Black Tattoo, The Page 8

  The demon lifted its eyeless, blank face from what it had been doing.

  And it looked at Jack.

  Now it was getting up.

  And now it was coming for him !

  What? said Jack's brain. No way! This was totally unfair! His job wasn't dealing with demons! His job was sitting and watching! Numb with fear, Jack backed away, tripped over a gravestone, and fell over. In a kind of ecstasy of panic, unable to take his eyes away from the demon, he kicked out frantically with his feet, trying to push himself away back across the ground. But it still kept coming. The ink-black figure kept walking toward him, a step at a time. Closer it came, until suddenly—

  "HEY!" said a voice. "HEY, YOU!"

  Jack looked up. Standing behind the demon... was Charlie.

  With a soft thump, twin balls of flaming orange light appeared in his hands.

  "EAT THIS !" Charlie yelled, and flung them, catching the demon square in the middle. Suddenly, to Jack's utter amazement, the demon's body was a mass of flames.

  And then the Scourge began to scream.

  It was like the screech of brakes, like paper tearing slowly in your head. The black shape of the demon turned fluid, shooting out in all directions and snapping back in an effort to escape the magical fire, and the flames made great whoomph ing sounds in the air as the Scourge flung itself about. The screaming kept going, on the same dreadful single note. The demon flapped wildly, pounding on the ground. The flames seemed to tear upward, straight through the demon's body, then—

  WHUMP!

  They vanished, leaving nothing but a few twinkling blue sparks floating in the empty air.

  Silence.

  "HAH!" yelled Charlie. "HAAAAAAH!"

  Esme elbowed past him and leaned down over Jack.

  "Are you okay?" she asked.

  Jack looked up at her, at her lovely face staring down at him in concern.

  "Yeah," he said. "I'm fine."

  She smiled at him!

  "But I think it got Jessica," he said, watching her smile vanish with an ache in his heart as she caught sight of Jessica's lifeless body.

  Esme felt for a pulse.

  "Is she——?"

  "Yeah," said Esme miserably. "She's gone."

  "I got it, though!" said Charlie, dancing on the spot. "I got it! The Scourge is dead! "

  SWORDS AND PIGEONS

  They were back at the theater. At last, the doors opened. It was Esme.

  "You can come in now," she said.

  Jack looked at Charlie. They'd been waiting outside in the passage for almost twenty minutes while Esme gave her report to Raymond about what had happened with Jessica. Still, for a moment Charlie stayed where he was, leaning against the wall. Eventually, making it perfectly clear that it was in his own time and not because anyone had asked him to, Charlie detached himself and made for the door. Esme stood aside to let him through. Jack sighed, followed him, caught sight of the room beyond — and blinked.

  The room they were standing in now wasn't quite as big as the butterfly room, but it was still impressive. A large, coal-fired forge, presently unlit, with a wide, blackened metal flue poking out of the top of it and leading up through the ceiling, dominated the center of the space. The forge was surrounded by workbenches, racks of tools, and several large pieces of machinery, one of which Raymond was standing over and adjusting. He had his back to them, and as the boys came in he didn't turn round.

  "This is the armory," said Esme. This didn't really need explaining, Jack felt, because the walls of the room were entirely covered in weapons.

  There were axes: single- and double-headed, from small throwable hatchets and tomahawks to a five-foot-tall thing with giant gleaming steel half-moons that could probably chop Jack in half just by him looking at it. There were throwing stars, glaives, and knives of every description — some sheathed, some hanging in their cases with their blades exposed. Most of all, there were swords.

  There were foils, with long blades stretching to points so sharp you could hardly see them. There were cutlasses and scimitars — curved and wicked looking. Every edged or stabbing weapon Jack had ever seen or heard about seemed to be represented somewhere — and a fairly high proportion that he hadn't.

  "Nice collection," said Charlie, pretending not to be impressed. "Where'd you get 'em all?"

  "One or two of the older pieces belonged to the Brotherhood," said Esme. "But most of them Raymond made himself."

  "Come 'ere," growled Raymond without turning around. "I've got something to show you."

  Winding their way between the long workbenches, the boys went over to take a look. On the table beside Raymond lay a long bundle of thick black canvas, which the big man proceeded to unwrap.

  "This," he said to Charlie, as the contents were revealed, "is what I've been working on for you."

  It was a sword. A big one. It had no grip, no handle yet: the long, gently curved, dull blue-colored blade stopped abruptly, revealing the short, rough oblong of the naked tang beyond that. But it was already an impressive-looking weapon. It was shaped like a katana, a Japanese sword, the ones samurai warriors used. Even unfinished, the sword looked beautifully proportioned and elegantly, utterly deadly.

  "Cool," breathed Charlie, and reached out to touch it — but he suddenly found he'd grasped a pair of goggles instead.

  "Put 'em on," grunted Raymond.

  "Jack?" called Esme.

  Jack turned as Esme tossed another pair of goggles to him: he caught them — just — and smiled at her. She didn't smile back, just pulled her own pair down over her eyes and walked over to join the boys in watching what Raymond was about to do.

  The big man flicked a switch. A low electrical hum sprang up from the machine, rising to a whine as it gathered speed. The machine had a small wheel, not much bigger than Jack's fist, and it was this that was being spun by the motor.

  "Watch this, now," said Raymond, lowering his goggles. He took Charlie's unfinished sword and pressed it, gently but firmly, against the wheel's surface.

  The wheel screamed, and an instant shower of sparks sent bright blue splashes across Jack's retinas, even behind the dark goggles. The sparks sprayed a clear two feet ahead of the wheel as Raymond ground the long blade twice, once for each side of the sword's traditional single edge. His strokes were smooth and easy looking, following the curve with a steadiness born of years of practice. Then he turned the sword over and started again, grinding twice more.

  Jack frowned, looking at the sword as best he could through the gusting sparks: was he imagining it, or was the sword actually getting smaller?

  Raymond turned the sword over and ground it yet again. And again.

  Now Jack was sure of it: the sword was getting smaller. And then the realization hit him: Raymond wasn't sharpening the blade. He was destroying it. He was destroying Charlie's sword!

  The wheel ground and shrieked as it bit into the steel. Fat sparks flew as Raymond pressed at the remains of the sword mercilessly. Jack watched where the sparks fell, watched their glow fade from white to orange and finally to black on the pitted surface of Raymond's workbench. The long, curved blade became a stumpy blunt nub. Then Raymond tossed the last bit of it aside, laid his goggles down carefully, and switched off his machine.

  As the whine of the machine dropped back down to silence, Raymond unhooked a dustpan and a brush from under the workbench. He swept at where the sparks had landed, collecting the filings into a neat pile before transferring them to a nearby bucket. The he picked up the bucket and set off for the door at the far end of the room, before the boys had time to do anything other than stare.

  "What the hell did you do that for?" spluttered Charlie finally.

  "Just watch," said Esme quietly.

  They followed Raymond into a storeroom of some kind. Long metal shelves lined the walls to either side. Raymond reached up to the top right-hand shelf and brought down a small sack of something, which he proceeded to pour into the bucket, mixing it in well with wh
at remained of Charlie's sword.

  "Mind how you go," he said to Jack, surprising him. "There's no railing or nothing so don't be getting too close to the edge now." The he opened another door, which took them out onto a roof.

  The night air was cool, and the sky was stained a weird kind of violet by the orange color of the London streetlights. The roof at the back of the theater was wide and flat, and at its center stood a big square crate made out of roughly nailed wooden slats. The crate was almost as tall as Jack was, and there were fluttering and cooing noises coming from inside it. Jack could hear the noises even under the sound of the West End traffic, which was surprisingly loud now that they were outside, even up where they were.

  Raymond had turned his back again and was sprinkling great handfuls from the bucket over the top of the crate, provoking a frenzy of flapping and cooing from inside it.

  There was a pause.

  "Erm... what are you doing?" asked Jack.

  "Feeding these pigeons," said Raymond.

  "We can see that," snapped Charlie. "What we want to know is, why're you feeding them bits of sword?"

  "They haven't eaten since I caught them," said Raymond. "They're hungry." Then he went back to the feeding — smiling and making absurd little kissing noises at the pigeons, while the boys kept staring at him.

  The boys looked at each other. Then they looked at Raymond again. Presently, he turned around and looked at Charlie.

  "I've been making swords," he said, "for thirty years now, near enough. I'm going to tell you how it's done."

  Charlie stared at him, then shrugged. "All right," he said.

  "Find yourself a nice bit of metal," Raymond began. "I'm simplifying, obviously. Then you heat it up in a forge. Around fourteen hundred degrees is best, I find, but 'bloody hot' will do for a rough description. With me so far?"

  "Bloody hot," said Charlie. "Right."

  "Then you take a big hammer and you beat it. Hard. And when it's the shape you want, you quench it."

  "You what it?"

  "You stick it in something to cool it down," muttered Jack.

  "That's right," said Raymond, nodding to Jack.

  "Next," he went on, "I grind it. I keep grinding, till there's nothing left but filings. Then I sweep the filings up, I mix 'em with seed, and I feed 'em to some pigeons."

  "Why?" said Charlie.

  Raymond's beard bristled as he grinned. "Because the next day, when nature's, ah, 'taken its course,' as it were, I can collect what's under the pigeon coop, melt it down, and then start the whole thing again."

  "What?"

  "The Saxons were where I heard it first," said Raymond blithely. "They used chickens. But the Arabs, Toledo — most everyone was at it at some time or another. Some Eastern swordsmiths even used ostriches, if you believe the stories."

  "What are you talking about?" Charlie asked.

  Raymond frowned. "The droppings," he said, as if it were obvious. "The feces. The birds' mess — the poo."

  The boys just stared at him.

  Raymond sighed.

  "Let me ask you something," he said. "What does bird poo smell of?"

  "Ammonia," said Jack, surprising himself.

  "Right!" said Raymond. "That's because it's full of nitrogen. Well, feed the filings to your birds — with a nice bit of seed, of course, — and when they, ah, come out, the nitrogen will've reacted with the metal, hardening it. Melt down the result, beat it into the shape you want, and you end up with a sword that's smaller, sure, but it'll be unbreakable, near enough. Do the whole thing three or four times and it'll be stronger still. Now..."

  He paused.

  "I make good swords, some of the strongest, hardest, toughest swords in the world. I'm not one to boast. Other people's swords may be nicer to look at. But my swords, you can trust your life to 'em. Which, after all, is what a sword is for."

  "Good swords," said Charlie. "Right. What's your point? "

  "By the time I'm done with a sword," said Raymond, looking hard at Charlie, "it's been heated red hot, smashed flat with hammers, ground down to nothing, crapped out by pigeons, heated red hot, smashed flat with hammers — et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. Seven times is my record."

  "Seven?" echoed Esme with sudden interest.

  "Never mind that now," said Raymond. "My point is," he went on, turning back to Charlie, "you've had your powers since... when? The day before yesterday."

  Charlie frowned at him, not understanding.

  "Why did you chase the demon, Charlie?" asked Raymond patiently.

  "What?"

  "Why did you chase the Scourge by yourself instead of waiting for backup?"

  For another long moment Charlie just looked at him.

  Then he scowled.

  "All right," he said. "Well, I don't know if Esme mentioned this to you, but it was going quite quickly. If I'd waited, we'd've lost it."

  "No," said Raymond quietly. "If you'd waited, you could've helped get Jessica back here. Instead of which, you took off, forcing Esme to follow you, and Jessica — and Jack — were left unprotected."

  "I didn't force Esme to—" Charlie began.

  "The day before yesterday, Charlie," Raymond repeated. "Understand? Esme's been training her whole life. You're not qualified to make these decisions. She is."

  "But—"

  "Plus, of course," Raymond went on, ignoring him, "you lost it anyway."

  Charlie's scowl deepened.

  "You lost it," said Raymond. "Yes or no?"

  "All right!" said Charlie. "All right! Yes, I lost it!"

  He paused.

  "I followed it across the rooftops," he said. He turned to Jack. "You should've seen me, mate, it was amazing!"

  Jack looked at him.

  "But then it... vanished suddenly," Charlie went on. "It happened when we were back near the theater. And that's where..." He trailed off.

  "That's where Esme caught up with you," said Raymond.

  "That's right," said Charlie.

  Raymond looked into the pigeon coop at its cooing, fluttering occupants for a whole minute. Then, obviously satisfied by what he saw, he put down the bucket.

  "Let me ask you another question," he said wearily.

  Charlie just looked at him.

  "If Esme hadn't decided—"

  "Raymond," said Esme softly from the doorway. "Don't you think—?"

  "No, petal, this is important," said Raymond. "He may be new to all this, but he's got to realize what's at stake." The big man turned his gaze back onto Charlie. "If Esme hadn't decided that the first priority was to get back to Jessica, what do you think would've happened?"

  Charlie scowled but didn't answer.

  "Shall I tell you?" Raymond asked. "Your friend here" — he gestured at Jack without looking at him — "would be dead. And it would be your fault, just like it's your fault that Jessica's dead."

  Raymond kept looking at Charlie.

  "What do you say to that? Eh?"

  Jack too looked at Charlie. Charlie's mouth had turned into a hard white line. When he spoke, it was quietly.

  "Look," he said slowly. "In case it slipped your mind, that demon of yours, the one that you've been making all this fuss over — is gone. I killed it." He paused. "Now, I'm sorry about... what's-er-name, Jessica. But we know now for sure that what happened to her isn't going to happen to anyone else, ever, because it's over. And I won."

  Raymond said nothing.

  "I'm the boss," said Charlie, looking slowly around the room. "I rule," he added, as if extra emphasis were needed. "So..." He shrugged. "What's next?"

  There was another long silence — broken only by the sudden sound of Charlie's phone, ringing again.

  Charlie sucked his teeth, pulled out the phone, looked at the screen, and scowled.

  "You'd best run along home to your mum, son," said Raymond quietly. "It's late."

  For a moment, Charlie just stared at him. Then he stamped his foot.

  "I don't believe this!" he shoute
d. "What's wrong with you people?"

  No one answered.

  "Come on, Jack, we're going," said Charlie. In another moment he was heading back for the door. He waved a hand and it swung open for him: it flew round on its hinges and smacked into the wall, hard.

  Jack set off after him quickly, but before leaving the roof he cast one quick look back. Both Esme and Raymond were standing perfectly still, apparently lost in thought, with the great wooden coop standing between them. Then the door swung shut.

  There was a pause.

  "So," said Raymond. "What do you think?"

  "I'm going to get my paints," said Esme, and set off, not looking at Raymond.

  Raymond followed her through the storeroom and then through the armory. Then, when Esme turned left, heading for her room, he crossed the landing and opened the doors to the butterfly room. He walked over to the long conference table and sat down. Presently, Esme returned: in one hand she was carrying a paint-spattered tray that held a small jug of water and a large palette spotted with a variety of colors — blues, mostly. In the other, she held a clutch of fine, red-handled paintbrushed. Raymond sat scratching his beard as, still not looking at him, Esme walked past the long table and off toward the shadowy far corner of the room, the place where the pattern ran out. She stopped walking, closed her eyes—

  —and lifted off the ground, floating smoothly up toward the high ceiling.

  Her thick black curly hair was tied back in its customary tight bunch, and she was wearing a thin scarf of some dark material to catch any splashes. Quickly, easily, she let the rest of her body swing upward until she was lying flat in the air, facing the ceiling, with the tray resting on her belly. She chose a brush, dipped it in the water, and dabbed at the thick black poster paint she was using for the outline of tonight's butterfly. When it was the consistency she wanted, she set to work.

  All this while, Raymond said nothing. Esme was concentrating on her butterfly. Raymond waited.