Pure Dead Batty Page 7

  “You what?” Sab’s tone was incredulous, aghast at the prospect of eating such vile substances.

  “Oh, puhleease.” Ffup emitted a massive sigh, which had the unfortunate effect of turning the raspberry ripple ice cream into a steaming puddle of what looked like plasma with added blood clots. “How many times do I have to tell you?” she continued, stamping round Pandora in a little circular tantrum. “How. Many. Times? I don’t do carbohydrates. Look—scones equal carbohydrates: yuck. Bread—ditto: yuck. Rancid ice cream—ditto: yuck—”

  “I disagree,” mumbled Knot, belching discreetly behind one matted paw. “Both of those dittos were not yuck, they were delic—”

  “Chocolates. I can’t eat them,” Ffup moaned. “Vegetables, assorted, moldering from back of fridge—nope. Even if I could, I wouldn’t. I mean, what are these slops? Are you out of your mind? Do you really expect me to desecrate the temple of my body with this leftover junk? What do you take me for? A waste-disposal unit? A wild beast?” The dragon broke off, poked Pandora in the chest with a knobbly talon, and then continued her rant. “And beans? BEANS? Did you remember the can opener? I don’t think so. So, great hunter-gatherer, just how are we supposed to open these cans? Hey, guys, hope you’re not too famished. Breakfast may take a while. Especially since we have to gnaw our way through its metal packaging—”

  “Calm down, Ffup.” Sab attempted to lay a restraining claw on his fellow beast’s shoulder, but Ffup had now gone past the point of no return.

  “WHAT DO YOU TAKE ME FOR?” she shrieked, flames now popping coyly out of her vent, each eruption causing the dragon to wince, blush, and then continue unabated. “I’M A DRAGON, IN CASE THAT FACT HAD ESCAPED YOUR NOTICE. AND THE ONLY TINNED FOOD MY KIND HAVE EVER EATEN IS KNIGHTS IN ARMOR—”

  “That’s not strictly true,” Sab interrupted, narrowing his eyes at Ffup, who stood, chest heaving, fanning herself with a cabbage leaf she’d plucked from the pile of beast rations. The griffin padded across the dungeon and whispered in the dragon’s ear, much to Pandora’s annoyance. “Pssspss the caravan, remember? It was a pssst kind of can, wasn’t it? And, boy, was it packed full of tasty morsels. Prsss? Those big, mean Glaswegians? Hsss, psss, whsspsss.”

  “It’s rude to whisper,” Pandora pointed out, picking up two cans of beans and marching across the dungeon to where Knot sat alone, idly examining his fur for edible content. The yeti gazed at her, peering through the tangled hairy clumps that fringed his eyes.

  “Look, pet,” Pandora said. “Self-opening snacks. Simply pull on this metal ring, and behold—dinner is served. Here, you try.”

  Knot blinked, peered at the offered can of beans, and reached out to grasp it. He turned the can over in his paws, shook it, sniffed deeply, and then tipped it straight down his throat, regrettably still in its full metal jacket. Pandora stifled a wail and rolled her eyes in despair. As a teach-the-beasts self-sufficiency lesson, it had been a disaster. However, this had not been her only reason for visiting the dungeons.

  “Look here. I have something really important to show you.” Pandora pulled an envelope from the waistband of her jeans and, realizing that she was being utterly ignored, raised her voice. “Hello? Could you pay attention for a minute?” She removed a wallet of photographs from the envelope and began to pass them round. In such vast paws the photographs looked like postage stamps, and the beasts squinted at the tiny images like myopic great-aunts attempting to read the contraindications on an unfamiliar brand of laxative.

  “Where is this?” Ffup hissed, bringing the photograph so close to her face that she was in danger of accidentally inhaling it. “It looks like an island. And who’s he? He’s so … familiar. Why do I feel I’ve seen him before? Do we know him?” she demanded imperiously. “And what’s with that boat? It’s a wreck—there’re holes all over it—”

  “When was this taken?” Sab demanded, his acute intelligence cutting straight to the heart of the matter. “Ah, there. It’s date-stamped in the corner—bother, the print seems blurred or something. I can’t make out the numbers.”

  “Mrs. McLachlan’s shoes are in this picture,” Knot mumbled, holding up another photo for group inspection. “I used to love those shoes. They tasted delicious.”

  Bizarrely, this comment made Pandora fling her arms around the yeti’s unsanitary neck and hug him tight. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she babbled, her voice muffled in yeti fur. “I needed to check. I thought they were hers, but I wasn’t one hundred percent sure. Look at the date-stamp on this one, Sab.”

  The griffin peered at the photo in Knot’s paw and inhaled sharply. “Yesterday?” he asked, visibly confused.

  Pandora nodded and passed across another photograph. “I wish I knew what was going on. I can’t even begin to understand.” She watched as the beasts examined a picture of a pair of men’s lace-up boots propped against a rock. At least, that’s what Pandora thought they were, but admittedly it was hard to tell, since the photograph appeared to have been taken at night.

  “No flash,” she muttered, passing over another one, this time taken in broad daylight. “Date-stamped in two days’ time,” she pointed out, trying to sound airily unconcerned. “Perhaps it’s a photo-premonition; perhaps my camera takes pictures of things that haven’t happened yet.…” She trailed off, waiting for the beasts to react to this new picture. This one was of a man sitting with his back to the camera, his head in his hands, like a charades player miming the word headache. Diagonally opposite him, Damp was pointing upward, her mouth curved in a smile, while beside her Mrs. McLachlan was draping items of clothing over a rock.

  “It’s like a glimpse into the future, if such a thing were possible,” Pandora muttered.

  “B-b-but l-look here.” Ffup’s voice was growing more shrill as the evidence piled up. “Who … who … too-too-took—?”

  “Have you turned into an owl?” Sab demanded peevishly. “For Pete’s sake, get a grip. You’re a dragon, remember? Not some kind of wee, sleekit, cow’rin’, tim’rous beastie.”

  Ffup fixed Sab with a malevolent glare, took a deep shuddering breath, turned back to Pandora, and tried again. “Who took this photograph?” she whispered, her eyes as round and wide as soup plates. “Who? You said it wasn’t you, and you don’t even know where it was taken—I mean, where it will be taken, since it’s in the future and hasn’t happened yet.… And it’s got the same man in it—the same one as in the other photos, the man I’m sure I’ve seen before.… And what’s Damp doing, and … and …” Suddenly her self-control deserted her, and to everyone’s acute embarrassment, Ffup Lost the Plot completely.

  In the ensuing screams, smoke, flames, and diarrheic eruptions, no one could avoid hearing the diminishing echoes of dragon claws scrabbling up stone stairs, dragon footsteps thundering across the kitchen floor above, followed by a slam from the front door and a diminishing dragon wail as Ffup fled down to the lochside to seek solace by the water. As silence fell once more in the dungeons, they heard Damp comforting the alarmed Nestor in a manner poignantly reminiscent of Mrs. McLachlan.

  “Don’t worry, pet,” she said firmly. “Mummy’s prob’ly just got a wee bug in her tummy. She didn’t mean to do a big poo in the middle of the room. It was a nax dident.”

  Pandora retrieved her photographs from where Ffup had dropped them, and tucked them back in their envelope. Her mind was spinning with possibilities: some so exciting they took her breath away; others so freighted with menace, she had to force herself to dismiss them. She needed to take another look at the i-caramba, and then she needed to speak to Titus. Alone.

  “Damp? Let’s go find Mum, shall we? And Nestor, isn’t it your nap time?”

  Beside her, Sab gave a disgusted snort. “What alternative reality do you operate in, pray tell? Nestor doesn’t do naps. Nestor barely does sleeps. A more undisciplined baby dragon I’ve yet to meet.…” His voice trailed off as Pandora pointed at Damp, who was bending over to plant a kiss on Nestor’s head. Nestor, whos
e little body was coiled into a spiny spiral, eyes shut, breathing evenly, stubby wings flopped on the flagstones, his front paws locked around a lovingly toasted teddy of Titus’s.

  “How did you do that?” the griffin breathed.

  “Magic,” said Damp, skipping across to tuck her hand into Pandora’s. “Magic word,” she added helpfully.

  Sab sighed. “Oh, very well. If you insist. Please?”

  “Not that magic word.” Damp’s tone was dismissive. “Diffr’nt word. Secret. Only Damps speak it.”

  “Only Damps? Well, that’s helpful, isn’t it?” Sab groaned. “Just how many Damps are there in this world?”

  “Seven,” stated Damp, somewhat surreally, but with a finality that indicated that this was as far as she was prepared to go. She let go of Pandora’s hand, and with a dignity at odds with the fact that she still wore nighttime diapers, Damp headed upstairs. Pandora pulled a face, shrugged, and followed her little sister.

  Tock on Top

  The paperboy was new to the job. He bounced along the rutted track to StregaSchloss, hissing some unrecognizable tune through his front teeth and ill-advisedly stopping by the moat to dig out the Strega-Borgias’ newspaper from his hoard. The sun slid behind a cloud, and the wind announced its Siberian origins.

  “Naw. Not that yin,” the boy muttered, keeping up a running commentary as he sifted through his paperbag. “Folks in these big hooses dinnae buy square papers. They get big papers wi’ big lang words in them.” The boy glanced up from his task, sure he’d heard something drop into the moat. Ripples spread out on the black surface of the water, and he shivered, suddenly aware of what an isolated place this was. His efforts to locate the right newspaper speeded up. At length he found the one he was looking for, and just as he was about to hurl it across the drive at the massive front door, his eye was caught by the newspaper’s main headline. His mouth opened wide, exposing teeth that had seen too much action on the sugar front.

  “Aw, nawww …” he whispered, his legs almost giving way with the realization that here he was, delivering a paper to the house of a suspected serial murdere—

  “I’ll take that,” a voice informed him, and he swiveled round, his bike crashing to the ground. Who had spoken?

  There was nobody there. The rose-quartz drive was deserted, the door remained shut, and there was no sign of life at any of the many windows of the house. The boy rotated slowly, his skin crawling with fear. Behind, the same story. No one. The track he’d cycled in on, the trees, the faraway gate. Not a soul to be see—

  “Coo-ee. Down here. At your feet.”

  As Tock later explained to Latch, that was why the newspaper had ended up in the moat. The crocodile exposed a huge acreage of yellow teeth and added that he’d been astonished at the volume of the paperboy’s shriek; after all, he’d only been a little chap, barely enough meat on him for a decent mouthful. What Tock didn’t mention was that it had been he who’d hurled the paper into the moat after discovering that his beloved master Luciano’s name and reputation were being bandied around the front page. By the time each sheet had absorbed its quota of greenish moat-water and had sunk to the bottom, the paperboy had probably made it to the Outer Hebrides in his haste to put as much distance between himself and the thankfully vegetarian Tock.

  Latch stood kneading bread dough at the kitchen table, an old recipe book propped open against a bag of flour; the rhythmic press, turn, and fold of the breadmaking process causing the table to rock and the tea in Tock’s cup to slop against the rim and splash into his saucer.

  “How was your trip, anyway?” the butler inquired, stopping to scratch his chin with a floury finger. “I imagine the river’s in full spate. Did you catch anything?”

  “A cold,” shivered Tock. “Have you any idea how chilly the river Chrone is? Still, it was well worth the sneezes. I’ve found some gorgeous stones for my moat. Here, come outside and I’ll show you—”

  Latch was saved by the buzzer. The oven timer chose this moment to announce that his banana, almond, and white chocolate muffins were ready, and for the next few minutes he was too preoccupied with muffin allocations to pay Tock or his stones any attention. To the butler’s amusement, Titus and Rand had miraculously appeared along with the muffins, possessing noses sensitive to even the faintest whiff of vanilla wafting up the many flights of stairs between the bedrooms and the kitchen.

  Impatient to begin work on his moat, Tock waddled out of the kitchen, crossed the herb garden, skirted the side of the house, and finally stopped beside the stone perimeter. Laid out like the hours on a clock were twelve perfect white quartz boulders. Tock sighed with pleasure. They were exquisite stones, he thought, his golden eyes caressing each one in turn. He intended them to provide bases for the dozen cairns he was hoping to build round the moat’s edge. These towers would cast their shadows across the moat each morning, and as the sun swung round in the afternoon, the cairns would throw fingers of shade across the rose-quartz drive.… Tock almost hugged himself with delight. It was a giant sundial, an artistic statement on a par with—

  His lofty thoughts were interrupted by the sound of crunching rose quartz, and he spun round as the vast serpentine coils of the Sleeper undulated into view.

  “Haw, pal,” the beast roared in greeting. “Seen ma wumman? She didn’t appear wi’ ma breakfast, an’ ah wis wonderin’ what’s keepin’ her. Like, it’s nearly lunchtime, the noo.” There was a deep rumbling sound, like distant rolling thunder. The Sleeper blushed, the effect turning his normally dark blue face an interesting shade of purple. The rumble came again and he sighed mightily. “Pardon me,” he mumbled. “It’s jist ah’m famished. Ah’m that hungry ah feel like ah’m fading awa’.”

  Tock’s eyes goggled. The Sleeper would have to starve himself for millennia to make any difference to his mountainous girth. Muscled like an eel on steroids, he could eat for Scotland, in direct contrast to his diet-obsessed fiancée Ffup, who would hardly swallow a mouthful of air without first weighing it, then looking it up in a hefty paperback manual to verify its fat-free status.

  With his fiancée’s fixation on diets and wedding plans, the Sleeper frequently felt sorely in need of the company of his own gender. Seeing a perfect male-bonding opportunity presenting itself, he clapped Tock on the back, sending the crocodile spinning across the rose-quartz drive like a reptilian Frisbee.

  “Anyway, how’s it gawn, pal?” he yelled, peering at his reflection in the moat and scratching vigorously in an armpit. Tock picked himself up off the drive and spat out a couple of rose-quartz pebbles before staggering back to the moat-side, unfortunately too late to protect his precious stones. The Sleeper was turning his huge body round, his belly studded with rose quartz as he scraped a swath across the drive, swept all twelve of Tock’s precious boulders into the moat and accidentally dented the rear door of the family car with the end of his massive tail. Breathing heavily, he inched closer to Tock and demanded, “Hey, pal. They wee pebbly things weren’t dead important, eh no? Ah mean, like—youse weren’t savin’ them fir something special, were youse?”

  Tock peered nervously up into the Sleeper’s fish-scented face, profoundly relieved to have the colossal beast as a friend rather than a foe. “Heck, no. Me? Those old stones?” he said, trying not to scream at the sight of the Sleeper’s teeth bared in a monumental grin. “Plenty more where they came from, up in the mountains.” He edged toward the moat, then remembered that there was no longer anything in its depths that he could gnaw. Ever since converting to vegetarianism two summers ago, he missed having an endless supply of bones nearby. Time was, he would dive to the bottom of the moat and trawl through the items in his larder, some of which, he was forced to admit, had been decidedly past their chew-by date. However, since he’d disposed of the decomposing ossuary that had dotted its muddy bottom, bones were decidedly off-menu. It was all part of the plan for moat enhancement, along with quartz cairns. Tock sighed. The quartz cairns whose bases were now at the bottom of the moa
t …

  Wondering if the Sleeper would mind fishing all twelve boulders back out for him, Tock smiled up at the big beast. But the Sleeper’s attention was elsewhere, his eyes narrowed in concern as he stared at the distant road to Auchenlochtermuchty, along which came a file of police vans heading for StregaSchloss.

  The League of Immortals

  The island rose up out of the deep water, its hidden shoreline exposed by the retreating tides. Death’s two oarsmen stood sentinel by their small dinghy, heads drooping with immeasurable exhaustion as they held their oars upright like spears. Hours had passed since they’d ferried their VIP passenger to the island; hours during which the figures had stood motionless, the hems of their long robes slowly drying out as the tide stole away into the darkness, leaving a rime of salt behind. Smoke unraveled from a driftwood fire; an unbroken thread which linked the island below with the hook of the crescent moon above, as if something below the waters was fishing the night sky for stars.

  The three figures sitting round the fire appeared to have taken root. Sparks flew up into the darkness as a resinous log spat and fizzled in the flames. The demon Isagoth yawned widely, not bothering to cover his mouth and thus affording the others an unwelcome view of his tonsils.

  “I’m pooped,” he declared, unlacing first one boot and then the other as he prepared to turn in for the night. “Thanks for, er, dinner, by the way. Even though it was the same as the night before—and the night before that. Not that I’m complaining. Heck, no. I love fish, me. Delicious. I’ll be sure to get the stonemason to make a particular point of mentioning that when he carves out your headstone.”