Poison City (14 page)

All perfectly normal.

But then, as these people, chatting, laughing, shouting, get to around twenty metres behind me, they go quiet. A lull in life as Armitage used to call it.

I know what that is. It’s the uneasy silence that generates around Joe Public when they experience something . . . 
other
. Like – to take an example entirely at random – when an orisha is following me.

The normals don’t see whatever it is, but they can feel it. Hence the uneasy silence that opens up, then drops away again as they pass by.

I slow my pace. Maybe not the brightest move, but I’m trying to think what to do. I don’t want to lead whatever it is back to my flat. It’s the only place I’ve got, and if it gets trashed then I’ll be out on the street.

I’ve got my wand with me.
Never leave home without it, Harry Potter
, was Armitage’s command. And later, when I still hadn’t found a replacement focus,
Seriously. I know it’s hideously embarrassing for you, but don’t leave home without it. You’ll thank me one day.

I did indeed thank her as I pulled it out of my pocket and reversed it, laying it up along my forearm.

I draw level with the Southern Sun hotel. Faux marble steps leading up to glass doors. I look around, getting desperate. Too many people for a confrontation here. Need to take this off-grid.

I cross the street, giving the finger to a taxi driver who decides to pull out right in front of me. I dodge around his bumper, taking the opportunity to glance over my shoulder as I do so.

Something there. A patch of movement in the shadows. An indistinct figure. Big. At least seven feet tall. Pedestrians flow around it like a stream around a rock.

On the other side of the street is the main thoroughfare of the Golden Mile, a twenty-feet-wide esplanade where people stroll and rollerblade and walk their dogs. I jog across the sand-dusted concrete then hop over the low wall onto the beach itself. My feet sink into the sand. There’s an old pier about a hundred metres to my right. The pilings are cloaked in darkness. No pubs or restaurants facing it. That will have to do.

I’m not sure whether to run or just stroll casually. Strolling implies I haven’t spotted my tail, so hopefully whatever it is will give me time enough to get to cover. The flip side of that is that they might be sprinting directly for me at that very moment.

My neck prickles at the thought. My ears are straining, hyper alert, listening for the slightest sounds of footprints in the sand. The water is a constant woosh and sigh to my left. The moon is full, the tips of the waves glowing white. I can see ships far out in the ocean, lights twinkling, waiting for their turn to be pulled into the harbour.

I wipe my sweaty hands on my jeans, then grip the wand again. I don’t want to draw any attention, so I’m thinking anti-light, kind of like a reverse fire. It burns cold but doesn’t let off any visible fireworks.

I call up the sequence of conjuration in my mind, feeling the shinecraft building up in my chest. It feels like you’re on speed, a tightness, a rapidity, an . . . awareness of everything. My scalp tingles, the sensation flowing down my body like a shower of electrified sand. At the same time I can feel my surroundings being leached of power as I suck in energy from the world around me.

The pilings are about twenty feet away now and I see they’re not the traditional kind that I can hide behind or use for cover. These pilings are concrete and are actually joined together without any gaps between them. I’m actually leading myself into a trap.

Shit.

I can’t help it. I glance over my shoulder.

The huge shadow is loping towards me, bent over on all fours. Others come behind it, creatures I can’t quite make out that are moving with an odd jerky gait.

I fling my hand out and unleash some of the power. Dark tendrils of black lightning burst out of the wand. The air freezes as the tendrils shoot towards the creatures, mist exploding into being, then dissipating in the humid air.

I make it to the pilings and whirl around, the wand held ready before me.

Only then do I falter.

When I see what’s coming for me.

It’s a Matchstick Man. That’s what we call them. Real name
Mpakafo
 – or heart stealer. Another tribe of vampire.

Over seven feet tall, limbs thin and abnormally long. The creature’s skin is pallid white and blotchy, like dirty marble. The colour of its eyes are reversed. White pupils in black.

The Mpakafo is wearing an old-fashioned velvet suit – dark purple or black, hard to tell in the light. But the suit is too small for it, the sleeves pulled up past the forearms.

And behind it, the creatures with the odd gait, are Smilers –
Aigamucha
. Again, vampires. They have no eyes in their heads. Their mouths are massive, ugly slits. Wounds that almost slice their heads in two.

I say no eyes in their heads, and that’s true. But they have eyes in the soles of their feet. That’s why their gait is so odd. They’re walking on their hands, their feet raised up before them so the eyes can see where they’re going.

One by one they put their feet down into the sand, rising up to their full height. I can hear snuffling sounds coming from the black holes in their faces where their noses should be. They’ve caught my scent. They don’t need their eyes any more.

Christ. I should have kept the tattoos for today. Looks like I might need them more than I did at the hospital. That’s the problem with calling the dragons. They weaken my will, my life force. If I summon them again so soon after the last time, they’ll defeat me. I won’t have the power to send them back.

Of course, there’s always the off chance that this is some kind of social call, that the creepy snuffling vampires might need Delphic Division’s help with something.

‘Anything I can do for you?’ I ask.

The Matchstick Man edges forward in a jerky motion. ‘Where is it, Mr Tau?’ it says.

‘Can you be a bit more specific?’

The Smilers have spread out in a line so that I can’t get past them. I’m trapped. Five Smilers and a Matchstick man. These are odds I’m not going to walk away from. Even if the dog was here, we’d still get our arses handed to us on a plate. It’s just a simple matter of numbers. I have a horrible, terrifying feeling I’m about to join Armitage.

‘Specific. Yes. We would very much like to have the soul, if you please.’

I blink. ‘Soul?’

‘The soul, that is correct, yes please.’

I have to admit, I’m stumped. I have absolutely no idea what it’s talking about.

‘Do you want my soul?’ I ventured. ‘Because I’m pretty attached to it.’

‘No please. The soul you very much know we would like yes.’

I wait, still none the wiser.

‘The ramanga’s soul, yes please. That is the one we seek, yes.’

The Smilers shift slightly at the mention of the ramanga.

‘Listen, mate. I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘This is . . . displeasing to us,’ says the Mpakafo.

And then, with a suddenness that I’m totally unprepared for, it lunges forward, crossing the fifteen feet between us before I can even raise the wand above my waist.

A blow to my chest. Air sucked out of my lungs. Flying through the air, then I smack into the concrete pilings. Light explodes behind my eyes. I hear a crack. Not sure if it’s my back or a rib. Blood trickles down my neck where my head hit.

I fall into the water. Slump forward. Try to steady myself. The water comes halfway up my forearm. Cold wet sand beneath my fingers.

Still, I manage to hold onto the wand. That’s something.

I shake my head. Little flashes of white erupt before my eyes. Hands on my shirt, yanking me out of the water.

‘Where is the soul?’ asks the Mpakafo.

Before I even get a chance to respond, it flings me back towards the beach, sending me straight into the pack of Smilers.

I hit the sand and roll a few times. Look up. See the moon, suddenly eclipsed by the faces of the Smilers as they come for me. I bring the wand up, release the anti-light. It writhes out of the wand like diseased lightning, wrapping itself around the closest Smiler.

It stumbles back with the black tendrils locking around its face like a scene from
Alien
. I release more bolts, sending them randomly around me as I struggle to my feet.

A flashing, cutting pain in my back. An explosion of red hot agony. I cry out, stumble around and see a Smiler holding a long strip of skin with a layer of fat still attached. I stare incredulously as it eats it, black tongue darting out to fork my skin into its mouth.

‘That’s my fucking skin!’ I scream.

I pump bolts into the creature. It wails and falls back onto the sand, its whole body shuddering and twitching as the anti-light leeches life (or un-life) from its body.

Something grabs my left arm, yanking it back. I hear the bone break, cry out in agony. I’m whirled around by my broken arm. I scream. It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt. I’m convinced my arm is about to come away from my shoulder and fall to the sand. I’m shoved back and forth a few times then released to stumble back into the water, arm hanging uselessly at my side.

I stare dumbly as the Smilers and the Matchstick Man walk slowly towards me. I fire more anti-light, but it’s weaker. No power left. (Magic is directly proportional to the strength of the user.) The Matchstick Man bats the writhing blackness away. It hits the sand and fuses a patch to black glass.

I know I’m done. I can’t win this fight. This isn’t an underdog movie where the hero finds an inner strength he didn’t know he had. This is real life, and I’m outnumbered, fucked over, and about to die, and there’s not a thing I can do about it.

Knowing this brings a certain curious calm. Was this how Armitage felt? I always thought there would be panic, a maelstrom of regrets and fears. But all I have is . . .

. . . wait.

Ah. Not calm. That’s going away now, replaced by . . .

Anger.

Fury.

‘Fuck you, you toothy bastard,’ I mutter. ‘I will not die today.’

I charge the Matchstick Man. I summon the last of the power and the black lightning surges into the Matchstick Man’s chest. It sinks into his skin, disappearing.

The Matchstick Man stops walking. It makes a curious sound, like a child’s whimper.

‘This is . . . not pleasing,’ it whispers.

The Smilers stop moving, turning to face their leader, their body language radiating fear, uncertainty.

I almost feel a tiny sliver of hope. Maybe this
is
like every underdog movie from the eighties. Maybe I’ll defeat the bad guys and Becca will come back to me and we’ll live happily ever after. Maybe I’ll get out of this after all.

Then the Matchstick Man opens its mouth and the black lightning crawls out and flops to the sand like a dead spider. As one, the Smilers turn in my direction, smiling hideous, bloody smiles.

Then again. Maybe not.

The Smilers snarl and leap at me. All I see is wide open mouths and serrated teeth. Then I’m pushed to the ground. Water pouring over my face, up my nose. I choke, try to fight. The Smilers snap at me like dogs. Worrying at my flesh, pulling small chunks loose, getting the blood flowing. I’ve still got my wand. I lash out with shinecraft, feel weak lighting trying to push the Smilers away.

A barked command from the Matchstick Man. The Smilers jerk away, hurry to stand behind their leader, crouching down and fawning, reaching up to hesitantly touch its velvet suit.

I turn in the shallows, try to crawl away. I’m too weak. I’m losing blood. My arm is broken.

And I’m a bit impressed to realize I’m still trying to come up with a plan. Looking for a way out. That’s me. Good old London Town. Always looking for the angle.

I realise I’m pulling myself deeper into the sea. The water flows over my head. I rise up. Choking. Spitting. Then a wave hits me in the face and I’m back under. Struggling. Fighting the current.

Why do you fight me, child?

The darkness folds over me and I’m suddenly hanging in eternal nothingness. Pitch dark water, deep and ancient. It’s all around me. I’m swallowed up by it.

A lithe, dark-skinned woman floats before me. She’s naked, her dark hair floating around her full face.

I wonder if I’m dead. If this is the final vision of a brain starved of oxygen.

Who are you?
I don’t speak, but somehow she hears my words.

I am Yemanja,
says the woman.
You are in my home.

Yemanja? I mentally flick through my internal catalogue of gods. Yemanja is an orisha of water and rivers.

Bit far from your patch, aren’t you?

All rivers flow to the sea.

Fair enough.

Can you help me?

That depends. How would you have me help you?

I rack my mind for any information regarding vampires. I didn’t have to think long.