Dark Seduction (16 page)

Melantha drew closer, her expression growing darker.

Now or never. If he left it any longer, he might change his mind. Zen steeled himself; took a deep breath and ...

An arm wrapped itself around his neck, choking him. Zen's eyes opened wide in surprise and he gargled as whoever held on started to pull him back, out of the way. Zen struggled to no avail, his assailant too strong or too determined. They passed through a doorway, and he saw Melantha ride by, her eyes momentarily fixing him with a withering glare before she looked away and spurred the horse on.

The arm around his neck relaxed and Zen rubbed his Adam's apple to relieve the pain before turning to face his attacker: the undertaker, a gangly man with intense, dark eyes, a shock of black hair and a pale, corpse like complexion, as though he had spent too long hiding indoors. Although hard to estimate his age, Zen thought he must be around forty-five. Apart from a white shirt and a red tie like a bloodstain, he was dressed all in black, permanent mourning attire.

“What the hell did you grab me for?” Zen shouted.

The undertaker grinned; his pale face reminded Zen of the albino man.

“You stupid idiot. Do you know what she's planning?”

The undertaker smiled and shrugged. “Whatever it is, she’s assured me that I’ll benefit.”

Zen couldn't believe what he heard. “You won't be around to benefit. When she comes back from where she's going, everyone's going to die, and that means you too.” He shook his head.

“We'll see,” the undertaker said, seemingly unimpressed, his dark, beady eyes glinting mischievously.

Zen wondered whether the man wasn't a little mad. Perhaps it came from dealing with dead people all the time. Perhaps he was desensitised. Zen wondered whether he interfered with the corpses; balked at the sick image of him feeling up a dead cadaver, getting his jollies from an unresponsive piece of meat. He shivered. Well, the stupid idiot wasn't going to stop him.

“Get out of my way,” Zen said, striding towards the door.

“I can't do that; I can't let you harm her.”

Zen reached out to grab Mr. Pain by the shoulder to push him out of the way, but the undertaker moved too fast. He slipped away like a shadow, only to reappear in front of the door.

“Pain by name, pain by nature,” Zen said. He looked around the room and saw an old desk with a blotting pad on it. Pictures scrawled in biro decorated the pad; grotesque faces, skulls, bodies in the middle of autopsies with organs falling out; a psychiatrist would certify the man mad from them alone. The only other things on the desk were a stapler and pens, which sprouted out of red plastic tubes like flower stalks. Behind the desk sat a brown leather chair and a shelf with a few books on it. To the side, a door that led to the back of the building, stencilled with the word PRIVATE.

“I'll try to be quick about it,” Mr. Pain said, smiling benevolently and revealing his yellow teeth.

“Quick?”

“Yes, don't worry. I can repair any disfigurement I cause so you can have an open casket and won't upset anyone when they look in.”

“Are you mad?” Zen took a step back and raised the knife. His heart raced and he bit his lip. His legs went weak and he felt cold, the blood draining from his face like mercury in a thermometer.

Pain stepped forward and laughed. He pulled a cosh from the inside pocket of his coat. He slapped it noisily across the palm of his free hand.

“Get away from me,” Zen said, waving the knife. He wondered why an undertaker carried a cosh around in his coat. His hands shook almost as much as his legs, but the undertaker didn’t even bat an eyelid, never mind look scared.

Mr. Pain flicked his wrist, the cosh a blur as it travelled through the air and struck Zen's hand. Instantaneous agony radiated along his arm. He instinctively opened his fingers and dropped the knife. He heard it clatter to the ground, but he couldn't see it as he shut his eyes and sucked air through his clenched teeth in an attempt to quell the pain.

“
Bastard,
” he squealed.

Mr. Pain laughed and struck out again, hitting Zen's wrist. It sounded like a dry wishbone snapping, the pain excruciating. Zen fell back, wished himself anywhere but here. He grabbed his wrist, shrieking at the resultant pain. It felt broken, as though the bone had splintered and now poked through the skin. He tried to caress it, but the pain made him feel sick.

He opened and closed his fingers, testing to see if he could still move them.

“You fuckin’ twat,” he snarled, backing around the desk to put a barrier between them. He tried to see if he could spot the knife on the ground, but Mr. Pain lashed out again, forcing Zen back against the wall.

He felt the door handle sticking in his rear, and using his good hand, he reached behind him, found the handle and turned it. The door opened and he fell through, his injured hand hitting the doorframe as he tried to keep his balance. The pain felt incredible. For a moment, he almost passed out and he hit the ground trying to remain conscious, fighting to keep the shadows at bay.

Although still dizzy, he didn't have time to lie around and he scrambled to his feet. Mr. Pain stood in the doorway, smiling and slapping the palm of his hand with the cosh, keeping time like a deadly metronome.

There were a number of coffins in the room. Some of them leaned vertically against the wall, others were horizontal. One of the horizontal coffins sat open, and Zen backed towards it. He glanced down and looked inside, and wished he hadn't. A cadaver, face painted to make him look presentable, stared back.

“I'm glad you've had a chance to see my work,” Mr. Pain said. “Now you know I'll do a good job. I take pride in what I do. It's an art, you see.” He advanced, slapping the cosh.

“You're sick,” Zen said through gritted teeth. He fought to keep the shadows at bay. Could feel them waiting in the wings like a vampire, waiting to suck the life out of him. He had to resist. It would be so easy to succumb, a welcome relief from the pain and horror. But he knew if he did, he would never wake up; would be taking the big sleep.

He backed around the coffin, his legs starting to rebel, going weak at the knees as though in league with Mr. Pain, as though they wanted him to fall. His damaged hand hung limp at his side, throbbing and sending shafts of white-hot pain along his arm as though on fire. He felt certain if he put it in a bucket of water, steam would gush out.

In the distance, he heard someone scream. Or was it him screaming, the pain now so intense he didn't know if he had lost control, now existing outside himself, distancing himself from reality, a safety mechanism as his brain shut down.

Mr. Pain grinned, as though he could smell the scent of victory.

Zen backed further into the room and noticed another door, half hidden behind a vertical coffin. He staggered towards it.

Pre-empting him, Mr. Pain rushed forward, the cosh raised ready to strike. Zen began to fall, his shaking legs eventually giving out. At the last minute, his good hand managed to grab the edge of a coffin heavy enough to support him. He pulled himself upright, saw the cosh flying towards him and ducked to avoid it. He heard it hit the coffin with a dull thud, the last nail ...

Bells jangled in the background – Zen imagined a choir of angels serenading him towards the pearly gates.

He watched Mr. Pain raise the cosh for another blow and he knew this time, he wouldn't be so lucky.

CHAPTER 23

Mr. Pain smirked, his yellow teeth like sulphurous volcanic rock.

Zen couldn't look away. A bulge in the undertaker’s trousers made Zen feel sick. The last thing he would see in this life was a grinning psycho with a hard on. Life sucked.

The cosh began to descend; time seemed to slow down, everything happening in freeze-frame so he suffered in his last seconds. Before the cosh hit his head, he imagined the pain, the weapon leaving a canal in his skull that would need some serious repair work to make him look respectable for the open casket.

He found his eyes drawn to the corner of Mr. Pain's mouth, watched a trickle of blood roll down the man’s chin. Where before time seemed to have slowed, it now seemed to have stopped. Mr. Pain stood there, the cosh still inches above Zen's head. No longer grinning, he cried, the cosh held motionless.

Zen watched the lapel of Mr. Pain's coat rise up. When it had risen five inches or more, it fell aside to reveal a sharp blade that pierced the undertaker.

“Don't just sit there,” Leo said, peeking around the side of Mr. Pain and withdrawing his sword, “We've got things to do.”

Mr. Pain fell sideways and landed in an open casket.

Zen couldn't believe it. He got to his feet and hugged Leo with his good arm. “Am I glad to see you,” he said, tears of relief flooding his eyes.

Letting go of Leo, he walked slowly to the end of the casket that Mr. Pain lay half in and half out of, and using his good hand he pushed him all the way in before slamming the lid down.

“Come on,” Leo said, sheathing his sword and walking away.

Zen followed him back into the shop. He found the knife he had dropped, picked it up and then turned the sign on the front door to, CLOSED FOR BUSINESS before exiting.

Outside, the high street looked deserted.

“Melantha's entered the Shadowland,” Leo said, as if reading Zen's mind.

“Then we're too late!”

“I hope not, for all our sakes.”

CHAPTER 24

Melantha steered her caravan through the streets of the Shadowland with her clan at her rear; a strange procession in an even stranger land. The sound of the horse's hooves echoed between the buildings, a solemn metronome that kept time for the army’s steps.

The streets were unnaturally quiet. She was used to hearing perverse creatures uttering supplications to the art of pain. Something wasn't right.

She didn't like it.

She heard footsteps going out of time with the horse's hooves, running. Moments later, Barrabas appeared beside her.

“Where is everyone?” he asked. “Where are all the
bengikano
? The devils?”

Melantha reined her horse in and surveyed the streets. “I don’t know,” she said. What trick were they playing now? She looked at the towering lighthouse, its intermittent beam like a vast, winking eye. The gabled houses lining the street leaned forward as if in expectation.

She looked up at the caravan's façade and saw the hidden faces staring back, ghostly ancestors captured in the knots of wood, the hint of an eye, the sardonic slash of lips; features she recognised drawn in blood. Expectant faces that demanded retribution.

A sound broke the silence: the papery flap of wings.

Melantha looked up and saw small, winged creatures resembling rats, flitting between the buildings.

Then the screaming started.

She turned to look back at her people, alarmed to see the winged creatures attacking. She jumped down from the caravan, withdrew the knife from her skirt and ran to help.

One of her clan speared the winged creatures with a sword, making a grotesque kebab; other creatures landed on his head and shoulders, nibbling at his ears. The man screamed, allowing a creature to attach itself to his tongue. He tried to rip the creature off, but it had latched on too tight and he tore his own tongue apart.

Melantha grimaced. She watched the creatures swoop down, a kamikaze nightmare descending in black waves.