Wormwood paused by the remains of a small black stuffed bear. Its head had been almost knocked from its body, and was attached to its neck only by a couple of thin threads. Carefully, tenderly, Wormwood picked it up and held it in his arms, cradling its head in his left hand. A large tear dropped from Wormwood’s right eye.
“Is this what we have become?” he said. “We have set human against teddy, doll against man, and this little bear has paid the price! All he wanted to do was give pleasure to some small child, to be his friend in times of joy, and his comfort in times of trouble. Oh, the humanity!”
He lifted the bear and placed it against his shoulder, its small black body stifling his sobs.
“Ow,” said Wormwood, then louder: “Ow! Ow!”
“What is it?” said Nurd.
“The little swine is biting my ear!” said Wormwood.
He gave the bear a sharp tug, and its body separated entirely from its head. Unfortunately, the head remained attached to Wormwood’s ear, its sharp teeth continuing to gnaw at the lobe.
“Get it off!” said Wormwood. “It really hurts.”
Nurd tried tugging at the bear’s head, but its teeth were firmly embedded, and he succeeded only in painfully stretching Wormwood’s ear.
“That’s not helping,” said Wormwood. “You’re just making it worse.”
“Well, you’re the one who picked it up in the first place.”
“I felt sorry for it.”
“And see where it got you,” said Nurd. “Maybe you can offer to help those dolls sharpen their knives next.”
Maria arrived with a pencil borrowed from Brian. She managed to jam it between the bear’s jaws and prize them open just wide enough for Nurd to remove the head from Wormwood’s vicinity. He held it in front of Wormwood’s face by one of its ears, where it continued to snap at him, just as the elf had earlier tried to get at Nurd. Nurd considered this poetic justice. He didn’t want to be the only one being bitten by possessed objects.
“He seems to have a taste for you,” said Nurd. “Can’t imagine why. I bet you taste awful.”
He tossed the head in the direction of the doll hospital, disturbing the final delicate stages of an operation to restore an arm to a Hug-Me-Hattie doll. Hug-Me-Hattie’s arm slid under a radiator, and the doll doctors and nurses gave Nurd a look that could only be described as cutting.58
“Sorry!” said Nurd. “As you were.”
The scientists, meanwhile, were watching the toys. With the exception of the clearly lunatic black bear that had nibbled on Wormwood, the toys still showed no desire to approach.
“Why aren’t they attacking us?” asked Professor Stefan.
“Maybe it’s because we have demons with us,” suggested Professor Hilbert. “It might have confused them.”
“They don’t look confused,” said Professor Stefan. “They just look hostile.”
“Why don’t we see what happens if we try to leave?”
The two scientists, with Brian and Dorothy/Reginald in tow, pretended to depart.
“Bye!” they said. “Lovely meeting you! Good luck with everything!”
The heads of the toys turned to follow their progress, but no attempt was made to stop them, not even when Brian opened the main door and stepped outside. He might have kept going as well had not Professor Hilbert grabbed him by the collar and pulled him back inside.
“That’s quite enough cowardice for today, Brian,” he said.
“It really isn’t,” said Brian. “I have loads left.”
But Professor Hilbert was not to be argued with, and Brian reluctantly trudged back into the store.
“Interesting,” said Professor Stefan. “Mr. Nurd, Mr. Wormwood, perhaps you’d like to try, just out of curiosity.”
Nurd and Wormwood did as he asked, but as they approached the door the toys closed in on them, blocking their way with a wall of plastic and fur broken only by the odd knife.
“Ah,” said Professor Stefan. “That would seem to answer the question, at least partly. Something wants you two to remain here.”
“We should have known,” said Wormwood. “We were invited to the opening, and we never get invited to anything. Now it looks like the only reason we were asked is because something wants to hurt us.”
He and Nurd looked sad.
“Try not to take it personally,” said Maria.
“I’ll try,” said Wormwood, “but it’s difficult.”
Crudford put one hand to the side of his head, even though he didn’t have any obvious ears, and listened.
“Can you still hear the heart?” asked Professor Hilbert.
“It’s definitely near,” said Crudford. “I say we go up. It’s clear that whatever we’re looking for isn’t here.”
Brian didn’t want to go up. He wanted to go out. He could not think of any reason why he should go deeper into this shop of horrors. At that moment, fate intervened—as it often will—to give him a push in the right direction.
“What is that noise?” said Professor Stefan. “It sounds like music.”
A handful of Nosferati survivors, their ears jammed with dead mice to drown out the sound of the organ, had found the stairs out of the basement. They emerged from the stairwell with their fangs exposed, their clawed hands raised, and their bald heads shining under the emergency lights.
“Me first,” said Brian. He made it to the top of the stairs in record time.
Brian might have been a scaredy-cat of the highest order, thought Professor Stefan, but he was very agile when he needed to be. He just hoped that
• • •
All of the pieces were on the board—almost. There were two missing, but they were on their way.
The demons called Shan and Gath were probably happier than they had ever been. In Hell, they had been strictly third-level staff: their main task was to shovel coal and tend the Eternal Fiery Pits of Doom, which wasn’t very difficult as the Eternal Fiery Pits of Doom were never likely to go out anytime in the future. That was why they were called the
Then, during the attempted invasion of Earth, they had discovered the strange joys of a foul beer named Spiggit’s Old Peculiar and had never looked back. For a while they had not looked anywhere at all, Spiggit’s tending to cause temporary blindness and an overwhelming desire to be dead. Back in Hell, they attempted to brew it themselves, with mixed results, but they had never stopped trying. When they eventually managed to escape from Hell, their ability to consume large quantities of Spiggit’s without actually dying, combined with their sensitive taste buds, had brought them the job of a lifetime: as chief tasters and beer experimenters at Spiggit’s Brewery, Chemical Weapons, and Cleaning Products Ltd.60
Yes, they were demons. Even Old Mr. Spiggit himself, whose eyesight was very poor, and who was generally regarded as a lunatic, could see from the start that Shan and Gath weren’t your usual employees. On the other hand, they didn’t stand out as much at the Spiggit’s Brewery as they might have done elsewhere on Earth. Years of exposure to Spiggit’s had caused biological changes to many of the company’s employees. Mr. Lambert in Accounts had to shave his hands at least twice a week, and had so much facial hair that the only way to be sure that you were talking to his face was to look for the bulge where his nose was; Mr. Norris in Sales had a third thumb; and Mrs. Elmtree in Quality Control had grown small but noticeable horns. They didn’t mind, though, as Spiggit’s paid well, and nobody else would employ them anyway because they looked so distinctive.
Shan and Gath had proven particularly good at looking after the more experimental brews, including the lethal Spiggit’s Old Notorious, a beer so dangerous that a batch of its yeast had once stolen a car and held up the Bank of Biddlecombe. The yeast had never been caught, and was now believed to be living somewhere in Spain. Shan and Gath had put an end to that kind of nonsense. No yeast was going to cause trouble on their watch.
Very few things could lure Shan and Gath out of their comfortable home at Spiggit’s Brewery, but the
