The Malice (17 page)

The kid follows her through passages, dusty and dark, to where Duet rests.

‘I think it’s time to go,’ she says.

‘Finally.’

It has been two weeks since Duet’s operation. The time is filled with waiting and arguments about her health and the need to leave.

Neer escorts them to Wonderland’s edge.

Vesper chats with her, footsteps dragging towards the end. ‘Thank you so much for all your help.’

‘We could turn back if you wanted. There’s no shame in it. You could live with me and I could study your friend.’

‘I’d like to stay longer, I really would. But I think the sword wants us to go. And anyway, I have family waiting for me to come home.’

‘That must be nice.’

Vesper’s eyes brighten. ‘You could come with us!’ Neer is already shaking her head but she presses on. ‘That way you could help Duet and we wouldn’t have to part. It’s perfect!’

‘Perfect? No, no, no. It is a sweet notion but this body is getting too delicate for travel and, besides, what about Runty and the other children? They need me more than you do.’

‘You could bring them too.’

‘Now you’re just being silly.’

‘How did you find all those children?’

‘Oh, I didn’t find them. Others found them, or grew them from cuttings. I just look after them. It’s one of the few parts of my job that is still relevant.’

Duet stops, suspicious. ‘A Necroneer minding children?’

‘What of it?’

‘I don’t believe it. More likely, you harvest them for parts.’

‘Yes. I thought that was obvious. Even the best methods of preservation can’t compare to fresh material.’

‘It’s disgusting.’

Vesper nods, horrified.

Neer tuts at them both. ‘Is it? They are given shelter and food and a much better quality of life than they’d have without me. They live for years in relative comfort. For years! Is it any different from keeping animals, my little farmer?’ She looks pointedly at the kid.

Vesper frowns.

‘Or any worse than grooming soldiers for battle.’

Words struggle out past Duet’s rage. ‘You can’t compare … what you do … with me!’

‘Are you not looked after until such time your purpose is served? Tell me, how does the Shining City treat its veterans?’

‘They are honoured.’

‘Do you know any?’

‘A few.’

‘And how many of those are soldier class?’ Duet frowns. ‘And how many of those are Harmonised?’

‘I’ve had enough … of this.’

‘Hardly the lively debate one hopes for but I accept your surrender.’

Duet walks away without saying goodbye. Vesper trudges after but cannot help turning one last time. ‘But, you don’t do that any more, do you? Kill the children I mean.’

‘No, no, no. Not any more. The Uncivil is gone, my only source of animating essence with her. What could I possibly gain from further experiments?’

‘I don’t know.’

She raises a finger skyward. ‘Exactly. I’m as fond of the little rascals as you are of your pet. I enjoy the company so I keep them on. It gives me something to do.’ She looks past Vesper’s shoulder. ‘Now you’d best be moving on. Your friend has already got a head start.’

Vesper nods. ‘I’ll miss you.’

‘If she survives, bring her back with you.’

‘I will.’

‘And if she doesn’t, anything you can retrieve would be invaluable to my research.’

‘But if she dies, what would be the point?’

‘The future. One must always have an eye on the future.’

*

Through the ever open doors comes the hulking form of Gutterface. Samael watches it shuffle into the room, saggy bulk blocking the exit. Tiny infernals clamber all over it like children, like parasites, sitting in folds of skin and the curls of old wounds, perching on shoulders and hipbones.

Samael notes how comfortable the infernals seem together, essence purring and self-satisfied. He tightens his grip on his sword as other facts come to him, adding up to trouble: Gutterface and its children come without a guide. That means it has been to the Demagogue’s court before. He looks between the Gutterface and the Demagogue, positioned either side of him and Hangnail, like the jaws of a trap.

The Demagogue pulls its finger from the girl’s head and she goes slack. All eyes follow the too-long digit as it rises, turns and descends upon the bald skull of the young man next to her. He jolts awake, lips pulled back in a smile so wide that skin cracks around his lips.

‘Welcome, Gutterface! Welcome!’ The lips move, giving voice to the Demagogue’s thoughts. ‘The gathering gathers size and is nearly complete. Just one more to come and then …’ The man stops talking, his face a smiling mask, frozen.

Samael sees all the little eyes peering at him from the nooks and crannies of Gutterface’s body. He looks at the lesser creatures of the court and finds hunger in their eyes as well, identical. At his side, Scout growls.

Hangnail is the first to crack. The lone infernal stretches out its arms, casts open the coat of skins …

Hooks emerge, curling and sharp along its edge. They blur over the pink-skinned cat sitting by its feet, spearing it. A single shriek gets out before hooks strip the skin away with fluid ease, tucking it away to be added later. A skeleton slops onto the floor, muscle and blood, steaming, red.

The Demagogue’s finger comes sharply away from the young man’s head, which flops forward, and finds its way to the skull of the third figure on the bench. He animates at the touch, beard bristling, and his mouth foams as he shouts, storm-like, ‘Hang the Hangnail! Tear it! Make me ribbons!’

As one, the court swarms towards Hangnail.

In answer, the infernal opens its coat wide, like a pair of ragged wings or the lips of a giant mouth. Hooks glisten and twitch, ready to strike as the Demagogue’s forces attack, small shapes flying forward, snarling and unfolding, all teeth and claws and bile.

It is more a scrum than a battle.

Gutterface points its arms towards Hangnail and its children cheer, pouring out of their hiding places to skip towards the beleaguered infernal.

Samael cannot see Hangnail now for the sheer weight of enemies between them. Even if they work together they have no chance of victory. It is time to go. He rushes for the door, sword drawn, Scout keeping pace.

But Gutterface still blocks the door. Samael turns his shoulder, speeds up.

Rotten flesh shudders with the impact but Gutterface doesn’t move. Samael swings his sword, trying to cut his way to freedom. The blade slips easily through the meat of the shoulder, cracking bone underneath. He pulls back for another strike but his sword is reluctant to leave, stuck fast in the festering flesh.

Gutterface strikes him in the chest and he sails backwards, limbs trailing after, sword clattering to the floor.

His head slams against the curving wall opposite and lines splinter across the glass, radiating out. His view flickers, like two pictures superimposed, sickening. Through the confusion he senses Scout’s rage, and as he focuses on it, he sees Gutterface from the Dogspawn’s perspective.

Then it is gone, his mind lurching back and forth, in one place, in another, in both.

He is by the wall, head resting in the new dent he has made.

He is leaping through the air, jaws open and angry.

He is by the wall, trying to stand straight.

He is tearing at Gutterface, watching innards spill like beans from a torn bag.

He is upright, testing his limbs.

There is a crack and a yelp.

He is in pain!

But not true pain. Sanity returns, hard and welcome.

Scout lands nearby, panting heavily. He glances over at the living hill of madness that has buried Hangnail. Creatures crawl over each other, clawing, biting. Gutterface’s offspring on top, stabbing into the mass of wriggling bodies with abandon. If Hangnail still struggles beneath them, he cannot tell. Soon, they will be done and then it will be his turn.

He is without a weapon, hopelessly outnumbered and overpowered.

He charges again.

Gutterface turns toward him, careful to leave no opening.

The distance between them shrinks.

Samael’s essence is a mix of many powerful things, an exceptional lineage packed with buried secrets but knowledge and history are nothing next to the strength of a pure infernal. Gutterface knows this and is confident.

Samael knows this also.

That is why he diverts at an angle, passing the giant demon, throwing himself at a thinner section of glassy wall.

He hits, a metal plated ram, shattering the wall of the chamber, flying through a second pane and back into the corridor. Glass rains around him, stained and sharp.

A second sense warns him to move and he does so, an ugly sidewards roll. Scout lands in the space. Through their link he senses the Dogspawn’s pain and something else. Pride perhaps?

Scout raises his head towards Samael, sword held between his jaws.

Samael nods, impressed, sharing his pride between them, warming. Then he stands up, takes back his blade and starts to run, nuggets of glass crunching underfoot.

All of the Demagogue’s forces are occupied behind them, leaving the corridor mercifully clear of infernals, and while Gutterface is powerful, it is not quick. They are out of sight before the infernal has turned itself round.

Ahead of them, a young man kneels. Samael recognises him as the exhibit who tried to speak to him before. The man’s actions are slow and ritualised, tickling memories.

On impulse, Samael slows down.

‘My name is Jem. I invoke the rite of mercy. Save me, protect me, deliver me.’

Scout races past him, tongue hanging out to one side, absorbed in the run.

Samael tries to do the same but his feet have stopped. The man’s words fill his head, loud as cannon fire, echoing.

Echoing.

A staccato flash of memories, other places, other voices, the same words, charged with purpose.

Back in the present, he sways. The man called Jem is unmoving before him. ‘Up,’ he says in his dusky voice.

Jem stands up and Samael stares, trying to understand why he feels the need to help this stranger.

Scout bounds back into view, barking at them. He is concerned for his master, keen for him to hurry. He is right to be.

Behind them, there is a great roar, a score of animal throats opening together followed by the sound of tearing flesh.

Hangnail has fallen.

Scout barks again. Jem pulls at Samael’s arm. He sees rather than feels the contact. Then, he starts to move. The motion is sluggish at first, as if his body were far away and the dangers even further. He knows their end is coming, is tempted to face it rather than flee, to take some of the filth out of the world before he goes. Instead, Jem and the Dogspawn urging him on, he speeds up.

Together, they run.

Following them down the corridor come the words of the Demagogue, carried by the voice of the big man, booming: ‘Bring me the ashling! Bring it! Bring me all of its pieces!’

Duet and Vesper stand amid piles of rubble. Size is the only indicator of what made them. The smaller ones, private dwellings or storage pods, the larger ones by-products of communal hives and industrial structures. Each makes a modest hill, piled neatly and surrounded by bushes, green leaves tipped with white fuzz.

Vesper holds out the Navpack, an image projecting by her feet. ‘According to this, we’re in the right place. It’s marked as an active settlement.’

‘It’s out of date.’

‘Yes.’

‘Like the others were.’

‘Yes. Sorry.’

Duet scowls. ‘Stop apologising! This isn’t your fault.’

‘S—’ The girl catches herself and smiles, self-conscious. ‘Okay.’

Meanwhile, the kid sniffs at the cottony fuzz on the leaves. Risks are weighed up, options considered. An experimental bite is taken.

Duet sits down on one of the smaller piles and begins rifling through the bag.

The Navpack is powered down, returned to Vesper’s pocket. ‘What are we going to do now?’

‘I’m going to have a pill.’

‘Another one?’

‘I told you, they help with the pain.’

‘But,’ she protests, crossing over to the Harmonised. ‘Those ones aren’t even pain meds!’

‘I know. We’re out of pain meds.’

‘So what are they?’

‘Uppers.’ She folds her arms but, despite the urge to push Vesper away, finds herself explaining. ‘They don’t make the pain go away. They just make it not matter so much.’

‘You told me the pain was nearly gone.’

‘It has. Nearly.’ She pops two tablets, one red, one purple. ‘Anyway, it’s done now.’

‘I don’t like it.’

‘It’s done. Leave it.’

Vesper watches the kid stripping the leaves with enthusiasm. ‘What we need is food.’

Duet turns her attention to the kid as well. ‘Agreed.’

‘No, I mean we need to hunt for some.’

‘Do you know how to hunt?’

‘A little, my father showed me once but he wasn’t very good at it. And it was a long time ago. I don’t remember much.’

‘Not much is more than I’ve got. What do we need?’

‘A place where animals go. A trap and some good bait.’

Duet keeps her eyes on the kid. ‘I think I know where we can get the bait.’

The girl’s stomach growls, scaring off the guilt. ‘I suppose, if he wasn’t in any real danger, it would be okay.’

Oblivious, the kid keeps chewing.

*

Samael, Scout and Jem huddle in one of the many abandoned sections of the Demagogue’s palace. In the darkness, tucked within the ruins of a fallen tower joined by bridge to the main structure, they watch for their pursuers. Each time the wind blows, walls shudder and floors creak, like a man moaning before death.

From their hiding place, they see a gaggle of hunters arrive, small and feral and quick. Without pause the infernal horde leave the relative safety of the Demagogue’s palace, spilling out onto the half-finished bridge to the tower.

Samael steps into view, drawing enthusiastic shrieks. Jaws slaver and barbs extend as they rush towards him.

He draws his sword, makes two heavy cuts.

With a ping, the cables holding the bridge fall away, stripping out the structure’s spine.

Shrieks turn quickly to wails as the bridge crumples, tin tissue paper folding about them like a heavy shroud.

Samael counts each time they bounce off a wall, marking the crunches and the way the screams change pitch. He finds the sound satisfying.

Infernals at the other end of the bridge struggle to stop. One teeters on the edge, feathered arms making desperate circles in the air.

A small face appears at its shoulder, black eyes glinting malice: one of Gutterface’s children. It reaches out slowly, until its small hands touch the infernal’s back. It savours the moment, then pushes, siblings leaning forward to watch the infernal tumble, wings flapping, useless.

When the show is over, the eyes all raise to glare at Samael.

He glares back.

Then, at some unseen signal, they pull back as one, leaving the corridor suddenly empty.

Jem appears at his side and speaks. Samael cannot recall the last time he has heard a voice so human. His long association with demons giving the man’s words a false softness.

‘Where will we go?’

‘Wherever we go, they will find me. My essence is known to them.’

‘Can’t we hide?’

Inspiration bubbles from within. Secrets passed from the Uncivil, to his creator and now to him. Sometimes it feels as if his creator still pulls the strings from deep inside, that his own will is but a scab on the wound made by their deaths. ‘It will only prolong the agony.’

Jem’s hands begin to shake. ‘You promised. You promised you would help me.’

‘They are not after you. Run now, while you can.’

‘And then what? Run where? To who?’ Samael stares at him, unmoved. ‘You swore an oath!’

Did he? He does not remember and yet he feels it somehow, words that bind as surely as any chains. ‘Yes. But first you must do something for me.’

Jem nods, sagging a little, disappointed but not surprised. ‘Yes?’

He points down at his feet.

There is a pause and then Jem sinks to his knees in front of the half-breed. ‘Yes?’

Samael lifts his right foot, raising it level with the man’s chest. ‘Help me get my boot off.’

‘What?’

‘Take off my boot.’

Jem shrugs and sets to work.

While Jem’s head is bowed Samael grips at ruined brickwork, steadying himself. Scout begins to whine softly and Samael wonders if the Dogspawn senses his own misgivings at what is to be done. Pushing such thoughts to one side, he raises his sword, bringing it down past Jem’s head and into the exposed flesh of his foot.

*

The kid nibbles at a pile of leaves. Around his neck is an old piece of rubber tubing, tethering him to a stake. He does not care about his lack of freedom, fully focused on the task at hand.

Several plastic sheets are staked out around the kid, an uneven square of grey, daubed with glue.

Further out, behind a mound of stones, Duet and Vesper watch.

The Harmonised grits her teeth. ‘This isn’t going to work.’

‘We have to be patient. That’s what my Uncle Harm always says. If we’re patient, the world will come to us.’

She stands up. ‘Your uncle talks a lot of crap.’

Vesper mutters a reply, just loud enough to not be audible as Duet crosses to their trap.

With ease, she hops over the plastic, landing next to the kid. He glances up and she draws her sword.

Vesper gasps.

The kid goes back to chewing.

‘Don’t!’ calls Vesper, half standing in surprise.

Her sword licks the young goat across his flank.

The kid screams, a thin stream of blood running down his side.

Duet hops back and returns to where Vesper gawps.

‘What did you do that for?’

‘To speed things up.’

They go back to waiting while the kid alternates between screaming, bleeding and shooting dark looks in their direction.

‘Sorry,’ whispers Vesper, ignoring Duet’s exaggerated sigh.

Fresh scents and shouts of distress carry far however and before long, an interested party arrives. Vesper sees it first, pointing with enthusiasm.

A rat the size of a large dog approaches, with horns for eyes and whiskers thick as babies fingers. Its fur is dark, its feet a raw pink with a tail to match.

Despite its appearance, Vesper’s mouth begins to water.

It stops just in front of the plastic sheets, sniffing the air, cautious. An unknown smell stands between it and food. Slowly, it walks the perimeter, feet well clear of the treated plastic. The kid tries to get away from it, bleating unhappiness but the tubing holds it close. Two creatures make two circles, one within the other.

The movement squeezes a little fresh blood from the kid’s wound and the rat stands on its hind legs, whiskers twitching with excitement.

‘Come on,’ Duet whispers.

The kid pulls away harder, stretching rubber, legs a flurry, fighting for every inch. While the stake is sturdy, it is not planted deep, the ground too hard and dry for such things.

The rat pauses.

The stake begins to lean.

Vesper can only watch, shaking her head as the kid pulls free, rolling backwards onto the plastic, where he stops, abrupt, stuck fast.

The rat circles round to where the kid lies, stricken.

Duet nudges Vesper. ‘Shoot it.’

‘What?’

‘Shoot it. Right now. Shoot it.’

‘Oh!’ she replies, fumbling for the pistol in her pocket.

The rat leans out over the plastic, neck stretching, telescoping to add an extra foot to its reach. Long teeth nip at the kid’s side.

The kid screams, so does Vesper. The pistol is in her hand now. She points and fires, trying to be conservative, impressively off target.

Unable to see the laser, the rat bites at the kid again, undaunted.

Held on his back, legs stuck in the air, the kid is easy to catch. He cannot run but he can kick. Feet flail and a lucky hoof glances off the rat’s skull. The tainted creature startles, one paw landing on the edge of the plastic sheet.

Instantly, the glue hardens, bonding one to the other. The rat lifts its paw and the sheet rises with it. Frustrated, it waves the paw, like a frenzied fan meeting their idol.

Duet breaks cover, starts to run.

Vesper squeezes the trigger again. Nothing happens. She frowns, squeezes harder but the pistol stays stubbornly silent.

She looks back in time to see Duet stab the rat through the neck. ‘Finally,’ the Harmonised calls back. ‘A bit of luck.’

Behind her the kid’s eyes narrow to black slits. He kicks out, hooves striking the backs of her knees.

Duet’s legs fly outward and her body follows, a half somersault, impromptu.

She lands next to the kid, limbs spread like a star.

For a moment, all three are shocked into silence.

Duet recovers first. ‘Right, that’s it!’

She returns the kid’s murderous look and reaches for her sword. However, the trap has other ideas, holding fast to her head, her back, her hips, her legs and her arms.

Vesper stares at the kid’s legs waving crazily, then at Duet writhing and cursing. ‘Oh. I’ll just … huh … I’ll just …’ Laughter springs loud and unexpected, a force of nature. She drops the gun, clutching at her side.

‘Shut up!’ shouts Duet. The kid says something to the same effect.

If anything, Vesper laughs louder, cheeks crimson with mirth, arms pressed to her sides. ‘I’m … I’m sorry!’ she howls, bent double and then she says no more, laughing and laughing, drowning out the threats and the shouts until Duet finds herself joining in.

The kid does not understand. He kicks at Duet but cannot reach her. Dark eyes narrow, plotting revenge.

It is easy to make a space for the fire. Rubble is abundant, the smaller chunks used to outline the fire pit, the larger ones turned into a makeshift shelter to hold back the worst of the winds. Finding fuel for the fire is more difficult. Wood is scarce, forcing Vesper to manage with foraged scraps, abandoned pieces of clothing, of furniture, too damp to burn well.

They make do. Vesper blows gently onto the fire, wincing as the flame flickers away before gasping back to life.

Duet wrestles with the corpse of a giant rat, skinning it with all the skill of a rank amateur. Chunks of flesh are wasted with the skin, piling up at her feet as she hacks, sweating and swearing. By the time she finishes and begins the skewering, Vesper’s fire is burning nicely.

Smoke capped flames crackle, chemical tinted.

Together, they lift the rat and suspend it over the fire. A metal bar protrudes from its mouth and rear, each end supported by a pile of rocks. Once in place, the bar begins to bend in the middle, lowering the rat’s belly to kiss the fire pit.

The kid puts his back to the spectacle, happy to take the warmth but more interested in stringy weeds sprouting about the rubble.

While Vesper feeds some old netting to the fire, Duet slips a pink tablet into her mouth. The girl shows her palms to the flames. ‘That’s better.’

Duet grunts agreement.

Vesper looks at the rat’s horns curving towards the floor, chews on her lip. ‘Are you sure we can eat it?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s good.’ A few seconds pass. ‘You’re not worried about taint?’

‘No. I’m hoping that The Seven will protect us.’

Vesper glances at the sleeping sword. ‘Oh.’

‘And if they don’t, it isn’t going to be a problem for long. Not for me anyway.’

‘No.’

‘And anyway, I didn’t go through all of this to not eat.’

Meat slowly reddens. Fat drips down, sizzling. Mouths water.

Turning the rat is stressful. Its weight is uneven, making the bar flex dangerous and hot, scorching fingers despite the rags wrapped protectively around them. When it is done, two smiles shine, fierce in the firelight, each reflecting the other’s glory.

They wait again, stomachs growling, impatient.

The kid turns around on the spot once, then twice, then sits. Within minutes, he is asleep.

Vesper chews her lip. ‘Can I ask you something?’

‘Alright.’

‘When did you know you were going to be a Harmonised?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Well, you’re not that much older than me—’ Duet snorts, loud, but Vesper carries on. ‘You’re not that much older than me, maybe ten or fifteen years at most, and you have your role in the Winged Eye. I mean, you know what you’re supposed to be. There must have been a lot to learn. Did you start when you were my age or earlier?’

Light plays on Duet’s face, highlighting its oddities. ‘I was young when I knew. There were trials and tests that seemed to take forever. All children in the Shining City take them but I had extra ones for compatibility. The better I did, the more I got pushed.’

‘How old were you?’

‘They started when I was still in the tube but the first ones I remember happened when I was three. By then I already knew it was a possibility.’

‘When I was three I didn’t know anything. What did you have to do?’

She frowns. ‘What does it matter? You’re not going to become a Harmonised.’