Mercy brought the sword up as the thing took a great leap, sailing over the side of the road towards them. The sword sang as it flashed through the air, but it did not connect. A white lightning bolt split the air between Mercy and the hound. The air was filled with bells and there was the sudden smell of blood and shit as the beast, bisected, fell in a heap of rubble by the roadside. A pale face was looking down at Mercy.
“Get in.”
The face and its owner were in a sleigh, drawn by deer. Mercy scrambled over the side and fell into the body of the sleigh, followed by Ben. Then, to her own disgust, she screamed. The sleigh was full of heads.
“Take care!” one said. It was the face of an ancient, wizened man, bound with silver. “You trod on me!”
“And on me,” said another, a redhead bound with brass.
“Sorry.” Mercy said. Familiarity was tweaking at her: she knew this, she had come across this story somewhere-but the sleigh was racing away, along the road and up. She looked back and saw the road fall away beneath them with dizzying speed, the hounds no more than white specks along its length. She struggled to the back of the driving seat, trying not to step on protesting heads.
“Who are you?”
The woman looked down at her from under a crown of pale hair.
“Aha,” she said. She reached into the tatters and rags of lace that she wore and took out a small golden phial. Tucking the whip under one arm, and transferring the reins to one hand, she took a stopper out of the phial and held it over Mercy’s head. “Sorry. But you’ll thank me later.” A droplet of liquid gold oozed out of the phial and fell between Mercy’s eyes.
The sigil should have protected her, but it did not. She was conscious of a sudden warmth, a cocooning, and then she was falling painlessly down into sleep as the sleigh sped on through the midnight air.
Twenty-Seven
“What are you talking about?”
“Keep her away!”
Her next thought was that the disir had come back. Shadow jumped off the bed, reaching automatically for the sun-and-moon blade.
“You won’t need that,” a voice said. In a shaft of moonlight, Shadow could see someone sitting in the chair by the window. She fumbled for the lamp and flicked it into light. On the table beside the bed, Shadow’s sigilometer was ticking off the scale.
“Who are you?” Then she realised, and bowed. “You are a demon.”
“I am a duke of Hell,” the woman said. She wore crimson armour and a great gold ring that reminded Shadow of the Shah’s. Her hair was unconcealed. A demon does not wish to hide her hair from the sight of God; a demon does not need to be concerned about modesty.
“Do I alarm you?” the demon said, with cool amusement.
“The thing in my head does not like you. That’s enough to predispose me in your favour,” Shadow replied. The demon laughed. It sounded genuine.
“I can see why you might think that.”
“Will you tell me your name?” Shadow asked, expecting the demon to say no. But the Duke of Hell answered readily enough.
“My name is Gremory. You may have heard of me.”
“Yes. Your name is inscribed in the
The demon laughed again. “You’re used to this, aren’t you? One can tell you’re an alchemist.” She uncoiled herself from the seat and walked across the room. She smelled of fire. “Those things are my main remit, it’s true, but I can do a lot of things. Demons like variety. You’ll be wondering why I’ve come to visit you.”
“I’ve had a number of visits lately. From various… entities.”
The demon cocked her head on one side. “I gather it’s been quite the circus. Well, you need not worry. I have no plans to create havoc. On the contrary. I’m here to help.”
“Oh,” Shadow said. It sounded unconvincing. “I don’t want to seem rude, but… ”
“I understand.” The demon did not seem offended. She stared at Shadow out of cold red eyes. “You are acquiring powerful patrons, powerful enemies.”
“You’re telling me.”
“The Shah, the disir, the Court… ” Gremory’s voice was sly.
As she was supposed to, Shadow bit. “The Court? I know about the first two.”
“The Court is at the heart of things. The Court wants you.”
Shadow shook her occupied head in bewilderment. The spirit seemed to have gone to ground, for the moment, and that in itself was interesting. “What in the world does the Court want with me? It’s got its own personnel. They’re powerful magicians and their interests lie in the West, not here.” But she was not surprised to hear Gremory mention it. The Court concerned themselves with demons, with grimoires and Goetic magics.
“Yet you have attracted their attention. Or at least, the attention of one of them. A man named Jonathan Deed.”
“I’ve heard of Deed,” Shadow said, slowly. “But I can’t remember where.”
“Deed is disir.”
“What?”
“He is of that lineage. He’s a male, of course. They’re different. The females are more savage.” Gremory looked modestly down at her talons. Their scarlet colouring ran down into her long fingers as far as the first joint, as though her fingers were dipped in blood. She blinked and the talons changed to bronze, then back to blood. “Naturally.”
Shadow’s mind was working fast. “So there’s a connection. Did Deed send the disir? Why did it come after me?”
“I think Deed wants you. You ought to know how it works by now. The Court wants what Suleiman wants; he desires what the Court has. Each of them feed off one another-the Court and the Has. Under the Skein, it didn’t really matter: balance was kept no matter what. Now the Skein are gone and the city’s up for grabs. Guess who’s grabbing?”
“Makes sense,” Shadow said. “So the thing in my head-the ifrit? What does it want?”
“I don’t know,” Gremory said. “Shall we take a look?”
Being possessed by two entities was not a comfortable experience. Shadow sat, trying not to squirm, while the demon evaporated into smoke and drifted into her lungs, then into her blood, then into her mind. Shadow felt as though she was standing in a crowded elevator; one that might, at any moment, break a cable and start to plummet. She took a deep breath, willing stillness.
“I know you’re in here!” the demon sang, like a child playing hide and seek. “I can fi-i-i-ind you!”
Shadow, eyes shut, tried to look within. The ifrit, which suddenly seemed very small, was running, bolting down neural pathways, disappearing into the labyrinthine causeways of the mind. Shadow, pursuing, felt herself drop, as if she’d fallen down a well. Her eyes snapped open.
The laboratory was gone. The fronds of acacia waved gently above her head, higher than they should have been against a vivid blue sky. One of Shadow’s hands was raised, imprisoned in someone else’s. She looked up to see her aunt, familiar behind the lace-edged veil that she always wore. Behind the veil, her aunt smiled.
“Would you like an ice?”
“Yes, please!”
They walked along a sandy track, through a pair of ornate iron gates with curling letters above them. Shadow spelled the words with only a little difficulty:
