Afterworlds: The Book of Doom

Afterworlds: The Book of Doom Barry Hutchison The second hilarious book in Barry’s AFTERWORLDS sequence – comic fantasy perfect for fans of Pratchett and Douglas Adams.There’s panic up in Heaven. They have mislaid the BOOK OF DOOM – the most important object in existence. Oopsy.They think Satan might have stolen it, the sneaky little devil, so to save the world – plus, you know, quite a lot of embarrassment, fifteen year old Zac and his angelic guide Angelo are sent to retrieve it.Sadly directions aren’t Angelo’s strong point and they soon find themselves just as lost as the book, wandering through Afterworlds such as Valhalla and Hades and encountering some colourful characters along the way…Can the hapless pair make it to Hell and back? To my auntie and number one supporter: Jessie Corson MBE. (Sorry, couldn’t resist.) Contents Dedication Prologue (#ulink_93bfc538-54f1-5b85-aef8-db6de439c6a4) Chapter One (#ulink_2cea6549-bdb4-5b5e-b67e-e41ec0b7eb36) Chapter Two (#ulink_1ed2658d-8fa0-508f-bf8f-da787286710c) Chapter Three (#ulink_e1b424f0-e59c-5db8-bb11-5d74df2c4bf3) Chapter Four (#ulink_ff936329-8254-5e79-85c3-aec8526361d5) Chapter Five (#ulink_a1c40c05-3e04-5d84-bee3-49c130134eef) Chapter Six (#ulink_3654dfdf-506c-5ee1-81e3-73898b568467) Chapter Seven (#ulink_5470527a-a037-52f0-a32e-d60acfb34934) Chapter Eight (#ulink_ad20ef3f-6b4b-5049-a114-d32accd4f049) Chapter Nine (#ulink_6b646469-254f-50dd-b3ab-934e73fe36d1) Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Two (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Three (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Four (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Five (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Six (#litres_trial_promo) Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo) Other AFTERWORLDS books by Barry Hutchison: (#litres_trial_promo) Copyright (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher (#ulink_391572ce-5fcf-55f8-8cb5-8740f46b22ad) “ ES, GABRIEL. WHAT is it?” “I bring news, sir.” “News? Of the book?” “Of the book. We have tracked it down.” “You have? Excellent. Where is it?” “It’s... well, it’s down below, sir.” “What? On Earth?” “Somewhat further down below than that, sir.” “Oh. Right. Yes. Of course. The blighters. No surprise, I suppose.” “Not entirely unexpected, sir, no.” “Right. Well, now we’ve found it, what’s happening? They going to send it back?” “No, sir.” “No? What do you mean, ‘no’? They’re not playing silly sods again, are they?” “They have requested that we send someone down to collect it in person.” “You must be joking! One of us? Down there? You must be joking!” “Alas, no, sir. They’re quite adamant about it. If we want the book back, we have to send someone to pick it up. They assure us it isn’t a trap.” “It sounds like a trap.” “They assure us it isn’t.” “If I recall, Gabriel, they’re rather fond of lying. Rather adept at it too.” “Quite, sir. But if they refuse to send it back, I don’t see that we have much of a choice in the matter. They have us over something of a barrel on this one. We need that book. What with the... current situation.” “Yes, yes. You’re right, of course. Bless it all, we’re going to have to send someone. But who?” “I anticipated you might ask that, sir. If I may be permitted to make a suggestion...?” “Speak freely, Gabriel.” “What if we didn’t send one of us, sir?” “What do you mean?” “They didn’t specify whom we should send. They just said we should send ‘someone’.” “I don’t follow.” “If it is, as we suspect, a trap, then it would seem unwise to send one of our own marching in. Better, surely, to send someone from down below?” “A demon? How would that work?” “Somewhat less far below than that, sir.” “A human. Hmm. He wouldn’t like that.” “He isn’t around to make the decision, sir. You are. With all due respect.” “True words, Gabriel. True words. But whom would we choose?” “I have taken the liberty of choosing for you, sir, so that you may distance yourself from any subsequent... unpleasantness.” “Good thinking. Good thinking. Excellent. Off the record, though, who did you pick? No names, just the basics.” “Someone disposable, sir.” “Yes. Yes. Well, aren’t they all? But capable, I trust?” “Oh, my word, yes, sir. He’s capable. He’s most capable indeed.” (#ulink_9ff187d1-64c4-565f-84f7-5d6cddf724fc) ULLETS. HE HATED bullets. He especially hated bullets that were travelling towards him at high speed, like the one that had just missed his head. He kept low, zigzagging across the rooftop, his black outfit all but blending him with the night. There was a gap coming up, a space between this roof and the next. Three metres, he estimated. Three and a half at most. Not easy, but doable. He sped up, straightened, threw himself over the opening. His shoulder hit and he rolled quickly, letting his momentum carry him back to his feet, and then he was up and running again. He was halfway across the roof when he heard the shooter clear the gap. Private security. It had to be. Police couldn’t make that jump. Police would’ve given up long before now. Besides, the cops didn’t have guns, and if they did, they probably wouldn’t be aiming for his head. The next roof was closer, but higher. He scrambled up the wall, caught the top ledge and pulled himself over. A chunk of stone pinged from the wall where his legs had been. He threw himself on to the rooftop, face-first, and a third bullet whistled by above him. He raced forward, a dark shape against a dark background. The edge of the roof came up more quickly than he’d been expecting. He stumbled, tripped, then fell three metres on to the next roof. The landing hurt, but there was no time to dwell on it. As he scrambled to his feet, something slipped from his pocket and landed with a clatter on the slates. He glanced up at the ledge he’d just fallen from, saw no one there, so wasted a second bending to retrieve the ornate gold cross he had dropped. When he stood up, a gun was in his face. “You’re fast. I’ll give you that,” puffed the man with the gun. “You almost lost me back there. But that cross doesn’t belong to you. It belongs to my boss, Mr Hanlon.” Behind his hood and mask, the figure in black remained silent. The gunman was in his early thirties, well built, with hair that was shaved almost to the bone. Ex-military, no doubt. Well trained and in good shape. “Do you know what Mr Hanlon does to people who break into his home and take his property?” asked the man. “Or, let me put it another way, do you know what Mr Hanlon lets me do to people who break into his home and take his—” The dark-clad figure leaned left and brought his hand sharply up, fingers together like the blade of a spear. The blow connected just above the gunman’s right armpit. The man’s finger tried to tighten on the trigger of the gun, but there was no strength left in his arm. The right side of his face went slack. His right leg wobbled as his arm – and the gun – began to drop. “What... what’ve you done to me?” he slurred as he folded down on to the rooftop. “Don’t worry, the paralysis is only temporary,” the figure in black said. “But I’d consider a safer line of work in future. Tell your boss thanks for the cross.” The fallen gunman blinked. There was a rustle of fabric, and he was suddenly alone on the roof. Five minutes later and several streets away, the shadowy figure clambered down a drainpipe into a narrow alleyway. Just beyond the alley mouth he could hear the hustle and bustle of the city. It was midnight, but the city, like him, rarely slept. He took off the mask. The night air was cool against his skin. He let himself enjoy it for a moment, taking it in through his nose in big gulps, refilling his aching lungs. “Zac Corgan?” The voice came from behind him. The accent was New York – Brooklyn, maybe – but Zac didn’t recognise the voice. He spun, already crouching into a fighting stance. An overweight man in a brown robe stood in the alleyway. Moonlight gleamed off his balding head. Despite the hour, he wore a pair of designer sunglasses. Zac’s reflection stared back from both lenses. “Zac Corgan?” the man asked again. “Sorry,” said Zac, backing away. “I don’t know who that is.” “Don’t jerk me around, kid. You’re Zac Corgan.” “No, I’m not.” “You’re Zac Corgan, fifteen years old. Parents disappeared when you was eighteen months, so you live with your grandfather.” Zac hesitated. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The man in the robe gave an impatient sigh. “You wear size nine shoes. You eat mostly eggs and pasta, for the protein and carbohydrate. You’re home educated. You got no friends. And you have a birthmark the shape of a smiley face on the back of your hand.” “No, I don’t.” “Yes, you do,” the Monk insisted. “I haven’t got a birthmark. You’ve got the wrong person.” “See for yourself, kid.” Hesitantly, Zac pulled off his gloves. A brown splodge he’d never seen before grinned up at him. He tried to rub it away, but the smiley-faced mark wasn’t going anywhere. “All right,” Zac said, pulling his gloves back on. “You’ve got my attention. Who are you?” “They call me the Monk.” Zac glanced from the man’s bald head to his long brown cloak. He could just see a pair of sandalled feet poking out at the bottom. “Why do they call you that, then?” “Funny, kid. Real funny.” The Monk took a step forward. Zac took a step back. “My... employer wants to talk to you. He’s impressed with your work, see? Thinks maybe you can help us with a little problem we got.” “I don’t do requests,” Zac said. The Monk’s voice became cold. “We wasn’t making one.” “I’d advise against threatening me,” Zac warned. “Tell your employer I’m not interested.” The Monk smiled thinly. “I don’t think that’s so good an idea. You don’t know it, kid, but you’re in a whole heap of trouble. And that trouble’s gonna come find you real soon.” “I can handle myself.” “What, you think just because you can sneak around all dressed in black that you’re going to be able to avoid it? You think being stealthy is going to keep you safe? I got news for you – we can all do stealthy. Stealthy ain’t nothin’ special. Check this out: now you see me –” he stepped sideways into the shadows – “now you don’t.” “Yes, I do,” said Zac. He pointed to a shape in the darkness. “There you are.” There was a soft scuffing of sandals on concrete. “OK. Well, how about now, Mr Smart Guy? Bet you can’t see me now.” “You haven’t moved.” There was more scuffing, louder this time. “All right, big shot... how about now?” Silence. “Ha! I knew it. You ain’t got the first damn clue where I am, do ya? C’mon, take a guess.” More silence. From the shadows, there came a sigh. “You’re gone, ain’t ya, kid?” the Monk said. And he was right. (#ulink_b4788d0f-63d4-5a25-b2b7-2c3dc42f1d80) “ OME IN, CHUCK.” Zac edged open the door and stepped into a cluttered office. It looked like the back store at a pawnshop, with clocks and books and ornaments and other clutter stacked crookedly on shelves, on tables, or just piled up on the floor. And in the middle of it all, like a spider in her web, sat Geneva Jones. She lounged behind a desk, her grey hair scraped back, a hand-rolled cigarette stuck to her bottom lip. It was two in the morning, but there she was, wide awake. Of course, Zac only ever visited at night, but the rumour was Geneva never slept. “Zac.” She smiled, revealing a smudge of red lipstick across her teeth. “Knew you wouldn’t let me down.” Without a word, Zac reached into his pocket and pulled out the cross. It landed with a thud on her desk. Geneva’s eyes gleamed as she picked it up. “The Cross of Saint Alberic,” she said in a half-whisper. “Isn’t it flippin’ gorgeous?” “Bit bling for my liking,” Zac told her. “But if you pay me, I’ll leave you two alone together.” “Yes, yes, of course,” Geneva said, setting the cross back down. “What did we say again? Two hundred, wasn’t it?” Outwardly, Zac didn’t react. He’d been here too many times before. “Two thousand.” Geneva’s eyes widened in surprise. She took the cigarette from her mouth and stubbed it into an overflowing ashtray. “Two thousand? I don’t remember offering that. That’s a lot of money.” “The cross is worth ten times that, easy,” Zac said. Geneva held the artefact out to him. “Then maybe you should try selling it yourself. If you’re so up on the market rates.” Zac didn’t move to take the cross. “Two hundred,” Geneva said. “Eight hundred.” “Three.” “Five.” “Deal!” the woman said. She spat on her hand, then held it out. Zac shook it, then covertly wiped his palm on his jacket. Geneva slid open a desk drawer and pulled out a rolled-up bundle of notes. She unfolded the pile, counted five notes from the top, then put the rest back in the drawer. “A pleasure doing business with you, as always,” she said, grinning as she handed Zac the money. Her face took on a wounded expression as Zac held each note up to the light and checked it. “What’s the matter? Don’t you trust me? After all these years?” “I don’t trust anyone,” Zac said, folding the money into his wallet. “Very wise. That’ll keep you alive, that will,” Geneva told him. “Ta-ra then, chuck. For now.” Zac nodded, then reached for the door handle. “Oh, I almost clean forgot,” said Geneva. “There was someone in ’ere asking about you earlier.” “Asking about me? Who?” “A monk, would you believe? Robe and everything. Proper Friar Tuck, he was.” “What? When?” Geneva lit another cigarette, then drew deeply on it. “Not long. Few minutes before you got here.” Zac tensed. “Did you tell him anything?” “No, no, of course not. What do you take me for?” Relaxing a little, Zac pulled open the door. “I told him he could ask you hisself.” A bald man in a brown robe stood in the hallway, blocking the exit. He stared out at Zac from behind his mirrored sunglasses. “Hey, kid,” said the Monk. “Surprise!” “I told you, I’m not interested.” “Figured you might say that,” the Monk said with a shrug. His hand rose at his side, until it was level with his waist. An old-fashioned revolver, like something from a Western, pointed at Zac’s chest. “So you ain’t leaving me no choice.” Zac swung his leg with the speed of a striking cobra. His foot caught the Monk’s wrist and slammed it against the wall. There was a bang, deafening in the narrow space, and an antique clock in Geneva’s office exploded into matchsticks. “Hell’s teeth! Watch what you’re doing, chuck!” Zac stepped in close to the Monk, using his body weight to keep the gun arm against the wall. The heel of his hand crunched against the bald man’s chin, snapping his head back. Folding his fingers into the shape of a blade, Zac struck the Monk just above his right armpit. He stayed in close as he waited for the Monk to fall. But the Monk had other ideas. “Nice try, kid,” he said. “My turn.” Zac could move fast, but the Monk could move faster. There was a blur of hands. Zac caught a glimpse of his reflection in the Monk’s sunglasses, and then there was a strange sensation of weightlessness and motion, and Zac realised what was going to happen next. The door shattered beneath his weight and Zac found himself outside, lying on his back on the road, pain stabbing the whole length of his spine. A moonlit shadow passed across him. He rolled left just as a sandalled foot slammed down. The Monk stamped again and again, forcing Zac to keep rolling. At last, he managed to scramble to his feet and threw himself forward into a sprint. His sudden dash had given him a head start, but the Monk was already right at his heels. Zac dug deep and forced his legs to move faster. There was no way the Monk should be able to keep up with him. He had to be three or four times heavier than Zac, at least, and yet his footsteps were drawing closer. A hand grabbed him roughly by the shoulder. Zac ducked and pulled free, stumbling as he made it to the junction. A horn blared as a taxi swooshed narrowly by him, its headlights dazzling in the darkness. From behind Zac there came a screeching of brakes. Another cab bore down on him, the driver’s face a mask of terror as she stomped the brake pedal down to the floor. Before Zac could move, the Monk was in front of him. The man in the robe raised a fist above his head, then brought it down sharply on the bonnet of the car. There was a scream from inside the vehicle as the back end flipped up into the air. Zac watched, frozen, as the car somersaulted above his head. It landed, right way up, with an almighty crash behind him. He watched, dumbstruck, as all four wheels rolled off in different directions. When he turned back, the Monk was looking at him, arms folded, a self-satisfied smirk on his face. “What the Hell are you?” “Trust me, Hell ain’t got nothin’ to do with it,” the Monk replied. “What you did... the car... it’s not possible.” “Not possible for you, maybe,” the Monk said, shrugging. They began to circle each other, Zac tense, the Monk a picture of tranquillity. “Me? I can do lots of things.” “Oh, really?” Zac said. “Well, you’re not the only one.” He had seen the night bus approaching from the corner of his eye. He darted across in front of it as it sped by, narrowly avoiding being hit. The Monk hung back, waiting for the bus to pass before he gave chase. It swept by in a gust of wind and a whiff of diesel. Behind his mirrored lenses, the Monk’s eyes scanned for any sign of the boy, but Zac was nowhere to be seen – not on the road, not on the pavement... The bus. The Monk turned his head, following the vehicle as it spluttered away from him. A black-clad figure stood at the back windscreen. Zac smiled and waved. The Monk pulled the gun from within his robe, but by the time he took aim, the bus was round a corner and out of range. “H-help!” came a shaky voice from inside the wreckage of the taxi. “Help, I... I need help!” The Monk didn’t look round. “Yeah, yeah. You know what, sweetheart?” he said quietly. “You an’ me both.” (#ulink_33df48f0-26d4-5d08-80f0-cf54efd74c64) AC GLANCED OVER his shoulder to make sure he hadn’t been followed, then slipped into his house through the back door. He closed the door and turned the key without a sound, then jumped as the kitchen light clicked on. “Zac?” “Granddad, it’s you,” Zac breathed. He looked at the old man standing in the doorway in his striped pyjamas. He held a green and blue stress ball in one hand, squeezing it gently between his fingers. “What are you doing up?” Zac asked. His grandfather, Phillip, passed the stress ball from one hand to the other and back again. “I was hungry,” he said. “Or... thirsty? I forget which. Where have you been?” Zac crossed to the window and drew the blinds. “Working, Granddad, remember?” “Until three in the morning?” Phillip asked. “Who eats hamburgers at three in the morning? I hope they paid you overtime.” “Yeah, well...” “I mean, eating hamburgers at three in the morning. They need their heads examined.” “It takes all sorts, Granddad,” said Zac, not meeting the old man’s eye. He took a glass from the draining board and filled it with water. “Here, have this.” Phillip frowned. “What for?” “You’re thirsty.” “Am I?” He took the glass and gulped down some of the water. “Oh, yes, so I was.” He licked his cracked lips. “Catriona’s very worried. Very worried.” “Is she?” Zac asked. He glanced past his granddad into the darkened hallway, checking for any sign of movement. “What’s she worried about?” “Oh, everything. You know what Catriona’s like!” Zac filled himself a glass from the tap and sipped on it. The coppery tang of blood swirled around inside his mouth. “Well, no, not really,” he said. “Who’s Catriona?” Phillip paused, his own glass halfway to his lips. “Catriona? She’s...” His eyes seemed to dim as he struggled to remember. He squeezed hard on his stress ball. “You know. Catriona.” “Oh, you mean Catriona. Of course. Now I remember,” lied Zac. “Yeah, she’s a worrier, that one.” A relieved smile lit up Phillip’s face. “Catriona,” he laughed. “Fancy not remembering Catriona. She’s asked me to help her out, but, I mean, what can I do?” “You can do lots of things, Granddad,” Zac said, patting the old man on the shoulder, “but I think it’s time Catriona learned to stand on her own two feet. Stop worrying about her. She’ll be fine.” Whoever she is, Zac added silently. Phillip spoke about people like Catriona all the time. People who snuck into his head at all hours of the day and night and told him their problems. People who, as far as Zac could tell, didn’t actually exist. “Where have you been all night?” Phillip asked. “Work, Granddad. I told you, remember?” “Is that a bruise?” Phillip said, peering at his grandson. Zac pulled back before the old man could get a closer look at his face. “Oh, yeah, I walked into a door,” Zac said. “Nothing serious. Anyway... I’m going to head to bed. Will you be OK?” “I’ll be fine,” said Phillip, putting his glass in the sink. “If I can’t sleep I might do some reading. Or listen to music. Or I might even watch some television.” “We don’t have a TV, Granddad.” “Oh, don’t we? Well, bang goes that idea. Maybe I’ll just feed the goldfish, if I can get it to stay still for long enough. Anyway, I’ll be fine. You go. You go. You need your beauty sleep.” Phillip shooed Zac out into the hallway, where an orange shape was zipping around inside a glass bowl. They both watched it for a few moments, moving so fast it was almost a blur of speed. Phillip had owned the same goldfish for as long as Zac could remember. In all that time, Zac had never once seen it stop moving. Zac tore his eyes away from the darting fish and made for the stairs. He stopped to check the front door was locked, then turned to his granddad. “Listen, if anyone comes looking for me... I mean, if anyone calls round...” Phillip frowned. “Expecting someone? At this time of night?” “No. Maybe. Probably. If anyone comes to the door, tell them I’m not in.” “Are you heading out?” “No, I’m going to sleep, so tell them I’m not in.” “You’re not in. Got it,” said Phillip. “Where is it you’re going?” “I’m not going anywhere, Granddad. Just sleeping, remember?” “Sleeping. Right.” The old man tapped a finger against the side of his nose. “Say no more.” “You be OK?” “I’ll be fine, Zac,” said Phillip. “Which is more than I can say for poor Bill.” Zac made an admirable attempt to contain a sigh. “Bill?” “Lost his job, apparently. In a lot of financial trouble. He doesn’t know what to do.” Phillip shook his head sadly. “Keeps asking me to sort it out for him, as if I can do anything about that kind of thing.” For a moment, Phillip seemed to drift away. He gazed into space, a fog descending behind his eyes. Eventually, he gave himself a shake and looked over to his grandson. “Now, where were you going again?” “Nowhere, Granddad,” said Zac. He smiled weakly. “I’m just going to go bed.” “Right you are!” said Phillip, and he turned back to the goldfish bowl as Zac bounded up the stairs. The door to Zac’s bedroom was old and heavy. He closed it firmly and pushed his bookcase in front of it, just to make sure he wasn’t disturbed. He needed time to think, to figure out who the Monk was, and why he was trying to kill him. He sat on the end of his bed, facing the window. The adrenaline that had been pumping through him for the past few hours was wearing off, and he could now feel all the cuts and bruises he’d earned on his way through Geneva’s front door. A car. With a single punch, the Monk had flipped a moving car. It had to be a trick of some kind. It had to be. Like the birthmark on his hand, which had vanished again by the time he’d got home. Those things weren’t possible. He looked through the window, along the leafy suburban street lit up orange by the glow of the streetlights. For a moment he thought he saw something glint on a roof at the other end of the street – a reflection of moonlight off a lens, maybe. He jumped up and quickly drew the curtains, suddenly unable to shake the feeling that he was being watched. He was agitated. That was new. He never got agitated. Whatever the situation, he was a master at keeping his cool. But a car. The Monk had flipped a car. “Get a grip,” he told himself. “You’re being paranoid.” He turned from the window. A figure in brown stood against the wall near the corner of the room. “See, kid?” said the Monk. “Told ya I was stealthy.” The roar of a gunshot echoed through the house. (#ulink_0ecc1834-c844-5f94-9dca-35d0804814c6) AC OPENED HIS eyes and instinctively grabbed for his stomach, where he expected the gunshot wound to be. He had felt the impact of the bullet hitting him. The brief but overwhelming agony as it had torn up his insides. The last thing he remembered before the world went dark was the Monk’s voice, soft in his ear: “Don’t worry, kid, I’ll stick your body in the cupboard.” And now... And now... Nothing. There was no pain. No blood. He hadn’t yet sat up, but he could tell he wasn’t in his bedroom, and he wasn’t in the cupboard, either. He was... somewhere else, lying on his back with something soft and fluffy below him. “It’s awake,” said a gruff voice. “He’s awake, Michael, please,” said another. It sounded friendlier than the first, but with the sort of upper-class lilt that Zac had never been keen on. The smiling face of a youngish-looking man leaned over him. “Why, hello there,” the face said. “You must be Zac.” Zac tried to leap to his feet, but the ground was squishy, like plumped-up pillows, and it took him longer than he would have liked. He stared, first at his surroundings – bright blue sky, fluffy white ground, with an imposing gate standing off to one side – and then at the two men he had heard talking. They looked similar, and yet different, like twins whose lives had taken them down very different paths. The one who’d spoken to him – the smiling one – was still smiling. He had long blond hair, hanging in curls down to his shoulders, and eyes that sparkled a brilliant shade of electric blue. He wore a long white... Zac hesitated to use the word dress, but he couldn’t think of a more appropriate one. It was plain in design, and reached all the way down to the floor. The sleeves looked to be a little on the long side, with gaping cuffs that hung several centimetres from the man’s wrists. The other man – Michael, was it? – was facially very similar. Same blue eyes, same blond hair, but there the likeness ended. Instead of a gown, Michael was dressed like a Roman soldier. He wore a tunic of red leather, decorated with golden trim. On top of this was a breastplate, also the colour of gold. It wasn’t real gold, Zac guessed, because real gold would make useless armour. It would be steel, painted to look like gold. Unless the wearer had no intention of actually using it in battle, of course. A sword hung in its scabbard at Michael’s side. The first man appeared to carry no weapon, although he could’ve probably hidden a bazooka up those sleeves if he’d wanted to. “Please don’t be alarmed,” he said. “My name is Gabriel. It’s a pleasure to—” “What’s going on? Where’s the Monk? Where am I?” “The Monk is on Earth,” said Gabriel. “You, on the other hand, are not.” Zac’s gaze went between the two men. “What? What do you mean I’m not on Earth? What are you talking about?” “I thought you said it was smart,” Michael grunted. “Doesn’t seem so smart to me.” “Heis smart. He’s just a little... jet-lagged,” said Gabriel, not taking his eye off Zac, and not lowering that smile. “It’s a lot to take in, isn’t it, Zac? Take a moment. Look around, and then tell me where you are.” For a long time, Zac kept watching Gabriel. The man’s voice, like his smile, was as insincere as a politician on the campaign trail. Despite Michael’s sword and demeanour, something about Gabriel made Zac suspect he was the one to watch out for. “Go on,” Gabriel urged. “Look. See.” Zac shifted his eyes to the left. The swirling mist that covered the ground stretched out in all directions, extending far beyond the limits of his vision. There were no hills, no buildings, just an endless plane of wispy white, and a dome of bright blue sky overhead. Then there was the gate. It was, Zac realised, actually two gates, fastened together in the middle. They stood fifteen metres high, an elaborate tangle of silver and gold. There was no fence, just the gates themselves, standing proud and alone. And a small desk. He hadn’t noticed it at first, but there it was, right at the foot of one of the gateposts. It was fashioned from dark oak, with faded gold-leaf gilding decorating the carved legs. A rectangle of cardboard had been propped up on the desktop. On it, someone had written: GONE TO LUNCH BACK IN 20 MINS “Well?” asked Gabriel, seamlessly shifting his smile from friendly to encouraging. “Any ideas?” “I’m in a coma,” Zac said. “That’s the only explanation.” Michael made a sound like the growl of a wild animal. “This is a waste of time.” Gabriel’s smile faltered, just briefly. “No, you’re not in a coma, Zac. Would you like to try again?” “Not really,” Zac said, with a shrug. “Because the only other explanation is that I’m dead, and this is Heaven.” “Aha!” began Gabriel. “And I don’t believe in Heaven.” “Oh.” Gabriel’s smile fell away completely, but rallied well and came back wider than ever. “Well, believe in it or not, that’s exactly where you are. Or on the outskirts, at least.” “The outskirts?” “Yes. Heaven itself is beyond the gates. This –” he gestured around them – “is sort of the suburbs. Outer Heaven, if you will.” “No,” said Zac. “It’s not. That isn’t possible.” “The Monk tells us you evaded him. Twice,” said Gabriel. “Congratulations. That’s two more than anyone else ever has.” “His boss,” Zac muttered. “He said his boss wanted to see me.” “Correct. That would be me,” said Gabriel. Michael gave another growl. “Or rather, us. We have need of your... talents.” “So you had me killed? Couldn’t you have, I don’t know, phoned or something?” Gabriel ran a hand through his golden locks. “I suppose, when you put it like that, it does sound a touch drastic.” Zac shook his head. “No, this is all nonsense. I’m dreaming. This can’t be real.” “I assure you it is real, Zac,” Gabriel insisted. “I’m afraid you have to face facts, my boy. You are dead.” “You killed me,” said Zac quietly. “You had me killed.” He took a sudden step towards Gabriel, his hands balling into fists. Gabriel didn’t flinch. There was a sound like silk tearing. A sudden pressure across Zac’s throat stopped him moving any further. The blade of the sword felt uncomfortably warm against his skin. “Make another move and I slice,” Michael warned. “What difference does it make if I’m already dead?” “Oh, there are many worse things than death,” Gabriel said, still smiling. “I can think of at least a hundred off the top of my head.” His smile widened and his blue eyes seemed to darken. “Would you care to pick a number?” He waited a moment, until he was sure his point had been understood, before gesturing to Michael to step back. The man in the golden armour hesitated, then removed the blade from Zac’s throat and slid it back into its sheath. “And the whole fate-worse-than-death issue is precisely why we wanted to talk to you, Zac,” Gabriel continued. “You see, what with all your exploits – stealing and whatnot – I’m afraid you’ve booked yourself a place in Hell.” Zac rubbed his throat. He could still feel the heat where the sword had touched his skin. “Hell?” “Yes. You know, fire and brimstone; demons poking spikes into places you’d really rather they didn’t; etcetera, etcetera. It’s one of the Four Suggestions, see? ‘Thou Probably Shouldn’t Steal’.” “Four Suggestions? What are you talking about?” “The Four Suggestions,” Gabriel said again, as if that explained everything. When he saw it didn’t, he continued: “That God gave to Moses on Mount Sinai.” “You mean the Ten Commandments?” “Ah, of course, I forgot. You’re a human,” said Gabriel, giving himself a tap on the forehead. “That was an error in translation. Much of the Bible’s spot-on, of course, but sometimes the authors took a few liberties, or just missed the meaning completely. God doesn’t give out commandments. What would be the point in that? Ordering people around all the time? No, it’s not His style. He’s quite laid-back, really.” “But He does make suggestions,” Michael added. “And if you don’t follow them, you’ll burn for ever in the fires of Hell.” “Doesn’t sound very laid-back,” said Zac. “I said He was quite laid-back,” Gabriel replied. “I didn’t say He was a pushover.” “If I’m going to Hell, how come I’m here?” “We decided to intervene,” Gabriel told him. “We snatched you away before Hell could claim you. We wanted to offer you a chance to—” A smaller gate, built into the frame of the larger one, swung open. A man in a grey robe, with matching grey hair and beard, strolled through, whistling below his breath. He had a newspaper under one arm and carried a takeaway coffee cup. The man walked towards the desk, then stopped when he realised he wasn’t alone. “Oh, erm, hello,” he said. “I just popped out for a quick bite to eat. Wasn’t gone long.” He looked from Gabriel to Michael. “Nothing’s happened, has it?” “Nothing you need concern yourself with, Peter,” said Gabriel, turning the full force of his smile on the newcomer. “Be a good chap and give us another five minutes, would you?” The man in grey looked like he couldn’t believe his luck. “Well, I suppose I could find some paperwork to be getting on with,” he said, playing it cool. “Filing an’ that.” “Wonderful. That would be splendid,” said Gabriel. Peter backtracked towards the gate he’d come through. “Right you are, then. I’ll just go and eat some... I mean file some, um...” Michael growled and fixed Peter with a furious glare. Peter’s face reddened and his brow became shiny with sweat. “I’ll go file some... some... sandwiches,” he blurted, then he bit his lip. “Very good, Peter,” said Gabriel. “Peace be with you.” “Peace be with you,” said Peter, bowing ever so slightly. “Peace be with you, Michael.” Michael growled again. Peter gave a final bow, darted through the gate, and let it close behind him. Zac couldn’t see the man through the gaps in the metalwork, even though common sense said he should be able to. “So, that was Saint Peter?” he asked. Gabriel gave an approving nod. “For a non-believer, you know a lot.” “I’m an atheist, not an idiot,” Zac said. “And you’re Gabriel and Michael, the archangels, right? So where are your wings?” With a sound like a flag flapping in a hurricane, a pair of wings unfolded suddenly from Michael’s back. “Satisfied?” asked Gabriel. Zac blinked. He felt he should’ve had some sort of snappy and sarcastic comeback, but for the life of him he couldn’t think of one. He just nodded instead, and Michael’s wings tucked back in out of sight. “As I was saying,” continued Gabriel. “Your decision to ignore the Third Suggestion means you are – alas – doomed to an eternity of pain and suffering in the fires of Hell.” “Unfortunate,” said Michael. “Most unfortunate,” Gabriel agreed. “However, we may be able to, let us say, pull some strings.” “And why would you do that?” Zac asked. “Because we have need of your unique talents, Zac Corgan, and I believe we may be of mutual benefit to one another. If you were to scratch our backs, then we would gladly scratch yours.” Gabriel folded his arms and rocked on his heels, his smirk wider than ever. “So, shall I arrange for someone from down below to come up and collect you? Or would you care to hear what we have to say?” (#ulink_31df6d24-d42a-5fbe-85cc-47d1db972418) E WAS TAKEN by car – a long white limousine that made no sound as it rolled through the streets of Heaven. There was no other traffic on the road, but the pavements heaved with pedestrians, all decked out in white. They chatted and laughed as they strolled along in the sunshine, their worries long since forgotten. Zac sat on the back seat of the car, looking out through the tinted windows. The two angels were sitting across from him. Michael looked a little more relaxed. His angry scowl had become merely an irritated sneer. Gabriel’s smile, on the other hand, looked to be just hitting its stride. There was a darkened screen between the back of the car and the front, meaning Zac couldn’t see the driver. Then again, with everything that had happened in the past hour, he couldn’t even be sure there was one. Zac tried to take in the sights of the city around them. Every building was like a palace, each having more marble columns than the one before. The striped lawns in every garden were a vibrant, almost neon, green. The flowers too were more vivid than any Zac had seen. It was as if they had been coloured using crayons from a child’s art set, where reds were red and blues were blue, and pastel shades didn’t get a look in. “The streets,” said Zac, as they passed another palace. “They’re proper streets. They’re not wispy like at the gate.” “Ah, yes, the cloud effects. That’s just for the tourists,” Gabriel said. “Costs us a fortune in dry ice, but then where would we be if we didn’t keep up appearances?” He gave Zac’s black clothing a very deliberate glance. “Wouldn’t you agree?” There was a soft knock on the other side of the dividing screen, and the vehicle began to slow. Michael peered out through one of the side windows for a moment, before announcing, “We’re here.” The car whispered to a stop and the doors opened automatically. “We’re where?” Zac asked. “See for yourself,” suggested Gabriel. Zac stepped out of the car and found himself outside an enormous, sprawling citadel. He’d thought the other buildings they’d passed had been palaces, but compared to this place they were little more than shacks. A thousand white pillars stood by the smooth walls, each one carved to resemble a giant kneeling angel with wings fully unfurled. They all had their hands raised, supporting the overhang of a domed roof that was made up of intertwining bands of gold and platinum. Light seemed to emanate from within the dome, bright enough to make a dull ache throb at the back of Zac’s eyeballs. There was sound too. It wasn’t quite music; it was something more, or something less. Like the music that existed before music. A prototype version of music that bypassed the ears and launched a full-scale assault on the emotional centre of the brain instead. Zac didn’t notice Gabriel step out of the car behind him. He didn’t even pull away when the angel’s hand patted him on the shoulder. “Nice, isn’t it?” “Not really my cup of tea,” Zac said, pulling himself together. “What is it?” “This? This is the house that God built,” said Gabriel. He stepped past the boy and gestured towards the building’s ornate front door. “Shall we step inside?” Zac sat at one end of a long narrow table in a long narrow room. The table was made of dark wood, polished to a mirror-like shine. There were twelve leather office-style chairs positioned round it, evenly spaced. Filing cabinets and bookshelves lined one of the room’s shorter walls. Over in the corner stood a water cooler. Every few minutes, it gave a loud glug and bubbles rose lazily inside the bottle. Compared to the outside of the building, this room was relatively dull. There were windows, but Gabriel had closed the blinds as soon as they’d entered. A pot plant stood by the largest window, five completely different types of flower blooming from its stalks. Zac didn’t recognise any of them. At the far end of the table, directly opposite Zac, Gabriel lowered himself into one of the leather chairs. He leaned forward, his elbows on the tabletop, his fingers steepled in front of his mouth, his blue eyes sparkling. Michael had been right behind Zac as they’d entered the room, but he hadn’t followed the others in. There were only the two of them there now – the boy and the angel. “Well?” said Zac. “You wanted to talk. I’m listening.” Gabriel waited a few moments before speaking. “We’ve misplaced something,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “We would like you to help get it back.” “Why me?” “Because we believe your unique talents and your... past exploits make you the perfect choice for the job. We need someone fast. Someone who can think on their feet and who is not afraid to fight dirty, should the need arise.” “Then why not send the Monk? He beat me.” “Alas, the Monk is well known to those who have taken the item. He would not, I fear, last two minutes.” “Why?” Zac asked. “Where is it?” “Hell,” Gabriel said. His chair creaked as he leaned back, not taking his eyes off Zac. He was watching for some kind of reaction, Zac knew. A look of shock, or fear, or something. But Zac wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction. “Right. And what was taken?” One of Gabriel’s eyebrows rose a few millimetres in surprise. “Did you hear what I said?” “It’s in Hell, yeah. I heard. What was taken?” “A book.” “What book?” “It is a book with many names,” the angel said. “Down there they call it the Book of Doom. Up here we prefer the Book of Everything.” “Sounds like a children’s encyclopedia,” Zac said. “Oh, I assure you, it isn’t. The Book of Everything tells us... well, it tells us everything. Every shift of every grain of sand. Every movement of every cloud. Every thought inside the minds of every living creature, from the very beginning of time until the very end.” Gabriel paused a moment, to let his words sink in. “It is omniscience. In paperback form.” “I can see why you’d want that back.” “Indeed. With the book in the hands of our enemies, there is nothing they could not do. No one they could not corrupt. Nowhere they could not conquer. Knowledge is power, and the Book of Everything contains all the knowledge in existence. In the wrong hands, it is the deadliest weapon in all of creation.” Zac whistled through his teeth. “So, that’s why they call it the Book of Doom.” “Correct,” said Gabriel. “In their hands it could indeed doom us all.” “If the book tells them everything, won’t they know I’m coming?” “Almost certainly,” Gabriel admitted. “I never said it was going to be easy. There’s every chance you will not make it back.” “You’re not really selling the idea,” Zac said. “I am nothing if not honest,” Gabriel said, although Zac seriously doubted that. “And you are dead, remember? Either way you are going to Hell. At least our way there’s a chance, however slim, that you will be able to return.” Zac found himself thinking about his grandfather, all alone in that big house with only a hyperactive goldfish and the voices in his head for company. “Right. So, what does it look like, this book?” he asked, forcing himself back to the matter at hand. “We don’t know.” Zac frowned. “Well, when was it taken?” “We don’t know that, either,” Gabriel said, giving a shrug of his slender shoulders. “It’s all rather complicated, I’m afraid.” “Apparently I’ve got plenty of time on my hands. Uncomplicate it.” Gabriel gave a single nod. “Of course.” He stood up and rolled his chair into position beneath the table, then rested his hands on the chair’s leather back. “The Book of Everything can take many forms,” he began. “I, for example, may see it as a small, compact paperback. You may see it as a leather-bound tome. Some may look upon the book and see a carving on a stone tablet, or scribbles in a spiral-bound notebook, or – Lord help us – one of those awful electronic reading devices. Or even something else entirely. The branch of a tree, perhaps. Or a small flan. Nobody knows how they’ll see it until they see it.” “Then how am I supposed to find it?” Zac asked. “Because you will know it, when you see it. We shall grant you that ability. There will be no glimmer of doubt in your mind.” “Fair enough. You said you didn’t know when it was stolen,” Zac prompted. “Yes, I did say that, didn’t I,” said Gabriel. He walked over to the pot plant and cupped one of its leaves in his hands. Another flower burst into bloom further along the stalk. The angel bent, sniffed the flower’s yellow and pink petals, then nodded his approval. “OK, well, let’s narrow it down,” said Zac, when he realised no more information was forthcoming. “When did you last see it?” “Yesterday.” Zac felt himself frown again. It was becoming a habit. “So... obviously someone took it in the last twenty-four hours.” “Not necessarily,” Gabriel explained, turning back to face him. “The Book of Everything exists outside of time. In many ways, I suppose, you could say that it is time. I saw it yesterday, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t taken a thousand years ago. Or tomorrow.” “I don’t understand,” admitted Zac. “No. It’s not an easy one to get your head around, is it? We tried explaining it to Albert Einstein once, shortly after he got here. He’s been having a lie-down in a darkened room ever since. Whimpering into a pillow, by all accounts.” Gabriel flashed his politician-smile again. “So let’s not go into too much detail. Suffice to say the book has been taken at some point and that right now it is in the possession of Hell and all its minions.” The door opened and Michael strode in. Zac saw a subtle look pass between the angels, and the briefest of nods from the one in the armour. Gabriel took his seat again, while Michael remained standing behind him. Both angels looked expectantly at Zac. “Our offer is this,” said Gabriel, clasping his hands together. “You find the book and bring it to us, and we wipe the slate clean. A fresh start. You are returned to life, and all your sins are forgiven.” “And if I say no?” “Then you will still go to Hell, but as a prisoner of Satan, not as an agent of God. There you will be roasted, flayed, impaled and so on and so forth, for the remainder of time.” Zac didn’t flinch. He held Gabriel’s gaze. The angel shifted in his seat slightly, then leaned back and placed his hands behind his head. “And then, of course, there’s your grandfather to think about.” The tiny hairs on the back of Zac’s neck stood on end. He almost reacted to that, but he bit down hard on the inside of his bottom lip to stop himself. “He’s how old now? Ninety-six? Ninety-seven?” Gabriel asked, not expecting an answer. “Old for a human. All alone down there. Defenceless. How is his health these days? The mind can start going at that age, can’t it? Wouldn’t it be a shame if you could never go back to him? Never even got the chance to say goodbye?” Zac’s voice was like the rasp of a saw. “OK,” he said. “You win. I’ll do it.” “Excellent. Excellent,” said Gabriel. He spun his chair in a full circle, then stood up suddenly. “Michael will accompany you on the quest.” “No, thanks,” Zac said. Gabriel raised both impeccable eyebrows. “I beg your pardon?” “I don’t want him with me.” “Why ever not?” “I don’t like him. I’ll go alone.” “I’m afraid that’s quite impossible. Without him, you would not be able to cross over the barriers between realms.” Gabriel gave a dismissive wave. “Michael will get you out of Heaven, and Michael can bring you into Hell. You could not do these things on your own.” “Then I’ll take someone else,” Zac said. He met Michael’s furious glare and shot it back at him. “Preferably someone who hasn’t held a sword to my throat. In fact, preferably not an angel at all.” Gabriel laughed a hollow laugh. “This is Heaven. I’m afraid angels are all we have. But I don’t understand – why don’t you want an angel to accompany you?” “Because an angel in Hell is going to stand out, I’m guessing. I want to get in and out without making a scene,” Zac said. “Also, I’m still an atheist, so technically I don’t even believe in angels. You two included.” “Well, I’m afraid there’s nobody else,” Gabriel said. He tapped a manicured fingernail against his flawless teeth. It made a sound like footsteps on marble. “Unless...” “Unless what?” “There is one who may be able to help, although he has nowhere near the strength or experience of Michael.” “I don’t need strength or experience, I just need a guide,” Zac shrugged. “Is he an angel?” Gabriel shook his head. “No.” “What’s his name?” “His name? It’s... ah... yes. His name is Angelo.” “Angelo?” said Zac flatly. “And he’s not an angel?” “No. Yes. Well he’s half angel. But he’s the closest thing to a human that we have.” Zac jumped up and pulled the drawstring of the closest blinds. They lifted, letting a flood of sunlight into the room. He gestured at the busy city-centre plaza beyond the glass, and the hundreds of people who milled about there, all happily going about their business. “Humans,” Zac said. “Dead ones, maybe, but humans. What about one of them?” “Send a guest?” Gabriel gasped, his eyes widening. “We couldn’t possibly do that. Think of the paperwork. No,” he said, shaking his head. “It is Angelo, or it is Michael. The choice, Zac Corgan, is yours.” “Angelo, then,” said Zac. It wasn’t a difficult decision. He’d met Michael less than an hour ago, but already he wanted to stay as far away from him as possible. “Very good,” said Gabriel. “Michael, would you be so kind as to fetch young Angelo for me?” Michael nodded, shot a final glare at Zac, then pulled open the door. A look of exaggerated surprise crossed his face. “Oh, now would you look at that,” he said. “What are the chances?” He let the door open all the way. Gabriel looked past the other archangel and then he too reacted with shock. “Angelo? Just walking past at that very moment! What a stroke of good fortune.” Michael stepped aside. Zac saw the figure framed in the doorway. “Oh, come on,” he sighed as Angelo shuffled into the room. “You have got to be kidding me.” (#ulink_9db86f86-f475-5fe5-bdc9-1e17cb6b1bfb) T WAS THE T-shirt the boy was wearing that had first caught Zac’s eye. It was white, with yellow print on the front in the style of the Baywatch logo. The text read: MY LIFEGUARD WALKS ON WATER And then, underneath, for those struggling to work it out: (BECAUSE HE’S JESUS) The rest of Angelo wasn’t much more promising, either. He was a good fifteen to twenty centimetres shorter than Zac, and about half the width across the shoulders. The T-shirt hung loosely from his skinny frame, reaching down almost to his knees. The knees themselves were on full display, knobbly and ever-so-slightly grass-stained. His legs were also bare, and Zac really hoped the boy was wearing some kind of shorts beneath the trailing shirt. On his feet, Angelo wore flip-flops with I LOVE MAJORCA printed in jolly lettering across the plastic strap. They were the most violent shade of fluorescent green Zac had ever laid eyes on. Zac’s gaze went from the feet to Angelo’s face. The boy looked young – eleven or twelve, at a guess – with eyes that seemed cartoonishly large. His hair was blond, like the angels’, but it was a dirty, brownish blond, cut into an uneven bowl shape round his head. Angelo smiled nervously. “Good King Wenceslas walks into a pizza shop,” he said. His voice was wobbly and unbalanced, as if he were still learning how to use it. “What?” “It’s a joke,” Angelo explained. “Good King Wenceslas walks into a pizza shop, and the assistant asks, ‘How do you want your pizza?’ And Good King Wenceslas says, ‘Deep pan, crisp and even.’” The boy’s huge eyes blinked several times. He watched Zac, waiting for a reaction. “You know? The song,” he added. He began to sing. “Good King Wenceslas looked out...” Zac nodded. “Yeah.” “Deep pan, crisp and even.” “Yeah.” There was silence. Somewhere close by, Gabriel coughed gently. “You don’t get it, do you,” Angelo said. “Deep pan—” “No, no. I get it,” Zac cut in. He looked back at the archangels. “It’s not too late to change my mind, is it?” Gabriel smiled his politician-smile and clapped Zac on the shoulder. “Oh, I think you two are going to get along like a house on fire.” There was no mistaking Angelo’s room. It was like a bricks and mortar version of the boy himself. The walls were a dull white, but decked out in brightly coloured posters. One picture showed an electric guitar with the words JESUS ROCKS! emblazoned across it in blue writing. Keeping with the guitar theme, the next poster featured a large, gold-coloured plectrum. I PICK JESUS! was carved into the plectrum’s surface. There were two or three other posters too, but the one that caught Zac’s eye was a full-length picture of Christ himself. It reminded Zac of a painting he’d stolen once, but this was no painting. It was a photograph. Jesus was standing in a wheat field, with the sunlight casting a halo behind his head. With one hand he held a lamb, tucked up under his arm. With the other hand he was giving a thumbs up to camera, while flashing a smile so sincere it could’ve shattered concrete at a hundred paces. “That’s Jesus,” Angelo said. He was sitting on the edge of the room’s narrow bed, his feet swinging a few centimetres off the bare wooden floor. “He’s my hero.” Zac scanned over the other posters. “So I see.” “Well, him or the Incredible Hulk. It’s hard to choose,” Angelo said. “I mean, Jesus is the son of God, and sacrificed himself for the sins of all mankind and everything, but the Hulk can punch a tank into outer space. So I don’t know who to pick.” “Yeah,” replied Zac absent-mindedly, “it’s tricky.” “I love the Hulk. I mean, I love all superheroes, but the Hulk is the best. Everyone thinks he’s a monster, but he’s not. He’s one of the good guys. He just wants people to stop trying to hurt him. He just wants a friend.” Angelo blushed and squeezed out a bashful smile. “Have you ever read any Hulk comics?” Zac shook his head. “No. Not lately.” “I’ve got loads of them here, if you want to borrow them,” Angelo said. “That’s... that’s what friends do, isn’t it? Lend each other stuff.” “I’m fine, thanks,” Zac said. He strolled over to Angelo’s bookcase. The room was tiny, so it didn’t take long. He cocked his head to the side and studied the shelves. It was mostly Bibles on there, all different shapes and sizes. Down on the bottom shelf, though, were several different versions of Robert Louis Stevenson’s The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, half a dozen superhero graphic novels, and a book full of diagrams of the USS Enterprise. There were also seven different editions of the Star Wars trilogy on DVD, each one only marginally different to the ones before. “Have you ever met him?” Angelo asked. “Jesus?” “The Hulk.” Zac looked back over his shoulder at Angelo. The boy was still perched on the bed, his huge eyes filled with hopeful expectation. “No,” Zac said, turning his back on the bookcase. “Never met him.” “He moves around a lot, that’s probably why,” said Angelo. “If you do ever meet him, whatever you do, don’t make him angry. You wouldn’t like him when he’s angry.” “Right,” said Zac, with only a momentary pause. “I’ll keep that in mind. You like Jekyll and Hyde too, I see.” “Not really,” Angelo shrugged. He shifted uneasily. “Gabriel keeps bringing them to me. He thinks it’s good for me to read them, with the whole half-blood thing. He got me into the Hulk to begin with too.” “Right.” Zac looked around the room again. It was small and windowless, with just one door. There were only the two of them there, and they had only been in the room a few minutes, but already he was beginning to feel claustrophobic. “So,” he began, looking Angelo up and down again. “Why you?” Angelo smiled anxiously. “What do you mean?” “They had you come and wait outside the door. They knew I’d say no to Michael coming with me, so they had you lined up. Why?” “I don’t...” “What did they say to you? Why did Michael tell you to wait outside?” Angelo smiled bashfully. “They said they’d found me a friend. He said we could be friends. You and me. So, um... Can we?” “No,” said Zac. “We can’t.” Angelo’s smile stayed fixed, but he looked away from the boy in black. “What? Oh. Right. What? I mean, yes. OK.” He wriggled uncomfortably on his bed. “It’s just, see, I don’t have many friends.” “I don’t have any. Suits me just fine.” He saw the hurt behind Angelo’s fixed smile and softened slightly. “I mean, look, I’m sure you’re a great kid and everything, but... you’re too young to be my friend. That’s it. Too young. It’d be weird.” “I’m nearly a thousand years old in human years,” Angelo said curtly. “Really?” asked Zac after a pause. “You’re bearing up well. What’s that in angel years?” Angelo scratched his ear. “Um... about twelve.” “Right,” said Zac. “That’s what I thought.” There was a rhythmic knock on the door, then the handle turned and the door swung inward. Gabriel stepped through, his smile still frozen in place. “Apologies for the slight delay. I trust you two have been getting to know each other?” the angel said. Angelo looked quickly to Zac, then down at his flip-flops. Zac folded his arms across his chest and leaned on the bookcase. Neither of them spoke. “Splendid,” said Gabriel, not faltering. “Splendid. I have a gift for you, Zac. Put this on.” He held up a cheap-looking digital watch. Zac took the watch and turned it over in his hands. It was made of flimsy black plastic. He had found a similar watch in a Christmas cracker once, and it had gone straight in the bin. “What does this do?” he asked. “It tells the time,” Gabriel replied. Zac looked at the watch again. “Is that it?” “No. Angelo has one too. It will allow the two of you to stay in contact if you become separated. It will also allow you to get in touch with us when you have the book. At which point, we’ll be able to retrieve you.” He watched Zac secure the strap across his wrist. “Splendid. It has other functions too. Angelo will explain.” “Right,” said Angelo, holding up his wrist and pointing to his own watch. It was identical to the one Zac wore. “You see this button here?” “Later, Angelo,” Gabriel said with a hint of annoyance. “Explain later. There’s no time now.” “Oh,” said Angelo, deflated. “Right. Later.” Gabriel looked down at Zac and lowered his smile a few calculated notches. “Are you ready?” “As I’ll ever be,” Zac nodded. “Very good. We have reason to believe the book is being held by a demon named Haures. A Duke of Hell, no less. We’re informed he’s keeping it in the tenth circle. You will have to find your own way in, I’m afraid.” “Tenth circle? I thought there were only supposed to be nine circles of Hell.” Gabriel’s eyebrows knotted above his nose. “Yes. So did we. I have no idea what you will find waiting there, but I do know that if you fail, then everything – the very existence of the cosmos itself – will be in grave peril. The book is the ultimate weapon, Zac. Do not forget that.” “No pressure, then.” The angel smiled thinly. “Quite.” He stepped aside. Angelo hopped down off the bed and stood next to Zac. He pulled his long T-shirt up and tucked it untidily into the white shorts that Zac was relieved to see he was wearing beneath it. Then he held out a hand. Zac peered at it. “You have to hold my hand,” Angelo said. “Or it won’t work.” Zac sighed, rolled his eyes, then locked his fingers with Angelo’s. Gabriel gave a single nod. “Peace be with you,” he said. “Peace be with you,” replied Angelo automatically. “Oh, and rest assured, Zac, I shall ensure your grandfather is well looked after in your absence.” Zac felt his muscles tense. His grip on Angelo’s hand tightened, making the boy gasp. “Right. Whatever,” he growled. “Can we just—” There was a blip of light, like the flash of a camera. Zac’s stomach heaved, as if he were looping the loop on a roller coaster, and then everything was plunged into sudden darkness. (#ulink_a662d169-1f46-5cfa-88a8-608d8ac5cad0) E WAS STILL in the dark, even after the world stopped lurching. He was lying on an uneven surface, his legs twisted at awkward angles. Somewhere above him, he could hear breathing, and he realised he was still holding Angelo’s hand. “Are we there?” he asked quietly. “Are we in Hell?” “Um, no, not yet,” Angelo replied. “Not unless I’ve really messed up. I’ve just jumped your soul back into your body.” Zac pulled his hand free and felt around on the floor beneath him. Shoes. He was sitting on shoes. “The cupboard,” he said. “We’re in my cupboard.” He untwisted his legs and kicked open the door, revealing his bedroom. The curtains were still closed and the bookcase was still in front of the door, but there was no sign of the Monk anywhere. Zac stood and looked down at his stomach. A round hole had been torn through his T-shirt. He reached round and felt his back. There was another hole there, slightly larger than the one on the front. The material round both holes was slick with blood, but his body itself was gunshot-wound free. “So... what? I’m alive?” “Sort of. I mean, no, not properly,” Angelo said. “Your soul’s just temporarily back in your body. So you’re not alive, but you’re not dead, either. I suppose you’re sort of like a zombie.” He held his arms out in front of him and groaned. “Uuuuh. Braaaains!” “Stop that.” “Braaaaaaains!” “Cut it out!” Angelo lowered his arms. “Anyway, you can still be hurt, and your body can still be destroyed, so be careful.” He stepped past Zac and stood in the middle of the room, turning slowly on the spot as he looked around. “Is this your bedroom?” “What? Yeah,” replied Zac absent-mindedly. He was looking at a rectangle of card that had been pinned to his T-shirt. The card was black with white writing that read: YOU WERE KILLED BY THE MONK. THANK YOU FOR YOUR BUSINESS. Beneath that was a phone number. Zac ripped the card in half before dropping it into his wastepaper bin. “Where are your posters?” asked Angelo. “I don’t have posters,” Zac answered. “Why don’t you have any posters?” “I just don’t.” Zac pulled off the long-sleeved T-shirt and tossed it into the corner of the room. Then he crossed to his chest of drawers, pulled out another identical piece of clothing, and slipped it on. “Posters help cheer up a room,” Angelo continued. “Your room doesn’t look very cheerful. It’s gloomy. It’s a gloomy roomy.” He laughed. “Gloomy roomy. I bet it’s not easy to say that five times fast.” “What are—?” “Gloomyroomy gloomyroomy gloomyroomy gloomyroomy gloomyroomy,” Angelo blurted. “Oh no, it is quite easy, actually.” He looked around the room. “Anyway, you should definitely get some posters.” “Will you stop going on about the posters?” Zac sighed. “I don’t like them, OK? They’re childish.” “Gee whizz, OK. I was only saying,” Angelo mumbled. His eyes fell on the bookcase, which Zac was now shoving out of the way of the door. “Got any Hulk comics? Or are they childish as well?” “No, I don’t, and yes, they are,” Zac said. “I’m going to make sure my granddad’s OK. Wait here.” “Why do I have to—?” “Just... just wait here, OK?” Angelo opened his mouth, closed it again, then sat down on the bed. “I’ll wait here,” he said. “But don’t be long. I get panic attacks.” “Surprise, surprise,” muttered Zac, as he left the bedroom and pulled the door closed behind him. He met his grandfather halfway down the stairs. Phillip was walking up slowly, an iron poker held in his withered hands. “Oh, you’re all right,” the old man said, visibly relieved. He lowered the poker to his side. “I heard a bang; what was that bang?” “When?” asked Zac. “A few seconds ago. Loud, it was. BANG! Like a gunshot.” A few seconds? Zac thought. So, he must’ve come back just moments after the Monk had shot him. “Didn’t hear anything,” Zac said. “Maybe it was something outside. Come on, let’s go downstairs.” “Are you sure you didn’t hear anything?” Phillip asked, allowing himself to be led back down into the hall. “Because it sounded like a gunshot...” “Car backfiring, probably,” Zac said with a practised shrug. “Nothing to worry about.” They reached the bottom of the stairs and Zac ushered his granddad through into the sitting room. It was a mess of mismatched furniture that had been accumulated over decades, with no attempt made to tie any of it together. “Sit down, Granddad, I need to talk to you,” Zac said. He took a seat on a red-and-green floral patterned sofa, while Phillip creaked down into a beige armchair. “What is it, Zac? Is... is something wrong?” Another voice spoke before Zac could. “Sorry. I had to come down.” Zac and his grandfather looked over at the door. Angelo stood there, chewing on a fingernail and bouncing uncomfortably from foot to foot. “I told you to wait,” Zac said. “I know, but, well... I think I need the toilet.” “You think you need the toilet?” Angelo nodded. “Yes. But I’m not sure. I’ve never needed the toilet before. It must be to do with being on Earth.” His hopping became more frantic. “Yep, I’m almost sure I need the toilet.” “Well go, then!” There was a pause. Angelo stopped hopping. Zac watched in slowly dawning horror as Angelo’s white shorts turned slightly yellow at the crotch. “Wow. That helped a lot,” Angelo said. “That’s much more comfortable. Thanks!” Zac got to his feet. “I didn’t mean go right there! I meant go to...” He saw only puzzlement on Angelo’s face. “I meant go to the bathroom, not wet yourself.” “Oh.” Zac sighed. “Jesus.” “Where?” asked Angelo, his eyes widening with excitement. “No, not... not...” Zac pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look, never mind, just go back upstairs and we’ll find you more clothes.” “OK,” said Angelo brightly. He moved to leave, then hesitated. “Oh, by the way, your goldfish is going crazy.” “Yes. It does that.” “Hello,” said Phillip, who had been trying to follow the conversation that had just taken place, but failing miserably. “Are you Penelope?” “No. I’m Angelo.” Phillip looked disappointed. “Oh. I thought you were Penelope. She’s been banging on at me all night, telling me her cat’s sick, but what’s that got to do with me? What do I know about cats? Nothing. Hear that, Penelope?” he said, raising his voice. “I don’t know the first thing about cats.” “OK, then!” said Angelo, shooting Zac a glance. “I’ll just go and get changed. Nice meeting you, sir.” “Nice meeting you too, Angelo,” Phillip replied. He waited until the boy had left the room, before adding: “He seems nice. Who is he?” “No one,” said Zac hurriedly. “He’s just... a friend.” “I heard that,” came a voice from the hallway. They listened to Angelo beatboxing happily all the way back upstairs. “A friend, eh? That’s good. I always thought you should have more friends,” said Phillip. “Or, you know, one, at least.” “Yeah, well. He’s more a colleague, actually,” Zac corrected. “But listen, Granddad, I need to talk to you.” “You’re going away, aren’t you.” “How did you...?” Zac began, then he nodded. “Just for a little while.” “Is it dangerous?” “What?” He forced a laugh. “No, why would it be—” “Come on, Zacharias. I’m an old man, not an idiot. I know you didn’t pay for this house working in a hamburger shop. You think I don’t hear you sneak in and out every night? You think I don’t notice your cuts? Your bruises?” Zac stayed silent. He was used to seeing a fog behind his grandfather’s eyes, but that fog had lifted now. He’d never noticed how blue the old man’s irises were before. “I don’t know what you do out there, and I don’t ask. You’re young, but you’re a man now, Zac. You make your own decisions, and I don’t pry. I don’t pry, I let you make your own choices, don’t I?” Zac nodded. “So, I’m going to ask you again, and I want you to tell me the truth. Wherever you’re going, whatever you’re doing – is it dangerous?” A pause... a brief one... then, “Yes.” Phillip gave a single nod, like the answer had confirmed what he already knew. “And do you have to go?” “Yes.” The old man leaned back in his chair and looked towards the corner of the room, as if seeing some Autocue there telling him what to say next. “I’d rather you didn’t,” he said at last. “But you know me, I’m a big believer in free will, and I won’t try to stop you if you think it’s something you have to do.” “It is,” Zac said, realising that he hadn’t given his grandfather anything like the credit he’d deserved over the years. “But I’ll be back, I promise.” Phillip tore his gaze from the corner and looked back at Zac. Tears swam in those piercing blue eyes. “I hope so.” “Will you be OK?” “I’ve lived a long time, Zac,” Phillip replied. He stood up and motioned for Zac to do the same. “I think I can cope on my own for a little while. When do you leave?” “Um, well...” “Now?” “Pretty much.” Phillip stepped forward and wrapped his arms round his grandson. Zac returned the hug and tried to control the shake he could feel taking hold of his limbs. “Be careful,” Phillip said. “And if you ever need me, just shout.” Zac smiled and hugged a little bit harder. “I will, Granddad. I will.” “I think your grandfather might be a total nutjob,” said Angelo as Zac returned to the bedroom. “No offence.” “Watch your mouth,” Zac snapped, shooting the boy a glare. “He isn’t a nutjob. He just... hears voices sometimes.” “I wasn’t talking about that,” said Angelo. “I read his aura and it was all jumbled up. All different colours, swirling together. I’ve never seen one like that.” “I don’t believe in auras,” Zac said. He pulled open his wardrobe and began rummaging inside. “I don’t believe in tarot cards or healing crystals or the power of prayer, or any of that stuff. And my granddad is not a nutjob.” “You don’t believe in crystals?” scoffed Angelo. “Next you’ll be telling me you don’t believe in star signs.” He watched Zac’s face. “You don’t believe in star signs?” he gasped. “You’re so cynical. I bet you’re a Scorpio, aren’t you?” “I have no idea.” “When’s your birthday?” “Look, here.” Zac tossed a bundle of black fabric to Angelo, who fumbled clumsily, then dropped the pile on the floor. “What’s this?” Angelo asked, bending to retrieve the garments. “Clothes. Put them on.” “But I’ve got clothes,” Angelo said. He pointed to his lifeguard T-shirt. “See? Exhibit A.” “OK: one – you look ridiculous,” Zac told him. “And two – you’ve wet yourself. Either one of those would be reason enough to change. Pick your favourite.” Zac turned his back as Angelo reluctantly changed into the black outfit. “No looking.” “Just hurry up,” Zac said. He listened to the sound of zips being undone and the clothes being pulled on. “So, you can just teleport us into Hell, right?” There was a momentary pause. “Yeah. Course. No problemo. I’m ready now – you can turn around.” “Right, so we should get going and—” began Zac as he turned back to Angelo. He stopped when he saw the clothes. “What... what have you done to them?” “It’s not my fault,” Angelo said defensively. “I’m part angel. Angels can’t wear black.” The clothes, which had been the very definition of black, were now a faint grey. As Zac watched, even the grey began to disappear. It sank in a swirling vortex pattern towards the bottom of the trousers, like murky water trickling down a drain. Zac looked down and saw black dye dripping on to his bedroom carpet. When he looked up again, the clothes were a shade of white usually reserved for washing-powder adverts. “I can do white or yellow,” explained Angelo sheepishly. “Light blue at a push.” He glanced at his feet. “Sorry about your carpet. If you get me a cloth, I’ll clean it up.” “Forget it, it’s fine,” said Zac. “Are you sure? Maybe I could just...” He rubbed the wet stain with a bare foot. “Oh no, that’s just made it worse if anything.” “I said leave it, it’s fine. We’ve got more important things to worry about.” Angelo blinked. “Have we?” Zac stared. “Yeah, yeah, right. Of course. I forgot,” Angelo said. He slipped his flip-flops back on. “How do I look?” “You look –” Zac hunted for something complimentary to say – “marginally less ridiculous,” was the best he could do in the circumstances. “Really?” said Angelo brightly. “You’re not just saying that?” “No, you look... good,” Zac said, but that last word came out much higher than he’d intended. “So, are you ready to do this?” “Before we go, I should warn you. Watch out for the demons. They’re horrible. And I mean really horrible.” “Seriously?” said Zac. “And here I thought they were going to be a right old barrel of laughs.” “Well, you’d be wrong,” said Angelo with absolute sincerity. “So it’s lucky you’ve got me to keep you right.” “Oh, yes. I’m a lucky guy,” Zac said. “Now, you ready?” Angelo took a few quick breaths. He held out his hand. “I’m ready.” “Then let’s do it.” Zac slipped his hand into the boy’s. Angelo grinned nervously. “Here we go, then. Bowels of Hell, here we come!” (#ulink_3ba75c07-1ae7-55d1-832f-3a1d6933f765) NCE THE WORLD had stopped spinning, Zac looked down at his legs. They were buried in snow up to the knees. A light flurry of flakes continued to fall from an otherwise bright blue sky above. Beside the boys, smoke curled lazily from the chimney of a large stone building with a thatched roof. Muted laughter and singing squeezed out through gaps in the shuttered windows and heavy oak door. It all sounded quite jolly, really. “So,” said Zac, “this is Hell, is it?” “Yes,” said Angelo. Zac shot him a withering look. “Are you absolutely sure?” “Yes. I mean, no. I mean... it might be.” Zac blew a snowflake off the end of his nose. “I’m going to go out on a limb and say it isn’t.” “You might be right,” Angelo admitted. He smiled shyly. “I’m a bit of a novice when it comes to teleporting.” “A novice? How often have you done it?” “What, including the two times with you?” Angelo asked. He began counting up on his fingers. “Twice.” “Twice,” Zac said. He shook his head. “Can you take us to Hell? Honestly?” “Yes!” said Angelo enthusiastically, then, “Maybe...” Then his shoulders slumped and he admitted, “Probably not. It’s trickier than it looks. I might send us somewhere really dangerous by mistake.” “What, more dangerous than Hell?” “You never know,” Angelo said in a half-whisper. “There could be worse places out there. It’s not like Heaven and Hell are the only afterlives, is it?” Zac frowned. “Isn’t it?” “No!” Angelo laughed. “They’re all real.” “What do you mean? What’s all real?” “You don’t know?” “Know what?” “You really don’t know, do you?” Zac gritted his teeth. “Know what?” “That every religion in history has been right. Although,” Angelo added quickly, “Christianity is more right than the others, obviously. There are thousands of afterlives out there. Xibalba. That was the Mayan underworld. Then there’s, let’s see... Olympus, home of the Greek Gods. Adlivun...” “What’s Adlivun?” “It’s where Sedna the She-Cannibal lives,” Angelo explained. “But I wouldn’t recommend going there. Everyone says she’s a right cow. Besides, it’s underwater, so we’d get wet.” Zac rubbed his temples. “This is nuts,” he said. “This is too nuts.” He straightened and looked around them. The stone building they were next to stood at the top of a high hill. A number of other large buildings stood close to one another down the snowy slopes, as if huddling together for warmth. They all gleamed in the faint sunlight, each one a palace of silver or gold. Beyond them, the snow extended miles into the distance until it met a wall that stood several hundred metres high. Clearly someone wanted to keep whatever lay on the other side of the wall out. A kilometre or so in the other direction, the land stopped like a shore meeting the sea. There was no water there, though, just blue sky and a bank of cloud and, if Zac looked hard enough, the beginnings of a rainbow leading away from the edge. “So, where are we now?” asked Zac. Despite the mounting evidence, he was still finding it hard to believe any of what he was being told. “Santa’s grotto?” “Haha, very funny. Of course it isn’t.” Angelo gave Zac a playful nudge on the arm. “Santa’s grotto’s got a green roof. I don’t know where this is.” Zac looked at the door. The wood was dark, and the metal handle had been sculpted into the shape of a gargoyle-like head. An iron ring was gripped in the creature’s unmoving mouth. The place may have sounded quite jolly, but it didn’t look particularly inviting. “Only one way to find out,” he said; then he turned the handle, pushed open the door and stepped inside. A moment before, the bar had been filled with the sounds of cheering and laughter and the loud-mouthed gloating of a hundred drunken men. Tankards had clattered against tankards, ale had been quaffed, food had been scoffed and the din of it all had been deafening. That all stopped when Zac and Angelo stepped into the Great Hall. The laughter died. The cheering ceased. And an amusing ditty about ritual disembowelment came to an abrupt, scratchy halt. A sea of horned helmets turned as one in the direction of the door. An enormous wooden table filled the hall. It groaned beneath the weight of the feast spread out upon it. If you could call it a feast. It looked to be light on food and heavy on alcohol. Standing in the corner closest to the door, a bearded man who had been juggling six short swords lost his concentration and then, a moment later, lost several of his toes. He didn’t scream. He didn’t so much as gasp, and as the echo of the clattering swords faded, silence filled the vast room. Zac felt Angelo step close behind him. He surveyed the faces that looked back at him. Their expressions were a blend of surprise, confusion and annoyance, all tied up in bristly beards and long, matted hair. The silence was broken by the sound of chair legs scraping on the flagstone floor. At the far head of the table, a man stood up. At least, Zac assumed he was a man. He was man-shaped, certainly, but looked to have been scaled up somewhere along the way. He stood taller than anyone Zac had ever seen, with shoulders broader than the average family car. Across those shoulders he wore a cape lined at the edges with white and grey fur. On his head was a helmet with three horns – one each side, and a third sticking up from the front like a unicorn’s. A grubby white patch covered one of his eyes. On it, someone had drawn a cartoon eye in black marker pen. It was surprisingly effective. The man’s beard was Father-Christmas white. His long hair hung in pigtails, dangling down over the top of the metal breastplate that was strapped across his chest. Unlike Michael’s armour, this stuff had been well used, and was now dented in more places than it was smooth. Both the real eye and the hand-drawn one glared at Zac and Angelo as, somewhere in the beard, the man’s mouth began to speak. “Who dares enter the Hall of Valhalla?” he demanded. It was a strong, commanding voice. The type of voice that could rouse sea serpents from the deep, and make avalanches change their minds and head back uphill. “It’s Valhalla,” Angelo whispered. “Yes, I heard,” replied Zac below his breath. “Where dead Vikings go.” “I can see that.” “Thou art trespassers in this place,” boomed the one-eyed man. “In the name of Asgard I shall pierce your innards with mine axe and rend your guts asunder! Then I shall summon my wolves to feast upon your quivering innards, unless thou reveal to us who thou art.” Zac smiled broadly. “Hi, I’m Zac. This is my... colleague, Angelo.” Angelo poked his head out from behind Zac’s back and gave a shy wave. “Hello.” The giant glared at them, but looked a little surprised that, despite his threats, they hadn’t made any effort to run away. Zac fixed him with a cool glare. “And you are?” There was a muttering then that rippled through the hall. At the far end of the table, the man’s face turned a blustery shade of red. “Dost thou not know?” he growled. “Nope,” Zac said. He took a step towards the table. A hundred hands reached for a hundred swords. “Should I?” “Impudent dog!” spat a Viking who was sitting halfway along the table. He rose to his feet and slammed one fist angrily down on the tabletop. After a moment, when he realised Zac hadn’t flinched, and that no one else was paying him the slightest bit of attention, he quietly sat down again. “I am the Allfather,” the one-eyed man boomed. “Lord of the Aesir, Ruler of the Gods—” “Um... just the Norse Gods, sir,” said a helpful Viking who sat a few seats along the table. “We wouldn’t want to step on anyone’s toes by claiming you were ruler of all gods. Remember what happened last time? With the Romans?” “SILENCE!” boomed the Allfather. The sheer force of his voice toppled tankards all along the table and forced Zac to take a pace backwards. “S-sorry, sir, I was only trying to—” “Wilt thou shut up!” “Shutting up now, sir.” The Allfather squeezed the bridge of his nose between finger and thumb and muttered below his breath. Only after that did he look back at Zac. “Now. Where was I?” “Lord of the Aesir, Ruler of the Gods,” Zac reminded him. “Norse Gods,” said a voice quietly. The Allfather’s glare was one of pure malice. “I swear,” he told the interfering Viking, “another word and I will punch thine mouth loose.” Nobody, least of all the man who was the focus of the Allfather’s gaze, uttered a word. Only when he was absolutely certain the Viking wasn’t about to speak again did the Allfather turn back to Zac. “Right,” he said, a little flustered. “So... Where was...? Yes. Allfather, Lord of the Aesir, Ruler of the Norse Gods, if thou wants to get picky about it. I am the all-powerful Odin!” A chorus of cheers went up around the hall. “Hail, Odin, Master of the Runes!” “Odin?” said Zac. “Hail, Odin, patron to the skalds!” went the cry. “Yes,” said the Allfather. “Odin.” “Hail, Odin, sole creator of magical songs!” “For the love of Thor, will ye shut up!” Odin bellowed. “Thou doesn’t have to go through all that every time someone says ‘Odin’.” “Hail, Odin, delighter of—” “Cut it out! I’m warning thee.” Odin’s aged brow furrowed. “Warning thou... Warning ye...?” Odin threw up his arms and sighed. “Oh, who actually talks like that anyway? It’s ridiculous.” The Ruler of the (specifically Norse) Gods turned back to Zac. “So, yes. In answer to your question, I am – and I don’t want to hear another bloody word out of anyone here – Odin.” Around the hall there was the sound of a hundred Vikings chewing their bottom lips. Zac took another step closer. “Never heard of you.” The assembled audience gasped as one. Those hands already gripping sword handles gripped them tighter. “What are you doing?” Angelo whimpered. “Don’t upset him. Look at the size of him!” “Relax. I’ve got a plan,” Zac whispered. “Have you?” “Well, no, not really,” Zac admitted. “But I’m sure something’s going to pop right in there any minute now.” There wasn’t the explosion of temper from Odin that Zac had expected. The Allfather simply stared for a long time, as if trying to get to grips with the idea that someone didn’t know who he was. “Haven’t you?” he asked at last. Zac shook his head. “Nope. Should I have?” “Of course you should!” boomed Odin. Then a flicker of doubt crossed his broad face. “Well, I mean... I suppose it has been a long time. And Baldr knows, things have changed over the years.” Slowly, he lowered himself back down into his chair. “Maybe... maybe people don’t know who I am any more. Maybe it’s—” “Wait,” said Zac. “Did you say Odin? The Odin?” Odin’s eyebrows rose hopefully. “Yes.” “Lord of the Aesir? Ruler of the Norse Gods?” “Yes,” nodded the Allfather, suddenly perking right up. “Yes!” “Father of...” “Thor,” whispered Angelo. “I know. Father of Thor?” Odin was standing again. He nodded encouragingly. “Yes. Yes. Go on. Go on!” “Of course I’ve heard of you! Everyone’s heard of Odin. I thought you said you were Wodin to begin with. My mistake. Sorry about that.” The Allfather laughed loudly enough to shake the rafters. “Aha! I knew you would know of me! Apology accepted, mortal,” he said. He raised his hands and the assembled Vikings cheered on cue. “Come. Sit by my side,” insisted the Allfather. “Stop a while in the Great Hall, Valhalla, and share what tales you know of Odin, Ruler of the Gods!” “Just, uh, just the Norse Gods, sir.” Odin sighed. “Right, that’s it. Get out.” “What? But, but, Allfather...” “I’ve warned you already. Out!” Zac turned to Angelo and gave him a curt nod, just as the scolded Viking shuffled past on his way to the door. “See? Told you I’d come up with a plan,” Zac said. “Pretend you don’t know who he is. That was your plan?” Angelo said. “I never said it was a great plan,” Zac admitted. “How did you know he wasn’t just going to get angry and cut your head off?” “I didn’t. But I wasn’t really worried,” Zac replied. “Why not?” “Because I’m pretty sure I can run faster than you can. Now, I’m going to sit with Odin and see if he can help us.” “Help us do what?” “Get to Hell. Since, you know, you can’t take us there.” “Right,” said Angelo. “Good thinking! What should I do?” “You?” Zac said. “Nothing. Do absolutely nothing at all. Understood?” “Nothing; right,” Angelo nodded. He smiled. “We make a good team, don’t we?” “If you say so,” replied Zac, then he turned his back, walked to the head of the table and took his seat beside the Allfather. (#ulink_3c063605-60a1-5115-8348-03e6aaf419e2) HERE WAS ANOTHER round of clapping, cheering and fists thudding on tables when Zac sat down, and then the Vikings got back to the business of eating and drinking, as if the last few minutes hadn’t actually happened. Only Odin paid him any notice. “Ale!” the god cried, pushing a dented metal tankard into Zac’s hands. “Drink!” Zac set the mug down on the table. “No, thanks,” he said. Odin looked at the tankard, then back at the boy. “Ale!” he insisted. “Drink!” “I’ll just have some water.” There was a sound like thunder as Odin hurled back his head and laughed. “Ah, young Zac, thou dost make me laugh!” he boomed, reverting back to character. “Ale it is!” He pushed the tankard closer to the boy’s hand. Zac pushed it back. “Water will be fine.” Odin frowned and gave his beard a stroke. Up close, the Allfather didn’t quite look real. His scaled-up size and the way he exaggerated his movements gave him the appearance of an animatronic puppet from a low-budget children’s movie. “Water,” the Allfather mumbled. He rolled the word around in his mouth, as if tasting it. “Water. Very well.” He gave two claps of his hands. Something large immediately dropped from the ceiling and landed beside him. Zac twisted in his chair, tensed, ready to fight, but instead of coming face to face with another Viking, he found himself looking at a tall, slender figure in a black leather bodice and matching leather trousers. She was a girl, if you ignored the wings. Around his age, he’d say, although he’d been several centuries out with Angelo, so he wasn’t committing to anything at this point. Her hair was long and dark, tied back behind her head in a functional ponytail. The girl’s white feathery wings folded in against her back with a sound like rustling velvet. She focused her gaze on Odin, not so much as glancing in Zac’s direction. The girl’s mouth smiled, but her eyes weren’t really in on it. “Yes, Allfather? How may I be of service?” “Ah, young Herya,” he boomed. “Meet Zac. Zac, Herya here is a—” “Valkyrie,” said Zac. “You retrieve the souls of Vikings killed in battle and bring them to Valhalla.” Odin clapped Zac on the back. It was like being slammed across the spine with a shovel. “Very good, Zac! Ye are not as dim as I first suspected!” “I read a lot.” “Herya, fetch our guest some...” Odin turned back to Zac. “What was it again?” “Water.” “Water,” Odin repeated. He gave a bemused chuckle. “Drinkable water. What will they think of next?” “Will that be all?” Odin looked along the table. “Who’s for another round?” The Vikings’ cheers almost lifted the roof. Shouts came from all corners of the table at once. “Down here, love.” “A few more flagons at this end, sweetheart.” Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/barry-hutchison/afterworlds-the-book-of-doom/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. 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