A Mosaic of Stars: Short Stories From Other Worlds (6 page)

He lit a cigarette and, with a huge sigh of relief, stepped out of the church and into the night.

All's Fair in Hell

Detective Shadowvalt curled his tail up beneath him and pulled the hood of his jacket forward, covering his horns. He didn’t like to leave his trenchcoat behind, but at least he could still smoke while undercover. Lighting a cigarette, he enjoyed the smooth, sulphurous taste. He was sure the cigarettes tasted better in Hell.

Shoulders hunched, he stayed with the dozen lost souls walking through the barbed gates of the warehouse, past the watch demons guarding the place. Even before they crossed the yard, he could tell by the smell that this was it, the centre of the supposed people smuggling ring. There was an acrid tinge in the air, the smell of fallen spirits being consumed for others’ purposes.

Still following the damned, he walked through the double doors of the warehouse proper. At the far end a yellow demon with six tentacles stood by a stone gate. The air in the portal glowed blue with arcane power as a soul stepped in and vanished.

Seeing what was really happening made this all the more sickening. There were scores of mortals here, and they probably all thought they’d bought a way to freedom.

That was it. Probable cause to raid the place. He needed to fetch backup.

Shadowvalt turned and bumped into one of the watch demons.

“Not this way.” The demon blinked six of its eyes. Others emerged on writhing stalks, peering under Shadowvalt’s hood. “Hey, you’re not a mortal. You’re a-”

Shadowvalt flicked his cigarette into the demon’s face. It yelped and jumped back as he flung back his hood and pulled out his badge. “Police. Nobody move.”

The watch demon grabbed at Shadowvalt. He punched it in its sensitive, eye-covered head, sending it slumping to the ground in shock and pain.

“You want out of here?” the yellow demon bellowed, gesturing toward the portal. “Kill him!”

The lost souls, still bearing the marks of their deaths as well as their eternal torments, looked at each other in confusion. They’d probably never been told to attack a demon before. But they were desperate, and Shadowvalt new all too well what desperation could achieve.

They advanced toward him, fists clenched, eyes wide.

“Stop!” he bellowed. “You’ve been tricked. That’s not a portal out of Hell. It’s a construct to turn souls into power. They’re going to kill you.”

“Why should we believe you?” The soul who spoke had burns across half her face.

“Because this is a battery factory.” Shadowvalt pointed to the wires leading away from the portal, ending in a charger against the far wall. “What do you think we use down here, Duracell?”

They looked back toward the yellow demon. Clearly a specialist in technical arcana rather than convincing lies, it hesitated too long. Some of the souls sank to the floor in despair, while others rushed at the demon in rage.

They’d never win the fight, but it was enough. With everybody distracted, Shadowvalt stepped outside and over to the gates. He waved down the road, toward the abandoned building where his backup was waiting. Uniformed constables poured down the street toward him, horn tips gleaming, as the burned woman came up beside him.

“It’s not fair.” She spat the words. “All we wanted was to escape torment.”

“If you’d acted fairly you wouldn’t be here.” Shadowvalt lit a cigarette. After a moment’s hesitation he offered her one. “Just be glad I didn’t leave you to walk through the portal. I’d say justice has been served.”

Counting the Spoils

“I don’t get it.” Fred dipped his pen in the inkwell, made a note of the jewel-encrusted sword. It glowed even in the shadows, one more magical trinket in Europe’s strangest treasure trove. “Why didn’t Napoleon take all this with him? Or hide it and send someone back later? I know he’s a prisoner, but he’s got a whole island to keep it in.”

“Simple, mon ami.” Jean-Luc set the sword back on its shelf and picked up the next item, a simple jar covered in Arabic writing. He blew dust from the top and then frowned as it settled on his tailcoat. “The Emperor expected to win. Who could have foreseen Waterloo, eh?”

Fred set aside his pen, shook out the cramp from his wrist. Logging all the treasures in this isolated hunting lodge was tedious work. He’d rather be outside taking in the fine weather and the French countryside.

Jean-Luc twisted the lid from the pot. There was a crack of breaking wax seals, previously hidden by the dust. The two clerks glanced at one another nervously. Even the lowliest item here was worth a fortune. That was why there were soldiers outside, and why an inventory was needed – so that the heads of Europe could share out the emperor’s magical hoard. If he and Jean-Luc broke something they’d be in a world of trouble.

“It’s alright,” Fred said. “No-one need ever-“

The lid shot off the pot and a stream of fire burst out, coalescing into a glowing figure half the height of a man.

Jean-Luc yelped in pain as the pot glowed red hot. He dropped it and it shattered on the floor.

The creature giggled and dashed off down the room, leaving a trail of smoking footprints on the floorboards.

“A djinn!” Jean-Luc exclaimed in pain and wonder.

“Quick, catch it!” Fred rushed after the creature. He grabbed it as it made for the door, then jerked back in pain as flaming flesh seared his hands. As he stumbled back he knocked a head-shaped mirror and it crashed to the floor, ghostly figures of noblemen emerging from the shattered remains.

“We need something to trap it,” Jean-Luc said as he emerged from between the shelves, catching the djinn between them in a corner.

Fred glanced around. To his right was a crate, its side branded in French and Russian.

“Here.” He grabbed it, relieved to find it much lighter than expected. It must already be empty. “I’ll just open-“

“No!” Jean-Luc’s eyes went wide as he saw the writing.

It was too late. Fred had cracked open the lid, which now burst off. An icy wind blasted forth, frost forming on everything it touched. It rushed up the chimney and blew open the window shutters as it kept coming, an endless stream of cold.

Fred dropped the box as ice started to cover his hands.

“Russian winter!” Jean-Luc shouted over the howling wind. “Napoleon’s sorcerers must have captured it, a souvenir of his greatest failure.”

Outside the windows the sky was darkening, snow fluttering out of what had been a beautiful spring day.

“We are in so much trouble,” Fred said, staring dumbfounded as winter fell both indoors and out.

“I can help,” a tiny voice said.

They turned to see the djinn looking at them from its corner.

“Let me go and I’ll burn this place down,” it said.

“How’s that helping?” Fred snapped in frustration.

“You think you’ll be in trouble for breaking a few treasures?” the djinn said. “Think how much worse it will be if they find out you broke summer for everyone.” It kicked at the fallen box. “I can burn all the evidence faster than anyone can put the flames out. You say some coals fell from the fire, the place burnt down, everything was lost – mirrors, boxes, the lot. Not your fault.”

Fred looked at Jean-Luc, could see his colleague making the same calculation. Could they get away with this? Could it get any worse?

Probably not.

Two minutes later they ran out of the building, smoke trailing behind them.

“Fire!” Fred screamed at the red-coated sentries huddling against the sudden cold.

“Fire!” Jean-Luc echoed, as the roof creaked and fell inward in a shower of sparks.

Just for a moment, a tiny figured danced in the flames, then disappeared on the freezing wind.

The djinn was gone, along with the evidence of their failure. Fred could only hope people believed it was an accident.

The soldiers grabbed buckets of water in a futile attempt to quench the magically-powered flames. Fred turned to Jean-Luc.

“Was this a good idea?” he asked.

Jean-Luc shrugged.

“Did you have a better one?”

Fred shook his head and pulled his collar up around his ears, as around him the snow fell.

The Gorgon's Gaze

“You said there’d only be one gorgon!” Myrrine yelled as she fled down the torch lit tunnel, sandals slapping against the cold stone. Behind her, the sound of many slithering bodies pursued them through the darkness.

“That’s what Herodotus told me.” Korinna’s armour glinted in the flickering light, mirrored shield flashing as the Amazon glanced back over her shoulder. A bag slapped against her leg, blood seeping from the severed head inside, a single strand of snake hair flapping about as it poked out the top. “Useless bloody historians.”

They rounded the corner and saw Ampelios scratching his head as he tried to remember which of two tunnels they’d come down an hour before. The Spartan had the muscles of a bull, but sadly the brains to match.

“Go left!” Korinna yelled just as Ampelios headed down the right-hand tunnel. “No! That’s the-“

There was a sharp snap and a bellow of pain. Ampelios staggered back out of the tunnel, blood spurting from what remained of his left leg.

“There’s a trap,” he said, dull-eyed as ever.

“I know,” Korinna said. “We built it.”

Ampelios fell to the floor, staring up at Myrrine as she rushed to his side.

“Good thing we brought a physician, eh?” he said.

“Good thing indeed.” Myrrine clamped Ampelios’s hands around the wound, getting him to staunch the blood flow as best he could. Any other man would have passed out by now, but then this was the way with Spartans. “We need to close this fast or you’ll die of blood loss.”

She rummaged in her bag, looked up in frustration.

“Where are my bandages?” she asked.

“Used them to make the gorgon net,” Korinna replied, looking anxiously back down the tunnel.

“What about my Vesuvian iron?” Myrrine asked. “It’s enchanted to cauterise wounds.”

“Black rock the size of my fist?” Ampelios asked.

“That’s right.”

“Threw it at the gorgon.”

Myrrine screamed. It wasn’t as cathartic as she’d hoped.

“Why in Hades did you bring me,” she said, panic making her voice rise, “if you weren’t going to let me keep my tools?”

“Thought we’d need a doctor if we got turned to stone,” Korinna said. “Hurry, they’re nearly here.”

“Turned to stone?” Myrrine exclaimed. “I don’t know how to turn someone back from stone!”

“What sort of doctor are you?”

“The stupid sort, if I ever work with you again.”

Ampelios was starting to look pale, his fingers loosening around the stump, letting out even more blood.

The slithering of pursuit grew louder. Something flickered down the tunnel.

“We have to move.” Korinna dragged Ampelios to his feet, thrust him towards Myrrine. “You help him run.”

“But he’s twice my size!” Myrrine staggered beneath his weight, blood starting to soak the bottom of her toga.

“Then you’ll have to run quickly.” Korinna shoved them towards the left hand tunnel, holding her shield up the way they had come. A moment later she turned and dashed after them. One of her feet clattered heavily against the ground.

“What happened?” Myrrine asked.

Glancing back, she saw that one of Korinna’s feet had turned stiff and grey, and the warrior was grimacing as she ran.

“Foot’s stone,” Korinna said. “Must have just caught me with the gaze.”

“I didn’t think that was how-”

“Well it is,” Korinna snapped. “Now keep running, or Ampelios won’t be the only one dying.”

They ran on up the tunnels, but the one-legged Ampelios was slowing them down, the more so because he was bent over, futilely trying to stem the bleeding. Myrrine glanced from him to Korinna. Inspiration struck. It was a desperate, probably futile sort of inspiration, but it was all she had.

“Give me the head,” she said.

“Oh yes,” Korinna snapped. “Let’s turn someone else to stone, maybe lose the head too and miss out on the bounty.”

Myrrine could hardly fight Korinna for what she needed, and she could still hear the gorgons approaching. In desperation she swung around, hurling Ampelios at the Amazon. Korinna’s sword clattered to the ground as she grabbed him with both hands.

Desperation lending her speed, Myrrine snatched up the sword and sliced open the bottom of the bag. She grabbed the gorgon’s head as it fell out, averting its gaze before it could hit her, then directing it onto Ampelios’s ruined leg. The air tingled with power, and the stump stopped bleeding as it turned stone grey. He pulled his hands from it and stood up straight, leaning on the more secure support of Korinna.

Myrrine thrust the head into her empty medical bag. At least that was good for something.