The demon’s tail sweeps across the studio and right through my circle. Marvo jumps, but I go flat on my back. I see Andrew making a dash for the door.
I yell, ‘Let him out!’
The door barks and opens into the room, bang into Andrew, who goes down like a skittle with blood spurting from his nose. Next thing, there’s a long blue tongue wrapped around him.
I’ve no idea what to do.
Marvo does, though. She pulls out her gun and starts shooting. Six ear-splitting bangs later, Andrew is still being dragged backwards across the floor. Marvo grabs one of my knives and dashes across to stab madly at the demon’s tongue.
Andrew’s on his feet and out of the door.
Marvo hesitates with the knife in mid-air. Should she go after Andrew or scuttle back to me?
Too late. She’s kicking and yelling and trying to pull free, but the tongue has wrapped itself round her head, covering her face, and she’s being dragged backwards across the floor into a maelstrom of swirling black water that’s disappearing down the demon’s throat.
‘Adonai, Eloim, Ariel, Jehovah!’ I shove my wand into the brazier. The demon starts to give off clouds of thick smoke. There’s all these popping noises, like small guns going off, and the tusks are flying across the studio, shattering against the walls and ceiling. I duck as one whistles past my head.
A large ball rolls across the floor, towards the demon. It sprouts legs and a mouthful of splayed, razor-sharp teeth and Preston takes a chunk out of the demon.
This is making less and less sense.
Marvo’s out of trouble, but the demon’s tail is swinging round again. At the very last moment, Preston tucks himself back up into a ball. The tail hits him bang on and bats him clean off the ground. He bounces off the wall like he’s made of rubber.
I grab Marvo’s arm and haul her back with me. But before I can regain control, I have to re-establish the integrity of the circle.
‘Don’t move!’
I fix the gap where she scraped the chalk marks and scrawl more symbols around the place. My wand’s burning up and I don’t have time to get to the spare in my belt—
‘I charge thee to return whence thou camest, without noise or disturbance—’
Yeah, right! Preston cannons across the floor – and the demon jumps on him. It’s like an elephant on a circus ball, front legs waving for balance, back legs paddling madly, tongue and tail lashing.
Preston is screaming.
I’m yelling: ‘Begone in the names of Adonai and Eloim. Begone in the names of Ariel and Jehovah—’
Time for the rat. I grab it out of the cage and toss it across the studio. It’s a high, wild throw—
The demon goes up for it like a footballer for a header.
I grab my sword.
The demon’s still in mid-air. His jaws close on the rat.
I sweep the sword down.
But before I can scream, ‘Begone!’ for the third time, the demon lands on Preston and squashes him flat. A split second later he explodes, releasing an overpowering stench of sulphur and rotting vegetation.
The candles flare up again. There’s chunks of lizard everywhere: skin, flesh and bone, sizzling on the walls and floor. I drop the sword, grab the knife from Marvo and cut the circle.
Preston has popped back into shape and for a second, as I dash across, I think he’s going to make it. But he’s fading fast and the only reason I can see him so clearly is that blood is pouring down his body, then disappearing as it splashes onto the floor.
‘Sorry, boss,’ he croaks.
‘It’s all right,’ I whisper. But of course it isn’t.
I can still feel his forehead when I stroke it. ‘Thanks for finding her.’
He giggles. ‘Hey, that tickles, boss!’
And then he just isn’t there any more and there’s just a small, grey feather lying on the cold floor.
‘So,’ says Marvo. ‘Couldn’t hurt a fly.’
I look round at her. ‘Just get out of here.’
‘Sorry,’ she mumbles. ‘At least let me help you clear up.’
‘Shut up a minute.’ I’ve got a fire burning in the grate. ‘In the name of he who died on the tree.’ I break my unused spare wand into three, and drop it into the flames.
As the pain in my heart subsides, I look around the joint. To the dog’s disappointment, the fragments of demon have fizzled away, leaving a smell of grilled flesh and brimstone. Otherwise there’s amazingly little damage: some broken glass, scattered herbs and spices . . .
‘At least you know what happened to Sean now,’ I tell Marvo.
‘Frank, I’m sorry about Preston. I know you were fond of him.’
At least that stupid picture of the pope has fallen off the wall and smashed. I get a dustpan and brush and start sweeping up the pieces.
‘You know your trouble, Frank?’
‘No, but I’m waiting for you to tell me.’
‘You get more upset about a bloody elemental than you do about real people.’
‘That’s not true. He was just an elemental. I can easily build another one if I want to.’
But I’m not sure that I do want to. Maybe it really is time to chuck it all in and get out of town. ‘Are you going, or do I have to give you the same treatment?’
‘Frank, you gotta stop fighting me. I’m on your side.’
That’s when I chuck the brush at her.
She ducks and says, ‘You told me an elemental can’t harm a human being.’
‘The driver of a Ghost can’t.’
‘Look, I know you don’t want to talk to your boss. But you gotta.’
And that’s when I throw the brazier at her.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Backbone
IT’S DARK AND deserted on the riverbank. A faint blue phosphorescence flickers along the bars of the wrought-iron gate. The security elemental steps silently out of the darkness.
I raise my hand. The gate opens.
‘Welcome to the Bishop’s Palace, Mr Sampson,’ the elemental whispers. ‘Detective Constable Marvell . . .’
‘Thank you. We’ll be about an hour.’
‘Whatever suits you, sir.’
‘Arselicker!’ Marvo mutters.
We go across the lawn and up the steps to the terrace. A touch and a whisper. The French windows into the library swing open.
‘What’s that?’ Marvo whispers.
Out of the darkness the door in the corner mutters: ‘You again, is it?’
I push Marvo in ahead of me, pull the French windows shut and drag the curtains across. The door is still muttering away, promising all the pains of hell. I decide to risk a little light. I fumble my way over to the centre of the room . . .
‘Careful,’ says Marvo, a split second before I bang into the desk.
‘Serves you right,’ the door chuckles. ‘Skinny little freak!’
Marvo sniggers.
I feel around the desktop and find the lamp. The battery’s almost flat, but there’s just enough of a glimmer to see.
The door is in the corner, to the right of the fireplace. It’s narrow and comes to a pointed arch. It’s still complaining: ‘Miserable little shit!’
The wood is covered in symbols that go back hundreds of years to when the door was first instantiated to conceal the sorcerer’s lair beneath the palace of the Bishop of Oxford.
Yeah, what does that tell you about bishops?
The original symbols were carved into the wood. Beautiful work. They keep the door invisible to anyone who doesn’t know it’s there, so palace staff don’t go wandering down and getting dismantled.
There are some later additions crudely scratched into the surface; then there’s chalk, paint—
‘Is that blood?’ says Marvo.
Yeah, where Kazia’s tried to get in. And she’d have made it if I hadn’t kept plastering the door with dozens more symbols.
I place my hands flat against the surface of the door, and close my eyes
. I can hear a sound in the distance, like waves breaking on rocks. The door quivers. For a moment it’s cold and smooth, like glass.
‘Adonai, Tetragrammaton . . .’
The door growls wickedly . . . but swings open.
‘Go on.’
Marvo’s eyeing the door nervously. ‘Are you sure it’s safe?’
‘Have you got the pentacle?’
She shows me the golden chain wrapped round one hand, with the silver disc hanging from it.
‘Then you’re fine.’
She runs a finger down the surface of the door, and puts it to her nose. It hisses back at her. I give her a push and she stumbles off down the stone stairs.
‘So how’s it going down there?’ I ask the door as I slip past after her.
‘Get lost!’ It closes behind us, leaving us in pitch darkness. ‘Skinny little freak.’
We fumble our way down the spiral stairs. I can hear something moving around down there. Chains rattle. The crash of something breaking.
‘Stay behind me.’ I squeeze past Marvo as we reach the bottom. ‘Anything could happen—’
And it does. The welcoming committee is on its way.
Alastor hasn’t got any smaller over the last few days. Still seven feet tall. Still armed to the razor-sharp, yellow teeth. He lets off a scream like a locomotive going off a viaduct. The chains of his scourge whistle through the air towards me.
Not unreasonably, I step back up the stairs and sit down hard on Marvo as the hooks at the ends of the chains carve deep, bloody gouges out of mid-air. Lumps of flesh sizzle on the tiled floor. The smell of scorched meat elbows its way into the general stench.
A deafening bang rattles my teeth. The whole building seems to shake and tilt on its foundations. It’s like there’s this thick glass wall across the bottom of the stairs and Alastor has managed to get his axe embedded in it. He’s wrestling with it now, trying to get it out. His face is black with the effort and smoke is pouring out of his ears and nostrils.
The axe comes free and he disappears backwards into the gloom of the chamber. There’s the sound of splintering wood.
‘Get off!’ Marvo kicks me.
I feel a momentary tug of resistance as I fly off the bottom step, like passing through invisible strands of silk. I look round: the protective symbols I scrawled down the entrance to the staircase, to contain Alastor, are undisturbed.
I wouldn’t still be breathing if they weren’t.
And he’s doing railway engines again, coming at me like the 8.45 to Paddington, axe in one hand, scourge in the other – smoke, flames, the works.
I hold up my pentacle.
It worked last time, so why not now? I turn my head away and clap my free hand over my eyes. I’m shaking all over and dripping with sweat and I’m squeezing the pentacle so tight it’s in danger of just flying out of my hand . . .
Screeching noises. Then silence. OK, I still seem to be here, so after a couple of seconds I risk peeking through my fingers.
Alastor’s standing just a yard away, both weapons raised to strike. He’s gone even blacker in the face and he’s trembling. He opens his mouth wider than the gates of hell and vomits up a stream of fire.
I can tell he’s pleased to see me.
The pentacle glows, dazzling white, and goes as cold as ice in my fingers. The flames roll around me.
I’m shivering.
The fire dies away. Alastor reels back, eyes rolling. The axe and scourge rattle on the floor.
‘Well, Frank.’ The Boss’s voice is a dry rasp. ‘That was all good knockabout stuff.’ He doesn’t look any better than the last time I was here. More ragged. Hands trembling. And he’s got this wild look in his eyes like the world has ended and he got to watch. He coughs like he’s dredging garbage out of a stagnant pond, then he closes his eyes and sways on his feet. His eyes flicker open. Controlled again. ‘I was wondering if you’d have the backbone to come back.’
‘Are you all right?’ I ask.
‘Do I look all right?’
I don’t really understand what happens next. But it’s like he’s pulled the stopper out of the bottle and there’s this flood of stuff pouring out of me.
‘It’s not my fault!’
I fall on my knees, which hurts like hell. And I bang my head on a pillar, which hurts even more. And it’s like there’s part of me that’s play-acting . . . and a part of me that’s sitting back watching the performance . . . but there’s another part of me that really needs this.
So I’m dribbling snot, and for all I know Alastor is creeping up behind me, but I can’t stop myself—
‘It wasn’t my fault! I mean, I didn’t know what—’
‘Frank!’
The Boss is staring over my shoulder with this startled look on his face. I roll and turn, expecting Alastor—
Marvo’s got her gun clutched in both hands. It’s not pointing at Alastor – that’d be a waste of time, anyway – but at Matthew.
I jump up and step between them.
‘Get out of the way, Frank.’ She sounds like she means business.
‘What’s the plan, Marvo?’ At least I’ve stopped snivelling. ‘Take out the entire Society of Sorcerers, starting at the top?’
‘Just him.’ Her voice is dull, like she’s half asleep. The pentacle catches the candlelight as it swings on its chain beside the trigger. ‘He killed Sean.’
I glance round at Matthew. ‘You’ve met my pal Marvo before . . .’
‘Detective Constable Marvell. Yes, I believe I’ve had that pleasure.’
‘She’s not in a great mood right now.’
‘So I see.’ He’s trying to sound calm, but he’s got that look in his eyes like he could lose it any second.
‘Who is this Sean I killed?’
‘Don’t pretend you don’t know.’ Marvo’s hands are shaking. Sometimes the gun points at Matthew. Sometimes it’s pointing at me. Even Alastor is beginning to look a bit nervous.
‘August last year,’ she says. ‘You were driving in a Ghost with . . .’ She turns to me. ‘What was the bastard’s name?’
‘His eminence the Bishop of Cremona, Cardinal Bruno Vannutelli.’
‘Right. Sean was in the luggage compartment—’
‘Who’s Sean?’ Matthew screams.
‘Her brother.’ I take a deep breath. ‘I don’t know how he got there, but he was a Ghost-spotter and he took this photograph.’ I pull it out of my pocket and unfold it: the image of Vannutelli stares up angrily from the document he’s reading. ‘Sean noticed there was something wrong—’
‘No glasses,’ Marvo points out.
‘I think maybe he started trying to follow Vannutelli. Maybe he saw the Ghost parked at the side of the road or something, and he got carried away and decided it’d be nice to go for a ride—’
‘He always wanted to ride in a Ghost,’ says Marvo.
‘A worthy ambition for any young man.’ The Boss sounds . . . I dunno, amused and pissed off at the same time. The worrying bit is, he still looks like shit but he’s got this air about him, like he knows what’s going on now and he’s in control. ‘Although I can’t imagine what it has to do with me.’
‘He was my brother,’ says Marvo.
‘I got that. And he told you this . . . story?’
‘He can’t. He’s dead.’
‘But naturally, being a tatty, you can communicate with the dead.’ I think Matthew’s trying to do some sort of smile, but it’s more of a grimace, like it hurts him to move his face.
‘I summoned the driver,’ I say. ‘He told us—’
‘He showed us.’ Marvo’s voice is dead flat. The gun, alarmingly, is still aimed at me. ‘Frank, I swear to God—’
I flap a hand at her. ‘Will you point that thing somewhere else?’ I turn back to Matthew. ‘Vannutelli’s driver showed us how he found Sean hiding in the luggage compartment. Vannutelli told you to kill him.’
Matthew is stroking his beard. ‘As I recall, an elemental
’s evidence is inadmissible in a court of law.’ He turns to Marvo. ‘Detective Constable Marvell, I think there’s one thing you should be aware of . . .’
He has advanced to the edge of his circle so that he’s just a couple of feet from her. She steps back uncertainly, the gun shaking in her hands.
‘Marvo!’ I say. ‘The pentacle!’
I’m trying to help, but I just make it worse. Marvo looks round and sees Alastor right behind her. She’s still clutching the gun in both hands, with the chain of the pentacle wrapped round her fingers. When she tries to take one hand off the gun to wave the pentacle, the chain gets tangled up in the trigger, and she’s backing away from Alastor, trying to tug the pentacle free, when Matthew says, clearly and distinctly:
‘Your brother’s alive.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The Pariah Spell
AND I FINALLY realise what’s wrong with Marvo.
I thought it was just my cloaking spell that kept whacking her over the back of the head. But there’s something else – some other magic. There’s no other way to explain it. Her knees fold. Her head hits the tiled floor. Her arms fall wide. The gun rattles one way, the pentacle the other.
Alastor’s making a dive for her, with his axe raised and this triumphant grin plastered all over his gob. I’m just realising that I can’t get to her in time—
When Alastor stops dead, staring at something behind me. I spin round and see this kid come trotting out from the stairs.
He’s an elemental. I should know, because I instantiated him after I ditched Matthew in the cellar. He’s wearing a grey school uniform: jacket, shorts, long socks, blue cap and tie. He’s got a brown leather satchel over his shoulder, and he’s carrying a bucket with a lid.
‘Oh, shit and hell,’ Alastor groans. ‘Not now!’
I built the kid so that Alastor can’t get at him. As he steps off the bottom of the staircase there’s a sound like a small bell ringing, and he’s enveloped in a ball of dazzling golden light. Alastor squeals and puts his hands over his eyes and reels back; and I’ve got enough time to jump in front of Marvo, waving my pentacle, before the golden ball dissolves and the kid steps out into the circle beside the Boss.
The bucket rattles emptily as he drops it on the floor beside the one that’s already there. He unbuckles his satchel and pulls out a small paper-wrapped package and a glass bottle.
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