by M. V. Stott
‘Stop!’ she said, but she didn’t mean it. She was going to kill. Going to tear the flesh from people’s bones with her teeth and eat and eat and eat and—
The spell broke. All of a sudden the thoughts, the pain, the desperate need to kill dropped away. She looked up to see the moon faltering. It was full, then it wasn’t, then it was. Like some sort of strange special effect, two frames hopping back and forth.
She could feel the magic in her clinging on, unsure, ready to submerge her again if the moon stayed full. But the strange flickering stopped, and the moon was no longer full. It was as it should have been.
Rita slumped back against the wall, the axe falling from her grip, and she gasped for breath, her body aching. Throbbing. Trembling.
‘Christ…’
The magic was gone. The thing that had tried to overtake her—almost had—had drifted away. All used up. She wasn’t infected. The axe had given her access as a one-time deal, and now that the moon was back to what it should have been, the transaction was over.
Shaky, and wondering if she might throw up at any moment, Rita pushed herself to her feet. Even in her traumatised state, she was happy to see that she hadn’t gone so far that her clothes had ripped before the moon had faltered. Praise the Lord for small mercies.
Ben was curled up on the ground before her. He was no longer the beast, he was plain old Ben Turner again. And he was unconscious. And naked. Rita only briefly looked before draping her coat over him and taking out her phone to call for help.
21
Carlisle followed the Monk in silence for hours.
They stooped through low stone tunnels. They walked along the banks of an underground river, ignoring the Roman Legion that was camped out on the other side of the bank. A lost legion, cursed to roam beneath the Earth for eternity. They walked through the sewers, swatting away bothersome fairies that buzzed around their heads.
‘How much further is the city, exactly?’ asked Carlisle. ‘Which isn’t to say I’m not enjoying the silent drudgery of this seemingly never-ending walk.’
‘Soon,’ replied the Monk, gruffly. ‘Soon we’ll arrive at the Maze. Get through the Maze, and we’ll be there. Don’t get through, and that’ll be that.’
The Monk opened a door to reveal a giant cavern, its curved ceiling glittering with crystal seams. In the cavern was a lake of jade green water, and tied to a jetty in front of them was a small boat. The Monk stepped aboard and Carlisle followed, taking a seat as the Monk drove his stick into the water and propelled them across.
‘This Maze you speak of,’ said Carlisle, ‘is there any reason to believe I will not make it through?’
‘Can’t trust a Maze,’ replied the Monk. ‘They have a mind of their own. Some of them, at least. Proper ones. They choose who they let through unscathed. Most are lost in there still. Taking turn after turn, never finding the true path.’
‘Lucky for me I have an unwavering sense of direction. I always end up where I am supposed to be.’
The Monk grunted, then spat into the water. ‘Heard that before.’ He pulled out a brass key that hung around his neck on a thin strip of leather, and held it to his forehead.
‘What is that?’ asked Carlisle.
‘The key. The way in, the way out, it’s never the same, but this leads me true.’
As they left the crystal-topped cave, all turned black. The only sound that could be heard was the lake’s water sloshing around them as the Monk navigated through the gloom. He turned briefly to look at his companion; Carlisle knew he had as he saw the Monk’s eyes glowing in the dark.
‘Normally, we do not allow the living into our city,’ said the Monk. ‘But you… you are thrice dead, at the very least.’
‘Yes, it doesn’t tend to stick with me. Not a fan. May I ask how you know that?’
‘I know. I can see the damage it’s done each time. See the death in you. It’s part of you now, always will be. A hollow itch that can never be scratched.’
Carlisle frowned and placed a hand to his chest. It was true that ever since his first death he’d felt an emptiness inside. And each time he had come back it had got worse. As though he had left something of himself behind each time. Taken something out of him that he could never get back. Carlisle shook off the thought; he did not like the path it was leading him down.
The boat came to a stop, buffeting against an unseen bank, and the Monk took Carlisle’s arm, leading him from the boat, on to the bank, and away. The Monk clicked his fingers and the head of his walking stick bloomed with a blue light that cut through the black.
‘You might have done that a little earlier,’ said Carlisle.
‘Yes, I might have, but I didn’t. Nearly there, then.’
Carlisle pulled his arm free of the Monk’s liver-spotted hand, smoothed down the line of his coat, and followed on.
With a grunt, Formby shrugged the still-unconscious Ben Turner from his shoulder and on to the floor of a cellar beneath Big Pins.
‘Thanks,’ said Rita. ‘Heavier than he looks, that one.’
Linton stood in the doorway, bat in hand, with a not-at-all happy look on his face. ‘This room is solid. Door, too. If he changes, the thing won’t be able to get out.’
‘Thanks, Linton,’ said Rita.
Linton grunted and left them to it. Rita sighed and hunkered down on her haunches, running her hands through her thick, red hair. She realised her hands were still shaking, a little residual fear and adrenaline from the chase. From what she’d experienced as the lycanthropy magic had fought to submerge her beneath its black hold. She knew it would have, too. She hadn’t been able to control it, to speak to it so that it would listen. If the moon had stayed full for even a minute more, she would have been gone, turned completely animal, and who knew what carnage she would have caused. How many deaths she and Ben would have been responsible for as they ran through Blackpool, feral, desperate for blood and flesh between their teeth.
‘Okay, are you?’ asked Formby, patting her on the shoulder.
‘Yup, just a little shit up is all.’ Rita stood and shivered, trying to get herself together. She looked down at Ben, still wearing her coat to cover his modesty. ‘It was horrible. I mean, worse than horrible. To see him turn, and scream, and then become that… that thing.’
‘Aye,’ replied Formby, chewing on his knuckles. ‘The sight of a change, especially to one you know, is not for the faint of heart. Or even the strong of heart.’
Rita ran a hand across the handle of her axe. ‘I felt it. The magic. The werewolf magic.’
‘Tried to take you, did it?’
Rita nodded. ‘Through the axe. I got a taste of it. It didn’t taste good. Formby, how could the moon have been full again so soon? Its four day cycle was already done. And how could it then just change?’
‘Powerful magic, that. I could sniff it as I was out on my rounds. Could smell it on the wind. Someone doing something powerful. Testing themselves. Flexing new muscles. I’d say we can expect more full moons from now on. Maybe even every night, I reckon that’s the goal.’
‘So this Magda, she’s wanting to turn every night into werewolf night?’
‘Seems so. Makes sense.’
‘Was it everywhere, the full moon?’
Formby shook his head. ‘A local trick. Only Blackpool, only where she is.’
A groan from the floor caught their attention as Ben came to, pushing himself up on his elbow. He looked as though he was waking from a monster drinking session.
‘Where am I?’ he croaked.
‘Big Pins,’ said Rita. ‘Do you remember what happened?’
He scrunched his face up, then shook his head.
‘Went all wolf, you did,’ said Formby.
‘What? But I thought that only happened on a full moon?’
‘Aye. Had another one. Magic moon.’
Rita helped Ben up to his feet, the coat he was wearing—her coat—flapping open to reveal his naked form beneath.
&nbs
p; ‘Shit,’ said Ben, quickly pulling the coat closed. ‘I’m naked.’
‘Yup,’ replied Rita with a grin. ‘Honestly, I barely looked. A couple of seconds at the most, just to get the basic idea of it.’
Ben smiled, but the expression faltered. ‘Did… did I hurt, or, well, kill anyone?’
‘No, don’t worry, you didn’t harm anyone. The spell broke and the moon changed before you got around to hurting anyone. Myself included, by the way.’
Ben made his way over to a chair and slumped down, head in hands. ‘I can’t keep doing this. Keep putting people in danger.’
‘Don’t worry, from now on, until we sort this, you’re going to stay in this room at night. Just to be on the safe side.’
‘Can this be sorted? And please be aware that I’m very, very scared about what the answer to that question might be.’
Formby clapped his hands together. ‘Yes. Curse can be broken on anyone bitten.’
Ben almost burst into tears with relief, and Rita knew first-hand how he must be feeling. To have that inside of him, ready to take over, to make him destroy. Terrifying.
‘How do we do that?’ asked Rita.
‘For the bitten, all you have to do is kill the master werewolf who turned them. Kill them and the curse is broken. Any they bit, any they turned, will be free.’
‘Okay,’ said Ben. ‘So we need to find Magda, and, well…’
Rita nodded. ‘And kill her.’ Rita didn’t like the sound of that. She was no killer. But what were her options? Allow Ben to suffer just so Rita didn’t feel bad about herself? This was different to the last case, different to her old Guv, to Jenner. This wasn’t her neck on the line, it was the safety of others. And not just those Magda had cursed with her bite, but all those they would go on to hurt, to kill. Could she really allow her own moral compass to get in the way of stopping that?
‘Are you okay?’ asked Ben, noticing how deep in thought Rita had fallen.
‘Oh, always great, me. It’s all flowers and jaunty music up here,’ she said, tapping a finger to her head.
Ben nodded and rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands. ‘Christ, I feel like something took a dump in my brain.
‘Formby,’ said Rita, ‘you’ve been doing your sneaky business like I asked, right?’
Formby grinned, revealing his mess of sharp little teeth. ‘I asked, I listened, I lurked. I am a good eaves.’
‘Okay then, this woman, Magda, what have you got for me?’
Formby sat and closed his eyes, then nodded and smiled. ‘There is talk of a wolf with magic. Impossible thing, but it’s happened. There are whispers of piles of dead wizards in Belgium. In a small town in Germany. In a village in Holland. The wizards do not like talk of it because it makes them look weak.’
‘So that’s Magda?’ asked Ben.
‘Must be,’ replied Formby. ‘Wizards hunt her, now she hunts them.’
‘Why do the wizards hunt them?’ asked Rita.
‘Snooty bunch, wizards. Think a lot of themselves, they do. They see themselves as masters of all magic. Can speak to all the Uncanny and mould it, use it, control it. Better than anything else. But the wolf magic is dark magic. Magic they cannot understand, cannot grasp, cannot use. They see it as an insult. An affront. If there is magic they cannot use, then there is danger, and it must be stamped out.’
‘So what? They’re jealous?’
‘Jealous and scared,’ replied Formby. ‘Not that they would admit to it, mind. Not a snooty, big-head wizard.’
A master werewolf with magic, killing wizards, turning others, making the moon shine full when it shouldn’t. Rita had the description, the name, the motive. All she needed now was Magda’s whereabouts so she could take her down. She wished Carlisle was with her to help, because she knew that what came next would not be easy.
As Rita made that wish, Carlisle was cold and annoyed.
‘Not wishing to sound like a child in the back seat of a car, but are we nearly there yet?’
The Monk stopped. ‘Yes. We are here.’ He held up his shining staff to reveal a lattice doorway; wrought iron with vines weaved through its fretwork.
‘This is the entrance to the Maze?’
‘Yes. This is where you must go, and we shall either meet on the other side, or we shall not.’
‘Are you not guiding me through?’
The Monk turned to Carlisle and smiled. ‘What would be the point of that? I do not need to navigate the Maze, I am of the City.’
‘Could you not just take me your way?’
The Monk laughed, and then in the time it took Carlisle to blink, was gone.
‘Well, that is just rude,’ said Carlisle. Sighing, he approached the Maze entrance, nudging experimentally at the metal frame with the toe of one boot.
‘Okay then,’ said Carlisle, straightening his coat and stepping through.
He was not usually a man to be worried by the unknown—the unknown, paradoxically, was the world he knew—but he had to concede that on this occasion he felt some trepidation. He teased at some of the protections he had sewn into his coat. Small objects, runes, secret words and phrases sewn to the fabric in fine thread. When you encountered danger as often as Carlisle, you made sure you had as many points in your favour as possible.
Carlisle moved forward. The Maze was very much what he expected. Narrow passages with topiary walls that reached high above his head. Carlisle attempted to force his hand into one of the walls to see if he could push his way through the vegetation and make his own route, but found that the wall would not yield to so much as a single finger.
The slow route it was.
The very slow route, as it turned out.
Carlisle was not sure how long he had been walking for, but his legs grew tired and his patience short. Each time he found the end of a path, he would have two choices, left or right. He chose randomly, as each path seemed identical to the last. Carlisle began to suspect—so identical was each stretch of the Maze—that some trickery was being employed that forced him to walk the same path over and over.
He turned right.
Perhaps madness was the Maze’s aim. Only those who could walk and walk and endlessly walk and yet keep their mind together would find themselves at the exit.
He turned left.
Or perhaps there was no exit, perhaps this is what the Monk did to all who attempted to gain access to the City of the Dead. Those who attempted to arrive whilst still drawing breath.
Carlisle turned right and found a man sitting in a chair, a book in hand. The man was dressed in a long purple coat and had a chalk-white face. The man was he.
‘Ah,’ said Carlisle Two, sliding the book into his pocket and rising to his feet, bowing with a flourish. ‘You’ve found yourself at last, then? You took your time, I must say.’
Carlisle stepped towards himself, eyes roaming, looking for any signs of what might happen next. ‘I apologise,’ he told his doppelgänger, ‘I do hate to be kept waiting.’
‘I do, don’t I?’ said Carlisle Two with a thin smile.
‘So what is this? What is the purpose?’ asked Carlisle.
Carlisle Two opened his long, purple coat, the lining flashing with stars and magic, and revealed something that made Carlisle’s pupils dilate.
‘Recognise this?’ asked Carlisle Two, removing the artefact—the axe—from where it hung from his belt.
Carlisle felt his heart skip, his lips grow dry, his breath quicken.
‘You believe yourself to be lacking without this, do you not?’ said Carlisle Two.
‘It is… my right. My property. I will hold it, wield it, again.’
Carlisle Two tossed the axe from hand to hand, trails of light, purple, red, green, blue, streaking from the blade, leaving trails of magic in its wake. ‘You are nothing without this.’
‘I am Carlisle.’
‘A thief, a liar, nothing more. But with this artefact… with this you can command armies. With this you can sit upon a th
rone and belong there.’
‘It is my right.’
‘A sewer-born such as you?’
Carlisle stiffened. ‘I am Carlisle.’
‘You are a nothing, dressed up and doused in perfumes to hide the sewer stink. A collection of lies and half-truths. A thing running from its birth. You were born in the dark, in the filth, and did not see the light of a day until you were almost ten.’
‘No. I am not like them. I am like me and me alone. I am Carlisle.’
‘A sewer-born with aspirations, nothing more. You even sneer at your own kind. Have done all sorts to yourself to make you something other. So little of what you were born with remains as you search, search, search for more.’
Carlisle noticed that the two of them were no longer alone. A third person had joined the circle. A woman.
Carlisle stepped back.
‘Get out of my mind,’ he hissed, as the woman in damp rags, mouth empty of teeth, skin covered in dirt and warts, stepped towards him, arms outstretched.
‘I died and you did not visit. Ashamed, ashamed, ashamed.’
‘I am what I create. I say I am Carlisle, I say I am the true King of the Uncanny Kingdom, and that makes it so!’ Carlisle realised he had fallen to his knees.
The woman stopped before him and ran her filthy hand lightly across his cheek. ‘I forgive you.’
‘You will not,’ he replied, pulling his head away from her. ‘I do not seek forgiveness, and I will not accept it.’
‘How long has it been since you pictured this woman in your mind?’ asked Carlisle Two.
‘She is nothing,’ Carlisle fired back. ‘She is nothing and nothing and nothing. I am my own. I created myself.’
The woman fell to the ground, clutching her stomach, and rats appeared, gnawing at her feet, her arms, her face.
‘Left to ruin by ungrateful fruit,’ said Carlisle Two, who raised his axe and swung it down into the woman’s head, her legs twitching for just a second before life left her.
‘No one shall miss the likes of her,’ said Carlisle.
‘Such heartless self-regard.’