Black Tattoo, The Page 14

  The man looked to be about forty years old. He hadn't exactly been handsome to begin with, and his face was now disfigured by terror: his piglike eyes glittered at her from under their beetling black brows, and his mouth was opening and closing like a ventriloquist's dummy's. Number 2 was plainly frightened out of his wits — by her. He was frightened of Esme. The sensation was strange to her, and a little uncomfortable.

  "You're... not... human," the man gibbered.

  Esme just looked at him. Hurting the man suddenly didn't hold quite the same attraction for her as it had a few moments ago — and now, to be honest, she didn't really know what to do instead.

  "You're not human!" Number 2 repeated. He cast a wild-eyed glance at what remained of his troops and heard the moans and whimpers of those who were conscious. "We need backup," he added to himself. "We need more men. My — yes!" He put a hand up to his headset. "All units, this is Number Two! We are under attack! Repeat! We are under attack! All units converge on the first floor main room! Get me backup — now!"

  Esme's eyes narrowed. She dropped the man (he hit the ground with a thump) and took an uncertain step backward. "How many of you are there?" she asked.

  "Hundreds!" said Number 2, crawling back from her. "Thousands! Keep away from me!"

  "We 'ave another twenty men," said a voice from behind her. "Mademoiselle? Please listen to me."

  She turned around and saw Number 3, the French-accented man. Like the rest of the group, he'd been wearing body armor: nonetheless, Esme was reasonably certain that she had cracked at least two of his ribs, and he could only be sitting up with great difficulty. Strangely, this didn't seem to have affected how polite he was being.

  "We were told of this," he said. "An ancient evil, and a secret Brotherhood pledged to stop that evil from being released. It seems the informant spoke the truth."

  He paused, and all Esme could hear was the sound of heavy boots poinding up the stairs and outside the doors, onto the landing.

  "When the others come, do not fight them," said Number 3. "If you fight, they will shoot you: it is useless. We are 'ere to 'elp you!" he added desperately. "And all I ask in return is that you trust me."

  "Why?" asked Esme.

  Number 3 pulled off his mask. His jet-black hair cropped short, and running just above his right eyebrow halfway down his cheek was a long, angry scar. The eye crossed by the scar was a pale grayish-blue color, but the other, Number 3's left, was a deep, warm brown with flecks of gold in it. He was looking at her and — strangely — smiling.

  "Jessica sent for us," he said.

  Esme stared at him. But then the doors burst open, and more men filled the room.

  "Fire at will!" shrieked Number 2.

  "Non!" yelled Number 3. But the guns were already coming up: black-gloved fingers were tightening on the triggers.

  And now, Esme saw, these people were shooting at her.

  Time went slack.

  Esme watched the flowering muzzle-flash of the guns with a weird kind of breathless concentration. The clattering bubble-wrap pops of the MP5s seemed to have slowed to rhythmic gluey thumping in her ears. She could see the spreading black stream of bullets stitching the air; their trails sticking out of the barrels like stair-rods, like banners that would unroll and say bang. She caught a long glimpse of them all, the men firing their guns, and — there's something a bit special about you. It's always been too late for her — strange words seemed to be echoing in her ears.

  She dropped the sword. Faster than time — faster than the world — but with an easy grace that felt as natural to her as breathing, she leaped.

  And by the time the first bullets reached the place where she'd been standing—

  —Esme wasn't there.

  Rising now, her arms out to either side of her, Esme swung her legs up, flipping backward this time. As she reached the height of the butterfly room's great round window, she was in position: with perfect precision, the bare soles of her feet struck the exact center of the circle.

  Then the world sped up around her once more.

  Metal struts buckled and split: glass exploded, and cool air hit her like a shock wave. Ignoring the bullets buzzing around her, Esme completed her back flip, coming upright, outside now, high above Cambridge Circus. Her thoughts were now utterly focused on the one place in London she had left to go.

  Turning toward the Thames, gathering her strength, she flung herself out into the air.

  SPECTATORS

  Charlie and the Scourge were standing at the foot of a small mountain of bloodred cushions. At the top of them, a tall man with red skin and a white suit was lounging about as if he owned the place. Which, as it turned out, he did.

  God of Rulers, God of the Dead, The Voice of the Void... the demon who stood beside them was saying. Or at least, Charlie supposed that it was this demon: it was always hard to tell when someone was speaking to you without their mouth moving. It (Charlie had decided to think of this demon as an "it") was about six feet tall, dressed in long robes, and was floating about thirty centimeters off the ground. Its head was squat and heavy, ridged with thick bones, and appeared to be much too big for its delicate body. It also had what Charlie could only describe as a really disgusting monster-type mouth; the four yellow inch-long hooks that crossed in front of its gob instead of lips had spread wide open as soon as Charlie and the Scourge had appeared, exposing a truly revolting wet pink hole within. This demon, Charlie decided, was quite staggeringly ugly. Which, now that he came to think of it, was pretty much exactly what he'd been expecting demons to look like.

  "His name is Gukumat," the Scourge murmured. "He has the power to replicate himself, and his consciousness is collective: each one of him is linked to the others. At this moment, hundreds, perhaps thousands, more of him are currently engaged in the upkeep and administration of every part of Hell and its dominions. Overminister Gukumat is a powerful ally indeed. And a useful friend."

  Lord of Crossing-Places, Gukumat droned on pompously, in a weird, lots-of-people-talking-at-once voice that made the words appear directly inside Charlie's head. King of All Tears, and Suzerain Absolute of the Dominions of Hell.

  The Emperor gave a vague wave of one cloven hand.

  "Sire, said Gukumat, turning slowly toward him, allow me to present Khentimentu the Scourge.

  The Scourge made a low bow. Taking his cue, Charlie bowed too — though it hadn't escaped his notice that he hadn't yet been introduced.

  There was a pause.

  "I wonder, Khentimentu," said the Emperor, "is it normal for you to go around like this?"

  "Like what, my lord?"

  "Outside your vessel?" said the Emperor, gesturing at Charlie with distaste. "I mean, it's almost as if" — he smirked — "as if you're not fully dressed!"

  "I'm Charlie," said Charlie brightly, stepping forward.

  "Well," said the Emperor, looking at the Scourge again and ignoring Charlie utterly, "your personal habits are your own affair."

  Charlie blinked.

  "Gukumat!" barked the Emperor suddenly.

  Yes, Excellency?

  "What do you have for me and my guests?"

  Jocasta is fighting the Ogdru Sisters in the pit, was the reply.

  The Emperor gave a wide smile. "Gukumat," he said, "you know what I like."

  There was a low rumble of shifting stone, then a crack of blazing white light opened out across the darkened room. Still dimly realizing that the Emperor had insulted him, Charlie turned, just as the whole of the wall behind him seemed to come away from the ceiling and slide downward. The air was suddenly filled by a sound unlike anything Charlie had ever heard in his life. It was quiet at first, like the distant hiss of a gas tap — but as the wall opened further the noise became louder, gradually resolving into a terrible boiling mixture of sounds: baying, barking, howling, jeering, rumbling, crashing, and screaming. Charlie stared out of the enormous hole where the wall had been, at what lay beyond it, stared — and gaped.

 
; "Welcome to the royal box," said the Emperor.

  Outside and far below them was the wide, blinding-white sandy-floored ring of an arena. The noise Charlie was hearing, he realized, was a crowd noise, coming from the unbelievable mass of spectators that rose, tier upon dazzling huge tier, around the arena's massive black walls. There were hundreds of thousands of demons out there, all apparently different. There were things out there that defied belief: creatures that Charlie couldn't have begun to describe. For the time being, however, strangely enough, Charlie wasn't really looking at the audience. Like the rest of the spectators, his attention was inexorably drawn to what was taking place on the arena's floor.

  Spread in an even circle around the ring was a pack of a dozen or so of what Charlie immediately identified as velociraptors, or something very like them. The had the same long, muscular bodies, the same loping movements, the same beautifully balanced proportions of crouching torso and elegant, sinewy tail. Their eyes were quick and their claws were sharp, and the only thing that was different about them was the scythelike talons that protruded from the front of each of their hind feet: apparently made of some kind of metal, the talons glittered and flashed, occasionally sending bright little reflections scurrying over the black stone of the arena walls.

  Their opponent was something Charlie had never seen before. It looked a bit like a rhinoceros: it had a similar sort of humped, armored body — only instead of four legs it had six. The creature's head was wide and flat: its brow and the length of its snout were protected by a triangular plate of thick, heavy bone. The skin that covered this part of the creature's face was a raw-looking pink, covered in whorls and wrinkles. Also, the creature was huge: its length covered more than a third of the diameter of the ring, and the tip of its ridged back actually reached above the line of massive stones at the arena's edge. The monster shook its heavy head and bellowed at the nearest of the raptors, exposing a variety of businesslike teeth, and the raptors took a careful skip back out of snapping distance.

  The big beast was breathing hard: the thick gray hide of its sides pumped in and out, thightening and slackening. Charlie noticed four wide gashes behind the heavy bulk of its front left shoulder. The wounds were red, raw, and shining. As the terrible noise of the crowd fell suddenly to an expectant rumble, one of the raptors opened its wide mouth and squealed something, provoking a high, scratching cackle of unmistakable laughter from the rest of the pack. They bobbed on their taloned feet, enjoying the moment.

  Jocasta's been wounded, said Gukumat, but the two sides are still quite perfectly matched. The Ogdru Sisters have pack tactics and youth, but Jocasta has strength, experience, and... well. The tall demon lifted a long, robed arm and pointed at the arena. See for yourself.

  The audience gave a great roar of delight as the six raptors suddenly and simultaneously leaped to the attack. At the same moment, the creature that Gukumat had referred to as Jocasta reared up into the air and — with a speed and accuracy that Charlie would never have believed possible from one so bulky — caught two of the raptors in her claws. In another second, the great beast slammed back down, pinning them to the floor with her full weight. The other four scratched uselessly on the big creature's unarmored sides and then fell back. The two that had been unlucky jerked on the ground as Jocasta took her weight off them — then lay still. The remaining raptors abruptly abandoned the outflanking maneuver they'd been planning and slunk back to the shadows at the edge of the ring to rethink their tactics. Jocasta just bellowed at them contemptuously.

  "What do you do for entertainment in your world?" asked the Emperor abruptly.

  "Sorry?" said Charlie. The suddenness of the question had startled him — but the Emperor did not repeat himself. He just continued to stare at Charlie with his weird golden eyes.

  "Oh," said Charlie. "Well, we have films. You know, stories. Games. Music. Stuff like that."

  "I'm not talking about those things," said the Emperor dismissively. "Don't you have anything physical? Anything..." He gestured toward the arena, just as one of the raptors leaped into the air, its steel-shod talons flashing, only to catch Jocasta's double-spiked tail in the chest. The unconscious raptor was flung against the nearest wall-slab, where it slid down and landed in the shadows in a wet heap. The crowd went wild. "Like this?" finished the Emperor with a smile.

  "Not really," said Charlie, doing his best. "Well, we have, er, sport, I guess. We compete against each other in running or swimming — or football."

  "Football?" echoed the Emperor. In the arena, Jocasta had caught two more of the raptors in her front paws and was busily engaged in smashing them against each other. Again and again.

  "Yeah," said Charlie awkwardly. "You've got, er, eleven guys on each side, they're on this big field, and they're only allowed to touch the ball with their feet. Right? And you've got a net at each end. That's the goal: whoever kicks the ball in there gets a goal, and whichever side get the most goals... wins." Seeing that the Emperor's attention was elsewhere, he turned. Two lucky members of the raptor flock had got a hold under Jocasta's armor: they dug their talons in, hard. The big beast's mouth hinged open in a grimace of agony.

  "But is there violence?" asked the Emperor. "Does anyone get hurt? Or die?"

  "No," said Charlie uncertainly.

  "Then what's the point of it? This... 'football'?" The Emperor made little quote marks in the air with his cloven hands.

  "How d'you mean?"

  "I mean," said the Emperor, rolling his eyes, "that this game you're describing is a test of strength. The best team wins, yes?"

  "Er, yeah."

  "Well, what greater test of strength could there be than fighting? "

  Charlie stared. "But—"

  "No physical trial could be more testing than fighting for your life. None. Therefore, any other physical trial is inferior. Correct?"

  Now Charlie just gasped.

  "So, if no one gets hurt," said the Emperor slowly, as if he were talking to a moron, "what's the point? "

  Out on the arena floor, the fight was reaching some kind of a climax. Jocasta, her face a mask of pain and rage, was swinging her great body from side to side, trying to dislodge the raptors. But they clung on stubbornly. Seeing their chance, the rest of the flock leaped to the attack. Another fell prey to a swipe of her tail — but the others were climbing all over Jocasta now, stabbing and slashing with their great steel claws, leaving raw red welts as they went. The crowd was screaming its approval.

  "But... watching things kill each other — that's just wrong!" said Charlie.

  Jocasta rolled, howling, onto her back, squashing all but four of the raptors, who managed to leap clear in time. But they came back as soon as she righted herself, clinging on even tighter than before, tearing and ripping at her in an ecstasy of fury — and the big beast was starting to weaken. The Emperor yawned.

  "They're in pain!" said Charlie, his voice going high and reedy, which only made him more indignant. He felt the Scourge lay a restraining hand on his arm, but he wrenched it away and jabbed at the arena. "They're dying!" he said. "And for you it's supposed to be what — fun? "

  Slowly, the Emperor turned to Charlie and raised an eyebrow.

  "All right," he said. "First, I don't find it fun. Rather the opposite. I usually find the whole thing to be quite dull, if the truth be told. You see, it's always been this way, ever since the time of the ancestors."

  He smiled slowly, at the Scourge first, then at Gukumat.

  "It may shock these two veterans to hear it," he said, "but I think the Old Ones were wiser than they let on. We demons are a disparate lot and prone to violence, so making that violence a part of our culture — officially, as it were — was undoubtedly a very shrewd and clever idea. That's why I allowed it to continue, even after — your world presently excepted — we succeeded in conquering the universe."

  "Second," the Emperor went on, "there is something in it for the combatants, if they win. Which reminds me — Gukumat? What is the
Ogdru Sisters' favor?"

  Charlie turned to face the arena again, and his eyes went wide. The fight was over. Jocasta lay on her side, a great pool of liquid spreading from the terrible wounds that the raptors had inflicted on her. Her eyes were open and apparently lifeless. The three remaining raptors were standing side by side, facing up toward the royal box, their front claws clasped in a gesture of what appeared to Charlie, astonishingly, to be supplication.

  Nothing of great import or interest, my lord, said the tall demon. I was going to grant their request without troubling you with it.

  "Please, Overminister, for the benefit of our guests: do tell us."

  Well, Sire, said Gukumat. It is rather amusing, I suppose. They wish to start a small... business.

  "Business? What sort of business?

  There is a settlement, near the borders of the Plains of Flame. "Gehenna," they call it. There's not much there, no facilities to speak of, but the Ogdru Sisters believe that the place has some potential as... well, a tourist destination.

  "Really?" asked the Emperor, wrinkling his nose. "But all that brimstone and so on! A bit sulphurous, I'd've thought. Wouldn't you?"

  Indubitably, Sire. But as my lord knows, with the High Reaches demons one can never predict what fads and foibles may catch on next. The Ogdrus propose to start what they call, I believe, a "health spa."

  "A health spa?" echoed the Emperor, with distaste. "Gukumat, you amaze me."

  Shall I grant their request?

  "Fine," said the Emperor, suddenly losing interest. He turned back to Charlie. "You see? The winner is granted a boon from me." He leaned forward on his mountain of cushions.

  "This is how things work here in Hell," he said. "If you want something, you have to fight for it. Kill or be killed." He yawned again. "You follow?"

  Charlie nodded numbly, though he didn't — not in the least.

  "You may clear the arean, Gukumat."

  At your command, Sire.