by Rachel Green
Julie was still laughing when Winston stood. “If that’s all, ladies,” he said. “Can we all call it a night and go back to bed now?”
“I suppose.” Felicia stood as well. “I’m sorry to have got you up, Lattie.”
“That’s okay.” Latitia stood as well, folding the werewolf in a clumsy embrace that smelled of cinnamon and brimstone. “You were worried about me. I appreciate that.”
Felicia pulled away. “He’s here, isn’t he? He was with you when we arrived.”
“Of course I was.” Jim strolled out of the kitchen smoking a cheroot. “And I was most gratified to hear you talking so nicely about me.”
He leaned over the back of the bench and stroked Latitia’s hair. “We’re just hunky-dory, aren’t we dear?”
“Yes Jim.” Latitia’s voice had lost its animation. “We’re great together.” Her hand snaked up to her shoulder to touch his. “I love you.”
Julie shuddered. Hearing the words ‘I love you’ in such a flat, monochromatic voice was more than a little disturbing. “Time we were going then,” she said.
“Yes, I’ll show you out.” Jim straightened. “You are coming to the wedding, aren’t you? Latitia and I want you to come. After we’re married we’ll all be one big happy family.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Jim watched the sisters leave, the psychic one constantly turning back as if she could sense him boring into her soul. He wasn’t, he was just watching her. The time for boring holes in souls would come soon enough when that one was dragged kicking and screaming into Hell.
The werewolf he could understand. Its base nature was terrible in beauty and once its outer layer of mortal sensibilities was stripped away it would make a fine pet. Being werekin, it would heal after his ministrations as well, providing him with unblemished skin for his knives to practice on.
When the two women were finally out of sight, Jim closed the door, leaning against it while he watched Latitia, silent and unmoving on the sofa. “You can go up,” he said. “I shan’t be needing you any further tonight.”
Her head bobbed a response and she rose, crossing the room to the stairs. As she passed him his left hand snaked out and snared her by the neck.
“Dream of me.” His breath was hot against her ear. “I shall know if you dream of anyone else and then I will punish you.”
Latitia swallowed and nodded, slipping from his grasp and scurrying upstairs. Jim watched her go before flicking his gaze back across the room to Winston. “Something to say?”
“She was proud once,” Winston said, locking the back door and coming into the front room. “There wasn’t anyone or anything she was frightened of. Then you came along, with your new brain and your schemes and your cruelty, and something inside her died.”
He looked into Jim’s coal-dark eyes. “You were a mate once,” he said. “I kept you out of trouble and helped you get a job in a pissing factory, when no-one else would give you the time of day. Now you’re nothing. A vessel for a demon that’s got my sister in thrall and if you touch one hair of her head I’ll find a way to send you back to Hell.”
“Say it like you mean it,” said Jim, reverting to his Lancashire accent, something Winston hadn’t heard since Jim was a kid, newly transplanted to Laverstone when his parents died. “I respect you more when you mean it. You can even add an ‘amen’ at the end if you like.”
He stepped forward and clapped a hand around Winston’s shoulders. “Honestly, you and me go back a long way. I know you looked after me and I’m going to look after you.” He grinned and clapped Winston on the back, propelling him toward the stairs. “But if you ever threaten me again, I’m going to strip the skin off your bones and feed it to the pigeons, all right?”
Jim watched Winston go to bed and waited until there was no more noise upstairs. Slipping out of the door, he used the portal to return to the foundry, tasting the unfamiliar smell of Valerie and the imp on the air. He lifted the sarcophagus lid and ran his fingers across the sculpted chest. “Time we stopped dicking around, Steve,” he said. “Time we got a head.”
He stalked across the foundry to the laboratory, where Keritel waited, a cigarette drooping from whatever passed as lips.
“Yes,” said the imp. “It’s ready.”
* * * *
Jim raked off the glowing embers and stared at the prototype of the new Magelight range of industrial automatons. It was what distinguished him from the previous directors and made him popular with the workers here-he was always prepared to get his hands dirty.
The homunculus lay in supine splendor, the finely crafted muscles picked out in ceramic core resin and plastic. It could perform the work of a dozen men without sleeping, obey any instruction given to it by its owner, and was beautiful and compliant and so exquisitely male.
“Golem” whispered the racial memory part of his brain but Jim ignored the voice, pulling across a nozzle of superheated steam and drenching the automaton with it.
“Golem” as he turned down the temperature. More steam, just above boiling.
“Golem” as scalding water sprayed the metal mold.
“Golem” as it sank to body temperature under the cold jets.
“Golem.”
Where there had been unflinching resin in the face, now there were twin orbs of glowing red as the creature became self aware.
“Rise, my beauty,” Jim said, throwing his hands in the air. “Rise!”
* * * *
From the other side of the room Keritel shook his head and took another drag of his hand rolled cigarette. “Absolute loony,” he said to himself. “That’s the cliché of every mad scientist ever, right there on a plate. He’ll be lucky if he goes a week without a torch-wielding mob of visitors setting fire to the whole place.”
* * * *
Jim Hunt dismissed the portal and crossed the road to his house. Latitia’s house, technically, but it would be his the day after tomorrow. Winston would have to move out, of course, especially after what had happened in the early hours. That wouldn’t do at all.
Of course, if they all had…accidents…he wouldn’t be to blame, would he?
Suddenly cheerful, Jim whistled as he went up the path and into the house. He paused on the threshold, remembering Latitia’s welcome the first time he’d come. “You’re always welcome here,” she’d said. He grinned and poured himself a glass of orange from the fridge, curdling the milk for the sheer pleasure of it.
He climbed into bed and curled against Latitia’s naked body, remembering to cool his body temperature before her skin blistered. She murmured in her sleep, catching his hand and pulling it to her chest with a smile.
“Sweet dreams, baby.”
Jim kissed the tip of his finger and brushed it over her temple. Her face clouded as dreams of her impending wedding day turned to dreams about her guests all being demons. Her parents witnessing the spectacle from cages, brought up from Hell for the occasion. “No,” she mumbled, her nails digging in to the palm of his hand. “No, stop it. Help them.”
Jim smiled and pulled his hand free. He turned so his back was toward her.
“Good night.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Purvis Mackenzie pulled the covers tighter over his head. His bedroom faced the road, and the streetlight shone through the thin curtain into his eyes. He snaked out a hand and tilted the clock. Four-fourteen a.m. What had woken him? He didn’t have to get up for hours yet and he was still tired from his early morning visit to the bishop yesterday.
He caught the sound of glass breaking downstairs and was frozen into indecision. Should he stay where he was or investigate? On the one hand, there was nothing of value in the house, as he could afford very little on a vicar’s budget, but on the other hand the Bishop would want to know why he was burgled, and then the whole tale of Valerie c
limbing in, and the police bashing the doors down might be a little difficult to tell.
He inched out of bed, his warm toes finding cold slippers and curling in on themselves. Exaggerated steps to stop the floorboards creaking, took him to the back of the door and his old dressing gown, patched in several places but still serviceable. He pulled it on over his striped pyjamas and knotted it closed.
What to use for a weapon? He cast about the room, lit almost as well as by daylight, thanks to the sodium vapour lamp right outside his window. A shoe? A sock? The though of suffocating a burglar with his laundry amused him. His gaze lit upon the perfect weapon.
“Sorry, Lord,” he murmured, lifting the heavy wooden crucifix off the wall. He held it like an axe and made his way downstairs. There were no lights from downstairs, not even the brief flashes of a torch, but Purvis could hear the intruder more clearly now. He was in the kitchen. Purvis recognized the creak of the cupboard door over the worktop, and a burst of sound as the tap was run, confirmed his suspicion.
There was a muffled whump as the gas stove was lit, and Purvis recognized the clatter of a full kettle onto the gas stove. What burglar breaks in and then makes a cup of tea?
Emboldened by the stupidity of his intruder, Purvis crept down the stairs. It couldn’t be Valerie again, Meinwen would have warned him if she’d left the witch’s house.
He reached the landing near the bottom of the stairs. A wide point, it was where the previous vicar had installed a slight chipped plaster relief of the Virgin Mary with a small reservoir for holy water. It was handy to be able to bless oneself, but Purvis tended to use it in conjunction with the mirror on the adjacent wall and use a wet finger to tame the errant cowlick prior to leaving the house. With an intruder in the house he felt it prudent to make the sign of the cross, for luck.
He crept along the hall until he could see into the kitchen. At the back of the house, it had no ambient light from the street and was completely dark but for the glow of the gas heating the kettle. This was getting stranger by the minute. How could anyone make tea in a strange kitchen in the dark?
The kettle began to whistle but was silenced immediately. The gas was extinguished and he heard the sound of the water being poured into a teapot. Purvis frowned. There was only one teapot in the house.
“Hey!” he said striding forward and slamming on the light. “That‘s my grandmother’s teapot.”
There was no-one in the kitchen, only the teapot, steaming quietly on the table.
Purvis went further in, checking under the table and behind the door, his crucifix-hatchet ready to batter the intruder. Finding no-one, and they couldn’t possibly have got past him in the hall, he lowered his weapon and dropped it onto the table.
“Watch it,” said a voice. “You could have someone’s eye out with that.”
“Not that it would do any good,” said a second voice. “It’s not even as if it’s been blessed properly. It was once, look, but it’s all worn off now.”
“What?” Purvis reached for a chair to steady his legs. They suddenly felt as if they were made of jelly.
“Sight,” said the first voice. “I thought priests were supposed have the sight automatically.”
“Aye, priests,” said the second voice. “This one’s a vicar, though.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Contraception,” The second voice got louder. “Vicars are all for sex and loving it up and wearing rubbers and coils and taking pills. Priests aren’t allowed sex at all and only endorse it for married couples in the dark with the light off in the missionary position. And no contraception, either. If God doesn’t want you to have a baby he won’t give you one.”
“Sounds a bit hit and miss to me.” The first voice sighed, “and no sign of a request form fourteen-B, I’ll bet. Is that tea ready?”
“Should be. Any idea where the cups are?”
“Hang on.”
Purvis felt a sharp pain in the eyes and sat down hard, rubbing his face. After several seconds his vision began to clear and he saw two vaguely crocodilian faces staring at him. He lurched backwards, sending the chair over backwards and landing on the floor in a heap.
“At least he’s wearing pyjamas,” said the first voice, which was issued from the greener of the two crocodiles. “That would have done me no good at all, seein’ a vicar’s sexy bits.”
The second creature vanished and reappeared next to Purvis’ head. “Are you all right, matey?” it said. “That could have been a nasty fall.”
“I’m fine, thanks,” said Purvis, automatically. He realized what he was talking to a moment later and scrambled upright.” Who the devil are you?”
“I’m Keritel and this is…” Keritel looked at the first creature. “I don’t know your name,” he said.
“Tremain,” said the other. “Pleased to meet you.” It held out a tiny, five fingered paw. Purvis declined to shake it. “What are you?” he said, looking at the cloven hooves. “You’re tiny devils, aren’t you?”
“I wish,” said Keritel. “I dream of getting promoted to devil one day. Still a dogsbody, it’s true, but not scum of the earth like gremlins.”
“I’ve got a friend what’s a gremlin,” said Tremain. “Pleasant little chap, if you ignore the B.O. Works on the cruise ships.”
Keritel turned back to Purvis. “We’re imps,” he said. “Here to answer your request.”
“My request?” Purvis stood slowly and picked up the crucifix, cradling it to his body like a shield.
“That’s right.” Keritel looked up at Tremain and rolled his eyes. He took a folded piece of paper from a pocket in his loincloth. “You’ve been tempted,” he said, “several times as a matter of fact, and you’ve been Questioning Your Faith.” He folded the paper away again. “This is your lucky day, Vicar,” he said. “Those in your position don’t always get a personal visit but here, as we say, we are.”
He vanished again and reappeared on the table. “First things first,” he said. “Where are your mugs?”
Purvis pointed to the cupboard next to the fridge. “In there,” he said. “But…you can’t just appear in somebody’s house and offer them…What are you offering?”
“Tea, for a start.” Tremain set out three mugs and began pouring tea from the pot. “Milk and sugar?”
“In the fridge,” said Purvis. “Milk is, anyway. I don’t take sugar.”
“Don’t take sugar?” Tremain stopped pouring, he was so shocked. “What kind of person doesn’t have sugar in their tea?”
“A virtuous one.” He looked down at the cross in his hands. “What did you mean when you said the blessing had worn off this?”
“See for yourself,” said Keritel. “See at the very tip of the crosspiece there’s a gleam of coppery light? That’s the original blessing.”
“You can see it?”
“Of course,” said the imp. “That’s how we know when people are bluffing when they threaten us with Holy Water and the like. We can see whether it’s been blessed or not.”
“And this was?” Purvis looked at the cross, turning it in his hands.
“A long time ago, probably part of a generic bless,” said the imp. “Someone blessed the church it was in, or the shop or something.”
“How can you tell that?”
“The color. If it was blessed specifically, for use in an exorcism, say, it would be more gold in color. That’d make it more powerful, too. They vary from the light orange of a cleric’s blessing all the way to the gold of a priest, no offence, and then to pure white if an angel blesses it.”
“An angel?” Purvis stepped forward. “They really exist?”
“’Course.” Keritel took out the folded paper again. “Are you going to make me add ‘agnostic’ to the list of charges?”
“Here’s your tea,” sa
id Tremain. “Are you sure you haven’t got any sugar?”
“No, not at all.” Purvis put down the crucifix. The…imps…didn’t look as if they meant any harm. Not when they were drinking tea out of mugs as big as their heads. “Look,” he said, righting the chair and sitting again. “You mentioned an offer.”
“Ah!” Keritel dipped his head. “You don’t miss a beat, do you? I can see you’re sharp. Yes. An offer.” He looked at Tremain who nodded once. “All right,” he said. “Here it is. I will arrange for you to have the little lady as your Missus Vicar if you’ll renounce your belief in the sanctity of the church.”
“No,” said Purvis. “I can’t de-sanctify the church. Certainly not for the sake of lust.”
“You’d be surprised what people will do for lust,” said Tremain.
“Send whole civilisations to their deaths in some cases,” added Keritel.
“Remember Helen of Troy?”
“The face that launched a thousand ships.”
“Only because she looked like a launching hammer.” Tremain laughed.
“So what would you do for the Valerie woman?” asked Keritel. “She has thighs like ice-cream I believe, with a mound of Venus second to none.”
“What is a mound of Venus?” asked Tremain.
“It’s a mound, innit?” said Keritel. “Like what Venus stands on.”
“I wouldn’t know,” said Tremain. “They wouldn’t let me attend Incubus school.”
“I’m not selling my soul,” said Purvis. “You might as well both teleport back to Hell. You’ll get nothing from me.”
“What about a bit o’ loving,” said Keritel. “What would you give for that?”
“Nothing.” Purvis sipped his tea. “I wouldn’t take anything from a demon of your stature.”
“Is that heightist or elitist?” asked Tremain, “only I’d just like to point out that you’ve already accepted a cup of tea.”