Stray Souls (Magicals Anonymous) (42 page)

“But I figure we’ll be okay, yeah, because we’ve got a troll and a druid and a vampire and a necromancer and a sorcerer and a high priestess and a dog and shit on our side, whereas Burns and Stoke are only like this mega-evil banking corporation led by a psychopathic wendigo and all his forces of darkness, so we’ll be totally fine. Oh, and Gretel’s made sandwiches, so if we can all thank Gretel that’d be great, and if you could keep any receipts for travel expenses, then the Midnight Mayor’s gonna see if he can reclaim them. Cheers for that.”

And with those inspiring words, the combined forces of Magicals Anonymous went forth to do battle for the city.

He’s waiting.

He smoothes the silk of his suit and the thinness of his hair, and watches, and waits.

Mr Ruislip, the blood cleared from the walls, knows they’re coming.

The four builders are gone.

The Friendlies are fled.

Magicals Anonymous turned around and, for a bunch of self-indulgent whiners, revealed itself to have claws.

They’re coming to free the spirits of the city, to find the truth about Greydawn, to take revenge against him and his darkness.

They’re coming to fight.

He smiles.

At last, something Mr Ruislip understands.

The sun sets over the city.

It disappears prematurely at the end behind a bank of thick cloud, spilling great bursts of golden light into the sky above as the darkness encroaches.

Gold fades to orange, to pink, to red, to purple; and purple turns at last to the light-stained blue-black of an urban night.

Two figures and a body odour stand in the shadows of the Barbican, that great maze of towers, fountains and walkways on the edge of the City of London.

One says, “This is really very kind of you, Mr Swift. But as I said, I’m sure my little puppy won’t do any harm.”

Another says, “I have every confidence, Mrs Rafaat. But as you have such a natural touch with him, I was thinking maybe, all things considered, we should just double-check on his well-being.”

The body odour says from the empty air, “Oi oi. You two are thick as cold syrup and can’t see nothing. But I’m looking at the city wall right now and I gotta tell you the gate is
well
down. Someone’s been mauling and tearing at these city walls, and if I wasn’t such an amazing shaman I’d be really worried by the thought of what could be getting in.”

“I do hope this isn’t my fault,” wailed Mrs Rafaat. “I know that you think this… Greydawn character… is somehow responsible for these… city walls you say you can see. But I really don’t remember any of this, and actually I’m very concerned that you may have made a terrible mistake.”

“Ma’am,” said Swift, “shall we recap the manner in which a primal monster covered in gore rolls over at your feet and wags his tail at your touch? Or can we take that particular conversation as read?”

“Maybe I’ve just got a knack?” suggested Mrs Rafaat.

“ ’Sides,” whispered the odour of Sammy the Elbow, “you can’t be talking to Greydawn like that, cos she’s Our Lady of 4 a.m. and you don’t wanna piss her off, stupid.”

“Oh, I could never be annoyed with you gentlemen!” exclaimed Mrs Rafaat. “I can see that you’re only concerned for my well-being.”

“Yeah,
that’s
why we’re stood on the edge of the city wall waiting for an angry dog to come barking,” grumbled the goblin. “Concerned is what we is.”

“Sammy, may I, as Midnight Mayor, just say you demonstrate a shocking lack of civic—” Swift stopped abruptly. “Anyone hear…?” he murmured. And there it was, rising in low, mournful greeting from the dark, a swelling round of animal pain and longing:

hhhhhhooooooooooooowwwwwwwwwwwwilllllllll!!!!

Anyone passing through Canada Water Underground station at 11.15 p.m. that night might have been a little disturbed at the following events:

A train pulled up, heading north, its carriages disgorging a small number of people, most of whom, at this hour, were only here to change trains. Any of them, stepping onto the rising escalator, might have overheard the following conversation drift from the empty air:

“Don’t shove will you. Bloody hell…”

“This is interesting, isn’t it?”

“Excuse me, we need to keep moving. I can’t keep everyone invisible if we stand still; it’s all about walking speed.”

“Why walking speed?”

“Gotta blend in with the city, that’s what it’s about, see?”

“How do you know?”

“Well I’ve already been into the spirit realm with Ms Li, while we were being beaten up in Tooting.”

“There is no such thing as real invisibility! Merely tricks of the eye.”

“Thank you. Coming through…”

Maybe passers-by managed to ignore these noises, filing them away in that corner of the brain entitled,
Don’t look, shan’t look, don’t want to know.
There was, though, no denying the minor pile-up at the ticket barrier, as the gates opened and gates closed a half-dozen times around…

… nothing.

Vacancy.

Or rather, not vacancy, because there was something there: there were people, or not people, figures moving. But then there couldn’t be, there simply couldn’t be; and if there couldn’t be…

… it was all right, because there weren’t.

Such is the power of the rational mind.

Mr Ruislip was excited.

He was excited because the scryers reported that Dog was prowling the city that night, and Dog was an enemy with fangs, and Mr Ruislip loved it when his enemies had fangs.

He was excited because his contact in the Aldermen had rung to say that the Midnight Mayor had vanished, and Mr Ruislip had said, “Is he dead?” and the contact had replied, “No, because whenever Swift vanishes it’s because he’s about to do something stupid.” And Mr Ruislip knew that today Matthew Swift’s stupid thing had to be him.

He was excited because every witch, warlock and wizard in the office had been ordered to stay late and prepare to fight, and because when they looked at him he could smell their sweat and hear the pounding of their hearts; and they were scared, scared of what was coming but mostly scared of him, and that tasted so
good!

He was excited because battle was coming, and battle was something that, at last, he understood.

He knew that his adversaries were coming to steal the spirits back. “They will try to find a way to the hole,” he declared. “They may attack from above, so we shall watch the ceilings. They may try to come in from below, so we shall watch the floors. They may try teleporting, so we ward the offices. They may try invisibility, so we shall guard the stairs.

“The Midnight Mayor likes fire, so we shall answer with ice; the shamans like shadows, so we shall answer with light. The fate of this corporation hangs on defeating these people tonight and on finding Greydawn–at last! I have every confidence that you shall put up a good fight. I shall kill any who run. Thank you for your hard work and bonuses to all!”

This last phrase, this great, potent phrase was, to Mr Ruislip, a magic spell in itself. In the years since he had managed to worm out of the shadows, to slip through the mystical walls that guarded the city from the night, he had learned much about humans. He had discovered that not all of them embraced battle as he did, and some of them were even afraid of things that should have been wondrous.

He had also learned that power stemmed from little numbers on screens, which in turn represented the perceived value of some good somewhere, or maybe just an idea somewhere else, and which little numbers, if they were bought, could make more little numbers, which made bigger numbers, which caused whoops of delight and glee in mortal men. And if he could only convince people that bigger numbers were just a simple deed away…

… or a simple spell…

… or a simple murder…

… he could control all that he surveyed.

Silence in Canada Water.

Lights still burned within the great glass towers and on the streets; their reflections wavered in the water lapping against the quayside.

In Burns and Stoke the lights shone brightest of all. In another life Sharon had stared skywards at these shining glass walls and watched the tiny people move about, each in their office, unseen by their colleagues but on display to the world, like a life lived in a computer game. Now no one up there was visible. But she knew they were waiting.

Sharon turned to her motley crew, huddled on a bench and perched on the concrete rocks of the little strip of garden between the bus stops.

“Right,” she said. “It’s very simple. Me, Rhys and Mr Roding, we’re gonna find all the spirits that Burns and Stoke have trapped, and set ’em free. Gretel, Kevin and Edna, you’re gonna try and find these sacrifice thingies that Eddie was talking about. Sally is gonna be air support in case of shit going down–have you got your mobile phone?”

Yes, Sharon. It is fully charged and I have set its ringtone to “Urgent klaxon”.

“Cool. Chris, Jess and Jeff are gonna stay out here in case something shitty happens, in which case you phone someone or call the police or
something. Jeff has got sandwiches and a first-aid kit. Jess is also possible air support.”

“You make it all sound very simple,” fumed Mr Roding, “but I really don’t think ‘We’re gonna find all the spirits’ is a sound tactical plan. When I was speaking to the corpses in Vietnam, I learned a lot about—”

“Excuse me,” offered Gretel, cutting through Mr Roding before he could reach his oratorical climax. “Do you think we’re going to have to hurt people? Only trolls have a very bad reputation and I don’t want to sully my community’s name.”

“Uh… try
not
to hurt people,” offered Sharon. “But if you must, maybe apologise and leave them a number they can call afterwards?”

“Where’s the Midnight Mayor and Mrs Rafaat in all this?” demanded Mr Roding. “I don’t see
them
trying to break out the trapped spirits of the city, do you?”

Sharon fixed Mr Roding with the stare of all good officers faced with irredeemable troops. Mr Roding, to her surprise, cowered a little.

“Swift, Sammy and Mrs Rafaat are in the centre of town waiting for Dog to reappear. Since he only does this in the dead of night, he might be a little while. But as soon as he
does
turn up, the Midnight Mayor, protector of… stuff… along with the third–second!–greatest shaman the world has ever seen, are gonna power on over here with the mortal form of Greydawn and a furry killing machine. Questions?”

“Shouldn’t we wait for the furry killing machine?” offered Rhys.

“You want to wait for a monster that only Mrs Rafaat can control,” grumbled Mr Roding, “which has killed half a dozen men in a month, and get it to do the hard work while its mistress, who has been hunted by killer builders and angry claws for the last two years, sits around with a sign stamped on her forehead saying
ENSORCEL ME NOW
–is that your suggestion?”

“Mr Roding is right,” said Sharon, doing her best not to glare at anyone. “The longer the city goes without Mrs Rafaat, the worse things will be and the better Mr Ruislip’s chance of working out who she really is. Now I figure that Burns and Stoke know we’ve gotta be coming. So, we’re gonna use the element of surprise.”

“Uh, babes, how exactly are we going to do that?” asked Kevin.

“I figured we’d ask the way at Reception.”

“Who’s my little doggy, who’s my little doggy? Yes you are, yes you
are
!”

“Mrs Rafaat, thrilled though I am that we’ve found your pet again—”

“Good boy, good
boy!
Yes, you’re so good, aren’t you? Yes, you’re so
good
!”

“—if we could perhaps take this opportunity to head for the nearest public transport…”

“Fetch boy, fetch! That’s it, that’s it! Good boy! Mummy’s got a treaty-weaty for you.”

If Matthew Swift was unnerved by the sight of an old woman in a sari lovingly stroking behind the ears of an eight-foot killing machine, he did his best not to show it. His manful stride up to the flanks of Dog may have turned, at the last moment, to a cautious creep, but he felt that his cry of “Now, Mrs Rafaat, please, there are people depending on us!” had an undeniably heroic ring.

“I’m sorry, Mr Swift,” she sighed. “It’s just I did miss my little did-dums.”

“And you can have all the time in the world with him,” replied the sorcerer, “just as soon as we get to Canada Water.”

“But Mr Swift! Will they let my little puppy on the train?”

“Tell you what. Just this once let’s get a cab.”

The foyer of Burns and Stoke.

Everything is open, airy, light and planned. Welcome, all who enter here, this building proclaims, for here you shall see all that can be seen and, through your seeing, become a better, brighter part of the team. Playing solitaire and wasting time on Facebook are out; cooperation and the go get ’em work ethic are in.

There were four men on guard plus a receptionist.

“On guard” wasn’t quite the phrase; “on guard” implied bayonets and patrols and maybe steel helmets, whereas the guards were ex-hirelings of the sometime security firm Amiltech, trained enforcers and sometimes dabblers in the mystical arts. They wore clean white gloves and smart black suits with a badge on the shoulder proclaiming the name of each employee, their licence number and, on a flap on the back, their next of kin, should the worst come to pass.

A sign tucked away behind the reception desk declared enigmatically that the building security level was
BLUE HIGH.
Not many people knew what
BLUE HIGH
meant, and settled for the uncomfortable supposition that
BLUE
was better than
RED
but
HIGH
was bad news for everyone.