Desdaemona, page 1
DESDAEMONA
Ben Macallan
For Karen.
When life handed me lemons,
she gave me a tree to hang them on.
First published 2011 by Solaris, an imprint of Rebellion Publishing Ltd, Riverside House, Osney Mead, Oxford, OX1 0ES, UK
www.solarisbooks.com
ISBN(.epub): 978-1-84997-264-2
ISBN(.mobi): 978-1-84997-263-5
Copyright © 2011 Chaz Brenchley.
The right of the author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owners.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Designed & typeset by Rebellion Publishing
Chapter One
I might never have found Sarah in time, if it hadn't been for the banshee.
For once in my life I had a comfortable room with a lock on the door, I'd paid the rent, I wasn't looking to move on for a while. It was only habit that took me down to the bus station that night. If restlessness can be a habit. Another boy in another life might go clubbing, dancing, drinking with his mates; me, I want to run. If I won't let myself do that, I have to walk. Maybe to the edge of town, downriver if there is a river: pushing the boundaries, wondering what comes next, where I'm headed and how soon.
Often, one way or another, I'll wind up at the bus station. Just checking in, checking timetables. Keeping an eye out, an ear open.
That night, I could hear it from three streets away. If you've never heard a banshee wail - and you likely never have - it's like a wet finger on the rim of a glass, except that the finger's wet with blood and the glass has shattered. It cuts through you like a broken blade, as sharp as rust can make it. It starts low and then screeches higher and louder, seeking the resonance of pain. It makes you want to sob, to shriek back, to cover your ears and run away; it makes you want to collapse and huddle in on yourself, shivering against the cold, cruel truth of the thing; it makes you want to go to the toilet, right there and then.
Some people do.
And we're the lucky ones, those it isn't wailing at. What it's like to be the banshee's focus, the wailee - well, I wouldn't know. You have to be family, and I'm not.
I heard it that night, though, and knew what it was, straight off. There's nothing like it. I had my bag on my shoulder; I rummaged, found what I needed, started to run.
Towards the bus station, towards the banshee, into the heart of that cry.
I'm not especially brave, don't think that. Just experienced. I've been out there a long time, and mostly I know what to do. And I've always been small, I've always stood out, I've been an object of attention all my life; I hate bullies, even if it's not me they're picking on. I know what it's like to be afraid all the time, every hour of every day. Banshees trade on that, it's their life-blood.
You really do have to hate a banshee.
So I ran, straight for it. If the people I passed thought anything about me at all, they would just have thought I was a kid with mad hair running for a bus. They wouldn't be hearing the banshee; most people don't. Only the one it's singing to, and all their family round about.
Their family and me, obviously. I'm special that way.
The bus station needed upgrading, badly. It needed shiny new stands and plate-glass waiting areas, bright lights, CCTV. Instead it had high walls and dark corners, mean little windows and no security. Beside the concourse was a garage tall enough to take the double-deckers, all closed up and quiet at this time of night; between the two was an alleyway of rough ground where nothing was lit up, nothing looked out. There was just enough moonlight shafting down to show you what was going on, if you didn't mind watching in black and white.
The girl was pressed up against the wall there, past screaming now, past running, past helping herself or looking for someone else to help her. The banshee stood at the head of the alley, gloating, rubbing her hands. Wailing.
Sometimes they're beautiful, banshees: truly gorgeous young women. Sometimes they're motherly and you'd want to trust them, go to them, depend on them, if it wasn't for that wicked, wicked voice.
This one was the third option, a crone, bent and haggard and wrapped in a greasy grey shroud. That made it easier.
She lifted her hands, her voice rising in a shrill crescendo that made my belly twist like there was a knife in it. I stepped up quickly, ripped that rotting shroud off her head, stuck the trumpet of an air-horn in her ear and blew her away.
If there's one thing banshees can't stand, it's being drowned out by something louder. Where's the fun if you can't hear yourself shriek, where's the point if your victim can't hear you either?
Sometimes they fight. The young have nails - dirty nails, usually - while the motherly have weight, and can be vicious with it. This crone might have had the wiry strength of the very old and the very mad, but she didn't have the courage to go with it. She glared, she cursed, she spat at me; I gave her another blast of the horn, and she slunk away.
People were looking, of course. You can't let an air-horn go in public and expect not to be stared at. All they'd see was a kid, though, apparently on his own in the mouth of an alley. Making a nuisance of himself, but hey, no damage done. Why get involved?
Me, I have to get involved. I walked into the shadows of that alley, to where the girl was sliding down the wall like her legs wouldn't hold her up any longer.
I thought they'd done amazingly well, holding her up as long as they had. She was tougher than she knew, this kid.
And scared too, more scared than she'd ever known she could be. I knew how that felt.
I gave her a bit of distance, dropping to my haunches the opposite side of the alley, a six-foot stretch away, not to loom over her. Put a smile in my voice and said, "Okay, then?"
Stupid question, deliberately. I wanted to get the measure of her, see if I got a stupid answer or a stroppy one.
Or neither. She only stared at me, wordless. Letting me see just how not-okay she was.
Fair enough. I said, "Do you want anything? No need to move, I could fetch you coffee, a Coke. Or hot chocolate, warm and sweet, do you good..."
She shook her head urgently. "Please, no - don't leave me, not here..."
Her voice was hoarse, from screaming or from shock, but there was a hint of Irish under all the strain of it. No surprise there, then.
"You could come with."
"No!" That was sharper, a jagged little cry that must have hurt her throat.
"Come on. You know enough to be afraid of the dark; why stay where the shadows are?"
She was mute again, shaking her head. It's a natural thing, a human thing; even when it's creatures of the night you're running from, you still shrink from the light. Darkness is for hiding in. That's hard-wired, but sometimes it's just wrong.
Who's after you, then, little girl?
She wasn't ready to tell me yet; I just asked her name.
"Sarah."
"Sarah what - Kavanagh? O'Brien?"
Her little gasp was a giveaway.
"Relax, I'm not magic. I don't do mind-reading. There are only five families the banshees are let haunt. They stretch a point these days, when so many girls marry out of the clan, but chances were you'd have the family name. You did know that was a banshee, right?"
She nodded. Of course she did. Grandma's tales, children's games; maybe she'd even heard one for real, in the family home before Grandma died.
"You know what it means?"
This time she didn't nod. She told me, flat and final. Brave girl, she only looked about sixteen, and she said, "It means I'm going to die."
"Nah, that's what it wants you to think. Banshees are greedy, they jump the gun, they try to make it happen. Maybe they'll get lucky, scare you to death. See, nobody audits them, no one checks up. They're not always right. 'Specially nowadays, when the bloodlines are so thin. Sometimes they don't know, they're guessing or hoping or playing the odds."
"It's right about me," she said stubbornly. "I'm pure O'Brien, nothing thin in my blood."
"And what, then, you're going to die of pride, is that it?"
"No." She was talking to her knees now, where she hugged them to her chest. "It, it knows what I saw, what I did, what's coming after me."
"Oh? What's that, then?"
"You wouldn't..." I would, though, and I watched her realise it. Didn't I just scare a banshee off, and wasn't that just as unbelievable? Maybe I would believe her. But - "How come you knew about the banshee, how come you heard her?"
"Just lucky, I guess. Lucky that I knew what to do, too." I let that sink in, which one of us had actually been lucky tonight, and then I pressed her. "What happened, Sarah? What did you see, to start all this?"
"It was... nothing. I thought it was nothing, nothing that mattered. Just nasty, a pack of dogs savaging a cat in this bit of woodland back home."
"And what, you interfered?"
"Yes, of course. They were big dogs, but I had this can of pepper-spray, my uncle brought it back from America and he made me promise to keep it with me, it goes on my key-ring, see? So I gave them a faceful. I think the cat got a bit too, it squawled and shot straight up a tree; but the dogs were rolling and pawing at their faces and yelpin
"And then?" I could have made it easy for her, I could guess what was coming, but it'd do her good to spell it out.
"And then, I started to walk away but I thought, I thought I could hear voices in all the noise they were making. So I looked back, and they, they weren't dogs any more. Not properly. Like men in dog-costumes, they were, and more like men every moment; and then one of them lifted its head and stared straight at me, and it was a human face for sure, and it howled at me like a, like a..."
"Like a wolf," I finished for her, just the one small act of kindness.
She nodded. "I thought they were dogs, see? That's all, just big dogs..."
Throwing pepper in a dog's face, it's a classic. So she pepper-sprayed a pack of werewolves at play, all unknowing, just to save a stray cat; and now -
"How long have they been hunting you?"
"Three days," she said in a small voice. "I've been taking buses all the time, off one and straight onto another, and they're still following. And I've got no money left, there's nowhere to go now. And the banshee found me, and..."
And she thought she was doomed, dead bones walking. Except that she wasn't walking any more, she was just going to sit there and wait for them to find her.
It wouldn't be long now. One thing wolves are good at, it's being relentless. Running down prey. Now that I knew to listen for it, I could hear a howling on the wind. She'd been hearing that for three days, except when the banshee drowned it out.
I said, "All right, sweetheart. Here" - a bottle of water and a Mars bar from my backpack - "get this inside yourself, you'll feel better. Trust me, I'm a teenager."
She squinted at me through the shadows, didn't reach to take what I was offering. "Are you? Really?"
"Really truly. Seventeen."
"That's what you look like, more or less. Only you sound older. A lot."
"Yeah, I know. I've been seventeen for a long time now."
"I don't understand."
"No," I said, "that's right. You don't." You never will. "Now take," and I shifted to sit next to her, took her wrist in mine, unfolded cold stiff fingers and pressed the Mars bar into them, "eat, this is my chocolate which is given to you."
She choked down a painful little giggle, and started to fumble at the wrapper. A moment later she looked startled at her own forgetfulness, shook her head at me, said, "You, you can't stay, they'll hurt you too..."
"Not them. Trust me." Again, although this was a bigger ask. "I'm stronger than I look."
Her eyes were sceptical, and quite right too; that was a lie, straight and simple. I was exactly what I looked like, small and slender and scared. Only, it wasn't werewolves I was scared of. Which was something else I hoped she'd never understand.
After that, we didn't talk much. She ate; we waited. An alley was as good as anywhere.
Other people must have heard the howling as they came, but I suppose they'd put it down to dogs, the wind, whatever. Kids messing around. You see what you expect to see; even Sarah had thought dogs, even while she was looking straight at them.
I saw wolves, three of them, although they came loping across the tarmac in human form: boys in tracksuits, trainers, sweat. I could well believe that they'd been running for three days. The alley steamed, it roiled with the sour reek of hot wet dogs.
Sarah had her pepper-spray in her hand, but it would do her no good now. It wasn't a cat these three were after killing.
I signed for her to stay still, where she was, against the wall. Me, I stood up and took a pace or two towards them.
Their eyes were yellow, rimmed with red. Pepper-spray burns for a long, long time. Where they met my gaze, they flinched and looked away. Dogs are still dogs, whatever their ancestry. Three of them, I thought, and I can face them down, just glower them away, win the cheapest victory of my life...
But then there was a growl behind me, from the alley's other end. I heard Sarah's low terrified moan, and realised I'd been outflanked. I should have asked, how many. When I glanced back I saw one more, low and massive, wolf-form, pacing forward on stiff legs. He must have listened to his mother as a pup: eyes and teeth, dear, eyes and teeth.
The moment that I turned my head, the other three came at me.
I only had a second, so I did the only thing I could. I held my hand up high where they could see it, and shrieked my true name into the dank and rancid air.
Wolves can't count, but boys can. The three of them stopped dead, a metre short of tearing me apart. They looked to the other one, I guess he was pack leader, but my name had been enough for him. He was already slinking out of the alley, away into the night.
"Go on, then," I said wearily. "Get after him. And leave the kid alone. She's with me."
That was another lie, but I was getting away with some of them tonight. Those lads ran, and didn't look back.
I dropped beside Sarah again, felt the weight of her gaze like a question; didn't respond until she put it into words, one word, "Jordan?"
"That's my name."
"Why did they run away?"
Because that's what people do, when you give them a reason good enough. Dogs too, apparently. I didn't say that aloud, but maybe something of it showed in my face. I could feel her inching away from me.
"You said you weren't magic."
"I'm not."
"So why did they run?" When I still didn't answer, she tried to work it out for herself: "Just, just your name, and your hand, something about your hand..."
Girls can't count, apparently, or not in moonlight. I showed her, up close.
"Six fingers on my left. Like Anne Boleyn. That and the name told them who I am."
"So who are you? Someone to be scared of?"
"Not really. Not yet." Although I could be, if I only got a little older. "It's not me," I said, "it's the people looking for me. They're much, much scarier than werewolves. They'd be angry, if those guys tore me up in pieces. On the other hand, they'll be really happy if I get turned in as I am." Safe and sound and stupid, giving myself away. Again. "That's what's happening now, the boys have run off to spread the news where it'll do them most good." Give the dog a bone. "Which means we've got to move, right now. Will you be all right to go home? They won't bother you again, I promise." Too busy with other stuff, bothering me.
She nodded, but, "I haven't got any money."
"That's all right, I'll buy your ticket. And your mum's got a mobile, yes? Give me the number, I'll tell her to meet you at the other end."
"Oh God, she'll be so..."
"Relieved is the word you're looking for." Though it'd probably show up as anger, at least to start with. "Keep schtum about the wolves, yeah? You can say about the banshee, say that's why you ran. Say you met a boy who scared it off with an air-horn." I thought she'd done better, driving off four werewolves with a pepper-spray, but it'd be best if her mother kept her close for a while.
Some things the mortal world is good for; there was a late coach that would take her all the way. I waited to see her aboard, although that half-hour was a price in terror that I struggled to keep hidden. I flashed her with my mobile as she climbed the steps, and again as she waved through the window; I watched the bus pull away, and then I phoned her mother.
"Mrs O'Brien? You don't know me, but I have news about your daughter... No, please don't worry, she's on a bus and she's coming home... Something frightened her, that's all, and she had to run. That's the way it happens sometimes. She's fine now, I promise." I told her when Sarah was due in, endured her rush of thanks and then, "I'm sorry, but did you offer a reward, for information...? Well, yes, I would... No, no, this isn't any kind of threat. I told you, she's on the bus already, on her way. There's nothing I can do to alter that. Look, I'm sending you a picture now to prove it."
Mobile phones make this all so much easier; kidnappers must love them. So do I. Once she had the photos, once she was reassured, I got back to business. "This is how I live, you see, Mrs O'Brien. I find missing people, and when I can, I send them home. Sometimes people are grateful, sometimes they pay me. There's no obligation, no contract, but - well, I've bought Sarah's ticket tonight, to fetch her back to you. And if you offered the reward already, and if you're truly glad to have your daughter safe..."
