by M. V. Stott
The river wound its way through the forest, twisting and turning. Carlisle walked until his feet hurt, and he began to suspect that he had taken the wrong direction, but then, all at once, the clear blue water began fading to black. With each forward step it darkened and darkened.
There was a man sat on the bank of the river. He was small and wiry, with a hook nose and short, coarse brown hair that looked more like little porcupine spines than hair. He held a fishing rod and the line dangled into the black water.
‘What kind of fish are there to be caught in water as black as that?’ asked Carlisle.
‘No fish, plenty of eels, though. Big fat ones, like from some sort of dreadful nightmare. They’re as wide as your thigh, teeth like butcher’s knives, smell like a busy prostitute’s never-you-mind.’
‘Delightful,’ said Carlisle. He took a seat next to the fisherman. ‘Lola told me I would find you here.’
‘Did she? She still got no nose?’
‘She was minus a nose when we spoke, yes.’
‘Eels, you see. Took them to show her as she slept. Bit it clean off.’
‘Would you rather I had not found you?’ asked Carlisle.
‘Makes no difference to me. My name is Horse, by the way.’
‘What a stupid name.’
Horse nodded in agreement. ‘My mother was not a wise woman, but she did like horses. Had a stable full of the finest, most handsome horses you’ve ever laid eyes upon. Champions. Could leap over houses, let alone fences. She’d have me ride them, my mother. Horse on a horse, she’d say.’
‘Are you quite finished,’ asked Carlisle, ‘only you are stupefyingly boring.’
‘Sorry, I do rabbit on, I’ve been told as much. You always rabbit on, Horse, that’s what they say. Rabbit on horse. Ha. Like Horse on horse. That’s funny, isn’t it?’
Carlisle sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, resisting the urge to push the man into the black water so that the eels would feast upon him. ‘I am told you would be the person capable of terminating the existence of a first order angel. Would that be true?’
‘Yup. I can do that.’
‘How?’
‘Just can.’
‘That is a little vague.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Would you care to shed a little more light upon things?’ asked Carlisle.
Horse shook his head. ‘I can do it. Done it once before. Got nothing to prove to you or no one else.’
Carlisle was not the most trusting of people, but it mattered where information came from. In this case, it came from Giles L’Merrier. If he said that this was where the answer to his angel problem was, then it gave the information weight. What L’Merrier said could be counted upon.
Carlisle pushed down his natural inclination to doubt, and thought instead about the weight of his artefact in his right hand. How good that would feel once more. How complete he would feel. How right and powerful. How far from the sewer. ‘Horse, I would like you to leave this place with me and slay an angel.’
Horse looked up at him with eyes that were far too close together. ‘What’s this angel ever done to you?’
‘Enough.’
‘Well, I do like killing things. Like killing eels. Like killing most anything. Especially, though, I like killing angels.’
‘So you will do it?’
‘Can’t.’
Again, it took all of Carlisle’s self-control not to kick the man into the river. ‘You said that you could.’
‘Can. But I can’t leave here, can I? I’m the dead that does not die, and this is where I’m stuck forever.’
Carlisle smiled and pulled out the key that he had taken from the Monk. ‘You cannot leave, but I can. I am still very much alive, so I am able to come and go, and I have the exit key right here.’
‘So?’ replied Horse. ‘Won’t do me any good. I’m not you, I’m me.’
‘Oh, my ugly friend, the answer is simple.’
‘Is it? Oh good. I prefer simple answers.’
‘You will just have to share my body. Temporarily.’
‘Right. Doesn’t sound that simple, to be truthful.’
‘The answer is simple, the process is not. It is also quite, quite painful.’ Carlisle did not know, to be truthful, that what he was proposing would actually work. Trojan horsing the man out of the City of the Dead. But it was worth a try. ‘So, Horse, what say you and I get a little closer?’
Horse nodded and pushed himself up on to his feet. ‘Might as well. Eels aren’t biting anyway. Must be sleeping at the bottom. Hope they’re having bad dreams for keeping me waiting.’
Carlisle smiled and began to prepare himself for a houseguest.
26
A race against time.
It’s always exciting in a film, that. A ticking clock, a bomb to defuse, a woman in a chamber rapidly filling with water screaming to be found, a hero coming through just as the final seconds ticked away.
Rita really, really hoped this race against time would not be such a close-run thing.
‘So when you say an exorcist, what exactly do you mean?’ Rita asked.
‘I means an exorcist,’ Formby replied. ‘An exorcist-exorcist.’
‘So, a bloke in a dog collar, “The power of Christ compels you”, all of that stuff?’
‘Yes. But different, too. Very special sort of Uncanny exorcist named Bob.’
‘Bob?’
‘That’s him.’
‘Right. Then take me to Bob.’
They left Ben back at Big Pins, despite his protestations. They didn’t know how long this would take, or if it would prove successful. The last thing they needed was for both of them to be out and about as a full moon rose. No, damage limitation, Ben would stay behind and hole up in the basement before night came around. If he was going to change, he’d do it somewhere he wouldn’t hurt anyone.
Rita checked her watch as she drove at speed through Blackpool towards Bob’s house.
‘Look at the road, look at the road!’ Formby screeched as Rita almost drove them up on to the pavement.
‘Shit, sorry,’ said Rita. ‘So, Bob. Who is Bob exactly?’
‘Told you. Exorcist. Uncanny exorcist. Can talk the bad stuff out of you. Demons, ghosts, magic, whatever.’
‘Hexes?’
Formby grinned. ‘No.’
‘Typical.’
‘Trained at the Vatican under the Uncanny Order.’
‘Wait, so there’s a secret magic department in the Catholic Church?’
‘Yes, secret. All kinds of things deep under Vatican City. Carlisle knows, he has stolen more than one thing from under there.’
Bob the exorcist lived at 23a Parker Avenue, a basement flat. Rita’s car screeched to a halt outside and she and Formby hopped out. Rita checked her watch, then squinted up at the sky. It seemed like the day was already starting to bruise.
They scurried past the gate and down the grimy set of steps to the front door of Bob’s flat, Rita bashing furiously at the door.
‘Hello? Hello? Bob, open up!’
There was no answer.
‘You did tell him we were on our way, right?’
Formby held up his phone to show the message he’d sent. ‘Yes. He replied, look.’
Rita peered at the phone’s screen to see Bob the exorcist had indeed replied with a little thumbs-up emoji, followed by a smiley face emoji.
Rita turned to the door and continued the bashing. No response came.
‘Balls.’ Rita took out the axe and smashed it against the door’s lock until it sprang open.
‘Bit rude,’ said Formby, following Rita inside.
Bob’s home was a mess. Actually, saying it was a mess was insulting to the good name of mess. This place looked and smelled as though two crack dens had bumped uglies and birthed a super crack den. Rubbish was strewn everywhere; newspapers, food cartons with mould spilling out, dirty laundry. The curtains were pulled tight as if embarrassed that the world outside might see th
e horror within.
‘This is the person that’s going to save me from becoming a monster?’ asked Rita, as they made their way into the living room. The only furniture there was a depressed-looking comfy chair with a tiny TV set perched on a crate in front of it. The walls were daubed in graffiti: arcane symbols, crosses, strange-looking creatures, and—if Rita was not mistaken—a shopping list.
‘Bob is good,’ said Formby, looking around the room. ‘Bit messy, but good.’
‘A bit messy?’ said Rita, pulling her foot away from something sticky.
‘Let yourself in then, did you?’
Rita turned to see a shambles of a man stood in the living room doorway. He was overweight, had a week’s worth of beard growth, and the hair on his head was unwashed and unbrushed. In his hand was a plastic shopping bag.
‘This is Bob,’ said Formby, clapping his hands together.
Bob walked over to his chair, dropped the plastic bag on the floor, and dropped into it.
‘You owe me for a broken door,’ he said.
‘Yes, sorry,’ replied Rita, ‘because now this place looks a right state.’
‘Exactly.’ Bob leaned down and pulled a can of lemonade out of the bag, opened it, and took a sip. ‘Ah. Lovely sugar fizz. This her then, is it?’
‘Yes,’ replied Formby. ‘Lycanthropy. Bitten by a master werewolf.’
‘She’s hexed, too, by the stink of her.’
‘Hey,’ said Rita, ‘I do not smell.’
‘Do a bit,’ said Formby. ‘Hex stink.’
Rita frowned and sniffed at herself.
‘Can’t force a hex out, you know that,’ said Bob.
‘Yes. Just the wolf,’ replied Formby.
Rita waggled her watch at Bob and Formby. ‘Not to rush you, but it’s almost time for the sun to disappear, so…’
Bob the exorcist sighed, then stood and approached Rita, peering into her eyes. ‘Let’s have a look at you then.’ He grabbed her by the jaw and looked down her throat.
‘Is that strictly necessary?’ asked Rita, though as her mouth wasn’t able to close, it came out a little more garbled than that.
‘Yup. Wolf in her all right. I can see it growling down there,’ said Bob, then he let go of Rita’s face and walked out of the room.
‘Where are you going?’ Rita asked. ‘I did mention the urgency, right?’
‘Getting me tools.’
Rita checked her watch again, then teased the curtains aside to see how it was looking outside. It wasn’t looking good. Already the sun was dipping and she could see the moon starting to rise. It didn’t look full, not yet, but she knew Magda could change that at any moment.
‘Shit,’ said Rita.
‘Agree,’ said Formby, who was now poking around in Bob’s shopping bag. ‘Ooh!’ He reached in and pulled out a bag of crisps. ‘Cheese & Onion, my favourite.’
‘Got them for you, friend,’ said Bob, walking back into the office with a small leather bag, the kind you might see a doctor carrying around on home visits fifty years ago.
‘Okay, so what is it we’re doing to get rid of this then?’ asked Rita. ‘Something simple and not painful sounds good to me.’
Bob chuckled as he opened the bag. He reached inside and pulled out a large, rusted tool of terror. A hand drill. Rita’s face may have gone a little pale then. Bob chuckled again and dropped the nightmare thing back into the bag. ‘Just a joke.’ Formby broke out in a snigger.
‘Yeah, laugh it up. Hilarious.’
Bob reached back into the bag and pulled out a water bottle filled with bright orange liquid.
‘What is that?’ asked Rita.
‘A start,’ said Bob. ‘I can get this out of you.’
‘Good.’
‘Probably.’
‘I’m sorry? Probably?’
‘These things are not an exact science,’ said Bob. ‘Sometimes it just doesn’t work and you ask, “Why didn’t that work?” And the answer is “I dunno”. So. Fingers crossed, eh?’
‘Great. Feeling very worried now.’
‘Either way, work or not, it’s going to hurt. It’s going to hurt a lot.’
Rita nodded.
‘And I actually will have to use this,’ said Bob, pulling the drill back out of the bag.
Rita felt the blood drain from her face again.
Magda stretched. She’d been sleeping, dreaming of running in the forest by her family home as a child. Night was almost here, and she had work to do.
She pulled out a piece of chalk and drew a pentagram on the sewer chamber’s dirty stone floor. She knelt down and touched a hand to the chalk on the ground. ‘Power. I grant it to you,’ she said, and the pentagram glowed bright yellow as it accepted the Uncanny magic she was gifting it. Magda had given the pentagram life and purpose. Made it a tool, ready to use.
She stepped into the pentagram and sat down, crossing her legs. The spell was ready to cast.
Rita finished drinking the orange liquid and tried not to throw up. It tasted like death.
‘What was that?’ she spat, gasping.
‘My own special mix. I can get you the recipe if you like,’ replied Bob, as he put on his dog collar.
‘Is that needed?’ asked Rita. ‘This isn’t a demon. I mean, is it?’
‘It’s symbolic,’ said Bob. ‘There is a process, a routine. Each person has a different way to go about it. It’s not the actions themselves that matter—they can be almost anything—it’s the repetition. Like a mantra for meditation. These are the things we choose to do, choose to wear, choose to say, and they open the lines of power because we have decided they will.’
Rita nodded slowly. ‘Right. Not really following that, but whatever you need to do to get this dog out of me.’
‘Can I have this?’ said Formby, waving a Kit Kat in the air.
‘Right now?’ said Rita.
‘Sorry. Carry on.’
Magda always thought about the Creeping Oak before she cast a spell. Thinking about the tree, the winding iron staircase, the demon in its old woman guise at the top, helped her to bring calm to her mind before trying something so big. So dangerous.
She could feel the magic in the air around her starting to notice her. To become attracted to her more and more.
‘I need you,’ she begged, and ribbons of colour began to form, to sharpen, and dance around her seated form.
‘I command you. I control you. I transform you.’
Bob chained Rita to the wall by her ankle, just in case.
‘Any number of things could go wrong. You could try to escape before the ceremony is done. Or I could unleash the beast in you, you could turn and try to eat us.’
‘Okay, let’s get this over with.’
Bob the exorcist breathed in through his nose and clapped his hands together. Colourful sparks flew when his palms struck together. ‘Oh Lord, I am your servant. I am unworthy. I ask of you your help. Your hand. Your guidance.’
The room darkened and Formby made his excuses and scuttled out of the door.
‘This woman has the beast in her. The wolf.’ Bob stepped forward and punched Rita full in the face. She staggered back and fell to the floor, clutching her nose that was now throbbing and dripping blood.
‘What the hell, Bob?’
‘Her blood runs. Her blood taints my hands.’ Bob raised his hand up, her blood smeared upon it. He licked it.
‘Oh, what the crap? Formby? This guy is mental!’
Bob began muttering words that Rita didn’t understand, words that felt old. Older than old.
There were things in the corner of the room. In the dark. Rita could feel them. Could hear them chitter. She felt a deep-down horror begin to creep over her.
‘Bob. I’m scared, Bob.’
Bob didn’t respond. The ceremony had begun.
Magda pictured the moon in her mind’s eye.
She pictured it large and full and so brilliantly white.
Beautiful.
Powerful
.
The moon was God to her kind, and she worshipped it as she should. Revered it. But now she wanted to control it.
‘In this place, in this dark, you will be full. Perfect. Powerful.’
The ribbons of magic began to whirl faster and faster, twisting into new shapes, becoming one. One spell, one magic, with one purpose.
‘T’hum, latek, f’hum, latek,’ Bob the exorcist chanted, over and over.
Ancient words of power.
Rita was starting to sweat. Her body shaking. Skin itching. Bones aching.
‘It hurts,’ she said.
Bob did not answer.
‘Now, do as I ask. I am yours. I give you power.’
Magda was shaking too. This spell, this kind of magic, it was almost beyond her, even now. Almost beyond any magician. But she would be strong enough. She had it in her. Her will would not be denied.
The magic whispered back to her.
Told her it understood what she wanted.
Magda threw her head back and howled as the magic burst up from her, through the ceiling of the chamber, through the air above, up and up towards the moon.
Rita was curled on the floor, shaking so hard she thought she might give herself whiplash.
‘I command you,’ said Bob. ‘You know me. You know my power. You know my purpose, foul thing.’
The unseen chittering things in the darkened corners of the room laughed and stomped their cloven feet upon the wooden floorboards; a tattoo of terror that made Rita’s flesh crawl.
‘Show me. Show me. Show me.’
Magda stepped up out of the sewers and on to the streets of Blackpool.
She looked at the sky, looked at the moon shining bright, and saw her magic, her will, begin to take effect. She thought of those she had turned so far. So many, ready to run through the streets and sit by her side. Ready to feast.