Pure Dead Brilliant (2 page)

Kiss of Death

T
itus decided that if there were a button to press that would cause his sister to reincarnate as a cockroach, he would push it without a moment's hesitation. He stood outside her bedroom door, seething, as he read the notice taped to the oak paneling:

PANDORA'S ROOM
entry is absolutely forbidden to any of the following:
brothers
dweebs
possessors of smelly pits & dog's breath
one-celled amoebas with memory of goldfish
smug, rich jerks
the terminally plug-ugly
the criminally insane
and
especially
the vertically challenged over 12 yrs.
Titus, all of the above describe you, so bog off.

Yours Cordially, Pandora Strega-Borgia
Pandora's Room
StregaSchloss
Argyll
Scotland
United Kingdom
Europe
Western Hemisphere
Earth
The Universe
The Galaxy

“Just because I'm about to inherit
all
Grandfather Borgia's money and you're broke doesn't mean you have to be so aggressive.” Titus's voice bounced off the door and down the landing, but brought no answering response from within. He pressed his mouth up to the keyhole and tried again. “Some people just can't handle other people's good fortune,
can they, Pandora?
”

Over his head, dangling from the cornice, Pandora's pet tarantula, Tarantella, gave out an exasperated
“Tchhhh.”
Titus looked up and shuddered. There was something about the scuttling nature of spiders that revolted him. This one in particular, with her swollen abdomen, gave him nightmares. Titus loathed the entire spider race with a deep and abiding passion. Their gross hairiness, their appetite for flies, their—

The tarantula grinned widely, as if reading his thoughts. “Like it?” she inquired, puckering up her lipsticked mouth parts into a pout. “It's a new one. Now, what's it called . . . ?” Tarantella rummaged under her abdomen with one hairy leg and produced a minuscule lipstick. “Let me see . . . ‘Blood-Lust.' Mmm-hmm. Come on, Titus, I know you find me irresistible, give us a kiss. . . .”

With a barely stifled shriek, Titus fled downstairs. Trembling, he burst through the kitchen door and was immediately assailed by a stench that defied description. The beasts were already at breakfast and, judging by the state of the kitchen, had been eating for several hours. Sprawled across the kitchen table, Ffup, the teenage dragon, had her vast head buried in her talons.

“Don't say it,” she warned, gazing down at Titus with her vast golden eyes. “Just
don't
say it, right? I've been up
all
night with that wee horror, and now he sits there, wolfs down forty-eight Miserablios, three boxes of Ricey Krispettes, and then does a major dump, downloading the lot into his pants. I tell you, pal, I'm not cut out for this motherhood stuff. I
hate
changing diapers, and . . .” The dragon paused, peered under her baby's high chair, and whimpered, “Yup, just as I thought, it's a shovel job.”

“Spare me the details,” muttered Titus, edging past Ffup and patting her offending infant on his scaly little head. “Phwoarr, Nestor, you
stink,
don't you?”

The baby gazed up at Titus and grinned gummily, clapping his tiny wings above his head and lashing his snake-like tail back and forth by way of greeting. This had the unfortunate consequence of launching most of the contents of his overloaded diaper into orbit.

“Stop. Stop. STOP!” wailed Ffup. “Oh, yeurrrch. I can't handle this. . . .
Knot!
KNOT? Come
on,
help me out here.”

Emerging from the pantry with a sheepish grin, Knot the yeti shuffled across the kitchen to stare hopefully at his fellow beasts. The yeti's perpetually unsanitary fur was clotted with fetid lumps of food that had somehow failed to make the journey to his mouth. He wrinkled up his fur in the general area of his nose, sniffed deeply in sincerest appreciation of the odors in the kitchen, and sighed in happy anticipation.

“Nestor has a wee something for you,” muttered Ffup, burying her nostrils in a coffee cup. “Freshly laid, still warm . . .”

“Give me strength,” gagged Titus, turning his back on this revolting inter-beast exchange.

“Mmm-yummy,” observed Knot, dipping an experimental paw in the puddle under Nestor's high chair. Titus moaned softly and closed his eyes. Knot sniffed, unrolled his lengthy spotted tongue, and sampled a little morsel. “Naww,” he pronounced, at length. “Bit overripe, that one. Nope. Don't fancy it much.”

“Don't be so picky,” said Ffup. “Be a gent. Help me out. Just close your eyes and think of Gorgonzola. Pleeeeease?”

Knot wiped his paw on his tummy and scratched his armpit thoughtfully. “If you don't mind, I'll pass,” he mumbled, clearly uncomfortable at the prospect of letting Ffup down. “I'm not really too hungry right this minute.”

“Well, I'm
starving
,” said Pandora, arriving in the kitchen by way of the door to the herb garden. “Phwoarr. Urghhh. What's that
stench
?”

“Here we go again,” sighed Ffup, glaring at her baby son. “See what you've done?”

“'Morning, all.” Pandora kicked off her rubber boots and came over to warm herself beside Titus at the range. “Are we all pretending that there isn't a vast pile of dragon poo on the floor over there, or is someone going to clean it up?”

“Ffup is,” said Titus. “Aren't you, Ffup?”

“What? And ruin my manicured talons?” squeaked the dragon. “You can't be serious. These took me
ages
.” Hoping for female sympathy, she extended one paw for Pandora's inspection. Each of her seven talons was painted a lurid sugar-pink. “Pretty, aren't they?” Ffup smirked, examining her paw with satisfaction, turning it this way and that, all the better to catch the light.

Mrs. Flora McLachlan, nanny to Titus and Pandora, entered the kitchen with their baby sister, Damp, in her arms. Smelling something truly awful and assuming that it was about to be her breakfast, the little girl buried her face in the nanny's shoulder and gave a little moan.

“Good heavens, is that the time?” Mrs. McLachlan peered at the mantelpiece clock in dismay. “My bedside clock isn't keeping very good time, and the alarm didn't go off.” Then, as she became aware of the odor in the kitchen, she added, “Ffup, dear, I'm sure you're aware that Nestor needs a diaper change. D'you think you could stop admiring your manicure, stir your stumps, and do it before your mistress comes downstairs for breakfast?”

Ffup gave two snorts of flame and slowly heaved herself out of her chair. “Do I
have
to? That's so
unfair
. Why do I always have to clean up after him? It's so
boring
.”

“Ffup—” said Mrs. McLachlan in a tone of voice that offered no recourse to argument.

Ffup looked up and met the nanny's eyes, which had shrunk down to two little slits of menace. Ffup was immediately galvanized into action. “Rrright away. Where's that shovel? Rrrrubber gloves on . . .
snap.
Antibacterial spray . . .
squirt.
Scrape poo out from between flagstones on floor . . .
splat . . .”

“The high chair, too, Ffup,” said Mrs. McLachlan, one eyebrow raised.

“Yup. Yuzzm. Your wish, my command. Breathe through mouth . . .
gasp,
remove infant dragon to kitchen sink . . .
squelch,
remove diaper . . . ah. Um. Yes. Perhaps you guys might care to have breakfast somewhere else?” Ffup suggested, as her infant slid out of her grasp and landed among the unwashed dishes in the sink. “Apply gas mask . . .
urrrrgh.
”

“What have you been feeding that poor child?” demanded Mrs. McLachlan.

“Oh,
that
?” said Ffup, breathing through her mouth as she unzipped Nestor's onesie. “I couldn't be bothered to cook last night, so we just polished off the remains of a couple of boxes of chocolates and some tinned peaches in syrup we found at the back of the fridge—”

“Those weren't
peaches,
” groaned Mrs. McLachlan. “They were raw
eggs
for the cake that I was going to bake for this afternoon. Twenty-four eggs, Ffup. No wonder that poor wee mite's got an upset tummy. It's about time you faced up to the responsibilities of motherhood and grew—”

“What cake?” interrupted Titus. “Is it one of your chocolate meringue cakes? Oh, please make one of them! I'm so hungry I could eat at least six slices. Make a
huge
one. Use thirty-six eggs. Use a hundred. You're such a brilliant cook. I've never tasted cakes as good as—”

“What a crawler you are, Titus,” said Pandora, regarding her brother with disgust. “Just listen to yourself. Slurp, slurp. Grovel, grovel.”

“Shut up, Pan,” muttered Titus. “This is for your benefit, too, you know.”

“No, Titus, it's for your stomach's benefit, don't you know?” Pandora slapped her brother's midriff and tutted. “I know you're about to become a plutocrat, but there's simply no need to become a bloated one.”

“Do you think, sister mine, that we might possibly, just once, let a day go by without reference to my impending vast inheritance from Grandfather Borgia? The millions that will allow me to live a life of unimaginable luxury while you, you poor thing, will only be able to watch and drool. Mind you, right now you're not so much drooling as spraying me with vitriol—I mean, anyone would think you were jealous or something. . . .”

“Oh heck, no,” Pandora replied, examining her fingernails with apparent fascination. “Not in the least jealous, just a little peeved, is all. . . . After all, what possible difference could it make to me when you get your hands on your millions? It's not going to change anything important between us, is it? I mean, it's not going to make me think you're any less of a dweeb, or more intelligent, or less plug-ugly. And”—she delivered her final thrust with deadly precision—“from the moment those millions become yours, you're never, ever going to be sure if we all put up with you because you're one of us, our very own Titus, or because you're filthy rich.”

Pandora turned on her heel and stalked out of the kitchen, banging the door behind her. She stormed along the corridor and across the great hall to the staircase, then took the stairs two at a time in order to reach the safe haven of her room before her feelings engulfed her. Stumbling across the moth-eaten rug, she flung herself facedown on her bed, emitting a strangled shriek. Downstairs, the grandfather clock chimed the hour, the half hour, quarter past the hour, thirteen, and then, apparently embarrassed at its own excesses, gave an asthmatic wheeze and fell silent. That was part of the problem, Pandora thought, thumping her pillow with both fists. If only she could turn the clock back and undo the past. Specifically, three months past, when Titus discovered that he was the chosen benefactor of their grandfather's vast hoard of money. Since then it was as if an invisible barrier had sprung up between her brother and herself. Everything was about to change, and probably not for the better. And yes, of course I'm jealous, thought Pandora, grinding her teeth. I'm turning a deep and unflattering shade of green at the prospect of Titus becoming a millionaire and me still having to make one measly week's pocket money last for a whole seven days.

“It's so un
fair
,” Pandora wailed out loud. “Why did Grandfather leave it all to
him
?”

Time, Gentlemen, Please

(
A.D.
127: Northwestern Argyll)

O
n filthy nights such as this, Nostrilamus was prone to curse the fate that had brought him to the Celt-infested wilds of Caledonia. Not only were the natives malevolent, woad-daubed savages, but the climate was hostile beyond belief, prompting the centurions under his command to ship many scrolls between Lethe and Ostia, begging the folks back home to send hides, blankets, and fleece-lined cloaks; in short, anything to prevent native Romans from freezing to death in Caledonia. An icy rain had greeted Nostrilamus on his arrival at the port of Lethe. It had dogged his passage across the country for the seven days it had taken him and his legion to reach this crude tavern on the northwestern shore.

To Nostrilamus's further discomfort was added the fact that his armor had rusted, his leather breastplate was currently sprouting some ghastly form of Celtic fungus, and he spent each miserable day frozen to the bone, wrapped in his useless green cloak. His hideously expensive green cloak, which the maker had assured him would easily withstand whatever the weather cared to throw at him. On contact with a mild drizzle, said wonder-cloak had begun to leak copious quantities of green dye, causing Nostrilamus's exposed limbs to turn the gangrenous hue of a plague victim on the point of expiry. In daylight, women and children took one look at him and ran away screaming. This, he decided, was no bad thing. In his new appointment as Malefica of Caledon, Nostrilamus regarded it as his duty to inspire fear and loathing in the native population.

Removing his helmet and stooping to enter the tavern, Nostrilamus noted that the room had fallen into respectful
silence on his arrival. Even better, he was early, for the appointed table by the fire was empty. Peeling off his damp cloak and hurling it at the tavern-keeper, he raked the crowded room with a slitty-eyed glare. Judging by the insignias on their breastplates, the tavern's clientele were drawn from the ranks of Legion XII of Draco Inflatus, and judging by the vast quantities of liquor being drunk, they were just as homesick as
he was.

The tavern-keeper bowed low before Nostrilamus—not quite low enough to indicate complete subjugation, but pretty well spot on for a respectful, if reluctant grovel. “
Ave,
Caledon,” he muttered. “Welcome. Did you have a booking? As you can see, we're pretty full tonight, but I'm sure we can find a space for such an important person as yourself—”

“That one,” said Nostrilamus, indicating the table beside the fire. “I'll take that, and a flask of Caoil Ilax for starters.”

The tavern-keeper paled. Pointing with a quivering finger to a small scrap of vellum fixed to the table with a wax seal, he wrung his hands apologetically. “
Reservatus,
my esteemed Caledon. Reservatus, I'm afraid. But I'm sure we can squeeze you in at another—”

“You are mistaken,” stated Nostrilamus, pushing past the trembling tavern-keeper and tearing the vellum off the table before hurling it in the fire. “This table is no longer ‘reservatus,' it's taken. Now quit dithering and bring me the Caoil Ilax.”

Behind him, the vellum burst into flames, causing Nostrilamus to be briefly haloed in red fire. The tavern-keeper gave a frightened squeak of terror and fell to his knees. His voice wobbled and his eyes became round orbs of terror.

“I beg you, Caledon, do not take that table. It is reserved for one, and one only.”

At that moment the door to the tavern blew open, and the temperature plummeted, far below zero. Once more, silence fell in the crowded room. In the dim light of the lantern at the doorway, Nostrilamus could see a figure wrapped in a cloak, wreathed in coils of mist that rolled and twined around its feet. Cleaving a path through the legionaries, the figure arrived at the table by the fire and threw a strange black object onto it. Prostrate on the floor, the tavern-keeper gave a strangled sob.

“What a time I've had getting here,” the cloaked figure complained. “Traffic was just
awful
. Been waiting long? Hang on a tick, I'll just turn this thing to mute. We don't want any interruptions, do we?” And seizing the black object, he pressed it with his index finger, causing it to emit a high-pitched note.

Lowering his gaze to where the tavern-keeper lay on the floor, the cloaked figure sighed. “Don't just lie there, man,” he commanded. “Take my cloak, fetch my colleague here a drink, and bring me a goblet of the usual.”

“B-b-brimstone and v-v-vitriol?” the tavern-keeper quavered, staggering to his feet.

“On the rocks.” The figure shed its black cloak with a sinuous shimmy and slid into the seat opposite Nostrilamus. With an obsequious bow, the tavern-keeper backed away, and in the background the noise returned to a normal roar.

“And so, to business.” The figure stretched its legs closer to the fire and turned its gaze on the silent Nostrilamus. “First—introductions. Tonight, you can call me Astoroth, Second Minister of the Hadean Executive, with special responsibility for pacts and soul harvests. You summoned, and here I am.”

Despite his proximity to the fireplace, Nostrilamus shivered. This had all seemed like such a good idea back in Rome. Now he wasn't quite so sure. Meeting Astoroth's gaze across the table, Nostrilamus suppressed a scream. The minister from the Hadean Executive regarded him implacably through a pair of deep-red eyes. Eyes in which Nostrilamus saw himself twice reflected, naked of both clothes and skin, a skeleton burning in an unquenchable fire. . . .

“Now don't get all hysterical on me, pal,” Astoroth advised, hooding those awful eyes and stirring the embers of the fire with an outstretched foot. Frozen with dread, Nostrilamus saw that the minister's foot was not only unshod, but ended in a cloven hoof.

“Too late to press rewind,” Astoroth advised, the sound of his voice resembling the noise of fingernails being dragged across slate. “I'm not some sort of minor demon, a genie that you can just stuff back in the bottle. . . . Have you mortals no concept of the amount of paperwork involved in setting up this kind of deal?”

Taking Nostrilamus's silence for understanding, Astoroth continued, “Right. Pay attention. Seeing as how this is your first time, I'll go through the contract with you before you sign it at the bottom. Here, take my knife and open a vein while I explain. . . .”

Numb with fear, Nostrilamus obeyed, using the minister's outstretched knife to cut a deep nick in the skin of his left wrist. Blood welled up and began to drip from the wound. He tried to concentrate on the words.

“. . . and in return for vast wealth, in a currency of our choosing, the Hadean Executive merely requires a small favor. To wit: you get gold, salt, gems, myrrh, et cetera, and on your death, we harvest your soul. Simple, huh?”

The strange black object on the table beside Astoroth began to quiver and twitch, as if it had a life of its own. Ignoring this, Astoroth produced a scroll covered in dense rows of script in a foreign language, which he unrolled in front of Nostrilamus. His tapping forefinger indicated a space at the foot of this document.

“Sign here. Excuse me for one moment while I take this call.
Such
a bore. I do apologize—” He plucked the vibrating object off the table, pressed it to his ear, and did something that caused it to light up and emit a tiny note like a mechanical birdcall. “Yes,
what?
” he barked, pointing with ill-disguised impatience at the scroll. Miming the action of writing, he turned his attention back to the black object. “I'm in a meeting. What d'you mean there's a couple of problems? You want an extra clause added in? Consider it done—the client's putty in my hands. Now, what else? I can hardly hear you, you're breaking up. . . . Who? What awful mistake? The Chronostone has gone
AWOL
? Of
course
I know what it looks like. D'you take me for a complete moron? When I chose the trinkets for this job, there's no way I would have mixed up the Chronostone with that bunch of tacky baubles.” Astoroth stared into the flames, trying to drown a growing sense of foreboding in a tide of bluster. “I'm not a cretin, you know. Don't get your asbestos knickers in a twist. The Boss probably dropped it in the Pit. It'll turn up.”

Using an index finger as a clumsy tool with which to scrawl his signature in his own blood, Nostrilamus tried hard not to eavesdrop. Astoroth's black object had not only lit up and made noises like a bird, but now it appeared to have its own voice. A tiny voice that repeated the word “Chronostone” with dismaying clarity. Each time the voice spoke, Astoroth appeared to flinch, until finally he removed the black thing from his ear and regarded it with loathing.

“Lost the signal. Infernal things. And bad news all round, I'm afraid . . . especially for you.” He crossed one leg over the other and frowned at Nostrilamus.

Mystified, Nostrilamus smiled nervously. He hadn't a clue what the minister was on about, but he had a sinking feeling that none of it augured well.

“Change of plan,” Astoroth said. “I've been told to add a codicil to your contract. Terribly sorry, but it can't be helped. Security reasons, close a few loopholes—that sort of thing. . . .” He bent over the signed document and breathed on it. Where there had been rows of dense script was now blank paper. Licking the end of his finger as if it were a stylus, Astoroth began to use his own spit to redraft the contract. The words smoked as they branded themselves onto the paper.

The tavern-keeper reappeared at the table, bearing their drinks on a wooden board. Turning the contract back round for Nostrilamus's signature, Astoroth took his drink from the trembling landlord.

“A toast,” he said, extending his goblet at arm's length.

“Apologies, M-M-Minister,” the landlord stammered. “I'm fresh out of bread for the t-t-toa—”

“Not
that
kind, you stupid imbecile,” Astoroth hissed. “A toast to the future. To the future harvest of souls—”

“Um, yes. I wish you'd given me some w-w-warning, Minister. The boats haven't been out for a while. I'm out of fre-fre-fre-fresh—soles.”

“Give me strength,” Astoroth muttered, rolling his red eyes upward. “Drink up, Caledon,” he commanded, adding darkly, “You're going to need it.” He pushed the contract toward his companion and bid the landlord fetch his cloak.

Seeing Nostrilamus peering in utter incomprehension at the newly written contract, Astoroth pointed to his amendments. “It's paragraph three, subsection thirteen, clause seven you might want to have a wee squint at. Specifically, the line beginning, ‘The soul of the undersigned and that of all male firstborn descendants thereof shall be forfeit from now until eternity—'”

“WHAAAAT?” squealed Nostrilamus.

Astoroth drained his goblet and smacked his lips with evident relish. Smoke began to leak from his nostrils, ears, and mouth. “Sign it, Caledon,” he commanded, each word propelling gouts of yellow sulfurous smoke from his mouth, like a bad case of spectral halitosis. “And get a move on. Time is money.” He stood up and turned to where the tavern-keeper stood holding his cloak. This movement afforded both mortals the ghastly sight of a long, snake-like protrusion whipping round the minister's calves, swiftly and mercifully obscured by the folds of his cloak—but not before it became apparent that the minister from the Hadean Executive was in possession of a forked tail.

Nostrilamus signed. Drawing scant comfort from the fact that at least
he
wouldn't be around to see the damage wreaked on his unborn descendants by this pact with Hades, he consigned all their souls to perdition. Right now, he would have signed his grandmother into slavery, if it guaranteed getting rid of this cloven-footed, fork-tailed, brimstone-swilling obscenity.

As if reading his thoughts, Astoroth tutted mildly, then purred, “Been a real
pleasure,
actually.” Tucking the contract into his cloak and holding out a small roll of vellum, he said, “You'll find the money hidden in the Forest of Caledon. Here's a wee map to pinpoint exactly which of the eighteen thousand and twenty-one oaks I've hidden it under. Oh, and before I forget, take some reinforcements with you, dear boy. . . . I've heard tell that the natives are none too friendly.
Ave,
Caledon. Abyssinia, toodle-pip—I'll . . . be . . . back.”

With this last threat, he sauntered straight across the tavern and out through the door into the darkness.