indri

Part 1: The Worst Crowd That Would Have Me

1.

The note was in Evelyn's clear, if untutored, handwriting. It read, simply: "Ethan, I'm at the canal." She'd left it propped up on the kitchen table, next to an empty vodka bottle and Deidre's unwashed lunch dishes. He wrote on the back of it, "I'm going out," and left it there for the others. He washed himself up a little, changed into clean clothes, and headed out of the house.

It wasn't a long walk to the canal, and the weather was very pleasant, clear and sunny and unseasonably warm for spring. Couples were out promenading on the towpath, and dogwalkers dawdled under the willow trees as their pets sniffed around.

He didn't have any trouble finding her barge, which was moored perhaps a quarter-mile from the lock. A previous owner had painted it red and black in a mock-gypsy style which appealed to Evelyn's sense of humour. She wasn't gypsy, of course, but the daughter of a Manchester schoolteacher, a fact he wasn't supposed to know; Evelyn would have preferred to have sprung fully-formed.

She'd set the door wards to let him straight in, but he paused at the threshold anyway. He always had to brace himself for the reek of the magic inside.

The interior was long and narrow, cluttered with lipped bookshelves and hanging baskets piled with miscellanies. There was a small kitchen at one end and a large bed at the other. Evelyn was at the stove, putting butter in a frying pan. She was in her early thirties, some ten years older than he was. She was fat and fond of long, low-cut velvet dresses; today's was coloured a deep crimson. "Ethan," she said, "what good timing! Would you like some supper with me?"

"Love some," he said. "How's tricks?"

It had been quite some time since Evelyn had last come his way, so they had plenty to catch up on. She told him what she'd been up to and where she had been. She was often circumspect, of course, "a West Indian in Brentford", or "this fabulous dolmen", for serious information rarely came free. As she spoke, she cracked eggs into a bowl and sliced up bread. Ethan, meanwhile, stepped along the cabin, picking up the latest books and gewgaws, trying to work out which were worthless and which were worth more than the barge. He sifted through dog-eared packs of Tarot cards, carved wooden boxes, and figurines made of wire and semi-precious stones. Evening light rippled over the water outside.

Over a spinach and cheese omelette and a bottle of wine, he told her the expurgated version of what he'd been getting up to. All minor magics, but executed with some flair, he liked to think. She laughed with him and poured him more wine.

"But my real find," she said, once the sun had set and the lamps were lit, "is a conjuration tome of Dargoth's."

Ah, now they were getting to the meat of the conversation. "Is that a demon name or a human one?" he asked.

"Neither," she said, leaning in close and speaking more quietly. "A demi-god, mainly worshipped by demons. Not as well known in this dimension, but sometimes his work slips through."

"How did you get the book?" he asked.

"Oh, come on," she said, "you know I can't tell you that."

He tapped his fingers over the tabletop. "Can you tell me what's in it?"

"It's supposed to be filled with useful titbits on summoning and binding essences. Tasty spells, Ethan. Nutritious and delicious."

"'Supposed to be'?" queried Ethan. "Haven't you looked?"

"Only worshippers of Dargoth may read his words," she said.

"You need to find a demon to read it?" he asked.

"No," she said, "I need to worship Dargoth."

The penny dropped then. Really, he must be a little drunk not to have seen this coming sooner. "So, this is a business trip?"

"Business and pleasure, Ethan."

He looked out at the street lights reflected in the waters of the canal, feeling his good mood drain away. "What do you want me for?"

"Well, now," she said, getting up from the table to search through a pile of cookbooks and a copy of the Kalevala, "I found this rite." She pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to him.

"Ah," he said, as he glanced over it, "I can see why you've asked me, then. This takes three. And," he said, after flicking over another page, "you need some of my blood."

"Only a little," she said.

He looked up at her sourly.

"I'd owe you a big favour," she said. "My favours are good currency, Ethan."

"I'll also need some time to sober up," he said. "Some of this takes a great deal of coordination."

"Oh, Ethan," she said, "I knew I could count on you."

"Don't get used to it," he said.

2.

The last note of the encore hung in the air. It had been a good gig. The lead guitarist had been nothing to write home about, but the bass player had put on a show. Ripper could feel the chords flex through his fingers as he downed the last of his beer.

"You like music then?" asked a girl who appeared at his elbow. "I was watching you from back there. You were really getting into it."

"It's all right," he said.

"I like that," she said. "It's means you're not just here on the pull."

Ripper took a proper look at her then: sandals, jeans, a tight top, and a halo of curly hair. She was on the tall side. It was impossible in the light to tell her precise age or hair colour, but she looked good enough to him.

"I'm in a band," he offered. "I helped found Pink Floyd."

"You are funny," she said.

"Cigarette?"

He put a cigarette between her lips and lit it for her, then lit one for himself. The crowd was clearing out of the cellar, heading to the bar upstairs. Pub staff were picking up glasses.

"Fancy a drink?"

The narrow stairs were well-worn and sticky with beer. He bought her a spritzer that she dipped her tongue into before grimacing. There was a loud group of lads in the next booth, making it difficult to talk.

"I thought the bass player was pretty good," the girl shouted.

"I should ask him to join my band," said Ripper. "Our one's crap."

"What do you play?"

"Guitar," he said. "And I sing."

She had another go at the spritzer and then put it to one side. "Want to go out?" she asked.

Ripper thought that was a little fast, even for a lucky night. He took a drag at his cigarette and glanced down at a chunky ring on his finger that had a chip of mirror in it. If he moved his hand right---

She had a reflection. Well, that ruled out one of the more likely possibilities.

"Well?" she said.

"All right."

Outside it was mercifully quiet. Ripper looked around, but couldn't see anyone following them.

Around the block was a shopping street, with a bank and a bakery and an Indian grocer's. It was deserted at this hour. On the pavement next to a postbox, she stepped up on her tiptoes to kiss him. Her tongue went in his mouth and her arms wrapped around his waist. She started to grind her jeans against his.

They got as far as a doorway alcove before the unbuttoning and unzipping began. He pushed up and she pushed down, bracing herself against the shop window. It was pretty quick but pretty satisfying.

Her face was sweaty, and orange-coloured from the street lamps. The back of her head pressed against glass. Behind her were newsagent cards about rooms to let, furniture wanted, and local lost dogs.

"Want to come back to my place?" she asked, which made him feel like he'd passed an audition. "It's not far."

"All right," he said.

The house was an end terrace, with dead pot-plants in the front courtyard and a boarded-up porch. She took him in the back way, through a gate and past long grass to an unlocked door into a kitchen. None of the lights were on.

It was the smell that raised the hairs on the back of his neck. Of course, the place smelt like every other cheap digs he'd been to, of toast and tea and mildew, but there were other scents too: candlewax and incense and herbs.

The girl lit a candle on the kitchen table and then opened a nearby door. The room she walked into was in total darkness; Ripper couldn't see what was in there. He strained to hear, but the only sounds were from outside, his own breathing, and a slight rustle from where the girl had gone.

Suddenly wary, he grabbed the candleholder in his left hand and took a stout wooden stool in his right. With a martial stance, he stepped into the room.

There was a mattress, piles of books and papers, and a curtain rod hung between walls as a makeshift wardrobe. The girl was pulling off her top, her skin and hair made yellow by the candlelight.

"Are you OK?" she asked.

He hoped his smile didn't look too forced as he put the stool down with the candle on top of it. "Yeah," he said.

She came towards him.