Slawter

“Then we’ll wind up in a heap load of trouble,” I chuckle. “But it’ll be trouble of the ass-kicking, job-losing kind, and trouble like that I don’t mind so much.”

“So what now?” Bill-E asks, glancing around.

“We wander. Explore as much of the building as we can. Keep going until we find something strange or run out of rooms.”

“Perhaps one of us should remain here, to alert the others if the guards find the hole,” Bill-E suggests.

“How?” I grunt.

“Phone.” He roots out his mobile, flicks it on, frowns, shakes it, then scowls. “No signal. Damn.”

“It’s probably better if we stay together anyway,” Juni says, then lets out an uneasy breath. “I’ve never done anything like this. I never even stole sweets from shops when I was a child. I’ve always respected the law.”

“Welcome to the underworld, baby!” Bill-E chortles, trying to sound like a 1930s gangster.

“No more talking,” I whisper.

We advance.

FRESH MEAT

We don’t spot any security cameras. I guess Chuda Sool or his superiors thought the armed guards outside would provide enough protection. Or there are hidden cameras which we can’t see. Or they didn’t think anyone who found their way in would be able to get out.

Winding through the building, one ordinary room giving way to another. Lots of weird, demon-shaped puppets on display, but the work of human hands. Cleverly constructed, but hardly hewn in the fires of hell. Plastic, metal, rubber—not flesh, bone, blood.

I try not to lose confidence as we push further into the warehouse. It’s logical that they’d have an outer ring of genuine workshops. While this place is off-limits, some of the crew—like Dervish—have been allowed into parts of it. This is camouflage. Things will be different further in.

I hope.

I fear.

* * * * *

We come to a massive steel door unlike any of the others we’ve encountered. The full height of the ceiling and three metres wide. There’s a small digital screen on the right-hand side, the outline of a hand printed on it.

“Fingerprint controlled,” Bill-E notes, rapping the door with his knuckles. He reaches out to press his hand on the screen.

“Wait,” I stop him. “It might sound an alarm if an intruder touches it.”

Bill-E lowers his hand. “We gonna melt our way through the wall, boss?”

“Reckon so, kemosabe.”

I lay my fingers on the blocks to the right of the door. Focus my magic and tell the stone to melt. Push forward to scoop out the first handful of molten rock.

It’s solid.

I try again—no joy. Rubbing my fingers together, trying to figure it out. It can’t be that I’m running low on juice—there’s more magic in the air here than outside. I can feel it practically crackling around me. Just to be sure, I make myself rise half a metre off the ground. No problem.

“Something wrong?” Juni asks, eyeing me nervously as I float in the air.

“The wall’s protected,” I tell her, smoothly descending. “It’s been charged with magic, or there’s magic pushing out from within. I can’t melt it.”

“We could try somewhere else,” Bill-E says. “There might be another door or a part of the wall that isn’t…”

I shake my head. “It’s going to be like this all the way round. I can sense it—literally. There’s an inner structure, a building within the warehouse. If there are other doors, they’ll be like this. The wall will be the same everywhere too. And the roof.”

“Then we can’t go on,” Juni notes with relief. “Let’s get out, plug up the hole we made, and discuss a new—”

“No,” I cut her short. “I’m not stopping. Not until I’ve convinced you.”

“But if we can’t get through…” she protests gently.

“I didn’t say that. We just have to be a bit smarter.”

I move back to the screen and study the outline of the hand. My magic’s not strong enough to combat the magic of the wall, but maybe I can outfox the technology of the door.

I place my right hand on the screen, tensing in case alarms sound. But there’s no klaxon squeal. Lights don’t flash. Breathing softly, thinking hard, trying to direct magic into the screen. It’s set up to recognise certain fingerprints. I want to tell it that my prints are among those it accepts. But how do you talk to a computer which only understands binary code?

I ignore the complications. Send a simple message, over and over, letting magic flow all the time. “You know me. My prints are in your database. Open.”

Nothing happens. Bill-E and Juni keep quiet, but I sense their lack of belief. Ignoring them, I keep talking to the computer, trying to trick it. I don’t acknowledge the possibility of failure. Change tack. Start telling it I’m Chuda Sool. “You will open—I’m Chuda Sool. You must open— I’m Chuda Sool.” Picturing his long, thin face, his browless eyes and cold gaze.

There’s a click. Another. A whole series of clickings and whirrings.

The door opens inwards, silent as you please.

I remove my hand and glance back smugly at the astonished faces of Juni and Bill-E. “Oh ye of little faith,” I murmur.

We enter.

Darkness. The other rooms were dark too, but I was able to light them with my torch. This room’s too big. The beam is like a pin, showing us almost nothing of the space around us. We can tell that it’s huge, but no more than that.

“This feels wrong,” Juni says as we stand a few metres from the open doorway, reluctant to press ahead any further.

“It’s like we’re surrounded,” Bill-E agrees, squinting into the darkness.

I flash the torch left, then right. We can’t see anyone. But that doesn’t mean that people—or other creatures—aren’t there. Or that they can’t see us.

“Maybe we should come back with stronger torches,” Juni says.

“If we quit now, we’ll never return,” I mutter.

“But we can’t see anything.”

“Give me a minute. Let me think.”

I can’t make objects appear out of nothing. But magic is a form of energy. Maybe I can convert that energy into a different form.

Concentrating. Speaking to the magic within me. In a weird way it feels like I’m two people, the one I’ve always been, and Grubbs Grady—magician.

“I want to make light,” I tell my magical half. “I’d like a big ball of light to appear just above my head. Is that possible?”

In response, I feel energy stream from my hands. It gathers overhead, pulses a couple of times, then transforms into a ball of blinding white light. I gasp with pain, covering my eyes with an arm. “Not so bright!” I hiss, then squint with one eye over the top of my arm. The light has dulled slightly, but is still painful to look at. “Keep dimming. More… more… Stop.”

I remove my arm. Bill-E and Juni have both covered their eyes. “It’s OK,” I tell them. “You can look now.”