Werewolf Parallel (6 page)

“Then action will be taken.” The lump rolled along the desk, its grey dough flesh squashing into and over the answermachine. There was a suckering sound, and the machine vanished. The lump grew bigger.

“All problems will be
absorbed
…”

A fancy bookcase swung aside to reveal the top of a flight of stairs. A lantern, hanging by a metal ring from a staff, lay propped at an angle against the wall.

Cameron peered down the stairwell, which spiralled away into darkness. “This way to the Court,” he said to himself. He reached for the lantern.

“You are expected. You will follow me.”

The staff lifted itself from the ground and swung forward, as if being used as a walking stick by some unseen person. The metal tip made a
pock! pock!
sound as it descended the wooden steps.

“Portable lighting. That’s original.” The pool of light was moving fast and Cameron hurried after. “Hey, wait for me! It’s pretty dark.”

“Then let the light of justice be your guide.” The flame flickered, its voice a hollow whisper. “That was by means of a joke… You didn’t find it funny.”

Cameron drew in air through his teeth. “Not really. I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

“I try to lighten the mood if I can. So many people never leave the Court. We may as well make their stay as pleasant as possible.”

“That fills me with confidence,” said Cameron. The
stairs creaked beneath his feet. “Is it far to go?”

“Quite a distance. Nearly all the way down,” said the lantern. “The Court was set up to deal with cases that uniquely concern the Parallel. It was felt it should be located between both worlds. You will have passed the Human law chambers on your way in?”

Cameron nodded.

Grey’s double chin had provided directions. The lump had become increasingly strident, its warnings accompanied by a series of bleeps, gargles and clicks from its innards. “A non-appearance at Court is as good as an admission of guilt. You may be judged in your absence –”

“Oh belt up.” Cameron had popped the plate-cover back on, ignoring the indignant cries. The lump was sounding increasingly like the pompous daemon that had spawned it. “Don’t think you’re going squelching about free-range while I’m out either.” He added some strips of parcel tape, strapping the cover in place.

He had dashed about the shop, looking for anything he could find that might show his connection to Grandma Ives, and so to the trading business he’d taken over after she’d vanished. Given that he couldn’t whistle-up the old lady in the flesh, perhaps he could prove to the Court he was her rightful successor.

That strategy hadn’t worked with Janus, but it was the best he could come up with.

Gathering together his papers and documents, he had scribbled a quick and only slightly desperate-sounding note to Eve and Morgan. He left the shop, climbed the hill to the oldest part of the city, and headed for a huddle of buildings off Parliament Square, set back from the
Royal Mile. Tagging onto a procession of dark-suited lawyers and their clients, Cameron had slipped in.

A series of elegant rooms reminded him of the costume dramas Eve sometimes watched on telly (the sort that usually made him long for an invasion by killer robots). On entering a grand multi-tiered library, he shifted through to the Parallel. The bookcase alcove opened up, as if it had been waiting for him.

The air was turning stuffy as he descended, the spiral stair passing balcony after balcony. Below, he could see the blurred outlines of lights bobbing through the gloom. Daemons of all kinds followed in their wake: antlered Cervidae, their heads bowed; impossibly glamorous Fey; whisker-faced Selkies, Moss Mites, Tree Spirits, Red Caps…

“Lanterns,” he said, as his eyes adjusted. “They’re all lanterns – moving by themselves, leading people through the dark.”

“Weir lamps, to be accurate.”

“There’s a difference?”

“Ah ha.” The light flared. “We
are
lanterns, yes. But we’re Weir lamps too. Named after the mad Major. You’ll know of Major Weir?”

Cameron shook his head.

“He was infamous in his day, as was his walking stick, which he’d send out on errands across the city.”

Cameron thought he’d have remembered seeing a flock of unaccompanied lights-on-sticks marching about the place. “When was this?”

“Oh… 1670 or so.”

“I’m
fifteen
.”

“Are you? The major’s long gone, I suppose, but his
stick – and its scions – are condemned to walk on.” The lamplight dimmed and turned a rusty orange. “And so, that is what we do. Until our task is done.”

The staff tilted back to block Cameron as a procession of monks in purple robes joined the stair. They were chanting and carrying aloft a banner strung between uplifted poles.

“The Joyful People of the Banner,” the lantern whispered.

“They don’t look very happy to me,” said Cameron, noting the monks’ downcast faces and mournful song.

“They’re in thrall to the Weaver Queen,” said the lamp. “The joy is all hers. I don’t believe their happiness enters into the arrangement.”

As the banner flowed past, the red eyes of the largest Weaver Daemon Cameron had ever seen glared back – and he swiftly became very interested in the banister.

“So not a fan,” he muttered. “I don’t know how they stand it.”

“We all have to serve, in our way.” The lamp resumed their descent. “And who will be representing your case at Court?”

“No one.” Cameron gave a tiny shrug. “There’s just me.”

There was a sound like wind blowing on a candle and the light guttered. “That is not a wise choice.”

“It wasn’t a choice at all, trust me. There was no time.”

“We’re about to pass the advocates’ boxes. You could still seek counsel?”

The lantern slowed as the spiral stair touched the next balcony. It led Cameron past a line of wooden crates that reminded him uncomfortably of coffins. A stained and yellowed barrister wig rested at the head of each.

As he watched, a couple of forest daemons tentatively approached a box, and posted a scroll through a letterbox on top. There was a pause and a puff of smoke rose up from the slot. The wig lifted as the smoke beneath billowed out into a tall thin shape.

“They’re in luck,” said the lamp. “The advocate has agreed to take their case.”

The silhouette solidified into a gaunt-faced man with swept-back hair. He shook out a heavy cloak that hung from his shoulders like wings.

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” said Cameron, as the pale man adjusted his wig using surprisingly sharp fingernails, “but when you say ‘advocate’, you mean
vampire
, right?”

“Vampires are suited to law. They have a long life, good memory, and are content to study for decades in darkened rooms,” said the lamp. “On the other hand, they do tend to bleed their clients dry.”

Cameron managed a mirthless laugh.

“It was not intended as a joke, sir. Many of our best legal minds belong to that clan, and prefer to take their payment in blood.”

The advocate raised his arms, enveloped one of the furry daemons in the folds of his cloak, and lowered his head. Cameron shivered and turned away. “I think I’ll defend myself. I’ve got enough problems without adding a vampire to my case.”

“Then we shall proceed. We are nearly there.”

The balcony became narrower. Eventually the boards diverged, splitting into two paths that ran in both directions around a circular opening, about half the size of a football pitch. At regular intervals around its
circumference, burly bull daemons stood to attention beside gleaming metal winches. The Weir lamp came to rest by the balustrade, and Cameron peered over.

The wooden panelling of the Court walls gave way to densely packed brick, and then in turn to bare rock. A warm sulphurous wind blew in his face. From somewhere deep below, a distant red light rippled and pulsed, reminding him of the tunnel that led to Daemonic.

He couldn’t see the bottom at all.

Cameron cleared his throat. Heights had never been his favourite thing. “That’s the Court?”

“As I said, it lies between the worlds.”

“There’s nothing down there – just a drop!”

“There will be. The jury is going in now.”

On the left-hand side of the pit, a line of daemons and humans were being guided down steps onto a suspended platform, not unlike the sort used by window-cleaners to access the sides of very tall buildings. Working as a team, four bull daemons began to turn the winches at either end. Sweat rose from their swarthy flesh and jets of steam pumped from their nostrils as the platform was lowered, and the jury vanished from sight.

“You’re completely out of your depth, you know.” Leather shoes clicked on boards, and Cameron turned to see Dr Black. He gave a smug smile and brushed dust from his lapels. “You’ve no idea what you’ve got yourself into, have you, boy?”

Cameron’s brow furrowed. The humans he’d met on the Parallel had been eccentrics or scholars; adventurers, visionaries or mad men. Even his gran, who had prided herself on her respectable appearance,
had revealed a knife-sharp inner core. It was as if the Parallel Inheritance – that strange power that burned inside them – always found a way to creep to the surface. They were all outsiders – and Cameron counted himself in that category – different in some way, by fate or by choice.

Dr Black, by contrast, didn’t seem to match the Parallel ‘type’. All the things that would make him seem unremarkable on the city streets – his suit, his clippered hair, his neatness and blandly handsome features – made him stand out in the murky subterranean court. He was just too normal.

Why was he here?

What was he up to?

Cameron took a tighter hold on the folder he’d carried from the shop: the proof of his Parallel heritage. “Out my depth? I don’t reckon so. I’ve looked things in the face you wouldn’t believe. I’ve survived time-eating bats, Gods of Doorways, Gods of Winter, Mrs Ferguson… even my gran.” He shrugged. “You though… you must’ve snuck in with a crash course:
Daemon Parallel for Dummies
.”

Black’s mouth contorted, and for a second Cameron thought he was going to hit him. “What do you know about the things I’ve been through – the things I’ve found –”

A blubbery hand clamped onto Dr Black’s shoulder. “Not another word, Dr Black! Most unprofessional! We shall settle this matter in Court, properly, like GentleDaemons.” Mr Grey stepped from the shadows. He was dressed in the garb of an advocate, with a black robe and a coarse horsehair wig perched on his greasy
head.

“Properly? That’s a joke,” said Cameron. “So you’re not going to hijack this too, like you did Janus’s train?”

“He can’t know about the engine –” Black began, but Grey’s hand squeezed tighter and the anger seemed to drain from his colleague’s face.

Grey’s sugary-mushroom stink washed towards Cameron.

“You will discover, young sir, that in Court there is such a thing as ‘burden of proof’. And you have no proof – no proof at all.”

Leading the now docile Black, Grey retreated to the other side of the pit. He lumbered into a pulpit-type box, his swollen body just squeezing in, while Black stepped into a cradle of rope that drew closed around him. The bull daemons began to heave and strain and soon Grey and Black were both lowered over the edge and into the pit.

“You must go now as well.” The lamp indicated a further cradle. “In the absence of a proper defence counsel, I will accompany you, if you like, and try to shed a little light on proceedings?” It flared brightly as a bull daemon unhooked it from the top of the walking stick, and threaded its metal ring onto a rope.

“That’d be good. I think I’m gonna need all the help I can get.” Cameron watched as the rope lattice tightened above his head. He took a firm grip of the sides. The cradle twirled sickeningly, spinning from left to right. “How come Grey and the jury get boxes to travel in, and I’m stuck in this fishing net?”

“Historical tradition. Both you and your opponent must enter the Court this way.” The lamp glowed
orange-green. “In times gone by, the loser of the case would have their cords cut, and so would fall below.”

Cameron’s feet paddled awkwardly as the rope mesh shifted. He tried not to look through to the empty air beneath. “How historic is historic, exactly? Very, very long ago?”

“Would it help you to know?”

He shut his eyes. “Maybe not.”

Winched by the sweating bull daemons, the cradle swung over the edge of the pit and began its juddering path down.

Grey began by producing the will he’d wielded in the shop. A winged gargoyle flew the document over to Cameron, who stared at it, unable to decipher its meaning.

More Latin
. He bit his lip. If Eve was here, she could’ve translated.
Where had she got to
?

Grey launched into a list of case histories that he said were similar to the one he was presenting to the court – none of which meant anything to Cameron. He droned on, waving bundles of papers, while his spare hand clutched damply at his lapel. Dr Black swung in the rope cradle next to Grey, his legs crossed and his hands cupped in his lap. His face was oddly blank, as though thinking of other matters entirely.

The air in the Court shimmered with heat, and visibility across the chasm was poor. Cameron screwed up his eyes, trying to ascertain how Grey’s speech was going down with the jury. Several were from daemon clans he recognised: a Cervidae with towering antlers pawed at his bench, while a Weaver glowered from a flag strung between knitting needles. He doubted he could count on either to be sympathetic.

Others were unfamiliar, their attitudes harder to
predict, like the column of light that held a single floating eye, or the metal beetle with mandibles that clattered like an agitated typewriter. A couple were even human, or at least human-shaped: a twinge of his wolf-senses told him the girl in the ragged dress was Were. She looked as nonplussed as he felt by Grey’s lengthy spiel. He wondered if he’d met her before, in the rundown cinema Morgan used to hang out in with the other pack teenagers…

The wolf girl caught his eye and pouted her lips in an ironic kiss.

He blushed and looked away.

“You need to pay attention,” the lamp chided, “in case there’s anything you object to.”

“How would I even know?” Cameron hissed back. “He might as well be talking Japanese. At least then I’d recognise ‘yes’, ‘no’ and ‘help, our city is being attacked by a giant lizard’.”

The lamplight turned a curious green.

“Old Godzilla movies. It doesn’t matter…”

“And finally,” Grey held aloft another bundle, “I would draw Your Honour’s attention to the case of Helenus versus Jackson in 1897 –”

“Yes, Grey. I am fully aware of such precedent. I set much of it myself, before reaching my current exalted position,” the judge rumbled, his talons clacking on the lectern.

While the jury, prosecution and defence had all been lowered into the Court, the judge had made his entrance from the opposite direction. A rush of air had set the cradles swaying as a dark shape spiralled up from below. He had circled the pit, coming to rest with a thump of
leathery wings on a ledge that projected from the rock wall.

The judge seemed more bat than human: his ears were pointed and his mouth lifted up into a peak. His ancient face was bleached, the eye sockets dry and withered. White needle-sharp fangs projected from under his upper lip.

“The Lord Justice is blind,” the lamp had explained. “It doesn’t matter whether you’re human or daemon, rich or poor, magically adept or inept. All citizens of the Parallel are equal before him.”

The judge’s truncated bat-nose lifted, as though sensing Cameron’s wary gaze. “Well, Mr Duffy, do you have a response to Mr Grey’s opening speech? Do you contest the validity of the will?”

“I don’t, Your Honour.”

“Then the case shall be brief!” Grey oozed. “My Lord, I move to –”

“I don’t contest it,” said Cameron, his voice echoing across the chasm, “because I wouldn’t know how to. I’d never even
heard
of this thing until three days ago, when these two came pushing their way into my shop. And more than that, I don’t understand it. I can’t read a word –”

“Outrageous! My Lord Justice, this is dissembling of the highest order!” Grey huffed. “The will is
entirely
comprehensible. It is written in a long-established and very simple
human
tongue –”

“Which I don’t speak! No one does –”

“Ignorance is no defence, as I’m sure my Lord would agree –”

“ENOUGH!” The judge thumped his lectern. “You will conduct yourselves in an orderly manner! Mr Duffy,
I am satisfied that Grey’s account of the document is both accurate and relevant. The tenancy of the business is limited to the lifespan of the human named. Will you accept my judgement on this matter, as a Justice Lord of the Parallel?”

“Careful now,” the lamp muttered, its light fluttering.

“Yes.” Cameron’s grip tightened on the rope-lattice around him. “I suppose I’ve got to.”

“Very well then. Mr Grey, you may continue.”

“With pleasure, my Lord Justice.” Grey smirked and gestured, his sagging arm spilling from his robe. “The case that has been brought before you by my client, the learned Dr Black, is no mere quibble over tenancy. No! There are wider issues at stake – issues that concern the well-being of us all.”

What’s the old puffball up to now
? Cameron leant forward, trying to ignore the corresponding lurch in the opposite direction from the cradle that held him.

“Three centuries ago – when the mages Mitchell and Astredo engineered their Split to separate the Daemon World from its Human twin – the humans were, for the most part, an uncomplicated folk, basic in understanding and ability.” Grey paused, and affected an innocent expression. “Some might say the defence’s lamentable ignorance of Latin demonstrates little has changed…”

There were a series of sniggers from the jury box, which jiggled lightly on its ropes.

“Oh come on!” said Cameron. “That was a cheap shot!”

“I’m inclined to agree,” said the judge. “You will confine yourself to the facts, Mr Grey.”

“I humbly
beg
the Court’s forgiveness,” Grey bowed his head, “but my feeble attempt at wit masks graver concerns. The humans have not remained in this primitive state, much as it might amuse us to think so…” He swivelled to address the jury. “We all understand, do we not, that every creature requires a predator?”

There were murmurs of assent. The typewriter beetle chattered, and the Weaver Daemon vibrated on its flag.

“Cut off from the, ah,
moderating
influence of Daemon World,” Grey gave a sickly smile, “the humans have multiplied unchecked. Their minds have grown in sophistication and cunning. Their science has advanced at a mighty rate. They may now send images through the ether, travel at great speed, overrun and destroy their environment. Their technologies are almost indistinguishable from our magics –”

“Oy! Excuse me, but why the history lesson? What’s this got to do with
anything
?” Cameron waved his hands. “We’re here because of my shop – my daft little business – not all this stuff.”

The judge’s talons tapped. “Another fair observation, if somewhat emotionally put. Well, Mr Grey? How does this concern us?”

“I bow to Your Honour’s wisdom, of course,” Grey grovelled, his wobbly chin touching the top of the prosecution box, “but is the Court of the Parallel’s concern not uniquely about how the worlds of Humans and Daemons clash and intersect?”

“You have my attention, Grey. For now.” The Judge’s talons tapped, slower still. “Do not squander it. The Court’s patience is not infinite.”

“My point is this, Your Honour. The humans’ quest
for knowledge has so far been contained. Their focus has been on their own world, and the limits of space their crude projectiles can reach. But how long will it remain so? How long before their destructive appetite looks inward? How long before the Parallel –
before the Daemon World itself
– becomes a target for investigation and acquisition?”

“I will solve it!” In his cradle, Dr Black sat upright, muttering furiously under his breath. “Understand the worlds, and I solve the problem. Understand the worlds, and –”

Grey’s milky eyes bulged, and Black slumped.

What was that all about?
Cameron wondered, but Grey was already addressing the jury again.

“The business known as ‘Scott & Forceworthy’s Musical Bazaar’ functions as a site of inter-world trade: shifting goods between the Human and Daemon realms, via the Parallel. I would ask you, my fellow citizens, is that an enterprise we should permit? When
every daemon artefact
that reaches the human world increases our chance of detection, should this so-called ‘daft little business’ be allowed to continue – especially under the control of one ignorant human boy?”

The jury burst into an uproar of cheers, jeers, yells, clicks and howls. Grey’s chest puffed, his sickly odour flooding the court.

“Oh, this is complete rubbish!” Cameron shouted, his agitation causing the rope cradle to swing. “What are you on about, you –”

“Order! Order in Court!” The judge’s fist slammed into the lectern and the cries and mutters died down. “The defence will show respect. You will employ suitable
terminology when addressing the Court.”

“Objection,” the lamp quietly prompted. “That’s what you say…”

“Ta!” Cameron raised his voice and spoke to the pit. “Ok, I object. Objection! This is me, objecting!”

“And what is your objection?” said the judge.

“
This is rubbish
– that’s my objection!”

A fresh cacophony burst out.

“Mr Duffy –” the judge warned.

“Listen! First up, my shop – it’s not just me that runs it. There’s Morgan and Eve too. A pure daemon and a girl who used to work for a daemon! We know about the two worlds we’re dealing with – we’re not just messing about –”

“And where are these people that you say are so involved?” interrupted Grey. “They don’t seem to be with you in Court.”

“If they aren’t,” said Cameron through gritted teeth, “it’s not because they didn’t want to be. It’s because their train ran into something very large, grey and nasty.”

Grey opened his mouth to protest, but Cameron pressed on.

“More than that, our business – the one Mr Grey’s trying to shut down – it’s helped! Helped lots of daemons. Ok, some of you can travel in the human world unnoticed, if you’re a Were or a shape-shifter or whatever, but most can’t. You just stand out too much! And what about those daemons – those without the Parallel Inheritance – who can’t leave the Daemon World at all?”

He threw his arms wide, trying to draw the attention of all the many and varied creatures present in the Court.

“What do you do, when your magic needs a particular ingredient, or you can’t get a certain book – or you want a smartphone so you can watch humans falling over on YouTube? You turn to us. You need us! You need people like me and Morgan and Eve, who can move between the worlds for trade. You need us for all sorts of things!”

There were mutterings from the jury. Their mood was changing. At the back, a fey woman with iridescent bluebottle wings gave Cameron a discreet thumbs up. He was doing it.
He was winning them over!

He turned back to Grey. The bloated daemon was looking cowed. “All this stuff you’ve been saying, trying to scare us with stories of humans and their greed, it’s not…”

“…not ‘relevant’,” whispered the lamp.

“Yes, it’s not relevant! Exactly! It’s got
nothing
to do with why we’re here!”

Grey’s face took on an even more ashen shade than usual. “It’s not? You mean… I’ve overlooked something?” He began to sheaf frantically through his notes. “Because I don’t think I can have…”

He’s on the run
, Cameron thought. He swung in his cradle with a swagger.
Ha! Now to finish him off
…

“That’s right! This case isn’t about whether I can or should trade with daemons –”

“It isn’t?” Grey’s sparse eyebrows rose.

“No! It isn’t even about whether the shop gets to sell old records or mouldy guitars or whatever, it’s about whether Gran’s still alive.
That’s
all your stupid will is about.
That’s
what it comes down to, that’s…”

Cameron tailed off as a slow handclap ricocheted round the Court.

“I am
indebted
to the opposing counsel for crystallising the issue.” Grey held his sweating palms apart. “So you agree that the case stands or falls on whether you can produce your grandmother: Lady Ives o’ the Black Hill?”

“Yes, but –”

“Then I challenge you. I challenge the defence! Produce her!” Grey sneered. “Show us the lady –
or give up the shop
.”

There was a churning sensation in the pit of Cameron’s stomach. He’d let himself get carried away and talked round to the very thing he’d been trying to avoid.

He knew he couldn’t produce Gran. He hadn’t seen her since that terrible night, high on Arthur’s Seat, when she vanished into a swirling vortex. Even if she were still alive in there – even if he knew of a way to bring her out – he doubted he would go through with it. Not after all she’d done. Not after the thing she’d tried to do.

Grey turned triumphantly to face the judge. “Your Honour, the case is simple. There is no evidence that Lady Ives exists in any of the realms – Daemonic, Humanian or Parallel. I have consulted the very best sources, scryers and seers. She is not to be found. We must conclude she is deceased. The consequences are clear.”

“Yes.” The judge nodded. “I believe I agree. Either Ms Ives is alive and the shop is hers – or she is not, and it is forfeit.” He reached for his gavel, readying to pronounce judgement.

High above, at the pit rim, a yellow light began to wink on and off.

“I’m getting a message,” whispered Cameron’s Weir lamp. “Someone wants to send a witness for you. They
say they’re a friend. Will you accept?”

“Who is it?” Cameron craned his head. “Never mind. I’ll take anyone! It’s not like I could be any worse off.”

The lamp blinked an acknowledgement. “They’re lowering her down.”

“Her?” Could it be Eve – at last? What had she found?

The winches creaked and turned. As he stared up, he caught a flash of silver hair… sensible shoes… formal, old-fashioned clothes… a scent like strong coffee mixed with lavender.

“No. It couldn’t be – It’s not possible…” A violent shiver cut through him.

An elderly woman was descending into the Court, her back ramrod straight and her cane umbrella hooked into the ropes: riding the swaying cradle just as casually as if it were a bright red no. 24 Edinburgh bus.