A Three-Book Collection

by M. V. Stott

  ‘You don’t know?’ Rita replied.

  ‘I know. I sort of know. It’s all a bit foggy and unsure, but it’s coming back to me, little by little. We were friends, right?’

  Rita smiled. ‘Best friends, Waters.’

  ‘Well this is all very touching, but we actually have a case to solve. Impossible monsters to deal with, that sort of thing,’ said Carlisle.

  ‘The case,’ said Waterson. ‘This case, with the women, what happened to you, it’s something to do with the case, isn’t it?’

  ‘Okay,’ said Rita, ‘this is all gonna sound like madness with a crazy side salad, but if you can accept that weird shit is definitely going on, then it’s time we upgraded from Mulder and Scully to a pair of Mulders, right?’

  ‘If you say so.’

  Carlisle sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘What has become of me? I once ruled a nation.’

  ‘There’s a magician, and a giant imprisoned angel, or something, and they’re the ones taking and killing the women. Sacrificing them. Follow?’

  ‘Follow,’ replied Waterson.

  ‘I got hexed saving Gemma Wheeler, and this hex, this magic, made me sort of disappear. No one could see me, or remember me.’

  ‘Okay. Right. That is… a lot.’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘So why are they doing all this? What’s the point?’

  ‘To get free, right?’ said Rita, turning to Carlisle.

  ‘In part. I imagine that is just step one, though.’

  ‘So what’s step two?’ asked Rita.

  ‘Perhaps your friend here, who can now conveniently both see and remember you, can fill us in on the remainder?’

  Waterson shook his head. ‘What are you talking about? All I know is what Rita’s just told me.’

  ‘How do I know you’re not the secretive Magician in league with the Angel of Blackpool?’ said Carlisle.

  ‘Carlisle, he’s not evil, he’s my friend,’ said Rita.

  ‘Luring this gullible wretch out into the open to finally dispatch her, take what is rightfully mine, so that you and the beast in the sea can complete your gambit? Answer me, boy!’

  Dan Waterson opened his mouth to reply, then his eyebrows scrunched and his jaw moved soundlessly.

  ‘Dan?’ said Rita.

  Waterson looked to her, confusion rippling across his face. He coughed, and red trickled down his chin.

  ‘Shit, Dan, what’s wrong with—’

  Blood burst from Waterson’s chest as a thick blade erupted through his rib cage.

  ‘Waters!’ said Rita, stumbling back in shock as his blood splattered her front.

  As the blade was pulled back and disappeared from view, Waterson staggered forward, his hands catching on Rita’s shoulders.

  ‘Shit,’ said Dan Waterson. ‘Rita, I think I’ve been…’ And then he fell to the ground, stone dead.

  Where he had stood there was now a figure in scarlet robes and a goat mask, a bloodied blade in a leather-gloved hand. He ran the blade across his robes, wiping it clean of Dan Waterson’s blood.

  Rita was frozen, crouched by Waterson’s lifeless body. ‘Come on, Waters,’ she said, rocking his shoulder with one hand. ‘Stop playing silly beggars.’

  Waterson didn’t reply, didn’t move, didn’t stand.

  ‘Magician,’ said Carlisle.

  The Magician took off his mask, with its winding goat horns, and Rita looked up into a familiar face.

  ‘Hello, Rita,’ said DCI Alexander Jenner.

  ‘Hey, Guv,’ replied Rita.

  26

  Rita could still remember the first day she’d met Dan Waterson.

  The awkward early chats as they got to know each other as partners, as friends. The endless stakeouts, the mockery of each other’s often disastrous love lives. The good times.

  Now he was curled up on Blackpool beach, dead, his blood splattered across her front, her hands soaked in it.

  ‘So you decided to step out of the shadows at last?’ said Carlisle.

  The Magician, DCI Alexander Jenner, smiled and nodded. ‘What did you do to Cotton and Spike?’ he asked.

  ‘Would that I could claim responsibility, but I’m rather afraid that it was your erstwhile subordinate here that has, for the time being, sent them into hiding. Your muscle has deserted you. They are gone to lick their wounds.’

  ‘They are just tools. Hands.’ Jenner opened his palms and electricity, forks of orange fury, danced from finger to finger. ‘I have access to a far greater power.’

  Rita brushed aside tears, the blood on her hands smearing across her cheek. She stood, teeth clenching. ‘You. You killed those women.’

  Rita was repulsed to see something close to regret, to shame, move across Jenner’s face. ‘It was… necessary.’

  Carlisle could feel the power, feel the magic that rolled invisibly around and through Jenner. Power like he’d never sensed before. He should abandon this folly, he knew. He was no hero, this was the detective’s fight. He was weak, still too close to his death to fight at full tilt, and even if he hadn’t been, this man, this magician, was tapping into magic far beyond his ken.

  He muttered a power word or two under his breath, and then he could see it. See a dark smoke trail that weaved lazily from Jenner and out across the waves.

  An umbilical cord to the Angel of Blackpool.

  The ageless, patient beast in its prison, feeding its strength to this mortal man. This ordinary thing without access to magic of his own. To the Uncanny world.

  He should turn and run.

  The Angel and the magician, they wanted nothing from him. All they wanted was for their work to continue, and for that to happen they required the axe. They would take it, and they would most likely turn Rita Hobbes into a grim confetti.

  But it was his axe.

  His artefact.

  How he ached at the thought of holding it again. For it to accept him. React to him. To give him everything his hungry heart demanded. He had been someone with that artefact. Someone more than the liar, the feared, the untrustworthy criminal.

  And so he stayed.

  ‘I see your connection to the Angel of Blackpool,’ he said, and touched Rita’s shoulder. Now she she could see it too.

  ‘We have a joint purpose. A great duty,’ replied Jenner.

  Rita looked, wide-eyed, at the black smoke that coiled and weaved around DCI Jenner. That stretched from him and away across the sea.

  ‘You have no magic in you,’ said Carlisle. ‘You are nothing. Less than nothing. A duped fool. A hapless tool.’

  Jenner stepped forward, fury twisting his face. ‘No! I am someone. I am important! I will make God Himself tremble!’

  Carlisle snorted contemptuously. ‘And people say that I am full of myself.’

  Rita threw her coat open and pulled the axe from where it hung against her leg.

  ‘This what you want, is it?’ she said, her voice a snarl.

  ‘Be careful,’ said Carlisle, the ache in his stomach throbbing, pushing him to make a useless grab for the axe. He resisted.

  ‘Well,’ said Rita, ‘isn’t this what you need, to carry on your “necessary” work?’

  ‘Give it to me.’ Jenner reached for the axe and Rita stepped back.

  ‘No, no, if you want it, you murdering piece of shit, you’re gonna have to take it from me. And the only way you’re gonna do that is if I’m dead.’

  ‘Okay then.’ Jenner’s eyes turned black, as though twin pools of ink had been dropped into them.

  Carlisle felt the change in the air around them. Saw the smokey umbilical cord thicken, become denser, as more power was fed from prison to man.

  ‘I see a dusting of Heaven in you,’ came a voice from Jenner’s mouth. It was not the voice of Jenner himself. It was rich and thick and it made Rita’s hands tremble.

  ‘We are now speaking with the Angel of Blackpool, I presume?’ asked Carlisle.

  ‘Hexed and hunted and attacked, and yet still she per
sists,’ said the Angel, almost, it seemed to Rita, in admiration.

  ‘Yeah, I’m annoying like that,’ she said.

  ‘And in countless other ways,’ added Carlisle.

  The world around them began to shimmer.

  ‘Look,’ said Rita, pointing out to sea. A great shadow hung over the ocean in the distance. A shape. A hulking, writhing beast. A thing of horror that made Rita’s mind want to retreat. Want to deny.

  ‘Perhaps we can speak in person,’ said the Angel, and Jenner reached out to touch both Rita and Carlisle.

  The world shuddered and moved out of focus and the sound of the beast gibbering in a million forgotten tongues filled the air.

  And then silence.

  Rita opened her eyes to find herself in a cold, vaulted chamber. Giant marble columns, thicker than ancient redwoods, stretched from floor to ceiling all around them, and millions of candles flickered, lighting the place. The space was perfectly silent, as though a sound had not been made within its walls for centuries.

  ‘What is this? A church, a crypt?’ asked Rita.

  ‘No,’ replied Carlisle, ‘a prison.’

  He strode forward, Rita catching up, their footfalls on the stone floor echoing. They rounded a column and found the Angel of Blackpool waiting for them.

  It stood inside a glass box and wore brilliantly white robes. It had an easy smile upon its face, and its hair was thick and golden. It was the most beautiful thing Rita had ever seen.

  ‘God could have provided a chair, at the very least,’ said Carlisle, and the Angel laughed. It sounded to Rita like songbirds.

  ‘Where is this?’ she asked.

  ‘Under the ocean,’ replied the Angel, ‘and between reality and reality and reality. Folded away. Forgotten. Ignored. Impossible.’

  ‘Well, that clears that up,’ said Rita.

  The Angel unleashed its songbird laughter once again. ‘What have you done to my friends, Mr. Cotton and Mr. Spike, I wonder?’

  ‘What’s wrong, aren’t they picking up the phone?’ asked Carlisle.

  The Angel looked troubled, just for a moment.

  ‘Ah, a limit to your power,’ said Carlisle. ‘You can’t reach into their dreamscape, can you?’

  The Angel turned its attention to Rita, who felt the warmth of its gaze. ‘I had wondered why the artefact accepted you,’ he said, ‘and now I know. A weapon of Heaven, in the hands of the divine.’

  ‘You should see me when I’ve had time to do my makeup properly.’

  ‘You did not know of your ancestry for such a long time. Another of the creator’s ignored flock. Tell me, what was it like to grow up alone, without family, with people paid to care? People who could not hide that they did not?’

  ‘Ignore it,’ said Carlisle. ‘It is trying to get its hooks into you.’

  ‘Carlisle,’ said the Angel, ‘I have often heard whispers of you. Oh, the things you have done, and yet you would judge me?’

  ‘I judge everyone, it’s sort of my thing,’ he replied, grinning. ‘Tell me, you’ve been imprisoned here for millennia, silent and alone—’

  ‘So how did I make a connection with Alexander Jenner?’

  Carlisle bowed his head.

  The Angel smiled. ‘It took… patience. Effort. Have you ever heard the story of the bird that sharpened its beak on the diamond mountain, until, after an eternity, the entire mountain was chiselled away?’

  ‘No,’ said Rita. ‘I’m more of a soap opera girl, myself.’

  ‘I tapped, and I tapped, and I tapped,’ said the Angel, ‘and finally, a little of myself broke through. Just a little, but enough. I reached out and found a sad little boy, wronged by God, and we became… friends.’

  ‘Having to reach out to a mortal for help, you must have been desperate,’ said Carlisle.

  A snarl broke the Angel’s beauty as it bashed its fists against its glass cage and the candlelight shook, casting nightmare shadows around the chamber.

  ‘Do not mock me, thief.’

  ‘You stand there, a thing of beauty, but that is not the real you,’ said Carlisle. ‘We saw the true shape of your soul out there, as we stood upon the beach. A thing of endless horror, casting a shadow of despair.’

  The Angel’s breathing slowed and it regained its composure. ‘What you see as horror, I see as splendour. For what is a being realising its full potential, if not a thing of beauty?’

  ‘Why have you brought us here?’ asked Rita.

  ‘Yes, I was rather wondering that myself.’

  ‘I had hoped to appeal to your better judgement, Rita Hobbes.’

  ‘Oh, right, then go right ahead, mate.’

  ‘You have suffered, as have I.’

  ‘I’ve had a few knocks along the way, yeah.’

  ‘You, part Angel, and yet still punished by a creator who does not care for your pain. Your anguish. You fight against me, but I am not your enemy.’

  ‘That right, is it?’

  ‘You believe in justice.’

  Rita looked at him with hooded eyes. ‘Yeah. So.’

  ‘Then help me get it. For myself. For Alexander Jenner. For yourself. For the whole of existence that has stood cold as its creator turned His back upon them. Every day, children die, and nobody cares. The innocent become sick and suffer slow, agonising deaths. Hurricanes sweep up unopposed and crash against the living, leaving anguish in their wash.’

  Rita stepped closer to the glass cage.

  ‘Rita,’ said Carlisle, reaching out, but she batted his hand aside.

  The Angel spoke. ‘The elderly are abandoned and abused and He does. Not. Care. He is the true monster, and He must face the consequences of His inaction.’

  ‘My life. My life has been His fault?’

  ‘From conception to now. It could have been different.’

  ‘It should have been.’

  ‘Rita…’ said Carlisle.

  ‘Well It’s right, in a way, isn’t It?’

  The Angel smiled.

  ‘No, It’s not. It’s evil.’

  ‘But then what does that make God?’

  Carlisle shrugged, ‘An arsehole?’

  ‘The fear, the loneliness,’ said Rita, ‘feeling always unwanted and in the way. That was my childhood.’

  ‘Yes, I know the sob story,’ replied Carlisle.

  ‘You see, you understand,’ said the Angel to Rita.

  ‘Yeah, I think I understand. And you know what I think?’ asked Rita.

  ‘What?’

  Rita pressed her palms against the glass cage and grinned. ‘I think you’re so full of shit it’s a wonder you’re not drowning in there.’

  Carlisle smirked, then caught himself. ‘My apologies. Well, it was lovely to drop in for a visit; we really mustn’t do it again some time. Detective, let us take our leave.’

  ‘Sounds good to me.’

  ‘You shall not leave,’ said the Angel.

  ‘Oh, we shall,’ replied Carlisle.

  ‘I do not allow it.’

  ‘Not big on being told what to do, mate,’ said Rita.

  ‘I am taking us out of this sad place, to another, well, very sad place,’ said Carlisle.

  ‘Aren’t we going back to Blackpool?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Oh. Right. Good one.’

  ‘You are weak,’ said the Angel. ‘You have little power in you now. A strong wind would bend you double.’

  ‘True, but I always make sure I have a card up my sleeve.’

  Carlisle reached into his coat and pulled out a small pouch tied with string. ‘Rita!’ he reached out and grabbed her hand as the Angel raged within its glass cage. Carlisle knew this would cost him—that the effort would bring him to his knees—but he would have to take the risk.

  ‘Is that a bomb?’ asked Rita.’

  ‘Quiet, fool,’ replied Carlisle.

  ‘Oh, very nice.’

  Carlisle gathered up as much magic as his body could stand—his every nerve-ending screaming in agony�
�and muttered the incantation. He threw the pouch at the ground as the Angel began screaming in a million ancient languages, and the prison whipped from view. The world around them tumbled and twirled, but he held tight to Rita’s hand as she screamed, because if he let go, she might be lost forever. Finally the whirl of reality slowed and they fell to the ground.

  ‘Holy shit…’ said Rita, sitting up.

  Carlisle attempted to push himself up, the pain excruciating.

  Rita rolled on to her knees and helped him up. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ he replied, sharply, then sagged. ‘I’m not fine. It is too soon since my death, and that spell, that was some extreme magic.’

  Sweat dripped from Carlisle’s pale face. The whites of his eyes were now a blood-red.

  ‘You’re not going to die again, are you?’

  Carlisle chuckled, then regretted it as his chest screamed in agony. ‘I am afraid not, Detective, but the life in me is weak, the magic weaker still. We must retreat to safety until I regain my strength.’

  Rita stood, helping Carlisle up to his feet. ‘Can you walk?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. I can walk,’ Carlisle replied, though he wasn’t sure how true that was.

  Rita looked around to see where they’d ended up, and recognised the entrance to the Night Fair behind them. Carlisle’s magic hadn’t taken them far.

  ‘So, we just had a chat with an evil angel?’ said Rita.

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Well, they always say you can judge a person on the quality of their enemies.’

  ‘They do.’

  ‘And that thing is a shitting doozy. So well done us, I say.’

  ‘You are a blithering fool, Detective.’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ she replied, grinning.

  Carlisle took an experimental step forward and was delighted to find that his legs did not betray him.

  ‘So, any ideas?’ asked Rita.

  ‘Always.’

  ‘Okay, Mr Big Head, care to share?’

  ‘The Magician, your erstwhile boss, is connected to the Angel of Blackpool.’

  ‘The smoke thing?’ said Rita, recalling the umbilical cord of black smoke that had stretched from Jenner and out over the ocean.

  ‘That is what is feeding magic, feeding power, to the Magician.’

  ‘So we’ve gotta find a way to cut the cord.’