Jack of Ravens

by Mark Chadbourn

  ‘You can’t be allowed to communicate with them.’ His tone had become almost mechanical. ‘You might wake further. The risk is too great.’ Nobody was paying any attention to them and Laura was strangely sure Rourke had made it that way. ‘There is no longer any choice.’

  He clamped his hand over Laura’s mouth. She fought him, but he was too strong. The moment he touched her, her lips sensed the flesh on his palm moving as though something was squirming just beneath the skin. Then whatever was in there broke through. Small, hard objects forced against her lips, her teeth, prising them apart.

  She couldn’t resist. As she opened her mouth, a mass of scurrying filled it to the brim, and Laura knew exactly what they were.

  The scurrying continued down her throat and into her belly, hundreds of them, thousands. Although she wanted to vomit, she couldn’t. Finally the terror and the sickening sensation were too much and she blacked out.

  7

  Shavi was about to catch up with Laura when he saw Rourke attack. At first he thought one of the many shoppers would rush to Laura’s aid, but they all continued on their way, oblivious.

  Rourke hauled the now-unconscious Laura down a side street. Shavi didn’t know what had been done to her, but he could see her mouth bulging and that her stomach was bloated.

  The Bone Inspector caught up with him. ‘Now what?’ He watched as Laura was dragged away. ‘We can’t attack him head on.’

  ‘And we cannot let Rourke take her away.’ Shavi slipped into the side street and kept close to the wall, but Rourke appeared to have no comprehension that he might be followed. Shavi weighed his options.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a strange sight. Rourke had dumped Laura to the pavement and was carving a pattern in the air in the shape of a doorway. Chillingly, the view through the defined shape now looked oddly fake, like painted scenery in a theatre. Shavi could see a brick wall, and a flyer, now unnervingly two-dimensional. Rourke gripped the upper righthand corner and peeled down. It looked as if he was removing a sheet of wallpaper. Behind it Shavi glimpsed something that his mind couldn’t comprehend, and after a few seconds of queasy swimming it settled on the closest approximation it could present to him: a structure in darkness, like scaffolding, perhaps, or the workings of some vast machine. But what disturbed Shavi the most was a hint of movement: something lived there, behind the surface of reality.

  Following that troubling revelation came another: that Rourke was going to drag Laura out of reality completely. What awaited her was too frightening to contemplate. Shavi acted on instinct.

  While Rourke was occupied with creating his exit, Shavi ran forward. All he knew was that he couldn’t abandon Laura, whatever the risk to himself. Rourke began to turn just as Shavi reached Laura. Shavi glimpsed Rourke’s face becoming aware of his presence, and then starting to unfold to reveal the spiders beneath.

  Shavi grabbed Laura’s waist and there was a blue flash and a smell of burned iron. Whatever had happened, it had thrown Rourke several feet away, his face split wide open with long legs thrashing wildly out of it.

  Laura had revived and, struggling to her knees, she retched violently. Her convulsions propelled spiders from her mouth, all of them dead. The flow appeared never-ending, but by the time Shavi had helped her to her feet she was only coughing up handfuls of the smaller ones.

  Rourke was on his feet, his body breaking up into its component parts just as the other Rourke’s had at Avebury. Laura clutched hold of Shavi, sick with terror born of incomprehension.

  The sound of a protesting engine filled the street. Shavi’s van appeared, being driven with insane disregard for its surroundings. It careered off three parked cars and mounted the kerb. Shavi had to thrust Laura out of the way at the last moment to save both of them from being killed.

  The Bone Inspector threw open the passenger door. ‘If I’m going to keep doing this, you’d better give me some lessons.’

  Shavi pushed Laura in and jumped in after her. The Rourke-spiders were already swarming onto the nearside, and appeared to be eating at the very fabric of the vehicle.

  The Bone Inspector had seen them, too. With deafening grinding and a fountain of sparks, he ran the van along the brick wall. With the spiders scraped off, he accelerated towards the end of the street, where Shavi took the wheel.

  ‘Worst. Rescue. Ever.’ Laura’s stomach was still churning from the thought of the spiders nestling inside her.

  ‘You’re alive, aren’t you?’ the Bone Inspector snapped.

  ‘I was nearly mounted on the radiator grille!’ Shavi thought she was going to cry, but then she put her head back and laughed silently. ‘Fucking head rush. Spiders, urrh!’

  ‘Mad woman,’ the Bone Inspector mumbled.

  Laura glanced at Shavi, her eyes bright. ‘I nearly died and I feel as if I’m flying. How fucked up is that?’ She smiled to herself. ‘You can’t go back to the day job once you’ve had spiders crawling around your gullet.’

  Shavi had been through exactly the same process of awakening: that the life they had been ushered into should be more terrifying and dangerous than anyone could bear, yet he felt more vibrant than he ever had in his safe, secure, mundane existence.

  Laura turned on the radio and scanned across the stations until she found the Chemical Brothers singing ‘Hey Boy Hey Girl’. She cranked it up to full volume.

  ‘The blue spark that flashed between us,’ Shavi said. ‘I think it was important.’

  ‘You’re right there. It means we’re two of a kind, pretty boy.’ She put her feet on the dashboard and stretched like a cat. ‘All right. Now what?’

  8

  Wearily, Church tramped up the long, winding staircase to his chamber in the Court of the Soaring Spirit. His officer’s uniform was filthy with the mud of Flanders, and he was sickened after seeing wave after wave of fresh, hopeful young men shot and gassed and blown to pieces over a few inches of soil. For the first time he could understand why the Seelie Court had turned its back on Earth.

  Tom sat by the fire, smoking. ‘Anything?’ he asked.

  Church shook his head. ‘One of the Watchmen in Paris gave me a lead, but it didn’t pan out. He said the Germans had the skull and box for some kind of ritual. I think it was just wishful thinking.’ Church flopped into a chair and tossed his gas mask to one side. ‘Tell you what, though – the spider-zombies are everywhere. All over Europe I came across people with spiders stuck in their neck, or arm, or whatever.’

  ‘The Enemy is exerting its influence. I imagine a war of that magnitude would spread despair like the plague.’

  Church could tell Tom had seen some of the horrors of the First World War with his premonitory powers. ‘That’s it, I think. They’re controlling people who can position themselves to generate despair. How do we fight something like that? It’s like an infestation.’

  ‘You spread hope.’ Tom’s eyes sparkled.

  ‘I managed to save one of the Brothers of Dragons before Veitch got to him,’ Church said. ‘He’s just a kid, but when you look in his eyes it’s as if he’s a hundred years old. The things he must have seen on the battlefield—’

  ‘Death forges the Brothers and Sisters of Dragons,’ Tom said.

  ‘Then he’s going to be one of the strongest of all of us,’ Church replied bitterly. ‘I’ve left him with Decebalus and Aula. They’re doing a good job with all the others I managed to bring back. Our recruits will be ready when we need them.’

  Niamh walked in clutching a letter. She looked troubled. ‘I found this on my bed,’ she said, puzzled. ‘I was in the other chamber. No one could have entered without my knowledge.’

  ‘Who’s it from?’ Church asked.

  She handed it to him. The writing was copperplate and dignified. ‘Jerzy,’ she said. ‘He’s inviting you to a show – and offers an answer to “The Question of the Skull and the Box”.’

  Chapter Nine

  VAUDEVILLE

  1

  London, November 194
0.

  ‘Gor Bimey, you’ll never see a night like it! Forget old Mr Hitler – he’s a twerp! Goering’s barmy, so’s his army! Get inside for the time of your lovely lives!’

  The man in the garish yellow and black pinstripe suit clapped his hands and threw his arms wide. Behind him the glittering lights of the Holborn Empire formed a golden halo that promised warmth and comfort amidst the thick, chilly fog and the bomb-blasted rubble-strewn street.

  Church shivered even in the depths of his suit and thick woollen overcoat. From the shadows across the street he watched the couples in their Sunday best troop up arm in arm from all directions. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary, no gods, no spider-controlled politicians, no misshapen beasts or magical beings; just working-class people out for a night of beer, laughter and song to help them forget the day’s labours and the rigours of war. Jerzy’s message had specified the time and the place, and Church had no choice but to investigate.

  The foyer was grand with a plush red and gold carpet, polished mahogany and chandeliers harking back to its music hall glory days in the Victorian era. Church eased his way through the chattering crowd and bought his ticket. The bar was packed to the brim with men swilling pints of bitter and women sipping on halves of mild beneath a fug of smoke. Raucous laughter and spontaneous song thundered around the walls.

  ‘Wouldn’t believe there’s a war on, would you, mate?’ a rat-faced man said as he pushed his way to the bar. ‘I wish they’d go back to the old days when they’d let you take your beer into the auditorium. Bloody Council.’

  Using the Far Lands glamour Niamh had provided him with for cash, Church couldn’t resist indulging in a pint, the first he’d had for months, and then he made his way to the auditorium. Before the First World War it had been laid out with rows of tables where food and drink were served up all night long, but now it resembled any other theatre, with velvet-seated stalls, boxes and a balcony.

  A man in a long fur coat was already on stage singing, ‘I’m ’Enery the Eighth I am, ’Enery the Eighth I am, I am,’ with lots of comic moves and face-pulling. In the stalls, where drunks were already heckling, there was a bear-pit atmosphere. ‘You’re no Harry Champion!’ Someone hurled what looked like a cauliflower at the singer. He ducked and then side-stepped two other pieces of produce with which the audience members had pre-armed themselves.

  Church searched the darkened seats for any sign of Jerzy, but he was nowhere to be seen, not even in disguise. The unfortunate performer was driven off-stage prematurely and the compère came out to lead the audience in mass singing of ‘Roll Out the Barrel’.

  As the voices rose up to the rafters, Church noticed a subtle change come over the auditorium.

  ‘It’s not like this when Arthur Askey’s on.’ A cockney man with slickedback hair and an expensive-looking charcoal suit was now sitting in the next seat, though Church had not seen him arrive. The man put his feet over the seat in front. His shoes shone so brightly they reflected the man’s radiant grin; there was something darkly mischievous about him that Church found familiar. ‘Still, there’s a right load of riff-raff in tonight.’ He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

  Church looked back and saw the source of the shifting atmosphere. High up in the balcony, almost lost in the deep shadows, was the Seelie Court. Church could make out the shimmering golden skin of the king and queen in the front row, and the more monstrous members of the court loomed behind. Church guessed that no other audience member would see anything out of the ordinary, but when he turned to the fellow beside him to check, the seat was empty once more.

  Church slipped out of his seat and made his way to the balcony. The audience was now singing ‘Knocked ’Em in the Old Kent Road’. He was ushered forward by a being with bat-wings and a head like the Elephant Man. The king bowed his head slightly to one side and smiled faintly. ‘Greetings, Brother of Dragons. What is the nature of your business this even? More battles to fight and enemies to slay?’

  ‘More women to romance?’ the queen added with an enigmatic smile.

  Church bowed. ‘I came by invitation, your majesty.’

  ‘As did we,’ the king said. ‘How curious. A mysterious assignation was promised, and a night of unparalleled entertainment. I must say the latter is certainly true. The Fragile Creatures have excelled themselves in this hall of wine and song.’ He tapped his foot in time to the robust singing of the audience.

  ‘May I ask who invited you?’ Church said.

  ‘Another mystery.’ The queen stroked her chin thoughtfully. ‘The invitation was unsigned.’ She urged one of the Tuatha Dé Danann beside her to leave his seat. ‘Sit a while,’ she said to Church. ‘Fragile Creatures have always intrigued us, but the reputation achieved by the Brothers and Sisters of Dragons is most interesting. I had the pleasure of spending time with one of your kind who fought against the Northmen who invaded this island in their dragon ships. He had many great tales to tell of his adventures. And of you.’

  ‘Me?’ Church took his seat. On stage, an escapologist was now being locked into his chains by a pretty assistant.

  ‘Why, your exploits are quite legendary amongst your own kind. They speak of you and the Blue Fire in one breath, as one thing, interchangeable, immutable. The king who must be awakened from his deep sleep. The power in the land that will return in the darkest hour. As we know, there are two faces to everything.’

  Her beautiful features were inscrutable, but Church had the impression she was not simply speaking metaphorically. Was she alluding to Janus?

  ‘I have heard tell in the same stories,’ she continued, ‘of a love that spans the vast sea of time, of two hearts torn asunder, striving to return to each other across the years, whatever suffering and hardship may be thrown in their path. Is this true? Can Fragile Creatures really feel so deeply, so strongly?’

  ‘Yes, they can.’

  ‘Remarkable. This woman – she is special?’

  ‘She is to me.’ Church watched the escapologist disappear into a sack that was tied at the neck. ‘I’ve lost a lot of my memories of us together, but I haven’t forgotten a thing about the kind of person she is, and how much we mean to each other.’

  ‘It must be difficult to maintain those feelings without the structure of the memories to contain them.’

  Church didn’t respond.

  ‘Would you like one of those memories back?’

  ‘You can do that?’

  ‘One. For now. Too many would unbalance you.’ She smiled warmly at Church’s hopeful expression. ‘Here.’

  She rested her cool fingers on Church’s forehead and he felt a rush of colour and light that gradually coalesced into images. The early hours of the morning along the banks of the Thames in South London. Thick fog, shortly before dawn. A creeping feeling of despair over the death of his old girlfriend, Marianne. A sound from beneath the shadows of Albert Bridge: a shape-shifting creature from the Far Lands. It was the incident that had propelled him into his new life as a Brother of Dragons. And Ruth was there, too. She’d arrived from another direction, drawn by the same sound.

  But it was more than just a memory, for it explained everything about his love for Ruth. In the moment when their eyes locked for the first time, he saw a person filled with passion, someone with whom he had a deep, instant connection. She gave him hope, there and then, in one glance.

  Church withdrew from the memory with a strong swell of emotion threatening to wash him away. ‘Thank you,’ he said. The queen nodded and smiled sweetly.

  The escapologist slipped from the sack and his chains in a flash of light and a puff of smoke. He left the stage to thunderous applause.

  With his new memory warming his heart and changing his perspective completely, Church felt he had much to consider and so made his excuses and left the Seelie Court.

  By the time he was back in his seat, the compère had finished his patter and the next act was coming onstage to loud cheers – clearly a popular choice.

  ‘
And now Max Masque!’ the compère announced. ‘The Dandy of the Dance, with a bag full of songs and smiles!’

  A man in a lime-green suit shuffled on, did a pirouette followed by a back-flip. The audience cheered and clapped even louder.

  ‘Now then, now then, stop yer trouble,’ he said. ‘A copper grabbed me on the Mile End Road, and I said, “’Ang on, mate. I’ll tickle yer ribs for a guinea.” What did I say?’

  He put one hand to his ear and the audience responded as one: ‘I’ll tickle yer ribs for a guinea!’

  The comedian wore a mask that was split down the middle: one side showed the face of tragedy, the other the face of comedy. It was Jerzy.

  2

  The Mocker soon had the audience reeling with laughter, with a constant stream of jokes that even had Church chuckling. Slapstick and satire, song and dance, his polished repertoire covered everything the crowd expected and more. Jerzy left the stage to tumultuous applause, with his catchphrase ringing to the roof.

  Church made his way to the door at the side of the stage and bribed the attendant to let him in. A grizzled old stagehand was mopping the floor outside the dressing-room door.

  ‘No point knocking, mate,’ he said. ‘Nobody sees Max Masque without his mask. It’s his trademark.’

  ‘He’ll see me,’ Church said. He ducked inside before the stagehand could stop him.

  There was a shriek as the maskless Jerzy dived behind the changing screen. ‘Get out! Get out!’

  ‘Jerzy, it’s me. Church.’

  ‘I don’t know you! Get out before I call the manager!’

  ‘Jerzy—’

  ‘I don’t know anyone called Church!’ Jerzy peered round the edge of the screen. Church caught a glimpse of the familiar parchment flesh. After a moment of thoughtful silence, he ventured, ‘Church—?’ Gradually, he emerged from behind the screen, his frightened eyes making his frozen grin uncertain.