Forces from Beyond (6 page)

“No,” said Happy, frowning. “Absolutely nothing. Which is odd, not to mention worryingly significant. This whole location should be lousy with trace memories and emotions, from all the people who’ve passed through, but it feels like the place has been scrubbed clean. Which suggests . . . some really major psychic shields. I wonder why. What could be happening here that someone needs to hide so badly?”

“Could be to do with the convention,” said JC. “To ensure the poor innocent enthusiasts don’t see anything they’re not supposed to.”

Melody looked at him suspiciously. “This convention . . . These fans . . . We’re not going to have to pose for photos and give autographs, are we?”

“In your dreams,” said JC. “The public face of the Institute only exists to spread disinformation and half-truths and defuse any real investigations that might get civilians hurt. These people are all about . . . special interests, conspiracy theories, and convivial get-togethers. No doubt there will be panels, with self-proclaimed experts on the supernatural earnestly discussing weird events and general strange stuff. UFOs and crop circles and alien big cats . . . And a whole bunch of people with new books to push. There will undoubtedly be a dealers room, to sell these books, along with specialist magazines, DVDs, and handcrafted ugly objects . . . And anything else people can be persuaded to hand over hard cash for. I might take a wander through later. See if there’s anything I fancy. You have to keep up with what people are thinking, if only to know the right lies to tell them to keep them quiet and contented. Besides, I like to collect weird stuff.”

“I could make a comment about Kim here,” said Happy. “Only given the way you’re looking at me, I don’t think I will.”

“Very wise,” said JC.

“Where is Kim?” said Melody.

“She’ll turn up,” said JC. “Look, don’t expect to find anything . . . genuine, at the convention. That’s the point. Baffle them with bullshit so they don’t have to worry about the really worrying stuff. This whole thing is a con. A cover story . . .”

“For what?” said Happy, immediately suspicious. “What’s actually going on here?”

“Good question,” said JC. “Hopefully, the Boss will make an appearance soon and enlighten us as to why we’re here.”

They waited, then they waited some more, but there was no sign of Catherine Latimer anywhere. JC lost his patience first, but it was a near thing.

“Okay, let’s go find someone and ask some pointed questions,” he said. “And the best place to find people is the dealers room. There will always be people there, no matter what’s officially scheduled.”

“How are we supposed to find that?” said Melody.

“Just a wild guess,” said Happy, “but we could always follow the directions.”

He pointed to a number of carefully placed signs indicating the way to various function rooms. One of which said,
Dealers Room
.

“Trust you to notice that,” said Melody.

It took a while before they set off because Melody made one hell of a fuss over having to leave her equipment behind again. But JC was firm; he wasn’t having her dragging suspicious-looking high tech through crowds of very curious people. In the end, Melody stowed her trolley behind the Reception desk, turned on all the armed protections, and hoped for the best.

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Several empty corridors later, they pushed open a pair of very heavy doors, and were hit in the face by a roar of happy noise. The great open hall was packed full of stalls and tables, heavily laden with all sorts of everything. Targeted merchandise, licensed properties, high-priced collectibles, and batshit-mental come-ons. People coursed up and down the narrow aisles, chatting enthusiastically at the top of their voices, money burning a hole in their pockets. The noise level was actually staggering.

JC and Happy and Melody stayed just inside the doors, looking the scene over. JC was glad to see some people at last and quietly pleased that so many of them had come dressed up in colourful and really quite professional-looking costumes. Dr. Whos ancient and modern, Ghostbusters complete with backpacks, Draculas and Frankensteins and Mummies, and several Buffy the Vampire Slayers.

“I didn’t know Buffy was still popular,” said Melody.

“Some things are just timeless,” Happy said solemnly.

“Over there!” Melody said abruptly. “Isn’t that . . . ?”

“Yes it is,” said JC. “Don’t look at him. Soulhunters don’t like to be recognised when they’re working undercover.”

“But what’s he doing here?” said Happy. “Soulhunters don’t turn out for the minor stuff.”

“No doubt the Boss will inform us in due course,” said JC. “As and when she deigns to show herself. In the meantime, see if you can spot anyone who looks like they might know something.”

“Doesn’t seem very likely, does it?” said Melody. “We have come among geeks and nerds. The horror, the horror . . .”

“Snob,” said Happy.

“Show no weakness,” said JC. “They can smell fear.”

“I never thought of ordinary people being interested in the kind of stuff we have to deal with,” said Melody. “I mean, I spend most of my downtime trying not to think about it . . .”

“That’s because you know for a fact that it’s all real,” said JC. “Besides, most things look better from a distance.”

“A safe distance,” said Happy.

“Well, quite,” said JC.

They moved unhurriedly through the crowds in the packed aisles, checking out the various goods on offer with great interest. All the usual suspects were well covered: books and DVDs and magazines, all of them claiming to have the inside deal on Roswell and Rendlesham, Area 52 and the Philadelphia Experiment. This last featured a bunch of elves on the cover, and JC wasn’t sure what the hell that was all about. There was even a book on the Crowley Project. JC picked it up and flicked quickly through the pages.

“Gossip and conspiracy theory,” he said finally. “A distinct shortage of facts, names, or actual occurrences . . . Which is probably just as well, when you’re writing about one of the most openly evil organisations in the world. In fact, that’s almost certainly why it was allowed to be published.”

“Hey!” said the stall-holder, a sulky-looking individual with long, stringy hair, wearing a T-shirt that said
Information Wants to Be Paid For
. “Are you planning on buying that? I’m not running a lending library here.”

JC gave him a long, thoughtful look, and the stall-holder suddenly found a really good reason to go and be busy at the other end of his stall. JC put the book down and moved on. Happy stayed where he was, staring at nothing and humming tunelessly to himself, until Melody took him by the arm and gently urged him along. By which time JC had stopped again, to consider a collection of rather ragged dream catchers, relabelled as ghost-catchers.

“Fakes,” he said loudly. “They’re not even put together properly. You couldn’t hold off a daydream with these.”

“People will buy anything,” said Melody.

“It’s all about comfort and peace of mind,” Happy said wisely.

“Oh, you’re back with us, are you?” said Melody. “Where did you just go?”

“There are gaps in my thoughts,” said Happy. “I wonder if someone’s tunnelling . . .”

“Don’t ask,” Melody said to JC.

“Never even occurred to me,” said JC.

There was a poster saying
I Want to Believe
, and another beside it saying
Trust Me, You Don’t Want to Know
. Handcrafted bonsai wicker men; corn from a Wiltshire crop circle marked
Not Suitable for Smoking
; and an anatomically correct scarecrow that made JC wince. He browsed through a pile of dog-eared old paperbacks and turned up something claiming to be
An Official History of the Carnacki Institute
. JC paged through it carefully.

“Well?” said Melody.

“Should be in the fiction section,” said JC, dropping it back on the pile.

Another stall boasted a wide selection of unusual objects. A somewhat ratty scalp from a yeti; a really big tooth from the Loch Ness monster; and a sealed jam-jar half-full of grey goop, labelled
Extruded Ectoplasm
. Melody looked at JC.

“Any of this real?”

“How would I know?” said JC. “Not my area of expertise. But it seems unlikely; if any of this stuff was even half-way authentic, you can be sure these people would be charging a hell of a lot more for it.”

At which point, a tall, brooding presence dressed in black leathers with big steel buckles, heavy Goth makeup, and a whole bunch of painful-looking piercings, planted himself in front of JC to block his way. He looked JC up and down and sneered pointedly at his white suit.

“What are you supposed to be? The ice-cream man?”

“This is my tribute to Ray Bradbury,” JC said calmly. “Or possibly Marty Hopkins.”

The Goth started to say something cutting, then broke off as Happy stepped suddenly forward to glare at him.

“Piss off, Brian,” said Happy. “Your mother’s looking for you.”

The Goth looked startled, then uneasy. He moved away quickly, losing himself in the crowd.

“How did you know that his name was Brian?” said Melody.

“Not good form, Happy, reading civilian minds,” JC said sternly.

“Oh please,” said Happy. “Like I’d lower myself. He just looked like a Brian.”

And then JC said something really bad under his breath as he saw something displayed on a table that had no business being there. Because it was real. He wandered casually over for a closer look, and Happy and Melody moved in on either side of him.

“Is that . . . what I think it is?” Happy said finally.

“Looks like the real thing,” said Melody.

“It is,” said JC. “A Hand of Glory. Made from the severed hand of a hanged man, with the fingers turned into candles. Light them up, say the right Words, and the Hand will reveal hidden treasures, open locked doors, and slow down the passing of Time. Very dangerous in the hands of someone who only thinks he knows what he’s doing.”

“Where the hell did these people acquire something as spiritually toxic as that?” said Melody.

“I did hear of a Russian Hand that turned up loose in London a while back,” said JC. “God alone knows how it ended up here. They can’t know what it is, what they’ve got . . . probably think it’s just some movie prop. We can’t risk its getting out on the open market. Anyone activating the Hand could open doors to . . . anywhere. And let anything in. I really wouldn’t want to be on the team that had to clean up after that.”

“So what do we do?” said Happy. “Buy it ourselves, to take it off the market?”

“Are you kidding?” said JC. “Have you seen how much they’re asking for it? And good luck getting a receipt for expenses . . . No, I’ve a better idea. Kim, are you with us?”

“Right here, darling,” Kim said breathily in JC’s ear. Which was actually a pretty good trick for someone who didn’t breathe any more. “I thought I’d stay unseen so I could watch your back. I don’t like the feel of this place.”

“We need a distraction,” said JC. “Something big and noisy but essentially harmless, to hold everyone’s attention. Think you could oblige?”

“Love to,” said Kim.

A sudden hurricane squall rushed through the tables and stalls, rocking them violently back and forth and sending goods flying through the air. People ducked and shouted as heavy objects shot past their heads, and stall-holders clung desperately onto their tables, trying to hold them down. Several supposedly mystical artefacts burst into brightly coloured flames, while other equally impressive things just lay there and did nothing. While everyone’s attention was fixed on the weird happenings, JC chose his moment carefully, picked up the Hand of Glory, stuffed it inside his jacket, and casually strolled away. Melody and Happy went with him, trying hard to look innocent.

They’d almost reached the exit doors when they swung suddenly open, and a familiar figure stood facing them. Catherine Latimer beckoned them out of the dealers room with an imperative gesture, and the Ghost Finders hurried into the corridor to join her. The doors shut behind them of their own accord as everything in the hall fell suddenly quiet.

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Looking professionally calm and immaculate in her usual expensively cut grey suit, the Boss was smoking a black Turkish cigarette in a long ivory holder, in defiance of several prominent
No Smoking
signs. She had to be well into her eighties now, but she still burned with a fierce and almost certainly unnatural energy. Latimer wore her grey hair cropped in a severe bowl cut, and her face was all hard edges, harsh lines, and cold, cold eyes. Since she was hardly ever seen outside of her highly protected office at Institute Headquarters, her presence made it very clear just how important this new case was. JC, Melody, and Happy still made a point of glaring at her rebelliously, just on general principles. The Boss calmly stared them down—like a lion-tamer in a cage full of dangerous animals who just happened to have an automatic weapon about her person.

“Why are we meeting here while there’s a convention going on?” JC said bluntly.

“So we can hide in plain sight,” said Latimer.

“Hide what?” said Happy. “What are we doing here, and are we in danger? Answer the last question first.”

“We’re finally going after the Flesh Undying,” said Latimer.

There was a pause while the Ghost Finders looked at each other. Uncertain as to whether that was a good thing or not.

“Who are we hiding our presence from, exactly?” said JC. “Agents of the Flesh Undying or traitors inside the Carnacki Institute?”

“Yes,” said Latimer.

“Well . . . it’s about time we got serious about dealing with the Flesh Undying,” said Melody. “What’s changed to bring this to the boil at last?”

“Aid, from an unexpected quarter,” said Latimer.

And that was when Natasha Chang stepped smartly forward out of the shadows, to stand beside Catherine Latimer. All the Ghost Finders jumped, just a little. They knew Natasha Chang of old. A field agent of the Crowley Project, and a self-made femme fatale, Chang was a beautiful creature in her mid twenties with bobbed black hair, dark, slanted eyes, and a heart darker than the night. Half Chinese gangster, half English rose, all villain, all the time. She was wearing her preferred outfit—a pink leather cat-suit with matching pink pillbox hat. Because she’d never got over seeing Eleanour Bron in the Beatles film
Help
at a formative age. Chang’s long, sharp fingernails were painted with real gold leaf, and she had enough heavy rings on both hands to qualify as knuckle-dusters. JC remembered Happy’s warning of an old friend, or ally . . .