Read Drinking Midnight Wine Online
Authors: Simon R. Green
Drinking Midnight Wine (10 page)
Dead men came lurching out from between the dead trees, looking for him with their cold unblinking eyes, but he was too fast for them, racing through Blackacre Wood with puffs of ashes flying up every time his feet hit the ground. One of the dead might have been Reed—he didn’t stop to look. More figures appeared ahead of him, closing together to block his way. His Brother roared, filling the aether with mental static, and the corpses driven by Hob’s will were suddenly blind and uncertain. Leo raced right through them, and they couldn’t even touch him.
Leo grinned as he ran, moving quickly and confidently through the last of the dead trees. Hob couldn’t find him now, and the stalking dead men were too far behind to give him any trouble. Just let him reach the open countryside beyond the woods, and cross back into Veritie, and he’d defy Hob or anyone else to bring him down. And then there was thunder on the air, high above him, and despite himself he looked back. Angel was coming for him, walking on the air.
Some twenty feet above the ground, higher than some of the trees, Angel strode across the sky, and the air shuddered like thunderclaps where her feet trod. She was coming faster than her stride could carry her, sweeping through the air like a hawk with fiery eyes. Leo ran at full pelt through the dead trees, dodging back and forth, heart and lungs straining, and Angel closed remorselessly in on him, like an owl hunting a mouse. Leo pushed himself to his limits, while his Brother yelled for him to make the change, and with anyone else he might have, but even in his changed state he doubted he would have lasted long against Angel. Veritie was his only hope.
He pushed himself even harder, crying out at the pain now as he forced his body past its human limits, and then suddenly he was out of the trees, out of Blackacre, and reality crashed down around him. Leo threw himself to the warm and living ground and lay there, panting for breath. His muscles were trembling with the strain he’d put on them. After a while, he turned slowly and looked back at the border of Blackacre, where Mysterie butted up against Veritie.
And there was Angel, standing quite normally on the ground, in Blackacre. They looked at each other for a long while, Angel’s face completely expressionless, and then she turned and walked back into the dead woods, and Leo’s heart started beating again. He lay on his back on the good warm grass, looking up at the blue sky and waited for his breathing to return to something like normal.
“Brother,”
he said finally.
he said finally.
Yes?
“We’re going to have to talk to someone about this.”
Four
Some Things Are Meant to Be
T
OBY DEXTER woke up comparatively early on Saturday morning, without knowing why. He rolled slowly over in bed and looked resentfully at the alarm clock on the bedside table. Mickey Mouse’s hands pointed unfeelingly at nine o’clock. The alarm was still silent. Toby liked to lie in on a Saturday morning, preferably till ten or eleven or even later. One of the joys of Saturday morning was knowing he wasn’t going to be driven from his nice warm bed by Mickey’s shrill clamor at seven o’bloody clock. Toby lay back in his bed, vaguely contemplating the ceiling. Something had woken him up. Almost as though someone had called his name, in a voice that could not be ignored.
OBY DEXTER woke up comparatively early on Saturday morning, without knowing why. He rolled slowly over in bed and looked resentfully at the alarm clock on the bedside table. Mickey Mouse’s hands pointed unfeelingly at nine o’clock. The alarm was still silent. Toby liked to lie in on a Saturday morning, preferably till ten or eleven or even later. One of the joys of Saturday morning was knowing he wasn’t going to be driven from his nice warm bed by Mickey’s shrill clamor at seven o’bloody clock. Toby lay back in his bed, vaguely contemplating the ceiling. Something had woken him up. Almost as though someone had called his name, in a voice that could not be ignored.
Saturday morning. He always looked forward to Saturdays, especially at the beginning of the week, when the days and the hours and the minutes at work seemed just to crawl past, stretching endlessly away before him, and Saturday night might as well have been another planet. But what did he actually do, when Saturday and the weekend finally came around? He’d sleep in. Get up only when he absolutely had to (usually forced out of bed by bladder pressure), and stagger downstairs in his dressing gown to watch kids’ cartoons on television, usually while eating a big bowl of whatever sugary cereal he was currently addicted to. All the while grousing, sometimes aloud, that today’s cartoons weren’t a patch on the cartoons of his youth.
Scooby Doo
in particular had deteriorated dreadfully. He wouldn’t even watch the ones that contained Scrappy Doo. (Once voted by the readers of a leading men’s magazine as the cartoon character they’d most like to punch in the head repeatedly. Even more than Jar Jar Binks.) And where did the two good-looking kids always disappear to, while Shaggy and Thelma were busy being chased by men in monster masks? They’d probably found a bedroom and were rutting like crazed weasels.
Scooby Doo
in particular had deteriorated dreadfully. He wouldn’t even watch the ones that contained Scrappy Doo. (Once voted by the readers of a leading men’s magazine as the cartoon character they’d most like to punch in the head repeatedly. Even more than Jar Jar Binks.) And where did the two good-looking kids always disappear to, while Shaggy and Thelma were busy being chased by men in monster masks? They’d probably found a bedroom and were rutting like crazed weasels.
Come midday he’d get dressed and wander down into town for a drink, to see what was happening and who was around. And it was always the same old faces, doing the same old things. Which was sometimes comforting, but more often not. Then back home, to open a packet and stick it in the oven, and that was dinner. Usually eaten straight from the plastic container because that saved on washing up. Then sit slumped in front of the television all afternoon, watching the sports. Any sports—he wasn’t fussy. And in the evening, call around to see if anyone fancied a drink. And after drinking too much, in the company of people who only counted as friends because he saw them every weekend, stagger home and try to get to sleep with his bedroom revolving slowly around him.
Repeat on Sunday. Then back to work again. Not much of a life, really. Not much of a life at all.
Toby tried really hard to get back to sleep again so he wouldn’t have to think anymore, but his body was having none of it. His body felt decidedly restless. Like it needed to be up and about, doing things . . . important things. Even though Toby had no idea what they might be. He turned onto his side, pulling the blankets up around his neck, trying to get comfortable so he could fool his body into dozing off, but the bed felt cold and hard and unwelcoming, as though it knew he shouldn’t be there. In the end, Toby swore briefly but feelingly, threw back the covers, and lurched out of bed. It was clearly going to be one of those days.
He pulled off his pajamas and threw them roughly in the direction of the dirty laundry basket, and got dressed. It didn’t feel like a dressing-gown-and-cartoons day. He stomped downstairs, yawning and scratching as the mood took him, collected the usual pile of junk mail from his doormat and headed for the kitchen, trying to decide whether he could be bothered to make himself a proper breakfast. One bowl of milky cereal and a compromise glass of orange juice with added vitamin C later, he rinsed the bowl and glass under the hot tap and put them on one side to dry. He sat down again at the kitchen table and considered the morning’s mail. Which turned out to be strange and weird enough to snap him fully awake.
A folded glossy pamphlet offered six foolproof ways to avoid elfshot, proven cause of most chills and fevers. The six ways included medicines and herbs he’d never heard of, prayers to someone called Mannan Mac Lir, and a series of healthy exercises that made Toby wince just to look at the illustrations. He turned the pamphlet over, to see if it was advertising a book or a film, but there was just the usual form to fill in, and an address in Findhorn, wherever that was. Toby blinked at the pamphlet a few times and then put it carefully to one side.
Next up was a sober, businesslike letter from one of the big established pharmaceutical companies, offering to supply him with the very latest in lust potions, suitable for all occasions.
Shouldn’t that be love potions?
Toby thought vaguely. He checked the small print for mention of pheromones and the like, but the letter seemed entirely serious and straightforward. There was even a money-back guarantee. The sliding scale of prices was entirely reasonable, so Toby put that letter on one side, too, for further thought.
Shouldn’t that be love potions?
Toby thought vaguely. He checked the small print for mention of pheromones and the like, but the letter seemed entirely serious and straightforward. There was even a money-back guarantee. The sliding scale of prices was entirely reasonable, so Toby put that letter on one side, too, for further thought.
Next: Turn lead into gold! Crush coal into diamonds! Split the atom with a single blow! Gain mastery over the material world with the Junior Alchemist’s Set! A philosopher’s stone included with every kit! (Subject to availability.) We take Visa and MasterCard. Parent or guardian’s signature required. Allow six moons for delivery. Toby blinked at that one for a while, and put it on one side.
Finally: You may already be a Superhero! Send for the origin of your choice. Design your own costume or choose from our wide range of cloaks, tights, and masks. Rubber and leather a specialty. Return this form before the end of the month and choose two extra powers, one from Column A and one . . . Toby screwed that one into a ball and binned it with more than necessary force. Someone was setting him up. Had to be.
He turned on the radio. The news was almost universally depressing, as usual, and he felt on firmer ground again.
He puttered around the house for a while, wandering into rooms and out again, but he couldn’t settle. The feeling of restlessness was getting worse. More and more he felt he should be somewhere else, doing something ... important. That this Saturday, this morning, was important. Which was odd, because he’d never thought of himself or his life as mattering a damn to anyone, even him. He was just another faceless drone, a small cog in a small wheel that kept other wheels turning because . . . well, wheels had to turn, or where would we all be? The sudden bitterness in that thought surprised him; the feeling that he could have made something of his life, but somehow never had.
He sniffed. That was what hitting your thirties did for you. It made you bloody morbid.
He fought the restlessness for another half an hour, but in the end it forced him out of the house. He pulled on his new leather jacket and slammed the front door behind him just a little harder than was really necessary to make the lock catch. Truth be told, it was a bit warm for the jacket, but he liked the creaking sounds it made as he moved. He looked around him. It was a bright sunny day, but no one else seemed to be about. An impulse made him look up, and he was astonished to see an absolutely huge rainbow glimmering against the deep blue sky. The colors were almost painfully sharp and distinct, and the great arch seemed to fly up into the sky for ever. The earth-fixed end seemed so close he felt as though he could walk right up to it, and the whole thing was so damned beautiful his breath caught in his chest like it would never let go. In all his life, he’d never seen a rainbow like it. In the end, he tore his gaze away and walked off down the road, heading into town.
Something was calling him.
And as he walked through the town, everything was utterly familiar yet subtly different. The streets and the houses and the sights were all the same as they had ever been, but it was like seeing them afresh, as though he were recognizing them again after many years away. This was the same route he’d taken the night before, plodding home through the pouring rain, but now he felt like a stranger in his own town. There was a charge, a tension, on the air, something he could feel but could not put a name to. Home didn’t feel like home anymore. It occurred to him that this was the kind of perfect summer day you usually only saw in films, all bright and sharp and Technicolor dazzle, with every detail spot on. The birds were all singing in tune, there was hardly any traffic on the road (unheard of for a Saturday morning), and the air . . . had a charge to it, a feeling of anticipation. Toby was surprised to find that there was actually a spring in his step as he headed for the town center.
And yet he couldn’t shake off the feeling that something was wrong . . . out of place. Some of the houses he was passing didn’t seem quite as he remembered them. There were too many windows, or too few. Front doors were the wrong color or even the wrong shape. Gabled roofs he would have sworn were solar-paneled the day before. Gardens were full of tall flowers, swaying in the gentle breeze, and trees were bright with blossom, when he was almost sure . . . He shrugged a few times and increased his pace. Amazing what one good night of rain could do.
He made his way down to the St. Margaret’s Street parking lot, and that was where he got his first shock. Instead of the usual polite sign informing visitors to the town that cars could be left for a maximum of two hours during the day (GET YOUR TICKET FROM THE MACHINE, HAVE YOU PAID & DISPLAYED?), one wall was now covered with a large handwritten warning, painted in what looked very like fresh blood, saying,
Get it out of here by sundown or you’ll never see it again! Repeat offenders will be defenestrated!
Get it out of here by sundown or you’ll never see it again! Repeat offenders will be defenestrated!
Toby stopped at the top of the slope leading down into the car park and studied the new sign for some time, before looking around to see if anyone else had noticed it. Everyone else was bustling back and forth on their own business, paying the sign no attention at all. Toby stood considering for a moment, making sure that defenestration meant what he thought it did, and then frowned. His first thought was to dismiss it as graffiti, vandalism . . . and not very funny at that. But somehow, he didn’t think so. There was something horribly official about the wording and the penmanship. Good thing he didn’t own a car.
He started down the slope, threading his way through the tightly packed vehicles, and that was when he got his second shock. There were cars all around him, filling the lot from wall to wall, and every damn one of them looked as weird as hell. He passed what he was pretty sure was a Model T Ford; bright shining black and perfect, as though it had just rolled off the production line. A replica, obviously, but . . . as Toby slowed his pace and looked around him with growing confusion, it seemed to him that he was surrounded by makes of car from every period there ever was.
A great monster of a 1930s Bentley, in racing green and red, stood next to a powder-blue Hillman Minx Superior from the fifties. A blatantly purple DeLorean stood next to a silver-gray Aston Martin DB5 that looked like it had come straight from the set of a James Bond film. And then . . . It was long and sleek and gleaming, shining silver like a medieval church chalice, streamlined to within an inch of its life, and impressively low slung; but if it was a car, then where the hell were its wheels? Just looking at it, Toby knew it could go from zero to sixty while you were still turning the ignition key. The car of the future, just like in all the comics he’d read as a boy.
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