CHAPTER ONE
THERE’S SOMETHING IN THE PAINTING
London is a city haunted by its past, by the cold facts of history and the hot fever dreams of legend. A city built on bones and ghosts, dreams and myths, and all the other things that refuse to be forgotten.
I’m Jack Daimon, and it’s my job to make the past behave.
I walked through a door that appeared out of nowhere, and just like that I was strolling through Westminster late at night, with a map in my head telling me where I needed to be. The pavements seemed more than usually crowded as I headed for the Tate Gallery at Millbrook, and whatever Bad Thing was waiting for me there. It’s my job to defuse the supernatural equivalent of unexploded bombs: all the weird artefacts and infernal devices left behind by forgotten civilisations and peoples we’re better off without. I protect the present, from the sins of times past.
I was wearing my usual black goat’s-skin leather jacket over a black T-shirt, workman’s jeans, and stout walking boots. For me, fashion and style have always been things other people do. I was in my late twenties, in good enough shape, and with the kind of face that doesn’t get noticed. A backpack over my shoulder held the tools of my trade: cold iron and cursed silver, fresh garlic and bottled wolfsbane. A mandrake root with a screaming face, a Hand of Glory made from the severed hand of the last politician to be secretly hanged in England . . . and an athame, a witch knife that can cut through all the things other blades can’t touch.
When I finally got to the Tate, it was closed. All the windows were dark, like so many empty eyes, and two uniformed policemen stood guard at the front door. Even at this late hour a major tourist attraction like the Tate should still have been open for business, but the few hopeful souls who did approach the police were politely but firmly turned away. No visitors, no exceptions, try again tomorrow.
Since I was here, that had to mean whatever had gone wrong was way out of the ordinary and more than usually dangerous. I wasn’t surprised. All art galleries are packed full of things that have been allowed to hang around for far too long. Menaces from the past, preserved in canvas and paint, stone and marble. Just waiting to wake up angry and bite someone’s head off.
I headed straight for the two policemen, and they stood a little straighter despite themselves. Walk like an officer and smile like a predator, and the world will fall over itself to be helpful. I crashed to a halt and looked the policemen over like I was thinking of trading them in for something more efficient.
“Hi, guys! You can relax now; I’ve arrived.”
“I’m afraid the Tate is closed, sir,” the older policeman said carefully. “The lights have failed, and no one can be allowed in until the problem has been dealt with.”
“That’s why I’m here,” I said.
I flashed them one of the many false IDs I’ve accumulated from all the various organisations I’ve helped out. Sometimes they offer me money as a thank you, but I always go for the favour. You get more mileage out of a favour. My Tax Inspector ID opens the most doors, but for the Tate I was a Detective Inspector from New Scotland Yard. One of the policemen quickly unlocked the door, and the other politely offered me a flashlight. I accepted it with a friendly smile, because at the end of the day we’re all just working stiffs, and then I strode into the Tate to poke danger in the eye one more time.
The lobby was dimly illuminated by streetlight falling through the windows like half-hearted spotlights. I pointed my flashlight here and there, but nothing moved in the great open space. The air was still, and the silence was heavy enough to cover a multitude of threats. I did wonder if I might have arrived too late, and missed all the excitement . . . But it didn’t feel that way. Something up ahead was lying in wait, and watching to see what I would do.
I strode on through the Tate, passing quickly through deserted corridors with tall ceilings and pleasantly decorated stone pillars. Important works of art covered the walls, reduced to shades of grey in the obscuring gloom, and there were any number of statues, ancient and modern. I gave them plenty of room. Never trust anything that can stand that still; it’s just waiting for a chance to ambush you.
I finally rounded a corner and someone else’s flashlight hit me in the face. I stopped, and held up my fake ID. I’m a great believer in being polite and reasonable, right up to the point when it stops working. After that, I have no problem with becoming suddenly violent and completely unreasonable.
A harried-looking dog-handler was dragged forward by his Alsatian as it strained against its leash and growled loudly at me. I showed the handler my ID, and he made his dog sit. The animal didn’t want to, but it finally slumped down and glowered at me suspiciously.
“Sorry about that, sir,” said the handler. “We still haven’t found any of the missing people, and the dogs are getting a bit tense.”
“How many teams do you have looking?” I said, as though I understood what we were talking about.
“Six dogs and their handlers, sir. There’s more on the way; we understand this has top priority. Then there’s twenty uniforms from the local stations, and the entire Tate security strength. If the missing visitors are still here, we’ll find them.”
“Who’s in charge of the operation?” I said.
“Some Government type, sir. Wouldn’t even tell us which Department he represents.”
“Did he at least give you a name?”
“Oh yes, sir. George Roberts.”
“Of course,” I said. “It would have to be him.”
I could always trust George to be right in the middle of whatever he was investigating. And if I had to deal with an authority figure, I wasn’t too upset it was him. I knew where I was, with George.
I followed the dog-handler’s directions to a large viewing area, and there was George, standing at his ease in a pool of light generated by a circle of battery-powered lamps. He was giving all his attention to two paintings in particular, and didn’t even glance in my direction, though I had no doubt he knew I was there. The young woman at his side fixed me with a challenging glare. I gave her my best Don’t you wish you were somebody? smile, put my flashlight away, and started forward. George finally condescended to turn just enough to nod in my direction.
Well past retirement age, his back was still straight and his gaze was still sharp. Medium height, and rather more than medium weight, George was dark skinned with close-cropped grey hair, and always wore an Old Etonian tie with his sharp city suit, because wherever he happened to be, he wanted everyone to know he was the man in charge. He didn’t move from in front of the paintings, because he was waiting for me to come and join him, so I did. I like to allow people their little victories; it makes them so much easier to work with. George showed me his polite smile, the one that means nothing at all because it never touches his eyes.
“So good of you to grace us with your presence, Jack. I can always use another warm body to throw to the wolves.”
I just nodded. “If you’re happy to see me, this must be a really bad one.”
“There are . . . complications.”
As Head of the Department For Uncanny Inquiries, George dealt with the kind of threats most people don’t even know exist. He had power beyond the dreams of politicians, and only abused it when he felt like it. I’ve known George on and off for years. We’re not friends, but we can fake it enough to get the job done.
“I do feel easier for you being here, Jack,” he murmured, as we shook hands just long enough to get it over with. “How much do you know?”
“Only that visitors to the Tate have gone missing, and can’t be found.”
George considered me thoughtfully. “We should work together more often. Your father and I often joined forces, to pull the world’s fat out of the fire.”
“I’m not my father.”
George just nodded. “I sent a wreath to the funeral, on behalf of the Department. I didn’t think it would be in good taste to make a personal appearance.”
I shrugged. “It’s not as if there was a body to bury.” I glanced at the woman standing beside him. “Is this all you brought as backup? You usually travel with enough firepower to intimidate a small nation.”
“We got caught with our pants down on this one,” he admitted. “By the time word reached me on what had happened here, I’d already dispatched most of my forces to the Orkney Islands, to investigate a ring of Standing Stones that had changed their positions overnight. The locals claimed the Stones had been dancing again.”
“Can’t be anything important,” I said. “Or I’d be there, instead of here.”
The young woman at George’s side decided she’d been patient long enough and cleared her throat, loudly and just a bit dangerously. She had an athletic build, a horsey face, and jet black hair. Her power-cut business suit gave her an air of someone ready to walk through anything or anyone who got in her way. I just knew we weren’t going to get along. George nodded politely in her general direction.
“Allow me to present my new second-in-command, Miriam Patterson.”
I gave Miriam my best We don’t have to be enemies; it’s up to you smile. She sniffed loudly, and scowled at George.
“Why has this person been granted access to such a restricted area?”
“Because he’s Jack Daimon, and we need him,” George said patiently.
“What makes him so important?”
“Jack is the current Outsider,” said George.
Miriam studied me carefully, as though she was thinking about buying me and wondering if I’d break easily.
“I always thought the Outsider would be scarier,” she said finally.
“I am,” I said. “When I need to be.” I looked reproachfully at George. “She’s your new second-in-command, and you haven’t briefed her about me?”
“I thought I’d let you give the speech. You do it so much better than I ever could.”
I met Miriam’s icy gaze with my most self-assured smile.
“Think of me as a supernatural trouble-shooter, keeping a lid on the leavings of history. It’s my job to deal with the last remnants of a time when Humanity wasn’t even close to being top dog. The old gods may be gone, but some of the things they used to fight their wars got left behind.”
“I don’t believe in the supernatural,” said Miriam.
“It believes in you.”
“The paranormal is just science we don’t properly understand yet!”
“Whatever gets you through the night,” I said diplomatically.
“No squabbling, children,” said George. “Jack, Tate security hit the panic button three hours ago, when twenty-two visitors were reported missing. Surveillance cameras confirm they haven’t left the building, but we can’t find a trace of them anywhere.”
“When did the lights go out?” I said.
“The moment people started leaving the Tate,” said George.
I nodded thoughtfully, because that helps me look like I know what I’m doing.
“Any clues?”
“The only surveillance cameras to stop working were the ones covering this particular area,” said George. “And the only new additions are these two pieces by the Victorian artist Richard Dadd: one quite famous, the other appearing for the very first time.”
“Someone used the Orkneys as a distraction,” said Miriam. “So we’d have no one to send when people started disappearing into the woodwork.”
“Who’d want to piss in your fountain that badly?” I said.
“We police the paranormal,” said George. “We’re never going to be short of enemies.”
I nodded, acknowledging the point, and looked around the open area. I could still feel the Bad Thing watching me, from some unseen hiding place.
“You look spooked, Outsider,” said Miriam. “What do you know that we don’t?”
“Jack doesn’t approve of museums,” said George.
“I have a problem with any place where artefacts from the past are on open display,” I said. “All the spoils of Empire, brought back from the far corners of the Earth . . . not realising how many of them were Trojan Horses. Pots full of poltergeists, weapons looking for a chance to possess a new owner, and jewels with hidden agendas. The past, forever revenging itself on the present.”
Miriam looked at George. “He does like to make speeches, doesn’t he?”
“You have no idea,” said George.
“And don’t get me started on paintings!” I said, aware my voice was rising and not giving a damn. “Take Rossetti’s “The Highgate Lamia.” He made it look like just another pretty face, but the model who sat for him wasn’t even a little bit human.”
“What was wrong with the painting?” said Miriam.
“If you looked it in the eye, it ate your soul,” said George. “Which is why “The Highgate Lamia” is now a lost masterpiece.” He smiled briefly. “It did burn very prettily.”
“And let’s not forget the Roman statue that walked the British Museum at night, looking for people to strangle with its cold marble hands,” I said. “The trouble with history is that it’s not always content to stay in the past. All ancient artefacts and works of art should be destroyed. Because you can never be sure when they’ll turn on you.”
“And how would we explain that to the general public?” said George.
“If people knew the truth, they’d trust us to do the right thing.”
“The public?” said George. “Have you met them?”
“You’re such a snob, George.”
“Doesn’t mean I’m not right.”
I gave my full attention to the two paintings.
“Do you need me to tell you what they are?” said Miriam.
“The one on the left is ‘The Fairy Feller’s Master Stroke,’” I said. “The painter was locked up as a criminal lunatic after he murdered his father. His early works were dainty fairy scenes from Shakespeare: Titania and Bottom reclining at their ease. Chocolate box art. But this . . . is like a view into another world. A whole court of fairies, gathered to observe an event of horrible and irrevocable significance. A turning point in history, that no one remembers any more.”
“Oh come on!” said Miriam. “There’s no such thing as fairies.”
“Don’t tell them that,” said George.
Miriam sniffed loudly. “You’ll be looking under the bed for the bogeyman next.”
“That would be the first place I’d look,” said George. “Provided I had a big enough club.”
I gave George my best thoughtful look. “I’m missing something. You aren’t normally this patient with your subordinates. Why are you being so nice to this one?”
“Because Miriam has been chosen to succeed me, as the next Head of the Department,” George said calmly.
I took a moment, to consider the implications.
“So she’s a political appointment?”
“Aren’t we all,” said George. “I’m quite looking forward to stepping down. I only hung on this long because I was waiting for someone who could handle the responsibility.”
“And you think she can?”
George shrugged. “Other people seem to think so.”
“What kind of people?”
“None of your business, Outsider,” said Miriam.
I considered her carefully, and she glared right back at me.
“If you don’t believe in the supernatural,” I said, “what do you believe in, that makes you want to run the Department?”
“Protecting people,” said Miriam.
I nodded. It was a good answer.
“Maybe we can work together,” I said. “Try to keep up.”
“I was going to say the same to you,” said Miriam.
We shared a smile, almost despite ourselves, and I turned to the second painting. The title card said simply “The Faerie War.” Two huge armies of elves, going for each other’s throats in an unknown setting. A living hell of inhuman fury and vicious carnage. You could almost hear the screams. Dadd’s style was unmistakable, but this canvas was much bigger than his usual, some twenty feet in length and almost four feet high.
“Where did this come from?” I said, not looking away.
“It was only recently discovered, and donated to the Tate,” said George.
“Like dropping a grenade in a fish pond,” I said. I moved slowly down the length of the painting, trying to make sense of the staggering amount of detail crammed into one moment of battle. “How could Dadd have painted something this big without his keepers noticing?”
“He couldn’t,” George said flatly. “There must have been official collusion at some level.”
Light and Dark elves slaughtered each other on a great volcanic plain, under a sky of roiling purple. The sun was a fierce white furnace. The Light elves leapt and pounced in their intricately carved bone armour, while the Dark elves were more like jungle cats, malicious and deadly in their armour of jade and coral. Swords and axes burned brightly as they rose and fell, while blood ran in rivers across the broken ground.
“That is not our world,” I said finally. “The Fae had to go somewhere else to fight their war, because they knew it would tear the Earth apart.”
“You think we’re looking at something that actually happened?” said Miriam. “The one thing we can be sure of in this case is that Richard Dadd was barking mad!”
“Sometimes madness helps you see things more clearly,” I said.
“I have sent for special equipment,” said George. “So we can take a look at what’s going on beneath the surface of the painting.”
“If you think that will help,” I said.
“Why wouldn’t it?” said Miriam.
She sounded honestly interested, so I kept my voice calm and reasonable.
“Because science can only take you so far. After that you need people like me. Or possibly Weird Harald.”
“Who the hell is Weird Harald?” said Miriam.
George made a quiet embarrassed noise. “A consultant, attached to the Department. Very good at learning secrets by the laying on of hands. Unfortunately, he can’t turn it off. Which is why he spends so much of his time in a straitjacket, in the most secure mental institution we could find.”
“How long before you could get him here?” I said.
George concentrated on the painting, so he wouldn’t have to look at me. “Harald is currently doped to the eyeballs on industrial-strength mood-stabilisers, and chained to the wall of his cell. He was presented with something unusual from a prehistoric burial mound . . . and by the time they could drag him down, he’d killed thirty-seven people just by looking at them. We have exorcists working in eight-hour shifts, but it’ll still be some time before we can make use of him again.”
I just nodded. I’d heard worse. “And you think this painting is connected to the missing people . . . ?”
“The surveillance cameras are working everywhere else,” said George. “That can’t be a coincidence.”
“Have you tried damaging the painting, to get a reaction?” I said.
“Don’t you dare!” bellowed an outraged voice behind us. “You are talking about a newly discovered national treasure!”
I took my time looking round, and discovered two new figures hovering on the edge of the lamplight. I raised an eyebrow at George.
“I was wondering when they’d turn up again to annoy me,” he said, not bothering to lower his voice. “Jack Daimon, meet Hugh Wittington and Amanda Fielding.”
Hugh strode forward, doing his best to look like someone in charge. Amanda followed on behind, all smiles and good cheer. A tall untidy scarecrow of a man, Hugh was fighting a losing battle with middle-age, in a battered tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows and a bow tie that was almost aggressively askew. He had a thin face, a heavy scowl, and floppy grey hair. The attitude was the real giveaway; a bureaucrat who wanted us to think he was an academic.
Amanda hit me with a wide smile, and I lost all interest in Hugh. Amanda looked to be in her mid twenties, with long blonde hair, a strikingly pretty face, and startlingly blue eyes. Only a little over five feet tall, her stylish Little Black Dress had been expertly cut to show off her figure to its best advantage, and her spiked stiletto heels beat out a rapid tattoo on the floor.
“Hi!” she said brightly. “What do you think of our new painting?”
“It does draw you in,” I said.
“I discovered it,” Amanda said proudly.
“Any chance you could put it back where you found it?” I said.
“This masterpiece is my responsibility!” Hugh said loudly.
I looked at him. “Good. We’re going to need someone to carry the can for what’s happened here.”
George cleared his throat loudly, and then did it again until I looked at him.
“You should take something for that,” I said. “It sounds painful.”
“Mr. Wittington represents the Tate’s Directors,” said George, just a bit pointedly. “While Miss Fielding has specialist knowledge of Dadd’s art.”
“I acquired ‘The Faerie War’ for the Tate,” said Hugh. “And I demand that I be included in all decisions regarding it.”
George looked at him until he stopped talking. “If this painting really is responsible for the disappearance of twenty-two people, attaching your name to it might not be the wisest decision.”
Hugh pouted like a sulky child, and scowled at Amanda. “I should never have let you talk me into displaying it.”
“I didn’t have to,” she said sweetly. “You jumped at the chance to cover yourself in reflected glory.”
“I refuse to believe that this important new acquisition has anything to do with today’s unfortunate events,” Hugh said loudly.
“You didn’t even want the authorities called in,” said Amanda.
“He actually tried to deny us entry,” George murmured to me. “I had to let Miriam reason with him.”
“She stuck a gun in my face!” said Hugh, very loudly.
Miriam surprised me then, with a mischievous smile. “Shouldn’t have called me a soulless functionary.”
“Not on a first date,” I agreed.
Hugh stabbed a quivering finger at me. “I demand to know who this person is!”
“He’s with me,” said George.
“You wish,” I said. I smiled at Amanda. She was very easy to smile at. “I’m something of an expert in these matters.”
“Me too!” Amanda said happily. “I know all kinds of interesting things!”
“Good,” I said. “Why don’t you start with how you acquired this painting?”
Amanda shrugged. “Some builders restoring an old section of Broadmoor hospital found the canvas rolled up behind a false wall. One of them recognised Richard Dadd’s style and got word to me, and I made arrangements for the painting to be brought here. Hugh was only too happy to organise the extensive publicity that brought so many people to the Tate today.”
Hugh started to say something, caught George’s eye, and thought better of it. Amanda carried on as though she hadn’t noticed.
“We should have shut the whole building down the moment it became clear people were going missing, but Hugh dug his heels in. This was his big day, and he didn’t want it ruined.”
Hugh thrust both hands deep into his pockets and stared determinedly off into the distance. Miriam scowled at “The Faerie War.”
“Share your expertise, Outsider. What are we dealing with here? Is the painting haunted, or possessed, or . . . ?”
“That is not the official position of the Tate!” Hugh said immediately, and then went back to sulking when everyone ignored him.
“It could be some kind of gateway,” I said. “Dragging people in, so figures in the scene can get out.”
“What are you talking about?” said Hugh, pulled back into the conversation despite himself. “I thought you were here to help!”
“We are,” said George. “Now do pipe down, there’s a good chap, or I’ll let Miriam reason with you again. If you’re not comfortable with the way we do things, feel free to go and make yourself useful somewhere else.”
The veins stood out on Hugh’s forehead, and he started to sputter something. Miriam pulled back her jacket to reveal a holstered gun, and Hugh subsided, but he didn’t leave. Interestingly, Amanda didn’t seem in the least impressed by Miriam or her gun. I filed that thought away, and nodded to Miriam.
“If some of the elves had escaped from their War and gone walkabout, someone would have noticed. And if people had been sucked into the painting to replace the elves, we’d see them in the scene.”
“Then what is going on?” said Miriam.
“Creating a painting is like an invocation,” I said. “Calling something into existence that wasn’t there before. Sometimes the caller gets more than they bargained for. You’d be surprised what lurks in the background of some very famous paintings.”
I started rummaging through my backpack.
“What are you looking for?” said Miriam. “Your magic wand?”
“It’s in for repairs,” I said. “Clutch kept slipping.”
I took out my athame, and shrugged the pack back over my shoulder. My witch knife is two feet long with a leaf-shaped blade, and ancient sigils etched into the steel. Miriam frowned at the sigils as though she recognised them, and not in a good way.
I went right up to “The Faerie War” and moved slowly along the canvas, leaning in close so I could examine individual figures in the battle. Every face seemed unique, every death utterly real, as though the scene had been painted from life. When I finally reached the end of the canvas, I stepped back and considered the composition as a whole. Despite hundreds of elves caught up in the madness of the moment, there were still definite lines of sight built into the scene to guide the viewer’s eye to the most significant figures and events.
“Well?” George said quietly, not wanting to break my concentration. “What do you see, Jack?”
“It’s what I’m not seeing,” I said. I pointed to one particular spot, right in the middle of the action. “There’s a gap in the composition where something should be happening, but isn’t.”
Everyone pressed around me, trying to see what I saw. Amanda squeezed in so close I could smell her perfume, rich and earthy. Her arm pressed familiarly against mine. I didn’t move away.
“I suppose that could be a gap,” Hugh said finally. “But it’s too small to be anything important.”
“Big enough to get my hand in,” I said.
“Don’t you dare!” Hugh raised himself to his full height, the better to look down his nose at George. “I demand you order your man not to interfere with a national treasure!”
“Jack goes his own way,” said George. “That’s what he’s here for.”
“It’s possible Dadd never completed the painting,” said Miriam. “He didn’t finish ‘The Fairy Feller’s Master Stroke.’”
“You can tell that’s incomplete because the bottom is just bare canvas,” I said. “ ‘The Faerie War’ goes right up to the edges. No, there’s something very wrong about that gap . . . It feels like there is something there, but we’re being prevented from seeing it.”
Hugh frowned, trying to keep up. “Are you saying someone has altered this painting?”
“Yes,” I said. “From the inside.”
“What is this man talking about?” said Hugh, just a bit desperately.
“George,” I said. “I need everyone out of here. And yes, that includes you and Miriam.”
She bristled immediately. “Why do I have to leave?”
I nodded at the painting. “Because I’m about to punch a really dangerous thing, just to see what happens.”
It took all of George’s authority to get the others moving, and even then only as far as the edge of the lamplight. I called up my Sight, that lets me see the world as it really is, and focused on the gap in the action; suddenly a deep dark hole was falling away into the painting. I had to brace both hands on either side of the gap to keep from being pulled in. Somewhere at the bottom of the hole, I could hear people screaming. I forced my inner eye shut, and stepped quickly back.
“Jack?” said George. “What just happened?”
I gestured sharply for him to stay where he was, and took a moment before I answered, so I could be sure my voice would sound calm and assured. People really don’t like it when the bomb disposal expert sounds worried.
“The missing people are trapped inside the painting. The gap must have pulled them in when they got too close.”
“Then why didn’t anyone notice?” said Miriam. “Whole crowds of people have filed through this area today.”
“Whatever is hiding in the painting was powerful enough to shut down this area’s surveillance systems, and turn off all the Tate’s lights,” I said. “I doubt it would have much trouble concealing the disappearance of a few people at a time.”
“Do you have any idea what we’re dealing with?” said Miriam. Her hand had dropped to the gun under her jacket.
“It’s abducted twenty-two people,” I said. “The only thing we can be sure of, is that it’s a monster.” I looked steadily at George. “I’ll do everything I can to get them out, but if that turns out not to be possible, destroy the painting. Before whatever’s in there becomes strong enough to force its way into our world.”
Hugh’s voice rose dangerously high. “You are talking about a priceless work of art! I will not stand for it being vandalised, just because of your lunatic delusions!”
He broke off as Miriam stuck her gun in his ribs. It was a pretty big gun. All the colour dropped out of Hugh’s face, and his mouth snapped shut. Amanda looked like she wanted to applaud. George sighed quietly, and nodded to me.
“I can’t get my people back from the Orkneys in time, so all I have is you. Don’t let me down, Jack.”
“You always did fight dirty,” I said.
“Whatever works,” said George.
I turned back to the painting. The elves were still busy slaughtering each other, with weapons far more dangerous than anything I had. Never mind what else was in there, hiding in plain sight and waiting to see what I would do. I smiled briefly. If being the Outsider was easy, everyone would be doing it. I opened my inner eye, and let the gap drag me in.
For a time there was nothing but darkness, and falling. Like jumping out of a plane without a parachute, or bungee-jumping without the rope. And then suddenly the fall was over. No warning and no impact; I was just standing somewhere, alone in the dark.
The athame’s hilt pulsed in my hand like a living thing, and I focused my Sight through it. The steel blade shone fiercely, surrounding me with a pool of vivid azure light. And one by one people came stumbling forward out of the dark, their faces drawn and haggard. They blinked painfully at the new light, tears streaming down their cheeks. The circle of light quickly filled up with missing people, intact and unharmed. They all wanted to talk at once, and it took me a while before I could calm them down enough to get their story.
It seemed they had all moved in close to the new Dadd painting to admire the detail, and then the world disappeared, replaced by utter darkness. And even though they’d called out desperately, and sometimes thought they could hear other voices calling in return, they couldn’t find anyone else. The only thing they could be sure of . . . was that there was something else in the dark, with them.
They had no idea how long they’d been gone. They thanked me endlessly, almost delirious with joy at the thought their ordeal was finally over. Which made it that much harder, when I had to tell them that it wasn’t.
“I know a way out,” I said. “But I can’t take you with me. I have to leave you here, just for a while, so I can make arrangements to get all of you home.”
The crowd fell silent, staring at me with huge eyes and quivering mouths like disappointed children.
“You’ll be safe, as long as you stay in the light,” I said quickly. “For now, I need you to form a human chain. Everyone take hold of someone else’s hand and, whatever happens, don’t let go.”
They grabbed each other’s hands and held on tightly, gazing at me trustingly. I knelt down and stabbed my athame into the ground, anchoring the circle of light so it would still be there after I was gone. There was some danger in that, because light in a place like this could attract all manner of things, but I couldn’t leave them in the dark. That would have been cruel. I jerked the athame free, got to my feet and looked around.
“I’ll send you a sign. You’ll know it when you see it. And that’s your way home.”
“Please,” said a young woman with fragile eyes. “Don’t forget us.”
“Never,” I said. I showed them my most confident smile. “Hang in there, people. Because saving the day is what I do.”
I cut into the darkness with my athame. Blazing blue light followed the blade, outlining a door, making it real and solid. I hit the door with my shoulder, and plunged through.
I staggered and almost fell as light filled my eyes, but George was quickly there to hold me up. Miriam hurried past us to keep a watchful eye on the painting, while Amanda looked anxiously into my face to make sure I was okay. I managed a smile for her. Hugh stayed at the edge of the lamplight, his eyes almost popping out of his head.
“You vanished!” he said loudly. “And then you reappeared again! That’s not possible!”
“Congratulations,” said George. “You have just taken your first step into a larger world.”
Miriam made a seriously upset sound, and we all turned to look. Where the gap in the composition had been there was now just a patch of nothingness.
“What is that?” said Miriam.
“Something just raised the drawbridge,” I said.
“What happened while you were inside the painting?” said George. “We couldn’t see you anywhere.”
“I wasn’t in the battle,” I said. “There was nothing but darkness, until I conjured up some light. But I did find the missing people.”
“Were they all right?” said Amanda.
My legs were starting to feel steady again, so I nodded to George. He immediately let go of my arm.
“They’re fine,” I said. “Scared out of their minds, of course.”
“Then why did you leave them in there?” said Miriam.
“The only exit I could make was one they couldn’t use,” I said. I gestured with my athame, before slipping it in my belt. “This only works for members of my family line.”
“Then how are we supposed to get them out?” said Miriam.
“I have a plan,” I said.
“Of course you do,” said George.
I stood before “The Faerie War,” trying to focus on the new gap. It kept trying to convince me it wasn’t there; nothing to see, nobody home. I reached out until my fingertips touched the gap, and then pushed hard until they sank in past the surface of the painting. The gap tried to force me out, but I piled on the pressure until most of my arm had disappeared. And then another hand grabbed hold of mine, and I took a firm hold and pulled back as hard as I could.
First my arm and then my hand emerged from the painting, and then a man burst out of the canvas, followed by a second man hanging grimly onto his hand. I kept pulling with all my strength as I backed away, and one by one the human chain of missing people came flying out of the painting.
They piled up on the floor, sprawling all over each other, exhausted and shaking violently from their ordeal. Still holding hands, terrified to let go in case they might get pulled back into the darkness. They looked around them and then started to laugh breathlessly, clinging to each other like drowning people pulled from the sea. I checked quickly, to make sure all twenty-two had made it out, and then jerked my hand out of the first man’s grasp, breaking the link. And then I hurried back to stand before the gap in the painting, witch blade at the ready. Just in case something tried to follow them out.
George, Miriam and Amanda helped the returned men and women to their feet, talking kindly and reassuringly. To his credit, even Hugh came forward to help. The rescued people seemed to be in their right minds, and considering everything they’d been through that was a triumph in itself, but it wouldn’t be long before they started asking questions. I called quietly to George, and he came over to join me.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll make sure they won’t remember any of this. It’s the kinder option.”
“Get them out of here,” I said quietly. “We still have work to do.”
George went to the edge of the lamplight and called off into the gloom. Half a dozen uniforms quickly appeared, gaped at the returned people, and then snapped to attention when George raised his voice.
“Take them to the nearest hospital. No one is to question them about their experiences until my people arrive to take over. No media access, and watch the hospital staff; everyone’s got a camera phone these days. Most importantly, none of these people are to leave the hospital until I say it’s all right for them to go.”
The security men nodded quickly, because everyone does when George starts giving orders in that tone of voice. They gathered up the returned men and women with professional kindness, and led them away.
“Mr. Wittington, Miss Fielding,” said George. “Thank you for your assistance, but we can take it from here.”
Hugh looked at him steadily. “I have no idea what just happened here, and I don’t want to know. Just deal with this, whatever it is, and give me my gallery back.”
He turned on his heel and stalked away. Amanda smiled at me.
“I’ll go and make him a nice cup of tea. Very good for shock, tea. I assume someone will be along later, to provide some kind of explanation?”
“Somebody will definitely talk to you,” said George.
Amanda shot me one last dazzling smile, and set off after Hugh. I turned back to “The Faerie War.” George and Miriam moved in on either side of me.
“Whatever it is,” I said. “It’s still inside the painting. Watching, and waiting.”
“Are you sure you can’t get me in there?” said Miriam. “I could reason with it. I have lots of ammunition.”
“My ways only work for me,” I said. “Which is why I have to go back in and finish this.”
George started to say something, but I cut him off.
“I know. Don’t damage the national treasure.”
I cut a door into the air between me and the painting. The athame’s blade glowed brightly as it sliced through the surface of the world.
“Oh, I want one of those!” said Miriam.
“Not on our budget,” said George.
I kicked the door open and strode through, leaving the world behind.
The air was hot and humid, and the fierce white sun blazed in the alien sky as the Faerie War raged around me. Light and Dark elves howled their battle songs as they went to the slaughter like starving men to a feast. Winged elves swooped back and forth over the battleground, throwing themselves at each other like exotic fighting fish. Elves duelled with glowing longswords, or dismembered each other with weapons that shone too brightly for me to look at, but none of them came anywhere near me. Because this was their War; I wasn’t a part of it.
Cut off hands scuttled across the broken ground like pale spiders. Eyes rolled in severed heads, while the mouths shrieked silent threats. Headless bodies stumbled through the fighting, still striking out at everything within reach. Because elves don’t die easily.
And then the Bad Thing appeared. Huge and vast, like a mountain walking, it towered so far up into the sky I couldn’t even see the top of it. Horrid and malignant, its shape was so complex it was actually painful to human eyes. Some ancient god or devil, from a place where all the rules were different, it strode through the fighting armies as though they didn’t exist. As though it was the only real thing in this world, and everything else was just ghosts and shadows.
It was coming straight for me, and I knew I didn’t have anything in my pack that could hurt it or even slow it down, so I just turned and plunged back through the door I’d made. Back to the safety and sanity of my own world.
I staggered away from the painting, never taking my eyes off it. George and Miriam shouted questions at me, alarmed by the expression on my face. I raised a hand to stop them, and took a deep breath to calm myself.
“What happened?” said George. “You were only in there for a few moments. What did you see?”
“And why do you look like you’re about to fill your trousers?” said Miriam.
“I don’t know what I saw,” I said. “It was like a mountain of flesh, vile and awful . . . ”
“Okay,” said Miriam. “Somebody needs a time out and a stiff drink.”
“It’s in the painting and it wants out!” I said sharply. “Something so big it could break our world just by walking on it!”
“Perhaps we should destroy the painting after all,” said George. “The nation has enough treasures.”
“We don’t have the time!” I said.
“The only exit point is the gap we saw earlier,” said Miriam. “It would have to shrink right down to get through something that small, and then I could just shoot it in the head.” She stopped, and looked at me. “Does it have a head?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I couldn’t see up that high.”
“If it’s that big and powerful,” said George, “why did it need to abduct all those people?”
“To forge a connection between its world and ours,” I said.
“But we’ve taken the people back,” said Miriam.
“The connection still exists,” I said. “I reenforced it, when I made a door to get me into the painting.”
A great force leapt out of the canvas and pulled me forward, slamming me up against the gap in the painting. I stabbed my athame into the canvas and clung to the hilt with both hands, anchoring myself, but the gap was steadily widening. The strength of the pull increased, and George and Miriam hit the painting on either side of me, equally helpless in the grip of that terrible gravity. I yelled for them to grab hold of my arms, and they both clung to me with desperate strength.
“What is it?” Miriam said loudly. “What’s happening?”
“The Bad Thing is trying to drag us in!” I yelled. “So it can use us to get out!”
“Then do something!” said George.
The air howled as it rushed past us, drawn in by a gravitational force so strong nothing could resist it. Miriam drew her gun and emptied it into the gap, but the bullets didn’t affect the pull at all. And then Amanda Fielding called my name, her voice rising above the shriek of disappearing air. I looked back, to see her clinging to a wall right on the edge of the lamplight.
“Use the painting against the painting!” she yelled.
“How?” I yelled back.
Amanda let go of the wall and allowed the terrible gravity to drag her forward. Her shoes screeched across the marble floor as she struggled to hold herself upright, and angle herself toward the right-hand end of the painting. When she finally slammed into it, she tore the end away from the wall and started rolling up the canvas, one foot at a time, moving steadily inwards. I saw what she was doing, and felt a rush of hope. God bless lateral thinking and all who sail in her.
I yelled to George and Miriam to let go of my arms and grab the athame. Once I was sure they had a firm grip on the hilt, I grabbed the top of the canvas and hauled my way along the painting. I had to fight the pull from the gap with all my strength, my muscles straining, but finally I reached the left-hand end. I yanked it away from the wall, rolled up the canvas, and moved steadily inwards.
Amanda and I closed up the painting like a giant scroll. The fierce gravity kept trying to drag us in, even as we closed in on the gap from both sides, and it began to disappear inside the growing scroll. I yelled for George and Miriam to let go of the athame, and the moment they did I yanked the knife out of the canvas, and Amanda and I forced the two rolled-up ends together.
The pull broke off, and just like that, it was over.
We all took a moment to lean on each other, and get our breathing back under control. Amanda grinned at me, and I grinned at her. The rolled-up painting stood on its end between us, harmless and quiet.
“Well,” said George, looking down at his feet as though surprised to find they were holding onto the floor again. “That was interesting.”
“Find a really big furnace,” I said. “And feed this thing into it until there’s nothing left but ashes. Then scatter the ashes in running water, just to be sure.”
George smiled. “Hugh really isn’t going to be happy.”
“That’s just a bonus,” I said.
Miriam looked at Amanda. “How did you know what to do?”
Amanda shrugged. “The painting didn’t pose a threat all the time it was behind that wall at Broadmoor. Rolling it up again just seemed the obvious way to go.”
I presented the canvas to George, who accepted it with good grace.
“I’ll take care of whatever clean-up may be necessary,” he said.
I raised an eyebrow. “Are you trying to tell me I’m no longer needed?”
“For the moment,” said George.
I met his gaze squarely. “Destroy the painting, George. Don’t get clever, or ambitious. You didn’t see what was in there.”
“Do feel free to visit us at Department Headquarters,” George said easily. “You’d be made very welcome, just like your father.”
“I’m not my father,” I said.
“More’s the pity,” said George.
He turned away to talk to Miriam, indicating that our conversation was at an end. Amanda tapped me lightly on the shoulder.
“Jack, I have seen some incredible things this evening . . . And I want to know more.”
I smiled at her. “I could use a nice sit down, and a whole bunch of drinks.”
“I know a bar,” she said demurely.
“Of course you do,” I said. I looked at her thoughtfully. “Why did you come back?”
She grinned. “Because I hadn’t seen enough.”
“Hold it!” said Miriam. “You can leave, Outsider, but she’s not going anywhere until I’ve had a chance to debrief her.”
Amanda looked at me. “Does that mean what I think it means?”
“Almost certainly not,” I said.
“Wouldn’t make any difference,” said Amanda. “I never wear any.”
Miriam grabbed Amanda by the arm, and hauled her off to one side. I looked at George.
“Why was Miriam chosen to take over the Department?”
He shrugged. “She wanted the job enough to fight off all the other contenders. Which is usually a good sign. She’ll spend the next few months shadowing me, and then I’m off to Cornwall to grow roses. Or possibly bees.”
A raised voice caught our attention. Miriam was firing questions at Amanda, who was doing a lot of shrugging. I got the feeling that Amanda was prepared to go on shrugging until the cows came home and trampled all over Miriam.
“How do you feel about her taking over?” I asked George. “Do you think she’s up to it?”
“No,” said George. “But then neither was I, when they first dropped me in the deep end and threw a shark in after me. The Head of the Department is always going to be a political appointee, but the job has a way of making you its own.”
“You say that like it’s a good thing.”
We realised it had suddenly gone quiet. Miriam had given up and had turned her back on Amanda so she could stare off into the gloom and sulk. Amanda smiled at me expectantly.
“Get out of here, Jack,” said George. “Take that nice young lady for a drink. You’re entitled to a life, outside your work.”
“A life?” I said. “When have I ever had time for one of those?”