by M. V. Stott
He stepped towards Waterson.
Rita could taste blood in her throat.
Carlisle put the right words together, ancient words, and the charm reacted. It was created to throw at an enemy, to engulf them in flames. Carlisle would not be throwing it. Fire rushed up around his coat, raced along the vines, eating away at them until Carlisle stumbled forward, free of their grip, and struggled out of the blazing coat.
He’d had that coat for over a hundred years. Now he was angry.
The magic rushed into him and he punched out a fist, sweeping Mr. Cotton from his feet, halting his advance towards Waterson. Carlisle spun on his heel and yelled out an oath, swinging his fist again and knocking Mr. Spike from his position on top of Rita.
‘Detective!’ he said.
Rita rolled and stumbled to her feet, body trembling. ‘Waters!’
Waterson threw her the axe.
‘No!’ yelled Mr. Cotton, reaching out, vines bursting from the ground, following the path of the axe as it spun, head over handle, towards Rita’s hand. Carlisle was ready and swept a hand across, unleashing a spell that turned the vines to ribbons.
The axe found Rita’s hand.
No time for relief, no time for a snappy remark, with the sound of Mr. Spike’s wet, furious grunts at her back, Rita swung the axe at the Night Fair’s gate. It stuck in nothing, stuck in reality, and Rita shoved the handle, opening a bright, white gap.
A door.
An exit.
‘It’s okay, it’s okay, everything is going to be fine, fine, fine,’ said Mr. Cotton, as the smoky fingers of the Angel’s magic that stretched from the Angel’s prison and wound around Mr. Cotton and Mr. Spike broke away and rushed into the door Rita had created. It was like a black hole gobbling up all available light.
‘I think it’s fair to say,’ said Rita, as Cotton and Spike stepped back, ‘that you pair are royally fucked.’
A figure stepped out of the door Rita had created, his eyes blazing with a furious white light.
‘I am very upset,’ said Alexander Jenner with the voice of the Angel of Blackpool.
As Mr. Cotton and Mr. Spike attempted to get away, to escape into a maze of dreamscapes, Jenner reached out a hand. ‘No, no. Stay.’
Cotton and Spike fell to their knees.
‘We still have similar desires,’ said Mr. Cotton. ‘Errors of judgement have been made, but I believe we can come to a new understanding and put this sorry business behind us.’
Mr. Spike gurgled and grunted and nodded.
‘Is that so?’ said the Angel. Jenner’s fingers clicked and the masks that Mr. Cotton and Mr. Spike wore burst into flames. They screamed and struggled, but the Angel would not let them fall or run or roll. Would not let them throw off their masks.
Rita thought about all the terror they’d been responsible for. She thought of the women’s souls inside her axe, trapped still. She thought about Ben Turner, dead on the basement floor.
The flames edged down their bodies, and before long, they were nothing but twin piles of ash, blown by the wind.
Rita stepped back as Carlisle and Waterson joined her.
‘Yay for teamwork?’ she said as Jenner—as the Angel—turned Its gaze to her.
‘Thank you, Rita Hobbes,’ said the Angel.
‘Did you see me?’ Waterson asked Rita. ‘I only bloody picked something up!’
‘Still in a shitload of danger here, Waters, let’s put a hold on any celebrations for a bit.’
‘I do not suppose you would like to step back inside of your prison of your own free will?’ asked Carlisle, as Jenner’s body began to rise into the air in a ball of crackling, bright white magic.
‘Okay,’ said Rita, axe in her hands, ‘the door to the nightscape is behind Jenner; all we have to do is make him fall back, just an inch or two.’
‘Oh, is that all?’ replied Carlisle.
‘We can do this,’ said Rita. ‘Ready?’
Carlisle sighed and drew strength from the magic in the air around him. ‘Ready.’
‘Then let’s do this.’
Rita and Carlisle ran at Jenner.
And then things went very, very bad.
21
Carlisle was not in a good way. For one thing, his coat was a smouldering heap, all the charms within it lost, all the bits of protection stitched into it, ash. He felt almost naked without it.
He ran his fingers gently along one of the tree roots that snaked down the walls of the cave to feast upon the thick layer of blood that coated the ground. It pulsed under his touch. Writhed.
Carlisle felt weak, which was not something he was used to. Both magically and physically, he was beaten down. He had not recovered from the torture Mr. Cotton and Mr. Spike had inflicted upon him, nor the damage done by his astral jaunt and exorcism.
Punishment on top of pain on top of punishment. And then there were the beatings he had just suffered in the battle against Cotton and Spike, and then in a fruitless attempt to move the Angel-possessed Jenner so much as an inch. They had been no more capable of moving it back than a bug was capable of winning a fight against an oncoming truck.
Carlisle stumbled, faltered, wrapping his hand around one of the roots to stop himself from collapsing to the bloody cave floor.
He wondered if the detective was dead already. Wondered what she had thought as he ran from the battlefield and she screamed after him. Had she felt betrayal? Thought him a coward? A part of the dark showing its true colours at last? It annoyed him that he cared.
‘You called?’ asked a figure, rising from his twitching throne of flesh and bone.
‘Unfortunately so,’ replied Carlisle with a smile, turning his attention from the hundreds of roots, to the nonchalant demon who claimed this place as his realm.
The Yellow Man.
The demon smiled, his golden skin glowing, his antlers scraping against the roof of the cave as he stepped forward.
‘I see you have made friends with your body again. Good for you.’
Carlisle bowed a little, wincing in pain as he did so. ‘Thank you, I find I am able to squirm out of even the most hopeless of situations.’
‘That’s one of the things I’ve always liked about you, Carlisle. You’re a scrappy son of a gun.’
Carlisle was not sure he liked being referred to in such a cutesy way, but he was not so stupid as to argue with a demon. Or with this demon anyway.
‘So you would now like to take me up on my kind offer, is that right?’
Carlisle frowned and nodded. ‘Unfortunately, I appear to have temporarily taken leave of my senses, yes.’
‘And all for no personal gain, by the looks of it? But, in fact, to help others. What has become of you, man?’
‘It seems I may have grown a conscience,’ replied Carlisle, spitting the last word out as if it was a piece of rancid meat.
‘A conscience,’ the Yellow Man frowned and placed a hand to his heart. ‘Perhaps even a sliver of empathy sprouting up from the cracks in the concrete? I’m really sorry to hear that. It’s the sort of thing that leads nowhere good.’
‘It is most tiresome, I can assure you.’
The Yellow Man laughed and clicked his fingers. The hands, grasping their screw-top jars, each containing a soul, began to emerge from the cave walls.
‘Would you look at that,’ said the Yellow Man, pointing to one jar amongst hundreds. ‘I’ve got a nice, empty jar all waiting for you.’
He stepped over and took the empty jar, tossing it up into the air and catching it again. ‘Do you think I’ll be able to squeeze you in there?’
Carlisle stepped back. ‘Do not get too excited. I may offer you my soul, but I have no intention of actually dying. I intend to outlive the great Beast Itself.’
The Yellow Man laughed again and the mocking sound echoed throughout the cave. ‘It’s good to have a goal in life, Carlisle. But no, I’m afraid sooner or later, you’ll be part of my collection.’ He tossed the empty jar at the wall, and a
fresh hand emerged to catch it before it struck the stone and shattered.
‘Oh, I would be the pride of your collection, I’m sure.’
The Yellow Man lowered himself onto his throne again. It writhed and whimpered beneath him as it took his weight. ‘I have to ask you if you’re sure. Just a formality, you understand.’
Carlisle thought about Jenner, about the Angel, about Rita Hobbes. He thought about all the pain that had been inflicted upon him. The indignities. ‘I am.’
‘And that is what you want in return for your sacrifice?’
‘Get on with it.’
The Yellow Man smiled, ‘It’s already done.’
Carlisle looked to the empty jar that he would one day be trapped within. Another tight spot to find a way out of. He smiled, he was sure he would think of something.
He turned, wishing he had a long coat to sweep as he did so, and strutted away from the demon.
‘Carlisle?’ said Rita. ‘Carlisle!’
‘He’s legged it, the bastard!’ replied Waterson, as the two cowered from the blazing magic that rippled around the floating body of Jenner.
‘You think you can put me back in my box?’ asked the Angel. ‘I am not as I was, not as you last faced me. I am more with each heartbeat that passes. With every blink of an eye, more of me escapes my bonds and rushes out into the world.’
Rita swung the axe and magic erupted from it, bursting towards Jenner. A flick of Jenner’s hand and the spell melted away.
‘You are an ant before me. A termite, nothing more. Abase yourself, you grovelling insect.’
‘Up yours!’ yelled Rita.
‘I’m really starting to think that we should follow Carlisle’s lead and make a run for it,’ said Waterson.
‘We can’t,’ replied Rita. ‘We have to stop him, have to stop It.’
‘How? What can we do? It’s hopeless!’
‘I believe I shall kill you very, very slowly,’ said the Angel. ‘I will tweak every nerve ending so you are in an endless rapture of pain. You will beg me for death. Beg me. And I shall answer, no.’
Rita knew Waterson was right. They should run. They should run away and hide. She gripped the axe, willed the magic that flooded into it to obey her. To do what she wanted, what she needed. Magic gushed forth, eager to do as she asked, but it was a water pistol against a tank.
They were going to have to turn their backs and escape, and that meant more deaths. A lot more deaths. She thought again about the two souls trapped within the axe. That had just been the start. She wondered how many more were going to die because she couldn’t bring this thing to justice. Because she’d let the genie back out of the bottle.
‘What on Earth?’ said Waterson. Rita looked to see what had drawn his attention.
‘Carlisle?’ said Rita, shocked.
‘Just had to pop out and pick something up,’ he replied.
‘Your eyes…’ said Rita.
They were entirely black.
‘Carlisle, what is that I see in you?’ asked the Angel.
‘A gift for you,’ he replied.
A sneer bent Jenner’s face and he thrust out a hand, magic rushing from him towards Carlisle, ready to strip the flesh from his bones.
Carlisle leapt to the side, rolled, and rose up on one knee. He could feel what the Yellow Man had given him. Could feel the dark power boiling inside of him. Time seemed to slow down.
‘Are you ready?’ he asked the darkness, and the darkness howled in anticipation.
Carlisle gritted his teeth and reached out.
The darkness flooded out of him. A writhing, screaming, demented thing. Carlisle trembled, opened his mouth to scream in agony as the dark scraped through him.
The Angel lifted both hands in surprise, in horror, as the convulsing flood of torment swarmed over the body it was using, over Alexander Jenner.
Rita watched in shock as layer by layer the thing Carlisle had unleashed stripped Jenner away. The clothes went, then hair, skin, organs, muscles. All the pieces were torn from him, turned to dust, and blown away until there was nothing left but the faint sound of his screams, and then even that was gone.
Alexander Jenner was dead. The body utterly destroyed. The soul erased. The Angel’s puppet gone.
‘Well… holy bloody buggering shit,’ said Rita.
Carlisle smiled then toppled sideways to the ground. Rita and Waterson rushed to him.
‘You are welcome,’ said Carlisle, breathing heavily.
‘What was that?’ asked Waterson.
‘Ghost, you do not believe I will tell you and the detective all of my secrets, do you? It would ruin my mystique.’
Rita smiled and hugged him, and Carlisle was too weary to recoil.
‘Sorry about your coat.’
‘It was a nice coat,’ said Carlisle.
Trying not to make it obvious how much pain he was in, Carlisle rose slowly to his feet. Feeding that darkness through him had scratched his every nerve, shown him pain like he had never experienced. He put a fist to his chest; it was still in there, the connection. Perhaps he had enough in him for one more big effort.
‘So… did we win?’ asked Waterson.
‘No,’ said Rita. ‘Well, a bit, but also no.’
‘Okay. Not sure if I should be happy or worried.’
‘You saw how much magic is escaping from the Angel’s prison,’ replied Rita. ‘We can’t ignore It anymore. Too much of It is free.’
‘The detective is correct. With Mr. Cotton and Mr. Spike out of the way, and so many weak spots in Its prison, it is only a matter of time before the Angel is entirely free of Its bonds.’
‘So what do we do?’ said Waterson.
‘You do nothing, ghost,’ replied Carlisle.
‘Liking this plan so far,’ said Waterson.
‘I take it I’m not off the hook this time?’ asked Rita.
Carlisle smiled, the dried blood on his lips cracking, ‘No. You are very much in the hot water.’
Rita laughed and rested the axe against her shoulder, reaching out a hand. ‘Let’s dance.’
Carlisle took her hand in his, and then Waterson was alone.
Rita blinked and she was in the Angel’s prison. The giant marble pillars, wider than ancient trees, stretched high above. The only sound was the whisper of the flames that burned endlessly upon the thousands of candles spread across the floor throughout the chamber.
‘Can’t say it’s a thrill to be back here,’ said Rita.
‘Look on the bright side, this will hopefully be the last time.’
‘Fingers crossed.’
‘Of course, it may be the last time as we’re about to die an agonising death.’
‘You’re a real ray of sunshine, Carlisle.’
They rounded a pillar to find the Angel stood waiting at the centre of Its glass box.
‘Don’t mind us dropping in for a home visit, do you?’ asked Rita.
The Angel of Blackpool smiled. ‘You surprised me, Carlisle. I did not expect you to go to such lengths. To give so much of yourself.’
‘What does It mean?’ asked Rita. ‘What did you give?’
Carlisle ignored her.
‘In the end, all you have done is destroy a man’s body. A body I would soon have no use for, anyway.’ The Angel pressed a hand against the glass wall of Its prison. The wall glowed and hundreds of dark cracks appeared. ‘Can you see? I tapped, and I tapped, and I tapped. Created imperfection upon imperfection; enough for some of me to emerge. Soon the damage will be too much and the structure will fail. This glass box shall shatter, and I will step out of this place. Where I tread, I will leave nothing but dust and pain and darkness. I find that good.’
Carlisle pressed a fist to his chest. The dark was waiting. He wondered if he had the strength to survive a final use of the gift the Yellow Man had bequeathed him.
He looked up to see the Angel smiling.
‘Now.’ Carlisle commanded, and the dark tore from him, surging towar
ds the glass box. It wriggled its way inside, forcing itself through the cracks, whirling around the Angel, attacking it. The Angel did not move, did not fight. It closed Its eyes, Its smile never faltering.
Finally the dark was used up and Carlisle slumped to the marble floor.
‘Carlisle,’ said Rita crouching by him. ‘Carlisle, don’t go and bloody die on me again.’
Carlisle smiled and sat up, leaning back against a pillar.
‘It did not work,’ he said, and laughed. ‘Not enough. Not enough.’
The Angel ran the back of one hand against Its nose and looked at the smear of blood upon it. ‘Is it my turn now?’
The candle flames flickered violently, throwing shadows around the chamber. The glass box trembled, filling with the Angel’s smoky tendrils, which began to snake out of the glass prison’s imperfections and wind towards the prone Carlisle. The magic wrapped around his neck and tightened.
‘Do not worry,’ said the Angel, ‘soon it shall all be over.’
‘Leave him alone!’ screamed Rita, and swung the axe at the magic tendril throttling Carlisle. The axe was wrenched from her hand and thrown across the chamber, the blade embedding in one of the pillars.
‘You did well, Rita Hobbes,’ said the Angel. ‘Be happy. Be proud, yes? Be proud.’
‘Eat my arse,’ she replied and ran towards the axe. It was useless, she knew that, but she didn’t care. If this was it—if failure was all she had to look forward to—then she was going to go out fighting. Was going to go out like the couldn’t-give-a-shit, pain in the rear end that she’d been her whole life.
She wrapped her hands around the handle of the axe, ready to pull it free of the pillar.
And then she stopped.
‘Oh…’
She could see it. Feel it.
She told the axe to take more.
To take more, and more, and more. To fill itself up and be ready to do as she asked.
The axe obeyed.
‘Can you feel the end approach, Carlisle?’ asked the Angel.
Rita pulled the axe from the pillar and turned back to the Angel.