The Black Tattoo, Page 4

  Raymond stood behind her, watching her, watching the way the muscles in her back bunched and moved as she worked: graceful, efficient — lethal. It was odd, he thought, how being so proud of someone could hurt you so much at the same time.

  "I'm sorry, petal," he said quietly. "I..." He looked at his feet. "I didn't know the test would be like that."

  "Don't make excuses," said Esme, without looking — without stopping. WHAM. CRACK. CRUNCH. A knee strike, an elbow smash, and a straight punch followed each other into the boards. Under the last, one of them splintered. "That's what you've always told me, right? No excuses."

  There was nothing to say. Raymond looked at her helplessly. Should he tell her how astonished he still was that after all these years, all the hard work he and Esme had put in, Nick should give the job of new leader to a novice? No. That was all just doubt. Nick had told them to trust him, and with the Scourge on the loose, doubt was a luxury. Still...

  "Esme, I want to tell you something."

  He looked back down at his feet and took a deep breath.

  "I don't pretend to know a lot about magic," he said carefully. "That side of things is best left to those who have the gift, and that's fine with me, as you know. But in my time, I've met some pretty powerful people. I saw Nick in action in the early days. Your mum too. And I—" He stopped suddenly and took another deep breath.

  "Well. Here's what I wanted to say."

  He looked at her hard.

  "There's something a bit special about you," he said. "I know it."

  He paused.

  "Now, if this 'Charlie' is the new leader, well, that's it, that's how it is. But I'm telling you, there's no chance we can recapture the Scourge without your help — no chance at all. This is still what we've been working and training for," he told her fervently. "This is still your moment to break out and spread your wings: your moment to shine. So... will you stop that now and get some rest? Please?"

  He waited, trying not to let his smile waver.

  After a long moment, Esme let her hands fall to her sides. Already the blood on her knuckles was drying up and vanishing: the physical damage she'd inflicted on herself was melting magically away, just as it always did — leaving only what was inside. Turning, she stood toe-to-toe with Raymond, her chin about level with his chest. Then suddenly, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his waist, as far as they would go.

  Raymond gave a deep sigh and put his own arms around Esme's small, strong body, patting her gently with his big hands.

  "G'night, Dad," said Esme, her voice muffled.

  "G'night, petal," said Raymond. As soon as he felt her arms relinquish him, he released her and turned to go.

  * * * * *

  Felix Middleton, the man who'd first betrayed the Brotherhood, stood in his flat and waited. The Alembic House apartment was one of the finest and most expensive in the whole city, and Felix didn't like it. He didn't really care for its stunningly opulent furniture, its thick dark rugs and carpets. The panoramic view of the Thames and half of London, even lit up (as it was then) with all the glories of the city's nighttime lights, did little for him. From where he was standing, the wide picture window held two images: the city and a reflection of himself, standing in his room, alone. Felix wasn't relaxed. He wasn't happy or sad — but he was calm. After all, he had done all he could.

  The logistics of arranging his not-inconsiderable personal fortune so that, on his death, one girl could have access to all of it, instantly, without fear of interference from governments, tax departments, or any other hindrances, had been no simple matter. But Felix was not a simple man. In the fourteen years since he had set himself on this path, Felix had cut a swath across the financial markets of the world, a trail of conquest no less devastating for its having been so quiet. But when the Scourge came for him now, as he fully expected it would, would that be the end of it? Would he have atoned?

  Felix allowed himself a bitter smile. Of course not.

  He had done it, the unthinkable. By releasing the Scourge he'd unleashed a terror in the world, a terror that could be slowed but never put down. He had also destroyed a family. For him there could be no redemption, no forgiveness. He could only do what he could, use what he was good at as best he could, and never make another mistake, ever, ever again.

  And he had made no more mistakes. His life was empty, dry as sand, but he had made no more mistakes. He could take what comfort he could from that.

  He gazed at the reflection in the window: the dim green of the glass-shaded lamps, the winged silhouettes of the dark leather chairs, and all the other expensive trappings. He gazed at them and past them, at the city beyond, until the ice cubes melted in his glass and, finally, in one corner of the room behind him, a patch of shadow began to move by itself. He fixed his eyes on the reflection of that piece of the dark as it bulged, swam, and took shape.

  "At last," he said.

  Felix gulped the remains of his drink: the fiery liquid slid down inside him as he put down his glass. Still smiling a bitter, grim smile, he now turned to face his nightmare.

  "For nearly fifteen years, I've dreamed of you," he told it. "Every night the same dream. And every morning I've woken up knowing that I'm never, ever going to be free of you, and what I — we — did. So come on." Felix beckoned. "Come on and get it over with. Because frankly, I've got nothing left to lose."

  "No," said the Scourge.

  Felix frowned at the demon uncertainly. This wasn't how the moment was supposed to go. "No... what?" he asked.

  "No, I'm not going to kill you yet," the Scourge replied, "and no, you still have something to lose."

  Felix looked at the demon: its man-shaped body of liquid black and the shiny black blank of its face. "You're not talking about... Esme?" he asked.

  The demon just waited.

  "But I'm nothing to her," said Felix, smiling bitterly. "Less than nothing, I should think. Why, all she knows is that I released you, and through me you..." He trailed off suddenly and shuddered.

  "Precisely," said the demon. It paused.

  "Felix," it asked slowly, "have you ever wondered about Esme? About her power, her strength, her speed? Have you ever asked yourself where they came from?"

  Felix turned pale. "No. Never. Why?"

  "Felix, Felix," the demon admonished. "You never could lie to me."

  There was a silence between them for a moment.

  "Oh, God," said Felix. "Oh, please, no. No."

  "This is one secret you don't get to carry to your grave, I'm afraid. She'll never take my for it alone."

  "But... please," said Felix. "Why can't you just—"

  "Quiet."

  And there was quiet.

  Presently, the demon stopped what it was doing and froze, crouched over Felix's body.

  It was good enough. Felix wouldn't be telling any tales until the time was right. The demon stood up, took two steps, then vanished.

  * * * * *

  In his house, in his room, in his fitful sleep, Charlie twisted on the bed. Darkness spread through his veins like strong wine.

  SKILLS

  Charlie answered the door in his sunglasses. Once Jack was safely inside, however, he took them off — and Jack had his first shock.

  "I know," said Charlie, looking away before Jack could even think of what to say. Charlie's eyes were red and puffy, with thick dark blue smudges underneath them. He looked awful.

  "Mum was up most of the night again," he said. "She's asleep now, so we'll have to be quiet."

  "Oh, mate," said Jack stupidly.

  "Anyway," said Charlie, and a glint appeared in his eyes, "listen, before we go, I want to show you something. What do you know about tattoos?"

  "Er..." said Jack — but Charlie had already got his T-shirt up round his neck.

  "What do you think?" he asked, "of this?"

  He turned his back, and Jack had a second shock.

  "Eh?" said Charlie, when Jack didn't answer at first, then again:
"Eh?" He stretched out his arms.

  "Blimey," said Jack finally.

  From shoulder to shoulder and right down Charlie's back, almost as far as the waistband of his jeans, was a huge black tattoo.

  Jack stared.

  It was an odd sort of pattern. The tattoo's broad, curving shapes reminded Jack of certain tribal designs, Celtic or Native American ones, but it wasn't quite like anything he'd ever seen before. The shapes seemed to radiate out from Charlie's spine, scything across his back like a crest of broad feathers or a set of great curved sword blades. The shapes were black against Charlie's pale skin — completely, utterly black — and each and every one of them ended in a perfect, razor-sharp point. Charlie clenched his arms, and the black shapes seemed to bunch and shift of their own accord as his muscles moved underneath them.

  Even apart from the fact that it had just appeared on Charlie's back, the tattoo made Jack uneasy. Still, he thought, with a twinge of envy, it was certainly impressive. In fact, no denying it, it was most definitely...

  "Cool," he breathed.

  "Huh. Yeah," said Charlie, turning casually. "Got the surprise of my life when I caught sight of it in the mirror this morning."

  "Does it hurt?"

  "Naaah," said Charlie. "Not really."

  "And that's the... thing? From yesterday?"

  "Well, I don’t think Mum drew it on me in the night."

  "Wow," said Jack. He meant it.

  "Come on," said Charlie, pulling his T-shirt down and getting into a short-sleeved shirt. He left it unbuttoned and untucked, hanging over the waistband of his black jeans, showing his black T-shirt underneath. He stuck his shades back on and turned to Jack.

  "Let's go," he said.

  * * * * *

  "Yeah," Esme's voice was cool and level through the speaker.

  "It's me," barked Charlie.

  "You're early." It was a statement, nothing accusatory, but Charlie said, "Well, I'm here. You letting me in or what?"

  The girl didn't answer, but the lock on the door at the back of the theater buzzed loudly. Charlie pushed it open, then they were through.

  "Raymond's not back yet," said Esme. "We'll have to wait." Then she just stood there, arms crossed, looking at the boys. An awkward silence began to develop.

  Jack looked around the room. It was the same room they'd been taken to the day before, but this was the first chance he'd really had to get a proper look at it.

  "That, er, pattern," he said, pointing at the regularly spaced blotch things he'd noticed previously. "It's... well, what is it?"

  "Butterflies," said Esme, as if it were obvious.

  "Oh, right," said Jack. "They're... nice."

  Esme looked at him. "Thanks," she said. "I did them myself."

  "Really?" asked Jack. "Mind if I...?"

  Esme shrugged. Jack walked over to the nearest wall.

  Each butterfly was about thirty centimeters across and painted with incredible accuracy. The wings of the one that had first caught Jack's eye were quite beautiful: a powdery, electric-blue color on a background of deepest black. Its neighbor was different, orange and black this time, with wider, more elongated wings. If fact, although it was hard to see far along the wall with the light so low, it suddenly occurred to Jack that—

  "Are they all different?"

  "Yep," said Esme.

  "I didn't know there were that many kinds," said Jack.

  "Well, there are. Nobody really knows how many."

  "How many have you got here?"

  "Five thousand, four hundred and seventy-two," Esme replied flatly.

  "Wow!" said Jack.

  It came out much more loudly than he'd meant; both Esme and Charlie were now staring at him. Charlie rolled his eyes and gave Jack an exasperated look.

  "Er... how long did that take you?" Jack mumbled.

  "Seven years," said Esme (making Jack stare at her). "On a good day, I can do three." She gestured toward a shadowy point some distance away in the corner of the ceiling. "I haven't quite finished yet, though."

  The boys looked up. The arched ceiling had to be a good sixty or seventy feet high, surely taller than the tallest step-ladder, and yet it too was entirely covered in row upon row of painted butterflies — all except for a large empty patch at one end. How on Earth...? Jack looked back down at Esme, but then the double doors opened and Raymond strode in.

  "Right," said the big man. "Esme, Charlie — walk to the center of the room, turn, and face each other. It's time to see what Wonder Boy here can do."

  Charlie blinked but did as he was told. Esme followed. Jack watched.

  The butterfly room was cool and dark after the heat of the day outside. The sun through the great round window cast a long oval of creamy light across the hard matting of the floor. The conference table had been shifted out of the way, propped against the wall at the far end; there was nothing in the center of the room but the big padded floor, the pool of light, and Charlie and Esme, standing in the shadows to either side of it, some three yards apart. Charlie had taken off his button-down shirt so was now dressed in just his black T-shirt and jeans. He was smiling. Esme too was dressed lightly, in a fitted camouflage-green T-shirt and loose combat trousers, her hair tied back in a thick, tight bunch: her face was expressionless. Raymond stayed by the door, obviously keeping well back from whatever was about to happen, and Jack took his cue from him. The whole scene was beginning to remind Jack of pretty much of every martial arts beat-'em-up game he'd ever played in his life. This was not a happy realization for him.

  "Brotherhood members have different talents," said Raymond. "Our first job, Charlie, is to find out where yours lie, so let's start you off with a little sparring match, Esme?"

  She turned. Raymond smiled, making his beard bristle alarmingly.

  "Go easy on the lad to start with," he said. "We wouldn't want to hurt him" — his smile widened — "much."

  Esme didn't smile back, just turned to face Charlie and dropped into a shallow crouch, one foot slightly ahead of the other. Her honey-brown arms were held loosely at her sides. Her hands were open, relaxed. Charlie, still grinning, if a little dubious, did his best to follow her example.

  "Ready?" called Raymond. "Fight."

  There was a blur, then—

  "GAHH! "

  It was Charlie who made this noise, as all the air exploded out of his body.

  Jack gaped.

  Charlie was now sitting on the floor, with his back against the wall, some ten yards behind where he'd been standing. His legs were sticking out in front of him, and he was gasping like a stranded fish as he tried to get his breath back. Esme's expression and demeanor had not changed in the slightest. She looked exactly the same as she had a moment ago, only now she was standing in the middle of the room, where Charlie had been.

  Whatever had just happened had been so fast, Jack hadn't even seen it.

  "Get up, you big Jessie," said Raymond. "She barely touched you."

  Blinking, then scowling as he realized he was being insulted, Charlie did as he was told — staring at Esme.

  "Walk back to the center," said Raymond. "Esme, step back a little if you please. All right, face each other again."

  He waited until Charlie and Esme were back in their original positions. Charlie's panting breaths sounded loud in the silence.

  "Now," said Raymond. "Did you notice something there, Charlie?"

  Charlie looked at Raymond. "How d'you mean?" he managed.

  "That little side kick to the ribs," prompted Raymond. "Did it get your attention?"

  Charlie scowled again.

  "Good, Charlie, Nick must have picked you for a reason. As I believe I mentioned, we're here to see what you can do. If you don't concentrate, you're wasting our time. Plus, Esme'll clump you again. It's as simple as that."

  There was a pause. Charlie stared at Raymond, then turned and raised his eyebrows at Jack, who shrugged back, helplessly.

  "CONCENTRATE!" barked the big man, making
them both jump.

  Charlie shrugged and turned to face Esme, who was still regarding him calmly.

  "Now, ready?" said Raymond.

  Jack leaned forward, willing his eyes to catch something of what was going on this time. Esme and Charlie dropped into their crouches, just as before. Charlie frowned.

  "Fight!" barked Raymond.

  Jack stared, and time went slack.

  Instantly, on the word of command from Raymond, Esme had leaped forward, pirouetting in the air as she hurtled toward Charlie, the spin bringing her right heel out and round for a kick that should have taken Charlie's head off.

  But it missed him. Without the slightest sign of effort apart from his continued look of hunched concentration, Charlie simply leaned back out of the way, just far enough for Esme's foot to flash harmlessly past, scant millimeters in front of his nose.

  Esme dripped smoothly onto her left foot and sank, still spinning, converting the momentum of her first attack into a low, scything sweep at Charlie's feet, but this time Charlie hopped into the air like a kangaroo, and Esme failed to reach her target again.

  Jack stared and kept staring as the fight continued. It was like nothing he'd ever seen. No, scratch that: he had seen what he was seeing, thousands of times — only that had been in films or in games, and not right in front of him when one of the people involved was his best mate.

  Esme was moving so fast he could hardly see her — faster than he'd ever seen a person move before — and her skills were extraordinary. But the thing was, as quickly, smoothly, and gracefully as Esme attacked, daisy-chaining her moves into a constant, blurring barrage of fists and feet — Charlie was faster.

  Every blow Esme launched at him, every hammering punch or slashing kick, somehow failed to land. Charlie had no finesse. He had no skill. Even Jack could see that the way Charlie fought was closer to the playground style of flapping your arms wildly in front of you than anything in the work of, say, Jet Li or Yuen Wo Ping. But the fact remained, it was working: he was holding her off. Charlie's face was a blank, a mask. His feet (when they were on the ground) moved slowly, almost mechanically, as he stepped back under the force of Esme's onslaught. But then suddenly—