Pure Dead Batty

by Debi Gliori

  Ten days? Only ten?

  S’tan nearly howled out loud. With each passing day that he was without the Chronostone, He found His evil powers ebbing away till He could barely work up a decent feral snarl, let alone feel even remotely maleficent. At this rate, He thought bleakly, I’m going to turn into a blooming cherub if I’m not careful. Staring morosely at His personal organizer, He wondered just how much longer He would get away with it before one of His underlings realized what was going on. When the Chronostone had first been mislaid two centuries ago, S’tan had been, well, even He had to admit, pretty peeved. There had followed several decades of rages and cloven-footed-stamping sessions; then His anger had settled down to a volcanic simmer with occasional outbursts of pique. This was as nothing compared to what happened when the Chronostone fell into the hands of the Other Side and appeared to drop out of the space-time continuum. S’tan’s spies informed Him that some interfering immortal had had the temerity to lodge the stone in the Etheric Library in an attempt to place it out of Hades’ reach. That, truly, had been the absolute pits. S’tan had been so devastated, so bereft, He’d found himself with His head perpetually in His fridge, snacking, browsing, feeding, stuffing, cramming food down His neck till He fell asleep, stupefied with calories and enfeebled by jaw exhaustion. After He’d attained the same weight as an average blue whale, He began to experience some difficulty in sleeping, so He self-medicated with a variety of soporifics, hoping thus to knock Himself out and spare Himself the agony of missing the Chronostone. Overweight, sleep-deprived, and drugged to the hilt, the S’tan of the twenty-first century was beginning to resemble a rock star on the skids more than the horned Satan of biblical mythology. Realizing that His credibility was slipping away, He took Himself off to see a doctor, hoping if not for a cure, then at least for a temporary solution to His miseries until the Chronostone was returned to Him.

  Initially, confronted with a bloated and weepy devil, the doctor advised exercise, so dutifully S’tan installed a treadmill and weights in His office, next to the minibar. Every morning He’d wheeze and puff and sweat till He glowed. However, every night He’d lie awake with His thoughts spinning out of control. Miserable. That was the only word to describe how He felt. Miserable.

  He’d gone back to the doctor to deliver the news that exercise simply wasn’t cutting it. The doctor wisely didn’t dare point out that His S’tainless S’teeliness had only been exercising for two days and couldn’t expect to undo the bad habits of several thousand millennia in the space of forty-eight hours; the wise doctor knew better than to allow a breath of criticism to cross his lips. Accordingly, his next suggestion was that S’tan take a break. Book a holiday, he said. Just turn up at an airport. Be spontaneous. Try Torremolinos, the doctor improvised. Totally hellish. You’d feel right at home.

  S’tan had lasted approximately two and a half hours in the clubby, noisy, three-in-the-morning-thumpa-thump-tsss-tsss, fish-’n’-chips-perfumed, thongs-and-lobster-flesh nightmare of Mediterranean resortland before rematerializing in Hades and turning the good doctor into a set of matching pink ostrich-skin luggage doomed to orbit a carousel in the bowels of Hades until such time as S’tan saw fit to release him.

  However, S’tan’s increase in weight was nothing when set against the psychological impact of discovering that He was losing His S’tanic edge. When He discovered how feeble He was becoming, that was when His real problems began. The panic attacks had started: waking in the middle of the night, sweat-drenched, heart hammering in His chest, terror-stricken at the prospect of being found out; petrified that He’d be called upon to do something really evilly vile in front of the assembled Hadean Executive; something that would soon be utterly beyond His rapidly diminishing powers. Something truly, disgustingly, gruesomely, maliciously, vindictively foul. Something … like pulling the wings off an angel … “OH, MY GOD, NOOOOOO,” He squeaked. “Not that.”

  S’tan’s eyes flew open. What had He just said? Surely not. God, no. Aaaargh. There it was again—that name. Blimey. Heck. And blimey? Heck? What had happened to the curses and foul, stomach-churning invective for which He was justly famed? What had happened to Him? It was far, far worse than He’d imagined. Without the Chronostone, He was nothing at all. The merest shadow of a bogeyman, invented to scare humans into behaving better. He had to get the stone back, He realized. His very survival depended upon it.

  Titus Waxed

  “What d’you mean, I have to be nice to him?” Titus stood poking the fitfully smoking library fire with a rusting pair of coal tongs. “I can’t stand him. As a matter of fact, I was waiting for a good time to boot him out.”

  Baci gasped, her hands flying up to clutch at her hair. “No. Titus, I beg you, please, don’t. We need the best lawyer in Scotland to represent your father. Rand’s father is the best one. I tried various criminal lawyers, but they all refused to touch your father’s case with a bargepole. I didn’t even bother with old whatsisname—Ludo Grabbit down in the village. To be honest, I imagined that Slander, Defame, and Grabbit would want to put as much distance as possible between us and them after that dreadful incident when Uncle Lucifer shot one of the partners. So Rand’s father it was. I had no choice—”

  “Yeah, you did. There’s millions of lawyers in Scotland.” Titus stabbed the fire with the tongs, thus causing it to produce a sulky gout of yellow smoke. “I bet Rand’s father’s hideously expensive as well. Dad’ll have a fit when the bill comes in.”

  “No, Titus. Dad won’t have a fit. In fact, Rand’s father has generously agreed to take your father’s case on a pro bono basis.” Baci delivered this statement with understandable pride.

  “What?”

  “Pro bono—for nothing. For the common good. Out of the goodness of his heart.” She paused, then added, “Well … sort of …”

  Titus froze, the tongs dangling from his hand. “Mu-uum? What d’you mean ‘sort of’?”

  “Look, Titus”—Baci’s tone was now businesslike, brusque—“sometimes we have to do things we don’t care much for in order to achieve a desired goal—”

  “Mum?”

  Baci rolled on, unstoppable. “You’ll simply have to put up with it. Rand is going to be staying with us for a while. Munro—I mean, Mr. MacAlister Hall—is in the middle of several big cases, including your dad’s. That means he’s away from home a lot and unfortunately his housekeeper’s handed in her notice. Rand’s not old enough to be left on his own and besides—Oh, Titus. It’s very awkward to explain. It’s … complicated. Rand’s a very mixed-up young man—”

  “Telling me,” muttered Titus, concentrating very hard on picking up a tiny lump of coal and transferring it from the coal scuttle to the fire.

  “Well, without going into too much detail, Rand’s mother died when he was nine, and ever since, he’s been looked after by a series of au pairs and nannies. His father works very hard when he’s involved in some big”—she shuddered, bit her lip, and continued—“murder trial.”

  “Yeah, but so what?” Titus interrupted, still focusing on airlifting coal into the already over-fueled fire. “Like, what’s that got to do with us?”

  “Rand’s father told me that he’s involved with some big hush-hush case abroad.” Baci’s eyes widened and she continued, her voice dropping dramatically to a whisper. “He’s worried that some of the—er—criminals he’s trying to prosecute might try to kidnap his son. Apparently he’s received anonymous phone calls in the middle of the night, and recently, death threats.”

  Titus stared at Baci in horror, words for once failing him utterly.

  “So, as you can imagine, until Rand’s father can put these creeps behind bars, he’d rather his son didn’t stay at Château MacAlister Hall. Yes, I know, Titus”—Baci held up a hand to forestall interruptions—“it’s a real mess, but who knows, perhaps we can help Rand feel a bit less … a bit more … slightly …” She trailed off, her fingers flexing and unflexing as if she could claw the desired word from the air.
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  Refusing to finish his mother’s sentence for her, Titus dropped a fist-sized lump of coal into the grate from waist height and watched with bleak satisfaction as it landed directly on top of the solitary flickering flame. The coal wobbled, rattled, and then extinguished the fire completely.

  “Great,” he said, in a tone that implied the exact opposite. “What room are you putting him in?”

  “The one across from you. The one with its own bathroom. I know the carpet’s a bit shabby and the light doesn’t always come on when you flick the swi—”

  “The mushroom,” Titus said, the faintest ghost of a smile appearing on his face. Noting his mother’s puzzled expression, he explained, “Pandora calls it that. It’s not a bedroom, it’s a mushroom. It’s got mushrooms growing in the wardrobe or something. And under the bath. I imagine there’ll be monster ones clinging behind the shutters. It’s pretty damp.” The idea of Rand being forced to endure the mushroom had cheered Titus slightly. Baci, on the other hand, was sunk in gloom.

  “Honestly, this house,” she groaned. “It’s riddled with rots. Falling apart at the seams. No sooner do we fix one bit than another one falls off, sprouts spores, or swells up and bursts. It’s so expensive to keep up.”

  Here we go, thought Titus, turning his attention to the dead fire. She’s going to do the Must Economize Rant. How did it go again? More sweaters, fewer fires. Shallower baths. Closing doors to keep heat in. Less meat, more beans. Walk, don’t drive. Darning socks—no, that was what Mrs. McLachlan did. Talking of whom—

  “But, Mum, aren’t you saving money now that you’re not paying for a nanny? I mean, since, um …” Titus trailed off into silence, cursing himself for straying into this conversational minefield. Like, what was he saying? Hey, Mum, isn’t it great we don’t have to shell out for Mrs. McLachlan’s salary ever since she drowned? And, his thoughts added, gleefully following this thread, let’s just bump off Latch, and that way we’ll have so much spare money, we’ll be able to heat this place for a change.…

  Baci looked distinctly uncomfortable. The library was growing colder by the minute, due in part to Titus’s earlier efforts to extinguish the fire, but also to the prevailing wind, which appeared to have blown straight in from Siberia. Baci shivered and crouched down beside Titus. Mother and son stared into the lukewarm cinders, both unwilling to return to the subject of their missing nanny. After what seemed to Titus like an eternity spent peering at inert lumps of carbon, they both broke the silence simultaneously.

  “Mum—”

  “Titus, I—”

  “You go first.”

  “No, darling, you. Oh. Why is this so difficult? Titus, I came to a decision today.”

  Titus felt his stomach clench involuntarily. He hated it when adults prefaced sentences with this kind of thing. Still, “I came to a decision” had to be better than “Now, darling, you’re going to have to be a brave boy.” He stared at his mother so hard, he could still see her imprint on his retinas when he blinked.

  “Sweetheart, don’t look at me like that,” Baci pleaded. “I’m not about to say something awful. It’s just … I, um … we—well, not ‘we,’ since your dad … er—for heaven’s sake, I’m even beginning to sound like your father. Right, try again. Titus. I can’t cope, I need help. I simply cannot look after all of you, do the cooking, maintain the house, temporarily adopt a deeply troubled teenager, plus bring this baby to full term. I’m sorry. I’m doing my best, but I’m shattered. So. So that’s why I’ve decided to employ another nanny”—again she held up her hand to show she hadn’t finished yet—“and, yes, I know that you probably think I’m betraying the memory of poor Mrs. McLachlan by getting another nanny so soon, but you have to understand me when I say that I haven’t got any choice—” She stopped, her gaze dropping to where Titus’s nail-bitten hand was now patting her arm, and it suddenly dawned on her that his expression was so fixed and strange precisely because he was determined not to cry. She laid her hand on top of his and tactfully turned her attention to the complete lack of flames in the hearth.

  “Let’s hope that, whoever she is, the new nanny won’t mind living in our old, cold house.”

  Titus cleared his throat before daring to speak. Even so, his voice emerged as a strangled croak. “Mum. Don’t worry about the girls. I mean, telling them you’re, er, we’re getting a new … yeah. Um. I’ll tell Pan and Damp. Save you having to go through all this again. And Mum? The cooking? Just don’t, right? Between Pan, Latch, and me, we can do it. Till you get another cook, or Dad comes back or—whatever. It’s just …”

  Baci shook her head sadly. “I know, darling. Last night’s dinner was … beyond vile.”

  “The oven chips were okay,” Titus lied. “Maybe you’re just a bit out of practice. But the—the …” His stomach lurched at the memory and he blurted out, “Please. Don’t ever make that again? Promise? I’ll leave home if you do.”

  Baci’s forehead furrowed. “What? My risotto? It wasn’t that bad, was it? I mean, I know the peas were a bit on the hard side and the rice was a tiny bit crunchy but—”

  Titus tried to banish the memory. What his mother was glossing over was the fact that as well as bullet-hard frozen peas and undercooked rice, there had also been pallid goose-fleshy bits of chicken skin floating on top of the risotto, the whole thing awash in a liquid that had been cheek-clenchingly sour. The risotto had been too salty and its cheesy aftertaste had lingered long after they’d consigned the remains to the slop-pail. It was right up there with the serial killers in the ranks of crimes against gastronomy. Even Knot had refused to eat it, and considering the culinary horrors the yeti had allowed to pass his lips, that was really saying something.

  “Titus, I have a confession to make,” Baci began.

  Titus winced. Here was another of those awful phrases that adults used prior to turning your life inside out.

  “Mu-um.”

  “It was late. I was tired. I wasn’t thinking straight—your father had just been arrested—I’m so, so sorry. Oh, Titus—”

  “What?” He was really worried now. What was she on about?

  “I grated what I thought was Parmesan into the risotto, but, but—” To Titus’s alarm, his mother burst into tears. Through her sobs, he could make out about one word in every seven. “Acanthoid wax … bought it online … looks so like cheese … not poisonous, thank heavens … I was waiting to see if … but it has already … fortunately the effects aren’t permanent … two days to a week in some cases … rapid onset … secondary male characteristics … Oh, God. I’m so sorry. Oh. My. God. Titus? Titus? Speak to me?”

  Titus was stunned. Speechless, in fact. Very soon, if he wasn’t mistaken, he was going to turn into a bloke? Tall, deep voiced, hair all over, all the bits? No wonder the risotto had tasted so awful—But hang on a minute, a rational part of his mind said, muscling past the remainder of his thoughts, which were running about in hysterically screaming circles. Just slow down and think, he instructed himself. Acanthoid wax was apparently harvested from “the naturally occurring sebaceous oils responsible for keeping unicorn hooves supple.” Like, this stuff was the toe-jam of a mythical creature? Yeah, right. And his mother had paid good money for this rubbish? It was worse than he’d thought. Not only was his mum utterly gullible, but in all probability she was totally nuts as well. Titus had a brief but intense flash of longing for his father to come home, during which he experienced a profound urge to lie on the rug and sink his teeth into its unhoovered fibers, then he pulled himself together.

  “Okay, Mum. It’s cool. No harm done.” And he managed a smile, just as his trousers burst along their seams.

  The Diet of Dragons

  Damp followed Pandora to the dungeons carrying a bag full of stale bread, a batch of burnt scones, and a plastic tub full of Ffup’s piebald low-carb, diet-approved bread dough; half carbonized, half raw; the whole still stubbornly unrisen. Pandora was similarly laden with the contents of the slop-pail; a bag of assorted mol
dering vegetables from the back of the salad drawer; a ludicrously overpackaged box of universally loathed nut-studded spherical chocolates that had done the rounds of house parties in Argyll before ending up, still unwanted and unopened, at StregaSchloss; a multipack of cans of baked beans; and a rapidly defrosting brick of raspberry ripple ice cream. One after the other, Pandora and Damp carefully negotiated the spiral stairs leading down to the beasts’ dungeon apartments.

  The mantle of beast-feeder had been one that Pandora had reluctantly assumed after Mrs. McLachlan’s disappearance. The nanny had been very conscientious about providing the beasts with a balanced diet; by complete contrast, Pandora callously reckoned that no matter what she fed them, the beasts would still outlive her. With this in mind, she decided not to waste a minute of her comparatively short human life in beastly food preparation. Fresh fruit and vegetables vanished entirely, replaced by out-of-date chocolates, ice cream, and canned beans, with an occasional garnish of the contents of the slop-pail and compost bucket. Pandora knew that Mrs. McLachlan wouldn’t have approved, but with a lump in her throat she acknowledged that Mrs. McLachlan wasn’t there to pass judgment, or indeed to see how badly her family were faring without her.

  Pandora reached the foot of the stairs and dropped her burden on the flagstones, turning round to help Damp down the last few steps. All the way downstairs the toddler had been experimenting with the echoing possibilities afforded by the vast spaces below StregaSchloss. In effect, she was practising some of the more arcane words from Vesper’s vocabulary of technical terms for learner bats, but to Pandora it sounded like a continual high-pitched EEE-ee-EE-eee sound, each step producing an increase in pitch and volume until she itched to turn round and gag Damp with a furry zucchini.

  In his down-lined roost in the shadows, Ffup’s baby son Nestor flapped his wings in greeting, causing a flurry of white feathers to spiral up into the air around his head. Damp’s squeaks became ecstatic and, dropping her quota of beast-snacks beside Pandora’s (ee-EEE?), she wobbled off unencumbered (eeeeeeee-E!) into the darkness (e? e? e?). Her piercing vowel sounds were swiftly muted by the immensity of StregaSchloss’s subterranean caverns, and finally Damp’s voice was completely swamped by the groans that accompanied the beasts’ appraisal of their morning menu. They gathered round the little pile of offerings, nostrils flaring and upper lips doing a synchronized sneer.