The Black Tattoo (37 page)

"Why?" asked Charlie, rounding on the demon.
 
"Why isn't it as simple as that, exactly?
 
You promised me if I killed the Emperor we could rule Hell together.
 
You promised!
 
And now what're you doing?
 
Backing out on me!
 
Using me again, to get what you want!"

Inwardly, the Scourge sighed.

"
We can both have what we want
," it told Charlie slowly.
 
"
You can still become Emperor, and the demons will follow you until the end of the universe
."
 
It paused.
 
"
There is, however, a catch
."

"I
knew
it!"
 
Charlie stamped his foot.

"
There is something you have to do first
," said the Scourge.

"Oh yeah?
 
And what's that?"

"
You must make a decision, once and for all
."

"What decision?"

"
If you truly wish to become Emperor of Hell
—"

"Yes?" said Charlie.
  
"Yes?"

"—
then you can never go back to your world
."

There was a pause.

"That's it?" asked Charlie.
 
"That's the catch?"

"
That is the catch
," said the Scourge.
 
"
Understand me, Charlie:
 
after this, there is no turning back.
 
If you want to become Emperor, I can make it so.
 
The price, however, is that you must give up your past life and all it entails:
 
friends, family — everything.
 
You must choose, Charlie
," it emphasized.
 
"
Them or us.
 
One or the other.
 
Forever
."

Charlie blinked.

"
You will, I'm sure, want to make a last visit to your home world before you decide
," said the Scourge.
 
"
This has already been arranged for you
."

"Wow," said Charlie, pouting.
 
"You've really got this all figured out, haven't you?"

"
Time is short
," the Scourge snarled.
 
"
If you want to become Emperor, you must learn to expect some decisions to be made for you. That is the way for those who rule.
 
If you find this
objectionable
, perhaps it would be better if
—"

"No!" said Charlie quickly.
 
"No, that's okay."

It was the first time the demon had lost its temper with him like that.
 
He was surprised and, he realized, more than a little frightened.

"
You can have one night
," said the Scourge.
 
"
One night in you world — we can't spare you for longer than that.
 
You can then choose to return here or stay, as you wish — though if you choose to stay on Earth, you
 
will naturally have to give up your powers.
 
At any rate
," it added, "
the choice will be yours
."
 
It paused.
 
"
What do you say
?"

Charlie looked up at the demon standing beside him, this magical being that had come into his life and changed it utterly.
 
Reflected in liquid darkness, his own eyes blinked back at him nervously.

Them or us
, he thought.
 
One or the other.
 
Forever.

"Sure," Charlie heard himself say.
 
"One night on Earth.
 
Why not?"

"
Very well
," said the Scourge.
 
"
Gukumat
?"

At his master's command, the Overminister shimmered into view.

"
Prepare the Fracture
."

As you wish, my lords
, said Gukumat, bowing.
 
As you wish.

INTRUDERS

London.
 
The West End.
 
10:24 p.m.

"That's it," the enormous security guard announced.
 
"I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

Number 3 looked up at the man, who stood a good foot taller than him (and a good two feet wider).
 
The single button that the bouncer had managed to do up on his jacket was showing serious strain from the job of holding back his massive chest.

"Come on, mate," said the bouncer, "let's have you outside.
 
You don't want any trouble, believe me."

Number 3 sighed, reached up, and pushed his mirrored sunglasses a little way down his nose.
 
Thanks to a scuffle with a vampire some years ago, his right eye was false, but his left eye was looking at the bouncer — hard.

"Listen, please," Number 3 told him.
 
He crooked a finger, and the other man bent obligingly forward.
 
Number 3 rewarded him by opening his coat a little and giving him a brief glance at the small but efficient-looking 9mm machine pistol currently strapped under his armpit.
 
The bouncer's eyes went wide.

"I represent an organization call the Sons of the Scorpion Flail," said Number 3.
 
He spoke quietly, with a pronounced French accent.
 
"You 'ave not 'eard of us, and I would advise you now to forget you ever did.
 
But call your boss, call the police, call the prime minister if you like:
 
they will all tell you the same sing.
 
Leave me alone, please.
 
Now
."

For another long second Number 3 and the bouncer looked at each other, as the pub's denizens went about their business around them.

Number 3 disliked this place.
 
He never drank, so he supposed he wasn't really qualified to comment, but even if he did drink, it wouldn't be in the Light of the Moon.
 
Night after night, the pub was packed with beery civilians, until the overworked bar staff could hardly keep up.
 
All that meant to Number 3, however, was that Number 2 had made a serious operational error in not closing the place down.
 
Because this pub, though it looked no different from the many other places just like it in London's West End, had a secret.

The tiny speaker embedded in his sunglasses crackled for a second.
 
Without breaking off his staring match with the bouncer, the Son pushed the shades back into position.

"Three 'ere," he said.

"We're reading activity in the Fracture," said a voice in his ear.

Despite his years of experience, Number 3 felt his heart rate beginning to speed up.

"Copy," he said.
 
"Go away, please," he told the bouncer.
 
"Sank you."
 
He turned and focused his eyes on a spot at the far end of the room.
 
Smoothly, the lenses of his shades switched down through the ultraviolet and thermal levels to a deeper, more sinister spectrum that reduced everyone and everything in the room to pale green smudges — everything except that spot, which, as Number 3 watched, began to whiten and swell outward.

The Light of the Moon looked like a bad West End pub.
 
It sounded and
smelled
 
like a bad West End pub.
 
But as well as being a pub, it was something else:
 
it was a gateway to Hell.
 
And the gateway was opening.

Number 3 watched as the spot in the air that marked the Fracture went greenish-white, the began to send out lazy little tendrils of magical power — power that only Number 3, at that moment, with his special lenses, was able to see.
 
Slowly, he let his right hand creep up and under his coat, toward where he let his right hand creep up and under his coat, toward where his weapons were waiting.
 
Then, abruptly, his view was blocked by a hulking shadow, and his wrist was caught in a strong grip.

"Oi!
 
Just stop right there."

"Let go of me, please," said Number 3 politely.

"I don't care who you think you are," said the bouncer, "but I'm not letting you get your popgun out in here.
 
There are people about.
 
See?"

"Let go
now
, please," said Number 3.
 
"I 'ave no wish to 'urt you."

Past the bouncer, a burst of whiteness filled Number 3's vision:
 
for a moment, the bones of the bouncer's rib cage stood out like an X-ray against the light before the lenses' protective layers reacted nd dimmed down the transmission to a dull glow.

"Listen, mate," said the bouncer, "you don't—OW!"

Number 3 was already moving.
 
In less than a second he had shifted his weight, breaking the bouncer's grip, spinning the man round, and driving the arm that had held his up the man's broad back in a vicious and immobilizing half nelson.
 
With his left hand (Number 3 could shoot just as well with his left), he yanked out a second, identical machine-pistol, already drawing a bead on the thing that had emerged from the Fracture, tracking its flapping, desperate flight across the room.

But already, Number 3 knew, he was too late.

The intruder shot past, right over the oblivious pub-goers' heads, and up over the wide steps.
 
It burst straight through one of the big plate-glass doors and out into the London night, leaving nothing but tinkling splinters behind it.

Shoving his gun back into its holster, the Son of the Scorpion Flail applied a nerve-pinch to a certain spot:
 
the bouncer slumped to the floor without protesting.
 
The drinkers nearest the shattered door were only now just starting to scream.

"
Merde
," said Number 3, with feeling.

Whatever it was that had just come through from Hell — he'd lost it.

*
       
*
       
*
       
*
       
*

Alembic House, Same night.
 
3:47 a.m.

Felix sat up in bed, coming awake instantly in the darkness.
 
He was breathing hard, he was sweating, and as he felt for the lamp on his antique bedside table, his hand was shaking helplessly.

He'd been dreaming.
 
It was a long, slow, freezing kind of dream, full of darkness and falling and cold that squeezed stony fingers round his heart.
 
It was a frightening dream.
 
It was also a dream that Felix had had before:
 
he knew what it was, and he knew what caused it.

He was being summoned.
 
The darkness still inside him from all those years ago was calling him again, and he knew he was powerless to resist.
 
Felix sat up, sighing as he put on his glasses.

And some time later, he was across the street from the Light of the Moon, standing in the shadows, watching the two men who were now guarding the door.

"This is crazy," Number 12 was saying.

His partner, Number 9, just sighed.
 
This was the fourth time his fellow sentry had made this observation that night, and they'd only been on duty outside the Light of the Moon for about an hour and a half.

"I'm serious," Number 12 went on.
 
"If Number Three couldn't do anything, then what good can
we
do?
 
Next time something comes through, it's gonna take more than the two of us to stop it."

"Orders are orders," said Number 9 primly.

Number 12 scowled.
 
Since Number 9's recent promotion up the ranks and into single figures, he was really becoming insufferable:
 
all the years they'd worked together, and now it was "Orders are orders."
 
Suddenly, Number 12 decided that hinting at what he wanted to know wasn't going to be enough:
 
he'd have to ask his partner out straight.

"It's tonight, isn't it?" he said.
 
"That's why they won't send more of us.
 
They're bringing Project Justice in tonight."

"What do you know about Project Justice?" asked Number 9.

"Come on," said Number 12, enjoying the chance to scoff.
 
"You don't think I've heard the rumors?
 
They've done it:
 
the Star Chamber finally pulled off the deal with the Russians.
 
And now, if this Fracture thing really goes where they say it goes, then
we
can go in with a nuke!"

"Why don't you shut up?" suggested Number 9.
 
"Before I—"

A simultaneous crackle in the men's ears cut him off.

"Nine here," said Number 9.
 
The signal was faint and full of interference.
 
Both men cupped their hands to their earpieces in an effort to make it clearer.

"Repeat, please," said Number 9, in a voice loud enough to get both Sons of the Scorpion Flail noticed if anyone had happened to be passing at that moment.
 
"You're breaking up!
 
Hello?"

Silence.

"I think," began Number 12, "he said there was movement round the back."

"I know what he said!" snapped Number 9.
 
Actually, this was a lie:
 
he was glad Number 12 had been there to make sense of the message, though he would never have told him so to his face.

"Well?" asked Number 12, looking at him.

"All right," said Number 9, "Let's check it out.
 
But remember, look casual, okay?"