Caveat Emptor

[captaintripps]

​

Hi all,
I'd be interested to see what you guys/gals think of this. I can't decide if it works, specifically one segment which I won't point out right now - I'll just see if anyone mentions it.




Of Jobs And Snobs

I

When Laurel Vernier first stepped through my door I was enchanted. She entered my office unannounced, but nonetheless a welcome sight. Standing about five-five in beige sandals, she had sleek black hair bobbed just the way I like it, and when she moved she seemed to glide towards me. Close up, it was like sitting in a sudden breeze; I could smell her, powdered and fragrant, while I sat dripping in the close heat.

She clutched her chequebook in one exquisitely manicured hand – another welcome sight. I have a penchant for cute ladies with gleaming chequebooks and I decided this was my kinda woman. She oozed class, which in my experience goes hand in hand with money. So, all in all this was a pretty good start even though my appealing visitor had yet to utter a word.

I offered her a chair, which she flowed into and sat calmly appraising me with eyes the colour of dollar bills.

“Mr Quest?” Her voice had a fluid allure that briefly robbed me of my equilibrium. Gathering my wits I flourished a nod and shot her a breezy grin. Needless to say, ‘Quest’ isn’t my true name, but it pleases my sense of irony.

“How much for you to find my aunt?” Her question was unusually abrupt, but delivered with enough syrup to assuage any concerns… and her chequebook was winking at me with promises of Bermuda and cocktails.

“Oh, I’m sure we can work something out Miss…”

“Vernier. Laurel Vernier”. She spoke slowly, as if tasting each word. I smiled again, leaning for the pack of Marlboro on my desk and taking the opportunity to get a lungful of her scent.

“That’s a beautiful name,” I said, trying to sound sincere and failing miserably. “Well, Laurel…”

“You may call me Ms Vernier,” she interrupted, and now the syrup had a hint of spice.

I raised my eyebrows, lighting the smoke and blowing the fumes across the desk. “Ok… Well, my normal rate runs at two-fifty a day or eleven hundred for the week,” right here was where I normally got shot down, “but we can always look at a…”

“That would be fine Mr Quest.”

This caught me unawares, but when it comes to funds I recover fast and I managed to keep my expression in order as she flattened the chequebook against a toned thigh and booked me for two weeks straight.

She skimmed the cheque towards me across the desk; I trapped it with a slap and was gratified to see her jump – it was nice to see her cool exterior slip a little.

“Very well, Mr Quest…”

“Please call me Johnny,” I offered.

“ …I don’t think so,” she said quickly, “I’d prefer to keep things businesslike. Talking of which, I need you to start on this immediately. It’s imperative that we find my aunt without delay. Also, so we have no unfortunate misunderstandings later on, I must stress the importance of discretion…”

“My middle name!” I interrupted. Miss Vernier regarded me with fish-like warmth.

“And, Mr Quest, under no circumstances must you extend the scope of your investigations one iota further than is required to find my aunt.”

This seemed like a strange thing to say considering I hadn’t even started on the job. My opinion of this woman was changing; for one thing her officiousness was beginning to bug me, and for Johnny Quest this normally heralds an imminent trip down the slippery slope towards active dislike. Also, although on the surface her concern for her aunt did her credit, I was nurturing a creeping suspicion that it had little to do with affection. No, there were more material considerations at play here or I was no Private Dick.

However, her chequebook and me were still best buddies and a relationship like ours was a beautiful thing, so I let it pass and gave her a humble nod.

“No problem Miss Vernier, you’re the boss. From now on my time is your time; and I won’t even move my bowels without you approving the job.” She regarded me as though trying to decide whether I was humouring her – I was of course – and her lip curled in a decidedly unflattering way; I suddenly realised that this was one of those women who were only fleetingly attractive. The more you looked, the more the cracks showed – and the cat’s claws in her eyes.

“My aunt’s name is Leticia Pelletier. As far as we know she was last seen on Tuesday night of last week.

“And who was the last to see her?” I enquired.

“I was coming to that,” she snapped, and my feelings towards Ms Vernier slipped another notch or two. “My aunt holds weekly socials at her house on the west side of Ottawa. She is generally a solitary woman, but this is of her own devising. So it would seem that, to her, these gatherings were of some importance as they afforded her both the luxury of human company and the chance to indulge her… hobby.” She paused, grimacing slightly.

I sensed that this was pertinent and jumped in before she had chance to take the conversation elsewhere, “And what exactly is her hobby?”

She was fidgeting now and the sneering cast of her mouth became more pronounced.

“Well, it is ah… shall we say it might be deemed a somewhat unorthodox pastime. She likes to dabble in what she calls occult experimentation”. She seemed to shake herself mentally and looked me square in the eye for the first time in minutes, “Now I’m not talking about devil worship or Satanism or whatever you want to call it, let me make that perfectly clear.” She was talking with real vehemence now, and I raised my arms in a gesture of accord.

“No,” she continued, “ its just a hobby. You know, fortune telling and those card things - what are they called?”

“Tarot?”

“Yes. Quite. My aunt and her friends were doing nothing that can’t be found in a hundred houses in this city. People find such matters oddly invigorating, I’m sure you’ll agree?”

“Sure Miss Vernier, everyone’s into it.” Actually I didn’t agree, but her attitude seemed to brook no discussion. I gave her a smile that I hoped looked reassuring as she continued,

“Whatever; suffice to say that as far as we can tell it was after last weeks session that my aunt disappeared, and it is now imperative she be found without delay. You see, there are family matters that demand her personal and immediate attention. My aunt is trustee to a fortune…

Bingo! I knew it!

“… which cannot be touched without her consent. Documents exist, safeguards if you will, that cater for the event of her death but not her absence. Therefore, proceedings to unlock my mon… my aunt’s money may become messy and protracted, and this I will not tolerate. So you will do whatever is necessary – within the strictures I have cited – to find her. Is that clear Mr Quest?”

Well, clear it was. Clear as day.

What wasn’t clear at the time was how events would unfold or I’d have kicked her out of my office regardless, retired to the country and slept with the light on for the rest of my life. However, as per usual all I could see were dollar bills and as you may have gathered such matters are very dear to my heart.

Or they were.

Before events taught me the value – and the frailty – of a much more fundamental currency.


II


After we’d ironed out the details Ms Vernier left in a cloud of perfume and attitude, leaving me to consider the case.

Missing persons’ can be the toughest nuts to crack. By definition they involve a legion of possibilities: kidnap, murder – bodies that are buried, burnt or sunk, sometimes by my clients who’ve been known to hire me only to validate their own innocence – amnesia, and sometimes people who lost themselves for no other reason than a need to be found. The ramifications are close to endless.

First off, I needed somewhere to start, a point of departure from which my reasoning could blossom, upon which my investigation could be founded.

The information I’d gleaned from my trick – an unfortunate term for my clients, I know; but this was how I’d grown to see ‘em – had given me my first hint. In the case of Leticia Pelletier the crux was this: something told me she might be hiding rather than ‘missing’, and trust me, there’s a significant difference.

Here’s how I saw it: Mrs Pelletier was a woman in her mid sixties with no close friends other than her fellow spiritualists; she had cool family relations, and perhaps most importantly she had money. Real money. The kind that’s hard to spend; the kind that gets to be like a herd of rats – or whatever you call a whole tribe of the buggers. It multiplies. And if Laurel Vernier was representative of her aunt’s close family wouldn’t the old gal’s loyalties be primarily to herself? I know what my priorities would be if I were in her shoes; I’d use as much cash as it took to buy myself the biggest boat in the harbour and sail it straight toward some balmy island populated solely by Monroe-a-likes. Or Valentinos’ as the case may be.

Now this scenario may look a little too comfy and neat to the uninitiated. It may have been based purely on my own twisted outlook, or it may have been yet another case of Jonathon Quest Patented-Inspirational-Thinking. All I know is that at the time it just smelled right, and I would have bet my last pack of Marlboro to a kid’s comic that I was pretty close.

I would’ve been left smoking the funny pages…

 

[captaintripps]

Of Mice-like Men

“Hello? Who is that?” The voice sounded tired and frail, either by nature of the speaker or due to the fact that it had travelled through two inches of solid oak to reach my ears.

“Mr Havory?” I shouted, so mine might sound stronger. “It’s Jonathon Quest, we spoke earlier.”

Since taking on the job of finding Laurel Vernier’s missing aunt two days earlier, I’d only gotten one of the nine regulars who attended her ‘spirit parties’ to agree to meet me. The others had offered polite but perfunctory rebuffals. They had shared what they knew with the authorities they said, and that was that.

With Mr Havory, whose door was now beginning to creak open in front of me, I’d played on his sense of responsibility and ‘doing-the-right-thing’. Not that he was pleased about it, in fact he’d given me the impression he’d prefer wiping his ass with a pan scrub to talking to me; but I had a job to do, and money to make, so I persevered until I managed to secure today’s appointment.

The door continued to open haltingly, as though the hand that grasped its handle was wielded by two minds in opposition. Then I got my first eyeful of Duncan Havory, although strictly speaking the first thing I saw was the sweep of a grand staircase in the hallway until I looked down a couple of feet. He was no more that four and a half feet tall and bald as a bacon balaclava. The angular face that peered up to address me might have aspired to stateliness if it hadn’t been for the huffy grimace it was wearing.

Stepping to one side, he waved me inside and I followed him past the staircase through a hallway decked with antiques and what looked like First World War memorabilia. The place had the air of a museum, and I hate museums; old things give me the creeps. I shuddered inwardly, put my best foot forward and followed the little guy into a book-laden study where he gestured me towards a huge leather chair. With my butt being caressed by dead cow, I settled back and waited for my host to make himself comfortable.

He toddled over to a cabinet that was stocked with rare looking bottles and decanters. “Can I fix you a drink, Mr Quest? I think these matters will be best discussed with a little lubrication.” Although his words were friendly enough, his tone reminded me of a schoolteacher with a spindle up his ass, but I wasn’t about to disagree with his sentiments.

“Yeah, I’ll take a dry Martini. Thanks.”

“Certainly,” he replied, and started to mix me a long cool one. As he did the honours, I tried my first question.

“So, how long have you been going along to Ms Pelletier’s little get-togethers?” I noticed his fingers stiffen slightly round the drinks mixer, as if he’d known the question was coming but was still unprepared when it did.

He gathered himself, stiffening his shoulders and straightening his back as though in readiness for a tough climb.

“To the best of my knowledge, Leticia has been holding the meetings for about ten years.” He started in a murmur, but his voice became gradually stronger as he continued. “I’ve only been attending since the death of Mr Pelletier four years ago, when the meetings became somewhat more than the light-hearted trysts they had been before. With her husband’s death, Leticia started to concentrate more on mediumship, whereas initially the sessions were mainly geared around card readings and such like.” He walked over to pass me the Martini, and I was startled by the smoothness of his hands – they had a porcelain, doll-like quality.

He lowered himself into a chair opposite me that was noticeably smaller than mine – it needed to be – and perched there with his flawless hands folded around a brimming glass of scotch.

“Mr Pelletier was my partner in business. I think Leticia believed that, with my involvement, the sessions would gain an additional link to her husband. She has been trying to contact him ever since his untimely death four years ago. Once a week - every week - for four years. I remember her calling me to invite me to my first meeting. Initially, I only went along to support Leticia as I had no real interest in psychic matters, although I must confess my perspective changed over time.

Mr Havory paused to sip his scotch and I took the chance to ask, “When you say ‘contact’, I presume you mean she was trying to speak to the dead?” Unfortunately, Havory caught my derisive tone the same time I did, and I winced inwardly.

“Do not bait me Mr Quest”. He said my name with absolute contempt.

“I wasn’t trying to do anything of the sort…”

“And do not interrupt me. You’re here on sufferance, and I am already very close to inviting you to leave.” I shrugged, trying to look contrite. I’d suddenly realised how close I was to losing this story, and with it my only link to Mrs Pelletier’s possible whereabouts. Time to switch to a diet of humble pie…

“Ok sir, I’m sorry. To be frank, this is all pretty hard for a man like me to digest.” Havory pushed himself off his chair and, shooting me a scowl, spun daintily away and walked towards the large bay window.

“The fact is Mr Havory,” I said to his back, “I see so much crap in my line of work – so much human shi… scum that it’s hard for me to get all spiritual. About anything. After dealing with countless murders, adulteries – you name it – I’m sure even a man such as yourself would struggle to think in such terms. I spend so much time dealing with the reality – the grim reality – of life that I can’t even begin to think about what might come after, you know - heaven and stuff.” The line of Havory’s shoulders seemed to relax a little; maybe I’d got him. It looked like this was the kind of language to which he could relate. I made a mental note of the fact.

“I suppose I’m just a spiritual imbecile sir, and can only beg your forgiveness.” This was delivered with more than a sprinkle of contrition, and when Havory turned he looked at me with something approaching sympathy. Oh Johnny, you should have been in the movies. Oscar material.

He sighed like a man who was accustomed to forgiving the trespasses of his lessers, and presented an expression of weary martyrdom to my penitent gaze.

“Very well Mr Quest. Sometimes I forget that myself and my colleagues are the exception rather than the rule, and that it is a rare and privileged world in which we move.” My little act had worked better than I could have hoped; I could see that he was about to go on a roll. He walked over and sat down again.

“Firstly, however, you must agree to suspend even the tiniest morsel of cynicism.” He raised an eyebrow. Vigorously, I nodded in agreement.

He regarded me for some time, as if weighing up my apparent change of heart. Seeming to reach a decision, he dipped a hand into his breast pocket and pulled out a neatly folded scrap of paper, which he held up between two fingers for me to take. Sitting back down in my comfy chair I opened it out to read the words:


There are many kinds of magic. Some can be wielded, others cannot. Changing lead into gold or water into wine is magical. Death may be dealt or love bought by its methods.
Circles may be drawn, spells uttered and the world changes – all this is simple.
The purest form, the most dangerous, is the magic by which we change ourselves, and in so doing are wielded.


I read this a couple of times, and then looked up at Havory. The confusion must have been evident on my face but he waved it away.

“We’ll come to that later,” he said, pointing at the note. “And trust me when I say that it will be soon enough.”

Then, taking a deep breath, Havory settled back into his chair, emptied his scotch in one long pull, and began to tell me his story.

 

[captaintripps]

Of Heaven and Hell

I


The night Leticia Pelletier disappeared was grim and drizzly. As always, Havory had arrived outside her door at exactly seven-fifteen pm. This would give them an hour and forty-five minutes before the others arrived, time for him and Leticia to shoot the breeze, or ‘blow away the cobwebs’ as he put it.

When she opened the door Havory’s first thought was that Leticia looked preoccupied and distant as though she’d had some bad news. When he asked her about this she invited him into the sitting room where they always took drinks prior to the sessions’ commencement. He described her as a noble looking woman who was incredibly well preserved for her sixty-five years, with an almost obsessive attention to detail that manifested itself in her appearance.

Once seated, he took the drink he was offered and again asked Ms Pelletier whether there was a problem.

“My dear Duncan, I don’t know where to start.”

“Start at the beginning, Leticia. And don’t worry, you know me well enough to say what’s on your mind. Surely?” Havory was becoming increasingly concerned.

She nodded, “Of course Duncan. I’d discuss anything with you without hesitation, that isn’t the problem. It’s just that I don’t know how to put any of it into words.” She glanced at him, chewing on a knuckle, and Havory was afraid she’d start crying.

He stood and walked over to where she sat on an ancient chaise longue. Sitting down and cupping her hands in his, he looked her squarely in the eye. “Leticia, do you want me to call the others and cancel tonight? If you’re really not up to talking I can come back tomorrow when you’re feeling better?”

“No!” The violence of her reaction startled Havory, and he snatched his hands away as if hers had become suddenly hot. Seeing his surprise Leticia seemed to make a conscious effort to relax, “I’m sorry Duncan, I didn’t mean to shout. I’ve already made my excuses to the others, but I need you here; I need to talk to someone because I just don’t know what to do. You see, I spoke to Rick last night…”



II


Havory told me that once she started the words just seemed to pour out of her. He recovered quickly from his initial shock of her claim that finally, after so many fruitless years, she’d spoken to her dead husband. And, he said, it quickly became obvious that this was no diffident shade with which she’d trysted – far from it.

As Havory spoke he started to tremble; sweat grew like tiny blisters on his pate then ran down along his face and neck, soaking his immaculate collar.

Now I’m not naturally a cynical kinda guy, I’ve seen too much during my years as a jobbing P.I. for this to be the case. It’s just that I had more material ghosts haunting my ass who manifested themselves through my letterbox on a regular basis in the form of bills, and eerie paper-like demands for alimony from my departed wife. But here I was, listening to this claptrap as though I believed it, and I needed to batten down the hatches of my disbelief so it wouldn’t come adrift in the storm of bull-dust that I was sensing just over the horizon. Or else my own ghosts would be in danger of going un-exorcized through a lack of funds.

Also, I was struggling with the way Havory told the story; his attention to detail was incredible. I’d have preferred a less protracted account; I just wanted the meat, carved and digestible, and his wordiness was making my teeth itch.

But it was his tale and I needed to hear it.



III



“He came to me through the window, as if he was buoyed by the night breeze,” Havory was struck by Leticia’s earnestness, it left no room for doubting her words, “ I heard him before I saw him; he was saying my name like an apology. I thought I was dreaming. Then the curtains moved, only slightly at first and then billowing open to reveal Rick.” Havory wasn’t surprised to see the tears leap into her eyes; he knew how much Leticia had yearned for this moment, and how long she’d waited. Although a horde of questions was circling his mind, he forced himself to silence.

“He drifted in and sat on the end of the bed, much as he did when he was alive when he’d get in late from work and come straight upstairs for a chat. I suppose you know better than anyone what late hours he sometimes kept.”

“Yes”, Havory mouthed the word but didn’t speak; he didn’t want to interrupt this story.

“I suppose it’s odd,” said Leticia, “but I didn’t fear his presence – I’ve been waiting for him for so long – I wasn’t even surprised to see him there, as solid as ever.

“He told me that his time was brief, that there were forces which were acting upon him to draw him back to that other place. I started to speak but he put his finger on my lips – I could feel him! – and he said that I must let him finish what he’d come to say.

“He insisted that we stop our sessions, Duncan. He said that if we don’t we are inviting catastrophe. But I don’t think I can stop, not now I’ve seen him again. I need him too much, Duncan!”

Havory could see that she was trembling violently and he walked over to the drinks cabinet to pour her a cognac. Taking it in both hands she took a deep slug and Havory asked, “What did he say? Was he specific about these supposed risks?”

“Oh yes, very specific. It just sounds so far-fetched that I would put it all down to a dream if it weren’t for... ” It was obvious that Leticia had nearly said more, but she was looking at him with such helplessness that Havory was swamped by compassion and he let it go.

She finished her drink and paused for a moment, using the time to gather her thoughts.

“He said many things. He said that we were at risk – all of our group, but myself in particular – as I have been ‘chosen’. I didn’t understand what he meant, then he told me that there are powers who are eager to gain a foothold in ‘The Poles’.”

Havory frowned and started to speak, but was silenced as Leticia spat out the words: “Hell is in revolt, Duncan! Rick said that its denizens’ refer to our world as The Poles, and that there are four protagonists who are trying to gain a foothold here to aid them in an attempt on their Prince’s crown. The nature of Hell bears no resemblance to our concept of it, Rick told me. Rather, it is a country much like any other, with social strata, politics and an economy all of its own. It isn’t easily negotiable however, there are forbiddings raised that stop the casual traveller straying between the worlds in either direction, forbiddings that the residents of Hell cannot readily overcome. The four creatures – Werestrain, Rick called them - need a bastion in our world to consolidate their position. If they were to achieve this where their Prince has failed, their position would become unassailable. First, they need a door to gain entry to The Poles.

“I have been chosen, he told me, to bear the Key that will hold the door against them”.

Leticia started to speak again, then hesitated and it seemed to Havory that she was uncertain how to continue. He waited for a time to see if she would resume, and when it became apparent she wouldn’t he asked, “What does any of this have to do with us Leticia? I don’t doubt for one second that you believe every word of what you’ve told me is the truth, but how can our circle be of any significance to these… Werestrain?”

She looked at him then, and it seemed to Havory that he was trapped in her tortured gaze for an age. It was as if suddenly, all her sixty-five years had descended upon her, graying her face and shrinking her form.

“Perhaps it’s easier if I show you, Duncan,” she said.

 

[captaintripps]

Of Books and a Boy

I


Havory paused, fingering the empty glass on his lap. I really wanted to hurry him along; I suppose his story was interesting enough - if you liked that kind of thing - but I couldn’t see how it was going to help me find old Mrs Pelletier. Evidently this guy was as nutty as squirrel crap, or he was a man who made up for his lack of physical stature by telling tall tales; either way, the sooner I was out of the place the better. And yet something made me stay. Something kept my lips glued and my tongue still.

“So, I followed her into the library”, Havory continued. “The room has always served as the ideal location for our sessions. Many of the books contained therein - particularly those concerning matters of paranormality – teach the value of speculation. What they fail to convey, however, is the dangers of certain kinds of speculation.

“She took me straight over to an oversized antique tea chest that has stood in the same place since I first visited the house. She tapped on the lid and I heard an answering sound – a kind of indistinct flutter. I doubted my ears but heard it again as I got closer. It sounded like a bird was trapped inside, a bird that was too big for the space in which it rested and hence could not beat its wings fully. Once more Leticia tapped on the lid, and was answered again by the rustling, scraping, panicky sound.

“She glanced round at me and put a finger to her lips, then opened the chest slowly, almost reverentially, but it was gloomy in the room and I could not see into it from where I stood. Then, a small hand appeared, gripping the side of the chest. My first thought was that the skin was flaking from its thin fingers but then, as more of the arm came into view, I realised it was covered in pale, sparse feathers. Next, two eyes appeared beneath a finely plumed forehead, and they were unlike any eyes that I had ever seen; they were huge and slightly raised at the corners, and they were so black that at first I thought the sockets were empty until the modest light caught them and the orbs flashed silver.

“The creature stood up, unfolding itself from the confines of the chest and I saw that it was a boy, probably around ten or eleven years of age. He was feathered from head to toe and unnaturally tall and slender. As he leaped out of the box I took a step back – I don’t remember making a noise but I suppose I must have because he froze, staring at me with those immense eyes. It’s strange, although my mind was overloaded all I remember thinking was that the boy could not possibly have fitted into the tea chest, he was at least six feet tall and the chest was no more than three feet across. It was only later that I discovered how this was possible.

“ ‘What is it?’ I asked. My voice sounded small as if it had been shrunk by the atmosphere in the room.

“He’s an Angel,” she said simply, as though this explained everything. They’ve given him to me to care for until he… grows up. Until he’s old enough to stand against the Werestrain.”

“Why… why you?” A legion of questions was hammering at my mind, but for some reason this seemed the most important.

“Because I was already close. Because I already believed. And because, in Rick, they had the perfect vessel to deliver him to me.”

“ ‘And who are they?’ I asked. I was struggling to comprehend all this, without making much headway.

“ Leticia regarded me with eyes that were suddenly calm, as though she had reached some fundamental decision. “Why – they are the Enemies of Hell Duncan.
More than that I cannot say.”



II



So good people, that pretty much wraps it up from old Havory's point of view. Are you still with me or has ol’ Johnny Quest left you by the wayside with bull-dust in your ears and tears of laughter in your eyes?

Well, I’d forgive you if it’s the latter because when I left Havory's place I did so with a huge suspicion that he was playin’ me for a fool; my only problem - and it was a biggie - was that I had nothing else to go on regarding Ms Pelletier’s whereabouts except the lead he’d given me.

I’d best explain that he was pretty sure she’d flown abroad to England, to the City of Liverpool to be precise, where she had a property. I didn’t ask how she proposed to get a six-foot tall feathery boy across the Atlantic because, in the midst of everything else, it seemed a moot point. But he offered the info anyways; he told me that the boy could change himself into pretty much anything he liked – hence the note Havory had shown me, presumably. So maybe the old gal had jetted off to England with a new, feathered handbag under her arm, one that held a whole world of secrets.

He said it was vital that I understood why he’d told me all of this. He wanted me to know that he’d argued with himself long and hard about whether to spill the beans. What clinched it was that look Leticia had given him; in it, he said, he’d read something monumental as though she had decided on a course of action, reached some kind of epiphany that she didn’t want to share with him. Plus of course, he didn’t like the idea of her being alone in a strange city; although Leticia visited Liverpool frequently, she had no real friends there.

So I was left in a bit of a quandary here folks: did I spill my guts to the lovely Laurel Vernier or follow my instinct for self-preservation and give her an altogether more selective account of my audience with Mr Havory? Unfortunately, I decided that it’d be best to wear my heart on my sleeve on this occasion, tell her the lot and risk a derisive lashing from that sharp tongue of hers.

Unfortunately.

 

[captaintripps]

Of Planes and Strange Cities


“If you’ve even the slightest intention of going to the press you can forget it!”

Laurel Vernier was taking the news regarding her aunt better than I’d expected. At least she hadn’t fired me on the spot. Even so, I moved the receiver a little further from my ear.

I tried to tell her to take it easy, that I was only repeating what Havory had told me, but she hadn’t finished.

“We are a powerful family, Mr Quest,” she seemed to have the ability to make my name sound like something that might lie at the bottom of a disused urinal, “and if you propose supplementing your income by selling this story then I would strongly urge you to reconsider. Everything you’ve told me can only be gross exaggeration and is verging on slander, and if you breath one word of it to any journalist or …whoever, then you’ll be in it deeper than you can imagine. I absolutely guarantee it!”

She continued her diatribe for another couple of minutes until, eventually, I’d had a gut-full. Gritting my teeth in an attempt to keep my tone somewhere around civil I said, “If you feel so strongly about this then maybe you need to think about calling someone else and getting them to find your aunt.” I closed my eyes, grimacing. I really couldn’t afford to lose this trick; the pay was just too good.

There was a long pause and I listened to the line crackling as though it were the sound of my butt being roasted on a pyre of unpaid debts.

“No, Mr Quest. We’ve come too far for that. I need you to get yourself over to Liverpool without delay – like now – so I suggest you stop creeping to me and start bothering the airline instead.”

Creeping? Creeping? Goddamnit; the sooner I was out of this country and as far as possible from this twenty-four carat bitch the better.

Thinking she’d had her say I started to lower the receiver but – like has happened to me once or twice in other, more intimate forms of personal communication – I was premature.

“Oh, and Mr Quest,” she droned, “be sure to get two tickets. I’m coming with you.”

Oh. Wonderful.



II


The flight was a nightmare. My companion turned up with enough baggage for a months stay and it quickly became obvious that she’d managed to cultivate her previous bad mood into a state verging on apoplexy. For the next eight hours or so I was forced to sit next to her in a seat hardly big enough for a child. I was submitted to a monologue in which she covered pretty much everything from teenage pregnancy to the price of peas, all delivered in that grating tone of voice that I was oh-so coming to detest.

Eventually I tried pretending to sleep, but to no avail. She carried on regardless. By the time we reached Manchester I was one fraught individual.

Despite the plethora of bags and cases that she’d insisted on hauling half way round the world, she demanded we hire a car and get straight over to her aunt’s place in Liverpool. Although I was in no mood to do anything apart from get a room and grab a badly needed shower – and some peace and quiet – I was even less inclined to argue the toss. I decided it was best to go with the flow and get this over with one way or the other.

And so, less than ten hours after leaving Ottawa, we came to be stood outside a peeling door somewhere on the outskirts of Liverpool. I suppose you’d describe the house as Victorian, but to me it just looked run down, as if it were about to fall down. Of course we didn’t have a key, so after I’d watched Laurel hammer on the door and screech through the mailbox for a while I thought I’d best do something before she brought the place down around our ears. I took out my magic key – or lock-pick if you prefer – and got us inside within thirty seconds. I looked at her for some kind of approval and almost ended up on my backside as she pushed past me and disappeared inside.

The place stunk. It was the aroma of time, as if the years had piled up here like dust until they became a tangible force. As I’ve said before, old things give me the creeps and this place reeked of age.

The layout of the hallway, and the furnishings in it, were pretty reminiscent of Havory’s place. Everything seemed to be antique, from the slightly askew hat stand near the door that I’d just thrown my coat at, to a decrepit typewriter that squatted on an even older looking corner table. I took a couple of paces forward and my footsteps echoed harshly on the slate floor, seeming to trot up the stairs, do a little caper around the rooms up there, then bounce back to where I stood. As I stood there, staring up the staircase, I suddenly got the feeling that no one had been here for a very long time. It wasn’t a pleasant sensation. I felt like an intruder, like a gooseberry at a funeral. I was distracted from my musings by the realisation that I was alone in the hallway; Laurel seemed to have followed her snooping nose further into the house. A noise like breaking glass made me start.

“Goddamn stupid idiotic place to put a vase!”

Marvellous. Looked like my employer’s mood had just taken a further dive.

I followed Laurel’s voice through the second door on the left into a large sitting room. It was more like a junkyard in there, with stuff everywhere.

“Well, I don’t think she’s in here. Unless she’s taking part in the hide and seek world cup.”

This only earned a scowl from Ms Vernier who was standing over a pile of broken porcelain with her fists clenched. A strand of her hair, which had been tied back in a sever bunch, had fallen forward over one eye and for some reason this struck me as incredibly amusing. I had to disguise the resulting guffaw by pretending to sneeze extravagantly.

When I’d recovered sufficiently I hazarded, “Sorry Laurel – I mean Ms Vernier. Household dust, y’ know”. I shrugged apologetically but she just shook her head, brushing the errant hairs behind an ear.

“Never mind,” she snapped, “let’s take a look around upstairs and then get out of this place.” She blustered past me and I followed her out of the room, watching her back as she muttered, “Complete waste of my time… better things to do… stupid, stuck-up country…” and other words to that effect.

We searched the upstairs rooms, Laurel taking the ones on the left and me going to the right to keep out of her way. Apart from yet more ancient bric-a-brac there was nothing to report. If our Mrs Pelletier had been here then she was long gone. We went back downstairs; the only place we hadn’t looked was the rear of the house. I made my way down the hallway, through the kitchen and unlatched the back door. It opened onto a garden that would have been a botanist’s dream, it was overgrown to the point that I couldn’t see where it ended. I looked up at the sky, which was the kind of iron colour I’ve only ever seen on my infrequent trips to England. I filled my lungs, relishing the sweet air after the staleness of the house.

Then, right in front of me something moved in the long grass. I froze, my eyes fixed on the spot where the grass was still swaying slightly. Slowly, and I mean real slowly, I walked forwards, my eyes aching at the strain of trying to see through the tangled vegetation. Again – movement. I paused, then told myself I was being ridiculous getting all jumpy over what was probably just some mangy cat. I laughed out loud but it sounded hollow and forced.

“Ok, stop it Johnny, lets just go back in the house, get Vernier and then get the hell out of here.” I wasn’t in the habit of talking to myself, but it made me feel better. “Let’s go find the bad tempered bitch and…”

A hand came down on my shoulder, “Who’s bad tempered?” It was Laurel - but let me tell you people, my heart stopped. This place must have really gotten to me; I hadn’t heard her come outside and I almost mailed myself a turd, special delivery, please don’t return to sender.

“What’s the matter with you?” she said with a look of absolute contempt, “You look like you’re about to cry.”

“Nothing, I just thought I saw something in all that long grass, and when you sneaked up on me I…”

“I don’t sneak Mr Quest; and if I’d known you were of such a pathetically nervous disposition I would never have hired you. Are you a man or a…”

Now, I’m a pretty patient kinda guy. But bearing in mind that all this was on the end of an eight hour flight - prior to which you can add another fourteen hours with little or no sleep, prior to which I felt like I’d been shown various wild geese and told to go catch ‘em - Ms Vernier’s carping was beginning to wear just a tiny bit thin.

“Now look Laurel… Miss Vernier… whatever! If I’ve gotta listen to one more word from that a-hole you call a mouth I’m gonna start taking handfuls of grass,” I flourished my arm in the direction of the garden, “and start stuffin’ it down your throat ‘til it comes out your ears!”

“How d…”

“Shut up. I haven’t finished. I’ll tell you what we’re gonna do. We’re gonna get back in that joke on four wheels that the limeys call an automobile, and we’re gonna drive directly to that shed the limeys call an airport, and we’re getting on the first plane outta here! Have you got that?”

“Don’t y…”

“Shut up!. Another thing we’re gonna do is we’re gonna enjoy our trip home ‘cos we’re gonna make it in silence! Do you understand this concept Ms oh-so-high-and-mighty Vernier? It’s when you use those and keep that shut!” I jabbed a finger in the direction of her ears then her mouth respectively.

“I’ve nev…”

“SHUT UP!” I must have looked a spectacle, standing there screaming at this exquisitely turned out chick. Certainly, the head that popped up from behind the neighbour’s fence gave that impression. The guy had a look of complete surprise on his face, which immediately turned to chagrin as I bawled a swift “Yeah?” at him. His head disappeared post-haste and I was left looking at a fuming Laurel Vernier.

Thankfully she must have realised there was no point pursuing this right now and she took my advice, kept it buttoned, turned on her heels and went back inside. Not that I thought this was the end of our little discussion – far from it – but I was glad of the quiet while it lasted.

I stayed outside for a minute or two, thinking about the payday I’d just blown – I assumed that I could consider her cheque cancelled - then followed her back into the house.

 

[captaintripps]

I caught up with her in the hallway and there was something about her stance that stopped me in my tracks. She seemed to be listening for something, standing absolutely still with her head cocked slightly to one side.

“What is it?” I hazarded.

“Shh!”

I frowned; the house was utterly still. If this was her idea of a trick to get back at me - well, I’d…

Then I heard it. At first I thought it was the rumble of a passing truck. Then it came again, a gut-deep growl that developed into an almost - but not quite - human moan, and it was coming from right beneath my feet. Laurel glanced at me and I tried to put my face in some kind of order, I didn’t want her seeing the edgy look I was sure it was wearing.

“Is there…” I cleared my throat, “has this place got a basement?” This time I managed to speak without the falsetto squeak.

“I don’t know, but it would appear so, wouldn’t you agree Mr Quest?”

“Looks like it I suppose”

The sound came again, longer this time and ending in a ripping sound.

“What the hell is that?” I was no longer worried about my tone of voice; Vernier could think whatever she wanted.

“I’ve no idea but it must have something to do with Leticia. Quick, come over here and help me move this.”

Laurel was standing on what looked like a –antique of course – Turkish carpet that covered around a third of the length of the hallway. Together we squatted to roll it back and cracked our heads together with enough force to make my eyes stream. I looked at Laurel but she didn’t seem to have noticed. Her eyes were voracious, as if she sensed she was very near her quarry.

The carpet rolled back to reveal a square of slate that didn’t sit quite flush with its neighbours. At one end, an iron ring nestled into a recess in the stone. Laurel grasped the ring, pulling it upright, and tried to lift the slate. It wouldn’t budge, and I must admit that a feeling of relief washed over me. She strained at it again, but still it remained stubbornly in place.

“Nnnggh… ahh!” She dropped the ring, hit the slate with the edge of a fist and got to her feet.

“Well Mr Quest, considering your lack of brains, maybe you’d like to give me a demonstration of brawn?”

I glared up at her but my retort died on my lips. Better to just get this over and done with. I’d come this far and, anyways, if Pelletier was down there then maybe I could salvage a decent wad of cash from this after all.

I got as much of my fingers around the ring as I could, getting the best grip possible, and pulled. It wouldn’t move. If indeed Mrs Pelletier was down there, how the hell had she lifted this thing?

I tried again and this time it lifted as easily and smoothly as you like, almost as if it had been pushed from the other side. Warily, I peered into the dim square that the slate had vacated, and was met by a blast of hot air.

“ Jesus”, I looked at Laurel who was making to get into the hole, “ it must be like a furnace down there.”

She lowered herself carefully then glanced up at me and I saw that her hair had slipped forward again, only this time I didn’t feel like laughing.

“Are you staying there or do you intend earning some of the ridiculous fee I’m paying you?”

I leaned forward and looked into the hole; I could just see that there was a drop of about three feet and then a staircase leading down into the gloom.

“On my way,” I said with all the bravado I could muster.

I had a really bad feeling about this. From what I could make out, the staircase appeared to be entirely enclosed and I was feeling a little claustrophobic as I followed her down; I saw that it did a U-turn after about ten steps, and there was an orange glow coming from round the corner. The heat was stifling, increasingly so as we moved downwards.

When we rounded the corner the light was much stronger and I saw that the stairs extended about another fifty feet, leading into a narrow corridor. Feeling a bit dizzy with the heat, I put my hands out against the walls to steady myself, then quickly snatched them back. The crumbling brickwork was as hot as the inside of an oven. I hissed at the pain and rubbed my palms together, earning a backward glance from yours truly. Fortunately, I couldn’t make out her expression.

Suddenly, the glow waxed to a brilliance that hurt my eyes, and once again it was accompanied by the groaning, ripping noise. Laurel took the last few steps in a leap, and then disappeared from my line of sight into the corridor.

“Oh great, just great.” Understandably I wasn’t totally delighted by Laurel’s gallant dash, but I had no option but to follow her. So I girded my loins, took a firm grip on my slippery nerves, and jogged after her with about as much enthusiasm as a junky at the New York marathon.

The corridor seemed to go on forever, twisting and turning ‘til I’d lost all sense of direction. I still hadn’t caught up with Laurel and was beginning to thing she’d taken a turn that I hadn’t seen when I rounded a final corner and was met by a sight that will live with me forever.

 

[captaintripps]

Of Werestrain and Worlds For Sale


The corridor opened up into a large room. The first thing I saw was Laurel; she was off to my left, crouched in a foetal position, hugging her head with her arms and rocking back and forwards on her heels. Looking around, I couldn’t really see much as the glow had disappeared completely and the only light seemed to be ambient, with no definite source that I could discern. I could just make out a dim figure standing in the center of the room, and what looked like a slumped form off against the wall to my right.

Then, light flared and filled the room, I heard the ripping sound again and at the same time Laurel screamed “Leticia!”

Her aunt stood in the center of a pentagram that looked like it had been drawn in blood. She was naked apart from scraps of seared fabric as though her clothing had been burned off her, and she was a million miles away from the distinguished figure Havory had described. I saw that the dark red lines of the pentagram glistened as though the blood was still quite fresh, and that the odd feather was stuck to it here and there.

Glancing to my right, I could now see the Angel crouched against the wall. One hand was clutched over his chest, and tracks of blood wept through his fingers. What had the bitch done to him? His huge, dark eyes were wide and fixed on a point a few feet in front of Mrs Pelletier. He was hunched over, trying to make himself as small as possible, and even from where I stood I could see that he was trembling violently.

I glanced back at Pelletier, her hair was flying around her head as though it was alive, and although I couldn’t see her face from I heard every word she was saying.

“Wield me, good Werestrain, as I wield thy names, and by naming command thee: Ipos, Earl of Hell I beseech thee; Abigor, Chief Duke of Legions I beseech thee; Baalberith, Minister of Treaties and Lord of the Covenant, I beseech thee; and lovely Jezebeth, Weaver of Lies, I beseech thee. Enter these Poles under my summons and temptation – by thy names I invite thee.

Pelletier held her arms straight out in front of her with the palms facing outwards. Orange-white flame was blazing from the pentagram, filling the room so that every detail was etched and rimed with silver. I tried to blink but my lids were stuck to my parched eyeballs; I scrubbed at them with my fists, then licked my fingers and spread the spit over my eyes. When I looked up again Pelletier was pulling her arms apart, straining as though they met some kind of resistance, and the tips of her fingers were blackened and smoking.

In front of her a silver rent had appeared in the air, widening steadily as she pulled. Then, with a final heave and a deafening rrriiipp the hole opened fully; it seemed to stabilize, totally obliterating the back wall. It was almost like being at the movies, the back wall was the screen and me and Laurel its unfortunate audience; but no director has ever managed to realize the scene we witnessed and no scriptwriter could have created the characters that were moving in it.

I was looking out over a vast, monochrome desert, which undulated and rippled towards the horizon like a long dead ocean that had been frozen in place and dusted with bone. Then the scene panned to four distant, hazy figures, zooming in ‘til they filled the screen. Somehow, as if the information had been placed in my brain, I knew them. They were the Werestrain, Hierarchs of their world.

The creatures walked in a line; at the rear was Abigor, dressed as a knight in armour that flickered from black to red, holding a standard decorated with something I couldn’t distinguish. In front of him walked a figure that made my eyes itch and my forehead ache – it had the vague form of a man, but was covered in flies; briefly, the insects parted to reveal Ipos, the Fallen, but I didn’t get a good look at him before the curtain of insects gathered around him again – small mercies. Next came Baalberith, who wore the form of an adolescent boy; I screwed up my eyes at the sight, but not before I saw the salamanders that twisted from his navel, kissing away his flesh with licks of flame.

At the apex of this bizarre line walked Jezebeth. My god she was beautiful. I must have just stood and gawked at her for a while because I was suddenly gasping for breath as if the sight of her had robbed my of my most basic instinct. She was naked and completely bald, with golden skin that had darker, bronze-coloured markings stretching from her breasts to the flesh of her skull, and she walked with an exaggerated sway that started at her hips and climbed her body in a lithe wave. Everything about her screamed sex and jeopardy.

Even though she was by far the best to look at amongst her companions, she was also the most difficult to behold. As I stared at her I started to feel angry, then depressed, then ecstatic, then nauseous as though each emotion was counterfeit and could only last so long before it melted away to be replaced by a further sham.

Shaking myself, I bent towards Lauren,

“Listen,” I said through gritted teeth, “ if you know anything at all about what’s going on here, now would be a real good time to tell me.” She carried on rocking, her hands were bone white on top of her head and she was making a low keening noise.

“Laurel!” I screamed. She moved her hands and looked up at me, but just shook her head and blinked so that the tears that stood in her eyes raced down her cheeks. I was vaguely surprised to see how quickly they disappeared, evaporated by the searing heat.

“What am I supposed to do?” I shouted, but she was too far-gone and simply buried her head in her arms again.

The next thing I knew I was on my knees beside her and it took me a moment to realise what had put me there.

“What dost thou want with Us, widow?” It was Jezebeth who’d spoken, and it was her voice that had thrown me to the floor, filling my head with the sound of bells and cymbals crashing out a tune that bugged me with its familiarity, but which at the same time was absolutely alien.

“Jezebeth, pardon my impudence, but I would rather deal with another.” Mrs Pelletier answered strongly, but I could hear anxiety just below the surface.

“Thou shalt speak with me or thou shalt speak with none.” Jezebeth sashayed forward, gesturing for her companions to stay put. Her figure filled the portal so that her influence became even stronger, and her allure began to manifest itself upon my body in more physical ways.

My groin hurt. Uncomfortably, I stood up, hoping that the two main players would be too preoccupied to notice.

“Very well, my Lady Jezebeth.” Pelletier bowed low, and from where I stood the view wasn’t a pretty one. She may have been well maintained for her age, but some things are best left to the imagination.

“I have travelled here so that I might make my bargain without fear of interruption. Unfortunately my niece and this… man” - apparently the ability to make me feel inadequate was a strong family trait - “have decided to trespass.”

“Do not concern thyself with them, widow; their presence has been noted. We have uses for their ilk, particularly the man-thing”. With this Jezebeth cocked her head, looking directly at me for the first time, and I felt something warm run down my thigh. She licked her lips with a forked, blood-red tongue, staring at me unblinking with eyes that were the definition of lust, and then I noticed that the markings on her neck and scalp had become livid. As I watched they started to change colour, bronze to red then back again in an accelerating progression, and I realised that the beat of this sequence was keeping pace with my heart. I clenched my eyes shut, blocking out the sight of her to keep my chest from bursting.

Pelletier cleared her throat, and I got the feeling we were about to get to the essence of this little get-together, “I have summoned thee to offer a bargain. My time with the boy-Angel has lent me the knowledge and strength to open the door, and I will invite you through it into The Poles with only the smallest condition.” She paused, and I opened my eyes in time to see Jezebeth’s gaze swing towards her.

“I will give you the boy, and therefore the Key to thy rightful ascendancy in this world,” Pelletier paused again, pointing at the Angel who was now standing, shaking his head and pressing himself against the wall as if he could submerge himself in brick, “and in return I ask only one, small thing.”

Jezebeth didn’t answer. She just looked at Pelletier and smiled. Moving to one side, she gestured towards a figure that had appeared behind her. It was an old man wearing a suit, he looked absurd due to the simple fact of his ordinariness. There was nothing remotely remarkable about him, he looked like he could’ve just stepped out of a city cab on his way to work. Then he moved closer and I saw that his eyes told a different story. It looked like his features had been frozen so they couldn’t give anything away, but his eyes were so full of pain and extremity that they shone.

Pelletier took a step forward and stopped, her foot almost touching the forward edge of the pentagram.

“Rick!,” her arms were outstretched, her hands grasping at thin air, “I’ve come for you my love!”

“Everything in its time, widow,” Jezebeth stepped back in front of Richard Pelletier, denying Leticia the sight of her prize, “I can grant thee the return of thy spouse, but first I have a number of… conditions of my own.”

She started talking about all kinds of things: ministries, treaties, policies – none of which made the least bit of sense to me, but as she spoke something began to change. The atmosphere in the basement, which was already stifling, thickened and seemed to congeal in my mouth and nose as though the hot wind that blew from the portal was filling the air with an invisible smog. It struck me that Jezebeth was sermonizing, and I began to get the feeling that she was stalling, trying to keep the attention of Pelletier and the Werestrain away from something else, something imminent. Abruptly, she turned to face her companions and screamed words and phrases that were meaningless to me, but must have meant plenty to the Werestrain as they started scrabbling and clawing at the air in front of their faces as though trying to ward off an invisible assailant.

Jezebeth continued her mantra in that sing-song, percussive voice, drawing patterns in the air with an appalling, rapid grace.

Whatever they’d been trying to prevent, they were evidently too late as Jezebeth succeeded in weaving a dark, smoky nimbus around them.

She started to laugh, turning back and grinning towards where Mrs Pelletier crouched, shaking on the edge of the pentagram.

“Oh, foolish woman. Didst thou really envisage that a world may be sold so cheaply?”

Pelletier nodded slowly, then shook her head as if she didn’t know what to think, “Jezebeth, my lady of…”

“Be silent widow! And didst thou truly believe that I, Jezebeth, would lower myself to sharing my reign with these… others?” Again she grinned, and I followed her line of sight to a foot-long section of the pentagram - right in front of Pelletier - that the heat had dried to a purplish crust. Jezebeth pursed her lips, glanced at me, winked, and blew. The gust of her breath dislodged a section of the pentagram no more than an inch wide. It was enough.

Pelletier screamed.

 

[captaintripps]

Of Chances and Hopeless Causes


I must have been out for no longer than a few minutes, because when I came round Mrs Pelletier was still smoking on the edge of the pentagram. She was curled up with her head thrown back and her mouth was open so wide that I guessed she must have dislocated her jaw in her final agony. The next thing that hit me was the smell of her cooked flesh; it was like an all-you-can-eat bbq pork extravaganza. But I didn’t feel like eating.

I noticed that the portal was gone, and yet there was a feeling of alien-ness in the room, a residual sense of turmoil, as though something had been left behind.

Then I felt an ache in my groin, and hot breath against the back of my neck.

“Jonathon, turn around so that I may address thee.”

I did as Jezebeth asked without hesitation. She was standing not two feet away, swaying and glistening, and I felt like a gerbil who’d just realised his blind date was the neighbourhood mamba. Her head was about two feet above mine, she cocked it to one side and I was sure she was seeing right to the very bottom of my soul. I looked down, sure she must be standing on something, but no – she was at least seven feet tall without a high heel in sight.

“Well, my sweet man, what shall I do with thee?”

“Erm… maybe I could just walk right outta her, not look back, forget everything that’s happened and we can all live happily ever after?” Good ol’ Johnny Quest, a man with the ability to crack wise whatever the situation – even with a roasted pensioner at his feet and certain damnation before his eyes.

Jezebeth threw back her head and laughed, “I think not. But we may be able to strike a bargain, you and I. In fact, I insist.”

“What kind of bargain?” Under the circumstances, I’d pretty much resigned my self to whatever might be coming simply because I couldn’t see an alternative.

“It is my intention - nay, my resolution - to rule over both worlds. However, I will not share my reign, and yet the glamour I have placed over my three competitors will not hold forever. In fact, we have until sunrise - there or there about - until they are free to pursue us. All they need is to find another door, and believe me when I tell you that there is no shortage of willing providers amongst your kind.”

I shook my head, I wasn’t following any of this. “Pursue us? What would they want from me?

Reaching across, she touched me on my forehead with one cold finger and said,

“Only this.”

The world exploded. My vision whited out and I think I screamed, either that or it was the sound of Jezebeth’s laughter. In my mind I saw a continent as if from a very great height, I started falling and as I descended I started to pick out details on the landscape below. I saw cities with streets as wide as the Mississippi mapping the monochrome contours of its exotic architecture; spires the height of peaks reached up, threatening to gut me. As I got closer still, I saw that on these streets weird creatures moved; here, a faceless man conversed with a gaudy, leering women who was plucked and shaved so that she was the antithesis of decency; there, a spiked hound the size of a bull snatched a bawling child from the arms of its vagabond mother, causing her to laugh and point gleefully after its retreating form.

Everywhere I looked the visions were more extreme, becoming more bizarre and frightening at every turn. I could not even cover my eyes to shut it all out as I was just a disembodied entity caught on the whim of this world’s winds, forced to drink everything in.

Then abruptly I was back in the basement, standing beneath the gaze of an obviously delighted Jezebeth.

She clapped her hands together, throwing a sensuous little jig, “There! It is Done!”

“Wha… what the hell just happened?” I blinked, and instantly I was falling towards that city again. I opened my eyes and it was gone.

“What have you done?” I blinked again with the same result, “I can’t…”

“Shh, Jonathon. Be still.” She was suddenly very serious, almost sombre as she spoke to me, “I have placed the Key to my world inside thy head.” She stroked my forehead with the back of her hand, “the doorway to Hell and all its secrets are now within thee, primed for the harvesting.” She continued caressing my face as she spoke, moving closer and lowering her face until her lips were almost touching mine. Then she bent to one side and leaned forward so that her scalding lips brushed my ear as she whispered,

“You see Jonathon, I have sold my world to thee. I have sold it freely and of my own will, although you have yet to pay any price. It has to be this way, if I am to rule in Hell. If I am to have sole dominion, I must offer you freewill and a… chance. All I have to do now is win it back.”

Jezebeth was interrupted by a commotion in the corner of the room nearest the stairs, I looked over to see Laurel climbing out of a pool of her own pee and disappearing up the stars. This reminded my of the other surviving player in this scenario, but when I glanced across to the other side of the room the Angel was gone.

“Jesus! Wha…”, Jezebeth had hooked a nail in the flesh of my cheek, pulling my face towards her, and I could feel the blood running hot and free down my neck.

“Do not worry about him”, she crooned. “You must understand that this is my greatest advantage over those who would usurp my claim.” She reached down and sliced open the front of my shirt with her blood stained nail, parting the fabric to reveal my chest. Amongst the sparse hairs I saw an embossed contour as though a feather had been slid beneath my skin.

“He’s hiding Jonathon, it is exactly as I foresaw it.”

“What… what do you mean”

“Simply this: the Angel, the Door and Key to The Poles, has become both of and within your flesh. And this is my advantage: I know where he’s hiding.”

I shook my head, unable and unwilling to follow this to its inevitable conclusion.

“Oh yes, my sweet Jonathon. You are the Key now. The Key to both worlds. I suggest you leave now. Leave me to my feast”, she gestured towards the steaming remains of Leticia Pelletier, “and make hast towards whatever place of hiding you can envisage, for it will not be long before I and all of Hell are at your heels.”

I left.

 

[captaintripps]

Caveat Emptor


In a nutshell, there you have it folks. Or maybe nuthouse would seem more appropriate to your ears. I keep this journal up to date as much as possible - putting it all down in words helps keep me sane - making entries whenever I’m in one place for long enough, which isn’t often. I can’t stay anyplace for long before the fingers of paranoia start their little dance along my spine.

At first I didn’t think I’d last longer than a day or two. Here’s a weird thing though; I don’t have two cents to rub together but every time I’m at rock bottom someone comes through for me, some stranger will stuff a handful of notes into my fist as though they see something in my eyes, something in the way I move that compels them to just help.

All the same, I don’t know how long I can hold out. Sometimes I lie awake for hours trying to block out the world that lies in wait behind my eyelids, and when I finally pass out through sheer exhaustion there’re no sweet dreams for Johnny. Oh no… just one long sightsee round Hell.

Then there’s the Angel that I wear beneath my skin. It’s hard to describe, but I feel responsible for him somehow, almost as if I’m carrying a child. I feel him sometimes – he flutters and squirms – maybe he’s trying to get comfy in there. Anyhow, he’s a constant reminder of the burdens I bear and although he can be a strange comfort to me, his presence also underscores my predicament. He’s also been teaching me stuff, my little companion. I can do things now which are pretty outrageous, change stuff. Don’t get me wrong, it’s nothing spectacular, nothing that would help me face to face with those who pursue me. If I said that ‘water into wine’ is no big deal for me, you’d get some of the picture. But I’m learning every day as my Angel’s nature seeps through my flesh and my blood becomes filled with him. I guess I’m learning magic, although there’s nothing magical about my situation as I lie here in this stinking pit.

Still, here I am six long months down the line, with only four or five close shaves that I’m aware of. And some of them have been real close, so close that I’ve smelt the attar of Hell as I’ve run out the door . But that’s a tale for another day, for now I need to be movin’ on, hittin’ that old highway and tryin’ to keep some miles between me and what I know isn’t too far behind. And yet, as I put the last couple of things in my case, it almost seems easier to give up, just lie back down and wait for Her.

After all, this is no way for a man to live, with Hell on his heels and Heaven in his heart.

No way at all.

 

[captaintripps]

..And if anyone managed to get all the way through that, then you must be made of pretty stern stuff! Thanks for reading; I know it was a long, one so to speak...