Kultus (26 page)

He considered telling her where to go, or even taking a look into
her
psyche – ask about her parents,
her
past. Why such a prim and proper little madam would work for the Judicature. What was there in her history that made her want to prove herself in such an environment, when the obvious level of her education demonstrated a wealthy background and privilege that would mean she didn’t have to work?

Instead, he decided to keep quiet.

‘Well, there’s not much I can do about that now,’ she continued. ‘It’s a cold case, everyone involved is now dead and there’s little evidence against you. However, what I do have is enough to see you swing. Theft, criminal damage, assault, evading apprehension, consorting with malodorous individuals, affray in a public place. By the way, was that the Hounds you were in a fracas with? Must say you do have brass ones, Mr Blaklok. They’re never seen in the open, I only know who they are from their descriptions. Someone must want you very dead.’

‘You know who they are? The Hounds?’ Blaklok asked, suddenly interested by her endless diatribe.

‘Of course I do. In the Judicature we know everything.’

‘Well, just goes to show you shouldn’t believe everything people tell you. The one with the bad complexion said they were never seen. Like shadows, he said. So you’re telling me you could find them if you wanted?’

‘What are you getting at?’ Amelia leaned forward, her brow furrowing. It was obvious she suspected something and was determined not to be duped. Blaklok considered the best way to earn her trust was to be honest. It was a virtue he seldom resorted to, but the current situation pretty much made it unavoidable.

‘If you want to see the Key of Lunos again, we’ll need to find them,’ he told her. Her eyes suddenly widened. ‘That excite you, does it?’

Instantly she changed her expression, adopting a poker face. ‘What do you mean
we
? You’re not going anywhere. If the Key of Lunos is indeed in the keeping of the Hounds then I’ll be the one to retrieve it.’

‘So you know all about the Key’s safeguards? You know how to make it pliant? You know how to stop it opening doors to places you’d never want to go in a million years? How do you think we ended up with a demon of the Eighth Tier on the loose? How do you think it was eventually banished? Could you have done that? No, didn’t think so. Well I can, and if we don’t find the Key soon it’ll probably be too late. Some other fucker’s going to open another door to the Pit and this time it might not just be one demon arsehole on the loose – it’ll be an entire army!’

All right, so maybe he was embellishing the truth a bit there, but it never hurt to ice the cake when you wanted it sweeter. So what if he hadn’t been the one to banish Valac? This Amelia wasn’t going to know that.

‘You’re barking up the wrong tree here, Mr Blaklok. I don’t give much credit to stories of demons and all that hocus pocus.’

Thaddeus heard her words, but he could tell she was as much trying to convince herself as him.

‘You must be blind then,’ he said. ‘Got a rational explanation for everything, have you? Ten foot demons just a figment of mass hysteria? Have you been to the Repository of Unnatural History recently? Taken a look around? Half the exhibits are derived from malignant manifestations of the occult. No one believes in
nothing
anymore. Even the Sancrarium accepts that the Pit is fucking real. Open your eyes, love. There’s an apocalypse waiting to consume the Manufactory and you can stop it. But you’ll need me to do it.’

She stared at him and he could see her starting to cave. Her expression wasn’t quite so stone-hard and her shoulders were starting to slump. Deep down she knew he was right, but she still didn’t trust him.

‘What guarantees do I have?’ she asked.

‘You don’t have any,’ he replied. Now it was becoming all too clear. She was a control freak, needed to be in charge every step of the way and anything less simply would not do. ‘But I’ll tell you what. You and Slow’n’Dim here can have loaded carbines at my head every step of the way. If I make a wrong move or if it looks like I’ve bullshitted any of this, feel free to blow my fucking head off.’

A smile crept slowly up one side of her mouth.

‘Oh, don’t worry, Mr Blaklok. That’s already a given.’

He sat alone in one of the less salubrious drinking dens of the Cistern – and that was saying something. His suit was dishevelled, and it almost made Blaklok smile to see him fallen so far.

‘Hello, Snapper,’ Amelia said.

Trol Snapper’s buck-toothed face was crestfallen as he looked up to regard her. ‘You can do all you want to me,’ he said, looking extremely sorry for himself. ‘I’m ruined anyway.’

‘We might just do that,’ she replied. Blaklok could barely hear her from his place in the shadows, but he knew he would be most effective if he made a proper entrance. ‘But I’m hoping you’ll cooperate. We want some information, that’s all. We don’t want to hurt you or your men. Not that there appears to be any of them left to hurt.’

‘I don’t have a crew,’ said Snapper, woefully. ‘I’m a laughing stock. I can’t even afford the good stuff anymore,’ he said brandishing a shot glass full of thick liquor in one limp hand. ‘Look what I’ve been reduced to.’

‘You can still be useful, Trol. The Hounds were unleashed earlier today. They made a mess on the streets above. It’s not often they do that.’

‘It’s that fucking Blaklok you’re after,’ said Snapper suddenly, a venom returning to his eyes. ‘He’s the cause of it all.’

‘I know that,’ said Amelia. ‘But the Hounds have something important, something they took from Blaklok.’

‘Ah, you mean the Key.’ It seemed to have suddenly dawned on Snapper what Amelia was after and he nodded knowingly. ‘Yes, well, it’s gone now. Doubtful you’ll see that thing again.’

‘And why’s that?’

‘Oh, you’re clever,’ said Snapper, smiling. ‘Draw me in, get me to talk. You’ll get nothing else out of me, I’m not fucking stupid.’

It was a grim, insouciant smile. One that said Snapper didn’t care anymore. One that said
you can do what you want to me, but the consequences of me telling you would be a thousand times worse
.

It was time for Blaklok to play his hand.

‘Where’s the Key, tusk-teeth? And don’t fuck me about.’ Blaklok stepped from the shadows, staring his mad stare.

At first Snapper looked like he was about to shit himself, but he quickly regained his composure.

‘You don’t scare me,’ he said. ‘Not anymore. What are you going to do to me? Eh? You can’t hurt me anymore than you already have. I know what you can do, I’ve seen it. You hold no mysteries, Thaddeus Blaklok.’

By now, the drinking hole’s other patrons had melted away into the shadows – even the barman had left on some hidden errand. It was time for Blaklok to resort to something other than standard methods of intimidation.

‘The Hounds have it, you little fucker.’ He moved closer, tensing his muscles and invoking the tiny tattooed sigil at the base of his spine. It burst into life, burning Blaklok’s skin like a brand. ‘Tell me where they are.’

The air went crisp as though a fire had just been put out. The burning sensation at the base of Blaklok’s back began to move, running up his spine and into the back of his neck. It was intense, and Blaklok began to use the pain, focusing it on Snapper. Consequently, Trol began to waver, his bottom lip quivering as he stared into those eyes, now ringed with eerie black shadows.

‘They don’t have it anymore,’ Snapper whimpered.

‘Who fucking does?’ demanded Blaklok, now focusing all the brand’s hate and fury at his victim.

Snapper sobbed. ‘They delivered it to the Montserrat. But it’s no use. You’ll never get close to him.’ Trol suddenly slipped off his stool and fell to the floor in a heap, trying his best to stifle a whimper.

‘I’m sure we’ll manage with you there to make the introductions,’ said Blaklok, the menace in his voice more than palpable.

Snapper nodded, not daring to look up.

‘Well, that was easy enough,’ said Blaklok, looking to Amelia and her tipstaff bodyguard. The arcane fury he had manifested was now dissipating like a snuffed candle, but he was still an imposing sight to behold. He wasn’t surprised to see they had retreated to the far end of the bar. ‘What’s wrong, cat got your tongue?’

Neither of them answered.

CHAPTER THIRTY

By the time Trol Snapper had led Blaklok, Amelia and her tipstaff into the bowels of the Cistern, the man was a quivering wreck.

‘It’s just up ahead,’ he whimpered. ‘Beyond that door.’ Trol gestured down the tunnel and Blaklok could see a massive metal portal, guarded by two thick-necked brutes. ‘They won’t let you in, I tried to warn you.’

‘We’ll see about that,’ said Amelia, striding forward and putting on her best authoritative air. Blaklok had to hand it to her, it was quite effective. He remained at her shoulder though, just in case.

‘We’re here on official business,’ she said, walking proudly. ‘I demand this door be opened immediately.’

She was forced to stop in front of the two broad sentinels who refused to move at her behest. They merely stared, eyes dull with their lack of comprehension. It was obvious they were unsure how to handle the situation.

Blaklok decided he’d best give them a hint.

They were big, bigger than Blaklok at any rate, and he had to put them down quick before they could defend themselves. Fastest way to do that was to smash a bloke in the neck as hard as you could. There was lots of theory behind it, Thaddeus had learned it a million years before, when he’d been taught all the complicated jargon and shown the precise techniques. But what it basically meant was he could knock the guy out with a single blow no matter how big he was.

Blaklok had to leap to get the right angle, swiping his forearm down on the first guard’s trapezius. He connected against the rock-hard muscle of a neck as thick as most men’s waists, but instantly the guard went down.

It was doubtful he even knew what hit him.

The second guard was more problematic; he was moving now, hand reaching for a weapon, body tensed and ready. This one would be much more difficult to drop.

Amelia moved in the periphery of Blaklok’s vision, out of his focus like a spectre in a haunted house. There was a baton in her hand, something tiny and metallic, much smaller than the banded club her tipstaff carried. She hit the guard five times before Blaklok realised what she was doing. At first, the hulking sentinel didn’t move. Then slowly, like a toppling tree, he fell onto the prone form of his fellow sentry.

‘Mr Blaklok, I can’t stress enough the need for subtlety here.’ Amelia looked annoyed, or at least as annoyed as she would allow herself to appear. She still bore the cold mask of self control.

‘There’s a time for subtlety, and a time for smashing heads,’ Blaklok replied, relying on an old and well-used adage.

‘Yes, well. Might I suggest we proceed with caution?’

‘Suggest what you like, love.’ He gestured for her to lead the way.

Her tipstaff was already opening the vast steel door that led on to yet more subterranean shadows, so with Snapper whimpering to himself in the dark, they carried on.

After several minutes of twisting, turning tunnels, Blaklok could see light up ahead. He raised an arm for the others to stop, something that must have hurt Amelia’s sense that she was in command, but she didn’t complain.

He stalked forward, keeping within the shadowed confines of the tunnel, and peered out into the light. It was a wide reception hall filled with more brutal looking guards. Blaklok counted eight of them in various stages of repose.

This wouldn’t be easy, but then it never bloody was, was it.

‘We’ve got trouble ahead,’ he said, after returning to Amelia’s side. ‘But I think we can get through. I just need a knife.’

Amelia looked at him uncertainly, then nodded to her tipstaff who duly produced a short blade.

‘Can I go yet?’ said Snapper suddenly, his voice sounding more pitiful than ever. ‘I’ve done what you asked. Please?’ The last word was said through a strangled sob.

‘Go on then,’ said Blaklok, not even bothering to look at Trol’s tear-streaked face. ‘But if I ever see you again–’

Trol was moving before Thaddeus had a chance to finish his sentence.

‘So, what do you plan to do with that little pig sticker, Mr Blaklok?’

‘I could tell you,’ he said with a sly grin. ‘But then I’d have to induct you into my cult.’

From her face, it was obvious Amelia didn’t see the funny side.

She followed Blaklok to the edge of the tunnel, and realised what he meant by ‘trouble’. The room was lined with towering guards, each one bigger than the two they had brought down earlier. What he was going to do with a tiny knife was beyond her.

He stood at the threshold of the room, breathing deeply but silently and gripping the knife in a white-knuckled fist. Then he lifted his left arm, palm upwards. She could see a tattoo covered most of his flesh, but she couldn’t quite make out the design in the dimness.

Blaklok ceremoniously lifted the knife and stabbed it into his upturned forearm. Amelia lifted a hand to her mouth to stifle the sound of her disgust. He dug the blade into his flesh and slowly, ever so slowly, ran it down towards his wrist. The flesh parted and blood began to pool in a black line along the length of the wound.

Amelia was assailed with a sense of nausea, her eyes watering as she watched. But it was something more than simple horror at Blaklok’s self mutilation. This was something altogether sinister. As she watched, the blood from Blaklok’s wound began to move, curling into the air like the tendrils of some creeping vine. The blood diffused, dissipating and spreading into the room, creating a slithering shadow that seemed to hunger for the light.

Her eyes were wide in horror as she watched and it was all she could do to stifle her screams. This Blaklok, this thug, this footpad and criminal, was some kind of warlock? It was beyond reason. Those who consorted with magic and demons were wizened old men with pointed beards and claw-like fingernails, dressed in sparkling robes. This Blaklok was a common criminal.