“Oh, go away.”
“Hmm?”
“Not you.”
“Who you talking to then?”
“It’s complicated.”
“You’re weird.”
“And you’re unreasonably attractive given the urgency of the situation. Now get those clothes on.” With that, he started to disrobe himself, removing his own wetsuit. Unlike Scylla, Brian had at least a modicum of modesty, angling himself away from her prying eyes as he struggled from the suit and started to clothe himself; it was cold, especially so after his prolonged dip in the sea, and the girl seemed to like him, therefore he was keen not to dispel any illusion of manliness he might have accidentally managed to cultivate.
Finally, the pair of them were clothed, Brian in an Iron Maiden hoody, Scylla in a tight white t-shirt and skinny jeans, and whatever strange, sexual tension had been arcing between the pair seemed, not to die, though to at least diminish for now. Which was good, because any minute now the rest of her sisters would be descending upon Newquay town centre, like the world’s most lethal hen party.
And Brian knew that if he wasn’t there to guide events, it probably wouldn’t just be chicken on the menu.
The two made their way back down the stairs, out of the door and into the fresh mid-day air. The wind was biting, that cold Atlantic breeze that was less caress and more the slap of a spurned lover. Scylla practically dragged him along the pavement by the hand, moving quickly, though whether that was from excitement or simply worry at what havoc her sisters might be already wreaking upon the seaside town, Brian didn’t know. Should he have retrieved his sword from the car? Possibly, but too late for that now, besides, he hoped that he wouldn’t be needing it.
As they walked along the pavement towards the town centre, Brian noticed the stares of both men and women, gawping their way. Was it the fact they looked like such an odd couple, he wondered? Him all tall, gangly and scruffy, her looking picture-perfect, even her hastily thrown on jeans and t-shirt looking stylish on her swim-suit model figure? No, he thought, it was more than that; when people gazed, they were gazing at her, not him. There was a strange sense of longing in their eyes, almost as if they’d been caught in a daydream. He recognised that look from the pub only the other night, when Boaterhead were playing.
“Do all supernatural creatures possess glamour?” he asked her as they walked.
“I can’t speak for all of us,” she replied. “But us Nymphs do. Vampires do too, obviously. There’s a few others as well; sirens, dryads, fairies. Even the scarier and less pretty-looking creatures do, after a fashion, though their effect is more to hypnotise their prey into not moving rather than to seduce them.”
“How does it work?”
The girl shrugged.
“I dunno. You’re asking me about my physiology as though I’m some kind of crypto-biologist. I don’t know any more about how my body works than you do yours. Could be pheromones. Could be magic. All I know is that it works and that my sisters have used it for centuries to lure sailors for their tea.”
“Is it automatic? Or do you have to put effort into it?”
“Both,” she explained. “Affects everyone around me, but at the same time if I concentrate I can force people into doing my bidding, which was why it was so easy to persuade the barman last night to give me the vodka, where you failed. One of the things that puzzles me about you, how it doesn’t seem to have any effect on you. Why is that, do you think? Is it the ring of the Helsings?”
“Not sure,” he admitted. “Even when I first met Cassandra, I didn’t seem to be affected by her glamour. If anything, I was all the more scared of her for how sexual she seemed.”
“How bizarre,” she commented. “I mean, her glamour is extremely potent. Even I wanted to rip her clothes off last night, till I figured out who she was, and I’m neither a man nor human. I think you might be broken, Brian.”
“And for that I am very grateful,” he replied, before freezing in place and staring straight ahead. “Shit.”
Scylla followed his gaze, puzzled, to spy a huddle of young chav boys chatting, laughing and shoving each other against the harbour wall.
“What’s wrong? It’s only a few youths.”
“Yeah, the same lads who stole my surfboard. And I, err, may have been a bit overzealous when I stole it back from them. And I don’t think they’re the type to forget being embarrassed in a hurry. Come on, let’s cross the road and try to avoid a scene.”
Too late, the lead boy from before the one Brian had nicked the trousers from, saw them out of the corner of his eye and his spotty face twisted with rage beneath his faux-Burberry cap.
“Oi! Lads, it’s ‘im! That lanky twat from before. Get ‘im!”
“Oh, bugger.”
Scylla laughed and glanced up at Brian, placing a hand on his arm.
“Don’t worry, allow me.”
“Promise not to kill them.”
“Oh, I won’t.”
“What? Promise? Or kill them?”
As the group of incensed young oiks came racing towards Brian, they caught sight of Scylla, standing there, sultry and seductive as she brushed her long hair back behind her ear. Their sprint slowed to a slow zombie shuffle.
“Hi boys,” she smiled.
“Cor, Callum. Would you look at her?” one of the youths murmured to the lead teen.
“Aye. What’s your name, miss?”
“Scylla,” she replied in a sultry whisper, batting her eyelashes as Brian stood on, perplexed. “What’s yours?”
“Erm, Callum,” he gulped.
“Could you do something for me, Callum?”
“Err, sure. Whaddya want?”
“You look like a strapping young lad. Bet you’re a strong swimmer, aren’t you? Why don’t you jump over that wall there, into the harbour, show me how good you are.”
“Whu… what?”
She stared at them, head cocked to one side, eyes wide and imploring, a warm smile on her face. Brian shivered. She put him in mind of a cobra about to strike.
“The wall. Jump over it, all of you. I want to see who’s the strongest swimmer out of you all.”
A brief pause, as though time had stood still, as their teenaged minds rebelled at the idea, knowing subconsciously that it would be a very stupid thing to do indeed. And yet that voice, that face, those curves. How could they resist?
“Well, it’s me, obviously,” Callum declared.
“Nuh-uh,” his friend protested. “Yer ‘avin’ a laugh mate. I’ve always swum better than you.”
As Brian watched on in amazement, the group of teens all but scrabbled over each other for the chance to be the first over the harbour wall, fake Nike trainers fighting for grip on the stone as they climbed and flung themselves into the air. Scylla laughed, while Brian made his way to the wall and peered down the twenty feet into the water. The youths spat and flailed in the cold brine, shouting at each other in angry confusion.
“What the fuck was that about, Callum? Why the hell did we jump into the water?”
“I dunno,” Callum blubbed to his friend. “Help me! I can’t even swim!”
Brian had to chuckle as Scylla dragged him away, the pair continuing on their way towards the town centre.
“Colour me impressed,” he whistled.
“Being a supernatural spirit has its advantages at times.”
“So it seems.”
Up ahead, in the narrow high-street, Nando’s glowing chicken sign signalled their destination drawing near. And in the street, a crowd of noisy spectators, watching some dramatic confrontation unfold.
“Oh god,” Brian groaned. “Why do I have a feeling this is your sisters’ doing?”
“Because it probably is,” she replied.
Chapter Seventeen:
Cheeky Nando’s
Brian barged his way through the thong, Scylla following in his nigh-seven foot wake, the crowd parting before them like arctic floes before a breaker. As he forced his wa
y to the front of the crowd, he stopped and slumped at the scene before him.
“Pandora,” he groaned. “Put the poor bloke down.”
The Nymph looked at him, face still etched with annoyance. She was clad in her supernatural disguise, that of a beautiful, blonde-haired young woman. But that didn’t seem to lessen the fear felt by the charity collector who was held nonchalantly in her grasp by the front of his coat, high in the air, his feet kicking uselessly above the ground.
“He wouldn’t leave me alone. He kept following me, pestering me, telling me about all these poor starving orphans in Africa. Why would I care about orphans in Africa? I don’t even care about orphans here! But he wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
“They do that,” he explained. “It’s nothing personal; it’s just their job.”
“Well it’s a terrible job,” she replied. “Going round trying to make people feel guilty about things they have no control over.”
“I won’t argue with that, but it’s no reason to kill the man. Now put him down and let him go change his pants.”
With a last look at the terrified man, as if weighing up whether to snap his neck or not, she finally dropped him unceremoniously to the ground with a splat. The man darted a nod of thanks to Brian, before running away at full pelt. Even as the man vanished, the crowd surged inwards, but no braying mob this, eager to exact vigilante justice.
“Are you alright?” one man asked.
“Such a horrible man, hounding you like that,” consoled an old woman.
Brian stared, nonplussed. Hadn’t they just seen the girl holding a petrified and helpless man high in the air with one hand? Did that enormous strength not strike them as odd coming from such a slender and petite looking girl? He glanced down to Scylla, who met his gaze.
“Glamour,” she explained.
“Ah yes. Glamour.” He turned to the crowd, wafting them away as though guiding a jumbo jet in to land. “Alright people, break it up. The lady’s fine and we’ve an appointment to get to.”
As the crowd dispersed, only Brian, Scylla and the other gathered Nymphs remained outside the Nando’s. The Nymphs each wore a different human disguise, some blonde, brunette, redhead, each and every one strikingly beautiful in their own way. Their strange eclectic attire, no doubt comprised of whatever they could steal or else had washed down to their watery domain, combined to lend them the appearance of a group of fashion-blind, weather-resistant cat-walk models on some budget winter seaside jolly. As Brian watched them, he noticed Pandora staring at the passers-by, licking her lips.
“They all smell so… tasty,” she murmured.
“Then let’s get you inside,” Brian countered, “before you do something everyone will regret.”
Herding the group of sea-spirits into the building, Brian inhaled deeply and smiled.
“Now that’s the smell of real food,” he told the group.
“Something’s burning,” one of the Nymphs declared, casting about with suspicious eyes.
“No, something’s cooking. There’s a difference.”
“What is this ‘cooking’ of which you speak?”
“It’s where you roast food over open flames.”
“Yes. Burning.”
“Whatever,” Brian sighed. “Come on, let’s find a table.” He made to move, before noticing that the girls had all spread out, picking up bottles, prodding at other diners’ lunches, much to their astonishment. Brian turned to Scylla. “Fuck’s sake, how do you deal with this on a daily basis? It’s like trying to herd cats.”
“You’ve got to appeal to their stomachs,” she explained, before placing her fingers in her mouth and whistling. “Girls; sit down or you don’t get dinner.”
A flurry of motion and the Nymphs huddled about Brian, clambering over each other as they sat down about a long table, looking up at him with wide, expectant eyes.
“Awesome,” he nodded. “Some order at last. Now what are we having?”
Pandora shrugged.
“Never eaten here before, what’s good?”
“Do they serve man-flesh?” a voice called from the other end of the table.
“No, they bloody well don’t serve man-flesh,” he gasped. “That’s the point. We’re getting you to try something new. They serve chicken and, by God, they do it well.”
“I don’t eat meat,” came Scylla’s voice from beside him.
“Well, why don’t you try some halloumi?” he suggested.
“What’s it like?”
He wracked his brain to think of a favourable description.
“It’s like salty rubber.”
“Oh. Well, why not, I’m game.”
Leaving the Nymphs to all chat amongst themselves, talking about whatever the hell it was such creatures had to talk about, Brian made his way to the counter to order. The young lad who came to take his order kept glancing over to the table, as did Brian, if for different reasons.
“You’re a lucky fella,” the man declared. “Being in the company of so many gorgeous women.”
“Lucky?” Brian scoffed. “Mate, they’re like foxes in a chicken coop, if you’ll pardon the pun. Get us some food on the go and be quick about it, and maybe, just maybe, we’ll all survive this.”
“What will it be?”
Brian stared at the laminated menu.
“Everything,” he said. “Several times over.”
“Fries with that?”
“Did I fucking stutter? Everything, mate. I’m determined to throw as much shit as I can at this wall, in the hopes that some of it will stick.”
The man rang up the order, then gulped.
“That’ll be five hundred and ninety two pounds, please.”
With a sigh, Brian handed over his card. Newquay had proved an expensive trip thus far. How he’d explain the bills to Heimlich, he had no idea. Finally, bill paid and food on its way, Brian went and sat back down at the table next to Scylla, joining halfway through a very bizarre conversation.
“And I said to him, ‘how the hell did you think I was a manatee? Have you seen this figure?’ And he laughed, and I laughed, and then I ripped off his head. His mates took exception to that. Luckily I was well under the waves by the time they opened up with their muskets.”
The gaggle of women broke down into hysterics, all bar Scylla who simply rolled her eyes as if she’d heard the tale a thousand times, and Brian, who paled. As the laughter subsided, the Nymphs all turned to look at him, puzzled as to why he hadn’t found their grisly story hilarious.
“Must have had to be there,” he shrugged. Then he frowned. “Muskets?” He turned to Scylla who looked at him, curious. “How old are you?”
“I dunno. When was the Spanish Armada?”
“Erm… the sixteenth century?”
“Yeah, I was spawned a bit before that.”
He stared at her pale, flawless skin and youthful, glistening eyes.
“You look good for five hundred years old.”
She blushed.
“Thank you. I think the salt water is good for your skin.”
“I imagine it helps exfoliate, whatever that means.”
The table descended once more into violent anecdotes that the other Nymphs found amusing and Scylla, tedious, Brian just sitting and listening in, part in horror, part fascination. There was talk of Narwhals, of gods, hushed whispers of nameless Old Ones. Mermaids were a frequent topic, spoken about with much bitchiness.
“To a lot of humans, you guys would be considered mermaids, you know,” Brian made the mistake of commenting.
“You take that back!” Pandora spat. “We’ve nothing in common with those whores.”
“Well,” Brian continued, digging himself further into his hole. “You both take the form of beautiful ladies, both live in the sea, both lure people to their grisly deaths with your looks. I mean, you have to admit, there’s similarities there.”
“Mermaids are just vain attention-hounds,” Pandora retorted. “They sit there combing
their hair, singing away, looking all pretty. Do they ever actually go out and work for their meals? No, they let their menfolk do it for them. And if some handsome sailor comes along, offering them a life of luxury, they forsake their people in an instant and swan off to some ivory tower.”
“That’s basically the plot of the Little Mermaid,” Brian noted.
“Indeed. And never a truer tale has been told. So don’t compare us to those vacuous bitches. It’s like comparing sharks to angel-fish.”
Brian didn’t know which was which, though he had an inkling, so wisely he kept his mouth shut. Thankfully, the food chose that moment to appear. A veritable army of Nando’s servers streamed up to the table in a procession of chicken, leaving plate after plate after plate of fried goodness before the suspiciously staring Nymphs.
“Tuck in,” Brian told them.
“It looks… oily,” one of the Nymphs proclaimed, prodding the food, a redhead who he’d gathered through listening to their conversation was named Ariadne.
“It is, but that’s what makes it so tasty. Watch.” He grabbed a chicken wing from one of the precariously leaning piles and bit into it with relish. “Mmm,” he drawled. “Lovely. Far better than human flesh.”
“You’ve never eaten human flesh,” Pandora retorted, eyeing the drumstick in her hand warily as though it might bite.
“Then prove me wrong,” he told her.
She slowly, ever so slowly, moved the peri-peri chicken closer to her mouth, as the other Nymphs craned their necks, waiting for her reaction with bated breath. Not as bated as Brian’s, however. His heart beat a fierce tattoo in his chest. If this didn’t work, then a bloodbath might ensue as the hungry Nymphs decided to feast upon their fellow diners. Razor teeth bit into drumstick and Pandora chewed slowly, a thoughtful expression on her face, before swallowing.
“By Poseidon’s curly-fucking-beard,” she whispered. “He’s right.”
The other Nymphs, as if by some unspoken command, all launched into their dinners with gusto, trying a bit of this and a bit of that, babbling excitedly to each other through mouthfuls of meat as they did. Brian slumped back into his chair, relief surging through every fibre of his being. Even Scylla seemed to be enjoying her strips of salty, fried car tyre, giving him a thumbs up. Brian smiled at her, then caught the attention of a server walking past.
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