Pure Dead Brilliant (22 page)

Father of Lies

A
rriving back in Hades after his abrupt demise at StregaSchloss, the demon Astoroth was peremptorily debriefed, dumped in the limbo-tank for what felt like eons, and then rudely ejected to face the wrath of the Boss. Following meekly behind a lesser demon, the disgraced Second Minister from the Hadean Executive had plenty of time to consider exactly what form his punishment might take, and to hope fervently that his next incarnation wouldn't be a female one. Their labyrinthine passage through the corridors of Hades had taken even longer than usual, checkpoints and barriers appearing at every turn—each requiring him to fill out endless forms and questionnaires before he could proceed onward toward the upper levels where the Boss had his domain.

With each stop the paperwork grew more finicky and time-consuming; Astoroth was obliged to answer the same series of questions he'd just completed moments before. Moreover, all too keenly aware that he was in deep poo, he couldn't allow his temper to erupt and thus had to endure the leaky ballpoints and poor-quality paper that each set of forms required him to deal with. As soon as he laboriously filled in each of these, they were promptly shredded—unread—as an exercise in complete futility. Finally, after completing a particularly pointless forty-two-page questionnaire printed on what appeared to be gray blotting paper—with a blunt turkey feather dipped in raw sewage—
a distant door flew open at the end of the corridor ahead.

A blood-red figure emerged, crooked its finger at Astoroth, and said, “He's in a meeting, but if you'll just come in here and wait, I'll let him know you've arrived.”

Astoroth took a deep breath and stepped forward, inhaling the homely smell of hot iron and sulfur that coiled invitingly from behind the open door. The red demon stepped aside to allow access to the Boss's antechambers, then returned to his position behind a large obsidian desk. Ignoring Astoroth, he lowered his eyes to concentrate on a laptop—which, together with a black telephone and a watercooler, constituted the only items of a nonorganic nature in the room. The walls and carpet were made of woven human hair; this, in all its rich tonal and structural variety, gave the bizarre illusion of being trapped inside a giant fur-ball. The transparent watercooler was filled with virulent green liquid and little signs everywhere read

In obedience to this, the red demon extended a tray on which lay tobacco in all its various forms. Astoroth accepted a small cigar and bent his head to light it at one of the flames that burned continuously in little alcoves round the room. Coughing gratefully, he squatted on his haunches and waited to be summoned.

After what felt like several weeks, the black telephone rang and Astoroth found himself being ushered into the Presence. On trembling legs he walked through a door into a darkness so thick he could almost chew it.

“K
NEEL
,” came a command, and Astoroth fell to the floor
at once.

“G
ROVEL
,” the voice continued, adding, “M
ORE . . .
L
OWER . . .
U
P THE SELF-ABASEMENT FACTOR,
W
RETCH
.
”

Taking this last for an instruction, Astoroth obediently retched, gagged, and threw up on the floor. Immediately the lights came on, and he found himself kneeling on a glass floor, beneath which were rumored to burn the eternal fires of the Pit. At a glass table in front of him the Boss pushed his lunch aside with a groan. Snapping his fingers, the First Minister summoned an underling to deal with Astoroth's ejected stomach contents.

“T
ELL ME,
S
CUM, WHAT POSSIBLE EXCUSE DO YOU HAVE FOR LOSING MY PRECIOUS
C
HRONOSTONE?
”

“Um.” Astoroth swallowed. “Most Awesome Foulness, if you would just give me one more chance, I'll get it back for you. . . . Please, Master of the Pits, Earl of Earwax, allow me, your devoted slave, to perform this one last service for you—” Aware that he was groveling inexcusably, Astoroth grew silent.

“O
NE MORE CHANCE?
” The Boss considered this as he glared down to where Astoroth knelt, hands clasped in supplication. “O
NE MORE CHANCE?
Y
OU
'
RE FIRED, REMEMBER?
T
HIS IS
NOT
NEGOTIABLE.
Y
OU
'
RE NO LONGER
S
ECOND
M
INISTER FOR THE
H
ADEAN
E
XECUTIVE.
Y
OU
'
RE NOT EVEN A MINOR DEMON WITHOUT PORTFOLIO ANYMORE.
Y
OU
'
RE LOWER THAN A SUCCUBUS.
”

“I know,” Astoroth whimpered. “I've got the firepower of a soggy match and the bite of a gummy grandmother, but—give me another chance and I'll prove I'm not finished
yet. . . . Please? Pleassssse? Pretty please?” He crawled across the floor and prostrated himself.

“O
H, VERY WELL . . .
” The Boss sighed. “A
LTHOUGH,
I
WARN YOU, YOU
'
RE GOING TO FIND YOUR NEXT INCARNATION RATHER LESS LUXURIOUS THAN WHAT YOU
'
VE BECOME ACCUSTOMED TO OF LATE
—”

“M-M-Minister?” Astoroth quavered. “D'you mean I'm to
be reincarnated as a
servant
? Or as a
woman,
again? Or”—an awful possibility occurred to him—“or as a
child
? Oh please, no, not that—anything but that.”

The Boss stood up, wrapping a fur-lined cloak around himself, apparently unconcerned that the ambient temperature was hot enough to roast meat. He bent over Astoroth, purring in his ear, “D
ON
'
T WORRY,
S
CUM.
I
WON
'
T SEND YOU BACK AS A CHILD.
Y
OU WON
'
T BE A SERVANT, EITHER.
N
O
”—he gave a little mirthless snicker—“
NO, NO.
Y
OU
'
RE GOING BACK TO POOLS OF COOL WATER, A LIMITLESS FOOD SUPPLY, AND ENOUGH WILLING MEMBERS OF THE OPPOSITE SEX TO KEEP A RED-BLOODED CREATURE LIKE YOU HAPPY FOR A
LIFETIME. . . .
”

“Th-thank you, Minister,” Astoroth stammered, unable to believe his luck. Shaded swimming pools, endless banquets, and bags of nubile attendants? Suddenly the future looked so bright he was almost dazzled. He struggled to his feet, eagerly anticipating this promised incarnation—unfortunately forgetting that the prime requisite for becoming First Minister of Hades was the ability to lie through one's teeth.

4,748 Days Old

L
atch had removed Strega-Nonna from her freezer the night before Titus's birthday, and consequently the old lady sat defrosting by the warmth of the range, hopeful of being sufficiently thawed in time to wish her great-great-great-great-great-great-grandson many happy returns. Pandora stepped carefully around her, laying a birthday breakfast tray for Titus, the centerpiece of which was a large raspberry muffin steaming tantalizingly in the middle of a blue china plate. The muffin had remained deliciously warm ever since Pandora had borrowed it from the library a fortnight before, its name of Multiplimuffin giving some clue to its magical properties. Across the table, Signora Strega-Borgia nibbled at a piece of dry toast and willed her stomach to desist from its attempts to repel all boarders.

Mrs. McLachlan swept into the kitchen bearing an armful of dirty linen, mildewed black velvet corsets, gray bloomers, and dark stockings so full of holes they were unlikely to survive the laundering process. Damp followed solemnly behind, holding one decomposing sock at arm's length. The little girl halted in the middle of the floor, a wide smile appearing on her face as she caught sight of Multitudina, who was cleaning her whiskers at the open door to the wine cellar. The nanny dropped her bundle of grubby clothes on the floor next to the washing machine and began to sort through what was in need of immediate laundering. Producing a small collection of coins and tissues from various pockets and folds, Mrs. McLachlan stopped to unfold a crumpled piece of paper. After a cursory glance, she gave a disbelieving snort and threw it into the coal scuttle beside Pandora, who stood waiting for the kettle to boil.

“So what did it say?” Titus mumbled, spraying crumbs across his bed and watching in amazement as the Multiplimuffin spontaneously regenerated itself for the eleventh time, the gap where he'd taken a mouthful filling back in with warm and fragrant cake.

“It said something like,
Marry me, Signora. Let's make beautiful bambinos together. I may have the face of a rodent, but I have the bank account of an emperor. I await your reply c/o Hotel Baglione, Bologna, Italy.
”

“Eughhh.” Titus gagged. “Disgusting . . .”

“Not the Multiplimuffin, surely?” Pandora frowned. “I was assured that it would taste heavenly no matter how long we kept it for—”

“No. Heck no, it's perfect,” Titus hastily reassured her, taking another bite for emphasis and watching the muffin
miraculously regenerate. “No. It's that note to Mrs. McLachlan from our dirty old beast of an uncle. How dare he proposition
our
nanny? Anyway, she's far too old for that sort of thing—” He paused, then pleaded, “Isn't she?”

“I don't have a clue how old she is.” The continuing mystery of Mrs. McLachlan's exact age remained a closed book, one that Pandora suspected would remain so for years to come. “But even if she wasn't old, I'm sure she would never marry someone like Uncle Lucifer, no matter
how
rich he might be.” Pandora stood up and took the breakfast tray from Titus. “Come on, you. Enough muffin for now. Time for your swimming lesson.”

“Do I
have
to?” Titus collapsed backward onto his pillows. “Can't I have a day off? I mean, it is my birthday after all—”

Rolling her eyes, Pandora ignored him. Every morning was the same: a list of excuses, protests, and pleas for leniency, followed by Titus's reluctant arrival on the jetty. Then she would turn a deaf ear to his endless complaints about the earliness of the hour, the freezingness of the loch, and the hideousness of his swimsuit—until, exasperated by this daily litany, she would push him off the end of the jetty. After that, Titus was fine. Quite a willing pupil, in fact, she reminded herself, taking several thoughtful mouthfuls of the Multiplimuffin before tucking it into a napkin and hiding it behind a stack of computer manuals. She listened to the diminishing sound of her brother's footsteps and waited till she heard his voice drifting up from the garden below. Titus was ululating in a bad imitation of Tarzan as he ran across the meadow toward the loch, causing clouds of gnats to boil up into the still air, disturbed by his passage through the long grasses. Scratching reflexively, Pandora grabbed her towel and headed downstairs.

Dusk had drained the color from the surrounding mountains as the Strega-Borgias pronounced themselves replete. For a day in Argyll at the beginning of May, the weather had been positively Mediterranean, and thus the family and guests had lazed on the lawn and lochside after breakfast, nibbling until lunch, hung around for afternoon tea, and now, digesting dinner, were all too full to move. Even Signora Strega-Borgia had joined in, apparently overcoming whatever it was that had ailed her and devouring course after course of Titus's birthday banquet—badly prepared by Marie Bain and surreptitiously adjusted by Mrs. McLachlan.

There had been a few near-misses, the nanny thought, helping herself to a nectarine and remembering the tripe that she'd turned into trifle, not to mention the bacteria-laden sushi she'd been forced to transform into Sacher torte. . . . In addition to the cook's efforts, there had been bowls of tiny wild strawberries and dewy figs imported from the village of Luciano's birth, along with fat grapes to replace those destroyed by Fiamma d'Infer's wickedness in the greenhouse. A vast chocolate meringue cake had been reduced from its billowy heights to a tiny leftover sliver on a glass plate, and Knot was unashamedly licking the syllabub bowl clean, covering himself in primrose- yellow cream in the process. Hecate Brinstone had revealed a talent for baking bread, and her braided challah, marzipan-filled stollen, and crusty ciabatta had emerged from the depths of the range—causing Marie Bain to mutter bitterly into her soiled handkerchief as she ostentatiously buttered herself a stale slice of store-bought white.

Tock had caught a wild salmon, and under Sab's instructions had employed Ffup's fiery exhalations to smoke it whole, serving it up on a water-lily platter. Even Black Douglas had provided a black bombe, firing this ball of frozen chocolate ice cream out of one of the cannons protruding from the flank of his beautiful boat. He aimed the edible missile at the meadow, where it floated down on a tiny parachute to be retrieved, regrettably decorated with a powdering of flailing gnats, by Knot, who had assumed the insects to be animated vanilla seeds.

“Coffee?” groaned Signor Strega-Borgia, loosening his belt to its final notch, and praying that the walk to the kitchen wouldn't cause his stomach to explode. “Coffee, and then your birthday present, Titus?”

“We'll leave you to it,” Black Douglas said, climbing slowly to his feet and yawning widely. “We have to pack up and get ready to sail tomorrow,” and taking this as their cue, the student witches began to gather their belongings, bidding each other sleepy good-nights as they trailed effortfully toward the house in Signor Strega-Borgia's wake.

In the silence of the wine cellar, Luciano retrieved one of his precious bottles of Barolo and one each of elderflower champagne and peach nectar. He placed these in a waiting picnic hamper along with some crystal glasses and Titus's birthday cake. Heading into the kitchen, he was rummaging in the cutlery drawer for a corkscrew when he became aware that he was being watched. Looking up, he noticed a strangely dressed woman peering at him through tottering piles of dirty dishes. Signor Strega-Borgia blinked. Had he missed one? Was this one of Baci's colleagues he'd somehow managed to overlook during the previous week?

The stranger smiled and removed her tricorned hat by way of greeting. “At
last,
” she said, in evident relief. “Perhaps you can help—”

Luciano stared. The stranger was dressed like a coachman straight out of a fairy tale, with white wig and knee breeches adding to the overall effect.

“Um . . . I don't think we're interviewing for staff at the moment,” he murmured, wondering where on earth this vision had appeared from.

“I don't want a
job,
” the stranger sighed. “I want to go back to being a rat again.” Seeing Luciano's expression instantly change from one of slight confusion to total bewilderment, she explained, “I'm
Multitudina
. You know? Your house-rat? Mother of multitudes, including Terminus? Pandora's trainer? The Illiterat? Oh, come
on—
”

“Lovely . . . ,” Luciano mumbled, backing out of the kitchen, convinced that he was conversing with a madwoman. “Sorry, must dash—”

Eavesdropping halfway along the corridor, Astoroth was almost as confused as Signor Strega-Borgia. Upon arrival back at StregaSchloss, newly reincarnated as an insect, he'd been dismayed to find that the Chronostone was nowhere to be seen. He could have sworn it had been under the grandfather clock in the great hall; this sighting was backed up by the fact that he'd seen the dragon's blood fluoresce just before taking a
bullet in his rear end. But now, to his dismay, not only was there no clock, but the stone appeared to have vanished, too. To add to his difficulties, the Boss hadn't lied about the presence
of thousands of willing members of the opposite sex. . . . Everywhere Astoroth went there appeared to be millions of leering males, baring their teeth and waggling their proboscises in a truly loathsome fashion. The promised pools of cool water turned out to be stagnant puddles—and thus far, the guaranteed food supply that had been part of the job description had failed to materialize, and Astoroth was
ravenous
. Caught in the draft caused by Luciano's hasty passage along the corridor, the reincarnated demon found himself being swept out the front door and straight into the company of all the Strega-Borgias, beasts, and staff, who had assembled on the lawn to witness Titus opening his birthday present.

“Most extraordinary . . . ,” Luciano muttered, laying his hamper down on the grass. “Do you know I just found a complete stranger in our kitchen claiming that she's our house-rat, Multitudina? Not only that, but she appears to be dressed like a coachman out of
Cinderella
. . . . Baci, is she one of yours?”

Signora Strega-Borgia was staring at Damp. So, too, were Pandora and Mrs. McLachlan. Looking up from the pages of her picture book, Damp realized that she was the focus of their attention, and her bottom lip popped out in protest. Wishing to avoid tears before bedtime, Mrs. McLachlan scooped her up and turned to Titus.

“Right, laddie,” she said. “Time for your blindfold.”

“What?” groaned Titus. “What's going on?”

The nanny produced a clean tea towel from the picnic hamper and bid Titus tie it round his eyes. Once blindfolded, Titus was carefully led by Signor and Signora Strega-Borgia across the meadow, down the bramble-clad path, and out onto the jetty, by which time he was growing understandably nervous.

“Please, not
more
swimming?” he begged. “Really. I've done my bit for today, haven't I, Pan?” He stood swaying at the end of the jetty until Mrs. McLachlan stepped forward to put him out of his misery.

“You can remove the blindfold now, pet,” she whispered.

Fumbling with the knotted tea towel, Titus wondered what his family was up to. Nearby he could hear the tide lapping at the pebbly beach and, from the sound underfoot, he knew he was standing on the jetty, but why was he here? He blinked in the light of the twilit sky, its lilac reflections scattered across Lochnagargoyle, the blindfold falling unnoticed at his feet.

“Oh yes . . . ,” he breathed, catching sight of what waited for him, bobbing gently in the water. “Oh yes—oh YES—OH YESSSSSS!”