Home Improvement: Undead Edition (38 page)

He gave a soft laugh. “What sort o’ thing have you in mind, doll?”

“When you think of it”—I smiled sleepily—“call me.”

SIX WEEKS LATER
I received a parcel at the office. Inside was a glossy celebrity magazine. The cover showed a smiling Dora standing in front of a huge poster depicting a pixie in a muscleman pose. The headline read: THEODORA CHRISTAKIS, OWNER OF HEROPHILE FUTURES, ENDS 40 DAYS OF MOURNING WITH THE ANNOUNCEMENT OF HER NEW VENTURE. Also in the parcel was a computer game; its brightly colored sleeve read: PIXIE PLANET ~ PROTECTING OUR FUTURE: HEROPHILE’S NEW LINE OF EDUCATIONAL GAMES FOR THE YOUNGER GENERATION ~ ALL PROFITS TO BE DONATED TO CHILDREN’S CHARITIES.

Good to know Dora was planning on helping kids now, instead of eating them.

I wished her good fortune.

It’s All in the Rendering

SIMON R. GREEN

There is a House that stands on the border. Between here and there, between dreams and waking, between reality and fantasy. The House has been around for longer than anyone remembers, because it’s necessary. Walk in through the front door, from the sane and everyday world, and everything you see will seem perfectly normal. Walk in through the back door, from any of the worlds of
if
and
maybe
, and a very different House will appear before you. The House stands on the border, linking two worlds, and providing Sanctuary for those who need it. A refuge, from everyone and everything. A safe place, from all the evils of all the worlds.

Needless to say, there are those who aren’t too keen on this.

IT ALL STARTED
in the kitchen, on a bright sunny day, just like any other day. Golden sunlight poured in through the open window, gleaming richly on the old-fashioned furniture and the modern fittings. Peter and Jubilee Caine, currently in charge of the House, were having breakfast together. At least, Peter was; Jubilee wasn’t really a morning person. Jubilee would cheerfully throttle every last member of the dawn chorus in return for just another half-hour’s lie-in.

Peter was busy making himself a full English breakfast: bacon and eggs, sausages and beans, and lots of fried bread. Of medium height and medium weight, Peter was a happy if vague sort, but a master of the frying pan—on the grounds that if you ever found something you couldn’t cook in the pan, you could still use it to beat the animal to death. Peter moved happily back and forth, doing half a dozen difficult culinary things with calm and easy competence, while singing along to the Settlers’ “Lightning Tree” on the radio.

Jubilee, tall and blond and almost impossibly graceful, usually, sat hunched at the kitchen table, clinging to a large mug of industrial-strength black coffee, like a shipwrecked mariner to a lifebelt. Her mug bore the legend
Worship Me Like the Goddess I Am or There Will Be Some Serious Smiting
. She glared darkly at Peter over the rim of her mug as though his every cheerful moment were a deliberate assault on her fragile early-morning nerves.

“It should be made illegal, to be that cheerful in the morning,” she announced, to no one in particular. “It’s not natural. And I can’t believe you’re still preparing that Death by Cholesterol fry-up every morning. Things like this should be spelled out in detail on the marriage license. I can hear your arteries curdling from here, just from proximity to that much unhealthiness in one place.”

“Start the day with a challenge, that’s what I always say,” said Peter. “If I can survive this, I can survive anything. Will any of our current Guests be joining us for breakfast?”

“I doubt it. Lee only comes out at night, and Johnny is a teenager, which means he doesn’t even know what this hour of the morning looks like. Look, can we please have something else from the radio? Something less . . . enthusiastic?”

The music broke off immediately. “I heard that!” said the radio. “Today is Sixties day! Because that’s what I like. They had real music in those days—songs that would put hair on your chest, with tunes that stuck in your head whether you wanted them to or not. And no, I don’t do Coldplay, so stop asking. Would you care to hear a Monkees medley?”

“Remember what happened to the toaster?” said Jubilee, dangerously.

There was a pause. “I do take requests,” the radio said finally.

“Play something soothing,” said Peter. “For those of us whose bodies might be up and about, but whose minds haven’t officially joined in yet.”

The radio played a selection from Grieg’s
Peer Gynt
, while Peter cheerfully loaded up his plate with all manner of things that were bad for him. He laid it down carefully on the table and smiled over at Jubilee.

“You sure I can’t tempt you to just a little of this yummy fried goodness, princess?”

Jubilee actually shuddered. “I’d rather inject hot fat directly into my veins. Get me some milk, sweetie.”

Peter went over to the fridge. “Is this a full-fat or a semiskim day?”

“Give me the real deal. I’ve got a feeling it’s going to be one of those days.”

Peter opened the fridge door, and a long green warty arm came out, offering a bottle of milk. Peter accepted the bottle, while being very careful not to make contact with any of the lumpy bumpy fingers.

“Thank you, Walter,” he said.

“Welcome, I’m sure,” said a deep green warty voice from the back of the fridge. “You couldn’t turn the thermostat down just a little more, could you?”

“Any lower, and you’ll have icicles hanging off them,” said Peter.

There was a rich green warty chuckle. “That’s the way, uh-huh, uh-huh, I like it, uh-huh, uh-huh . . .”

“No Seventies!” shrieked the radio.

Peter shut the fridge door with great firmness and went back to join Jubilee at the kitchen table. He passed her the milk and sat down, and then he ate while she poured and then sipped, and the gentle strains of “Solveig’s Song” wafted from the radio. It was all very civilized.

Peter glanced back at the fridge. “How long has Walter been staying here, princess?”

“He was here long before we arrived,” said Jubilee. “According to the House records, Walter claims to be a refugee from the Martian Ice People, exiled to Earth for religious heresies and public unpleasantness. Hasn’t left that fridge in years. Supposedly because he’s afraid of global warming; I think he’s just more than usually agoraphobic.”

Two small hairy things exploded through the inner door and ran around and around the kitchen at speed, calling excitedly to each other in high-pitched voices as they chased a brightly colored bouncing ball. They shot under the kitchen table at such speed that Peter and Jubilee barely had time to get their feet out of the way; just two hairy little blurs.

“Hey!” said Jubilee, trying hard to sound annoyed but unable to keep the fondness out of her voice. “No running in the House! And no ball games in the kitchen.”

The two small hairy things stopped abruptly, revealing themselves to be barely three feet in height, most of it fur. Two sets of wide eyes blinked guiltily from the head region, while the ball bounced up and down between them.

“I don’t mind,” said the ball. “Really. I’m quite enjoying it.”

“Then go enjoy it somewhere else,” said Peter. “I have a lot of breakfast to get through, and I don’t want my concentration interrupted. My digestion is a finely balanced thing, and a wonder of nature.”

“And stay out of the study,” said Jubilee. “Remember, you break it, and your progenitors will pay for it.”

“We’ll be careful!” said a high piping voice from somewhere under one set of fur.

The brightly colored ball bounced off out of the kitchen, followed by excitedly shouting hairy things. A blessed peace descended on the kitchen as Peter and Jubilee breakfasted in their own accustomed ways and enjoyed each other’s company. Outside the open window, birds were singing, the occasional traffic noise was comfortably far away, and all seemed well with the world. Eventually Peter decided he’d enjoyed about as much of his breakfast as he could stand, and got up to scrape the last vestiges off his plate and into the sink disposal. Which shouted,
“Feed me! Feed me, Seymour!”
until Peter threatened to shove another teaspoon down it. He washed his plate and cutlery with usual thoroughness, put them out to dry, and stretched unhurriedly.

“Big day ahead, princess,” Peter said finally. “I have to fix the hot water system, clean out the guttering, make all the beds, and sort out the laundry.”

“I have to redraw the protective wardings, recharge the enchantments in the night garden, clean up after the gargoyles, and refurbish the rainbow.”

“I have to mow the lawns and rake the leaves.”

“I have to clean out the moat.”

Peter laughed. “All right, princess. You win. Want to swap?”

“Each to their own, sweetie. Be a dear and wash out my mug.”

“What did your last slave die of?”

“Not washing out my mug properly. Be a dear; and there will be snuggles later.”

“Ooh . . . Sweaty snuggles?”

“In this weather, almost certainly.”

And that should have been it. Just another day begun, in the House on the border. But that . . . was when the front doorbell rang. A loud, ominous ring. Peter and Jubilee looked at each other.

“I’m not expecting anyone,” said Jubilee. “Are you?”

“No,” said Peter. “I’m not.”

The doorbell rang again, very firmly. One of those
I’m not going to go away so there’s no point hiding behind the furniture pretending to be out
kind of rings. Peter went to answer it. He opened the front door and immediately stepped outside, forcing the visitor to step back a few paces. Peter shut the door very firmly behind him and had a quick look around, just to make sure that everything was as it should be. In the real world, the House was just an ordinary detached residence, a bit old-fashioned-looking, set back a comfortable distance from the main road, with a neatly raked gravel path running between carefully maintained lawns. Flowers, here and there. The House was almost defiantly ordinary, with doors and windows in the right places, and in the right proportions, tiles on the roof, and guttering that worked as often as it didn’t. Nothing to look at, keep moving, forgetting you already.

Standing before Peter was a rather uptight middle-aged person in a tight-fitting suit, whose largely undistinguished features held the kind of tight-arsed expression clearly designed to indicate that he was a man with an unpleasant duty to perform, which he intended to carry out with all the personal pleasure at his command.

“Is this number thirteen Daemon Street?” said the person, in the kind of voice used by people who already have the answer to their question, but are hoping you’re going to be stupid enough to argue about it.

“Yes,” said Peter firmly. He felt he was on safe enough ground there.

“I am Mister Cuthbert. I represent the local Council.” He paused a moment, so that Peter could be properly impressed.

“Damn,” said Peter. “The
move along nothing to see here
avoidance field must be on the blink.”

“What?”

“Nothing!” said Peter. “Do carry on. The local Council, eh? How interesting. Is it an interesting job? Why are you here, Mister Cuthbert? I’ve been good. Mostly.”

“It has come to our attention,” said Mister Cuthbert, just a little doggedly, “that you have not been maintaining the proper amenities of this residence to the required standards.”

“But . . . it’s our house,” said Peter. “Not the Council’s.”

“There are still standards! Standards have to be met! All parts and parcels of every house in the district must come up to the required criteria. Regulations apply to everyone; it’s a matter of health and safety.” And having unleashed that unstoppable trump card, Mister Cuthbert allowed himself a small smile. “I shall have to make . . . an inspection.”

“What?” said Peter. “Now?”

“Yes, now! I have all the necessary paperwork with me . . .”

“I felt sure you would, Mister Cuthbert,” said Peter. “You look the type. Well, you’d better come on in and take a look around. You’ll have to take us as you find us, though.”

WHILE PETER WAS
having his close encounter with a supremely up-its-own-arse denizen of the local Council, there was a hard, heavy, and even aristocratic knock at the back door. Jubilee went to answer it, frowning thoughtfully. Visitors to the House were rare enough, from either world. Two at once were almost unheard of. The back door to the House was a massive slab of ancient oak, deeply carved with long lines of runes and sigils. Jubilee snapped her fingers at the door as she approached, and the heavy door swung smoothly open before her. She stepped forcefully out into the cool moonlight of late evening, and her visitor was forced to retreat a few steps, despite himself. The door slammed very firmly shut behind her. Jubilee ostentatiously ignored her visitor for a few moments, glancing quickly around her to reassure herself that everything on the night side of the House was where it should be.

Here, the House was a sprawling Gothic mansion, with grotesquely carved stone and woodwork, latticed windows, cupolas, garrets, leering gargoyles peering down from the roof, and a tangle of twisted chimneys. Set out before the House, a delicate wicker bridge crossed the dark and murky waters of the moat, leading to a small zoo of animal shapes in greenery, and deep purple lawns. Ancient trees with long gnarled branches like clutching fingers stood guard over a garden whose flowers were famously as ferocious as they were stunning. The night sky was full of stars, spinning like Catherine wheels, and the full moon was a promising shade of blue.

Jubilee finally deigned to notice the personage standing before her. He didn’t need to announce he was an Elven Prince of the Unseeli Court. He couldn’t have been anything else. Tall and supernaturally slender, in silver-filigreed brass armor, he had pale colorless skin, cat-pupiled eyes, and pointed ears. Inhumanly handsome, insufferably graceful, and almost unbearably arrogant. Not because he was a Prince, you understand; but because he was an Elf. He bowed to Jubilee.

“Don’t,” Jubilee said immediately. “Just . . . don’t. What do you want here, Prince Airgedlamh?”

“I come on moonfleet heels, faster than the winter winds or summer tides, walking the hidden ways to bear you words of great import and urgency . . .”

“And you can cut that out, too; I don’t have the patience,” said Jubilee. “What do you want?”

“It has been made known to us,” the Elven Prince said stiffly, “that many of the old magics, the pacts and agreements laid down when this House was first agreed on, are not being properly maintained, as required in that Place where all that matters is decided. I must make an inspection.”