Yowler Foul-Up (3 page)

The paper was perfectly cut, an exact rectangle. He read:

STAND AWAY FROM THE DOOR AUGUSTUS WE HAVE HOLD OF IT

His mind raced. The Yowlers? It had to be; they were the only ones with a reason.

Sweat began to form on the inventor’s brow, and he found himself shivering.

“What do you want from me?” he called.

A second sheet was slipped onto the mat. Augustus read:

DO NOT ATTEMPT TO MAKE A BREAK FOR THE BACK DOOR EITHER WE ARE THERE ALSO AND WILL KILL YOU ON SIGHT

“But why? I haven’t done anything wrong!”

He bent down to retrieve the answer. Were they attempting to get to him through his arthritis?

YOU HAVE BEEN TALKING HAVEN’T YOU TALKING TO AN ENEMY OF THE GROUP

He stood back, thrust his hands into his robe pockets and swallowed. “No,” he said. “I never!”

BE VERY CAREFUL HOW YOU ANSWER AUGUSTUS

“There’s no need for that kind of talk. I’m already afraid.”

YOU SHOULD BE LISTENING WITH INTENT TOMORROW MORNING YOU WILL PACK YOUR THINGS AND LEAVE DULLITCH DESTROY ANY REMAINING EVIDENCE OF YOUR UNION WITH US BEFORE YOU DEPART PLACE YOUR FRONT-DOOR KEY UNDER THE FLOWERPOT

Augustus cocked his head to one side. “I don’t have a flowerpot.”

There was a brief pause before the note appeared.

A FLOWERPOT WILL BE PROVIDED

“Do I get a plant with it?”

YOU ARE SKATING ON VERY THIN ICE AUGUSTUS

“Sorry; didn’t mean any disrespect. Go on.”

UNDERSTAND THAT AFTER TONIGHT YOU MUST NEVER SPEAK OF THIS EVENT UNTIL THE DAY YOU DIE

Augustus gave this a moment’s thought. “When will that be?” he asked.

WHENEVER YOU DECIDE TO SPEAK OF THIS EVENT

“Ah,” said the inventor. “Now I’m getting you.” He pulled his robe tightly around himself and leaned against the door of his broom closet.

HAVE WE ESTABLISHED A MUTUAL TRUST DO YOU THINK

“Yes. I’ll do as you say.”

YOU ARE A SENSIBLE MAN AUGUSTUS VRUNAK

Time passed. At length, the inventor put one ear to the door. “You still there?” he called.

Silence.

He turned the handle and cautiously peered out into the night. The garden was empty. It showed no sign of having been disturbed, apart from the rusty gate that swung loose in the wind.

T
HE GRAND DINNER TO
welcome the return of Duke Modeset began badly and looked like it would be going downhill from there. The innkeeper, a stout man of indefinite age, was unfathomably moody. He mumbled recognizable obscenities under his breath and slammed the dishes down with such fervor that they almost bounced. Moreover, he didn’t bother to introduce the other guest, who arrived late and chose a seat so far from the party, they could only communicate with him by sign language.

Eventually, after a number of ignored questions and a few embarrassed silences, they managed to discover the root of the innkeeper’s anxiety. It turned out that, despite a promised advance from Viscount Curfew, he had yet to be paid for the party’s stay. The duke spent some time assuring him that the bills would be settled, but the innkeeper seemed utterly disgusted with the group, sneering every time one of them reached for a plate. Modeset fancied that the only thing keeping the innkeeper from turning the group onto the streets was a fear of reprisal from the crown. Consequently, a very uncomfortable meal ensued.

“Um, I say, isn’t this nice?” Modeset lied. “It’s been so long since I’ve sampled the delicacies of capital cuisine! As I was saying to Flicka, here, I really should get out and see the city again; I’ve almost forgotten what it looks like! She’s young, of course, probably wouldn’t be interested in culture. I doubt if the palace would make the Flicka list of places to see! Ha-ha-ha!”

“The palace!” muttered the innkeeper. “Now, there’s an idea. Why don’t you all go and bloody stay
there
?”

“I’m interested in culture if it involves magic,” said Flicka, bringing a dark veil of silence over the table. “I’ve always been interested in that. In fact, Father got me got this spellbook in Spittle. It’s only theory, of course, but I’ve learned a lot.”

“Are you interested in anything
else
, Flicka?” Modeset prompted, trying to drag the subject away from illegalities. “After all, Dullitch is a very big pla—”

“As a matter of fact I am, Lord M. What about the Yowlers? It amazes me how a city can function with a criminally insane cult thriving beneath it.”

“Yes, well, enough of—”

“I mean,” she went on, “apart from the forgers at Counterfeit House, I understand there’s something called the Rooftop Runners, is that right? Thieves and the like, aren’t they?”

“I’d really rather we didn’t talk about it,” Modeset snapped. “Besides, the Yowlers were born out of an obscure religion, and religion has always been a dicey subject here in Dullitch. I recall a time, not so long ago, when virgins not much older than yourself were chained to rocks and sacrificed for the greater glory of some bizarre god.”

“I reckon you might be thinkin’ o’ Druidics, there, milord,” said Pegrand.

“No,” Flicka interrupted. “That’s definitely how the Yowlers started—”

“I’m telling you, it was—”

An argument ensued.

Modeset, practically unconscious with boredom, tried to relieve the monotony by watching the stranger at the far end of the table devouring a salad. The man appeared to be having terrible trouble with his meal, spitting out every mouthful of lettuce mere seconds after forking it in. There’s a fellow with a few problems, if I’m not mistaken, he thought. When the stranger looked up suddenly, Modeset returned his attention to the argument, and was about to interrupt Pegrand’s incessant banter, when a resounding boom from the far end of the table cut through the meal like a rogue scimitar.

“
IS THERE GARLIC ON THIS
?” it said.

The innkeeper leaned around Pegrand to peer over at the stranger.

“Eh? What’s that you’re saying? Come over here, will you?”

The stranger lifted his plate and moved several places down the table, nodded and muttered “Evening” at everyone as he took a new seat. He was thickset but looked incredibly sharp; he was also covered in cuts and bruises.

“I said,” he began, eyeing the innkeeper dubiously, “did you put garlic on this salad?”

The innkeeper nodded. “A bit, for the flavor. Sorry, I forgot.”

“Oh, right. Can I have some of this chicken instead, or is there garlic on everything?”

“Chicken’s fine; fresh from the oven.”

The stranger reached over to cut off a slice, and almost melted in the heat of Pegrand’s stare.

I reckon you must be a vampire
, Pegrand’s stare seemed to say.

The stranger smiled pleasantly at the manservant, cursing his own ability to read thoughts at close range. He wondered if, just once, it might work both ways.
Why don’t you bugger off and die
,
you filthy
,
stinking little piece of excrement
?

Pegrand’s continued grin indicated that his own ability to read thoughts was still a long way off.

“Yes, I am,” the stranger said, instead. “Part vampire, on my mother’s side, which unfortunately means I’ve just the one fang, I only drink blood when there’s no wine going, and I can’t sleep a wink past midnight. The name’s Obegarde. Delighted, I’m sure.”

Apart from the innkeeper, who continued to scowl at the empty spaces on the meat tray, every face at the table took on a kind of blank, isolated stare.

Fantastic, thought Modeset. Not only am I living on promised means at a five-star hotel with holes in the roof, and not only am I the mistaken target for some rock-throwing lunatic with a grudge,
now
I’m having dinner with a vampire.

“If it bothers you, I’ll go back and sit over there,” said Obegarde, pointing toward the far end of the table.

“N-no, nonsense, er, wouldn’t hear of it,” said the duke. “This here is Pegrand, my manservant, and Flicka Hopkirk, my secretary’s somewhat
argumentative
daughter. I’m—”

“Modeset,” Obegarde interrupted. “Yes, I remember your reign very well. Lot of rats about, I recall.”

“Yes, well, have some wine and a few of those grapes. Make yourself welcome.”

“Thank you,” said Obegarde, trying as hard as everyone else to ignore the innkeeper’s incessant mumbling.

“I wasn’t sure I’d be welcome,” Obegarde continued. “Some people can be a little hostile.”

“Doesn’t bother me,” Pegrand cut in. “Part undead on your mother’s side, you say? Isn’t there a name for that? Lowdown or somethin’ similar?”

Here we go, thought Modeset. Now he’s going to get us all killed.

“I assume the name you’re thinking of is ‘loftwing,’” Obegarde replied, taking up the wine bottle and emptying it into a clean glass. “But it’s a spiteful word and I don’t find it very flattering. Besides, we don’t have much in common with the dark breed; all of the longevity and none of the class, so to speak.”

Modeset had practically turned to stone. His thoughts raced to the rolled parchment still concealed in his tunic. So that’s who the note was meant for, he thought. Whoever threw the rock must have intended it for the vampire and thrown it through the wrong window. Interesting.

Pegrand sniffed and nodded. “Must be a borin’ old stretch for you lot,” he said. “Moochin’ through a hundred lifetimes in the darkness while the rest of us peg out. What do you do with yourself?”

Obegarde, who’d been looking sideways at Modeset with a curious expression on his face, gave the manservant a sudden, impassive smile.

“I’m an investigator,” he said. “I specialize in looking for people who don’t want to be found.”

A number of eyebrows were raised.

“How d’you know?” said Pegrand.

“Mmm?”

“Well, these people you’re looking for. How d’you know they don’t want to be found?”

The vampire considered this. “Well,” he said eventually. “It’s obvious, isn’t it? I can’t find them easily.”

“Yeah, but that could just be you.”

“Ha-ha! Yes, I suppose it could. No, in fact, it’s just a polite way of saying that my job involves a lot of confrontation.”

“Ah, I see,” said Pegrand. “That explains why you look like you just spent an hour in a dustbin full o’ kittens.”

Kill him, thought Modeset. Please, do us all a favor. Leap across the table and rip his throat out.

Obegarde smiled, but said nothing.

“I’m sure Mr. Obegarde would rather not discuss his business at the dinner table,” Modeset interrupted, glaring with intensity when he saw the look on Pegrand’s face. “Client confidentiality, and all that.”

There was a general murmur of agreement, and a few smaller pockets of conversation rippled between the staff and the innkeeper.

Eventually, the innkeeper struggled to his feet and shuffled off toward the kitchens. Modeset made a gesture for Pegrand to follow suit, but the manservant had nodded off. Flicka collected the crockery instead. The atmosphere, which had been hovering over the table like a big black cloud, finally lifted.

“
Sooooo
,” said Obegarde, prolonging the word until everyone still conscious was out of earshot. “Where is it, then? This message that was so obviously meant for me?”

Modeset frowned. “I’ve absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh don’t bother with all that rubbish,” snapped Obegarde. “I read your mind.”

There was a moment of silence.

“Very well,” said the duke, keeping one eye on the little wooden door to the kitchens. He put a hand inside his tunic and produced the roll of parchment.

Obegarde snatched it from him. “Good,” he said. “Now, I’d appreciate it if you forgot the contents.”

He finished chewing on his chicken leg and tossed it onto a plate heaped high with leftovers.

Modeset shrugged. “I confess I’m quite intrigued,” he said. “It doesn’t sound as if the chap’s too interested in talking.”

Obegarde got to his feet. Modeset was surprised at the size of the man. Somehow, one expects vampires to be thin and gaunt. Obegarde looked like an athletic ogre.

“There’s more to it than that,” he said. “And, with respect, none of it’s any of your business, your
lordship
.”

Modeset was slow to nod.

“Nice to have met you,” said Obegarde. He stood, returned to his original seat, and pulled on his overcoat. “Thank Grumpy for the meal, will you?”

He turned and swept from the room, coattails billowing out behind him.

Modeset watched the vampire go, and swallowed. Betrayed by my own mind, he thought. Whatever next?

“Mmmff, Morris! Where’s the cauldron?” said Pegrand still immersed in his dream. He woke with a ghoulish yawn and stared about with sudden panic. “What? Where’d I go?”

“You drifted off, Pegrand,” said Modeset, finishing his wine. “Happens to the best of us.”

The manservant managed a lopsided grin.

“Ah, sorry about that, milord,” he said. “Did I miss much?”

“Nothing,” the duke replied, lowering his wineglass onto the tabletop. “Nothing at all.”

M
IST WAS DESCENDING ON
the streets of Dullitch, swirling around the ancient lampposts and lending a mysterious haze to the normality of midnight. In the cemetery, a light flickered between the gravestones, becoming more and more erratic as the wind began to pick up. Someone was digging.

Jimmy Quickstint scooped up a generous pile of earth with his rusty shovel, struggling to keep the tool level while countless grains poured over the sides in a brown avalanche. Then, employing a deft flick of the wrist, he spun the shovel one hundred and eighty degrees, depositing the dirt on a growing pile beside the plot. An old weather-beaten lamp perched jauntily over the grave.