Forces from Beyond (17 page)

“I’ve put a lot of pressure on my body, and my mind, and I think they’ve both had enough,” he said quietly. “Everything’s breaking down.”

“Do you need your pills?” said Melody.

“Always,” said Happy. “But I don’t think they’d help. You can only stretch something so far before it breaks. Dear God I’m tired. I need some downtime and a nice apple.”

“Once we get out of here, I’ll see you get all the rest you need,” said JC. “But . . .”

“No!” said Happy. “No more buts! I can only work with what I’ve got. I am worn so thin now . . .”

Melody hugged his arm tightly to her side. “We need you, sweetie.”

“I know,” said Happy. “That’s always been the problem. I’d die for one of my special pills, but I can’t risk it. So bite the bullet one more time.” A thin runnel of blood popped out of his left nostril and ran down his mouth and chin as he concentrated. Melody found a handkerchief and mopped up the blood. Happy didn’t even notice. “I’m getting . . . a name. The Hound.”

“Oh shit,” said Catherine Latimer.

Everyone turned to look at her, with something like shock. They’d never heard her sound scared before.

“The Hound?” JC said finally. “It’s not a name I recognise. And I thought I’d at least heard of all the really dangerous independent operators.”

“The Hound works for whoever will meet its price,” said Latimer. “It can track anyone, following their psychic scent.”

“A tracker for hire?” said JC.

“An assassin for hire,” said Latimer. “It eats hearts.”

“Should we be running?” said Happy.

“You can’t outrun the Hound,” said Latimer. “No-one can.”

“I’m willing to give it a try,” said Happy.

“Thought you weren’t feeling well?” said Chang.

“Stark terror is a wonderful motivator,” said Happy.

JC looked up at Kim, still standing on the air above them. “Can you see anything?”

“No,” said Kim. “And I can see things that aren’t even really there.”

JC took off his sunglasses and glared up and down the alley-way. Fierce golden light leapt out of his eyes, lighting up the alley bright as day. Everyone except Latimer had to turn their heads away. JC concentrated, and the shadows seemed to wither and disperse before him, giving up their secrets. But there was nothing there that mattered. The graffiti on the walls came alive under his gaze, full of new significance and meaning. He could see layers of information, like palimpsests in ancient manuscripts, one layer adding meaning to another. It was like being in a library where all the books were shouting their contents at him. JC had to look away. Down the alley-way, he could see ghost images, of people coming and going. Crowds of them, stepping in and out of each other, going back years. Not actual spirits, just images imprinted on the surroundings by the sheer presence of the individuals involved. A lot of very special people come to the Wulfshead Club. JC recognised some of them and had a distinct feeling some of them could see him.

He could see more than one door hidden inside the alley’s walls, or at least the potential for doors. None of them the kind that would lead him anywhere he’d want to go.

And above it all a strong sense of being watched by cold, inhuman eyes. But no matter where JC looked, he couldn’t see anyone or anything. JC put his sunglasses back on, and the golden glow cut off abruptly. It flared briefly around the edges of his sunglasses as he settled them back into place; and that was it. The alley seemed so much smaller, even diminished, in its own cold light. Everyone around JC relaxed, just a little. Except for Catherine Latimer, who didn’t seem in the least bit bothered. But then, there wasn’t much that bothered the Boss. JC wondered if what he’d just seen was how she saw the world all the time.

“Boss,” he said. “The Hound; what is it?”

“I don’t think anyone knows for sure,” said Latimer. “It’s old. Very old. Some say it was found in a long box, buried under an ancient abandoned city of iron pillars, deep in the Abyssinian desert. Some say it was found in a cave during the Crusades, being worshipped by corrupt Coptic priests. Some say Carter found it waiting for him, inside Tutankhamen’s tomb. People say a lot of things; but no-one knows anything for sure when it comes to the Hound. It’s supposed to be older than Egypt, perhaps even older than Humanity . . . The Hound. The original dog-faced god. No-one can hide from it, or escape from it. You pay for its services in blood and souls and the slaughter of innocents.” She shook her head slowly. “I can’t believe the cabal would go to such lengths to put it on my trail. So many deaths to pay for mine. The bastards.”

“Oh shit!” said Happy.

Suddenly, it was racing down the alley towards them. Bursting out of the deepest and darkest of the shadows. A large dog-headed shape, part human and part hound, long and sleek and deadly. Savage eyes burned blood-red, blazing in the gloom. Its long, grinning muzzle was full of jagged teeth. Powerful muscles bunched and flexed under its dark-furred hide as it sprinted towards them. Clawed hands and feet gouged chunks out of the alley floor. Its stench filled the air, rank and bitter and feral.

Natasha Chang opened fire on the fast-moving creature with her pistol, but even though she was facing the Hound at almost point-blank range, somehow the Hound was never where she was aiming. It darted and dodged with incredible speed, its movements a blur. Chang’s bullets chewed up brickwork on both walls and blew apart piles of garbage but never once came close to hitting their intended target.

Happy reached out with his mind, only to immediately cry out in distress, just from touching the thing’s thoughts. He fell to his knees and vomited miserably, soiled to his soul just by the briefest of contacts. Melody quickly put herself between Happy and the approaching Hound, scrabbling through her pockets, desperately trying to find something she could use as a weapon.

Kim shot down from above and threw herself at the Hound. It jumped right through her, and the ghost girl screamed horribly. She fell out of the air like a wounded bird and half-disappeared into the alley floor, shaking and shuddering from psychic shock.

JC cried out furiously and went to meet the Hound with clenched fists; but Catherine Latimer pushed him to one side and faced the Hound. Her eyes glowed suddenly golden, blazing bright as the sun, and the Hound slammed to a halt, well short of her. As though it had crashed into an invisible wall.

It rose on its spindly hind legs and stood like a man. Showing itself off, so they could all adore its inhuman perfection. It towered over them, a good eight feet tall. Its face was an awful mixture of canine and human and something else, something more. The eyes were old, horribly old. It threw back its long head and laughed like a hyena, and everyone winced at the sound of it. The Hound took a step forward, its ancient eyes glaring unblinkingly into the golden glow issuing from Catherine Latimer’s eyes. Its clawed hands reached out to her.

Kim appeared beside JC and stepped inside him. The golden glow burst out all around his body as the two joined together, the brilliant light leaping out to fill the whole alley-way. The Hound snarled angrily and fell back, turning its head away. JC laughed softly and went forward to meet it, slipping his blessed and cursed knuckle-dusters onto his right hand. The Hound turned its head slowly back to face him, grinning its terrible grin. The dog-faced god, older than Humanity, older than history. JC laughed in its face.

It struck at him with its clawed hands, and snapped at him with its great teeth, and he evaded them easily, drawing on inhuman levels of strength and speed. He punched the Hound in the mouth, and the creature fell back a step, startled. It made a surprised sound, as though it hadn’t known it could be hurt. JC closed with the Hound and hit it in the head again and again, driving it back down the alley, step by step. Until JC landed a particularly solid blow and felt as much as heard the long skull crack and break under his fist.

The Hound howled horribly and fell to one knee. JC grabbed hold of the Hound and wrestled with it, using all the strength given him by Outside forces. His eyes were glowing unbearably now. He and the Hound surged back and forth, pitting inhuman strength against inhuman strength, until finally JC stuck one leg behind the Hound’s, tripped it, and threw it to the ground. It landed hard, with an ungodly thrashing of limbs. JC followed it down and pinned it in place. He held it there, even as it struggled desperately, clawing at his arms and shoulders. JC gritted his teeth as blood blossomed on his white jacket. He drew back his fist and drove the blessed and cursed knuckle-dusters into the Hound’s head with all his strength; and the Hound fell back and lay still.

Panting hard, twitching and trembling, but not fighting any more.

Catherine Latimer went down on one knee beside JC. She fixed the Hound with her golden gaze; and it couldn’t look away. And while it lay there, held by the sheer force of the power within her, Latimer drew a silver knife from inside her jacket sleeve and cut the Hound’s throat.

It died surprisingly quickly. Its blood was just blood. It looked confused at the end. As though it didn’t understand how anything human could be killing it. And then the light went out of its eyes, its hind legs kicked a few times, and it lay still and dead on the filthy floor of the alley-way.

Latimer made the knife disappear back up her sleeve and reached out her hand to JC. At first he didn’t want to let go of the Hound, afraid it might get up again. But Latimer murmured soothing words in his ear until, finally, he pushed the limp body away and stood up. He was breathing hard, and not just from his exertions. He put his sunglasses back on, with a perfectly steady hand, and Kim stepped back out of him. The golden glow surrounding JC snapped off immediately. Catherine Latimer’s eyes were perfectly normal again. The only light in the alley seeped in from the distant street-lamps. Natasha Chang looked back and forth between JC and Latimer, as though trying to work out which of them was the more dangerous. She realised she was still holding her gold-plated pistol and put it away. Happy leaned heavily on Melody.

“Did we really just take down an ancient Egyptian god?”

“Hard core,” said Melody. “Let’s just hope it didn’t have any friends or family that might come to avenge it.”

Chang sniffed delicately at the air. “No trace of a departing spirit. Pity. I wonder what a god’s soul would have tasted like . . .”

“You are an appalling person,” said Kim.

Natasha Chang nodded demurely. “I try.”

“What do we do with the body, Boss?” said JC.

“Leave it,” said Latimer. “The Club Management will take care of it. They’re used to cleaning up after raucous parties.”

“Are you sure?” said Chang. “I can’t help feeling the Hound would look really cool, stuffed and mounted and on display at Project Headquarters lobby.”

“Things like that don’t always stay dead,” said Latimer.

“Leave it to the Management,” said Chang. “Nasty thing.”

“Get us another limousine,” said JC. “I think we’ve outstayed our welcome.”

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SECRETS WITHIN SECRETS

The dog-faced god lay curled up in the alley-way, as dead as any other dead thing.

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Natasha Chang stood just outside the entrance to the alley, her back firmly presented to the steel cube that had once been her limousine, speaking loudly and determinedly into her phone as she ordered a new car. Someone on the other end was trying to give her problems, and Chang was having none of it. She wanted a new car, right now if not sooner, or someone was going to suffer, and it sure as hell wasn’t going to be her. JC stood on the other side of the steel cube, listening with one ear while keeping a watchful eye on everyone. Because somebody had to; and no-one else seemed in the mood.

Catherine Latimer was leaning against the alley wall, her face studiedly calm as she smoked another of her black Turkish cigarettes in the long ivory holder. But something in the way she stood suggested she was feeling tired. Or old. Her gaze was far away. JC wondered what she was remembering, from her very long life. It occurred to him that he really didn’t know much about his Boss’s past, from before she became Head of the Carnacki Institute. He knew she started out as a field agent, just like him. He’d seen the souvenirs she kept from her old cases. But he had no idea what kind of agent, what kind of person, she’d been. Certainly, the knife up her sleeve had come as a complete surprise.

It was obvious she’d killed before. And equally clear that the killing hadn’t bothered her in the least. It wasn’t that she’d seemed cold-blooded about it—more . . . practical, professional. So JC had to wonder who or what else she’d killed in the field, in her time. And why. Killing wasn’t usually part of a Ghost Finder’s job. Normally, field agents only turned up after the killing was over, so they could deal with the mess it left behind. JC didn’t even consider asking the Boss about any of this; he knew she wouldn’t tell him. Catherine Latimer kept her past a mystery, quite deliberately. For reasons of her own. JC had always known she was dangerous, and scary; everyone did. But for the first time, it occurred to him to wonder what had made her that way.

What had turned the grand-daughter of one of England’s most legendary heroes into the feared Boss of the Carnacki Institute.

JC decided he’d think about that later. He had more immediate concerns. He looked back down the alley, to where Happy was sitting on the ground, his back propped against the wall for support. The filthy conditions of the alley-way didn’t seem to be bothering Happy at all. He looked . . . old. Worn-down, worn-out. He looked like what he was: dying. JC wished he could do something for him, and at the same time wondered just how much of Happy’s current condition might be down to him. All the demands he’d put on the telepath in the field. Because he needed Happy’s amazing mental powers to help the Ghost Finders win the day. JC looked past Happy, to where Melody was standing alone, and wondered how much she blamed him.

Melody stood stiffly in the middle of the alley-way, her arms tightly folded, back straight, and chin up, glaring sullenly at the whole damned world. She was deliberately not looking at Happy because he’d made her move off a way, so he could be on his own. It was taking everything he had to cope, to hold himself together, and he couldn’t do that if he had to worry about her as well. Seeing her suffer, as she watched him suffer. So he sent her away out of kindness, for purely practical reasons; but all Melody could see was that he’d pushed her away. When she was only trying to help.

She still wasn’t ready to admit what everyone else knew—that there was nothing useful she could do to help.

Furthest apart of them all, Kim the ghost girl sat cross-legged in mid air, among the darker shadows of the alley. In the dim light, she looked almost transparent, as though she was fading away. JC wanted to go and be with her; but she didn’t want him there, for much the same reasons as Happy with Melody. JC and Kim didn’t like to talk about it, but they both knew she was finding it increasingly difficult to maintain her presence in the world. The after-life was calling to her, in a voice that could not be denied. And sooner or later, she would have to go.

JC and Kim, Happy and Melody—both couples had been so happy when they had first found each other. They still believed in happy-ever-afters, back then. Before life and death taught them differently.
Love conquers all
only happens in the movies. Life, and death, are more complicated.

JC leaned casually on the compacted steel cube, then winced as the wounds the Hound had given him flared up. He looked up and down the empty city street. No-one about to walk the pavements, no traffic moving on the road for as far as the eye could see. Just empty space and an ominous quiet. Whoever sent the Hound had cleared out the surrounding area very thoroughly. Presumably they were still waiting for the Hound to report back and lay the still-steaming hearts of its victims at their feet. JC frowned; he’d been assuming the Institute cabal had sent the Hound after them; but the Boss had upset a great many people during her long career. Hell, JC and his team had made their own share of enemies, out in the field. If someone had heard that they were on the run, and vulnerable . . . And, of course, there was always the chance that this could be down to agents of the Flesh Undying.

JC smiled briefly as he wondered just when his life had become so very complicated.

As if he didn’t have enough to worry about.

A car arrived. A sleek white stretched limousine with tinted windows, complete with handsome liveried chauffeur at the wheel. The car glided to a halt before the entrance to the alley, its engine barely purring, and the chauffeur tipped his peaked cap to Natasha Chang. She nodded briskly back and smiled cheerfully down the alley.

“Get your hats and coats, boys and girls, your ride is here! Time to leave this appallingly aromatic alley for somewhere far more civilised.”

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It turned out there was space for everyone in the back of the limousine. Gleaming, leather-upholstered seats, and lots of leg room. Chang demonstrated the capabilities of the built-in bar; and it was a sign of how bad Happy was feeling that he didn’t give a damn. He was shaking and trembling and biting his lower lip to keep from crying out. Melody put an arm around him, so he could rest his head on her shoulder. Chang leaned in close to JC.

“Is he going to be a problem?”

“No,” said JC.

“We could always drop him off somewhere, like a hospital, or a funeral home.”

“No we couldn’t,” said JC. “We’re going to need him.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because we always do.”

He accepted a glass of brandy from the bar, to keep Chang company. And so she wouldn’t sulk. Catherine Latimer stared quietly out the side window, taking the whole limousine experience in her stride. Presumably, she was used to such luxury.

“Hold it!” Chang said suddenly, looking quickly around. “What happened to ghost girl? She was here just a minute ago.”

“She often disappears for a while, about her own business,” said JC. “And no, I never ask. Pretty sure I don’t want to know. She’ll turn up again when she’s needed.”

Chang looked unconvinced. She turned away to give the chauffeur his driving orders and so never saw the small smile JC allowed himself.

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The limousine carried them smoothly off through the streets of London, moving at high speed and breaking all the traffic laws there were with cheerful abandon. Traffic reappeared the moment they left the alley behind, and they were soon surrounded by cars and trucks and buses. The chauffeur treated them all with equal contempt, aiming his car at oncoming vehicles like a weapon. He never needed to use his horn to intimidate other drivers. Other vehicles seemed to take one look at the limousine and decide it was in everyone’s best interests to get the hell out of its way.

“Don’t worry,” Chang said cheerfully. “No-one’s going to stop us. The Crowley Project has connections, in high and low places. It’s like having CD plates, only better. We don’t just have diplomatic immunity; we have Project immunity! From everything!”

“You wish,” said Latimer, not looking around.

JC looked out the window, taking in the bright lights and tall buildings, and people everywhere. It was hard for him to see the real world as real any longer, not when he knew what was really at large in it. He was surprised to suddenly notice it was night. Already? When did it get to be night? Where did the day go? Had he been so busy, so menaced, he simply hadn’t noticed the time? He watched crowds of people surging up and down the packed pavements, all intent on squeezing every last bit of enjoyment out of the city’s night-life. Part of him wanted to stop the car and get out, plunge into the crowds and disappear into them. Lose himself in the mass of humanity, so he could be forgotten, and safe. Except, of course, he would never be safe or forgotten as long as the agents of the Flesh Undying were still out there. With his name on their list of things to do.

His lacerated arms and shoulders ached fiercely from the damage the Hound had inflicted. Nothing serious, but enough for every cut and gouge to shout at him each time he moved. Now he couldn’t distract himself with conspiracy theories and having to be strong for everyone else. He could feel the weight of the brass knuckles in his jacket pocket, the ones he used to put a hurt on the Hound. He still couldn’t believe he’d gone head to head with a living god. He normally had more sense . . . but that was what the Boss did best. Make you more afraid of failing her than what you were facing. He made a mental note to get the brass knuckles recharged. The blessings and curses were gone; all used up getting past the Hound’s supernatural defences. He felt suddenly defenceless in the face of an angry and hostile world. He needed an edge. He leaned over to address Natasha Chang.

“We need to make a stop along the way.”

“No we don’t,” Chang said briskly. “My instructions are to deliver you straight to Project Headquarters.”

“We need to make a stop,” said JC. “It’s important.”

“Why?” said Chang, immediately suspicious. “What for?”

“I need to pick up a few things,” said JC. “From another of my secret bolt-holes.”

“Another one?” said Melody, her ears pricking up. “How many have you got?”

“As many as I need,” said JC.

“Don’t try to be mysterious and enigmatic,” said Latimer. “You don’t have the experience. I know all of your hiding places, Mr. Chance. I make it a point to know everything that matters about everyone who works for me.”

“If that was true,” said Melody, “Allbright wouldn’t be sitting at your desk as the new Boss, and you wouldn’t be on the run with us.”

“Saucer of cream for little miss cat,” said Chang, grinning.

“You don’t know about this particular bolt-hole, Boss,” said JC. “Because if you did, and you knew what I keep there, you’d have shut it down ages ago. And if you don’t know, I can be pretty sure no-one else does.”

He gave the chauffeur directions, and the man looked into the rear-view mirror at Chang for confirmation. She nodded curtly, and the chauffeur swung the car around.

“You’re right,” said Latimer. “I didn’t recognise those directions. What have you been up to, Mr. Chance?”

“I have always believed in putting a little something aside for a rainy day,” said JC. “Dangerous, deadly, and downright spiteful somethings. On the grounds that if someone should bring my world crashing down around me, I wanted to be in a position where I could express my extreme displeasure in a truly appalling and destructive way. Which is why you only know about the hiding places I wanted you to know about, Boss. Enough that you’d feel secure and stop looking.”

“I like the way you think,” said Chang. “You’re going to feel really at home at the Crowley Project.”

“Now you’re just being nasty,” said JC.

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They ended up in a quiet grimy back street, where old buildings slumped and huddled together as though for comfort, holding out stubbornly against the tide of progress. Dirty, soot-stained walls, whitewashed windows, and doors with no numbers on them. And yet again, nobody out and about. At the end of the street, a series of old railway tunnels had been bricked up and made over into lock-ups and garages. The limousine slowed to a halt before the door JC indicated, and everyone got out. The night air had a bitter chill to it, and the sounds of the city seemed far away.

“These lock-ups have been let and sub-let so many times, no-one really knows who owns what or what’s inside them,” said JC.

“I remember,” said Latimer. “Back during the London bombings in the seventies, the police set out to identify all garage owners, so they could check whether places like this were being used for storage by terrorists; but they couldn’t even find the keys to half of them.”

“Precisely,” said JC. “This whole area is distinctly dodgy, every deal border-line illegal, so everyone around here can be relied on to keep their mouths shut.”

The sleek white limousine looked very out of place in the grim surroundings. The chauffer, who’d already refused to leave the car, made a point of hitting the central locking. Chang gave JC a hard look.

“Is this stop really necessary? I don’t want to come back and find my car stripped and the chauffeur up on bricks.”

“Relax,” said JC. “No-one will bother us. Everyone minds their own business, for fear of being barred. It’s all part of London’s long tradition of subterranean economies, where shady entrepreneurs buy and sell the things people aren’t supposed to want but do anyway.”

“Illegal things?” said Latimer.

“Illegal, immoral, and occasionally unnatural,” said JC.

“I feel right at home,” said Chang. “I’m not really bothered about the car. It’s armed and armoured, and can look after itself. And the chauffeur’s just a preprogrammed homunculus, so . . .”

“I am not!” said the chauffeur.

“It’s sweet when they think that,” said Chang.

“Memories,” Happy said dreamily, peering about with heavy-lidded eyes. “Layer upon layer of memories, imprinted on the surroundings, going back generations. All human life is here; and quite a bit of death, too. We’re all standing in blood.”