Differently Morphous

by Yahtzee Croshaw

  “I’m sure there’s a logical explanation,” said Alison as she took the phone. One that immediately leapt to her mind was the fact that Jessica had never worn anything but a dark T-shirt and jeans as long as Alison had known her.

  The phone was slightly warm and sweaty, which gave Alison the same slightly disquieting feeling one gets from sitting on a toilet seat that’s still warm from the last person. She wasn’t familiar with the phone or the operating system, but the messaging program was intuitive enough. She scrolled back over the most recent conversation.

  xxreaverxx: I can SEEEE YOOOOOU

  xxreaverxx: Still rocking the dark T-shirt and jeans combo, I see.

  jess: this isnt funny

  xxreaverxx: Yeah, I know. You keep saying.

  xxreaverxx: So that must be Nita Pavani, and that must be your brother Aaron.

  xxreaverxx: Or what am I supposed to call him now, the artist formerly known as Aaron?

  jess: im not gonna respond anymore

  xxreaverxx: Whoops, did I scare you off?

  xxreaverxx: Never mind, I’m used to it. Goes with the territory, you know, since I’m totally the Fluidic Killer and everything.

  xxreaverxx: Fine, stay quiet. I’m gonna keep talking anyway.

  xxreaverxx: Who’s this arriving now?

  xxreaverxx: Ohhh. That’s Alison Arkin. She’s shorter than I expected.

  xxreaverxx: And I see she’s brought me a snack.

  xxreaverxx: Does the Fluidic Killer eat fluidics? Well, I guess I should know, since I’m the Fluidic Killer. Let’s just pencil in that he does.

  Alison checked for Shgshthx, but he was still loitering around her ankle like a sleepy hound. Besides him, Nita, the Weatherbys, and the monks in the distance, there was nobody else visible.

  “What does it mean?” asked Jessica, taking the phone back.

  The monks were still watching hatefully, and Alison could also see the faces of students in the windows of the classrooms and dormitories, watching a rare moment of novelty in their routine lessons. They were all too far away to make any kind of surprise attack. On the other side of the herb garden was the forest, quite wild and crammed with hiding places.

  “I don’t know . . .” said Alison distractedly as her gaze tracked across the silent vegetation. “It’s creepy. But he sounds sarcastic . . .”

  Jessica was staring at her phone. She had gone as pale as a ghost, and the light from the illuminated screen did a lot to enhance the effect. “So what does this mean?” she said, turning the phone around.

  xxreaverxx: I’m so very close now.

  xxreaverxx: Here I come! :)

  Something rustled in the forest behind Alison. She turned and saw a bush as tall as a man innocently shift back into place.

  “Okay, let’s get this show on the road,” said Nita from the other side of the herb garden, adjusting a row of parsley for maximum aesthetic appeal. “I think we’ll start with Shgshthx and Aaron-Byhagthn over here.”

  “Um,” said Alison uncertainly, as Shgshthx slithered across the uncovered space between them, and parts of the forest continued to make rustling noises.

  “All right, let’s have Aaron-Byhagthn perched on this bit of fence, with the school in the background,” said Nita, camera to face. “Try to look rejected. Shgshthx, could you be in front of him with a sort of sympathetic, listening-to-his-problems kind of thing going on?”

  The forest rustled again, more violently. Alison caught a glimpse of a small black object being thrown into the center of the herb garden before there was a flash and a crack of pyrotechnics that made her instinctively cover her eyes.

  When she lowered her arms, she was once again sprinkled with glitter, and Doctor Diablerie was standing right in front of her with legs apart, cloak at maximum billow, and polished shoes causing much distress to the rosemary. He was holding aloft a white tube decorated with arcane patterns.

  “Tremble in the presence of Diablerie!” he commanded, swinging the tube like a conductor with a baton. “The Fluidic Killer strikes again!”

  Nita Pavani made a panicky leap forward and hit him with a handheld Taser. He stiffened and shuddered in time with the electric ticking before promptly collapsing with his face in the basil.

  The stunned silence was broken by Shgshthx. “Do I still need to be wooking sympathetic?”

  61

  Less than an hour later, Richard Danvers brought his car around to the front of the new DEDA building, then watched Elizabeth Lawrence hobble her way from the front entrance to his passenger door. Archibald Brooke-Stodgeley was just behind her, looking red in the face and with his hands behind his back, so Danvers assumed he must have attempted to help Elizabeth with the steps.

  “All right,” said Richard, after Elizabeth was settled into the seat beside him. “What was so important you couldn’t talk about it over the phone?”

  “Start heading for the monastery,” she instructed.

  Danvers nodded past her. “Is he coming?”

  Elizabeth followed his gaze, tutted, and lowered the window. “Archibald, get in the car.”

  “Oops, pardon me.” Brooke-Stodgeley climbed into the back, taking the center seat and leaning forward like an eager child going on holiday with his parents. “You only said to come with you. Thought you might have meant, just to the car. Didn’t want to make assump—”

  “Diablerie has resurfaced,” said Elizabeth to Danvers the instant the car was in motion. “He appeared at the monastery, made threatening motions toward Alison’s fluidic associate, and declared himself to be the Fluidic Killer loudly enough for everyone to hear.”

  Danvers’s jaw made unconscious chewing movements as he absorbed this information. “That rather clinches his status as prime suspect, I suppose.”

  Elizabeth said nothing.

  “No, of course it doesn’t,” sighed Danvers. “That would be far too straightforward. So after you having named him prime suspect in the first place, you’re now having second thoughts?”

  “He’s made it a little bit too obvious,” replied Elizabeth, staring straight ahead. “He’s got to be hiding something else.”

  “Or maybe he knows that you’d think that,” suggested Danvers.

  “Or he knows I know that he knows.”

  “Yes, well, let’s not board that particular merry-go-round.”

  “Erm, sorry to interrupt,” said Archibald. “But what am I going to be doing?”

  “Alison has recovered a number of artifacts from Diablerie that may be related to runecrafting,” said Elizabeth, only turning her head slightly towards him. “I need you to determine what they are and what they can do.”

  “Oh, yes, Alison, lovely girl,” said Archibald fondly. “Poor thing. That stuff’s probably going way over her head.”

  “Even so, I hardly think it’s necessary for all three of us to race down there pell-mell right this minute,” said Danvers. “Surely the monks can keep hold of Diablerie for one or two more days.”

  “That’s the other issue,” said Elizabeth, in the level tone of a bomber pilot gently groping their release lever.

  It was a tone that Danvers was becoming familiar with. He took a long, slow, calming breath, as Elizabeth waited patiently for him to ask the question. “What happened?”

  “The monks intend to stage a walkout,” she admitted. “All of them are going to resign in protest on the day of the press event. When the school reopens.”

  “Can they even do that? I thought they were pledged—”

  “Their order is pledged to the realm, not to the government. They have the right to defy us. There was an amendment to the agreement. It was intended for emergencies, such as outbreaks of demonic possession at the Ministry.”

  Danvers nodded in resignation. “And I’m guessing the amendment was introduced roughly ten years ago.”

  “Yes.”

  “By you.”

  Elizabeth glanced away, a grimace rising unbidden to her face. “Yes.”

  Dan
vers emitted another sigh, this one almost turning into a growl. “Perfect. So why now? Why not when the Hand went down, and all their boys in the bunker were let go?”

  “If they intend to actively disrupt the government’s . . . change in education policy, then walking out at this juncture is a fairly effective way to do it. We’re going to need someone else to provide security.”

  Danvers hummed in thought. “We could bring in some local freelancers. Add them to my retinue of agents. There’d still be a lot of holes.”

  “With Diablerie in custody, it may be enough.”

  “I’m more worried about the legion of disgruntled fanatics we now know for a fact are going to be in the vicinity of the school on Saturday.”

  “They’re not a death cult, Richard,” said Elizabeth. “They’re reasonable people. Expressing a view that a lot of the population still support.”

  “Don’t remind me.” He hit the indicator switch with a particularly vicious smack. “And this doesn’t even begin to answer who the hell’s going to teach the kids from next week.”

  “Perhaps you could talk to the brothers. Persuade them to help maintain order for the weekend, at least. They may still respect your name.”

  Richard was dangerously silent for a few moments. “I did wonder how this would start.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Break contact with your father, Richard,” he continued, apparently addressing the steering wheel. “He’s using you, Richard. Don’t let him manipulate you, Richard. Let yourself be manipulated in a more convenient way instead.”

  Elizabeth repositioned herself primly. “I am the chief administrator. If you’re not content to work under me as part of the Department’s senior staff, you are free to resign at any time.”

  “Oh, sure, resign,” grumbled Danvers. “And then what? Consultancy? On wrangling demon hunters and people who can shoot fire out of their eyeballs?” He gave her a sharp look before getting his eyes back on the road. “I’ve been doing this job for nearly eight years. It’s not the kind of skill set that transfers. And anyway, someone’s got to keep order. That’s the opposite of what there’d be if I left it to you and Pavani now.”

  Elizabeth tightened her mouth. “As long as we understand one another.”

  “Much as you’d appreciate a bit of chaos breaking out this weekend, I’m sure,” muttered Danvers. “Give you a chance to say you told us so.”

  Elizabeth said nothing but started slightly when Archibald clapped his hands inches away from her face.

  “Good, well, that’s cleared that up,” he said, rubbing his palms together. “Are we planning to pick up lunch on the way?”

  62

  As the sun rose on the monastery on Saturday morning, it illuminated a cold and miserable throng of government employees gathered in the entrance courtyard. The crowd had separated naturally into two mutually distrustful groups: on one side, the senior field agents from the Department, dressed in collared shirts and long, dark coats; on the other, the freelance monster hunters, mostly equipped with jeans, camouflage jackets, and poorly concealed hunting rifles.

  As soon as the sun was high enough to be “early morning” rather than “ridiculously early morning,” the front doors opened. True to their word, the monks abandoned the school. They exited two abreast in a single elongated column, hoods down and heads held defiantly high.

  At the very rear of the procession was Richard Danvers, his shirt untucked and his eyes dark and heavy from the last-minute negotiations. He remained on the doorstep for want of a speaking platform and beckoned his agents closer. “All right, now the siege has lifted, we can start the preparations,” he said wearily. “I managed to persuade the monks to at least not actively protest the event, and I think that’s about the best we’re going to get.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I still have to explain the situation to the student body. While I do that, the full-time agents can go round the back to help Dr. Pavani with whatever she needs, and I’ll have the freelancers securing the perimeter as best you can.”

  “What about the bar?” asked Sean Anderson, mysteriously appearing from the crowd like a crocodile on the surface of a swamp.

  “The what?”

  “Is the bar set up?”

  Danvers frowned. “You mean, a bar for drinks?”

  “No, for the pole vaulting. Of course a bar for drinks, you twat. Do. We. Have. One?”

  “Is it important?” said Danvers, pinching his eyes and steadying himself on the door frame.

  “You ever tried fishing without a hook?”

  Danvers looked to his equally baffled agents for support, but none came. “No?”

  “And you don’t run a press event without a bar. Never mind. I’ve got a few crates of lager in my car. I’ll sort something out.” He stomped off to the grassy verge beside the main driveway, which was wholly unlike the car park it was being used as.

  In the playing field beside the school, Nita Pavani had wasted no time. The moment the monks had left, she had thrown open the double doors to the main assembly hall and begun carrying chairs out onto the grass. There was a set of broad stone steps leading up to the doors that she felt would suffice as a stage.

  “How many things have we killed?” asked Victor Casin, emerging from the hall with a chair under each arm.

  “I have no idea,” said Adam, behind him. “It’s a little bit weird to count things like that.”

  “Over a thousand, do you think?”

  Adam dumped the chair he was carrying onto the field, panting with the physical exertion. “Seems a bit high.”

  “Come on. At least a thousand. There were over a hundred in that werewasp hive by itself.”

  “I still say hive minds should only count as one.”

  Victor dumped his chairs, making no effort to arrange them into the neat rows that were developing on the grass. “Don’t start that shit again. But would you say we’ve killed more things over our career than, say, James Bond? Putting all the films together.”

  “You have, maybe,” said Adam, rubbing his back.

  “Right. And could you picture James Bond helping to arrange the chairs at a school play?”

  Adam straightened up and started heading back for another chair. “I don’t know what you expected,” he said. “You don’t get, like, a certificate after you kill a thousand things, saying you don’t have to arrange chairs anymore. James Bond still has to queue up at the bank and clean his own toilet.”

  “I’m just saying,” grumbled Victor. “Feeling a bit underutilized here.”

  “Oh, aye,” said a familiar voice. “Maybe they could cover you in petrol and find a nice crypt to lock ye in. Would that be playin’ to yer strengths?”

  Adam and Victor turned in unison, like a pair of gears in a clockwork machine, and saw Mike Badger. He seemed strangely underdressed, which is to say that he was wearing exactly the same jeans, jacket, and flat cap as always, but he wasn’t carrying a shotgun.

  “Ay oop, lads,” he said, without humor.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” demanded Victor.

  “Call went out for freelancers; I answered the call. Bit of a drive, mind.”

  “Weren’t you let go?” asked Adam.

  Badger glanced around shiftily. “Aye, well, no one’s tried to stop me so far. Look, I ’eard there were gonna be shogs at this thing. I thought since Davey’s been going around saying he’s the shog slayer, he might show up.”

  “You still haven’t found him?” said Adam.

  “Nah. He’s hiding. Hiding from the bloody good hiding he’s got coming. Anyway, give us a shout if he turns up. And, ye know, warn them shogs, since your lot love ’em so much.” With that, he turned and walked away without another word, as if he had been merely giving his order to the drive-through.

  The two agents watched him go. Adam leaned over until he was within whisper range of Victor’s ear. “Will Danvers want to know about this?”

  “No,” said Victor, accu
rately. “You tell him.”

  63

  Compared to the secondary-school facilities, even the dungeons of the primary school were luxurious. There were six secure cells in the basement connected by a narrow hallway, but the floor was carpeted, and the walls were paneled with tasteful mahogany. There were even impeccable portraits of past schoolmasters with stern expressions, possibly to intimidate the prisoners.

  Alison had been surprised to discover that the primary school possessed dungeons at all, although it didn’t take much effort to theorize why, it being a place where young people on heady hormone cocktails could potentially manifest reality-altering powers at any moment. Each cell was equipped with a comfortable bed, adjoining toilet, and very, very thick walls.

  Alison looked at Diablerie through the peephole in his cell door. He was sitting upright on the bed, arms folded in affronted dignity, and apparently hadn’t moved since yesterday. Although Alison noticed the empty wrapper of the cheeseburger she had brought for him, balled up on the mattress nearby.

  It had also come as a surprise that the monks had let her use the facilities like this, but it was only Shgshthx and Aaron-Byhagthn they had cared about keeping away, so presumably it was magic they had the problem with. If that was the case, then it was lucky that none of them had been around when Alison had emptied Diablerie’s pockets.

  She returned to the small desk that was set aside for the dungeon guard on duty and the pile of objects she had removed from Diablerie’s person while he had still been unconscious from the Taser. It probably wasn’t his full inventory, as she had only gotten as far as his fourth set of hidden pockets before he had started stirring.

  Most of the pile looked like a cross between a stage magic kit and a child’s chemistry set. There were enough color-coded smoke capsules and bangers to create an impromptu Olympic closing ceremony. There were corked vials of colored liquid, some of which were suspending what looked like the organs of small animals, and which Alison was disinclined to examine any closer. There was also an absurd amount of glitter in a number of self-sealing sandwich bags.