Pure Dead Trouble Page 17

  Tock covered his eyes with his forepaws and gave a small honk of alarm.

  “Yes, dear. You'd make a useless criminal mastermind. Just as well I burnt the newspaper before those nice men from the fire brigade caught sight of it.”

  Tock gazed up at Mrs. McLachlan, his golden eyes moist with embarrassment. “I'm sorry,” he whispered. “It was all my fault. I thought we could earn some money to help with redecorating my moat. …” Struck by the thought that despite everything, his moat was still in a parlous condition, he groaned. “I wish I'd never drained it in the first place. If I hadn't pulled that stupid plug, none of this would have happened.”

  Pandora bent down, flakes of dried moat-slime falling off her arms as she wrapped them around the woebegone crocodile. “Pet lamb, if you hadn't pulled that stupid plug, Nonna and I would be dead by now. We couldn't have moved the plug in the moat ourselves, not from underneath. And if your moat hadn't drained out under the icehouse …” She shuddered at the thought of the fate she had so narrowly avoided. “I've never been so pleased to see mud and slime in my entire life.”

  “And I've never been so pleased to see anyone quite so filthy dirty as well,” Mrs. McLachlan said quietly. “When I saw the icehouse was locked from the outside, and both you and Titus had vanished, I realized that none of this would have happened if I'd been paying attention…. My dears, I'm afraid I haven't been the most attentive nanny of late…. ” Mrs. McLachlan's eyes prickled as she felt Pandora's hand slip into hers, and when Titus patted her awkwardly on her back, she had to turn aside to spare them the sight of her tears.

  In the embarrassed silence, they could all hear the murmur of voices coming from beyond the door to the kitchen. Pulling herself together, Mrs. McLachlan tucked Zander's black glass ball into her pocket and wiped the hand she'd clasped it in across her skirt.

  “This conversation never took place,” she said.

  “What conversation?” the beasts said in unison.

  “My woolly unwashed lips are sealed,” added Knot. Turning to Titus and Pandora, the nanny raised one eyebrow inquiringly.

  “Um, yes. Absolutely,” Titus gabbled. “In fact, I'm not even here right now.”

  Pandora jabbed him in the ribs. “Race you down to the loch, Invisible One?”

  She looked for confirmation that this was correct behavior and was rewarded with a wink from Mrs. McLachlan, whose lips were not sealed, but curved upward in a wide and conspiratorial grin.

  A Devil Dines Out

  he dining room at the Auchenlochtermuchty Arms was full of guests and, to his disgust, Isagoth was forced to wait until a table became free.

  “How long?” he demanded, leaning over the waitress with barely disguised irritation.

  “Terribly sorry about this,” she said, running a finger down the list of bookings. “We've had a wee bit of an unexpected rush tonight, sir. It's all those reporters up from London…. ”

  Isagoth suppressed a hiss of annoyance. He didn't want excuses, he wanted dinner. Right now. Then he wanted to get the job done.

  “It'll be in all the papers tomorrow…,” the waitress added.

  “What will? Dinner?” Isagoth snapped.

  She looked up at him, then, realizing he didn't know what she was talking about, attempted to explain. “Och, sir, I'm sorry. Have you just arrived in Auchenlochtermuchty? You won't have heard about the accident at the research station?”

  Isagoth toyed with the idea of turning her into the accident at the Auchenlochtermuchty Arms, then decided against it.

  “Awful it was, sir. Sirens, police, ambulances… and they say some people died —”

  “Indeed,” Isagoth interrupted. “Tragic. Sorry to hear that.” The demon's temper strained at the leash, growling to be released.

  Something of this must have shown in his eyes, because the waitress bent to the bookings register and plucked out a time from its pages. “Nine o'clock,” she said.

  Isagoth was about to protest when a horribly familiar voice rang out across the dining room.

  “Say, lady, could we have another jug of iced water over here? And what's keeping my steak? Has your maître d' gone to shoot it himself?”

  Isagoth closed his eyes and wished himself elsewhere. Hopefully he hadn't been spotted yet. There was probably still time to slip out of the dining room before— A giant hand descended on his shoulder and spun him around into a wave of garlic so pungent, he could feel his skin shrivel.

  “Say, Jolene, honey,” the American tourist yelled. “Lookee here. Guess who I've just run into? Well, feller, looks like you picked the right time to roll into town. All these newshounds buzzing around the big story, like a bunch of blowflies on— Sheesh, I should've guessed you were with the media, moment I clapped eyes on you.”

  To his utter dismay, Isagoth found himself being propelled across the crowded dining room, observed by tablefuls of people who made it their business to notice everything, no matter how trivial. Feeling about as transparent as a crystal ball at a psychics' convention, he fixed a rictus grin on his mouth and sat down, pressed into a chair by the irrepressible Lex.

  “Call me Lex, call me Sandy, call me anything you like, but just don't call me late for dinner,” Lex bawled, sloshing iced water into a glass for Isagoth and summoning the waitress to their table. “This one's on me,” he roared. “Jolene and me, we're celebrating tonight, so chow down. Have anything you like, friend. No expense spared… Here—take some of this garlic bread.”

  Isagoth nearly screamed out loud. Garlic? Was the man insane? Offering a demon garlic was the ultimate no-no in Hadean etiquette. It was about as welcome an offer as a stake—of the kind usually driven through hearts.

  “I'm allergic to ga-gag-garlic,” he managed to gasp, turning to the waitress and muttering, “I'll have the black pudding, followed by the black-faced lamb on black rice and, uh… black forest gâteau with black-currant ice cream.”

  “Will that be all, sir?”

  “Fetch me a decent drink. Johnny Walker Black Label. Just bring the bottle and a glass. I'll do the rest.” Might as well enjoy this, he thought, slumping resignedly in his seat and nodding to his American hosts. “Sssso,” he hissed, “what are we celebrating tonight?”

  Lex took a large bite of his garlic bread and proceeded to spray crumbs across the table as he regaled everyone within earshot. “Jolene and I, we're over the moon…we found our boy. Well, not exactly found him, you understand, but we know where he's holed up…taken us months…private investigators… attorneys…he fell in with bad company… first it was tree-hugging hippies, then it was a bunch of criminals…get him back home…try to find the right medication…normal life …”

  Isagoth wasn't paying attention. For one thing, Jolene's sneaker-clad foot was rubbing up and down against his leg, and for another, his cell phone was vibrating steadily in his breast pocket, so much so his left nipple was beginning to hurt.

  “Terribly sorry.” Isagoth stood up and pulled his cell phone from his pocket. “Excuse me for a moment while I take this call. Just, ah, start without me. I'll be back.”

  “Must be his editor,” Lex mumbled through a forkful of shrimp cocktail.

  “I just knew he was a reporter, moment I saw him,” Lex observed, over a mountain of grilled steak and fries.

  “Must be one heck of a big story he's working on. …” Lex sighed as the last morsel of cheesecake slid down his throat.

  One hour later, as they paid the bill, Lex and Jolene had to admit that they'd been stood up. Isagoth's dinner noir still sat on the table—cold, congealed, and all too visible. Of the demon, there was no sign.

  Pure Dead Romantic

  he first stars of evening were shining over Lochnagargoyle as Ffup crept across the meadow with a large wicker basket tucked under her wing. Pausing every so often to move the load to the opposite wing, she hoped the Sleeper would appreciate the magnanimity of her peace offering. She also prayed that the Strega-Borgias wouldn't notice that she'd plundered their
larder in order to make peace with her beloved.

  Ten jars of anchovies, four multipacks of canned tuna, an assortment of sardines, pilchards, salmon, and mackerel (also in cans), and one can opener…

  Ffup dropped the basket in the long grasses and suppressed a howl. She'd forgotten the can opener. She could even remember leaving it in the bathroom sink while she slapped some last-minute moisturizer on her scales… stupid, stupid, and stu—

  “Could you hurry it up, please?” a peevish voice complained. “I don't have all night, you know.” Tarantella clung to the lid of the picnic basket, her mouthparts gathered in a disapproving pucker. “At this rate,” she continued, “my daughters will be having babies of their own before I ever see them. It's vitally important I'm there when they hatch; learning begins at birth, you know. Who they see when they first open their eyes will affect them for the rest of their lives, will be their primary role model, and I want it to be me, not some passing lobster or, heaven forbid, a seagull…. ”

  “Right, I hear you,” Ffup groaned, heaving the basket aloft once more and striding down the little bramble-lined path while she muttered to the hitchhiking tarantula.

  “A bit of gratitude would've been nice,” she snorted. “It's not every spider that's allowed to gate-crash a romantic dinner for two.”

  Tarantella shuddered. “Oh, puhleeease, you dim dragoness. Tarantulas don't do romantic dinners for two. When will you get it through your scaly little head that we tarantulas only ever eat alone. When we invite a bloke over for dinner, we mean something completely different. When I say, ‘Come for dinner, darling,' I'm implying I'm the one with the appetite and he's the appetizer. Owwwww—don't slam on the anchors without warning. I nearly fell off.”

  Ffup had skidded to a halt on the pebbly foreshore, her eyes wide with wonder. All the way along the edges of the jetty were hundreds of lit candles, their flames burning steadily in the still air. A thick carpet of seaweed had been laid in a broad band along the shore and down the middle of the candlelit jetty like an illuminated runway leading out into the loch. The basket fell from Ffup's grasp with a crash, prompting a furious squawk from Tarantella. Oblivious, Ffup glided forward like a sleepwalker, the talons of her feet piercing the seaweed carpet and emitting faint squishing sounds as she walked. Giving a wail of horror, Tarantella tried to overtake the dragon, but by the time she reached her daughters, it was too late. All three hundred sixty-five of the tiny spiderlings were transfixed by the sight of Ffup and her Sleeper intertwined in the shallows by Titus's boat.

  “Ahhhhh,” they breathed as the dragon kissed her beloved.

  “Awwww,” they sighed as the Sleeper produced a vast diamond ring.

  “Out of the way, Mum, we can't see,” they complained as the Sleeper slid the ring onto the fourth talon of Ffup's left paw.

  Even when the three hundred sixty-five spiderlings let rip with rapturous applause from their combined 2,920 legs, the sound was barely audible. It was the faintest of sounds, the whisper of tiny hairy legs clapping against other tiny, equally hairy legs. To a trained ear such as Tarantella's, it sounded like the quietest, most discreet hiss. Had she not been so wrapped up in the events taking place out on the loch, Tarantella might have heard an echoed hiss coming not from the loch, but from an area of deep shadow several hundred meters down the foreshore. The faintest hiss of a demon who has finally laid eyes on his quarry.

  On the fourth talon of Ffup's left paw, the Chronostone shone like no diamond ever could. It glowed, it glittered, and it gleamed, but for the first time in its entire history, it was entirely outshone by the twin tears of sheer happiness that ran down Ffup's face and fell, unobserved, into the darkness of the loch.

  When the Feeling's Gone

  amp's unbroken weather spell continued to have a magical effect on the climate around StregaSchloss. While the rest of Argyll bemoaned the mist and gnats, Auchenlochtermuchty baked under blue skies and sunshine that toasted plants and people alike. So unusual was this weather that it shared the front page of the local paper, alongside the shocking news of the explosions at SapienTech.

  “Sometimes I despair of mankind,” Luciano groaned. “Listen to this, Baci. How's this for sensitive reportage?” He gulped a mouthful of coffee and, clearing his throat, began to read out loud.

  “‘AUCHENLOCHTERMUCHTY ROASTS IN HEAT WAVE. “It's not natural,” complains resident, calling for local government to install air-conditioning across homes in the region. “If we'd been meant to roast like this, we'd have been born with cooking instructions tattooed on our bums.” ' And then, Baci, right beside that piece of pointless reportage, we have, ‘SEVERAL FEARED DEAD AS FIRE SWEEPS FACTORY. The charred remains of two bodies were pulled from the—' ”

  “Stop!” Baci shrieked, grabbing the newspaper out of Luciano's hands and hurling it across the kitchen. “I can't bear to think about it—what nearly happened here …the icehouse, our children …” Her words turned into choking sobs, and she collapsed onto a chair, overcome with horror.

  “Cara mia.” Luciano leapt to his feet and wrapped his arms around his wife in seconds flat. “Listen to me. Nothing happened. Titus and Pandora were nowhere near the fire. All that we lost was a building—which we can rebuild, if need be. You must stop blaming yourself for this. It wasn't your fault.”

  “But—but if I hadn't dragged you off to Glasgow for a c-curreeeeee,” Baci wept.

  “Just because you had a sudden yen for fiery food does not make you an arsonist,” Luciano groaned. “That's a ludicrous idea, woman. It's as insane as saying…oh…like saying because you like blood sausage you must be a vampire.”

  Baci looked up, wiping her eyes and sniffing. “Did you say blood sausage?” She swallowed and managed a watery smile. “D'you know, Luciano, I could eat one of those raw, I'm so hungry…. ”

  Oh dear, Luciano thought, lord preserve us from pregnant women and their cravings. He was about to get up to make a token attempt at searching through the fridge, when the front doorbell rang.

  “Zander'll get that,” Baci decided, standing up and heading for the pantry. “Luciano, don't worry about the blood sausage. I've just remembered there's a jar of pickled eggs in here somewhere. I rather fancy a few of them with some ice cream if there's any in the freezer.”

  Pickled eggs and ice cream? Luciano grabbed the table for support. That was a combination he could hardly bear to imagine, let alone enjoy as a spectator sport. The doorbell rang again, this time in three peremptory bursts.

  “Where is that butler?” Luciano demanded, peering at his watch. “It's ten o'clock. He should have been up hours ago. We don't pay him to sleep…. ”

  “Don't worry, darling, it was his day off yesterday. He's probably slept in.” Baci reappeared, an open jar in one hand, half a pickled egg in the other. She chewed, swallowed, smiled blissfully, and opened her mouth to devour the other half. The doorbell began to ring without pause, and before Luciano had time to react, Baci dropped the pickle jar on the table, dumped the half-eaten egg beside it, and stormed off down the corridor.

  “I'm coming !” she yelled, infuriated by the incessant ringing. Reaching the front door, she hauled it open with such force it flew out of her hands and crashed back against the umbrella stand, sending walking sticks flying across the hall. On the doorstep, two complete strangers regarded her with expressions of polite confusion.

  “No thanks,” Baci managed. “Whatever you're selling, we don't want it. Please be good enough to close the gate properly behind you as you leave.” And, closing the door behind her, she'd just made it back to the kitchen when the doorbell rang once more. This time, Luciano answered, reasoning that it was better for all concerned to leave his wife guarding her eggs in peace.

  Five minutes later he was back, this time accompanied by the two apologetic strangers, who smiled nervously at Baci and stood shuffling inside the kitchen doorway until Luciano invited them to take a seat. Baci mashed an egg on top of her chocolate-chip ice cream and raised a spoonfu
l to her lips, before making an attempt to be hospitable.

  “So sorry,” she mumbled. “I'm always a bit of a witch before I've eaten breakfast. So… um, what are you selling? Double-glazing? Conservatories? Encyclopedias?”

  “Baci, cara mia, they're not selling anything. Mr. and Mrs. McHail are trying to find their son, Alex.”

  Baci blushed deeply and stood up to apologize. “Heavens. Forgive me. I'm horrified at myself. What a complete witch you must take me for—yelling and shutting the door in your faces like that. It's just that we do so tire of people ringing our doorbell and trying to offload stuff we neither want nor need. …” Baci lifted a hot-plate lid on the range and put the kettle on to boil. “Can I offer you some tea? Coffee?”

  “Baci …” Luciano closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Baci. Would you hush one moment and listen? Mr. and Mrs. McHail's son is…very unwell. His parents have come here all the way from America to try and persuade him to return home with them before…um, ah…”

  Mr. McHail leant across the table and patted Luciano's arm. “'Scuse me for butting in here, but I think your good lady here needs to hear it from the horse's mouth. Mrs. uh, Mrs. Sega—”

  “Please, call me Baci.” Signora Strega-Borgia smiled encouragingly.

  “Pleased to meet you, ma'am. I'm Lex and this here's my wife, Jolene. So, Back-shee, it's like this. Our son's in big trouble. Heck, ma'am, I can't remember a time when that boy wasn't in some kind of trouble or another. Right from when he was a little kid, he seemed to have a wild hair up his…” Lex coughed, shot a look of apology at his wife, and continued, “Seemed to us Alex was just wired up differently, and though we tried our darnedest, there was nothing his mom and I could do to change that. First, it was small stuff: getting kicked out of school, running away from home; but pretty soon it got much worse: getting into fights, stealing cars— and before we knew what was happening, the police were pitching up on our doorstep so often we could set our clocks by them. Well, see, Jolene and I, we're not the kind of folks to give up on a job halfway through, and we weren't about to give up on Alex without a fight. No way, ma'am. We ain't quitters, me and Jolene. Since the day that boy first got into bother with the law, we've tried to do our best by him. Psychiatrists, therapists, analysts, behaviorists, psychologists— you name it, we've paid for every ‘ist' you can think of and some that haven't even been invented yet.”