Cup And Sorcery

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Cup And Sorcery - book excerpt

The small dark room crackled and sizzled, as if tiny suspended fireworks were exploding in mid-air, sending particles of myriad colours cascading to the floor. The atmosphere felt alive with electricity, making it feel as if a thousand Van De Graff generators had been turned on at the same time. In the centre of the room was a stone plinth, atop which sat a large marble bowl. Inside the bowl, fluid swirled round and round as if it were being churned by an unseen centrifugal force. In the depths of the liquid, what seemed to be wisps of smoke eddied in the opposite direction, and every now and again a blurred, vague shape tried to form and break through the maelstrom.

The hunched figure sat on a three legged wooden stool, hooded head leaning over the container, eyes unblinking, peering intently into the murky miasma. Hands were raised and sleeves were folded carefully back, before fingers were waved over the bowl in intricate patterns. At the same time, whispered incantations passed from tight, dry lips, attempting to invoke the aid of some otherworldly power.

“Demons of darkness come to me

Show me what I long to see

A gift of blood I freely give

So that you may help me live.”

A small knife appeared in the figure's right hand, with which the palm of the left hand was deftly sliced open. Claret beads dripped into the milky mixture as a fist was made and squeezed tight. The liquid turned a light red, and as each drop splashed down it circled faster and faster until a pinkish foam appeared on its surface.

“A sign or clue is all I ask

To aid me in my onerous task

Show me the answer to the text

So I can do that which is next.”

The indistinct patterns and swirls moved closer together until they started to mingle and coalesce, until finally they formed one larger mass. As more drops of lifeblood entered the concoction the shape became more and more distinct, recognisable features beginning to appear in the watery pool. Suddenly, the charged atmosphere in the room became thicker, making the air heavy and difficult to breathe. A wispy fog seemed to emanate from the walls, floor and ceiling, as if the very fabric of the building itself were perspiring.

The mixture in the bowl then thickened and stopped moving, and a small bulge appeared in the centre. It rose higher and higher until it was about four feet tall. Two protrusions formed, one on either side, at the ends of which five small buds appeared, wiggling purposefully as they grew. The top of the muddy column was forming a rough sphere which quickly smoothed out, allowing the beginnings of facial features to show through. Under the burgeoning nose a split formed, which widened as if in a yawn, showing a tongue and a set of sharp teeth.

The hooded figure watched in rapt and unadulterated fascination as the outline took on its final form. The wiggling stumps were now fully functional hands and digits that moved languidly, as if the being itself were amazed at its newly found corporeality and was studying it carefully. Pitch black soulless eyes stared out from deep sockets and the lips smacked together, as if the apparition were indicating that it needed a drink. Those lips parted, and when it spoke the voice penetrated the summoner to their very core. It was a deep, rumbling bass that resonated around the room, to the point that the listener could have sworn that they could see sound waves emanating from its mouth.

“WHY HAVE YOU SUMMONED ME, MORTAL?”

“To aid me in my quest,” the hooded figure replied in a timid and trembling voice. “To translate the text before me and locate…”

“I KNOW OF WHAT YOU SPEAK, MORTAL, BUT I CANNOT HELP YOU WITH THE COMPENDIUM DE MAGICUS TOTALUS.”

“May I be permitted to ask why, dark one?”

“THAT BOOK WAS WRITTEN HUNDREDS OF YEARS AGO BY A RENEGADE GOD. IT SHOULD HAVE REMAINED UNSEEN BY HUMAN EYES, BUT IT FELL INTO MORTAL HANDS. THE RESULTING CHAOS WAS CATACLYSMIC.”

“In what way?”

“THE MORTAL WHO TRANSLATED THE TEXT USED IT IN AN ATTEMPT TO RULE OVER YOUR WORLD, AND OURS. THAT COULD NOT BE ALLOWED TO HAPPEN, SO HE WAS DESTROYED.”

“Why wasn't the book destroyed if it had the capability to cause so much trouble?”

“IT WAS FORMED BY THE GODS THEMSELVES. IT CANNOT BE TORN ASUNDER, SO IT WAS HIDDEN FOR CENTURIES IN PLAIN SIGHT AS AN INTERESTING RELIC.”

“But I have no interest in destroying the Gods or attempting to take over their world. My interest is dominion in the mortal realm.”

“IF THAT IS THE CASE, THEN PERHAPS WE CAN COME TO ACCEPTABLE TERMS.”

“Such as?”

“IF I ASSIST YOU AND YOU ARE SUCCESSFUL IN YOUR QUEST, YOU WILL BE GRANTED RULE OVER YOUR WORLD, BUT YOU WILL BECOME OUR VESSEL. A CONDUIT, THROUGH WHICH OUR BIDDING CAN BE DONE.”

“Agreed.”

“VERY WELL. FIVE STRANGERS WILL BECOME KNOWN TO YOU, AND IT IS THROUGH THEM THAT THE TEXT WILL BE TRANSLATED. ONE OF THEM WILL DISCOVER THE SECRET, FOR IT MUST BE FOUND BY ONE ABLE TO DECIPHER IT, RATHER THAN TOLD BY THOSE WHO ALREADY KNOW. THEN IT WILL BE THESE FIVE WHO COMPLETE THE QUEST.”

“Why them and not me?”

“THE WIELDER OF THE ARTEFACT MUST NOT BE THE DISCOVERER. SO IT IS WRITTEN. THE CHOICE IS YOURS, MORTAL. DO YOU STILL AGREE?”

There was no hesitation. “Yes, I agree.”

“VERY WELL. SO IT SHALL BE.”

The representation of the demon disintegrated in an instant, collapsing back into the marble bowl and leaving nothing but a still, slightly pink pool. The static charge receded and the room returned to normal.

Getting up from the stool, the hooded one walked over to a wooden chest of drawers in which was some salve and a bandage, which would be used to clean and wrap the injured hand.

All there was to do now was wait.

* * *

Stitches gripped the arms of the chair and squeezed his hands so tightly that his skin was in danger of splitting, sending several of his knuckles flying around the cabin. His eyes were clamped shut and his lips were pursed tightly together. His feet were involuntarily flexing up and down, like a drummer hammering the pedals to a pair of bass drums.

“Why did we have to fly? I hate flying. It's not natural. There's no way this much weight should be able to get off the ground.”

Ollie stopped reading his latest copy of The Moon and rested it on his lap.

“Well, I'm sure that if a plane can get a load of Americans into the air, then this one should have no problem. Besides,” he continued, a bit annoyed at having his reading interrupted, “it's the quickest and most convenient way to travel. It was either this or spend five days on the ferry, and I don't think that would have been very pleasant, what with Flug and his seasickness.”

“I would have taken that over this,” responded the zombie, shifting in his seat. “At least on a boat he could go outside and throw up into the water without bothering anyone. If I let rip in this confined space, it'll suddenly seem a hell of a lot smaller.”

Ollie picked up his magazine again and flicked it straight.

“The only thing we'd have to worry about if you let rip would be dust clogging up the air vents. Anyway, I don't know what you're worrying about. Statistically speaking, air travel is by far and away the safest mode of transport.”

Stitches opened one eye which glared at his half vampire colleague.

“You're kidding me, right?”

“No.”

“You do know who the pilot is, don't you?”

“I hadn't read the crew list, no. I'm quite happy in the knowledge that they wouldn't let a total stranger into the cockpit because he felt like giving flying a go.”

“Well be that as it may, I checked. It's Hamish MacHaggis. When he was alive he was the worst pilot ever to have been in the Royal Air Force. The only thing he ever flew successfully was a toy helicopter, and he's on record as being the only pilot ever to have been shot down before getting into his plane.”

“Some kind of aviation expert now, are we?”

“No. I just like to do my research, especially when I know I'm going to be getting on one of these infernal contraptions.”

Once again Ollie put his soon-to-be-out-of-date periodical down, resigned to the fact that he wasn't going to be able to finish reading the 'Vampires. Pillaging, Ancient Mythical Beast or Effeminate, Over-Compensating Closet Homosexual' article.

“Infernal contraptions?” he laughed. “You sound like a pensioner. You'll be telling me next that things were a lot better before all these new fangled changes. I don't know what you're worried about anyway. Everybody on this flight is undead. If anything happens to us, it'll be of entirely no consequence.”

“That's easy for you to say. All you have to do is turn into a flying mouse and flap off into the moonlight, whereas I and poor old Flug here will be scattered over rather a large area. Right, Flug?”

He elbowed his vast travelling companion in the ribs, hoping to elicit some kind of response, but it was a futile gesture. Flug had his headphones on and was caught up in the middle of watching the in-flight movie, a remake of a certain space themed film that probably can't be mentioned due to legal reasons. The film that Flug was watching, however, an affectionate and inspired re-imagining of said unmentionable film, can.

It was called The Vampire Bites Back, an uplifting story in which the handsome hero, Puke Piehorder, at the behest of his tutor, the ancient and sagacious Yodel, travels across the galaxy to face his father, the evil and tyrannical Lord Harsh Trader, in a ferocious final battle bidding to deny his destiny in joining Trader running his very successful second hand spacecraft empire. It was a blockbuster of epic proportions that had won four Lecters at the recent Mortuary Awards. Flug didn't actually have a clue what was going on, of course. It was only during their recent trip that he'd discovered that there weren't little people living in the magic TV box and that you didn't have to stand outside looking up at the heavens to watch Sky Sports. Still, at least it was marginally better than the poor excuse for entertainment they'd had to endure on the outward journey. It was about a Mafia Don who was confined to a wheelchair and when all was said and done it didn't matter how convincing the actor or how grisly the torture scenes as he slaughtered his enemies and took control of his territories, there is nothing in the slightest bit intimidating about a character called 'The Quadfather'.

“Anyway,” Ollie cut in, “you're only in a bad mood because of what happened at the hotel.”

Stitches looked at him with a look of disgust and revulsion on his weathered face.

“Well, wouldn't you be?” he said.

After cracking the difficult, and quite frankly exhausting, case of Jocular's' missing lycanthropes, Ollie had taken some time to sort through some of his Uncle's vast accumulation of paperwork. There was all the usual stuff. Bills for cape cleaning (blood is hell to shift), receipts going back hundreds of years (he found one for a gas powered fang cleaner dated 1756), letters of thanks for work done and some magazine renewal forms (two of which were for publications that Ollie had (a) never heard of and (b) never wanted to hear of. They revelled under the headings of 'Bleeders Wives' and 'Double O Positives, How does all that fit in one cup?' Ollie was sure that his Uncle would only peruse these publications for the articles on the latest hansom cabs, but they went in the bin regardless). There was also the odd invitation or two. One of them was asking old Gorge to attend the Antichristening of his Demigodson, so Ollie replied to that one informing the sender of his late Uncle's demise. The second one was an invitation to attend a conference in London where all of the delegates gathered to hear lectures, join in discussion groups and get involved in workshops doing table top exercises and giving presentations. The whole weekend was organised by the BBC (British Bloodletting Corporation) and the RSPCA (Royal Society for the Preservation of Carnal Acts), two charitable bodies whose sole intent was the advancement of the modern day undead. Ollie had figured that not only would it be a chance to get away for a few days to relax and blow away the cobwebs, which in Stitches' case was the literal truth, because his armpits were a constant problem, but he might get some valuable networking done. Not a bad idea, now that he had a computer with darknet access installed in his office.

Also, being the generous soul that he was, he asked his colleagues, the bounty hunters, if they would like to join them. Sadly though, Mr Singh wouldn't shut the shop for anything less than the destruction of the entire planet (bet your life he would still open on Christmas morning, though) and Dr. Jekyll had gone into hiding after an unfortunate incident with a load of fruit, a farmer's daughter and a song by The Tractors, Eastern Europe's premier agricultural band.

So, what with Ronnie being away and Ethan not fancying it one bit ('well he does look dog tired' was Stitches' response. A response which had earned him a hearty smack to the head that had left him looking backwards for an hour or so) it was just the three of them. Stitches was actually looking forward to it, apart from the flying of course, and Flug had come along simply because he could not be left alone. Or to put it another way, he was too simple to be left alone. The last time that Ollie had allowed the giant reanimate to fend for himself had been about a month ago and chaos on a grand scale had, quite naturally, ensued. The resultant remodelling to the kitchen hadn't taken as long as he'd first thought though, but the remodelling of poor old Hector Lozenge was going to take rather a lot longer. He'd knocked on the office door in his usual drunken state, after forgetting where he lived for probably the ninth time that evening. When Flug opened it and saw the poor man standing in the rain and soaking from head to toe, he had picked him up and done the most natural thing that he could think of. Still, the new tumble dryer was a lot better than the old one, especially as it didn't have clumps of bright red but very dry skin stuck to the inside.

The only proviso for the trip though was that they had to go incognito. A half vampire, an eight foot monster and a slowly disintegrating zombie couldn't very well wander the streets of England's capital city, scaring every man, woman and child that they came across. Unless it was London fashion week of course, in which case they would have fit right in.

The first person they thought of to help them was Professor Crumble, but on reflection the idea was shelved because the chances were that they would be trying to conceal their identities by wearing market stall quality masks of comedy werewolves, and talking in very unconvincing foreign accents. That being the case they went to see Mrs. Ladle. The witch had been more than happy to help of course, and she'd gotten to work straight away preparing a transformation potion that they could take on the flight over. She concocted it in such a way that not only would it mask their true forms, but it also had the added benefit of allowing the taker, and any other undeads, to still see themselves as they truly are. Only those humans looking at them got the effect. The only thing she didn't mention was the fact that she had absolutely no idea what non-undead form they would take. Still, at least it'd be pleasant to drink. She'd added a bit of flavour because she was nice like that. Chocolate. Lovely. And it would nicely mask the taste of the ground troll shavings that was in it, which is always a bonus, because that tasted worse than anything else, ever. Even kebabs.

As they descended, the three of them had knocked back the liquid and it had worked straight away. Ollie took on the appearance of a rather well dressed city gent complete with briefcase, bowler hat, umbrella and smug, self-satisfied expression. Flug became the member of a death metal band sporting long greasy hair, demonic tattoos that covered most of his body, jeans so filthy that a Hell's Angel would have wanted to put them through the wash, and a t-shirt with the band name, OX STOMPER, emblazoned across the front.

Stitches, however, hadn't been so fortunate, and neither Ollie nor Flug had the heart to tell him what he'd become. It wasn't until they walked through the door of the hotel and the zombie bumped into someone only to hear 'Sorry love, my fault' that Ollie enlightened him.

“You know how the Stella girls dress?” he'd said, trying not to laugh.

“Oh my God, yes.”

“You make them look rather understated.”

“Oh no. So I've got to spend the next two days walking around looking like a high class call girl?”

Ollie shrugged and pursed his lips.

“Not so much high class. More like no class.”

“Great.”

“Oh, and do me a favour. Pull your top up, your boobs are falling out.”

After a highly articulate outburst and being asked to watch his/her language or risk getting thrown out, they'd gotten on with the conference.