by Tom Holt
‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘Nothing to worry about.’
Then he caught sight of the eyes.
‘Help,’ said the old biddy. ‘Help help.’
That’s what she said; but anything less frightened-sounding would be hard to imagine. To judge from her tone of voice, she was marginally less terrified than a full-grown tiger in a cage full of lemmings. And the eyes.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Didn’t mean to frighten you. I didn’t think anybody was at home. I just wanted to, um, ask the way.’
‘Where to?’
To his dismay, Grimm #2 discovered that his brain wasn’t working. ‘New York,’ he said. ‘I think I may be…’
‘Turn left as you go out the front door, first right then second left off the main forest road till you come to a derelict water-mill, turn left past the Cat & Fiddle and carry on down about six thousand miles and you can’t miss it.
‘Ah. Thanks.’ Grimm #2 started to back away, still staring at the eyes. ‘Much obliged.’
‘Don’t mention it.’
Something buried deep in his mind, down among the silt and potsherds of childhood, told him not to say it; but he say it anyway. ‘Nothing personal,’ he said, ‘but what big eyes you’ve got.’
‘All the better to see you with, my dear.’
Fair enough, Grimm #2 said to himself. Best leave it at that and go, now. But he didn’t.
‘What big ears you’ve got,’ he mumbled, though he couldn’t see any ears in the gloom, only the two red eyes. For all he knew, she could have ears like a Ferengi or two pinholes drilled flush with the side of the head.
‘All the better to hear you with, my dear.’
‘Quite. And, um, what big hands you’ve got.’
A dry, rasping chuckle came from behind the bed curtains. ‘All the better to hold you with, my dear.’
Thanks, but you’re not my type. ‘And, um, don’t take this the wrong way, but what big teeth you’ve… Oh shit.’
The curtains billowed up like a storm-tossed sail or a cheap umbrella blowing inside out ten minutes after you’ve bought it, and there was something huge and dark and rank very close to him. He could feel its breath on his face; could smell it too, like the inside of a badly neglected fridge. ‘All the better to eat you with, sucker,’ said the voice. ‘Prepare to—’
‘Help!’ But as Grimm #2 cowered back against the door, his arms in front of his face, he still couldn’t help noticing that the thing squatting in front of him, poised to spring, wasn’t a little old lady any more. Not even a big, nasty, savage little old lady with coal-red eyes and teeth like a vampire Ken Dodd. She’d changed.
Changed into a wolf.
‘Unless,’ the werewolf went on, ‘you feel like negotiating.’
‘Um,’ Grimm #2 replied; and in the circumstances, neither Oscar Wilde nor Noël Coward could have done much better. ‘Sure,’ he added. ‘What had you in mind?’
‘Depends,’ said the werewolf, ‘on what you’ve got to offer.’
Offhand, Grimm #2 couldn’t think of anything to say, except possibly Well, that explains a lot about the story of Little Red Riding Hood. He didn’t say that, however, for obvious reasons.
‘Well?’
‘I’ve got two tickets for the Splitting Heads gig on Wednesday night,’ he ventured. ‘You could take a friend.’
‘Thanks,’ snarled the werewolf, ‘but no thanks. I was thinking of something rather more — traditional, let’s say.’
‘Traditional.’
‘That’s right. Your daughter and half your kingdom, for instance. Or a monthly tribute of oven-ready virgins, with side-salad and something from the trolley to follow?’
Grimm #2 thought for a moment. He didn’t have a daughter or a kingdom, and he doubted whether a goldfish and the kitchen and spare bedroom of his flat would be sufficiently tempting. As for monthly virgins, that was a non-starter. Even if he could get the girls from the office to co-operate, he had a feeling that some of the criteria were a bit too stringently drawn. ‘How about money?’ he suggested.
The werewolf frowned. ‘You mean the chocolate stuff with the gold foil wrapping?’ She shook her head.
‘Gives me wind.’
‘Come on, you’re the one in the hot seat. You think of something.’
Grimm #2 thought hard. He thought until he imagined he could feel his eyes getting squeezed out of his head. But nothing came, and the old lady was slowly but surely edging closer. Then inspiration struck — ‘I know,’ he said. ‘What about my brother?’
The werewolf hesitated for a moment. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Why him and not you?’
‘Taste,’ Grimm #2 answered frantically. ‘Flavour. Not to mention being high in polyunsaturates and free of artificial colourings. He doesn’t contain nuts, either.’
The werewolf looked at him contemptuously. ‘That’d go for you too, if you ask me,’ she said. ‘Where I come from, we have a saying: a man in the fridge is worth two in the bush. Besides,’ she added horribly, ‘I’ve taken a liking to you. Now then—’
‘All right!’ Grimm #2 screeched. ‘What about the secret of absolute power? Any use to you?’
‘Might be,’ the werewolf conceded. ‘What had you in mind?’
‘The Mirrors network,’ Grimm #2 panted, trying to draw breath through his nose like someone trying to suck up the last half-inch of a thick milkshake through a bent straw. ‘The operating system that runs this lousy place. You know, as in com—’
The werewolf looked at him oddly. ‘What do you mean, operating system? If by this place you mean the kingdom, it’s run by the wicked queen. Everybody knows that.’ She shook her grizzled head. ‘I should know better at my age than to waste time listening to chatty food,’ she said. ‘Now, are you going to hold still or do I have to tenderise you a bit first?’
‘It’s the wicked queen’s magic mirror,’ Grimm #2 said quickly, and the words tumbled out of his mouth like spoons from a kleptomaniac’s sleeves. ‘It’s what she runs the country with. I can, um, give it to you.’
‘You don’t say.’
‘Or at least, I could give you the power to work it. If you’ve got a mirror handy, that is.’
The werewolf sniggered messily. ‘Odd you should mention that,’ she said. ‘What with one thing and another, mirrors aren’t something I have much truck with, if you take my meaning.’
Grimm #2 tried to smile. ‘Oh, it’s not so bad,’ he said. ‘A smart suit with shoulder pads, a bit of eye shadow—’
‘They don’t work too good when I’m around,’ the werewolf explained irritably. ‘Goes with the job, I’m told. Like, there’s no point in me polishing the silver till you can see your face in it, because I can’t.’
‘Hm?’ Grimm #2’s brow furrowed in bewilderment, then relaxed. ‘Oh I see,’ he said. ‘Because you’re a…’
‘That’s right, dear.’
‘So I suppose you’re not too keen on garlic, either. Or silver bul—’
‘Boy, what a loss you were to the diplomatic service. Yes, that’s right. Though what all that’s got to do with you getting eaten…’
(Behind her, the door opened.)
‘Never mind all that now,’ said Grimm #2, holding up a hand in mild reproof. ‘You’ve just given me an idea. How’d you like to work for the government?’
The werewolf glowered at him. ‘Wash your mouth out with soap,’ she replied sternly. ‘I may be an evil old lycanthropic witch, but I’m not that far gone. Now hold still while I—’
She got no further than that, mostly on account of Grimm #1 creeping through the open door, sneaking up behind her and nutting her with a three-legged stool.
‘Thanks,’ his brother muttered. ‘I just hope to God you haven’t killed her, is all.’
Grimm #1 scowled at him, as if he’d just advised a high-class gift horse to brush and floss thoroughly after every meal. ‘Oh, I’m terribly sorry,’ he said. ‘I’d somehow got it into my muddled old brain that you might
actually like to be rescued.’
As she lay on the floor, looking for all the world as if someone ought to come and paint a thick white line all round her, the werewolf was changing back into human form. On balance, Grimm #2 muttered to himself, I preferred the wolf version.
‘Or given her amnesia,’ he went on, ‘which’d be almost as bad. Oh well, only one way to find out. While I’m tying her up, nip downstairs and get a bucket of cold water.’
‘All right,’ said Grimm #1. ‘Just as soon as you explain to me why, after I’ve been to all the trouble of knocking the old bat out, you immediately want to bring her round again. What is it? Compunction? Remorse? Missed it the first time and want a replay?’
Grimm #2, who had been checking the old biddy’s pulse, looked up and grinned. ‘Because she might just be the answer to all our prayers, that’s why,’ he replied.
Grimm #1 leaned over and took a good look. ‘What on earth for?’ he said. ‘I can just about imagine a keen gardener having a use for her if he was having trouble with crows on his seed beds, but we both hate gardening. Or were you planning to set up a bespoke nightmare service for people who’re allergic to cheese?’
Grimm #2 stroked his chin. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘that’s not a bad idea. Remind me of that when this is all over. Meanwhile, though, think about werewolves.’
‘Werewolves?’
‘And witches and the undead generally, but werewolves in particular. See what I’m driving at yet?’
‘Can’t say I — oh wow!’ Grimm #1’s face lit up like a fire in a match factory. ‘As in not making a reflection in mirrors?’
Grimm #2 grinned like a dog. ‘Got there at last,’ he said. ‘Well, don’t just stand there, go fetch the water.’
Grimm #1 hurried off down the stairs, while Grimm #2 played DIY Egyptian Mummies with a dressing-gown cord and three balls of wool he found in the old biddy’s knitting basket. By the time his brother returned with the water, she looked like a ball of string with a head sticking out of one end.
‘Hold it,’ Grimm #2 said, as his brother lifted the bucket over her head. ‘Not so fast. Put that bucket down carefully and let me try something.’
Once the ripples on the surface of the bucket had died away, Grimm #2 bent over it and muttered a string of what sounded suspiciously like gibberish. It seemed to have the desired effect, however, for not long afterwards several lines of glowing green text materialised just under the surface.
‘Well?’ asked Grimm #1.
‘Message from HQ,’ Grimm #2 replied. ‘Asking us why a routine patrol exercise is taking such a long time, and why we haven’t acknowledged receipt of the latest written orders.’
‘Fair question,’ Grimm #1 conceded.
Grimm #2 shrugged his shoulders. ‘You would say that. We’d better get a move on, before they get really difficult.’
Grimm #1 nodded, and let fly with the water. There was a splash, a loud curse and a spluttering noise; then—
‘Oh balls,’ Grimm #2 muttered. ‘That’s awkward.’
‘Not nearly as awkward as it’d be if she wasn’t tied up,’
Grimm #1 replied, taking several steps backwards. ‘You sure those knots’ll hold?’
‘Here’s hoping. Any idea how we turn her back?’
On the floor before them lay a huge grey she-wolf.
Chapter 8
‘I don’t care about the marketing possibilities,’ snapped the Baron irritably. ‘I think it looks ridiculous, and I want it out of here now.’
Igor sighed. Ever since it had made its unscheduled and unexpected appearance, he’d become curiously fond of the little wooden puppet, with its perky smile and quaint features; in addition to which, there was no question but that in some highly unorthodox but nevertheless effective way, the thing was alive. Far too alive to be lightly thrown on the fire or buried in the compost heap. ‘Can I have it, then?’ he asked. ‘It’s not for me, you understand, it’s for my sister’s kid. She’d love to have something that actually came from the castle.’
‘So long as you get the stupid thing out of my sight and keep it there,’ the Baron replied. ‘I’m sick to the teeth of its horrible simpering expression. Its eyes seem to follow me all round the room.’
Igor knew how the Baron felt; there was something strange about the thing, sure enough. Not creepy; it was too nauseatingly cute for that. The worst it could do would be to adore you to death. Nevertheless, there was clearly more to it than met the eye. The fact that it was apparently alive, for a start.
‘Thanks,’ Igor said, scooping it up and stuffing it inside his jacket before the Baron changed his mind. ‘My nephew’ll be ever so pleased.’
‘Pleasure. I’ll stop it out of your wages.’
What with tidying up the mess left behind by the experiment and keeping well out of the Baron’s way, it was late evening by the time Igor returned to his cramped, musty little cottage next door to the formaldehyde store, and he wasn’t in the mood to examine his new acquisition closely. Accordingly he dumped it on the table, crammed a handful of stale cheese rind into his mouth and fell into bed. Not long afterwards, a snore you could have cracked rocks with shook the rafters, and the puppet decided it was safe to take a look round.
If the first day was anything to go by, he decided, Life was a bit like a frog sandwich; some parts of it were better than others. The not being an inanimate section of log, for example, was quite invigorating; likewise the bewildering flood of sensory information and the countless new experiences. The sense of being absolutely surplus to requirements wasn’t so good, and the puppet wondered if there was anything it could do about that. It had an idea that being loved might help, though where the idea came from…
Help! Help! Let me out!
…It wasn’t sure. Either it was an exceptionally quick learner, or else it’d known a lot of useful stuff before it came to life. Which was impossible, surely.
‘Hello, world,’ it said, noticing as it did so that its voice was high and squeaky, not at all as it had imagined it would be.
Please, PLEASE listen to me. I’m a human being, and I’m stuck in this horrid wooden Disney thing. Can anybody hear me?
The puppet stood very still. ‘Hello?’ it said.
Hello?
‘Hello.’
Oh, will you please stop repeating every word I say? Listen, you’ve got to help me. I can’t stay here, my mum’ll be worried sick. I’ve got homework to do, and there’s a maths test on Friday. Please?
‘Hello?’
Oh no, don’t do this to me. Look, if you help me I promise I’ll be your friend.
‘He— you will?’
Yes. Promise. Cross my heart.
‘Gosh. That sounds nice. What’s a friend?’
I really don’t have time for— no, wait, don’t go all droopy on me. A friend is someone who loves you. Very much.
‘Ah,’ said the puppet. ‘I think I’d like one of those.’
I know you would. Now then, this is what I want you to do. Over there by the window there’s a—
‘What’s a window?’
You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you? Well ha ha, very funny. I hope you get woodworm.
‘Oh.’ The puppet slumped against a hairbrush, its joints all floppy. ‘Does this mean you aren’t going to be my friend after all?’
No, no, I really really want to be your friend, but you’ve got to do exactly what I tell you. Are you listening?
The puppet’s head lifted and dropped. ‘Hello,’ it said.
Right then. Now, I want you to stand up— can you manage that all right, because I’m not sure I can talk you through it if you can‘t.
‘Easy.’ The puppet stood up. ‘Look, no strings,’ it announced proudly. ‘What’s a string?’ it added.
Oh, I see what’s happening. Somehow you’re getting a few thoughts and turns of phrase from my mind, but your excuse for a brain can’t understand them. Well, never mind that for now. Turn your head left— sorry,
forgot. Just turn your head until I say Stop. Right, are you ready? Fine. Now, start turning.
The puppet’s head started to turn, like the turret of a dear little wooden tank. ‘Am I doing this right?’ it asked nervously.
Carry on, you’re doing just fine, it’s— hey, stop!
‘Here?’
No, back a bit, you’ve gone too far. No, that’s too far the other way. Slowly now— and there, we’ve done it.
‘Oh, hooray! This is tremendously exciting, you know. Can we do it again?’
No, certainly not. You have no idea how dizzy it makes me feel when you turn that thing. Not that I’m all that fussed, mind. After all, this is your head I’m stuck in, and if I get travelsick and throw up, I’m not going to be the one with a filthy smell between his ears. Right, you see that white shiny thing, there by the empty milk bottle?
‘I think so. Bearing in mind that I don’t know what an empty milk bottle looks like.’
Don’t worry about it. You can see the big flat shiny thing?
‘I suppose so. What does it look like?’
Oh for— there, that’s it. No, back just a— stop right there. Don’t move till I tell you.
‘Of course not, Friend. Anything you say.’
Look at the shiny thing. That’s what we call a mirror. Now, can you see your reflection?
‘How should I know? All I can see is this horrible dangly thing with a funny look on its face and a very big nose.’
Don’t worry, just hold it. Now, repeat after me.
‘You sure? I really don’t like the look of—’
Oh, grow up. That’s you, you idiot.
‘Me?’ The puppet quivered slightly. ‘Gosh. Hey, I look horrible. Is my face really that disgustingly soppy?’
Repeat after me.
The puppet listened for a while; then it cleared its wooden throat and said, ‘Mirror.’
At first, nothing happened; there was only the puppet’s reflection, grinning inhumanly right deep down into the silver backing. Then—
You’ve done it, we’re in! Now, keep doing exactly what I tell you to, okay?
The face in the mirror wasn’t a cute wooden puppet any more. It was a stern, humourless, rocklike expression, more than a little reminiscent of a bust of Mr Spock done by the Mount Rushmore team. It stared out of the mirror for a long three seconds, then said, ‘Running DOS.’