Vileheart drew breath. The horseback rider was suddenly clearer to see, black robes swirling around it as it crossed the shore. He had never met the master face to face. In fact, he’d heard that very few had looked his malevolence in the eye and survived.
As the rider drew nearer, another shape came into view alongside it. A short distance out to sea, a gilded cage kept pace with the horse, gliding just above the churning water. Inside the cage were three wraiths, scrawny and scraggy with tormented faces and trailing white hair, tendril fingers gripping the bars of their prison. All three wailed for mercy in an unsettling cat-like chorus.
‘Attention,’ said Synister. ‘Get off that rock and stand to meet your master. And whatever you do, remember not to look at him directly.’
The rider was nearly upon them. They heard the splinter of bones under the great black stallion’s hooves. They saw the steam from its nostrils tinted red against the sundown sky.
The prisoners trembled in their cage, looking down on the lapping water. It wasn’t the cold, dark sea they feared but what lived inside it, the many excitable fast-moving shapes flickering under its surface.
The horse drew up before the two demons, crushing a grinning skull to dust underfoot. Its robed passenger dismounted, carrying a dark bundle under one arm, which he now set carefully on the ground. The bundle, which appeared to be composed of shadows, squirmed and twisted.
‘Your maleficence,’ said Synister. ‘To what do we owe this honour?’
‘There’s no honour in defeat,’ Cadaverus said. ‘There’s nothing but everlasting shame. The whole of Abhorra mourns tonight.’
With long tapering fingers he pushed back the hood from his face, the sight of which caused the caged beings to sob and the two demons to draw breath and avert their eyes.
‘This should have been a great victory,’ Cadaverus said. ‘Instead we’re left licking our wounds. How many losses, Synister?’
‘Hundreds we know of,’ Synister said. ‘Many more still unaccounted for.’
Cadaverus watched the horizon, where an army of servants were digging a hole the size of a meteorite crater in the land. It would take countless nights of hard labour to fill that hole with the defeated. The fatalities were piled high as a hill.
The dark bundle stirred at its master’s feet, emitting a slow hiss as it began to work itself into a shape.
‘This will not stand,’ Cadaverus said. ‘Tonight Pandemonium House opened its defences, gifting us a chance we’ve waited decades for, and we let it slip away. We should’ve taken at least a hundred and ninety-six souls, and how many did we win in the end?’
‘About seventeen,’ said Synister, embarrassed.
‘Yes, and those were virtually worthless too – security staff, drones, minions. What happened to those I sent you for? The ones with gifts of hearing and sight?’
‘We failed,’ Synister was forced to admit.
‘I’d say so.’ Cadaverus’s aura darkened. ‘The question now is, who answers for this? Who pays the price?’
Nathan Synister fell to his knees. ‘Not me, your miserableness. It’s true I planned the siege, but my duties elsewhere kept me away until late. By the time I arrived, matters were already out of hand. I’d delegated staff, but they were unequal to the task.’
‘Excuses, excuses.’ Lord Cadaverus turned next to the junior demon Vileheart. ‘And what was your role in this fiasco?’
‘None, sir.’
‘None?’
‘That is, I wasn’t directly involved. I’d done some reconnaissance beforehand, and I had a minor role in guarding the children known as the Willows, the ones who perished in a house fire before we captured them.’
‘And you failed at that too. The children escaped.’
‘We were overpowered.’
‘You outnumbered our enemy fifty-to-one,’ Cadaverus seethed. ‘Thank your stars, you two, I’m in a lenient mood, and be glad these three buffoons –’ He gestured at the cage. ‘– made an even worse mess than you.’
Lord Cadaverus glared at the prisoners. Two looked up with the timid faces of woodland creatures caught in a hunter’s crosshairs. The third nervously eyed the choppy water.
‘Who was in charge of the conference room triptych?’ Cadaverus asked. ‘The stained glass windows we used to enter their headquarters?’
‘We were,’ the prisoners answered faintly.
‘And when the appointed time came to unlock the windows and let loose our forces, who gave the order?’
‘He did,’ said one.
‘Him,’ said another.
‘They did,’ said the third, not daring to look.
‘Your timing was abysmal,’ Cadaverus said. ‘Not only did you let a precious lost soul, Jim Harvester, slip through your paws, you delayed long enough to give the Ministry every chance to regroup. Gross incompetence. Where do we find these fools?’
‘One simple little task and they couldn’t even do that,’ Nathan Synister gloated.
‘Be quiet.’ Cadaverus spat on a rock. His acid spittle fizzed and burned a hole straight through it. ‘If I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it. Don’t think passing the blame will lighten your own burden.’
‘Apologies, my Lord.’
Cadaverus refocused on the wraiths in the cage. ‘This should have been our night of nights – Samhain, a time when darkness rises and the balance of power swings in our favour. How in the name of all that’s unholy did you manage to mess that up?’
The wraiths cowered behind the bars, shaking and mewling.
‘Out of my sight, the lot of you,’ Cadaverus said, clapping his hands, and the cage descended into the sea, slowly enough to allow him the pleasure of hearing the prisoners beg for forgiveness one last time before they were eaten alive.
Their screams travelled the length of the shoreline, reaching as far as the gravediggers on the horizon, all of whom stopped to listen. The cage was now half-submerged, surrounded by thousands of frantic splashes. The feeding frenzy had begun.
The two demons looked on, well aware of what was taking place. This was, after all, the Carnivore Sea, the smallest but deadliest strip of coast in Abhorra, on the least populated, most northerly tip of the isle. There would be other punishments, some worse than this, before the night was over. This, they knew, was only the start.
The screaming stopped. The sea was a deeper red. Cadaverus waited until the water calmed and then with a motion of his hand brought the cage back above the surface and across to dry land. The cage floated in space for a moment, then tilted sharply aside, spilling its cargo of bones through the bars and onto the beach.
‘A fair and just punishment, eminence,’ said Nathan Synister. ‘Those wraiths undermined everything we did tonight.’
‘I don’t need to be told what is and is not fair punishment,’ Cadaverus growled.
‘Indeed not, my Lord.’
‘Do you seriously believe those three half-wits are the only reason our plans went belly-up?’
Cadaverus’s robes flowed around him in the airless breeze. The horse grew restless, shuffling its hooves over brittle skulls and collarbones.
‘The plan was flawed,’ said the junior demon, but immediately fell silent, realising he’d spoken out of turn.
Synister stared at him contemptuously.
‘A curious observation,’ Cadaverus said. ‘Your name is Vileheart, correct?’
‘Yes, my Lord. Luther Vileheart.’
‘The same Vileheart who took the life of the Harvester man among others?’
‘The very same.’
‘Would you care to explain the statement you just made?’
Vileheart swallowed, feeling the heat of Synister’s gaze. He couldn’t bring himself to look at the scarecrow any more than he dared meet the master’s eye. Instead he stared at the bundle of darkness writhing at Cadaverus’s feet.
‘Well?’ Cadaverus said. ‘Where was the flaw in your leader’s plan?’
‘The plan was unsubtle,’ Vileh
eart said. ‘We could have taken Pandemonium House unawares, but by staging a full-frontal attack we gave them time to adapt. Some of their operatives have considerable powers, powers we underestimated, and we played into their hands—’
‘Treasonable talk,’ Synister interrupted. ‘I’ll deal with you later, minnow.’
‘Quiet,’ Cadaverus said. ‘Let the entity speak. Continue, Vileheart.’
‘That’s all, your unworthiness,’ Vileheart said. ‘Except to say, it seems to me there are other ways to inflict maximum damage on the Ministry and its members.’
‘And they might be?’
‘This is nonsense,’ said Synister. ‘There was no flaw in the plan. This is a flagrant attempt to subvert—’
‘Silence!’
Cadaverus’s patience had run dry. He twitched a tapering finger at his second-in-command, sealing the scarecrow’s mouth. Synister’s eyes rolled back in shock. He tugged at his sewn-up lips with the talons of both hands, but the thread which held them was unbreakable. Then, recognising the futility of fighting the spell, he sank down onto a rock in a strop.
‘Now,’ Cadaverus said. ‘Your thoughts, Vileheart, please. . . You were saying?’
Luther Vileheart gathered himself to speak. ‘My Lord, I never meant to question the wisdom of my superiors. I have the highest regard for them, but I believe we need a different approach against the Harvester boy and his companions. Rather than bellow in their faces, we should insinuate and suggest . . . if you follow.’
The dark bundle rolled over and shuddered, sprouting four stalk-like limbs, which clawed and kicked at the air.
‘Fascinating,’ Cadaverus said. ‘An agent after my own black heart. So what do you suggest? What tack should we take?’
Seated on the rock, Synister let out a muted protest. Ignoring him, Vileheart continued.
‘First, your lowliness, identify our enemy’s weaknesses, their Achilles heels, if you will. Some months ago I recognised the boy Harvester’s mother as one such weakness, a heavy-hearted woman doted upon by her son. I approached her at her place of work, a rather drab dining establishment, posing as a customer and showing her an act of kindness.’
‘Kindness?’ Cadaverus was stunned. ‘A baffling human trait. So what form did this act of kindness take, and what was the reason for it?’
‘It was a simple gift, my Lord. Local currency, money, of which the woman had little. What mere mortals call “tipping”. I did this to give the woman some hope.’
‘Hope? Even more baffling. Why would you do that?’
‘I’ve spent many days under cover among the living, my Lord, and I’ve learnt that nothing hurts them more profoundly than hope first given and then snatched away. In extreme cases it can destroy a person’s faith.’
‘Ingenious, Vileheart.’ Cadaverus was greatly impressed.
With a shake of his misshapen head, Nathan Synister looked away in disdain.
‘And when a mortal loses hope and faith,’ Vileheart went on, ‘I’ve observed that it’s often because they’ve lost something else – something the species calls love.’
‘Love. . .’ The word lodged like a pebble in Cadaverus’s throat. ‘I’ve heard of it. And what then?’
‘Then, my Lord, without love, hope and faith, our enemy have nothing to fall back on but luck. And luck can never be relied upon. Without those qualities—’
‘I’d hardly call them qualities,’ Cadaverus said.
‘Indeed, malevolence. Without those . . . traits, it becomes much easier to capture their precious souls. Those who’ve lost the will to live offer little resistance.’
‘And this is how it will be with the Harvester woman?’
Vileheart nodded. ‘Yes. In fact I was on the verge of success some weeks ago, but then she was struck down by a sickness – a human condition. She’s since been harder to reach, but if I persist. . . She’s the key to breaking her son, the boy who’s causing us so many headaches. I hear she has plans for travel and a vacation, and away from her son’s influence it should be easy to arrange a chance meeting and enter her life with a view to destroying it.’
Cadaverus looked out at the crimson night, the twin moons bearing down on the water like furious eyes.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘A subtle approach. Whispering, not shouting. I see how that might work. Very good.’
Luther Vileheart bowed his head. ‘I hope it wasn’t too bold of me to suggest it, sir.’
‘I would’ve been more concerned if you hadn’t.’
As Cadaverus spoke, the bundle he’d brought to the shore began to sit upright, flexing its limbs and growing a stumpy head and neck. There was a squelching and grinding of sinew and muscle, and from its mouth came a haunting, baby-like cry.
The horse drew back, snorting red-tinted clouds. Vileheart stared enchanted as the being remoulded itself first into one shape, then another, finally taking on the appearance of a human child of perhaps eleven or twelve years old. A knowing smile spread across its face as its features steadied.
‘Lord Cadaverus. . .’ it said in a scraping, whispery voice.
Cadaverus paced back and forth on the carpet of bones, filled with renewed inspiration.
‘Vileheart, here is our newest recruit,’ he said. ‘This entity is much like yourself, a Shifter well suited to undercover work. And that’s what you’ll do – you’ll re-enter the world of mere mortals and bring back souls that are worth a real price. A handful of Vigilants won’t fit the bill. Bring me the gifted and their loved ones.’
‘Yes, your unworthiness,’ Luther Vileheart said.
The child nodded, a determined look in its eye, but it didn’t speak again.
‘As for you,’ Cadaverus said, rounding on Nathan Synister. ‘This is your last chance. It’s all very well sending in the big guns, the Deathheads, the Mawbreed – you’re old school and that’s what you know. But these are new times. The war is changing. We don’t want the enemy to see us coming over the hill, do we?’
With a flick of his fingers, he removed the stitching from Synister’s mouth.
‘No, eminence,’ Synister said. ‘We’ll do better this time.’
‘You must.’
‘Yes, eminence.’
‘Excellent, then we’re set.’ Randall Cadaverus looked past the shoreline of bones to the dark horizon, a calm settling over him. ‘You know what’s to be done, so take your chance and don’t fail me again. This Halloween isn’t over yet.’
In the action-packed scenes that took up the next few pages, a titanic struggle played itself out – the heroic Lords of Sundown versus their dark adversary, the Ministry of Pandemonium, and the Ministry were on a hiding to nothing.
One artist’s plate showed a girl who resembled Becky Sanborne caught in a tornado inside her home, pinned to the ceiling by an all-conquering Nathan Synister, red eyes aglow.
‘I take it all back!’ Becky’s caricature screamed. ‘You were right all along!’
The scarecrow replied as all comic villains do. ‘Heh-heh-heh. If only all my opponents were so wise!’
Another illustration showed – and here I had to pause as the full horror of it dawned on me – a man and a woman, Tom Sutherland and Mum, Luther Vileheart and Mum, walking hand in hand into a tunnel. Against the muddy walls in a thought-bubble above Vileheart’s head were the words, ‘Now . . . my plan is complete. The boy will never recover from this. . .’
And here I was in the next plate, straining to keep hold of Mum’s wrists while an unseen force dragged her deeper inside the tunnel. ‘I was wrong, we were all wrong!’ I cried above Mum’s screams. ‘They lied! The Ministry is an abomination . . . but don’t blame her. Don’t take her, take me!’
I had to force myself to look at the last image. I already knew what it would be. In this one, Mum was gone, taken by the dark, and as I reached sobbing into empty space after her, the scarecrow’s silhouette stood over me, barking in triumph:
‘See what happens when you oppose the Great and Dangerous,
taking sides in a war you can’t possibly win?’
In a small box caption below this last plate, black letters on a yellow background announced: More fantastic adventures from the Lords of Sundown next month!
Somehow I had to make it stop. I couldn’t let the story come true. If I stayed here much longer I wouldn’t stand a chance, because being in this room was the very thing making me sick.
The enemy had been weaving its web, spider-like, ever since Halloween, and now we – me, Mum, Becky, everyone I cared about – were tangled so deep inside it I couldn’t see any possible way out.
We were nothing but prey, and the spider was already home.
18
MAGIC AND LOSS
flung the comic across the room. It struck the shelves, scattering action figures and dislodging the clover chain box, which hit the carpet and fell open. Inside, the clover chain looked shrivelled and black, poisoned by the same noxious air that had been poisoning me.
It had to be the cactus. What else could it be? Its sickly scent was making me gag even now. I took it to the window and hurled it as hard as I could past the balcony. Its terracotta pot disintegrated on the street and a moment later the plant became mush under the wheels of a police patrol car speeding from Lansdowne Drive, siren howling.
Downstairs, collecting my jacket on the way to the door, I remembered Sutherland’s business card. If I phoned, would he let me speak to Mum? And would she even believe me? She’d been blind to what he really was ever since that first generous tip in the Mare Street café. It wouldn’t be easy to convince her, but I had to try.
The number rang and rang, and the voice that eventually answered was so calm and composed it made my flesh crawl.
‘Hello Ben,’ Luther Vileheart said. ‘Did you enjoy the story?’
‘I’m going to kill you.’
‘Heh-heh-heh. We’ll see about that. You’ll have to find me first.’
‘Put Mum on,’ I said. ‘Put her on now, or else.’
‘There’s no point,’ he said. ‘She already knows.’
The Great and Dangerous Page 15