Stray Souls (Magicals Anonymous) (36 page)

Edna looked taken aback. “I heard a howling…”

“Dog’s coming here.”

“Why?”

“Uh… fiendishly brilliant luring?” suggested Swift.

“This one,” Sharon pointed at Swift and giggled, “thought it would be a good idea!”

“But he can’t! Without his mistress there’s nothing to hold him back. He’ll—”

Another howl broke the night, closer now. The battered building creaked.

“We ought to close the door,” whispered Edna.

Sharon pointed at the place where the door had been, a troll-sized tear in the wall, and giggled again.

“Is Ms Li all right?” queried Rhys.

“She’s fine,” retorted Sammy, patting his apprentice on the knee. “She’s at one with the city, is all. Happens like that–stress, tension, that sort of thing–but she’ll snap out of it.”

“Now the thing is,” tried Swift. “I don’t want to put any pressure on people here, but the thing is—”

“Help me!”

The voice came from the door, a shrill, faint wail. All eyes turned. The source of the wail didn’t look as faint as his voice. He was a squat well-muscled man with a body tone suggesting that here was a gentleman who enjoyed the gym. He wore a pale blue suit and a red tie tangled from running; buttons popped from the strain of his breath, and as he staggered through the door his eyes showed a breathless delirium from more-than-strenuous exercise.

“Help me,” he pleaded again and, without another sound, collapsed.

“Oh. My. God.” Kevin’s voice broke the silence. “He could be like, diseased!”

Swift ignored this and stepped towards the unconscious body. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he exclaimed, “please meet Eddie ‘Magners’ Parks, hedge-fund manager, captain of the South Harrow five-a-side football champions, sometime summoner and employee of Burns and Stoke. Most of his colleagues have passed away over the past few weeks, their bodies torn limb from limb by the rampaging monster known as Dog, but Eddie here–” Swift gave him a not-too-fond prod in the ribs with his toe “–was bright enough to appreciate that, and so came to me for help. And whatcha know!”

Another howl split the night, so close it seemed to come from inside the room. It was a sound with no physical properties, but went straight to the brain.

“I figured he’d be perfect bait to bring Dog running. Cool, huh?”

The assembled Magicals responded with dumb incredulity.

“You what?” asked Kevin.

“No, no, because think about it–it’s perfect,” insisted the sorcerer. “The last surviving summoner of Burns and Stoke, his colleagues murdered, comes running to us, and of course, but of course Dog is going to follow and—”

“And what? And we all get rabies?” shrieked Kevin.

“Perhaps if we all just sat down and talked about it,” offered Chris.

“Does he like stewed rabbit?” contributed Gretel.

“I spent thirty years getting reasonable blood flow to my right arm, I cannot be having it detached now,” fumed Mr Roding.

“Oh, dear, but I’m really not sure any of these will work,” whimpered Edna.

Do you think we can distract this Dog with some coloured sheeting?

“I get this terrible itching from dog hair,” Rhys said. “On the other hand the anti-histamines do make me drows—”

“Look!” cut in Swift before the babble of voices could become a storm of inaction. “I understand that everyone is very concerned here, but really… Where’d Sharon go?”

Eyes looked, but Sharon was nowhere to be seen.

As it were.

“Outside!” barked Sammy.

The street was sleeping. The pub had closed its doors, the sports café had turned off its TVs, the Spanish restaurant had pulled down the shutter over the chorizo and legs of ham in its window, the lights had gone out above the pharmacy. The city slumbered in the still, cold sleep where dream walkers wandered.

Mrs Rafaat stood in the middle of the street, with its black iron bollards and occasional long-dead bicycle, and stared. Her mouth was open, her head raised, her fingers stretched out though her arms hung at her side. Her orange sari looked mud-brown beneath the street lights, her hair, pulled back, revealed the grey at her temples. She stared down the street, past the bookshop and DIY stores and sandwich shops. And, not thirty yards away, Dog stared back.

His fur was matted and oily, his jaw hanging low and huge; a black tongue lolled between his fangs; his red eyes were wide with exertion and madness, his ribs puffed and swelled like a blacksmith’s bellows and, as his feet padded over a layer of drizzle on the street, it steamed and hissed beneath his claws.

Sammy stopped, a few yards behind Mrs Rafaat, so fast that Swift piled straight into the goblin, knocking him off his feet. Edna bumped into Swift, and Rhys just about managed to avoid them all by pivoting around Gretel–only to stare straight at the great black head of Dog.

Rhys sneezed.

Dog growled, a low rumble that rippled all along his body. On the back of his neck the fur stood up, blood and brown-black oil parting as the knotted mess stiffened for a fight.

Mrs Rafaat took a step towards Dog. The monster’s attention snapped towards her. Two great nostrils puffed and flared, oozing a trail of exhaust smoke. He didn’t strike, didn’t attack. But he stared at the approaching old lady, legs hunched, ready to pounce.

Edna whispered, “Oh God, stop her.”

“Lady, I’m good,” asserted Sammy, “but a goblin’s gotta learn when to be modest about these things.”

Twenty yards; ten. Dog was still crouched, soft steam rising beneath his paws where the rainwater burned. He examined Mrs Rafaat.

Five yards; three. If Dog had stood up like a man, he would have
been taller than the fiercest basketball player, wider than a sumo wrestler who’d let himself go. But as the old woman approached, Dog seemed to curl into himself, limbs folding in, head turning this way and that, nostrils sampling great whiffs of air. Rhys could see the ribs moving in Dog’s chest, each longer than his own arm, thicker than his wrist; an opening of Dog’s jaws could have encompassed Mrs Rafaat’s head right down to her neck.

The old lady didn’t care.

She was squatting down in front of the creature, reaching out a hand and laying it on Dog’s snout. Her fingers became smeared with oil and blood as she ran them over his fur. Dog leaned in and sniffed, first with one gaping nostril, then the other, as if to confirm the data imparted to his brain.

“There, there,” murmured Mrs Rafaat, as Dog shifted uneasily from side to side before her. “Who’s a good boy?”

From Dog’s throat there came the strangest sound. It started high, and grew thinner and fainter as it stretched, and stretched, an impossible, agonised, pathetic, hopeful whine. Dog pushed his muzzle closer to Mrs Rafaat and buried it in the crook of her arm.

“There, there,” she repeated. “There, there.”

“That’s not…” whispered Edna. “That’s not what…”

“Bugger me,” muttered Swift. “She actually bloody is.”

Edna was a woman trying to understand a concept outside the remit of all comprehension. “But she’s… She can’t be. I mean, it’s not possible.”

Dog whined again, shuffled closer so that one great paw was against Mrs Rafaat’s knee. Beneath his claw he’d caught a corner of her sari, which began to blacken and smoke, but Mrs Rafaat, unregarding, held Dog’s head in her arms and murmured, “Who’s a pretty boy, hmm? Who’s a pretty boy?”

“Um.” Rhys raised a hand requesting permission to speak. Seeing the expressions of everyone around him, he tried speaking instead. “Where’s Ms Li?”

Sammy pointed at a patch of empty air behind Mrs Rafaat, and Rhys looked. As he did so, it occurred to him that Sharon had been stood there a long time.

The shaman knelt down beside Mrs Rafaat as she held Dog’s head
in her arms. Dog turned to stare at Sharon, but didn’t roar, didn’t pounce, just rolled a little in the old woman’s arms to inspect this new, interesting phenomenon.

“Hello,” said Sharon softly. Then, in concession to the blood on Dog’s coat and the sharpness of his fangs, she added, “Good doggy.”

“He’s beautiful, isn’t he?” sighed Mrs Rafaat.

“He’s uh… he’s definitely special,” replied Sharon. “Do you mind if I just…?” She reached down and eased the smouldering end of Mrs Rafaat’s sari out from under Dog’s great black paw, hastily smothering some embers. “Oh,” she added, seeing the claw-sized scorch mark. “I don’t think that’s coming out.”

“Oh well,” said Mrs Rafaat, “it only came from a shop in Euston.”

Something deep rumbled with contentment inside the great pumping void of Dog’s lungs. In other creatures it might have been a croon. Mrs Rafaat scratched Dog under the chin and murmured, “I didn’t think the colour suited me anyway.”

“It did! It does.”

“I was thinking green?”

“Green is tricky,” said Sharon. She shifted into a sitting position and patted Dog on his great, sticky side, hardly aware of what she did. “So, I guess I gotta ask you… about the dog.”

“Isn’t he a cutie?” exclaimed Mrs Rafaat, rubbing her nose up against Dog’s great black snout. “Yes, you are; yes, you are!”

“I’m sure he’s lovely,” confirmed Sharon, “but the thing is, he is also an eight-foot-long mystical killing machine. Which is totally cool, but, you know, it does raise some questions.”

“Killing machine? My little puppy wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“So he is
your
little puppy, is he? I mean, you don’t just have a knack for animals?”

“Oh no, I don’t think so. I leave out biscuits for the neighbourhood cats, but they never eat them, and sometimes I open the curtain at the back of my flat and there’s foxes there, just staring at me, but they never eat the biscuits either, and I have always wanted a little doggy, yes I have, yes I have!” The sentence dissolved back into a croon. “And he’s such a good little boy, isn’t he?”

“He’s lovely,” Sharon hastened to agree. “But like I said, he is a kinda killing machine, and he is sorta here to kill that Eddie guy. And, you
know, some people might question all that. If you don’t mind me saying.”

“I’m sure my little puppy doesn’t mean anything naughty, do you?” To Sharon’s surprise, as Mrs Rafaat nuzzled up against Dog’s great snout, Dog nuzzled right back.

“Even if you were in danger?” Sharon ventured. “What if he was lost and afraid and with nowhere left to go?”

Mrs Rafaat hesitated, pursing her lips.

“Also, yeah, I don’t want to say nothing, but isn’t it a little kinda… you know… weird to have a pet who’s quite so, uh…
grrargh?
”

“People keep snakes!” retorted Mrs Rafaat.

“Yes…”

“I don’t see why people should have any problems with my little puppy,” she declared. “He’s got a heart of gold.”

“It’s not really a problem with your dog,” Sharon ventured. “That’s not what I’m trying to say here.”

“Then what?”

Sharon looked into the open, innocent face of Mrs Rafaat as she cradled her pet monster’s head with the affection of a child for a fondly kept teddy bear.

“I think, basically, what I’m getting at here is that… uh… it’s not common for people to keep, like, mystical guardian monsters as pets, yeah. And actually Dog here is probably not so big on tasty treats as he is on like, grinding the bones of his enemies, or Greydawn’s enemies or… your enemies. If you see what I’m saying.”

Innocence, hopeful of enlightenment, stared back.

“You know how you have weird dreams?” Sharon tried one last time. “And you think that something’s wrong, but you don’t know what it is?”

“Yes!” agreed Mrs Rafaat. “It’s very frustrating, but I don’t want to make a fuss…”

“Thing is,” murmured Sharon, “I think I might know what the problem is. I think… you may… sorta be… Greydawn.”

Mrs Rafaat recoiled as if stung, blinking hard. Then she puffed out her cheeks, drew back her shoulders and barked, “That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard!”

A moment to pause and consider.

Consider an office.

It is big, white, glass down one wall, abstract images of…

… well, art…

… down another. Fluorescent lamps burn above the long table, where during working hours important meetings for important men are held, complete with bottled mineral water to encourage important thoughts to flow. But now, here, in the dead of night, the lights are off, and the room is silent.

A man stands by the window.

Only…

… not quite a man.

Look at him, and you will see a stick-thin figure with wrists of bone made to snap at the lightest touch, pale hair and skin barely thick enough for the blood to pass, standing with his hands clasped behind his back, surveying all beneath him. The lights of Canada Water, steel and glass, concrete and iron, planned, perfect, cold.

But turn your head to one side and for a second, just a second, you might perceive what is truly there, your mind bursting apart as his skin floats from his back; and there he will stand, wendigo in all his glory, claws for fingers, bones of iron, flesh flying loose around him like banners in a breeze and even as you perceive…

… you will forget, your mind unable to accept what it has just beheld.

A knock on the door.

His head doesn’t turn as the door is opened. A woman, dressed in a grey trouser suit, makes her way in.

“Yes?” His voice barely an exhalation. The glass in front of him shows no sign of steam as his breath plays over its surface.

“M-M-Mr Ruislip sir?” Her knuckles are white, her skin pale as the silk that covers her body.

“Have they found her yet?” he murmurs, his eyes fixed on the lights of the city below. “Have they found Greydawn?”

“There’s been a problem, Mr Ruislip sir. The builders you sent to Magicals Anonymous, they’re… gone.”

“Gone?” A flicker of an eyebrow above a watery eye, a bare twitch in the corner of his mouth. “How ‘gone’?”

“Vanished, sir. Uh… dissolved, sir, the scryers say.”

“But I was assured that they were indestructible,” breathes Mr Ruislip. “I was assured that no lock could hold them, nor no magic bar their path.”

“Y-y-yes, sir.”

“I am disappointed by this turn of events. It seems to me that I have, at every step, made great efforts to guarantee the survival of this company. I have given it prosperity, which is a source of happiness to men, I have given it success, which causes pride; and yet the one favour I ask in return, the one…
desire
I express, has not been achieved. Why is this?”