The Black Tattoo (29 page)

"
Ashmon
," the Scourge went on, "
is for attack.
 
He will assume the shape and properties of any weapon you can imagine
."

"Not in here, though," put in Godfrey quickly.
 
"Yes, practice with them
later
."

"
You will find, Charlie
," said the Scourge, "
that a steady purpose and a strong will are not all that are required to rule.
 
Sometimes
—"

Hiss, flick, WHAM!

An object like a three-foot-long black javelin had struck, quivering, in the wall behind Godfrey, some three millimeters to the right of his left ear.
 
The javelin thing remained in the wall for another moment, then melted as Ashmon reassumed his ferret shape and scampered back to his place on Charlie's right hand.

"Eep," said Godfrey.

"
Sometimes
," said the Scourge, "
you have to
act
."

"Coooooool," said Charlie.

"
You may go out into the passage and get used to each other.
 
Godfrey and I have to talk.
"

"Sure," said Charlie.
 
He was up and out of the door in about a nanosecond.

The demon and the librarian turned to face each other.

"So," said God. "How've you, ah — been?"

"
Much better, thank you
," said the Scourge.
 
"
Now
."

"It's, er, nice to see you!" said the librarian with obvious effort.

"
Really
?"

"Yes," said God.
 
"Yes, of course it is!
 
Er, why wouldn't it be?"

"
I didn't think you would've expected to see me again
," said the Scourge slowly.
 
"
My return from exile on that little... experiment of yours must be something of a shock to you, I would imagine
."

"Wh-what do you mean?" asked God.

The demon didn't answer.

"N-now hold on just a second!" said God, stammering again.
 
"You know perfectly well that I had nothing to do with what happened to you — nothing whatsoever!
 
You were exiled on Earth because no one knew the place existed, but it might just as well have been anywhere!
 
You were bound by a power far greater than mine, as you well know, so
how
you could even
think
that I—

"
Godfrey
," said the Scourge, "
shut up
."

God did as he was told.

The Scourge planted its liquid hands on the desk:
 
they pooled there, at the end of its arms, glinting green in the light from the lamp.
 
"
If I knew for certain
," it began, leaning over the man in the chair.
 
"
If I had so much as a shred of proof, Godrey, that you had anything to do with my imprisonment on that world you created — do you know what I'd do to you
?"

God looked up at it.

"N-no," he said.

"
No
," echoed the Scourge.
 
"
You don't.
 
But believe me, it would be far from pleasant.
 
After all, I've had a very long time to work it out
."

There was a pause.

"So," said God.
 
"Oh, dear."

"
With that human boy as my vessel
," said the Scourge, gesturing out toward the passageway, "
I will kill the current Emperor and take my rightful place on the throne.
 
Then, Godfrey, I will do what I originally set out to do
."

"But surely," said God, "you
can't
still want to—?"

"
I will awaken the Dragon
," the Scourge told him, "
and the Dragon will destroy the universe.
 
All Creation shall be returned to the Void, and pure emptiness will reign once more
.

"
And this time
," it added, standing up, "
nothing is going to stop me
."

THE PATH OF VENGEANCE

Esme had lived above the theater her whole life.
 
She knew every inch of it, every creak in every floorboard.
 
The Sons of the Scorpion Flail had set sentries in case she came back, but they might as well not have bothered:
 
Esme move through the passageways like a ghost, in silence and darkness.

Look in my room
, Raymond's voice echoed.
 
There's something for you.

Part of Esme had been expecting that Raymond's room might have changed somehow.
 
But of course it looked exactly the same.

It was full of him.
 
Full of memories.
 
There was his regimental photo from his SAS days, taken so long ago now that the Raymond in that picture was almost unrecognizable.
 
Above that were his certificates from his years of brutal budo training with the Tokyo Riot Police.
 
In the corner by the wardrobe, his outsized practice armor stood like the abandoned carapace of some giant insect that had molted and moved on.

She found what she was looking for easily enough, under the bed.

It was a rectangular narrow flight case — black, with steel-reinforced corners.
 
The case was four feet long, a foot wide, and six inches deep.

When you're ready, when you know what to do, you
use
it
.

Esme flipped the catches.
 
As she lifted the lid, she was holding her breath.
 
For a moment, she stared at what she saw, eyes wide, drinking it in.
 
Then, still hardly daring to breathe, Esme reached into the case and lifted out what it contained.
 
A strange sensation of pleasure spread up her arms and shivered through her whole body as she felt its weight.

At first glance, it looked a lot like her training sword — her bokken.
 
The scabbard was made of the same plain, dark wood, and the overall dimensions of the sword were exactly the same too.
 
But there was something unusual, she noticed, about the sword's tsuba.
 
The disc of metal, which divides your opponent's blade from simply sliding down yours and wounding your sword hand, was thicker than usual:
 
a flat but solid-looking gold-colored lump, four inches in diameter at its widest points, cast roughly, but clearly, into the unmistakable shape of...

"A butterfly," said Esme aloud — and for a moment, then, she almost lost it.

Don't be soft
, said Raymond's voice in her head.
 
Put it on
.

With a hard sniff, Esme slung the sword across her back.
 
She adjusted the strap until it fit snugly and the grip lay close to her right hand.
 
Then, reaching up without looking, Esme released the small catch that held the guard against the scabbard.
 
It gave out a soft but deeply satisfying
click.

In a fluid movement, she drew the sword.
 
The soft hiss as it slid from the sheath was followed by a high, singing hum as the blade reverberated.

"Oh," she said.
 
"Oh, Dad.
 
It's beautiful."

Turning her wrists, she let the light from Raymond's bed-side lamp play along the sword's edge.
 
The warm glare traced the length of the blade from guard to tip:
 
two feet eight inches of cold curved steel.

It was a pigeon sword — formed by Raymond's own peculiar process.
 
For extra strength, it had been ground down and reshaped —
Seven times is my record
, she remembered him saying.
 
It was the life's work of a master swordsmith, and it had been created just for her.

She let the sword dip once, twice in the air, in tiny, controlled chopping movements.
 
The weapon, as Raymond had no doubt planned, was fractionally lighter than her training sword:
 
it felt absolutely right in her hands.

"How do I look?" Esme asked aloud.

Deadly
, Raymond's voice replied fervently.
 
Bloody
deadly.

The tears were coming freely now, but she smiled.

Less than two minutes later, she was back on the theater's roof.
 
She unhooked the latch on the pigeon coop and flung it open.
 
Esme stood there and watched the birds go:
 
an explosion of wings, clattering off into the London night.
 
Then, when she was ready — when she'd fully accepted that she (like the birds) might never come back — she followed them, dropping away into the dark.

By the time the Sons of the Scorpion Flail even got the door to the roof open, she was long gone.

*
       
*
       
*
       
*
       
*

"Esme, listen to me," Felix was saying presently, as they approached the ludicrous cream-colored pillars outside the Light of the Moon, the pub that was a gateway to Hell.
 
"I've got to say, I'm really,
really
not sure about this.
 
I mean, quite apart from the whole idea of you going on your own, I..."
 
He winced inwardly, hearing the sound of his own voice.
 
"Well, I don't know what it is you think
I
 
can do."

Esme wasn't even looking at him.
 
She had her hands on the heavy padlock that held the pub's wide glass doors locked tight.
 
There was a soft click.
 
The padlock fell open.

"You're right about my never being fully freed," Felix went on, "but if you think there's enough of the Scourge left inside me to help you open the Fracture, then—"

"Come on," Esme said, and set off into the darkness beyond.

Felix sighed heavily and followed.

The pub had closed only a few hours before, and it stank, but it wasn't this that was making Felix uncomfortable.
 
He was remembering the horror of the last time he had come here.
 
The night when — through him — the Scourge had almost triumphed; the night when the woman he loved had died.
 
Even in the dark, his footsteps led him unerringly on.
 
Felix felt sick in his heart.

"Here," said Esme.

Felix put out a hand, and icy cold slid down his arm.
 
There it was; the same cold space in the air, just above waist level.
 
Beside him, he heard Esme take a deep breath.

"Ready?" she asked.

"Not really," said Felix.
 
"No."

"Well, we're doing it anyway.
 
Go
."

The both closed their eyes.

For six long seconds, nothing happened.
 
Felix felt a stir of hope and relief.
 
Perhaps the dreadful power that had taken him over all those years ago was really gone:
 
perhaps there was nothing of it left inside him.
 
"There," he was about to say.
 
"Now let's go home."

But then, quietly at first, the whole room started to hum.

It was a sound that seemed to come from everywhere.
 
The air thickened, tightening around them like polyethylene; then an eggshell-thin line of ruby-red light was appearing just in front of where he and Esme were standing.
 
The crack in the air began to widen, revealing the freezing whiteness beyond.
 
And in another moment...

It was done.
 
The Fracture was open.
 
All too easy.

Esme opened her eyes.
 
Then she looked down at her hands.

"Esme?" said Felix.

"What?"

"The Fracture," said Felix, gesturing.
 
"I didn't do anything."

"What do you mean?" Esme asked him.
 
"It's open, isn't it?
 
Maybe you did it without realizing."

"No," he replied.
 
"I'm sure I — well, I think you did it by yourself."

They looked at each other.

"Esme," he began, "I—"

Esme cut him off.
 
"Felix, if you're going to start telling me all that stuff about all my power coming from the Scourge again, then I don't want to hear it.
 
All right?
 
I know you don't want me to go.
 
But I have a job to do."

She adjusted the strap that held the pigeon sword on her back.
 
She checked the elastic bands holding her hair in place:
 
they hadn't moved.
 
She squared her shoulders and turned to face the gateway to Hell.

"Esme, wait!" said Felix.

"Goodbye, Felix," she told him.
 
Already she was moving.
 
She took one more deep breath, and she—

"FREEZE!" yelled another voice — one that definitely didn't belong to Felix.

She turned.
 
The Fracture had lit up the whole room, which was now filling up with some forty armed men.
 
It was the Sons of the Scorpion Flail.
 
At last, it seemed, they had caught up with her.
 
Esme blinked, and her chest and belly lit up with the bright red spots of laser sights as the men took aim.

"Wait, mademoiselle!"
 
Number 3, the scar-faced man she'd spoken to before, was standing at the top of the steps:
 
his mask was still off and his eyes were wild.
 
"We can 'elp you!" he shouted again.

Esme just smiled grimly.
 
No one could help her.
 
She turned her back — on the men, on Felix, and on the world.
 
She stepped into the freezing white light, feeling it take her—