Simon and Penny are back to saving the day. Or destroying it. Maybe both. That’s all right; I always knew where I stood with Simon—just below the rest of the world. And far, far below the Mage.
All right. It’s all right.
I’m afraid—but that’s reasonable. You try going back to the place where you were kept in a coffin until you couldn’t remember what light looked like.
But I’m in a better position than I was last time. I’m conscious, for one. I have my wand. And my wits about me.
The door to the numpties’ lair is easy to find—it’s basically just a hole in the pilings. I slide down some mud, and my stomach churns at the smell. Wet paper and decay. I’m in the right place.
It’s too dark down here even for me to see, so I hold my hand and start a fire in my palm, illuminating a circle of nothing around me.
I let the flames grow larger … and see a lot more nothing. I’m in a chamber full of debris. Hunks of pavement. Large stones. None of it’s familiar; I was unconscious when I was brought here and mostly unconscious when I left. I don’t even really know what the numpties look like.
I clear my throat. Nothing happens.
I clear it again. “My name is Basilton Pitch,” I call out loudly. “I’m here to ask you a question.”
One of the big rocky things starts to tremble. I hold the fire in its direction. And my wand.
The big rocky thing opens like a Transformer into a bigger rocky thing that seems to be wearing a giant oatmeal-coloured jumper. “You,” it rumbles in a voice like roadworks.
It’s a familiar rumble. I feel the walls closing in on me, and my mouth tastes like stale blood. (Blood’s thicker when it stales; it clots.)
“You,” the thing says. “You killed some of us.”
“Well, you kidnapped me,” I say. “Remember?”
“Didn’t kill you,” it says. There are more of the things now, ca-runching around me. I don’t see where they’re coming from, but there does seem to be less debris lying around. I try to make out their faces—everything about them is yellow-grey on yellow-grey. They’re like piles of wet cement.
“You were well on your way to killing me,” I say, “but that’s not why I’m here. I came to talk to you.”
I’m surrounded by them now. It’s like standing inside a stone circle.
“Don’t like talk,” one rattles out. It might be the one in the jumper again. Or it might be this one, right next to me, wearing an electric blanket, the plug dragging behind it on the ground.
“Too cold to talk,” another growls. “Time to rest.”
That’s right, I forgot. Numpties hibernate. I must have woken them. “You can rest,” I say. “I’ll leave you. Just tell me this one thing.…”
They rumble to themselves.
“Who sent you after me?”
The numpties don’t answer. I feel like they’re moving closer to me, even though I can’t see it happening.
“Who sent you to take me?” I shout. I’m holding my wand in the air, my arm coiled back behind my shoulder. Maybe I should already be casting spells at this point, but killing them won’t bring me answers. And what if they fight back?
Are they already fighting back?
It suddenly feels like I’m squeezing between stone walls. They’re closing in on me, pinching around my left arm … around the fire in my hand … the fire.
“If you crush me,” I yell, “my fire will go out!”
The crunching stops; I think they’re standing still. They seem to settle in sloppy slabs around me, around my hand. How long do they think I can stand like this? (And why don’t they just move somewhere tropical?)
“Tell me,” I order. “Who sent you to take me?”
“Won’t say,” one of them answers. It’s like listening to rocks being broken into gravel.
“Why not?”
The wall behind me lurches closer. “Told us not to.”
I stand straighter. “Well, I’m telling you otherwise.”
“Kept us warm,” the biggest one says.
“You don’t look warm.”
“Kept us warm for a while,” it says.
“Told us not to talk,” grumbles another.
“Don’t like talk.”
I let the fire in my hand go out, and they make a noise like ten thousand teeth grinding.
“More fire,” I hear. “More firrrre.”
“I’ll give you more fire when you answer my question!” They’re vibrating. I’m not sure whether it’s from anger or impatience or something else. “Who sent you? Who paid you to take me?”
“Warmed us,” I hear.
“Who?”
“One of you.”
“Magic ones.”
“Which one of us? Was it a man? What did he look like?”
“Like a man. Soft.”
“Warm.”
“Wet spot on the pavement.”
“Green.”
“Green?” I say.
The largest numpty unfolds, then crunches down into a pile right in front of me, forcing the others away. “Your headstone!”
“One of you.”
“Warm.”
“Take the vampire brat,” the big one grinds, “keep him in the dark, give him blood.”
“Hold him till the cold comes and stays.”