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5. Partying With The Dead

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Darling, you should have seen her. White leopard skin in May? What was she thinking?”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“…couldn’t help laughing when his false fangs just fell out into his cup of blood…”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Wearing endangered species is so passé anyhow. This is thylacine...”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“…tried to make a jumpsuit from Doom Gerbil fur but we haven’t seen him since…”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“…enjoy the taste of Goldfish of Destiny with a white sauce but you have terrible dreams about it the night before…”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“…said to Baron Otto right there if you expect me to wear that you’re going to have to loosen the straps by at least three notches…”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“…how hard it is to get Hedgehog of Time off Persian carpet?”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“…tried to tell me it was all part of the ritual and that bad old Alistair Cromley enjoyed sitting on something like that, and I said…”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“I quite like Thai food but it’s important to get the real thing. Always check their passport before eating them.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“You heard that Penny Blood’s a new series of creatures are all laced with heavy irony, of course? They leave totally scathing wounds…”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“…just like that, cheeky as you please, grinning even as the holy water sprayed out of the fire sprinklers…”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“…don’t get me started on that Johnstantine person. Do you have his phone number?”

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    The sun set behind the ancient Castle Del Luna and the ancient fortress cast cold shadows over the pan-tiled roofs and cobbled alleys of the old village. Down in the harbour the fishermen pulled in their skiffs and the shopkeepers shuttered their stalls. On the higher terraces a lamplighter ignited the wrought-iron gas mantles. Children were called in from the streets. Houses were closed up for the night. The castle’s shadow spread far and dark.

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    This was Costa Del Luna, one of Europe’s oldest and smallest sovereign states, fastness of the Family Del Luna as far back as the manuscripts in the Rosicrucian Hermitage reached, tax haven for the powerful, playground for the conscienceless.

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    The sun went down and the party of the dead began.

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“…told her ‘you might be the Enthrallress but you’d still better give him back those Trousers of Destiny, find wherever you tossed your Panties of Infinity, and get the hell out of my jacuzzi’…

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“All I’m saying is if Off-Central Park wanted sentient statuary there’s more aesthetic choices than a second-hand gargoyle. I mean what are they trying to say?”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“…best thing you can say about LeVeau M’Tumbe is that costume of hers comes off really quickly…”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“…not so Marvellous without his orgonic viagra, from what I hear…”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“No seriously. Turned to the Apostate right there in the dungeon, down on his knees, weeping. We didn’t know where to look.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“…heard she was so furious you’re not even allowed to say the name Magweed on penalty of being sold to Disney…”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“…another false alarm. Not the Celestian Madonna at all. We ate her anyway, of course…”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“No, word is somebody drank Nosferos’ blood. There’s another elder out there we just don’t known about…”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“…almost worth getting impaled just to meet the Carnifex. He could impale me any time.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Space Fandoms make the best throw rugs…”

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    Beneath the cathedral-like vaulted roof of the Grand Basilicum (with its Moorish architecture and sixteenth century carvings by Mordellini Bautista) the rich and powerful of Europe gathered to talk and dance. Tongueless servants flitted between them serving drinks - or in the case of those guests who preferred fresh beverages simply baring their necks – while ancient creatures of shadow gossiped and romanced. Liaisons and alliances began and ended as the band played Danse Macabre.

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“…Picnic of Doom was livid, given how much time he’d spent getting sand into the food in the first place…”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“…new season of arias by the Choir Menstrual, but I said my dear they don’t make castrato like they did in the seventeenth century…”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“…thought Parodiopolis would be more entertaining now that horrid little plumber man’s gone but without the Willow it’s just no fun. The Croque D’Or just can’t compete…”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“…and then he tried to slip his pseudopod up my skirt, claiming he was trying to find his chthonic manuscript…”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“…his last words were ‘It’s a cat. I’m a ninth-tier Diabolic Cacorauder of the Order of Anarchy. It’s lunch.’”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“…ever since he got it back from the Laundry of Doom. It simply won’t come off and that wretched counter girl of theirs just laughed and said…”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“…heard that the Westminster Necropolis Company are going after the Ghost Taxis, darling. They intend to sell them on to Sage Grimpenghast.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Well perhaps he could get them to be a little bit more courteous. That one driver was very abusive because I didn’t leave him a tip.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Oh, that’s not all, sweethearts. Didn’t you hear that some mortal’s contesting it? A dreary little superhero or something? And there’s going to be a trial of ownership by the old rules?”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Call those the old rules? What happened to the really good old days where they peeled the contestants skins off and made them wrestle to the death in a pit of needles?”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“That’s strictly a hobby now. Anyhow, apparently there’s a full Hunt going on under the Triumvirate’s arbitration charter. You hadn’t heard about it? The Shaper and the Destroyer of Tales are simply going furious tugging things in different ways.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Suppose that explains why the karmic demiplanes are more like minefields these days. It’s not been the same since Immortipatus got sucked up his own aura. Whole ultrastructure’s going to the dogs.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“You heard that the Necromancer General tried to apply for the position? Snubbed all round, of course. Oik.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Still, a scavenger hunt would be rather jolly. Who’s taking the bets? What are they hunting for?”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Nobody’s quite sure. It’s all terribly squalid. It’s gauche enough that superheroes are dragged into it, but I heard they’d even dragged that mouldy old Shoggoth into the ring. I mean really… What are you pointing at.”

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    The master of ceremonies stood beside the ballroom door and announced the newest visitors: “The Probability Dancer and the Manga Shoggoth.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Oh dear.”

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***

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    A handsome man with a devilish smile looked over at the doorway and nudged the partygoer beside him. “Look over there. Things just got interesting.”

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    His companion wasn’t as handsome and his jacket didn’t have as much black frogging but he too gazed appreciatively at the young woman stood by the doorway who was looking round the dancefloor. “Interesting indeed.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“I saw her first,” noted Daimon Soulshredder. He pointed to the character slouching beside her who seemed to be oozing out of his suit across the carpet. “I don’t fancy yours much.”

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    Styxus De Soth scowled over at the suited Shoggoth. “That’s the lesser manifestation separated from its main biomass,” he recognised. “Does it really think there aren’t a dozen people in this room capable of elder-binding it just like that – including me?”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Who cares. Wrestle all you like with the elder being. I’m much more interesting in grappling the hottie.” The charming incubus made a beeline for the trim brunette in the leotard. “Daimon Soulshredder,” he said.

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“No, the Probability Dancer,” answered Sarah Shepherdson. “But thanks for playing. You’ve been a great contestant.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“I’m Daimon Soulshredder. Call me Daimon. Allow me to take you for a drink.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“You mean get me a drink, Daimon.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“If you insist. Come on, I’ll introduce you to some people. Well, some entities.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“We’d better split up to question people,” the bandage-swathed being beside Dancer decided.

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Let’s both just stay in one piece for now,” Shep answered carefully. She’d worked with the Manga Shoggoth before. “I’ll go see what Daimon wants to show me and you can check around the other guests.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“I’ll go graze on the buffet table,” agreed the loathsome elder being, speaking quite precisely.

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“I believe my acquaintance Styxus had a few words for you,” Daimon told him equally precisely

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    Dancer allowed her new partner to hook his arm round hers and lead her into the party. The music changed from classical to something more jazz and blues.

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“So what’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?” asked Daimon.

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Gatecrashing, mostly,” Dancer admitted. “I don’t see anyone I recognise.”

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    Daimon steered her to the gallery where he could point out the guests. “The usual poseurs and wannabees,” he judged. “Liétald del Lune and the whole ruling family were here earlier but they all hurried off rather quickly half an hour ago. Rumour is they’ve all rushed away to consult the Abyssal Exsanguinous, the Genealogist Arcane, for some reason. But there’s a few people who aren’t total bores.”

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    Dancer looked down onto the shadowed candlelit ballroom below. She could see the Shoggoth working his way through the room by the scatter patterns and the occasional candelabra blinking out as it became part of the buffet.

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“We’ve got scions from most of the others of the Nine Families here,” went on Daimon Soulshredder. “That’s Prince Walloon Hertzog in the gold lamé speaking to Pandemonica Ananké and Opheli Incantantrix. There’s Louis and Druella of the Morgolath, making fun of Rubelin Coriomundi’s new face transplant. Well, it is hideous. I’ve no idea who he got it off. There’s Valentia Harrow trying to get people to notice her cursed engagement ring from Avogadro Rouge. Golgotha De Soth’s the one smirking because she’s already seduced Valentia’s fiancée and smooching with the Devos Jaggarnath, Prince of the Rakshasas.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Quite a gathering,” Dancer agreed, peering into the shifting darkness below the gallery.

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    Daimon went on. “The fat drunk in the corner is Lamentus Vlastivock. He’s cringing there to try and avoid meeting Baroness Morbo, the bulbous-headed alien hybrid in the strapless orange Versace. Ulrika doesn’t take rejection well and I think she’s in her spawning cycle.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Is that Baron Otto von Zemo?” recognised Dancer, peering down at the Teutonic “unalive” in the Junker uniform.

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“The bald guy leaning over to look down Mystic Morgana’s cleavage? Sure. You know him?”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“I know his grand-daughter better,” Dancer replied. “I’m not feeling I really fit in here.”

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    Daimon placed a cool hand on Dancer’s shoulder. “Darling, don’t worry. You’re one of us.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“I’m really not.”

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    Daimon pulled her closer. “Don’t be so modest. I don’t think anyone else here tonight can say they’ve wiped out an entire planet. You did bring Galactivac to Skree-Lump, didn’t you?”

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    Dancer went pale.

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    Down amongst the grandees who were too evil and sober to take to the dance floor with the younger lords of darkness the Manga Shoggoth was taking a more direct approach.

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Excuse me,” he bubbled at the Flensing Man, “but have you seen the elder vampire Vrykolakas by any chance? We require a vial of his blood.”

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    The Flensing Man rippled his long needle-talons. “Do you know who I am?” he hissed.

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“I can guess,” answered the Shoggoth. “You are the minor night horror that gets destroyed by the loathsome elderspawn to demonstrate that the elderspawn is serious? Am I right?”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Er, no.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Are you sure? I mean, normally I’d check with my high priestess Ebony but she isn’t here right now. Only Dancer, and she’s busy being seduced by somebody who’s bad for her. But if you are volunteering to be the object lesson it would be very helpful if you could clearly indicate so.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“I’m not. Totally not. Wow, is that the time? I must be leaving.”

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    The Shoggoth moved on to Dr Ludovick Trenchcoat. “Excuse me, but have you seen the elder vampire Vrykolakas by any chance? We require a vial of his blood.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“You’re here for Vrykolakas’ blood?” Daimon Soulshredder asked Dancer. “You’re here for the auction?”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Auction?” Dancer frowned. “What auction?”

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    Daimon pointed to one of the tables in one of the alcoves. “Those guys? Atlas and Census Jones. The Jones boys. Used to work for the Shaper or the Chronicler or one of those types. Now they’re major league occult middlemen. They shift a lot of dodgy artefacts.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“They’ve got Vrykolakas’ blood?” Shep checked. “Only we need it tonight.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Auction’s not until tomorrow,” Daimon noted. “Is this to do with that Ghost Taxi scavenger hunt?”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“That’s right. Mr Weissman told us where to find the blood. We just expected it to be within this Vrykolakas person.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“First off, Vrykolakas isn’t a person, he’s a consulting undead. Other necroforms come to him with their problems and he helps them out. For a fee. Some say he’s one of the original Children of the Night, a son of Cain or Lilith, of the First Cursing. And secondly, what the heaven did you pay Rupert Weissman to get that kind of information out of him?”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“He told us where to find the blood,” Dancer said brightly, “and the Shoggoth spat him out.”

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    Daimon glanced nervously down at the floor where the Shoggoth had cornered the Geometry of Doom and was discussing lower mathematics. “I think that might be why Weissman sent you here, then. His revenge.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Revenge? What do you mean revenge?”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“The Jones’ have got a drop of Vrykolakas’ blood, they say. That’s pretty major. A vampire who drinks another vamp’s blood gains that vampire’s strength, and Vryko’s stuff is primo. That means we’ve got a major cast in tonight waiting for the auction, some real big players. Lots of powerful, nasty beings.” Daimon ran his fingers along Dancer’s cheek. “One innocent sacrifice.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Oh?” said Sarah. “Who?”

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    Daimon clearly hadn’t seen her Spark test scores.

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***

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“The Manga Shoggoth,” recognised Atlas Jones, slightly nervously. “You can’t touch us, we’re insured.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Also,” replied the Manga Shoggoth earnestly, “I cannot touch you as it might cause your mundane organic chemically-bonded skin-sacks to dissolve and suppurate into five-dimensional goo and drip away into realms of pan-eternal outer madness.” A drop or too of translucent protoplasm seeped between his face bandages as he tried to approximate a smile.

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Er, yes, that too,” agreed Census Jones. “But the fact is we’re protected, and this is neutral ground.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“If it wasn’t neutral ground there’d already be a war happening here between these night creatures,” added Atlas.

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“As opposed to a bidding war, which is what we’re hoping for tomorrow,” smirked Census.

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“So you do have some of Vrykolakas’ blood,” the Shoggoth observed. “I thought I smelled something rank. I require it.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Then place your offer tomorrow when the auction starts,” advised Atlas. “Although I should warn you that I’ve already got reserve bids from the House of Ananké and the Clan Morgolath, and a very handsome proposal from Aubrey de Lune.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“I had a very handsome proposal from Golgotha de Soth,” confided Census. “Although that had nothing to do with the auction.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“No offer from the Westminster Necropolis Company?” noted the Shoggoth. “Interesting.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Oh yes,” Atlas said brightly. “I guess if you need it for your scavenger hunt then Dr Wormcallow’s boys will be bidding for it too.” He rubbed his hands together. “This is going to be good.”

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***

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Call for you, Grace,” called Nurse DuBois. In Paradopolis the night shift was just beginning, which meant that Grace O’Mercy was taking charge of Phantomhawk Memorial Hospitals Emergency Room. The Night Nurse picked up the phone on triage reception and activated line 2.

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Hi, Grace,” said Hallie, the Lair Legion’s resident artificial intelligence. “Sorry to call you at work but it’s for a case. I’m trying to track down some info for Dancer and the Shoggoth and for some reason Marie Murcheson seems to think you’re the person to ask.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Ask then,” offered Grace. She looked away from the phone just long enough to call, “Put him in room seven, get Henson to mop up the spaghetti, then have someone lube that euphonium off Big Thick Eddie. I’ll be over there in a minute.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Right,” Hallie agreed. “Well, we need to know about vampire blood. I guess you’ve seen some weird stuff in your time at Phantomhawk ER. Would you happen to know what the deal is on vampires drinking other vampire’s blood?”

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    If Grace’s heart was still beating it would have skipped a beat. “Me? Why would I know something like that?”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Marie thought you might, and Hatty agreed. Ebony’s off on some kind of vacation that doesn’t involve battling insane cultists and Vinnie De Soth’s refereeing this weird occult treasure hunt so if you do know anything…”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“A vampire gains the strength of another vampire by drinking their blood,” answered Grace. “The blood is the life. A stronger vampire can dominate a weaker one by feeding off them. A weak vampire could become incredibly strong by taking the blood of an older vampire. Er, so I hear. In E.R.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“So if someone was to drink the blood of that ancient nosferatu Vrykolakas?”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Then they’d be awfully powerful and in a huge amount of trouble. I doubt that Vrykolakas would like it very much.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“He’s dangerous?” checked Hallie. The Legion didn’t have too much on the elder vampire.

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“He’s so dangerous that he’s smart enough never to have battled the Lair Legion,” pointed out Grace. “He’s the one that other undead go to for specialist advice on necromancy. He’s thousands of years old and all that time he’s been researching and learning. Half the occult entities on Earth owe him favours. He really won’t react well to someone drinking his blood. How would anyone be able to get his blood anyway?”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Good point,” agreed Hallie. “I’ll pass that back to Dancer and the Shoggoth.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“One other thing. When vampires are making people like them the human has to drink a little of the vampire’s blood. It enslaves them. It could be that anyone ingesting Vrykolakas’ ichor expecting to get his power might have a very nasty surprise.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Ouch. Thanks, Grace. I’ll make sure the Legion know the dangers.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“No problem. I’ll get back to cleaning up this little catheter mishap then remind that guy trying to sell his meth-laced vomit to the addicts that this is a hospital.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Right. Okay. Bye.”

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    Grace O’Mercy sighed. “Some nights you really want a drink,” she admitted. “Just say no.”

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***

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“You’re very charming,” admitted Dancer as she smooched in close to Daimon Soulshredder as the band played something slow and easy. “I keep thinking maybe I should be objecting to your plan to sacrifice me and bid my essence in the auction tomorrow.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“But you won’t,” Daimon told her. “A herald of Galactivac is a very valuable commodity so I can’t let you go, but I can make sure you have a good time before your time is up. I promise that when you die it’ll be of bliss.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“That’s really sweet of you, Daimon. Most guys who date me aren’t so up-front about how they’re going to use me then toss me away.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“I’m very special. You’re a very lucky girl to die in my arms.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Don’t you think my team-mate the Manga Shoggoth might object to your plans?” Dancer wondered.

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    Daimon shook his head. “Styxus and Rubelin are preparing the elder sign to bind him now. He’s only the lesser Shoggoth after all. He’ll make a useful item to bid as well.”

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    Dancer shook her head and pushed herself up to Daimon more. “You haven’t thought this out,” she whispered in his ear. “First off, how would the Atlas brothers get a drop of Vrykolakas’ blood? Unless he wanted them to, of course. Say to get everybody gathered here tonight for tomorrow’s auction, to set a trap for the Lair Legion, as if he’d been hired in advance by the WNC.”

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    Daimon frowned. “So what if he did? You fell into the trap, didn’t you? You’re mine now. You can’t resist.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Well, that brings me to points two and three,” Dancer went on. “Point two is that it’s a really cosmically dumb idea to try and charm me with that sub-Johnstantine bad-boy shtick when I’ve already fallen for the real thing a time or two. Or about fifty. Maybe seventy. Seventy-five. It’s especially dumb to try using your incubus seduction powers on me while you’re smooching with me on the dance floor, given how my probability powers are activated by me dancing.”

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    Daimon stiffened a little. “Er…”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Point three is that elder signs do work on the Shoggoth, that’s true, but there’s always a chance that they’re not constructed properly and that there’s a fatal flaw in them that allow the Shoggoth to break free. And then he’d be cross. Guess what the chances of that happening are if there’s a Probability Dancer on the dancefloor?”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Um…” swallowed Daimon.

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Yeah,” confirmed Dancer. “See those young men screaming and gibbering towards the bathroom covered in gel? Don’t they look just like Styxus and Rubelin?”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Ah…” winced the incubus.

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“And that moist feeling in your pants right now?” went on Dancer.

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“That would be me,” bubbled the Shoggoth. “Hello.”

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    By coincidence the band started to play something loud and frenetic just then so nobody really worked out just why Daimon Soulshredder was leaping about, waving his arms, and screaming wildly.

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***

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“The scam’s over,” Dancer told the Jones brothers. “We’ve defused your trap.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“And Daimon Soulshredder’s trousers,” added the Shoggoth, frothing in his gelid blob form.

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“That was nothing to do with us,” Atlas Jones said hastily. “We’re just middlemen. We don’t know anything.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“No refunds,” Census added quickly and reflexively. “It’s not like we offer a guarantee. There’s no call for it.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Whoever won the auction tomorrow would get a visit thereafter from Vrykolakas, would they not?” suggested the Shoggoth. The loathsome elder beast bubbled in close to the worried Jones brothers. “You keep the profit from the sale, the purchaser returns the goods with profuse apologies in exchange for not being annihilated, and the Legion should have been destroyed by the entities at this rather dull party here.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Any deal that Vrykolakas might have struck with the WNC is nothing to do with us,” denied Atlas. “If the time-seers at the Necropolis Company thought to call in a consulting vampire ahead of time then you can’t hold us responsible. We’re just businessmen.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“So did the WNC buy a drop of Vrykolakas’ blood when they were hiring him to set this trap?” demanded Dancer.

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“I’m guessing it was with Vincent De Soth five minutes after the scavenger hunt started,” admitted Census. “You never had a chance of winning this one. That was the point.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Drat,” cursed Dancer. “Well, at least we got to make the world a little bit crappier for Daimon Soulshredder and his pals.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“There are others here who deserve destruction,” growled the Shoggoth. “I shall make a list.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“We’d better go,” Dancer decided. “There really are people here we wouldn’t want to annoy without the full Lair Legion at our back.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Yes, you should go,” agreed Atlas, who was still not happy about the proximity of the Shoggoth, or the fact that Daimon Soulshredder’s pants were slowly dissolving inside the elder being’s protoplasm.

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“We’ll go then,” agreed the Shoggoth. “But first I intend to have a dance. It’s only fair.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“A… a dance?” worried Census.

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Oh yes,” agreed the Shoggoth. “Dancer, what are the chances of the band playing the Hokey Cokey?” He slithered out onto the dance floor. “I’m feeling a little bit sloppy right now.”

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***

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6.    The Haggis of Shinty MacBlood

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Other side of the road!” screamed Nats, “It’s England! They drive on the left! The left!”

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    Rosalind “Roswell” Fellkirk stopped watching the road entirely as she turned round to argue with her passenger. “Listen, buster, I’ve been driving these cabs since I was twelve years old. I know what I’m doing.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“You’re ploughing straight through a truck! Aaaaggh!!” responded Bill Reed.

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    The sixty-ton oil tanker drove straight through the Ghost Cab as if it wasn’t there.

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Technically we’re not in England,” the Librarian noted, absorbing some useful local travelogues from his interface to his Lunar Public Library. “We’re in the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, but this part is Scotland. Calling the people here English can cause unnecessary dental work.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“It’s not like I wanted you to have to do this stupid scavenger hunt,” fumed Roswell, swerving to avoid a red Royal Mail post box that somehow seemed to have become part of the local ley network. “I never asked for you to become the next owner of my father’s Ghost Taxi business. I’m sure I could have found someone with psychic potential that could hold a chymeric contract that wasn’t so… you.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Hey! I never asked to be attacked and amnesified and chased by dead men in hearses and stuff,” Bill Reed objected. “It’s not my fault if this kind of thing happens to me all the time.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“That chymeric contract really is interesting,” the Librarian mused, ignoring the screaming match between the flame-haired cabbie and the flying phenomenon. “It looks like a modification and updating of an original pact forged in 1874 by Lucius Faust, then sorcerer supreme, to harness ambient occult energies in what was then Parodiopolis from the sleeping elder godling Shabba’Dhabba’Dhu, the Groper Out of Grossness, by chartering a Ghost Hansom Company.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Yeah. It stops a lethal build-up of elder force and it allows us to drive through oil trucks without exploding Nats in a big fireball,” agreed Roswell. “Not that I’m saying that would be a bad thing.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Hey, I’m right here!” objected Bill Reed.

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Yeah, I can tell by the whining.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“This version of the charter was established in 1922 by one Heddington Venerable,” the Librarian continued. “It’s co-signed by the Abyssal Greye, Lavinia of the Underdark, and Carrington the Shaper. It allows for lost spirits to be anchored to the occult real estate that is the taxi depot, brokered by a mortal with psychic gifts who acts as their connection to the world of the living.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“That was my dad,” Roswell agreed, blatantly ignoring a dry-stone wall and taking a shortcut through a village graveyard. “He got talked into the job by the old guy who did it before him, Julio Cacciatore. Mom wasn’t happy.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Did he drive like you?” Nats wondered, seeking a reason for Mrs Fellkirk’s unhappiness.

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    The cab screeched to a sudden halt, hurling Nats into the front seat. “We’re here,” Roswell announced defiantly. “Loch Obergarghel.”

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    The cab had screeched to a halt inches from the edge of a quaint stone quay beside a long green lake. Old limed cottages were strewn down an uneven cobbled road towards a big crenellated manor.

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    There was a sleek classic hearse parked outside the big house.

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    Roswell revved up her Ghost Taxi and rammed it.

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***

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Good to meet you, your, um, Lairdship,” Nats bade Rory McArghel, hereditary Laird of the Clan McArghel. “Sorry about the slight fender-bender out in your courtyard.”

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    McArghel was a man in his late fifties, stout and kilted, with a huge greying-black beard almost to his stomach. He finished pouring the whiskies and looked around in puzzlement. “Where are the gentleman in the funeral vehicle?” he wondered in his Highlands burr. “Are they calling the Automobile Association?”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“They’re seeing to their car,” Bill answered precisely. “It somehow got hurled into the Loch and they’re… checking into it.” That was code for “I telekinetically threw their curse-fortified vehicle half a mile down the lake and then I tossed their undead asses after it.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Sometimes Mr Reed does get some things right,” Roswell admitted with grudging approval.

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“We’re here on a matter of historical interest, your grace,” Lee Bookman told the Laird. “We’re interested in the famous Haggis of Shinty MacBlood.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“It’s famous?” asked Nats.

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“It’s famous?” asked Roswell.

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Och aye,” the Laird told them. “It’s world famous round here.”

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    The Librarian explained as usual. “Shinty MacBlood was a local war-leader back in the struggles against the English about eight hundred years ago. His cause was aided by a mysterious Paradox Stranger who helped him to bake a most terrible war-haggis.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“I thought a haggis was something you ate?” puzzled Roswell.

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Assuming you call sheep’s heart and liver and lungs pulped up and cooked inside the sheep’s stomach something you eat,” shuddered Nats.

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Ah, there’s oatmeal and suet and onion an’ the like as well,” enthused the Laird. “Nothing like it wi’ neeps and taters on Burns Night.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Nothing at all,” agreed the Librarian precisely. “Anyhow, legend says that Shinty’s haggis was made from a rather special sheep, the Black Ram of Death.”

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    Roswell frowned. “I’m guessing it tasted a bit salty,” she suggested.

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Well the interesting correlation is that back in the twelfth century the then Destroyer of Tales did use ovine shapes for his agents of destiny,” noted the Librarian.

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“The what?” Roswell blinked.

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    Nats tried to explain. “There’s this cosmic office that… See, the Chronicler uses ravens and the old Shaper liked goldfish and… Back in the beginning there was this King of Tales, and he…” He turned to Lee Bookman. “This exposition stuff is harder than it looks.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“The key point is that this haggis was an instrument of destiny, an artefact that allowed MacBlood to triumph over his enemies for a time.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Till he were betrayed,” added the Laird gloomily, “by a wumman.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“At least he wasn’t betrayed by a sheep,” Nats consoled the Scotsman.

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“He wasn’ae Welsh,” objected the Laird.

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Shinty was seduced then handed over to the English by a temptress called Remorse Kiskilla,” the Librarian explained. “They killed him of course. They made him eat his own haggis.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“But the haggis was reclaimed frae his body,” Rory McArghel told them. “Cut oot and preserved through the ages. It’s here in this very hoose the noo.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“It’s on display in this manor now,” the Librarian translated.

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“We need to borrow it,” Nats told the Laird. “Maybe permanently. It’s for a scavenger hunt. Er, I mean, I’m with the Lair Legion. This is a Lair emergency. We’re commandeering your haggis.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“It is important,” Roswell added. “Please. People’s very souls depend upon this.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Well…” began the Laird. “If it’s as you say…”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Speak nae more!” came a shrill Highlands voice from the doorway. “Dinnae betray yuir sacred trust! Dinnae gi’ away oor hooly treasure to th’ Sassenach intruders! Death tae th’ murrains! Scotland fore’er!”

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    Roswell gazed at the furious hairy tartan-swathed lunatic that had just burst into the Laird’s hall. “Um…?”

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    The Librarian recognised him at once. “The Bagpiper! Don’t let him blow on those…”

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    It was too late. Lee Bookman was swallowed into the Bagpiper’s Sporran of Doom. Then Ewan McGore played his Skirl of Destruction and the battle began.

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***

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    Deep in the underwater caves below Loch Obergarghel the sonorous wail of the pipes reverberated over and over. The ancient creature that slept there roused from its slumber, uncoiled its serpentine lengths, and answered the call.

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    Obie was awake. She undulated to the surface, rising in a high spray of green foam, coiling her neck to where the battle was raging.

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    Bill Reed had grabbed the Bagpiper and was trying to wrest his pipes from him. Roswell was clinging to the piper’s sporran as Nats bounced from wall to wall. She winced as she got a view of exactly what a Scotsman wore under his kilt.

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    Obie slithered over and swallowed Nats whole.

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    Roswell reached up under McGore’s kilt and tugged. The skirl of the bagpipes went very high then tapered off into a strangled dying squawk – an unintentional one, as opposed to regular bagpipe music.

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    Bill Reed forced the great serpent’s jaws open and flew out. “I hate when that happens,” he snarled. “At least this time I got out through the mouth end.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“That’s a lake monster,” Roswell warned him with a slightly hysterical giggle. “Don’t let them eat you.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Tis Obie!” the Laird gasped, looking out through the hole where the side of his house had recently been. “Tis Obie rising frae th’ loch!”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Yeah, I noticed,” Nats admitted. “But don’t worry. I can handle one giant monster.”

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    The Bagpiper shouted Gaelic curses at the intruders that would despoil his nation of its national treasures. The other seventeen lake serpents burst out of the water and joined the fight.

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***

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    Inside the Sporran of Doom there was a foetid smell of unwashed Bagpiper, rotted scraps of uneaten slumpie and pork pie, the skeletons of several small mammals, and the Chief Undertaker of the Westminster Necropolis Company.

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Why Dr Wormcallow,” said the Librarian. “Fancy meeting you here.”

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    The corpse-pale mortician regarded Lee Bookman soberly. “You are fortunate that I am present. The usual function of this odiferous sub-dimensional artefact is to bombard those sucked into it with nightmarish projections drawn from their own unconscious.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“And you’re stopping that?”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“The nightmares are afraid of me.”

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    The Librarian looked around him. There didn’t seem any obvious way out from the hessian darkness. “I take it the Bagpiper objected to you removing the Haggis as well.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“That is the case. We were prepared to lay the Lair Legion to rest. We had not anticipated an insane mutated Hibernian with a transdimensional groin pouch.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“It’s an oversight anyone might have made. But at least we get a chance to chat. Perhaps you can tell me why you’re so keen on getting hold of the Ghost Taxis after all this time?”

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    Dr Wormcallow started at Lee for an uncomfortably long time before answering. “The opportunity only arises when ownership is in flux. I’m sure you have read the provisions of the charter. Whoever owns the company has access to many hidden pathways and secret places in Parodiopolis, not least to chambers redolent with the elder power of Shabba’Dhabba’Dhu; but he is not the oldest secret beneath the city nor the most terrible.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“That’s… not comforting,” owned the Librarian. “And Sage Grimpenghast sees opportunity in accessing all of that?”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“And to the lost souls of the metropolis, yes. He is keen to exploit the city before it is destroyed.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Destroyed?”

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    Dr Wormcallow refused to offer any further explanation of what the WNC’s future-seers had discerned. It was going to be a good time for undertakers.

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Any ideas on how we get out of here?” the Librarian asked the mortician.

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Oh yes,” Dr Wormcallow replied. “I believe the Sporran of Doom can be breached given the right stimuli. I believe I can provide those stimuli.” He looked at Lee Bookman. “There will have to be a release of necromantic energies first. One death should do it.”

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***

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Don’t just get eaten!” Roswell screamed at Nats. “You’re a superhero! Do something superheroey!”

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    Nats telekinetically knotted the nearest lake serpents together and pyrokinetically set fire to the bagpiper’s beard. “I’m on it,” he argued. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and go grab the Haggis?”

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    The Bagpiper directed some of the Obies towards the cab driver. “Swell,” she spat and punched the Scotsman in the face. “If you want something doing…”

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    Nats slammed into the monster nearest to her and wrestled it to the ground. It vomited green slime all over him. Roswell vanished into the interior of the castle.

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    The Bagpiper rose wrathfully, preparing for the skirl of destruction. At his command the serpents ganged up around Bill Reed, slamming him to the ground again and again.

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“The noo!” screamed the frantic Scotsman. “Hae wi’ him and ding him the drochet wi’ th’ de’il’s own drum-scoon!”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“What?” puzzled the Laird. This was too Scots even for him.

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    Nats heaved himself free of the lake beasties, driving them away with a series of pyrokinetic detonations; but he felt himself getting weaker.

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    The howl of the bagpipes hit him like a brick wall, toppling him into the rubble of the manor house.

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Tis long sang ye were due to dee!” howled the Bagpiper. “Dread yuir weird, Sassenach!”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“And drain your lizard!” Bill called back defiantly. He’d probably got the beginnings of a concussion.

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    The Bagpiper gestured for the Obies to finish the flying phenomenon off.

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    But then his sporran exploded.

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Complete works of Billy Connolly,” gasped the Librarian, toppling out of the ruptured dimensional space. “Does it every time. Had the Sporran in stitches. Then unstitches.”

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    Dr Wormcallow didn’t get jokes. He rose to his feet in proper nosferatu fashion, stiff at a board, pivoting at the heels. “Enough,” he said. He gestured to Roswell who’d just retrieved the Haggis from the laird’s display case. “Bring the item to me,” he commanded.

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    Roswell made a rude noise. “You work Ghost Taxis for as long as I have you learn fast enough not to fall for the old hypnotic voice trick. Or the going-in-to-get-my-chequebook scam. Or the could-you-look-under-the-back-seat-for-me come on. &%£$ off!”

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    Nats had had enough. He levitated the nearest Ogie right out of the water and used it to pound the Bagpiper into unconsciousness. Then he turned on Wormcallow.

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    Half a dozen shadowy beings that might have been the spectres of WNC operatives past flickered in around Roswell and the Haggis.

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“My game, I believe,” said the chief undertaker.

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Watch out!” warned the Librarian, dropping the worm nearest to him by transmitting Moby Dick into it’s tiny cranial cortex. “Those are harrowgrims, as described in the fifteenth century Codex Abominata by Mad Asparagin the Harper! Think junior Doomwraiths. They drain life energies!”

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    Nats had a sense for undead and these things gave him a screaming headache. He tossed them aside but just telekinetic contact left him weak and shaking, hardly able to remain airborne. “Run!” he told Roswell.

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    There was nowhere to run.

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Fine,” spat Rosalind Fellkirk, surrounded by spectres. “Take it!” She hurled the gory delicacy down at Dr Wormcallow’s feet. “It’s not like we haven’t got other items to still compete.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Actually,” the Librarian winced, “I’m just getting word from Hallie that we appear to be down 3-1 so far.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“4-1,” the undertaker told them, picking up the haggis. “Don’t move or the harrowgrims slaughter the girl.”

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    Bill Reed gritted his teeth. “This isn’t over yet,” he warned.

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    Another hearse arrived for Wormcallow. This was an ancient dray pulled by four black night-mares. “Of course it isn’t,” the senior mortician agreed. “I never said that the harrowgrims wouldn’t slaughter the girl anyhow. Goodbye.”

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    As the hearse dived into shadows and vanished the phantasms attacked.

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    The Librarian sucked Billy Connolly back into his mind and the Sporran of Doom reformed around the harrowgrims.

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    Roswell tumbled to her knees, dry-retching. “It’s okay,” Nats told her. “You’re safe now. We’ll get after him somehow. The taxi can follow him, right?”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“We’re not following him, idiot,” Roswell gasped.

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“But he’s got the haggis.”

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    Roswell clutched her stomach. “He’s got a haggis. I called into the Laird’s kitchen on my way to the display case. He’s got the Laird’s supper. I ate the Haggis of Shinty MacBlood.”

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Um, didn’t that kill Shinty?” suggested the Librarian.

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    Ã¢â‚¬Å“What part of the attempted vomiting didn’t you understand?” asked Roswell.

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***

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Next: It’s far from over. The maguffins are found but they still have to be delivered. Join our heroes, our villains, and some more special guest stars for The Last Cab Home

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***

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Original concepts, characters, and situations copyright © 2009 reserved by Ian Watson. Other Parodyverse characters copyright © 2009 to their creators. The use of characters and situations reminiscent of other popular works do not constitute a challenge to the copyrights or trademarks of those works. The right of Ian Watson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the UK Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved.