Читать книгу Weirdbook #35 - Adrian Cole - Страница 5

THE PULLULATIONS OF THE TRIBE, by Adrian Cole

I was engrossed in the paperback, a battered crime pulp labeled A Fistful of Femme Fatales, so it took me three grabs to get a hold of the ringing phone. I paused in my chewing to mumble a response, but when I heard the voice on the other end, my mouth opened, the gum dropped into my lap and the paperback flopped onto the floor.

“How you doing, Razorface?” Only certain people called me that. The voice was breathy, laced with sex. FiFi Cherie, nightclub singer extraordinaire, never usually rang me in my den.

I made some kinda noise so she knew I was still on the end of the phone.

“Hope I didn’t startle you.” I could just picture her face, half screened by that long drop of shining black hair, silky and shimmering. She laughed huskily and then slipped back into the voice I was more used to, that of Ariadne Carnadine, my sometime partner in crime fighting. She knew well enough I was a sucker for her alter ego, the singer who melted hearts in her club, Diamonds Are Forever.

“I was thinking of dropping by at the club,” I said.

“That’s sweet of you, honey, but one of the reasons for the call is that I have to fly over to Europe for a few days. Gay Paree. The business won’t run itself and this deal needs the personal touch.”

“You’ve just ruined my week.”

“I’d take you with me, but I know what flying does to your digestive system.”

Not to mention the rest of my system. Any kind of plane was my idea of hell on earth, or above it. “There were others reasons you rang?”

“Yes. I have a little problem for you to solve. Specifically for FiFi.”

“How could I refuse? So what gives?”

“You know I like to choose my singers very carefully. I like to find the best of the new talent.” It was true—she had a good ear and had pulled some real charmers from the many wannabes who auditioned in her club. “The thing is, at least two potential new kids on the block have gone missing. I got word to them after their auditions that I wanted them back, with the likely prospect of a contract for them. Usually, that kind of offer is something they’d bite your hand off to get.”

“I know it.”

“So it’s weird that I’ve heard nothing. I’m organizing a Big Jamboree at Diamonds Are Forever soon and anyone who’s anyone in this town will be there. It’s a real prestige event. Big opportunity for these girls, so it’s very strange that they’ve disappeared. I put the word out and had some of my people check things. No sign. Nothing. Both girls have left town quick. I don’t like it, Nick.”

“Rival concern?”

“I’d know if it were. No, this is weird. Will you poke around for me, see what you can dig up?”

“It’ll cost you. A whole weekend.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” she purred, using her FiFi Cherie voice again.

“Okay, let’s say a month.”

“Now you’re being greedy.”

* * * *

Ariadne had furnished me with details about the two young singers, both of them from the city, kids who ought to know their way around and who should have been streetwise enough to look after themselves. Neither had an agent, which was maybe a good thing, as the music agents I knew were the land equivalent of great white sharks.

I did a bit of legwork for a couple of nights, drawing blanks until I got my first sniff of something in a rundown club down on the waterfront. Called The Gunrunner Club, it was run by an ex-pro boxer, Mo Karstein, whose main claim to fame was that he’d gone ten rounds with the world champ of some ten years back. He’d had his lights punched out, but that wasn’t the point—he was still a local hero.

Mo poured me a double, on the house, and pointed me in the direction of one of the bar floozies, a sleepy-eyed vixen by the name of Selene. She must have used more paint than the entire cast of a Broadway show and wore a pink wig that looked like the insides of a mattress had exploded over her. When I walked up to her and gave her a cheery wave, she grinned at me like she had hit pay dirt.

When I told her who I was and that I wasn’t looking for a good time, just information, she shrugged and swigged resignedly at her gin cocktail. I slapped a good few greenbacks on the bar and they disappeared like they’d never existed.

“Mo tells me you do a bit of singing,” I said.

“He’s being kind. We used to have a thing, and he humoured me. These days he sees that I’m all right. Let’s me take a turn at the mike when there’s not too big a crowd. Don’t tell me you’re interested in my voice, mister.”

“My guess is, you know a good voice when you hear one, right?”

“Sure. I got a good ear.”

“I’m looking for two kids who can sing. Word is—they’re good. Maria Mozzari and Suki Yosimoto. Names mean anything to you?”

I always watch the eyes. They usually give the game away. I could see this lady recognised the names—her eyes narrowed slightly, she looked away for a moment, then back at me, composed again.

“Listen, I’m no bank, lady. But I’ll give you a fair price. What do you know?” I shoved a few more greenbacks at her. She counted the money, folded it and shoved it somewhere private.

“A few nights back, the place was jumping. Rock and roll night and more than a few fresh customers from outside. We all had a good time. Two of the new faces were hoods. It wasn’t just the suits that gave it away. I can smell hoods a mile away. Not sure whose mob they were from. Maybe outta town. Carrying enough hardware to start a war.”

“You talk to them?”

“Nah, but I listened in over the shoulder of the bozo who was trying to carry me off into the night. Fat chance. I was holding him up.”

“So what did these guys talk about?”

“Something was going down. Big action. They were posing as talent scouts. Like I’m an opera diva. Talent scouts! White slavers more like. Anyways, they was watching the girls’ acts. I watched them. Weird thing was, they didn’t take a load of notice of all the naked flesh on display, you know, the tasteful dancing and stuff. Most guys had their eyes and tongues hanging out. These two were listening.”

“For the singers?”

“Sure. You mentioned two names.” She looked around as if it would be a bad idea to repeat the names like they were a curse or something. “When they did their acts, these guys perked up.”

“The girls were good?”

“Yeah. Like I said, I got a good ear. These two had class. I’d give a lot to have a voice like that. And they had the chassis to go with the voices. Sleek. I hated them.”

“What happened?”

“I heard one of the hoods say these two would be right for some woman. I guess she was their boss. She had a fancy name.” She swigged her gin as if it would fuel her memory. Her eyes blinked in concentration. I motioned for the barman to top up her glass.

“Cadenza?” she said. “Was that it?”

I felt as though a sudden cold wind had blown across the room. “Carmella Cadenza.”

“Yeah, that wuz it. Mouthful. Sounds like some piece from Hollywood. Anyway, the hoods muscled their way over to the stage and spoke to the girls and I reckon they bought them drinks. That wuz it. Cleared off soon after.”

“You said these guys were talking about something before that.”

“My head was full of booze—when isn’t it?—so I didn’t get much more than the drift of it. Something about power. The girls wuz gonna help this Cadenza woman get some kind of power.”

The cold wind blew colder. I’d crossed paths with Carmella Cadenza before and it had taken a certain amount of strange power to foil her unsavoury ambitions. She’d lost out, but my guess was she was the kind of woman who’d go looking for an alternative means to get what she wanted, none of it any good for the rest of us. If she was kidnapping young women, there were several potential reasons that sprang to mind, all of them unpleasant.

“You look like you could do with a stiff drink, mister,” said Selene, like she was mounting a half-hearted attempt to seduce more cash out of me.

“You have any idea where these hoods and the girls went? Does anyone?”

She shook her head. “I’ll ask around. Come back tomorrow. I’ll have something for you, even if it’s only a warm bunk.”

* * * *

I spent the next day mooching around town and I was beginning to get the feeling that I’d have to go back to The Gunrunner Club and see if the delectable Selene had dug up anything for me, other than a warm bunk. With more than a little reluctance, I was heading in that direction, when a voice behind me pulled me up short.

I turned to face the cracked smile of a grizzled old sailor, Sten-Gun Stan, mechanic to the eccentric Henry Maclean, a youngster who spent a lot of his time cruising about in an unlikely tin can he called The Deep Green—a submarine of sorts, in which I had once experienced the very dubious delights of underwater travel.

“Been looking for you,” he said. Stan’s crumpled jacket reeked of oil like he’d just finished greasing the engines on that infernal machine of his.

I let him direct me to one of the buildings along the sidewalk, a place where auctions were held from time to time. Today was one of those times, and a crowd had assembled within, shoulder to shoulder, so I wondered what they were pedaling.

“Keep a low profile,” said Stan.

“You expecting trouble?” I asked, but it was a dumb question. Whatever he and Henry were up to would likely have questionable ramifications.

“Henry’s after something. There’s a whole load of musical instruments up for bids, most of it junk, some of it the real deal, and one item in particular of special interest. Henry has set his heart on it, but we think there are others who want it, too.”

“Others?” The word dripped with painful possibilities.

“Toughs working for someone higher up the food chain. You got your hardware?”

“Does a dog have fleas?”

He grinned and we muscled our way further in, ignoring the scowls and grunts of annoyance from the press of bodies. I saw Henry a few rows ahead. As usual, he was dressed in a tee-shirt, a patterned thing that would have looked more in place on a West Coast beach, his mop of blonde hair standing out like a sunflower in a bed of nettles.

I also saw the big guy in a trench coat tucked in directly behind him. My guess was, he was up to no good. I could smell it on him. Henry and I eased our way towards him and got as close as we could. So far he hadn’t noticed us.

“Cover my back if things liven up,” said Henry. I wasn’t sure what he was expecting—this was the last place you’d want to start a gunfight or any kind of fight for that matter. We were hemmed in by the crowd.

There was a stage at the front, and the auctioneers, a team of three guys, were getting through their wares, slick and fast, gabbling in their own weird language, and as far as I could see, bids were flying in from all directions, snapping up the various gewgaws on offer.

“This next one’s ours,” said Stan, referring to a grubby programme he’d picked up. He pointed to a photo of what looked like a guitar, although it was pretty damn weird—vary narrow, elongated base and a stretched neck. My guess was it was one of those hybrid things from the Orient, and it would make twisted sounds, gimmicky and off the wall. Yeah, that would attract Henry’s interest.

The bidding started low like no one was that interested. Henry waited for a while, then slipped in a bid of his own. It was countered by a thick-set guy across the hall from us. He looked like the double of the big trench coat who was now pressed up behind Henry, like a leech about to attach itself. Two big uglies in trench coats. I wasn’t liking this.

Henry and the guy across the room exchanged bids, lifting the price up to a sum that surprised me and got the crowd buzzing. Then I saw the guy behind Henry say something to him, into his ear. It must have been a threat. Drop out of the bidding, something like that. I saw Henry stiffen, but Stan had squeezed ahead of me.

The guy across the room had upped the bidding and held the initiative. Stan had almost got himself into a brawl, but he pressed up behind the trench coat. The guy stiffened and slumped. Stan started to indicate to those around him that some guy had fainted. Pretty soon a space had cleared and the guy was stretched out on the deck, dead to the world. Henry must have slipped a needle into him, a needle loaded with enough dope to knock out a horse.

Henry immediately upped his bid for the guitar and I looked across at trench coat two. His face was a picture. Not a pretty one, at that. He snarled a higher bid, but there had to be a ceiling on what he was allowed to offer. Henry bettered it. He sure wanted that guitar.

Now, I knew Henry was an eccentric, to put it mildly, but there was something going on here that was somehow important in the grand scheme of things. I could taste the atmosphere, and I’m not talking about the cigarette fug. The trench coats were the type of guys I’d had more than a few brushes with—my gut feeling was that they worked for someone, or something, very out of step with the run of the mill Mob in this town. If they got hold of that guitar, it was going to be bad news for the rest of us. Serious bad news.

Trench coat two upped his bid by a big heap of dollars. I knew Henry was beaten. I waited to see if he would raise the bid. Stan turned and looked at me, his face grim. I was getting the feeling that he and Henry would end up doing something stupid to get that guitar. I didn’t think it would be a good idea to start trading bullets with the trench coats, wherever that might take place. Likely they’d have a bunch of reinforcements outside.

I put in a bid that was way over what the trench coat had offered. I could see him looking across at me, his eyes narrowed like he was focusing some kind of insane energy through them that would excoriate me and melt my bones down into glue. My bid had done the trick, though. It was one big pile of dough, but it had won me the guitar. Henry and Stan fought their way to me, both their faces beaming.

“That’s a lot of money, Nick,” said Henry.

I don’t make a big thing of it, but I have a lot of money tucked away in a very private bank. How I got it is a long story, and this isn’t the place to go into all that (maybe some other time) but let’s just say it was no problem for me to scoop the guitar without denting my private hoard.

By the time I’d got the guitar and had it wrapped up, the two trench coats were gone, though I didn’t expect it to be the last we saw of them.

* * * *

Sten-Gun Stan, Henry and I found a quiet little dive not far from the waterfront where we could chew over the events of the day. As far as we knew, we hadn’t been followed.

“So what gives with this weird guitar I’ve just spent an arm and a leg buying?” I asked them over a round of iced beers. “My guess is, it’s one of those artifacts of power I keep stumbling over.”

“Exactly!” said Henry, glancing around into the gloom of the bar. Nothing much stirred. It would be like that until round about midnight when a scuffle or two might break out.

“Well, I don’t want the damned thing,” I growled. “I know you were keen to get hold of it, so you’re welcome to it, Henry. Where did it come from?”

“It’s been lost for a while. I’m not sure, but it was used by a rock band who bought it off some old freak who was supposed to be guarding it for—well, even freakier guys. The thing has power and must have spooked him so he took the money. It was a bad omen for the band. They ended up on skid row and the guitar disappeared until now.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a dual purpose mechanism,” he said, leaning forward and injecting as much mystery and unease into his voice as he could. “If you play it one way, gently, it can open certain—doors. It’s also a weapon. If you play the Entropic Chord, it can be very dangerous. Destructive. You can imagine what it would be like in the wrong hands. Like the forces of darkness. Those thugs we bumped into at the auction were their hired hands.”

“So what are you aiming to do with it?”

He looked embarrassed. “Well, it’s a kind of a rescue mission. Tricky and it could be a bit of a mess, but I have to take it on.”

“Rescue?” I said, sipping my beer. “Who’s in a jam? Anyone I know?”

Stan was grinning. “No need to go all shy on us, Henry. Tell the man!”

“It’s a friend of mine—”

“A girl,” said Stan, enjoying Henry’s discomfort.

“How’s she different from all your other surfing girlfriends?” I asked.

“Apart from being exquisitely beautiful,” Stan said on Henry’s behalf, “she has the sweetest voice you’ve ever heard. Supernatural if you ask me.”

“She’s missing,” said Henry. “I’ve heard nothing from her for almost a week. It’s not like her.”

“She’s not run out on you?”

Henry shook his head. “No, no. She wouldn’t. I think she’s been abducted.”

Those remote alarm bells that ring at the back of your mind sometimes were starting to ring louder in mine. A singer, abducted? This sounded familiar.

“I think I know where she is,” Henry went on. “She’s not here, in our world. Nor the Pulpworld. She’s in a place that’s kind of in between. A secret place held together by dark magic. The guitar can open a door to it. I’m going in after her.”

“In your submarine?”

Both Henry and Stan were shaking their heads. “Not possible,” said Henry. “This realm is protected. Can’t get anything in, other than flesh and blood, or something strongly tainted with magic. The guitar is neutral—whoever uses it suffuses it with power. It’s the one thing I can take with me. So I owe you, big time, Nick. Now at least I have a chance of finding Suki.”

I didn’t quite drop my drink, but I did set it down unsteadily on the table. “Suki? Would that be Suki Yosimoto?”

Henry’s face lit up. “You know her?”

“She has a friend, another singer, name of Maria Mozzari?”

“Yes! They’re inseparable.”

“Both missing, yeah, I know.” I told him about the connection with FiFi Cherie’s night club and the little job I’d been given. Henry’s grin widened, but I wasn’t feeling so good about all this.

“So we’re in this together,” he said as if some of the clouds around him had thinned.

“I’m not sure I care for this escapade. You say nothing can be taken into this other realm? What about my guns, my knives? I’m naked without them.” It was true. I could handle myself in a fist fight, but from my experience of other realms, you needed a whole lot more than brawn to take on the kind of critters you’d find in there. And if Carmella Cadenza was behind this, she’d have a bodyguard to match the Pope.

“We’ve got the guitar,” said Henry. “And the element of surprise. They won’t be expecting us.”

“Well, that warms the cockles of my heart,” I said.

* * * *

In my apartment, I prepared myself as meticulously as I could for this little jaunt into Whereverland. No guns? Hell, I must be getting senile. I stripped to the waist and applied a certain type of paint in a certain type of way across certain parts of my torso. Once it was dry I put on a shirt I only wore for certain occasions, one that was supposed to be charmed against the agents of darkness (although I had some doubts as to its veracity) and finally I slipped on a necklace and snapped wristbands on each arm. Looking at myself in the mirror, I grimaced. If my pal Rizzie Carter, the local Police Chief, saw me in this get up he’d think I was heading on stage for a pantomime, but it was worth it if it could deflect the kind of nastiness I was about to bump into.

I met up with Henry again in an insalubrious part of town. He wore the tightest pair of black leather pants I’d ever clapped eyes on like he’d been poured into them and a black shirt to match—it even had black buttons.

“Less chance of being seen,” he explained. Across his shoulder he’d slung a black leather case, long and narrow, the prized guitar secreted within. Overall he looked like a runaway from an Iron Maiden concert. I thought maybe I looked a bit like Robert Mitchum’s kid brother, but I doubt if Henry had ever heard of the guy.

Darkness had already dropped over the city as Henry led us through the streets to a remote place where, mercifully, not many of the lights overhead worked. There were a few people about, night owls, but they paid us no heed. Henry was heading for the place where Suki Yosimoto had last been seen, as far as he knew. I had some pretty good contacts in these rat-runs, but Henry had his own eyes and ears.

“You’d be surprised what they’ll do for a peek at The Deep Green,” he grinned. “She’s a legend.”

We entered an old building that looked like one good sneeze would bring the whole place down on our heads. It must have housed every pest known to man—woodworm, dry rot, wood beetle, concrete cancer, you name it, this was their heaven. We threaded our way through the piled dust and debris, our way barely lit by one flickering street light outside.

Henry unzipped his case and slid out the guitar. It had a weird blue glow to it, faint as moonlight in fog, so we were able to see our way into the heart of the collapsing masonry. This would not be a good place to get buried. My bangles and baubles were proof against sorcery, not a ton of falling bricks.

Unfazed, Henry slipped the guitar strap over his shoulders, paused to take in a deep breath, and then gently stroked the strings. The sounds he made were like whispers, susurrating around us, echoing back like ripples on a pond as they touched the walls. We waited in sudden silence after the sounds faded.

Ahead of us was a solid wall. It groaned and we both ducked instinctively. Dust belched from abrupt cracks in the surface and before we knew it, the whole goddam shebang was toppling forward, with us under it, like mice about to be pinned in a trap. However, as the bricks reached us, they parted like a miniature Red Sea, and thundered down on both sides of us. What we were left with was a thick cloud of dust and a tall, black gash, empty as space.

Coughing fit to bust our lungs, Henry and I went into that darkness. It was a vacuum, soundless, but at last, we could breathe. Behind us, the dust and rumble of settling masonry died away and it was like someone had slammed shut a mighty door.

Henry, his face smeared in muck, grinned. “We’re through,” he said.

I didn’t know whether to be relieved or unnerved. I settled for glad to be alive and we moved on, the light slowly changing from inky black to dark grey. Henry put the guitar away and it fused with his back, making him look like some kind of malformed troll. One disguise was as good as another.

Henry had earlier told me as much about this realm as he knew. It was, he said, like a bubble between worlds, limited in dimensions, held together by ancient spells and sorcery created eons in the past by creatures—demigods, he said—who generally shunned the light and occasionally needed someplace to hole up while the powers of light went on the rampage, looking to exterminate them.

By the septic glow of the light somewhere ahead I could see we were in some kind of tall, rocky maze, the sheer walls rising up into total darkness. This was either one big, monolithic building, or a subterranean catacomb of dubious dimensions. I just hoped that Henry had some inkling of where we were headed. I’d have been lost within a dozen paces. All we had was the dim light and there was no clue to its source. What I did figure out was that we were not alone.

Something or more likely somethings were plodding about, probably down more than one of those narrow runs in the stone. High up in the darkness, something else flapped and scraped along, a big bunch of bats maybe, or creatures with similar wings. And claws. They always had claws.

As we wove our way deeper into the maze, I got the distinct impression that the shifting, scraping things beyond us were moving in a certain pattern. My guess was, we were being herded.

“I think you’re going to need your guitar,” I whispered to Henry.

He grinned back at me. Jeeze, he was enjoying this. It must be his youth. Barely gone twenty and he was up for anything. I ached for my twin Berettas, although I had a feeling that in this place they would be less effective than water pistols.

Something emerged from the murk ahead of us. It looked like a pile of rags on small stilts, with one arm as twisted as the branch of a warped tree, flapping at us. The other arm gripped a crutch, another distorted branch which just about supported the thing. Light gleamed briefly under a long confusion of hair and beard in what I took to be a couple of eyes. They were the only features in an unrecognisable face.

Henry did unstrap the guitar, slipping it out of the case slowly. I was relieved to see the faint blue glow, which suggested to me that the thing was primed. “We’re in luck,” he said. “It’s the Raggedy Man.”

Luck? This mobile heap of garbage was a sign of luck?

“The legends say if you find him, he can help you.”

“This way,” hissed the Raggedy Man. “You gotta ignore those who clutch.”

Now there was an expression to fill you up with confidence. Those who clutch? What in hell had we gotten into here?

Henry didn’t seem to have the same reservations that wriggled coldly through me and we followed the Raggedy Man as he swiveled and hobbled through a corridor leading off the main one. I went after them cautiously, my hands spread like fans, ready to simulate Bruce Lee at his lightning best. If anything had a mind to clutch me, I was about to repel all boarders.

I was glad of the dark as we squeezed through several corridors because things did try and make a grab for Henry and me. Soft, pulpy things, like big fat worms, slippery and smelling like rancid meat. I swept them aside, my hands slick with their juices, sticky and gelatinous. The Raggedy Man got us through and we came out into a wider chamber, the light barely fit to pick out its minimal details. At least there were none of the clutching horrors here.

“Where the hell is this place?” I growled, towering over our bizarre guide.

“It’s where the broken things come to be mended,” he whispered, almost whistling the words through the last of his crumbling teeth. Seemed like the place hadn’t worked for him.

“What broken things?”

“Evil things. Dark powers that have been crippled by their betters. Things that serve the lords of the night, damaged things. Some can be healed through twisted magic. Others, like me, can only wander, searching for freedom.”

“Who are you?” I asked.

“Can’t remember my name. I had powers once, bestowed on me by servants of Satan. In conflict, I was bettered. I crawled here. Thought I was going to die, but a life of sorts still flickers within me. If I help you, will you take me back when you go?”

I would have weighed up my answer before entering any kind of bargain, but Henry’s youth burned brightly again. “Sure,” he said. “It’s a deal.”

“Why are you here?” said the Raggedy Man.

“Two young women were brought here recently,” Henry said, evidently having tossed circumspection aside. “Singers. With great voices.”

“There have been many such singers. The Cold Lady has them. She is grooming them. She had powers lately, but lost them. Now she uses the singers to act for her. She imbues them with dark gifts from the ones she serves. The Angels of Malice.”

The air got much colder. I’d met one of these things before. In fact, with a little help from a bunch of very talented Hungarians, I’d trapped one of them and seen to its imprisonment. If the Angels of Malice got wind of me, they’d be out for a whole lot more than my blood. Blood which, right now, was running about as cold as it could get without actually coagulating in my veins.

“Where are the singers?” said Henry.

The Raggedy Man pointed up into the darkness. “In the upper halls of this edifice. They are well protected and besides, they would not welcome you.”

“Two of them would,” insisted Henry.

“I think not. They are changed. They are her creatures now.”

Henry’s expression soured, a mark of the grim determination that burned within him, a powerful drive that those who didn’t know him would have been surprised at. He was erratic and more than a shade gung-ho, but he was no fool.

“I guess we’ll just have to put that to the test.” He looked at me and I nodded. We’d paid for the ticket, so we may as well see the show.

Somewhere in that endless maze, there were steps, a narrow, winding set that corkscrewed up into the shadows overhead. The Raggedy Man led the way, followed by Henry and his blue guitar, with me at the rear. My hands were itching. I really missed my guns.

We came to a level area, almost blanketed by darkness, although there were lights of some kind high up as if we’d come to the nave of a building the size of a cathedral. There were no dramatic gothic columns, but more great slabs of rock soared upwards, like no place I’d ever seen in my own world, or any other for that matter. Also, there were no sculptured motifs, or weird sigils, or carved monstrosities that looked like they’d been dredged up from the sea bottom.

But the place felt wrong. Alien, haunted, the air thick with the suggestion of pain, oppressive and soul-destroying. I’m getting a little melodramatic here, but I tell you, that was an evil place.

To top it, we heard singing, echoing from some nearby but invisible chasm, as if a pit into Hell itself had opened. The sounds, deep and seemingly male, were bass and disturbing, suggesting unspeakable things. Rising.

Things were moving in the dark spaces at the base of the stone pillars, flitting about like aerial spirits, or ghosts. The Raggedy Man watched them, apparently unmoved. “Some of the singers are here,” he said.

“What does the Cold Lady use these things for?” said Henry.

“Spells,” said our guide. “To trap the unwary. And also to control the Pullulating Tribe.”

I never heard of this Tribe, but it sounded like bad news.

“The Tribe sleeps out in the great wastes that surround this labyrinth. The Cold Lady wants to rouse it and unleash it on the enemies of the Angels of Malice.”

“Who would they be?” Henry asked I thought a little naively.

“Humanity,” said the Raggedy Man. “The powers of darkness hunger for its enslavement. A time is coming—”

“Yeah,” I cut in. “We’ve seen the trailers. Let’s just cut to the chase. Where are the girls we’re looking for? Are they among those things?”

The bundle of rags shook, nodding but drawing back. “Find them if you can. When you flee, take me out of this place.”

Henry and I were conscious of a swirling movement around us. Whatever these spirit-things were, they had surrounded us and seemed to be closing in on us, like we were at the heart of a vortex. I looked upwards and in the vague light thought I could make out a balcony, or some kind of higher level, cut into the stone. And she was there, that extraordinarily beautiful creature I’d tangled with once before—Carmella Cadenza, now going by the handle of the Cold Lady. I had a brief glimpse of her face—unmasked here—before the shadows covered her. She had been smiling, but there was no warmth in it. Her undeniable beauty couldn’t make up for the maliciousness that fuelled her.

It would have washed over me. I’ve had more than a few withering glances from disgruntled dames in my time. What poured the ice back into my veins was the other shadow I’d seen up there. I’d only had a brief glimpse—a shape that was as hunched over and obscure as the Raggedy Man. Pure darkness, congealed and imbued with warped life, and with an unhealthy spread of limbs, jointed and elongated, as if a man had been fused with some other life form—a spider maybe. A particularly big spider.

This place was where broken things came to be mended. So I knew what that was up there, hugging the shadows beside the Cold Lady.

Spiderhead. An old nemesis of mine. Just as I’d fouled up Carmella’s plans once, so had I put a big spoke in Spiderhead’s wheel. I had a feeling at the time he’d limped away to fight another day. That being today by the look of it.

“They’re here!” called Henry, snapping me out of my daze. He was indicating the faces that were glaring at us from the swirl of creatures around us. I peered into that human whirlpool and saw two faces I recognised from photos Ariadne had shown me. Suki Yosimoto and Maria Mozzari. They were smiling, idiotically, like part of their brain was on hold. That would be the work of the Cold Lady.

As the blurred crowd closed in, their arms reached out for us, slender and pale, making the whole thing look like one unified beast, intent on absorbing us. Which I didn’t think would be a good idea. Their unholy singing had started up, shrill and discordant and definitely not the kind of thing that would go down well in any respectable night club.

“Now would be a good time for some accompanying riffs,” I called to Henry.

“I’ll do the music, you do the muscle,” he said. “Grab the girls,” he added when I gaped at him.

Grab the girls? Like this was a gentleman’s ‘excuse me.’ Well, what else was I supposed to do?

Henry played a gentle riff on the guitar, the sound almost smothered by the banshee screech of the spinning creatures around us. I waited, trying to pick the right moment. I watched Suki Yosimoto’s spinning face, her white arms reaching out in a blur and I tracked her. I let her get closer, closer then reached out myself and made a grab for her. I managed to get one hand fastened on a wrist and I yanked her towards me. It was like pulling something out of a pool of muck, or quicksand.

I could feel the resistance of the powers fuelling that concentrated energy, but the protective charms I was wearing, coupled with the stuff I’d smeared over my flesh so painstakingly exerted its own power. I felt myself boiling, my hapless torso a battlefield for energies that buzzed and fizzed like shorting electricity. Fortunately, the whirling motion of the singers worked in my favour and with a final jerk, I tore the girl free so that she tumbled into me. I wrapped my free arm around her, aware that her mouth, and more significantly her teeth, were inches from my neck.

She did shriek even louder, but her shriek was worse than her bite—that is, she didn’t bite me. She just sagged down as if she’d been slugged, and curled up into a ball. As the others closed in, hands—claws now—still tearing at the air, I singled out Maria Mozzari. Again I struck while Henry played. It took me a couple of goes, but then I had her and drew her in. Steam emanated from me as if I’d got out of a baking oven.

The noise had become deafening and Henry strummed out some stronger chords. The effect was startling. His music went out in waves and it was like two tides clashing head on. In that maelstrom of sound, everything churned and broke like waves on invisible rocks. I gripped both of the fallen girls, while the others started to break apart, flying this way and that like foaming surf, slowly dissipating, their singing melting away.

I couldn’t see the Cold Lady and her companion for the grey fog that palled around us, but I knew they’d both be in a real funk over my antics. Hell knew what they’d try next. I didn’t want to hang around to find out.

“Time to beat it,” I called to Henry.

Carefully holding the guitar, he nodded and followed me as I hoisted up the two girls, one under each arm. They acted like they’d been drugged, which was a relief and I made for the exit to the chamber. The Raggedy Man was in the shadows, waving us toward him. I let him lead the way back through the narrow defiles towards wherever the main exit was. My guess was, we’d have to stop for a time at least, while Henry sorted out his repertoire and played the right tune to open the way back home.

That wasn’t going to be so easy—already the Cold Lady had set about closing her net. The stone walls were moving, like huge doors on hidden rollers. If we took the wrong turning, we were going to be crushed to bloody pulp or pinned helplessly. The Raggedy Man led the way, hopping like a huge flea, and at least he seemed to keep one jump ahead of the closing stone.

There was an eerie light ahead, high up like a weak moon, hidden among dense clouds. We seemed to be out of the labyrinth, but wherever we were, it was obscured. The Raggedy Man pointed ahead into the near darkness.

“Bridges,” he said. “They criss-cross this place. Keep to them. Don’t fall into the mire. It festers with the Pullulating Tribe and they will suck you in and drag the very soul from your bones.”

I didn’t relish that prospect, especially as I could see the many pools of this mire, disturbed by things below their sticky surfaces. On either side of the narrow bridges—which seemed to be some kind of twisted root, interlinked and tangled, slick with moisture—the foul sinks bubbled and frothed.

“Play the exit tune!” I yelled at Henry.

“I need more time,” he yelled back. “If I stop here now, they’ll overrun us.”

That meant we had to get out on to those contorted root-things. The moonlight—or whatever the hell it was—brightened a tad and I could see that the landscape stretched away indefinitely, another maze. From out of the stone defile, the swirling spirit creatures, now re-grouped, came tumbling. They had the look of harpies on Benzedrine, intent on mayhem.

The Raggedy Man moved a whole lot quicker than I would have expected, doubtless prompted by the prospect of being shredded and fed to the pool-dwellers. So our little company moved on to and across the root maze as quickly as we could without slipping off and plunging into what would have been a revolting bath. Writhing tongues slapped at us as we passed, thick greasy fingers, green and stinking. Mercifully the two girls remained in a stupor, so I was able to keep them moving, their eyes glazed, their expressions empty.

Miraculously we reached a wider expanse of root, like a flattish area of trunk, slightly raised up, a kind of crossroads. Several paths led away from it, though they all seemed to head into an even more dismal mire. Fog billowed, shutting us in. We looked back and saw that the aerial creatures had again pulled up as if something in this place deterred them.

As we studied the marsh, things began to ooze up from it like bloated plants, vaguely human shaped, dripping with muck, emanating tendrils of vapour and exuding a stench that curdled the blood. They clawed their way out on to the root paths, slithering, snake-like along them. My guess was there were scores of the things, mud-beasts, shaped like fat slugs, unfinished and ungainly.

We were surrounded. “Henry, it really is time for that exit tune,” I told him. “Either that or the last post.”

He shrugged. “I was hoping to avoid this,” he said, “but I think maybe I’m going to have to give it the old Entropy Chord. You might want to block your ears.”

I told you he was an impulsive lad. With Henry, you didn’t always get a chance to deliberate with him. This was one such time.

He gripped the guitar firmly, fingers of his left hand fixing its strings tightly to the frets, and ran his right hand down dramatically. The chord that erupted—oh, yes, erupted—from the instrument was like the crack of doom. It thundered outwards around us like a miniature tsunami. Well, maybe not that small. As the sound waves hit the things that were gathering in their disgusting multitudes, they burst like ripe fruit, showering the mire—and us—in filthy, sizzling gobbets of muck.

The whole structure under us shook as if it would crumble. I could vaguely see shapes back at the mouth of the stone labyrinth exploding, turned into a white cloud. I was getting a bad feeling about this. Like everywhere was about to disintegrate. That Entropy Chord was the trumpet of doom, a real world-ender.

“Henry,” I called above the din, “I’ll say it one last time—you really need to play the exit tune. It’s time to go home.”

He steadied himself, grinned like an idiot, and thankfully did as I asked. The two girls had partially come round, no doubt shaken awake by the apocalyptic events around us. I took hold of each of them as the new chords and riffs rippled from the blue guitar. It pulsed with life, the air about us went abruptly very still and for a moment everything stopped as darkness closed in.

When light seeped back into our little bubble, we seemed to be in another old building, not unlike the one Henry and I had first entered. The five of us moved through its dusty corridors and out through a broken door to stand on a sidewalk, where dim light splashed down from neon signs across the street. The two girls shook themselves, still dazed. I wondered if they’d remember anything of the bizarre events we’d all come through.

We didn’t stay long enough to find out if anyone had followed us. My guess was, whatever chaos the Entropic Chord had unleashed, the Cold Lady and Spiderhead had survived it, one way or another.

Henry was still gripping the guitar like it was welded to his fingers.

“I think maybe it’s time to put that goddam thing back in its case,” I told him. I noticed that it had lost its blue glow and it looked like any other battered old guitar.

“It’s okay, Nick. Once the Entropy Chord’s been played, it takes a long time for the guitar to re-charge itself.”

Suki turned to Henry, her face breaking out into a big smile. “Henry!” she chirped. “So nice to see you.”

The kid looked embarrassed. Now, that was a first.

Maria also managed a smile, but the Raggedy Man had already beaten a hasty retreat into the night. What the hell, he’d earned his freedom.

“Come on, you guys,” I said. “I know somewhere we can get a stiff drink and a clean-up. And I know who’ll pick up the tab.”

There were no objections.

* * * *

“Piece of cake,” said Henry.

We were sitting in a late bar, the two girls almost asleep beside us, their drinks untouched on the table. I’d been that thirsty I’d sunk two bottles of beer and had a third in front of me. Henry didn’t usually drink alcohol, but after our exhausting escapades had managed to down a bottle of beer himself.

“It bothers me,” I said. “I know we had that crazy guitar to get us through, but don’t you think it was a might…easy?”

He frowned. “One false step and we’d have been dragged into that mire.”

“I know. I’m just saying.” I let it go for now. “You get the girls somewhere safe and we’ll talk about it when Ariadne gets back.”

I left him to it. Outside, the night life buzzed, and there didn’t seem like there would be any immediate moves from the mob we’d cheated. I reckoned Henry would take care of things for the time being.

* * * *

A few days later, after Ariadne had returned, I gave her a blow by blow account of the rescue of the two singers. Like me, she thought maybe we’d got off lightly, given the kind of powers we’d been up against.

“You smell a rat,” she told me, knowing me well enough to read me and my murky mind. “What are you thinking?”

“The girls—are they okay? Anything out of order?” I’d had Henry deliver them to her. No one had tried to interfere. It was like the Cold Lady had given up on them. Maybe she had, but then again—

“They don’t seem any the worse for their experiences,” said Ariadne. “And it hasn’t affected their singing. They’re coming on fine. In fact, I’ll be ready to give them their first night at the club soon. Warm up act for FiFi Cherie at the Big Jamboree I told you about. It’ll be the place to be seen. You’ll be there, of course.”

“Front row,” I grinned. “But you’d better have the place well protected. There’s a couple of things bugging me. For one, the Raggedy Man told us the girls were being groomed by Carmella Cadenza. To do the work of the Angels of Malice. Which was to unleash the Pullulating Tribe.”

“What else?”

“Something Henry said the other day. He was wriggling with embarrassment like a teenager on his first date—which he is not—when he told me that Suki is not as hot as she was. Now, maybe she’s cooled off toward him, or just needs a bit of private space after her little adventure. You know more about these things than me. Apparently, she don’t kiss like she used to. Kind of dead, as Henry put it.”

Ariadne gave me her thoughtful frown. “May be something in it.”

* * * *

For the next few days, I chewed over the events in the stone world and our remarkable abduction of the two girls. Remarkable, yeah. The more I thought about it, the more it bothered me. With all the powers at their disposal, the Angels of Malice—who’d had us at their mercy—had let us slip through their clammy fingers. Sure, I’d been protected and we’d had the guitar, but it was their world, bulging at the seams with their teeming hordes. No, something was wrong. Why did I think we’d been suckered?

I thought about the guitar, going back to the auction. Now that I did think about it, that was odd. If the thing was such a goddam prize, why run the risk of losing it at an auction? If the Nasty Guys had wanted it that bad, they’d have raised Hell to get it, wouldn’t they? So why the soft approach?

There could only be one reason. They wanted Henry to have it. Dressed up to look like he’d beaten them to it, albeit with my help. So that meant they’d wanted him to take it into their bizarre little world. But even then, they hadn’t taken it off him. They must have known he would use it to win back the singers. And in doing so, blowing the Pullulating Tribe and its surroundings to smithereens.

And in so doing, exhausting the guitar! It takes a long time for the guitar to re-charge itself, Henry’d said. Which meant, right now, it was useless.

We’d brought the girls—the singers—into our world. Singers who had gifts bestowed on them by the Angels of Malice. Singers who, according to Henry, were not quite as they had been. Puppets.

It was an Oh my God moment.

They were going to sing in Ariadne’s Big Jamboree at the night club and raise God alone knew what horrors, and there would be no blue guitar to blast them back to Hell. And when was this going to happen?

Tonight. In a few hours’ time.

* * * *

If I thought I was going to leave my office, sprint out into the city, grab a taxi and hightail to Ariadne like a bolt from the blue, I must have been kidding. I had my armoury strapped in and I went down the stairs to the alley like a cat with its tail ablaze, but no sooner had I got out of the door than I knew I was not alone. I almost ran into a hail of lead.

They were at both ends of the alley. Luckily the street lights were on the fritz again, so I must have made a blurred target. I was able to duck back inside before they shredded my carcass. Something nicked my arm, and I felt something hit my chest like I’d been punched but not enough to slow me down. I tore back upstairs, locked the door and made for the fire exit out back. I tossed an old jacket out first, and sure enough, it was ripped apart in seconds by another crossfire.

They had me pinned down. I had to get hold of Ariadne and tell her what I’d figured out. I reached inside my coat and pulled out my cell phone—or what was left of it. It disintegrated in my hand. The punch I thought I’d felt was a bullet glancing off it. I was glad enough the damn thing had saved me what might have been a crippling hit, but now I had no way of warning Ariadne.

I had one last chance to get out of there. I went into my cunningly converted broom cupboard, dropped down a makeshift elevator and emerged in the darkness of the cellar. There was a hidden door and I opened and closed it cautiously. Beyond, in a dank, dripping tunnel that was originally dug here generations ago, I crept away, listening for anything other than the rats that frequented the place.

I was intending to head for the office block where I knew Ariadne would be making her last preparations before going to Diamonds Are Forever. We had to cancel tonight’s show. On my way, however, it occurred to me that the block would be watched from all angles. Our enemies would be out in full force tonight. Divide and conquer. No doubt Henry and Stan would also be watched, not that Henry could do much damage without the blue guitar.

I got out of the cab and paid the driver, a block from Ariadne’s offices. I usually entered through a private door, but I could only do it if I gave her notice. Maybe I could climb up a fire escape out back somewhere. There were phone booths, but they’d be watched for sure. My guess was, Carmella Cadenza had given orders for her people to rub me out on sight, no messing. I couldn’t take that risk.

As I was sneaking my way towards an alley that I knew would take me to the back of the huge building, ducking and diving into every shadowy doorway I could en route, I felt an arm wrap around my neck and something hard jam up against my spine. I allowed myself to be pulled into the darkness. Someone had got the drop on me and as I swore crudely, it was at my own stupidity.

“Take it easy, fellar. You’re in good hands.”

The voice, coupled with the faint whiff of very expensive perfume made me realise I hadn’t been snared by one of Satan’s children.

“Ariadne,” I breathed.

She pulled me deeper into the shadows, released me and took me down the narrowest of alleys to a doorway, tapping on it with the gun she was toting. The door opened and we slipped inside.

“Sorry about that,” she said, with a rueful grin. “The bad guys are out in force. Didn’t want to be seen.”

I was about to blurt out what I’d pieced together, but she put a slim finger over my lips. “I know what you’re going to say. You realised what was really happening.”

“You, too?”

“I had a tip off. There’s someone I want you to meet. It’ll come as a shock, but just stay cool, okay?”

I nodded, but I was feeling more than a little edgy as she took me through another door and up some stairs. We came to a room that was lit by a single bulb. Some of her people were there, dependable guys who I knew could handle themselves. It was a relief. What was less relaxing was the sight of the guy sitting in the middle of the room on an old chair, his head down, his hands folded in his lap.

He looked up at me and for a moment it seemed like he was shuddering. “Mt Stone,” he said. “You know me.”

Yeah, I knew that bastard, all right. Erik van Brazen. We’d crossed paths a few times, and if there was a man on this Earth I’d sworn I’d tear apart with my bare hands, it was him. He was responsible for more misery in my life than a whole shipload of Satan’s sidekicks.

“This better be good, pal, because I am going to pull your head apart before I leave this room,” I told him in a tone that does not get any nastier.

Ariadne put a restraining arm on mine and it’s probably the only thing that prevented me from carrying out my threat.

“You’re too late,” he said and as he lifted his head, I saw now that he looked like he’d aged about a hundred years. His skin was waxy, lined and creased, and his hair was thinning, white and fading. I looked at his hands, and they were little more than bones. “You want to shoot me, I don’t give a damn. Go ahead.”

“What’s he doing here?” I snapped at Ariadne.

“He’s the Raggedy Man. The shaven, cleaned-up version. Before that, he was controlled by the creature who tried to abduct me, the thing you called Spiderhead. When you rescued me, Spiderhead fled. Licking its wounds, it rejected the human vessel it had used for its purposes and found somewhere to hole up. Just like Carmella Carnadine. You saw them, Nick, in that place where Henry took you.”

Van Brazen was nodding. “Once that creature had dumped me, I was finished. It and that floozy abandoned me and let me crawl around in the dark. The only reason they didn’t kill me was maybe I’d earned the right to live, even if it was a parody of life.”

“We should have left you there to rot.” I had no sympathy for the man.

“I became the Raggedy Man. My days are numbered now, Stone. If you don’t kill me, it won’t matter. I’ll be done for soon enough. You don’t want to worry about me—it’s that thing you call Spiderhead you need to deal with.” He shuddered again.

“Where is it?”

“Oh, it’s here, not far away. It’s gotten its filthy grip on some other sucker. In a coupla hours it’ll make itself known, through those two girls you pulled out of the hole. They were bait if you didn’t know it.”

“So why were you so damn keen to tip Ariadne off?”

“Listen, pal, when you’ve had your brain clamped by that monster and had your every move controlled by it, your skin would crawl at the thought of it. I’m no saint. Maybe I’ll burn in Hell. But if I can pay that creeping horror back for what it did to me, then fine.”

“We’re supposed to trust you?” I sneered.

“We may have no choice,” said Ariadne.

“You made a deal with this creep?” I said to her, but she shook her head. “Okay, so make sure he stays put. If he moves an inch out of line,” I told the heavy brigade, “put a bullet between his ears. And when we’ve done, give him to Police Chief Carter. That’s the best deal you’ll get from me, van Brazen.”

“You’re going soft, Mr. Nightmare,” he said.

“If Miss Carnadine wasn’t here, your brains would already be decorating the walls.” I turned to Ariadne. “You got somewhere else we can talk?”

We quit the room and I felt myself slowly getting control of my fury. Ariadne gave me a quick hug.

“I don’t like it anymore than you do,” she said. “But it’s all we’ve got.”

“So what’s the plan?”

* * * *

I had to wear a tuxedo, and worse than that, a bow tie and shoes that were so polished they dazzled the eye. I had to look the part for my appearance at the Big Jamboree. Ariadne told me we were to act as if the whole show was going to be fine and we had no idea that something sinister was going on. I knew her administrative machinery was ultra-slick, but the trick she pulled off with the guests was, to my mind, beyond belief. Somehow she’d gotten discreet word to every guest that the show was postponed for a few days, but that it would go ahead, very sorry, and no one would be disappointed once it did. No doubt it caused ripples throughout city society, especially as diaries had to be adjusted, but it had to be done. The dignitaries and celebrities did not want to miss this, so they’d do as asked.

Diamonds Are Forever, however, was about to have a dummy run. Ariadne was going to fill the place with hired guns, or at least, guys she could depend on to tackle whatever the Angels of Malice were lining up. I’d told her that by alerting her guests, she’d have simply been warning the enemy off, but she pointed out that the major servants of darkness would be keeping well out of things, given what they thought was going to happen.

The Pullulating Tribe. That’s what was going to happen. I thought Henry had blown the whole mob to atoms, but Ariadne said van Brazen had told her we’d only gotten shot of a handful, sacrificed in the grand deceit. The main task force was all geared up and ready to roll.

“What the heck are these things going to do?” I’d asked her.

“They’re parasites. Think of demonic possession.”

“Do I have to?”

“Once they’re summoned and unleashed, they’ll attempt to possess everyone in the club. Can you imagine what that would have meant if it had been the original guests? New York city taken over by servants of Satan, big time.”

“Right—so now it’s just you, me and your private army that stand to be possessed.”

“Forewarned is forearmed,” she’d smiled. “We’ll fight fire with fire. Magic with magic. When I was in Europe, I was warned that the forces of evil were stirring and I brought back a few goodies.”

So once again I was wearing my special sigils and my bangles, baubles, and beads. They’d worked okay when I’d clashed with the Pullulating Tribe before, so maybe they’d protect me again. If I’d had any sense, I’d have been on a Greyhound bus heading far off into the West. But it was Ariadne.

When I entered the club and gave the doorman my invite card, the place was already humming. Everyone inside—and there was a huge crowd, very convincing—was giving a first class impression of having a good time, drinking, dancing, fooling around as any normal guest would do at such an occasion. I recognised a few faces—tough guys on Ariadne’s team—and I marveled that she’d been able to gather so many together, like a private army. But I knew there was a lot more to her than met the eye.

She would enter separately, probably keeping out of the way until she made her appearance as FiFi Cherie, although if things went as expected, she’d not be needed to sing. Things were going to blow up before then.

On the wide stage, the regular band was playing, maybe with a tad less gusto than usual. Ariadne had told me she’d given them instructions to beat it once the two new singers were introduced. She’d brought in some special support for them. Van Brazen had told her that the girls were under a form of hypnosis and would speak and act as normal, oblivious to the fact that when they started to sing, the powers fused into them would be unlocked. They had no idea they were being used.

Ariadne put this to the test by gradually having the crowd dissipate. The two girls were backstage. As far as they knew, things were swinging along and they were getting tense and nervous about their debuts. Whatever had been implanted in them was waiting, like some kind of beasts about to pounce. As long as events around them panned out as expected, they wouldn’t be warned off. Ariadne reckoned that Carmella Cadenza and her immediate confederates were watching events through the eyes of the girls. So, by the time the two of them slid out on to the stage, to perform a duet, most of the audience had left the building.

I was in the wings, watching. Ariadne knew her stuff—she’d had the lighting fixed so that the girls couldn’t see beyond the glare off stage. As far as they knew, there was a full house out there. Whereas in fact there were now no more than a dozen people, all with a particular power placed there by Ariadne. Around the walls, tall curtains, heavy velvet stuff, had been hung in a wide circle, so the place was closed in, and would prevent sound echoing in a way that would suggest the place was empty. Ariadne had told me it would suit the enemy, who wouldn’t want a single soul, literally, to escape the trap.

It was late when the moment came. The band, also reduced now to a few guys who were more than just straight members, again selected by Ariadne, struck up the chords that would prompt the two girls to take the stage. Lights flared, spotlights swiveled, as Maria Mozzari and Suki Yosimoto appeared and began to sing. It seemed like they were unaware of the change in the hall. They just sang.

It was weird stuff. Almost like it wasn’t human, high-pitched beyond the normal vocal range and eerie. The girls interlocked the sounds. Maybe a free form jazz fan would have made something of it, but it was pure headache music to me. Ariadne was at my shoulder. I glanced at her. As far as the girls knew, she was due on stage as FiFi Cherie, but by now she’d changed into her black Ninja gear, complete with those two blades that could slice a human hair into a dozen pieces.

“Now we’re cooking with gas,” I whispered.

“Keep your mind on your job,” she whispered back, jabbing me in the ribs, but she was right. This was a time to concentrate. The muck was about to hit the fan.

I shifted around the edge of the stage, easing down some wooden steps to the auditorium floor, to where I could see it clearly, my eyes no longer dazzled by the brilliant glare. I had my twin Berettas out, although when it comes to that old black magic, I’m never sure if they’re going to be effective. I do like the feel-good factor, though.

It had already started. Enemy action. That dreadful singing was bearing fruit. Something was curling up through the floorboards, like a dawn miasma from a swamp. The air became foetid as the vapours thickened and coalesced. They had an unhealthy resemblance to the stuff that had steamed over the weird landscape Henry and I had visited before the Pullulating Tribe had materialised. Sure enough, it was happening again—the girls’ voices rose and shrilled, conducting this bizarre summoning to the point where the first shapes solidified, quickly multiplying.

Dripping with ooze, these things were only vaguely humanoid in shape, but their purpose was clear—they were intent on assailing the remaining people in the hall. Ariadne had told me she’d chosen them carefully—they were adepts, all of them purporting to be masters of spiritual matters. Each of them carried a weapon, either a short sword-like instrument or a wand and as the air began to boil with the gathering Tribe, these weapons glowed with white light.

I watched from the side-lines, sweat dripping off me. A furious battle was taking off. Scores of the infestations from beyond were hurling themselves at the adepts, the clashing of power drowning out the girls’ singing until two of Ariadne’s remaining members of the band jabbed each of them with a needle and took them out of the scene altogether. It shut off the flowing arrival of more of the Pullulating Tribe, but there were enough of the monsters here now to choke the place.

Bedlam reigned. I would have used my guns, but Ariadne held me in check, as though she was expecting this whole farrago to work its way to a climax, without our interference. She was right. The adepts were banded together in the centre of the hall, the intruders swirling around them in a black vortex, filled with leering faces and claws as if Hell itself had discharged an entire army of demons. Somehow the adepts, hands and weapons raised like banners, were repelling the assault, although as it increased in ferocity, I wondered how long they could hold out.

The Pullulating Tribe was trying to surge forward, like a huge tidal wave that would not be restrained for much longer. Someone else entered the picture and I could just about make out its silhouette.

It was Henry Maclean.

And he was carrying the blue guitar. I gaped at Ariadne. Didn’t she realise it wouldn’t work? We’d drained it when Henry had played the Entropic Chord.

Henry tugged the instrument from its case and set it down on the floor. The adepts stood either side of it, making various passes with their weapons. Like some ravenous beast, the swirling horror that was the Pullulating Tribe, zoomed forward and down, breaking through the defence of the adepts, scattering them this way and that, sending them tumbling across the dance floor. Henry had skipped back towards the stage, out of immediate danger. As he did so, all the surrounding curtains dropped, like their supports had been severed, to reveal the walls. Walls, which had been daubed with cabbalistic designs and what must have been magical inscriptions.

The guitar glowed its familiar blue, though it was faint and didn’t look to me like there was any power in it. The vortex poured down over it like a waterfall hitting a flat surface. Except that there was no explosion, no outward waves. All that fuming dark power drove into the guitar, and as it did so, the thing just got bluer and bluer, its light becoming too strong to look at.

I don’t know how long it went on for, but I was practically on my knees by the time it had finished. There was an abrupt silence. Just the guitar, pulsing and humming, its strings vibrating.

“I’d say that thing is re-charged,” said Ariadne beside me.

“You knew that would happen?”

“Sort of. It was worth a try.”

I had no time to voice my views on that. Something else was manifesting itself out on the dance floor. The adepts had all been swept sideways in a rough circle by the implosion of the Pullulating Tribe and they were all flat on their backs, apparently exhausted by their efforts. The thing that drew itself up out of the floor twisted and stretched itself until it became a man. But this was no ordinary man.

It had elongated arms and legs, a weirdly bloated body and an oversized head. I knew immediately why the head was elongated. Something had attached itself to the mass of hair, burying its own legs into it.

Spiderhead.

This wasn’t van Brazen, but a new host for the monster. He—it—stood there, feral eyes blazing like a demon, lips drawn back in a snarl that would have embarrassed a full grown tiger. Those eyes fixed on the stuff scrawled on the walls, containing spells. It howled like a caged wolf, or worse, stepping toward the guitar like it intended to snatch it up.

Ariadne was quicker than me to respond. She pulled out both her blades and ran across the floor with the clear intention of decapitating the creature. She had good cause to want to exterminate Spiderhead, having suffered the thing’s evil attention once before. But the two swords whistled through the air, inches short of their target as the monster leapt sideways, incredibly agile. Ariadne was no slouch and moved with speed that almost defied the eye.

Time and again the creature weaved and bobbed out of reach. I thought it must be a matter of time before she nailed it. I had my guns up, ready to use them, but the movements on the centre of the dance floor were so rapid that I could have hit her. I stepped a little closer, waiting.

In the end, Spiderhead landed the first blow, one of those long arms swinging out and catching Ariadne off balance, sending her tumbling. She rolled, both blades upright in a defensive move, while the creature closed in over her. It swept both blades aside and I realised it was going to dip its disgusting head and close its teeth over her face.

There was no time to think. I used both guns, aiming as best I could in the faltering light for the elongated arms that were supporting the creature. My aim was good and the elbow joints both exploded in a welter of flesh, gore and matted hairs. Spiderhead was blown sideways by the impact, emitting a high pitched shriek, a mixture of fury and pain.

Ariadne moved twice as quickly, rolling over and up. She brought one of her blades down and severed the head of the monster, which tumbled end over end into the shadows. She used the other blade to drive down into the guts of body, pinning it to the floor, where it thrashed for long moments. I ran forward and emptied one of the Berettas into the shadows where the head—the enormous spider—had rolled. There were adepts near to it, but they all put some space between themselves and the spider-thing. Chances were it would try and take one of them over.

I got as close as I dared, preparing to fill the bristling monster with enough lead to sink a rhino. There was blood and other fluid pooling around it and I was careful not to step in any. As quickly as the thing had first materialised, it began to alter its shape, like some kind of thick, black gunk and found enough cracks in the floorboards to drain away. I fired again, unsure whether my bullets were having any effect.

By the time Ariadne had reached me, Spiderhead was gone. All that remained was a wide pool of viscous fluid.

“Do you think you killed it?”

I shook my head. “Damaged it, maybe. More damn lives than a cat.”

Henry joined us, his arm around Suki Yosimoto. She seemed a little dazed like she’d just come out of a deep sleep. Chances were she and Maria were free of the powers that had used them. Henry stooped down and slid the blue guitar into its case, zipping it shut.

“This thing wants putting somewhere well out of reach,” he said. “If anyone wants to play the Entropy Chord, there’s going to be one hell of a blast. Thermonuclear stuff.”

* * * *

It was long gone midnight by the time Police Chief Rizzie Carter had been to the club and arranged for his crew to dispose of the headless body. I explained to him what had happened. Only a cop who knew me and the kind of madness I got mixed up in would have taken it at face value. The dead man was known to him and Ariadne, an ambitious hoodlum by the name of Jed Rawls, who the Chief had been trying to nail for some time. Just the kind of creep that Spiderhead liked to use.

“We’ll put this one down to a mob killing,” Rizzie Carter said, grinning through a big mouthful of hot dog. No matter what time of the night it was, you could rely on the Chief to find himself a big, fat feast.

“And nice work getting hold of van Brazen,” he said to Ariadne. “Your men handed him over to me earlier. Looks like all the fight’s gone out of him. Tomorrow we’ll send him back to the sanatorium. That’s if he wakes up. He looked about ready for the big sleep when I left him.”

Ariadne and I watched him leave.

“Nightcap?” she said.

“I think I’ll just hit the sack.”

“You do say the sweetest things.”