“Catriona,” said Richard, tinny and distorted as if bounced off a relay station in the rings of Saturn. “How are you? Is the Cold . . . ?”
“In the village? Yes. A bother? No. We’ve enough lively minds in the house to hold it back. Indeed, the cool is misleadingly pleasant. What little of the garden survived the heat-wave has been killed by snow, though – which is really rather tiresome.”
Richard succinctly explained the situation.
“ ‘The planet’s first evolved intelligence’?” she queried. “That has a familiar ring to it. I shall put the problem to our little Council of War.”
“Watch out for snowmen.”
“I shall take care to.”
She hung up and had a moment’s thought, ticking off her long string of black pearls as if they were rosary beads. The general assumption was that they had been dealing with an unnatural phenomenon, perhaps a bleed-through from some parallel wintery world. Now, it seemed there was an entity in the picture. Something to be coped with, accommodated or eliminated.
The drawing room was crowded. Extra chairs had been brought in.
Constant Drache, the visionary architect, wanted news of Derek Leech. Catriona assured him that his patron was perfectly well. Drache wasn’t a Talent, just a high-ranking minion. He was here with the watchful Dr Lark, corralling the persons Leech had contributed to the Council and making mental notes on the others for use after the truce was ended. That showed a certain optimism, which Catriona found mildly cheering. She had told Richard’s team not to call Leech’s people “the villains”, but the label was hard to avoid. Fred and Vanessa were still in London, liaising with the Minister.
Anthony Jago, wearing a dog-collar the Church of England said he was no longer entitled to, was Leech’s prime specimen – an untapped Talent, reputed to be able to overwrite reality on a large scale. The former clergyman said he was looking for property in the West Country and had taken a covetous liking to the Manor House. The man had an understandable streak of self-regarding megalomania, and Lark was evidently trying to keep him unaware of the full extent of his abilities. Catriona would have been terrified of Jago if he weren’t completely trumped by Ariadne (“just Ariadne”). The white-haired, utterly beautiful creature had made her way unbidden to the Club and offered her services in the present emergency. She was an Elder of the Kind. Even the Secret Files had almost nothing on them. The Elders hadn’t taken an interest in anything in Geneviève Dieudonné’s lifetime, though some of their young – the Kith – had occasionally been problematic.
Apart from Jago, none of Leech’s soldiers were in the world-changing (or threatening) class. The unnaturally thin, bald, haggard Nigel Karabatsos – along with his unnaturally small, plump, clinging wife – represented a pompous Neo-Satanic sect called the Thirteen. Typically, there weren’t thirteen of them. Maureen Mountmain was heiress to a dynasty of Irish mystics who’d been skirmishing with the Club for over eighty years. Catriona would gladly not have seen the red-headed, big-hipped, big-busted Amazon in this house again (she’d been here when the shadows took Edwin). Maureen and Richard had one of those complicated young persons’ things, which neither cared to talk of and – Catriona hoped – would not be resumed. There were enough “undercurrents” in this Council for several West End plays as it was. Jago and Maureen, comparatively youthful and obnoxiously vital, pumped out more pheromones than a beehive. They took an interest in each other which Dr Lark did her best to frustrate by interposing her body. Leech obviously had separate plans for those two.
The mysterious Mr Sewell Head, the other side’s last recruit for the Winter War Effort, was out in a snowfield somewhere with Geneviève’s party. Catriona suspected they’d have a hard time getting through. Fair enough. If this council failed, someone needed to be left alive to regroup and try a second wave. Geneviève had Young Dr Shade and the interesting Rodway Girl with her – they had the potential to become Valued Talents, and the Cold Crisis should bring them on. Still, it didn’t do to think too far ahead. In the long run, there’s always an unhappy outcome – except, just possibly, for Ariadne.
Watching Jago and Maureen flex and flutter, attracting like magnets, Catriona worried that the Club’s Talents were relics. Swami Anand Gitamo, formerly Harry Cutley, was only here for moral support. He had been Most Valued Member once, but had lately taken a more spiritual role. Still, it was good to see Harry again. His chanted mantras irritated Jago, a point in his favour. Paulette Michaelsmith had even more obviously been hauled out of retirement. She could only use her Talent (under the direction of others) when asleep and dreaming, and was permanently huddled in a bath chair. Catriona noted Dr Lark wasn’t too busy playing gooseberry to take an interest in poor, dozy Paulette. Dr Cross, the old woman’s minder, was instructed to ward the witch off if she made any sudden moves. Louise Magellan Teazle, one of Catriona’s oldest friends, always brought the sunshine with her – a somewhat undervalued Talent this summer, though currently more useful than all Karabatsos’ dark summonings or Jago’s reality-warping. It was thanks to Louise that the Cold was shut out of the Manor House. She was an author of children’s books, and a near neighbour. In her house out on the moor, she’d been first to notice a change in the weather.
While Catriona relayed what Leech and Richard had told her, Louise served high tea. Paulette woke up for fruitcake and was fully alert for whole minutes at a time.
“This Cold,” Drache declared. “Can it be killed?”
“Anything can be killed,” said Karabatsos.
“Yes, dear, anything,” echoed his wife.
“We know very little about the creature,” admitted Catriona. “The world’s leading expert is Professor Cleaver, and his perceptive is – shall we say – distorted.”
“All life is sacred,” said Anand Gitamo.
“Especially ours,” said Maureen. “I’m a mum. I don’t want my girl growing up to freeze in an apocalypse of ice and frost.”
Catriona had a minor twinge of concern at the prospect of more Mountmains.
“How can all life be sacrosanct when some life-forms are inimical, hein?” said Drache. “Snake and mongoose. Lion and gazelle. Humanity and the Cold.”
“Tom and Jerry,” said Paulette, out of nowhere.
“I did not say ‘sacrosanct’”, pointed out Anand Gitamo.
“The Cold can die,” said Ariadne. Everyone listened to her, even Jago. “But it should not be killed. It can kill you and live, as you would shrug off a virus. You cannot kill it and expect to survive, as you cannot murder the seas, the soil or the great forests. The crime would be too great. You could not abide the consequences.”
“But we do not matter?” asked Drache.
“I should miss you,” admitted Ariadne, gently. “As you cannot do without the trees, who make the air breathable, the Kind cannot do without you, without your dreams. If the Cold spreads, we would outlive you – but eventually, starved, we would fade. The Cold has mind, but no memory. It would retain nothing of you.”
“The world doesn’t end in ice, but fire,” said Jago. “This, I have seen.”
“The Old Ones will return,” said Karabatsos.
“Yes, dear, Old,” echoed his wife.
It seemed to Catriona that everyone in this business expected a personal, tailor-made apocalypse. They enlisted in the Winter War out of jealousy – a pettish wish to forestall every other prophet’s vision, to keep the stage clear for their own variety of Doom. The Cold was Professor Cleaver’s End of the World, and the others wanted to shut him down. Derek Leech, at least, needed the planet to stay open for business – which was why Catriona had listened when he called a truce with the Diogenes Club.
The doorbell rang. Catriona would have hurried back to the hall, but David Cross gallantly went for her. Louise poured more tea.
It was not Geneviève and her party, but Mr Zed, last of the Undertakers. He brought another old acquaintance from the Mausoleum, their collection of oddities (frankly, a prison).
<
br /> Mr Zed, eyes permanently hidden behind dark glasses, stood in the drawing room doorway. Everyone looked at him. The brim of his top hat and the shoulders of his black frock coat were lightly powdered with snow. Many of the Council – and not only those on Derek Leech’s side of the room – might once have had cause to fear immurement in the Mausoleum, but the Undertaking was not what it had been. Mr Zed politely took off his hat and stood aside.
Behind him was a little girl who could have stepped out of an illustration from one of Louise’s earliest books. She had an Indian braid tied with a silver ribbon, and wore a neat pinafore with a kangaroo pouch pocket. She looked like Rose Farrar, who disappeared from a field in Sussex in 1872, “taken by the fairies”. This creature had turned up on the same spot in 1925, and come close to delivering an apocalypse that might have suited Jago’s biblical tastes. At least she wasn’t playing Harlot of Babylon any more.
“Good afternoon, Rose.”
Catriona had not seen the girl-shaped creature since the Undertaking took her off. She still had a smooth, pale patch on her hand – where Rose had spat venom at her.
The creature curtseyed. When she looked up, she wore another face – Catriona’s, as it had been fifty years ago. She used the face to smile, and aged rapidly – presenting Catriona with what she looked like now. Then, she laughed innocently and was Rose Farrar again.
The procedure was like a slap.
The thing that looked like Rose was on their side, for the moment. But, unlike everyone else in the room – good, bad or undecided – she didn’t come from here. If the Cold won, Rose wouldn’t necessarily lose a home, or a life, or anything she put value on.
Catriona wasn’t sure what Rose could contribute, even if she was of a mind to help. Ariadne, Louise and, perhaps, the Rodway girl were Talents – they could alter reality through sheer willpower. Jago and Paulette were “effective dreamers” – they could alter reality on an even larger scale, but at the whim of their unconscious minds. Rose was a living mirror – she could only change herself, by plucking notions from the heads of anyone within reach. She resembled the original Rose because that’s who the people who found her in Angel Field expected her to be. She had been kept captive all these years by confining her with people (wardens and convicts) who believed the Mausoleum to be an inescapable prison – which wasn’t strictly true.
“What a dear little thing,” said Ariadne. “Come here and have some of Miss Teazle’s delicious cake.”
Rose meekly trotted over to the Elder’s side and presented her head to be stroked. Jago turned away from Maureen, and was fascinated. Until today, he hadn’t known there were other Talents in the world. Paulette perked up again, momentarily – the most powerful dreamer on record, now in a room with at least two creatures who fed on dreams.
End of the World or not, Catriona wondered whether bringing all these big beasts together was entirely a bright idea.
“More tea, Cat,” suggested Louise, who had just given a steaming cup to the Undertaker.
Catriona nodded.
VIII
Jamie wasn’t surprised when the snowmen attacked. It wouldn’t be a war if there weren’t an enemy.
The frosties waited until the five had tramped a hundred difficult yards or so past them, committing to the path ahead and an uncertain footing. They were in Sutton Mallet. It wasn’t much of a place. Two Rolls Royces were parked by the path, almost buried, icicles dripping from the bonnet ornaments. Nice machines. His Dad drove one like them.
“What’s that thing called again?” he muttered, nodding at the dancers.
“The Spirit of Ecstasy,” said Sewell Head. “Originally, the Spirit of Speed. Designed by Charles Sykes for the Rolls-Royce Company in 1911. The model is Eleanor Velasco Thornton.”
“Eleanor. That explains it. Dad always called the little figure “Nellie in Her Nightie”. I used to think she had wings, but it’s supposed to be her dress, streaming in the wind.”
Everyone had fallen over more than once. It stopped being remotely funny. Each step was an uncertain adventure that only Gené was nimble enough to enjoy. Then, even she skidded on a frozen puddle and took a tumble into a drift.
She looked up, and saw the four snowy sentinels.
“What are you laughing at?” she shouted.
At that, the snowmen upped stumps and came in a rush. When they moved, they were localized, roughly human-shaped blizzards. They had no problem with their footing, and charged like touchy rhinos whose mothers had just been insulted by howler monkeys.
“There are people inside,” yelled Keith. “I think they’re dead.”
“They better hope they’re dead,” said Gene, flipping herself upright and standing her ground, adopting a fighting stance.
The first and biggest of the frosties – who wore a top hat – barrelled towards the Burgundian girl, growing into a creature that seemed all shoulders. She met it with an ear-piercing “ki-yaaa” and a Bruce Lee-approved power-kick to the midriff. The topper fell off and the frosty stopped in its tracks, shedding great chunks of packed ice to reveal a well-dressed gent with a deeply-cut throat and a slack mouth. He had bled out before freezing. The snow crawled back up around the corpse, cocooning it with white powder, building layers of icy muscle, growing icicle spines and teeth. It reached down with an extensible arm, picked up its hat, and set it back on its head at a jaunty angle. The coals of its mouth rearranged themselves into a fierce grin.
And the other three – who wore a tartan cap, a jungle hat and two bugs on springs – caught up with their leader. They were swollen to the size of big bruisers.
Jamie looked down at his hands. His gauntlets were mittened with black clouds, containing violet electrical arcs. Out in the open, with snow all around and cold sunlight, there was too little shade. Night was far off. He cast darkstuff at the Scotch Snowman, who was nearest, and sheared away a couple of icicles. They instantly grew back.
He would have to do better.
Fred Astaire Snowman patted its healed-over tummy, and shot out a big fist which clenched around Gene’s throat. Astaire lifted Gené off the ground. She kicked, but floundered with nothing to brace against. Jamie saw she had longer, sharper nails than normal – but any tears she made in the snow-hand were healed over instantly. She gurgled, unable to talk.
Comical Bugs Snowman and Jungle Explorer Snowman shifted, in opposite directions. They were forming a circle. A killing circle.
Astaire grew a yard-long javelin of solid ice from its shoulder, and snapped it off to make a stake. It pressed the ice-spear against Gene’s ribs, ready to hoist her up like a victim of Frosty the Impaler.
Susan had her eyes shut, and radiated warmth – but not heat. Sewell Head was chattering about snowmen in fact and fiction, citing pagan precedents, Christmas cake decorations and the Ronettes. Keith wrapped himself in his magician’s cape, and rolled his eyes up so that only the whites showed. Jamie supposed he was having a fit.
Gené squeaked a scream out through her crushed throat. Scarlet blood showed on her safari jacket.
He tried to gather more darkness, from inside.
Suddenly, Keith’s eyes snapped back – but they were different.
“Don’t waste your energy, Shade,” he said, in a commanding tone. “Use this.”
From the depths of the cloak, Keith produced a thin, diamond-shaped, black object. It was Dennis Rattray’s Fang of Night. Jamie had wondered where Dad had put it after taking it from Blackfist. Keith tossed the jewel to Jamie, who caught it and staggered back. The Fang was the size of a gob-stopper, but weighed as much as a cannonball. He held it in both hands. It was like sticking his fingers into a live electric socket.
“Sue,” Keith said, “cover Shade’s -Jamie’s – back. Imagine a wall of heat, and concentrate. Swellhead, give me some dark refraction indices, considering available light, the Blackfist gem and whatever these snow-things are. Today would be a help.”
Astonished, Head scrawled sums in the snow with his
forefinger.
“Gene, hang on,” said Keith. Gené even tried to nod, though her face was screwed up in agony and spatters of her blood stained the snow under her kicking feet.
“Can you feel it, Shade?”
Jamie was seeing a different Keith Marion. And the jewel didn’t seem so heavy once he’d worked out how to hold it. Rattray had tapped into its energy by making a fist around it, but Dad said that was what had killed him in the end. There were other ways of using the Fang of Night.
Head put his hand up, and pointed to a formula he had traced.
“Well played, Swellhead,” said Keith, patting Head’s bald bonce. “Shade, hold the Fang up to your forehead and focus. Aim for the hat!”
Behind him, Susan grunted, and he heard slushing, melting sounds.
“Ugh, disgusting,” she said.
Jamie fought an urge to turn and find out what had happened.
“Concentrate, man,” insisted Keith. “Gené can’t hold out much longer.”
Head began to give a figure in seconds, but Keith shut him up.
Jamie held the stone to his forehead. It seemed to fit into the V above his goggles. The dark matter was sucked in through the gauntlets, thrilling into his palms, surging through his veins and nerves, and gathered in his forebrain, giving him a sudden ice-cream migraine. Then, it was set free.
He saw a flash of dark purple. Astaire’s top hat exploded in flames that burned black, and the snowman fell apart. Gené was dropped, and pulled out the ice-shard in her chest before she sprawled in the snow. She crab-walked away from the well-dressed, still-standing corpse that had been inside Astaire. Its knees kinked, and it pitched forward.
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