Pure Dead Frozen (12 page)

…Twice Shy

U
naccustomed to deceiving his wife, Luciano felt his head spin with the effort of sustaining two huge lies. Not only had he not told Baci about the Mafia menace heading their way, but he also had neglected to mention the biting baby. Not yet, he decided, bringing the Volvo to a halt on the rose quartz drive outside StregaSchloss's front door. He pulled on the hand brake while he gathered his thoughts.
Tried
to gather his thoughts.
Is it…asleep? Please, God, let it be asleep. Don't think I can cope if it looks at me again with those
pizza di pomodoro
eyes…. And its teeth? Dear God, no, don't think about those. Think, think…Think a happy thought, Luciano,
he commanded himself.
Think of…sunshine, laughter, children, babies—no, not babies. No. Come on, man, pull yourself together or Baci will wonder what on earth is the matter.

“Darling?”

“Cara mia?”

“Is there something the matter?” In the backseat, Baci was gathering her wraps and gloves, her bag and the infernal goblin's—
No, no, no, Luciano, the baby's
—travel bag, and smiling at her husband's reflection in the rearview mirror.

Luciano forced a smile onto his face, forced a lightness into his voice, and forced himself not to dwell upon the huge deception he was practicing on his poor, innocent wife. “Heavens, no, Baci. You, my darling wife, you have made me the happiest, the
proudest
man in all of Scotland.
Four
fine childr—” Was that a hiss? Had that vile monstrosity dared to hiss at him? Luciano's eyes slid sideways to where
it
sat, strapped in, leering at him. No teeth visible, thankfully—

“Oh, look, Luciano, he's
smiling
at you. Ahhhhh, how adorable.”

Adorable,
thought Luciano woodenly, his eyes firmly fixed on the rearview mirror.
No. Not even remotely adorable, that thing. Repulsive, terrifying, bowel-clenchingly, monstrously
wrong—
but adorable? Never.

“Never what?” Baci looked up, puzzled. “I didn't quite catch that. Sorry, darling. Too busy making sure that I've got all my stuff from the hospital. Honestly—I was only
in
for what, twenty-four hours, and in that time somehow I managed to acquire six bouquets of flowers, four boxes of chocolates, a ton of magazines, and enough bath foam to cover StregaSchloss in suds from top to bott—What's that sound? That weird hissing noise? What on earth is it, Luciano?”

It was doing it again.
Think, man. Don't just
sit
there,
say
something.

“Slow puncture. Or…or…ah…maybe it's the, um”—Luciano cudgeled his brains for what little he remembered of the oily bits under the hood—“the, er, cylinder-head-rotor-arm-carburetor-valve…gasket.”

Baci's eyes rolled. Fortunately for Luciano, his wife's knowledge of mechanical engineering made his look positively encyclopedic.

“Gosh. Sounds fearsomely expensive. Oh, look, here's Minty come to welcome the new baby.” And blessedly, so distracted was Baci that she failed to notice the red eyes that rapidly opened and closed again, scanning the new arrival in one blink.

         

The smell of baking drifted enticingly upstairs, a tendril of warm vanilla curling itself around the open door of Damp's new bedroom, where, as if borne on a strong wind, it was sucked toward the abandoned picture book lying on the rag rug by the bed. The vanilla scent spiraled down onto the final page of the book and vanished into the little illustration above the word

         

finis

         

Paddling round the island's shoreline for what felt like the millionth time, Ffup suddenly stopped and sniffed the air. She sniffed again…and again, a wide grin spreading across her mouth, her drooping wings springing upright.

“Ooooh, yesss!” she squealed. “Yes, yes, yes. Ffup, the great navigator, does it again. Without compass, map, Sherpas, or even radar, I've found the way home. What a
nose,
huh? And what's more, some kind soul is baking white-chocolate-and-vanilla brownies back at the happy homestead…. Oh YES, YES, YES, I'm
there.
Wait for meeee. Don't eat them all before we get there….”

Wading rapidly through the shallows, the dragon scooped up Damp and, following the scent of baking, delivered them both back to StregaSchloss in time, she hoped, for lunch. Trading the island's chilly shoreline for the rag rug in Damp's bedroom, Ffup blessed the good fortune that had brought them safely home. It had been deceptively easy to travel
to
the island; the problem had been trying to retrace their steps. In fact, just before Ffup's nose had picked up the smell of vanilla, the dragon had wondered if they'd
ever
be able to go home; wondered if the millions of mussels clinging to the rocks of the island were in
any
way edible; and, finally, had wondered if falling out with her fiancé hadn't been A Very Bad Idea indeed. Stomach growling loudly, Ffup was following Damp downstairs, lost in thought, when she remembered the stone clutched in her hot little paw. Uh-oh. Bother. That would never do. She was totally useless at telling lies. Mrs. McLachlan would be bound to ask her if she'd had any luck in finding her missing engagement ring, and she would be totally incapable of saying, “Who,
me
?
What
engagement ring?” without literally bursting into flames of embarrassment.

“You go on downstairs,” she said to Damp. “I need a pee.”

And as if to prove her point about being a hopeless liar, a little flame of shame at this fib popped out of one of her nostrils. Ffup fled upstairs before Damp could notice and bolted into the little girl's bedroom, closing the door behind her.

Where? Where could she hide it? Chest heaving, the dragon scanned the bedroom for good places. Inside one of the Russian dolls frowning from the lineup on top of the chest of drawers? Brilliant. Ffup seized the largest doll and tried to unscrew its head from its base. To her horror, the wooden shape splintered in her paws. Oh heck. Oh bother, bother, bother. Oh
ouch,
she whimpered, picking hand-painted splinters out of her tender paw pads and poking the shattered remains of the doll down the back of the chest of drawers. Now what? Under the pillow? Too obvious, and way too “Princess and the Pea”–like to boot. In Damp's toy box? No. Might be found by accident. Ffup groaned, staring at Damp's bed for inspiration. Ahh. There. Inside her pajama-case piglet. Perfect. The very thing. Damp never ever used it for pajamas, mainly because every time the alarmingly furry pink pig was unzipped, a hidden sensor launched the whole thing into a loud chorus of—

         

“I'm PRETTY and PINK!!

I'm just a PIG, just watch me WALLOW—”

         

“Shut up, shut up—oh, for heaven's
sake,
” Ffup moaned, grabbing the pajama case, stuffing the stone into it, zipping it shut, and hurling it back under Damp's bed with a squeak of relief.

Moments later she rejoined the little girl at the head of the stairs leading down to the great hall.

“Thanks for waiting. Shall we go and see if there's any lunch?”

Damp frowned up at Ffup and sighed. “Didn't flushit,” she observed, adding, “Not washit hands, dirty.”

“Whaaaat?” Ffup roared. “What is this? Boot camp? Boarding school? D'you think you're a matron or something?”

“Not matron,” Damp said sadly, reminded of Sister Passterre, and thus of the new baby. “Not wantit, matron. Don't
care. Be
a dirty dragon. Germy paws. Dirty, dirrrty,
dirrrrr
—”

“Damp, my wee pet,” said Mrs. McLachlan, appearing at the foot of the stairs, her smile showing just how delighted she was to see the little girl home safely. “And Ffup too? Marvelous. Now,
dears,
I'm sure you're going to tell us
all
about your adventures, but first let's wash our hands and paws, shall we? Heaven knows where they, or you, have been, but we wouldn't like to get nasty, dirty germs on the new baby, would we?”

Oh brother,
thought Ffup, realizing why the nanny's voice had been so artificially upbeat when by rights she should have been demanding where on earth they had been. The front door stood open, revealing Signor and Signora Strega-Borgia, followed by Minty, who was holding a tiny shawled bundle in her arms.

Seeing the glad faces waiting to greet him, Luciano felt he was choking on his own lies. Everyone looked so…normal. Evidently none of them suspected a thing. His gaze fell across first Damp and then Baci, and for one brief moment he saw them drenched in blood. Then the thing in Minty's arms poked a tiny fist out of its shawl, Damp's face crumpled, and, giving a loud wail, she fled back upstairs to her bedroom.

“I'll go to her, dear.” Mrs. McLachlan took Baci's coat and steered her away from the stairs. “Just leave her to me. Now, Latch has lit the fire in the drawing room for you and the wee baby, and we thought you might like to feed the wee mite in privacy before supper—”

“NO!” Luciano realized he'd shouted out loud. The prospect of Baci being left alone with that…that
thing
was unbearable. But how on earth would he, could he—and now everyone was staring at him, puzzled by his shout of denial.
Think, Luciano. Say something.
Any
thing.
“I mean, no. Baci is exhausted. The journey, the traffic, the snow—No, darling.” He held up a hand as Baci began to protest. “Please, allow me to take charge. I want you to have a little lie-down: put your feet up, relax. The baby is fine; look, he's sleeping contentedly in Minty's arms. Why not just use this opportunity to unwind?”

Baci was about to object, about to explain that she was currently so unwound that she felt like an unraveled strand of overcooked spaghetti, when the baby took matters into its own hands.

“Bwaaah,” it wailed, mouth opening wide, its green eyes fixed on Minty, its expression radiating utter misery at discovering itself to be held in the wrong arms entirely. “WAAAAaaahBWaaaah,” it squeaked, entirely unimpressed by the young nanny's attempts to hush, soothe, rock, and comfort it.

Before Baci practically snatched the infant out of Minty's arms, Luciano risked a peek. Shielded by its shawl from everyone's gaze but his, the baby didn't pause in the middle of its howls of outrage. Mouth wide open, tiny fists batting the air, it turned to face Luciano and winked evilly. Seconds later, Baci bore it off to the drawing room.

The Devil Boots Up

“T
here, you little toad,” Isagoth muttered, tugging at the bottle. “Come
on
, let
go
, it's empty.”

Baby Borgia ignored this plea to relinquish his grip. Instead, he sucked harder, his tiny face turning pink with effort. Loud, squeaky sucking sounds came from the empty feeding bottle as the infant dragged down lungfuls of air, an action that boded ill for his newborn digestion.

“LET GO!” Isagoth roared, startling the baby and causing him to open his mouth in distress. The bottle's flattened nipple reinflated with a small plosive
pop
, and air rushed in to fill the vacuum. Something similar happened to the baby, except he didn't go
pop
, he went
waaah
.

Isagoth clutched his head in his hands and nearly wept. Four hours. Four miserable, deafening, ghastly, head-mangling, nerve-grating hours during which this repulsive leech of a human child had sucked down four times its own cubic capacity in warmed-over cow juice. Four hours, and fourteen diaper changes too. After the first fecal assault, Isagoth had learned fast. He'd stuffed the squelching infant inside his jacket and left the hotel to comb the shops of Auchenlochtermuchty in search of poo-containment pants. A bemused assistant in the mini-market had steered him in the direction of disposable diapers, and Isagoth had purchased what he'd innocently assumed to be a lifetime's supply. Now, unfolding the last diaper in the packet, he stifled a howl of despair. This, he decided, was simply the pits. He'd had no idea what humans went through when they were insane enough to procreate. That they should
willingly
put themselves through childbirth and its gruesomely milk-and feces-stained aftermath was simply unbelievable. Isagoth gazed at the baby, aghast that something so small and weak could possibly make so much noise.

“Please,”
he begged. “Stop! Desist! ENOUGH!” He picked up the child, unwittingly setting off a slow-wave motion deep within its infant gut. Still Baby Borgia wailed, batting at the demon's face with tiny fists, drawing his little legs up to his distended tummy in the universal baby signal for being in possession of copious amounts of gas.

“Hush, shush, wheesht, SHHHHHH,” muttered Isagoth, entirely oblivious to the meaning of universal baby signals and regarding the baby's drawn-up legs as proof positive that it was indeed a toad. He clutched the wailing blob under one arm as he struggled back into his jacket, patting his pockets to ensure that he had the keys for the car. “Let's hit the high street, toad-child,” Isagoth said under his breath; then, opening the bedroom door and heading out into the public spaces of the Auchenlochtermuchty Arms, in a voice meant for public consumption, “More diapers, eh, my dear little Hertzy-Pops?” And fixing an approximation of an I've-been-up-all-night-with-this-baby-so-don't-even-
think
-about-talking-to-me expression on his face, he took the stairs three at a time, causing the milk-and-air mixture wallowing around in the baby's stomach to froth up like yeast. The child's redoubled wails echoed round the hotel, drawing disapproving grimaces from a quartet of crusty colonels playing a rubber of bridge in the residents' lounge.

“Will you be joining us for DINNER TONIGHT?” yelled the receptionist, struggling to make herself heard above the baby's shrieks. Unsurprisingly, Isagoth didn't respond, not having heard a word. Unsurprisingly, the receptionist didn't repeat her invitation, having no wish to spend any more time than strictly necessary within earshot of the wailing baby. She watched without interest as Isagoth stepped into the revolving doors leading out to the parking lot and then perked up a fraction as the glass door suddenly turned white.

Trapped inside a transparent wedge of revolving door, Isagoth had inadvertently squeezed the baby's abdomen as he pushed onward through a half revolution. The baby stopped in mid-shriek and, with an expression of deepest relief, erupted. Before Isagoth could duck, flee, or even point the infant's head in a different direction, he found himself unaccountably covered from collar to belt in what looked like his own weight in sour-smelling cottage cheese. In his arms, the now-diminished baby gave a final dainty little belch by way of epilogue and immediately fell fast asleep.

Babies, 2; Demons, 0.

         

“Have ah no seen youse on TV?”

“YES. POSSIBLY. TAKE MY BAG, WOULD YOU?”

“Why? Where're youse wantin' to go, like?”

S'tan sighed deeply. This little excursion was turning out to be an epic voyage on a par with Columbus's trip to the Americas. Scotland had turned out to be an awfully long way away from the BBC in London. So far away that the first taxi driver had refused point-blank to drive Him there, dropping Him off outside Terminal One at Heathrow Airport and suggesting that He catch a plane instead. Consequently He'd had to stand in queues and endure the rigors of business-class travel, at every stage of which He'd been forced to sign autographs and shake hands with His adoring public. And now, in Scotland,
still
with a long journey ahead, it was beginning to look like He was expected to converse with this dreadful taxi driver all the way to His destination.

“So, whit brings a dead-famous bloke like youse up here, eh?”

“I'M THINKING OF MAKING A KILLING IN ARGYLL.” S'tan met the taxi driver's eyes with the kind of stare that carried a subliminal
KEEP OFF
warning. Insensitive clod that he was, the driver paid no attention.

“Zat right, eh? How're youse gonny dae that? I could use a few tips, me. Wishta wis clever like youse. See, when wese get tae where youse wanty go, I'd be dead chuffed if youse'd gie me your autograph. Ah really liked your recipie fir boiled pig testicles in yon fancy wine, eh no? Pure dead brilliant, so it wis. The wifey made it fir me the it her night an' it wis jis magic, so it was—”

The driver had his back turned to S'tan and, unfortunately for him, the parking lot was temporarily deserted, so there were no witnesses to what happened next.

The demon sprang forward and slammed the lid of the trunk shut. There was a cut-off scream followed by a muffled thud; then the driver's headless body collapsed in a heap at S'tan's feet. Staggering back from the car, S'tan at first couldn't comprehend how He'd made such a ghastly mistake. He'd only intended to knock the taxi driver out, not decapitate him. Minutes later, speeding along the motorway, sitting behind the wheel and humming along with a tune on the taxi's radio, S'tan was feeling positively tip-top. He swerved to overtake a Mercedes with blacked-out windows that had been crawling along at a snail-like ninety-five miles an hour, and nearly hugged Himself with glee.

The Chronostone was
back
. Somehow it had returned to Earth—He didn't care how or why; just the mere fact of its being within range was enough. The minute He'd slammed the taxi's trunk shut, He'd known. Such a surge of power had flowed through Him that He almost felt Himself crackle with energy. He could feel it. Hell, He could practically
see
its force radiating from His fingertips like spokes on a wheel. His brain fizzed with ideas and He knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that nothing could stand in His way. Not now. Not with the stone back on Earth, radiating power like a malign reactor, filling Him with its raw energy. Without it, He'd been reduced to a pale shadow of His former Vileness. But now…

First, the deal with Don Lucifer. Even though he was the First Minister of the Hadean Executive, S'tan wasn't about to renege on a pact. After all, Don Lucifer had kept his side of the bargain, pulling strings and greasing palms to get Him His cookery show on TV, so S'tan was going to do His bit. He was going to wipe out the Borgia brother, closely followed by Isagoth, the incompetent assassin. Then another attempt to locate the exact whereabouts of the Chronostone, followed by a triumphant return to Hades to sort out the traitors who said He was past His sell-by date. Perhaps if He wasn't too tired by then, He might sow the seeds for a major war on Earth as well. It
had
been a while, after all. And with the ear of the nation via His cookery show, it would be risibly easy to brainwash His viewers into doing just about anything He desired. After all, He had persuaded them all to butcher cows, pigs, and sheep and devour their unmentionable parts, so how hard could it be to persuade them to butcher each other? Maybe even do it live on camera? Reality butchery? Now
there
was an idea.

Absorbed in His own brand of S'tanic darkness, plotting mankind's demise, S'tan paid no attention whatsoever to the Mercedes with blacked-out windows, which followed him like a shadow; not even when, like Him, it took the seldom-used B-road out of Auchenlochtermuchty toward the StregaSchloss estate.

The same could not be said for the occupants of the Mercedes. All three of the men inside it were paying very close attention to S'tan's taxi as it sped along the track up ahead. However, this was for no other reason than the fact that the taxi was blocking the road. The track leading to StregaSchloss was far too narrow to permit overtaking, except at infrequent passing places where the rutted track widened just enough to permit the passage of two vehicles, either traveling in different directions or one pulling over and allowing the other to overtake. Problem was, S'tan's taxi wasn't doing the decent thing and pulling over, and consequently, the mood within the Mercedes was turning ugly. Of the car's two passengers, the one in the rear was by far the more trigger-happy. Desperate to demonstrate his impeccable marksmanship, he repeatedly flicked off the safety catch on his gun and squinted down its barrel, unconsciously licking his lips as he lined up the target.

“Eh, Santino, d'you wanta me to blow outta its tires?”

“No.”

“Aw, c'mon. Maybe you letta me take the driver outta the picture, huh? Whaddya think?”

“No, Bruno.”

Bruno subsided in the backseat, pouting like a thwarted toddler. Ahead, as the taxi bounced and swerved along the track, waves of muddy water and slushy snowmelt sprayed up out of potholes, and huge gritty droplets hit the windshield of the Mercedes with a loud
splat.
At this, the otherwise silent passenger in the front would utter a piercing squeak of displeasure, and Santino the driver would use the wipers to clear their view once more.

“Hey. Santino. Whaddya say we ram this joker offa the road, huh?”

“No, Bruno. You think I'm gonna risk hurting my car? You think I wanna scrape my paintwork? Benda my fenda?” The driver's voice was rising higher with each question, and to Bruno's alarm, Santino twisted round in his seat to stare straight at him—which meant that he'd completely taken his eyes off the ro—

“EEK eek IP IP!”

Santino spun back round just in time to avoid plowing the car straight into a line of ancient oaks marking the outermost boundary of the StregaSchloss estate. The Mercedes skidded through an open wrought-iron gate, ignoring the sign warning off trespassers, the car's brake lights flashing red as Santino brought the steering under control once more.

“Sorry, boss,” he said, darting a sideways glance to where Don Lucifer di S'Embowelli Borgia sat rigidly in the passenger seat, displaying less animation than a sack of potatoes. In truth, Santino had privately decided that Don Lucifer looked exactly like a prosperous heavyweight boxer who'd suffered a catastrophic encounter with a rocket-propelled rodent. Right in the middle of the Don's face, where one might reasonably expect to find a nose, was a long, twitchy, bewhiskered snout, looking for all the world as if a rat had burst, at great speed, straight through Don Lucifer's face, traveling from the inside out. None of the Don's employees, from his gun-toting bodyguards to his tailor, were ever permitted to refer to his rat snout or to make any mention of the terrible medical blunder that had turned a routine surgical procedure into what was coyly termed “a maxillofacial mutilation with rodent complications.”