side, where she belonged. But the elf’s doubt was powerful, and she didn’t say anything.
“Uh-huh.” Max had dismissed Malachi meanwhile and turned back to her work, picking up the big knife and starting to create hundreds of perfectly square tiny bits of onion. “I heard a lot about faeries they . . .” She hesitated and then ploughed on with determination, “. . . have a big presence in the hotelinos.”
Lila knew it was because the fey there were high rollers coming to cream the best of the luck, hotelino owners notorious for running untraceable scams, or call girls and boys offering special experiences for the endless supplies of tourists and businessman who made the industry run so hot. Whatever they did, they were better than the humans at the same game. It was a big sore point in the places Max worked. The only thing the fey weren’t good on was cookery, but only because they had such varied tastes in food and most of them weren’t acceptable to human palates or stomachs.
“That where you work?” Mal shrugged and made himself at home. He ripped a binliner out of a half-finished roll lying on the top of the refrigerator and started collecting up empty bottles and packets from their resting places all around. He glanced at the books on the table but only in passing, though Lila knew he’d be drinking in all the information about her family as if it were water.
“I was head of the kitchen at the Tropicana,” Max told him.
“Was?”
“Relationship trouble. Never date at work.”
Malachi grunted, momentarily poring over a folded issue of Bay-side Bugle before stuffing it into his plastic sack.
Lila, not knowing what else to do, went to the cupboard under the sink and started to look for cleaning things. She was aware of Mal’s expert forensic eyes and that they were probably reading a history of neglect here she wanted to wash away. Naturally, what sprays and detergents there were had either run out or crusted over entirely. The only clean cloth was a half a T-shirt balled up in a corner. Sponges and mops were balls of mouldy gruesomeness, stained and covered with ancient, congealed things. Dad never managed to finish a cleaning job. He just lost interest and threw things into the nearest hidey-hole.
She found herself crouched in the shadow of the open door by Max’s legs, eyes prickling with tears, biting her lip. Max and Malachi had got into a casual get-to-know-you conversation that existed solely to keep everyone on an even emotional keel until they could get dinner over with. She ought to be participating to help things along. Lila bit her lips together even harder and reached behind the empty shoe polish containers to try and find any useful thing. She was momentarily surprised by a round dish of rat poison when the songs changed on the radio and suddenly she was surrounded by the funky, drum and bass hook of the No Shows’ latest single.
She straightened up in surprise and hammered her head on the countertop. The tears she’d so successfully held back sprang forth and she was wiping them on the T-shirt when Malachi said artlessly, “Hey, this is Zal!”
“. . . I bring you back from the dead, So I can kill you again . . .”
Lila pressed the T-shirt against her face, trying not to breathe in. When she took it away she was able to straighten up and say, “Yeah.”
Malachi was unconsciously bopping to the beat as he continued his leisurely circuit of their unhygienic home life. “Didn’t he write this about you, Li?”
“What?” Lila didn’t think that was possible. She hadn’t even known him long enough.
“They recorded it just before you left for the tour. A last-minute thing. Released it straight to download. He wrote it the first night after he met you. What? Didn’t he tell you?”
“Mal, I need a word in private,” Lila said, without trying to sound annoyed. She gave him a look that said—should we really be talking about this in front of civilians? But Max was already half turned, her knife poised in midair . . .
“What else has been going on that I don’t know about?” She looked incredulous. The No Shows were a popular band, comprising as many races and influences as they did. They were also the symbolic heart of the Otopian eclectic free-living culture, a reasonably sized social movement, which was nowhere bigger than it was on the Pacific Coastal Rim. Of course Max would have heard of them, whether she liked them or not. They were scene. Lila found herself opening and closing her mouth soundlessly like a fish.
“I still got tons of ammo and without even a scratch on my face . . .”
“It was part of a job, that’s all,” Lila said, abandoning the cleaning idea and thrusting the T-shirt down into Malachi’s binbag with a glare at his smouldering orange eyes.
“Uh-huh,” Max said, managing to make the sounds convey the impression that Lila had better sp
ill the details now or later.
“Jobs are security protected,” Lila said, pointlessly, since Mal had already breached the rules so far they were squeaking for mercy. He hadn’t ruffled a hair either, as though he didn’t care. Maybe he didn’t. She paused to ponder that as he continued his cleanup and went out to take the bag to the trash bin.
“That’s why Cruella is staking out the house?” Max finished chopping and started cooking at the same time as she drew her conclusion; another pale rider-ism. She found a clean glass and poured a shot of wine into it, handing it to Lila who slugged most of it in one gulp. The dogs began to snore contentedly in their double basket on the outside porch. It was a peaceful afternoon, with the exception of the sealed room preying on Lila’s attention, like an unexploded bomb whose detonator was hidden, timer unknown.
“You know,” Max stated, all her concentration apparently on her skillet, “it doesn’t take a Sherlock to figure out that whatever’s got her spooked is about Mom and Dad. And I bet you know what it is.”
Malachi reappeared at that moment and went to the sink to wash his hands. Lila ripped him a piece of kitchen towel silently and handed it over. “No I don’t,” she said, noticing Malachi’s ear tips twitching and knowing he’d heard enough to know what the conversation was about. She braced herself. “I was hoping we could find out before she comes back.”
“We need magical powers better than mine,” Malachi said, frowning as he wiped his hands clean, concentrating on every finger and nail. “Nec—” he began as Lila affirmed, “Necromancy.”
The two of them locked gazes for a moment and smiled.
“Yo what?” Max said, half-turning.
But Lila was fully focused on Malachi for the moment, her grief forgotten. Remembered important facts sprang to her head and straight out of her mouth as they entered one of those brief periods of perfectly tuned partner-function. “Max saw a demon that looked a lot like Teazle. Doesn’t have to be him, though. And his talents don’t stretch beyond sending people into death, far as I know. I don’t think he brings them back.”
Malachi nodded. “Maybe coincidence. Lots of demons have similar colourings and shapes to the untutored eye. And no telling which of any of them is Teazle’s form, since he can theoretically take any. Also, he seems to like you . . .” His lips curled into a snarl of disgust on the left side of his face, exposing his fang teeth. He screwed up the paper towel into a ball.
“. . . somethin’ screechin’ screamin’ poppin’ breathin’ waitin’ at the end of the hall . . .” Zal sang cheerfully from the radio.
“I am here. Feel free to fill me in, only I thought you said something about talking to and/or possibly raising the dead,” Max said, looking between them anxiously. Something spat in the fat behind her but she ignored it.
“I don’t want to call anyone,” Lila said, holding Malachi’s amber stare and willing him to know why, which he always seemed to do: she didn’t trust anyone but him.
He dipped his chin half an inch in affirmation. “I don’t know any deathtalkers. You got a plan?”
“Yeah,” Lila put her hand over her heart. “I got one. I investigate the scene and figure out whodunnit. Then we go fix that. During, or immediately after, that we find Zal before my ticket to prison in Demonia comes into force.” She held up the wrist with the shackle on it. “We also watch our backs for a deadhead demon and a shadowkin elf terrorista with a grudge. And possibly there might be some trouble from expired duel notices I got . . . I’m still not sure how they work. And then . . .”
The doorbell rang.
Malachi was looking at her with his lower jaw hanging slightly open. There was a smell of blackening onion.
Lila breezed on. “I’ll get it, while you fill Max in on the details. We need somewhere safe for her to hide out,” she said, trusting Malachi to figure that out because she wasn’t sure she could think of anywhere in the circumstances. She went out to reassure the dogs as they started barking, then locked them securely into the back porch.
Grudgingly, knowing it was dangerous because it linked her more comprehensively into the Incon networks, Lila set herself to one level below Battle Standard as she walked down the hall. She needed to get back to base and get information on this incident and other things, before they figured out she wasn’t planning on collecting her retirement fund. That would need to be somewhere high and soon in the plan.
She scanned through the door and saw two figures, one tall and humanoid and one short with four legs. She opened it, her left hand hanging loosely in the relaxed state that allowed maximum reaction speed, ready to defend herself.
Teazle was standing there looking recognisable but peculiarly more human than last time, as if he’d been practising. He was smiling. In his hand was a lead, and on the end of the lead was a tan and white dog of nondescript breed with a fox’s tail and husky ears, wagging.
“Okie!” she said in astonishment, bending down straight away to hug her dog.
Pleased yips and whines filled her ears for a minute, and a cold nose pushed at her neck through her hair. She looked up at the smiling demon who let the lead slip from his fingers as Okie shook himself and licked Lila’s face.
“I’ll be your dog,” he suggested, his pale eyes shining. “Even though you seem to leave us in care most of the time.”
From the back of the house Rusty and Buster barked harder.
“Where . . . how did you get him?” Lila asked, fussing Okie and ignoring Teazle’s remark, mostly because she had no idea what to do with it.
“I’m very persuasive,” Teazle said, tossing his hair over his shoulder with a grade-A camp flip of his head. “Also, I paid the overdue fees and the bills for his shots. Haven’t you ever heard of Direct Debit?”
Okie sniffed her all over, whining a little as he smelled things she assumed he didn’t associate with her, like metal and oil. In her chest a strange warmth. It was wrong to be happy in the circumstances, utterly wrong, but she was.
“Oojie boojie boozum poppet, yes, yes . . .” she said to Okie, burying her face in his ruff as he whimpered.
“Something’s burning,” Teazle observed, his stare never leaving Lila, though his nostrils widened slightly. She was sure by the tone of his voice he wasn’t referring to the dinner but used the line he’d thrown her anyway.
“Pasta sauce.” She straightened up, feeling obliged to ask him in now, her face heating up—which made her furious. “There’s just one problem,” she kept her fingers on Okie’s head, stroking in his fur. “I don’t trust you, and I don’t invite people in that I don’t trust.”
There was a sharp tug on her ear and Thingamajig appeared. “If I might . . .”
“No,” Lila said. Okie yipped and then barked loudly at the sight of the tiny demon atop Lila’s shoulder, envy and anger warring in the sounds. “It’s okay,” she told him. “It’s not another pet.” The barking subsided to growls.
“You never called me Oojie boojie!” Thingamajig cried sulkily.
Teazle gave the imp a look that caused it to go still and silent. “What your debased minion means to say is that proposals, defence of your life, offers of service, and the return of lost loved ones are not matters a demon would attempt in order to deceive. If I wanted to do you harm I would take the straight way. To do otherwise is dishonourable.”
“My sister saw someone who looks like you killing my parents,” Lila said.
Teazle’s right eyebrow lifted slightly. “You don’t know what I look like.”
She hated it when he was right. But she wasn’t wrong either. “Which helps how?”
Teazle lifted his empty hands, palm up. His human version was utterly convincing, he even smelled right. She and the dog had both noticed. He sighed theatrically. “What must I do?”
Lila looked down at Okie. Rusty and Buster were pausing in their mini-outrages to listen periodically. A sudden inspiration struck her. She looked at Teazle and then at the front steps, pointing at them. “Sit. Stay.”
“And don’t let anyone in,” Lila added, shepherding Okie through into the hall. “And no barking. The neighbours are having a good enough time already.”
Teazle waved lazily with his right hand without looking back. She closed the door and locked it. That was dealt with. Sort of. She wondered if she could leave him there indefinitely . . .
Back in the kitchen, Max was snapping extra-long spaghetti in half to fit the only remaining pot as Malachi talked. They both looked up as she came in, and then down at Okie, and then up at Thingamajig, riding high.
“What did I tell you about door-to-door salesmen?” Max asked.
“Oh, this is my dog,” Lila explained. “Someone brought him round . . .”
“Someone?”
“From the kennels,” she said and continued rapidly. “Will dinner be ready soon? I’m starving . . .” And, since that statement got her past the table and to the back door, she reached out, opened up, and went out to introduce the dogs to one another without waiting for more questions she didn’t want to answer.
“Sooo, this is your house!” the imp declared as the screen door hissed shut. It stared around, ignoring the dogs as they tried to jump up and investigate it. “What a tragic halfway-up-the-ladder place it is too. The suburban despair of the major Otopian communities rivals any torment a mere imp could dream of. So subtle, yet so completely overpowering. Why, I bet you were an anger-fuelled harpy on the path to middle-class redemption long before they pulverized you and made you into an actionbot. Oh, look, there’s a guy in the next house taking photos of us. I guess you got to expect that what with the police tape and stuff all around the place . . .”
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