A Three-Book Collection

by M. V. Stott

  Christ, he missed his life of just a few days ago. What he wouldn’t give just to be that lonely, vaguely depressed guy going from home to work to home, trying his best not to think about the woman who dumped him. Ben realised that was the first time he’d actually thought about Sally since this had all begun. He supposed that was progress.

  But it didn’t stop him being a murderer.

  That felt weird. And terrible, of course. It was hard to think that he was the one responsible for Alan’s death. He was and he wasn’t. It was the beast that had done it – he had no memory of it, no control over it. That didn’t assuage his guilt much. In charge or not, changed into a beast or not, Alan was still dead because of him. Because he’d gone for a walk with a strange woman, because he’d shrugged the night off and gone into work the next day, even though he’d felt like shit.

  If only he’d phoned in sick. He should have done. Work didn’t like sick people going into the office and spreading their sickness to others, but Ben was the sort of person who tried to work through any sickness. And now, because of his bone-headedness, Alan—boring, nice Alan—was laid out flat in the morgue.

  But then what would have happened if he had phoned in sick? Night would have fallen, the moon would have risen, he still would have changed into that… into that thing. Did he seriously think he would have stayed in? That the wolf would have stretched out on the sofa and caught up on a bit of TV? No, someone would have died regardless. Whether he’d gone to work or not, someone would have died. It was a miracle it had only been one person.

  Ben Turner sipped his orange juice and looked to see how many hours were left before night fell.

  Rita opened her eyes.

  She was laid out on the ground, looking up at the sky. She blinked in confusion and sat up. The beach was to her right, a bench to her left.

  ‘Shit!’

  Her hand jumped to her neck, to the place she remembered Magda’s teeth sinking into her, but there was no wound. Her heart hammering, Rita wobbled up and slumped on the bench. She bent down and collected the axe at her feet. How long had she been unconscious? She checked her watch. It was already early afternoon. She’d been out for hours.

  Had that actually happened? Had she been bitten, or had Magda just knocked her out?

  Rita’s hands went to her neck again. She couldn’t feel a wound, but it was tender to the touch. It had happened, she was sure of it. Like Ben, the wound had healed at an accelerated speed, but she’d been bitten alright.

  Which meant…

  Which meant nothing good.

  She checked her watch again, her arm shaking. Only a few hours before night fell. Would Magda pull her full moon trick again? Was Rita going to turn into the thing she’d seen Ben transform into? Into the thing she’d felt almost overwhelm her when the axe had transferred some of the lycanthropy into her?

  Rita stood and began to run. It took her twenty minutes before she stumbled up the blind alley and crashed into Big Pins, looking around wildly for Formby.

  ‘Rita?’ said Ben, approaching her with concern.

  ‘Formby, is he here? Have you seen him?’

  ‘Hey, woah, what’s wrong? Are you…’ Ben’s words faltered and he sniffed her.

  ‘What? What are you doing?’

  ‘I don’t… have you been bitten?’

  Rita bit her lip and nodded. ‘She found me. Magda. You weren’t kidding about how beautiful she was. Well, we had a nice little chat and then she infected me, so. All good. Great. Not panicking at all here.’

  ‘Shit,’ said Ben. ‘Shit!’

  ‘Yep, fully agree with you there, Benny Boy.’

  The entrance door opened and Rita spun around to see a grinning Formby shambling in. ‘Hello,’ he said, before shrinking back as Rita rushed him and grabbed hold.

  ‘Formby! Good! Back room!’

  ‘Time for a drink, I’m parched.’ But Formby found there was no time for a drink as he was hustled—his feet barely touching the rank carpet—into the back room that doubled as Rita’s bedroom.

  Formby staggered in and flopped on the couch, looking up at Rita and Ben with confusion. ‘I didn’t do it,’ he said. ‘Whatever it is. Probably.’

  ‘I met her,’ said Rita. ‘I met the master werewolf lady.’

  ‘Oh? That’s good.’

  ‘Yeah. Except the cow bit me. Well, wolf. Cow wolf.’

  ‘Oh. That is not so good.’

  ‘So now you’re invisible, forgotten, and a werewolf,’ said Ben. ‘That’s a terrible run of luck.’

  ‘Yeah, thanks for pointing that out, chuckles,’ replied Rita.

  ‘Hm? Sorry, just… thinking out loud.’ Ben wandered over to the tatty couch and sat on the opposite end to Formby as Rita began to pace back and forth, chewing her nails. ‘This is fucked. I’m fucked! I’m fucked, aren’t I?’

  Formby nodded, then a thought seemed to bubble up in him.

  ‘What?’ said Rita, seeing his expression change. ‘What is it? Is it something good? Please tell me it’s something good.’

  ‘Not night yet,’ he replied.

  ‘Yep, I already know that.’

  ‘Wolf curse doesn’t stick until after you turn for the first time.’

  Rita stopped pacing. ‘Okay. Okay, that’s good. Is that good? Tell me why that’s good.’

  ‘It’s good because if we can get you cured before the moon rises, before you change, then you won’t ever change into a big dog.’

  Rita leapt at Formby and grabbed him by the cheeks, planting a big kiss on his forehead. ‘Formby you beautiful, mole-faced sex god!’

  Formby grinned and blushed.

  ‘Okay. A few hours left until nightfall, when—we have to assume—Magda will pull her full moon magic trick again. Okay. Okay. Good. So how do we get this out of me before it beds in? Aspirin? Sweat it out in a steam room? Leeches?’

  ‘No, not leeches. Leeches are good in a stew, though.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Ben, ‘Linton gave me a bowl of stew earlier. Did that…?’

  Formby sniggered.

  ‘Great.’

  ‘Ben, Formby, focus; what do I need to do?’

  ‘Simple,’ said Formby. ‘Just need to find an exorcist.’

  Rita sat down between Formby and Ben. ‘Right. Of course we do. That was going to be my first guess.’

  Magda sat in the sewer chamber, below the streets of Blackpool.

  This was the sort of place she’d been forced to call home more times than she cared to remember. Out of sight. Beyond the eyes of anyone who might want to kill her, like they’d killed her family.

  She snarled as she remembered the wizard who had taken everything from her. The same one who had taken it upon himself to wipe her family line from the map. She did not know who he was, but it did not matter. She was the hunter now. All wizards were guilty, and she would slaughter them all. Sooner or later, she would cross paths with the one who had blighted her life, and she would rip him limb from limb.

  She pulled her bag from its hiding place and unzipped it, pulling out a dog-eared black and white photograph of Andras, her brother. He’d been so alive. So vital. None had enjoyed the hunt as much as he had. The wind in his fur, the scent of blood in his nostrils. This was all she had of him now. All she had of any of her family; she had no pictures of her mother or father in her bag. Just this. Just one old, faded picture of Andras. It was creased multiple times, brittle and faded. Sooner or later, that would be gone too.

  Even her memories would fade, with time.

  Magda realised her cheeks were damp, and angrily brushed the back of her hands across her face, wiping away the tears.

  So many tears shed for her family. So many years of weeping. Well, this would be the last time she cried for them. Now she would make them proud. Now she would have revenge upon all of wizard-kind.

  No more tears.

  No more hiding.

  No more nights spent hiding beneath the ground.

  She had grown stronger wit
h each wizard she had killed, suckling on their magic as they died. Her grasp on the Uncanny only grew with each wizard’s death. She would kill all of the wizards in this area. She would turn all of the town’s inhabitants into her kin. She would make the moon rise full, every night, wherever she was from now on. She could do it. She had the power now.

  No more skulking in shadows.

  No more testing of the water.

  It was time to walk loud and proud.

  Tonight.

  Tonight it all began in urgency.

  Tonight the moon would be full, and the wizards would fall.

  Magda wasn’t crying when she put the picture of Andras away. No, she wasn’t crying, she was singing.

  25

  Carlisle was not a sunny bunny. As a matter of fact, he wasn’t the sort of person who’d even use the phrase “sunny bunny”, so when he returned to consciousness and found the hateful words forming in his head, he was already peeved.

  ‘You’re awake, then?’ asked the Monk.

  ‘Evidently,’ replied Carlisle, sitting up from a small cot lined with a thin, damp mattress. He began to pat himself down, his coat, his pockets.

  ‘Do not worry, nothing has been taken from you. We do not need anything you may have.’

  ‘Forgive me if I do not take your word on that, Monk,’ said Carlisle, who continued to check that all of his objects, all of his runes and protections, were where they should be. Satisfied, Carlisle took in his surroundings. He had been taken to a simple dwelling, the walls roughly fashioned from straw and mud, dark wooden beams laced through and stretching across the ceiling. An open fire crackled, casting flickering shadows around the dark room.

  ‘Bit dingy,’ said Carlisle.

  ‘This is the City of the Dead, Mr. Carlisle, not the City of Jolly and Alive. Here,’ said the Monk, offering a glass of brown, fizzing liquid.

  ‘What is that?’ asked Carlisle.

  ‘It is cola. People usually drink it.’

  Carlisle took the glass and sniffed at it suspiciously. ‘If this is poisoned, I will be very annoyed.’ After one last suspicious sniff, Carlisle sipped the cola

  ‘We have so few willing visitors,’ said the Monk, ‘what brings you here?’

  ‘Murder.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I intend to commit one.’

  ‘How exciting. Biscuit?’ The Monk offered a plate loaded with a bounty of assorted treats.

  ‘No. Thank you.’

  ‘Are you sure? They’re still warm from the oven.’

  ‘I am sure,’ said Carlisle.

  The Monk shrugged. ‘Suit yourself, I’m having one.’ He put the plate down and took a biscuit, munching it with pleasure. ‘Who do you intend to murder, if I might ask?’

  ‘An angel.’

  The Monk’s eyebrows raised and he nodded, ‘I see.’

  ‘One of the first order.’

  ‘It cannot be done.’

  ‘I believe that to be a lie.’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ said the Monk. ‘It’s your neck on the line.’

  ‘I have it from a very reliable source that the key to completing my murderous task is within this very city. Somewhere. A man. Or something that looks like a man. I do not suppose you could furnish me with his location?’

  The Monk swallowed the last of his biscuit and went in for seconds. ‘Never heard of such a person. Not here. Someone has been pulling your leg.’

  ‘No. I do not believe so, not his style.’

  ‘Even if such a man did reside within this City, you would not be able to leave with him.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘You cannot take anything from this place. You may leave, as this place is not for you, but the rest of the things in the City of the Dead belong to it. They will remain. They cannot leave. They will not.’

  ‘What if I go ahead and take him anyway?’ asked Carlisle.

  ‘You will not leave.’

  ‘I am not accustomed to being told no, Monk.’

  ‘You will become so here.’

  Carlisle smiled. ‘I think not.’

  Carlisle took out the whip that hung beneath his coat and wrapped it around the Monk’s neck, pulling tight until the Monk’s face turned blue and his limbs ceased their twitching. Carlisle released the Monk and allowed the body to crumple to the floor. As it hit down, the corpse erupted in a cloud of black dust, leaving only robes behind.

  Carlisle nudged at the empty robes with the toe of his boot. From within the garment, the key attached to its thin leather strap tumbled into view.

  ‘Aha.’ Carlisle bent down and retrieved the exit key, placing the strap over his neck.

  He finished the last of his cola and stepped towards the door to leave the Monk’s home. He paused, turned back, took a large chocolate chip cookie from the plate, and then left.

  As Carlisle left behind the Monk’s home, he found that the City of the Dead was more forest than city. The trees were giants, both in length and width, and looked as though they had been in a fire. The bark was black and grey and flaked under his touch, yet somehow the blackened branches were covered in fresh, green leaves still. Carlisle sniffed the air; smoke. He scuffed at the ground with the toe of his boot. It too was scorched.

  Scattered around the forest were outcrops of small, simple buildings, much like the Monk’s. Hovels, cottages, buildings that would not have looked out of place a few hundred years ago.

  Carlisle walked on.

  He had a knack for finding where he needed to be, so decided to trust his feet to lead him there. The magic in the air was bitter. His body naturally drew some of the background energy into himself, but the magic here made his body ache, his stomach churn. He turned his head and spat on the flaky ground as he walked, trying to get the bad taste out of the back of his throat.

  He stopped outside a large stone building; a pub. Smoke billowed from the inn’s chimney, and a wooden sign stuck out from the wall, creaking back and forth in the wind. Dead Man’s Folly was scrawled on the sign in big red letters. Carlisle pushed the door open and entered. Much like a bar in a western film, the conversation within hushed and all eyes turned to the newcomer.

  ‘Hello,’ said Carlisle, grinning wolfishly. He made his way over to the bar, the patrons’ eyes following him as he moved. ‘Pint of ale, if you would be so kind,’ he said to the barman, a sorry looking specimen with green, rotting flesh that looked like it might peel away from his bones at any moment.

  ‘You’re not dead,’ said the rotting barman, his voice a wheeze.

  ‘Not today, no, but who knows what the day might yet bring?’

  The barman slid a full glass across the bar to Carlisle, who picked it up and turned to face the rest of the patrons. He tipped his head back, downed the drink in one, and tossed the empty glass over his shoulder.

  ‘My name is Carlisle, the once and future King of the Uncanny Kingdom, and I am looking for the killer of angels,’ he said. The bar’s motley-looking customers looked at each other, then back to Carlisle. ‘Well? Do any of you know where he can be found?’

  One of the customers raised a hand.

  ‘Yes, you with the eyeball dangling out of its socket.’

  ‘You are not supposed to be here. This is the afterlife for those that do not die. You die.’

  ‘Sometimes I do, yes, though I try not to make a habit of it. So, angel killer, I’m sure there’s a grapevine in this wretched place, so feel free to pass it on and on as I weave my way through and through.’

  Carlisle strode out of the bar and made his way further into the forest. Each building he came to, he entered and asked the same question, made the same request. It was laborious, tedious work, but often the best way to get what you want is to make yourself conspicuous.

  ‘The killer of angels,’ Carlisle cried to a group of children tormenting a bear, ‘tell everyone, Carlisle is looking for him.’

  ‘Piss off,’ said one of the children, and the group returned to poking the bear with p
ointed sticks.

  After walking for hours, and leaving threads everywhere he stopped, Carlisle took a seat upon a fallen tree and pulled an apple from one pocket and a paperback copy of Wuthering Heights from the other. He was three chapters and half an apple along when he was approached.

  ‘You Carlisle, then?’

  Carlisle looked up from his book to see a young woman stood before him. She had a mountain of yellow curls on her head and a very pleasant face… apart from the hole at its centre where a nose would once have sat. Carlisle slipped the book back into his pocket and swallowed a bite of his apple.

  ‘I am delighted to say that yes, I am indeed Carlisle. Lucky old me.’ He stood and walked towards the woman. ‘Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?’

  ‘Lola. I’m Lola. Bastard lovechild of an eternal and a mortal.’

  Carlisle had heard tell of the eternals. They walked forever between worlds and stars, realities and make believes, forever attempting to experience true emotions, but cursed to know only the cold empty nothing.

  ‘Have you heard tell of why I am in your delightful, foul-tasting city, Lola?’

  Lola looked over her shoulder, then back to Carlisle. ‘Angel killer.’

  Carlisle grinned. ‘Ten points to you. And you have news?’

  She nodded. ‘You can find him where the river runs black.’

  ‘Lola, why are you telling me this?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘What is in it for you? No one does something for nothing, but nothing is all I have to offer you. Take it or leave it.’

  ‘I tell you ‘cos he scares me. Comes to me when I’m in bed, sleeping, and gives me cause to shiver. I don’t like him.’

  Lola walked away, leaving Carlisle more than a little perturbed. He took a last bite of his apple, then tossed what was left and went in search of a river. That was not a difficult chore; he could sense the flow of water. When you are so connected to the Uncanny, it comes naturally. It was a narrow, fast-flowing river, but it was a clear blue, not black. Carlisle looked left and looked right, and then sighed. He took a coin from his pocket, flipped it into the air, and caught it. He looked to see which side was face up. ‘Very well,’ said Carlisle, and turned to follow the river down to his left.