The Demon Collector (11 page)

The busy streets soothed Edgy’s nerves. Here he was one of many. Part of the crowd. Harder to pick out.

When he reached it, Jesmond Street buzzed with mid-morning activity. The busy throng of shoppers, beggars and costermongers squeezed past each other trying to keep safely away from the carriages and carts that clattered up and down the cobbles.

‘The place is heavin’,’ Edgy muttered to Henry, sidestepping a portly gentleman who tutted and swished him away with his cane.

The shops stood proud and well kept. Edgy spotted a milliner’s shop, all lace curtains and glossy, painted woodwork, and a tailor’s, dark and respectable. Halfway up the street, wedged between these buildings like a drunk at a temperance meeting, stood Scrabsnitch’s Emporium of Archaic Antiquities.

‘Blimey, Henry,’ Edgy said. ‘I dunno what sort of place this is, but it don’t look very high class.’

Wooden planks shuttered the windows to Scrabsnitch’s shop and pedestrians tiptoed through the shards of glass that littered the pavement. The place looked like someone had set about it with a sledgehammer. Edgy made his way to the door and pushed it inwards with a loud scrape followed by a tinny
ping
as the rusty bell announced his arrival. The inside of the shop looked no better. Edgy’s feet crunched on more glass. He lifted Henry up and picked his way past wrecked display cabinets, smashed chairs and scattered, torn books.

‘Hello?’ he called. ‘Mr Scrabsnitch?’

Cold metal pressed at the back of Edgy’s neck. Circular.
The muzzle of a gun?

‘Don’t move,’ creaked an old voice behind him. ‘This musket is loaded with silver. Sees off most supernatural types, I’ve found. Now, tell me who or what you are.’

Call not the devil, he will come fast enough unbidden.

Traditional proverb

Chapter Thirteen

Evenyule Scrabsnitch

‘Mr Scrabsnitch?’ Edgy said hoarsely, his whole body shaking and twitching.

‘Who wants to know?’ asked the voice behind him.

‘My name’s Edgy Taylor. I’m from the Royal Society of Daemonologie.’

‘I’ve not met you before,’ croaked the voice. ‘Any proof?’

‘I-I have a-a letter,’ Edgy stuttered, desperately trying not to twitch too much in case the gun went off. ‘It’s in my jacket pocket, sir.’

As a hand snaked round Edgy’s stomach and reached for his pocket, a growl rumbled in Henry’s throat.

‘Henry, no,’ Edgy hissed, but Henry snapped at the hand.

With a yelp of pain, the hand was snatched back and Edgy heard a crash as whoever it was stumbled backwards. Flinching, Edgy turned to see who had been holding him at gunpoint.

Amidst the wreckage of a glass cabinet sat a thin-looking man. He wore a faded silk smoking jacket and carpet slippers. His hair billowed out from his head in wild grey wisps and he looked as devastated as the shop. A silver candlestick dangled from his free hand, the other was rammed firmly in his mouth, covering the bite.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ Edgy muttered, eyeing the candlestick. ‘Henry was just watchin’ out for me.’

‘No, no, it is you who must forgive me, young man,’ he said with an air of slight embarrassment. He stared at Edgy with sad, droopy eyes. ‘I
am
Evenyule Scrabsnitch. I was bluffing, as you can see, but I have to be cautious.’ He shook life back into his bitten hand.

Edgy sighed with relief – Henry hadn’t drawn blood.

Scrabsnitch continued, ‘My emporium is usually a little unkempt, but not this bad. I’ve had some unwelcome visitors recently. Goes with my line of work.’ He glanced around, looking for a suitable home for the candlestick he held, then shook his head and dropped it on the floor. ‘It’s taken me weeks even to get it back to this state. I think I may be getting too old for it all.’

Edgy spluttered on the dust that mushroomed up from the floor and handed Scrabsnitch the letter. Henry gave a low growl but Edgy held his muzzle.

Scrabsnitch looked down at the letter. ‘So, you’re the Mr Taylor that Envry Janus has been talking about.’ His eyes twinkled over the top of the letter. ‘I’ve heard good things about you, young man.’

‘Oh, well,’ Edgy said, casting his eyes down and hiding his blushes.

‘You’re a talented chap,’ Scrabsnitch said. ‘Tell me, can you see demons everywhere?’

‘Most places, I reckon,’ Edgy said. He felt uncomfortable talking about it. Until not long ago, he’d thought himself to be insane. ‘But they don’t seem to be everywhere.’

‘Not as many of them as there were, I suppose.’ Scrabsnitch’s face drooped once more and he fell silent for a moment. Edgy wasn’t quite sure what to say. Scrabsnitch snapped his attention back and said, ‘Anyway, I believe you’re a bit of a whizz at riddles too?’

‘Mr Janus exaggerates,’ Edgy smiled. ‘It was just somethin’ Talon, the, erm, demon I worked for, somethin’ he insisted on.’

‘Why, I wonder?’ Scrabsnitch frowned thoughtfully. ‘Was he preparing you for something, do you think?’

‘I dunno, sir.’ Edgy shrugged. ‘He used to come back from the pub sometimes, quite uppity, like, wakin’ me up an’ demandin’ the answer to a riddle he couldn’t solve. Used to get a rare beatin’ if I couldn’t solve it.’

‘You poor boy.’ Scrabsnitch looked genuinely appalled. Edgy thought of Mauldeth’s cynical retort at the governors’ meeting. ‘Which public house did he frequent?’

‘The Green Man, it was, sir,’ said Edgy. ‘He owed the landlord Bill Fager a few bob, so I believe.’

‘Who?’ Scrabsnitch narrowed his eyes and peered at Edgy.

‘Fager, Bill Fager,’ Edgy said. ‘He was always in debt to Bill. Never shut up about it. Why, sir?’

But Scrabsnitch had jumped up and was ransacking a tabletop full of junk. Eventually, he found a blank sheet of paper and began scribbling feverishly. ‘I think Mr Janus might be interested in the name you just gave me, Edgy,’ he murmured as he wrote. ‘There is a rather powerful demon called Belphagor whom your employer might be eager to meet. Bill Fager, Belphagor? Quite a coincidence, don’t you think?’

‘Old Bill Fager, a demon?’ Edgy mumbled as Scrabsnitch straightened up and handed him the hastily scribbled message. ‘But I’d ’ave seen him, y’know, horns an’ all that, wouldn’t I?’

‘There are demons and there are demons, Edgy,’ Scrabsnitch said, raising his eyebrows. ‘Some are more powerful than others. Maybe Belphagor’s magic is stronger than most.’

‘What would Mr Janus want with this Fager bloke?’

‘It may just be part of the puzzle that Janus is trying to solve, Edgy. Now, the book he ordered.’ Scrabsnitch turned and with surprising ease for a man his age clambered up a ladder that leaned against a book­shelf. ‘A puzzle laced with danger . . .
The Legends of Moloch
,’ Scrabsnitch muttered. A hush fell over the room for a moment. Henry whined and Edgy shook himself.

‘Begging your pardon, but why danger?’ Edgy whispered, glancing around the wrecked shop as if eavesdroppers crouched behind every display cabinet.

‘An arch-demon. A destroyer,’ Scrabsnitch replied. ‘Moloch is a demon of obsession and possession. He was the one demon who would wage total war on God, even though he knew it would end everything. Association with him seems to bring a certain compulsion and fanaticism. It’s not by chance that the Cult of Moloch has so many adherents.’ Scrabsnitch paused, staring through Edgy. Then he shook himself and said, ‘I have the volume up here – fortunately it wasn’t damaged.’

‘Righto,’ Edgy murmured, looking up at the old man and shielding his eyes from the dislodged dust.

‘You tell Mr Janus to tread carefully,’ Scrabsnitch said, heaving down a thick, leather-bound book and passing it to Edgy. ‘Moloch can take hold of the wariest soul. And it is becoming something of a favourite topic for Mr Janus.’

‘Well, forgive me for sayin’ as much, sir, but I reckon Mr Janus, bein’ a collector an’ all, knows what he’s doin’,’ Edgy said. A stab of annoyance made him twitch and shake his head. ‘He’s been good to me.’

Scrabsnitch paused, mulling over Edgy’s words. ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right,’ he said, nodding. He took the book and wrapped it in thick brown paper, then slid it into a sack. ‘But I’ve met a few obsessives in my time. They never come to a good end.’ The old man stared off into the darkened corners of the emporium.

Edgy shivered. ‘Well, if you’ll excuse me, sir,’ he said, teasing the sack out of Scrabsnitch’s fingers and slinging it over his shoulder. ‘Mr Janus’ll be keen to see me back.’

Scrabsnitch’s eyes snapped back to Edgy, making him jump. ‘Wait,’ he hissed, pushing Edgy down behind a three-legged display cabinet. ‘Someone’s peering through the window, hard to see through the grime . . . A woman . . . dark hair . . .’

‘Salomé,’ Edgy gasped. ‘Mr Scrabsnitch, I’ve got to hide!’

‘Salomé?’ he said, his eyes widening.

‘I’ve no time to explain,’ Edgy said. ‘But she seems to be after me.’

‘The back door,’ Scrabsnitch said.

‘No, she’ll be on to me like a flash,’ Edgy muttered, remembering the chase in the alleyways.

‘Upwards then,’ Scrabsnitch snapped, looking to the ceiling.

‘But Henry –’ Edgy began.

‘Put him in the sack with the book,’ Scrabsnitch said, guiding Edgy across the shop to a side door. ‘Go up the stairs to the attic. You can make your way along the rooftops there – it may just give you a head start.’

With a shove, Scrabsnitch sent Edgy staggering through the door and up the first few steps. As the door shut behind Edgy, he heard the muffled tinkling of the bell and started up the stairs as fast and as silently as he could.

Edgy didn’t have time to take in his surroundings as he hurried upwards. He had a vague impression of fusty decay, worn carpets, peeling walls and then he was in an attic room cluttered with more junk, packing cases, stuffed animals and rusted suits of armour. He squeezed through the room and bundled Henry into the sack before lifting the groaning sash window and gasping at the cold wind that slapped his face. Henry yelped and squirmed in the sack as Edgy tied the top with some curtain cord and secured it over his shoulder. He would need free hands for this.

Edgy had seen some children on the rooftops last year. They’d been thieving lead from church roofs and had escaped from the peelers that way. Edgy had been impressed and had imagined himself skipping across narrow alleys and sliding down slick slates.

Now his head spun and his feet felt like they’d been cemented on to the narrow brick causeways that ran along the eaves of the buildings. Henry wriggled, making the sack feel leaden and pulling Edgy in every direction. He teetered on the edge of a grey slate roof. Something gave way under his foot. A loose brick tumbled down through the air below him. Edgy windmilled his arms, bending double and straightening time and again.

And then he slipped.

With a yelp, Edgy slapped his hand out to catch hold of the black line of the gutter. Fire seared up his shoulder and he heard his knuckles crack as his descent jerked to a halt. For a moment, Edgy dangled by one arm, dazed and yelling in agony. The cord holding the sack and Henry cut into his shoulder. He swung his other arm up and grasped at the cast-iron gutter with both hands. It was cold, full of moss and slime. How long could he hold on for?

‘Edgy Taylor, what
are
you doing, you silly sausage?’ Salomé peered over the edge of the roof, leaning on an umbrella. Her face split into a childish grin. ‘You ran away from me and that funny Mr Scrabsnitch tried to shoot me with a candlestick. What larks we’re all having!’ She hitched up her lemon-yellow skirts and squatted down close to him. ‘I remember this rooftop being built. Oh, it must’ve been thirty, maybe even forty years ago.’

The cold metal gutter numbed Edgy’s knuckles.

‘The man who laid that brick – you know, the stone that fell from under your feet? He was a lazy, careless worker. I made sure of that.’

Edgy’s breath grew ragged as his head fell forwards, crushing his own windpipe. His shoulder felt ablaze as he struggled to hold on. Salomé frowned and put her dainty finger to her red lip.

‘Oh, and the man who fixed this gutter ran out of screws but couldn’t be bothered going back down for more so he missed a few out.’ Salomé’s red lips pursed into a neat smile. ‘I made sure of that.’

With a metallic groan, the brackets holding the gutter buckled, snapped and swung out away from the wall. Suddenly Edgy was dangling in mid air high above the ground. Sweat trickled down his back.

‘Ooops.’ Salomé’s eyebrows rose in perfectly plucked arches, her mouth a round ‘o’ of pretend surprise. ‘But the man who worked down there – the one who fitted the pointed iron railings directly beneath you – he was a God-fearing man. He did a good job.’

The street beneath Edgy swung to and fro as the gutter creaked and shifted again. The lines of the paving slabs, the edge of the road, the railings rocked and see-sawed. The gutter sagged. Henry’s weight in the sack dragged at him, burning his shoulder.

Salomé’s face screwed into a hard scowl. ‘You see what you’re up against, little boy?’ she hissed. ‘Whole lifetimes of corner-cutting, settling for second best. All to serve me. That was a nasty trick, throwing salt in my face. I was very disappointed in you.’