The Black Tattoo (55 page)

"Good luck!" called Jack — immediately feeling very silly indeed.
 
If the Chinj had dropped Number 3 into the mass of demons, then he was going to need a lot more than luck.

But suddenly, it was his turn.

"We are close to the center," said the voice in his ear.
 
"Going down now.
 
Do not... forget your promise to us... small human."

The landing, when it came, was surprisingly gentle.
 
In less than a second, it seemed to Jack, he was standing on his own two feet on the eerily squishy arterial-red ground, and the fluttering black flock was opening around him, peeling away in a great spreading tornado of dark furry bodies and leathery wings.

Now, finally, he could take in the scene.

An explosion off to his right was the first thing that attracted his attention.
 
A blast wave full of something wet and sticky passed over him, and when his vision cleared, he glimpsed Number 3 backing away from the crowd toward the center of the plateau, covering his escape with a hail of fire from his MP5.

Jack couldn't see what was following him, not at first.
 
For a moment it seemed as though the mass of demons — still fighting one another — were going to leave him be.
 
But then the crowds parted — the impromptu barricade of prone and still faintly smoking Gukumat bodies was roughly shoved aside — and Jack realized that Number 3 was in trouble.

The demon that was after him wasn't especially big, but it looked strong.
 
Its squat, barrel-like body was covered in a gray-green scaly armor of some kind:
 
it swatted at Number 3's bullets with its long-fingered razor-clawed hands as though the gunfire were a cloud of mosquitoes.
 
It rattled forward on its stumpy legs with a terrible eagerness:
 
its small head, not much bigger than a pair of fists held side by side, was split up the center by a disgusting vertical maw of hooks and thrashing tentacles, and its long bony arms grasped out for the Son as he backed away.

Jack watched, frozen, as Number 3's first gun ran dry.
 
The creature lunged — and the Son leaped to one side, drawing a heavy Sig Sauer automatic pistol from his hip and shooting several fat bullets into the creature's face at almost point-blank range.
 
The demon staggered back a yard or two, physically driven back by the force of the shots — but Jack could see, with a terrible detached certainty, that it was stunned rather than actually hurt.

With a smooth movement, Number 3 pulled the rocket launcher that was strapped to his back round to a firing position.
 
He raised the long, tube-shaped weapon up onto his shoulder and, without even appearing to take aim, let rip.

The rocket hit the demon in the chest, lifting the hapless creature off its feet and carrying it bodily right over the improvised barricade and over the battle raging below, until it vanished from sight.

"Number Three!" yelled Jack, screaming to make himself heard over the dreadful wave of noise that seemed to assault his ears from every direction.

The Son didn't hear him.

Jack thought about yelling again.
 
Then he stopped himself.

Number 3 couldn't help him.
 
There was no one who could help him.
 
Somehow, his desperate plan had worked, and he was through to the center of the room, alone.
 
There was no telling how long he'd be left that way.
 
He had a job to do, and here was the chance to do it.

He turned and faced the killing throne.

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"Oh no," gasped Esme, catching sight of Jack as he started off up the steps.
 
"Oh, God, no — Jack!"

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The steps were steep:
 
slippery and disgustingly warm to the touch, they pulsed with dreadful life under Jack's bare feet — but he kept going.
 
The vile meaty purple petal things that now surrounded the throne almost refused to move aside for him.
 
He had to dig his fingers into their slimy rough edges and yank at them, hard, before they'd get out of his way.
 
It was like trying to unwrap a giant artichoke:
 
no matter how many of the tonguelike objects he managed to pry away, there always seemed to be another one underneath.
 
The noise of the battle sank to a dull roar behind him, muffled by all the layers.
 
Then, suddenly, the last one parted, and he saw what was waiting for him in the center.

He didn't recognize Charlie at first.
 
Or rather, he knew it was Charlie, but what sat in the throne as the tentacles caressed and sucked at him looked like a mannequin — a model of Charlie, not the real thing.
 
His face was drawn, his cheeks shrunken.
 
His arms and hands were skin and bones, and his eyes, shut tight, looked like peeled hard-boiled eggs in their sockets.

Then Charlie opened them and looked at him.

"Oh, Charlie," said Jack.
 
"You
berk
..."

"Jack," croaked Charlie, stretching toward his friend with two fingertips — all he was able to move.
 
"Jack..."

"Well, okay," said Jack, with a confidence he didn't remotely feel, "let's get you out of this thing at least."
 
And he strode toward the throne.
 
Trying not to flinch too much, he grasped one of the slimy, pinkish-gray tentacle things that was sucking at his friend's arm and yanked it away.
 
The tentacle wriggled and thrashed, its nasty leechlike mouth parts opening and shutting convulsively on thin air.
 
Charlie shuddered.

"Don't," he said.

Jack stared at him.
 
"What?"

"Don't."

"What the Hell do you mean?
 
Do you want to get out of this mess or what?"

"The Dragon," croaked Charlie.
 
"It's—"

But something strange was happening.
 
All over Charlie's body, the sucking writhing tentacle things were letting go, releasing him.
 
Charlie slumped in the throne, unable to move, his blood still dripping listlessly from a hundred different wounds — but the thing that had done this to him was changing, shifting before Jack's eyes.

Suddenly, it seemed to Jack that the throne — the tongues, the tentacles, everything — was looking at him.
 
It was all pointed in his direction.
 
And then, in a voice from the bottom of a pit... something began to speak.

"
You
,"
it said.
 
The voice was like the Scourge's, only older.
 
Deeper.
 
Stronger.

"
You
,"
it repeated.
 
The voice didn't seem to be coming from any particular place, but Jack heard it with every fiber of his being.

"
You have forced your way into my throne room.
 
You seek to deprive me of my rightful victim.
 
Explain yourself
.
"

"Er," said Jack.
 
"Um..."

"Do you wish to stop the awakening?"
prompted the voice.

"Er, well, yeah," said Jack, grabbing at this chance and hardly believing that it was being offered.
 
"Yes, actually," he said, putting more effort into his voice this time.
 
"I want to stop the awakening.
 
Yes."

"This child has paid for the awakening with his life.
 
The price for preventing it will be the same.
 
Do you, then,"
it repeated,
"offer your life?"

Jack stared.

Then he scowled.

For Heaven's sake!
he thought (only he didn't use the word
heaven
).
 
If this didn't just beat everything.
 
Here he was, with the existence of the universe now — apparently — depending on him.
 
Against all the odds, he had got his chance:
 
he could save Charlie, he could save the day — but of course, it had to hinge on him volunteering to die.
 
How completely,
utterly
—

"All right," he said, stepping up.
 
"Okay, I'll do it."

"Do what?"
boomed the voice.

Jack scowled again.
 
"I'll 'offer my life' or whatever!
 
Come on, let's get on with this!"

"Then take the boy's place on the throne."

"Right," said Jack.

The tentacle things didn't resist him now.
 
They fell away easily.
 
What resisted him was Charlie.

"No!" said Charlie, plucking weakly at Jack's arms as Jack lifted him out of the throne — and dumped him, none to ceremoniously, on the fleshy red floor.

"Shut up," said Jack, "and listen to me.
 
You have a job to do, and it's time for you to do it."

Charlie stared at him, stunned by the strength in Jack's voice.
 
For the first time ever, Jack realized, Charlie was actually taking him seriously.

Jack sighed.

"You've got to go out there," he said, gesturing past the purplish, tonguelike layers of the walls, "and you've got to help Esme."

Still Charlie stared.

"You've got to do what you first said you were going to do.
 
Remember?
 
You've got to help her defeat the Scourge.
 
You've got to do it," said Jack, staring right back into his eyes.
 
"For me."

There was another pause.

"Oh, mate," said Charlie.
 
"I'm so sorry.
 
I—"

"Save it," said Jack, sitting down on the throne.
 
"Just go.
 
Let me get on with this."

He closed his eyes, not wanting to look at Charlie anymore.
 
This whole situation was, after all, entirely Charlie's fault.

To his credit, Charlie didn't try to say anything else.
 
And when Jack opened his eyes, Charlie was gone.

Right
, thought Jack, and waited for the next bit.

It wasn't long coming.

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""Khentimentu the Scourge," said Charlie, from Esme's side, "To roots that bind and thorns that catch I consign you."

The demon froze.
 
"
You
!" it said.

"Hi, Charlie," said Esme.

"Hi, Esme."

"Glad you could make it."

"Don't thank me," said Charlie.
 
"Thank Jack."

Esme looked at him and nodded slowly.
 
"Well," she said.

"Let's make sure he didn't waste the effort."

"Ready when you are."

"On three, then," said Esme. "
One
."

The air in front of Charlie and Esme suddenly wobbled and shook; then a long, glistening, stafflike object was forming between them, stretching across in front of them, under their hands.

"
Charlie
?" asked the demon, and for the first time in its long life, it suddenly sounded uncertain.
 
"
Charlie, let me explain
."

"Two."

"You can still be Emperor.
 
I can still give you everything you wanted!
 
Charlie,
you'll be sorry
!"

"I already am," said Charlie, then closed his eyes.

"Three," said Esme.
 
The magical staff was fully formed now:
 
a last gunmetal glint passed down its length, then it was ready for the job it had to do.

"
KHENTIMENTU THE SCOURGE
!" said Esme and Charlie both at once, and their combined voice was so loud that all Hell suddenly found that it had stopped what it was doing and now had no choice but to listen to the boy and the half-demon girl and hear what they had to say next.

The Scourge trembled.

"
TO ROOTS THAT BIND
—"

The words echoed around the heart chamber.
 
The magical staff glowed blinding white.

"—
AND THORNS THAT CATCH
—"

Now the demon was screaming — a terrible sound, a sound like tearing in your head, a maiming scream that went on and on.

"
WE
CONSIGN
YOU
!" roared Esme and Charlie at once.
 
"
GET YOU HENCE, AND TROUBLE US NO MORE!
"

And with a final, piteous shriek, the liquid darkness that was Khentimentu the Scourge was sucked, helplessly, toward the burning magical staff that Charlie and Esme held in their hands.
 
It swirled around them, a nimbus of pure black, rushing and hurtling and twisting and rippling.

Then, with a final clap of thunder—

—it was gone.

Exhausted, Esme sank to the floor.

They'd done it!
 
They'd trapped the Scourge in the staff!
 
Now if Esme could only get the demon back to Earth and reimprison it, she would have succeeded at last where Nick had failed.
 
Hardly believing it, she turned to smile at Charlie.

But he wasn't there.

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