Charlie got to his knees, then his feet, pointing his sword toward her, frowning uncertainly as she approached.
"I gave you a chance to start making up for what you've done," Esme said. "You rejected it. If it wasn't for that, I might almost be feeling sorry for you right now. As it is, I'm just sick of the sight of you. You're an amateur," she spat, knocking his blade almost out of his hand with the still-scabbarded pigeon sword. "An accident," she added, dealing Charlie's blade another smacking blow. "And this—"
SHANG!
"—has gone on—"
SHING!
"—long enough."
Charlie was holding his sword high up in front of his chest, expecting her to hit it again. He was completely unable to defend himself, when Esme took her sword by its grip and lunged, low and hard.
The steel-capped tip of the pigeon sword's scabbard crashed into his stomach. Doubled up around her blow, Charlie flew back again, the breath driven out of him in a long and undignified gasp. When he next looked up at her, he was grimacing with pain.
The black tattoo — its curves, its hooks, its spikes — was spreading under his skin, pouring down his arms like oil, running up into his face.
"When you're ready," Esme told him.
Bristling with rage, Charlie got up and started toward her.
Esme's thoughts went something like this.
All she needed, she knew, was an opening, a chance to strike at Charlie before the Scourge could take over and protect him. To get it, she planned to needle Charlie, probing mercilessly at his swollen pride until she provoked him into an error big enough to give her the opportunity she wanted. Then she would take her chance and...
And what? Kill him?
Esme frowned, not moving, as she watched him getting closer and closer.
The only way to get at the Scourge, she told herself — the only way to do what she'd spent her whole life training to do — was through the boy. She knew this. And the boy was an idiot. He was stupid and selfish and seemingly entirely lacking in self-control.
But — and this was the problem, now that it came down to it — did being an idiot mean that Charlie deserved to die?
Suddenly, when he was still outside normal striking distance, Charlie made a snapping motion with the wrist of his right hand and flung something at her.
It wasn't the sword — at least, not anymore. In the fraction of a second that it took to cross the space between them, the weapon in Charlie's hand had somehow lost its shape, the glinting steel vanishing and stretching and liquefying. Whatever it was now, it was long and black, and it hissed through the air with something like eagerness. Esme stepped smoothly aside, expecting the weapon to pass her, but it turned to follow her—
—and caught her round the neck! It wrapped right round her throat, then constricted, its coils tightening and crushing inward round her neck like coils on its prey. Excruciating pain flashed and fizzed through her whole body like a thousand-volt dose of electricity. Instantly, Esme drew the pigeon sword and severed the whatever-it-was just inches front of her chin. Dropping the scabbard, she reached up with her left hand, grabbed the wriggling black tentacle thing that still clung to her neck, and flung it away. Spreading her arms, she leaped backward, out of Charlie's reach.
Something was wrong with the places where the weapon had touched her — badly wrong. The skin of her neck when she felt it had that deadened, bulbous feeling that comes just before blistering. Where she'd touched it, her fingers were numb, cold, as if they were frostbitten. Holding the pigeon sword up in front of her, she stepped back, stepped back from Charlie for the first time — and stared.
Leaving no mark, the ink-black severed part of the weapon slid across the carpet in a liquid blob. Just before reaching Charlie it transformed, becoming a strange kind of ferretlike creature, scampering back up Charlie's leg before vanishing into the blackness that now bulged and rippled all over his body.
Charlie smiled.
"Cute," said Esme, through her teeth. "Very cute."
Still smiling, a smile that was horrible with the way the tattoo was now swarming up into his face, Charlie started to walk toward her again.
"That's quite some toy you've got there," Esme told him. "Something the Scourge gave you, maybe? Like it knew you couldn’t do anything to me with an actual sword? "
Charlie shook his head as if to clear it but kept walking.
Well, there was no way she could risk another blow like that. So, no mercy, then. No more games.
Without any further warning, she attacked.
With an echoing crack, Charlie found himself parrying a sizzling slash that — if he had stopped to think instead of instinctively lifting one demon-reinforced arm to block it — would certainly have ended the fight there and then.
Esme frowned.
CHING! CHING! CHING! CHING! CHING!
Esme launched a stinging succession of lightning blows, but Charlie's reinforced arms seemed to move by themselves as they caught and blocked them.
She feinted and spun, shaping for a wide cross-body slash but suddenly converting it into a roundhouse kick that struck Charlie hard in the ribs. He staggered back. But not as far as she'd hoped. He was protected, shielded — armored somehow — by the same liquid stuff as his weapons.
So Esme did the feinting kick.
She began the move in textbook style, leaping off her left foot into a spinning midkick with her right. With utter predictability, Charlie lowered his hands to protect himself, at which point Esme folded her right leg into a further 180-degree spin, letting her left foot scythe up over Charlie's guard, striking him in the face.
Bingo. Charlie flew back a good ten feet—
—twenty—
—and smacked into the nearest wall. He sank to his haunches, propped there, his head lolling. There. Now, before things got any worse, it was time to finish it.
Esme leaped, flinging herself through the air toward her enemy. She let out a scream, raising her sword over her head with both hands as the bloodred strip of the throne room floor slid past underneath her. She brought the pigeon sword out and down, concentrating all her speed and strength into the two feet eight inches of hissing steel and the enemy that would die at its edge.
The curves and hooks of the black tattoo seemed to bunch in Charlie's face. Charlie's still-open eyes rolled up in his head, showing only the whites. Charlie's hands came up. The palms slapped together.
And the blow stopped, two inches short.
He had caught her blade between his hands.
"There," said the Scourge, through Charlie's mouth. Eyes filled with darkness locked on Esme's. "That's enough."
Charlie's body swung upright, the steely grip on the sword never loosening for a moment. The pigeon sword's point was now just an inch from Charlie's right eye, but Esme found herself forced to step back or lose her grip on her weapon completely.
"Again," said the demon inside him, "it comes down to this."
Esme gave an extra wrench on the pigeon sword. The blade was pressed flat between his palms with a superhuman strength. Apart from flexing the sword slightly, her efforts had no effect whatsoever. Esme pulled and twisted as hard as she could, but the sword might as well have been trapped in stone.
"Give the weapon to me," the Scourge told her. "Now."
"Never!"
The air between them began to flare and smoke as the demon's magic coursed out and around her — a bulging, crackling field of power. Her hands were still clasped around the pigeon sword's gilt, clinging desperately to Raymond's last gift to her, but the air around her was closing in, clamping down all around at her. Suddenly, she felt her feet lifting off the ground. She felt her grip beginning to weaken, her strength giving out, and then, horribly, it was over. Her fingers left the sword. Now she was flying through the air, flung back and upward by the Scourge's power from one side of the throne room to the other, and in the long slow moment, the moment before she hit the opposite wall, she realized what it was that had defeated h
er.
Herself.
WHAM!
The impact stunned her. She slid to the ground, her legs folding under her, and the world turned black in front of her eyes.
There was a sound in her head like the sea, whispering in her ears. For a whole second she felt like drifting away on it. But she shook her head, hard. Tasting blood in her mouth, warm and coppery, she opened her eyes, and looked up.
"You are beaten," said the Scourge, through Charlie's mouth. The demon was standing over her. The pigeon sword was at her throat.
"And you know how," it told her. "You know how, in fact, every time you fight me, you're going to lose. Look," it said, making a small gesture in the air with the hand that wasn't holding the sword. "Look at yourself."
Esme didn't want to. She knew what she'd see. But she looked. And she saw.
There was a pool of darkness, quivering, under the skin of her palms. In another second, it was moving, spreading: the long, graceful curves and the scalpel-point hooks were already beginning to form.
"You're marked, Esme," said the Scourge. "You've always been marked. You just never knew yourself before."
The black tattoo was swarming up her arms. She could feel it under her skin, all over her body. It had been waiting inside her all her life, and now she could feel it moving.
There's something a bit special about you, echoed Raymond's voice in her head.
You're not human! echoed another.
It's already too late for her, echoed the Scourge's. It's always been too late for her. Just ask Felix.
"No," she whispered.
"There," said the Scourge, watching her reaction. "I believe you're beginning to understand."
Esme stared straight up at the thing behind the boy's face, stared up at it helplessly.
"All your power," the Scourge told her, "your speed, your flying, your strength — all of it comes from me."
The demon regarded her carefully.
"You are fighting yourself," it said. "How can you expect to win," it asked, and there was an odd note of kindness in its voice, "if you are fighting yourself?"
Esme lay there in Charlie's shadow. Her mind was swarming with darkness: her whole body felt thick with it, so that she could hardly breathe. She could recognize the power of the demon inside her. And for the first time, in perhaps the whole of her life, she began to be scared.
"The night you were conceived, I could have made my escape," said the Scourge. The point of the pigeon sword rested on the carpet now, with Charlie's hands on the pommel. The demon spoke slowly, taking its time. "Felix had released me, and in return I had granted him his wish of that one night with your mother. At long last, I was free to do as I pleased. But instead..." It paused. "I stayed."
Esme stared up wordlessly.
"For nine months I waited," the Scourge went on. "And even after you were born I remained. Watching you through his eyes. Seeing you grow. Wondering about what you might become. Why do you think that was? I'll tell you." The demon leaned over her.
"I stayed because I could not help myself." The eyes stared down at hers.
"My child," it whispered.
Esme felt the dark inside her quicken at the words — and shuddered.
"You've ruined my life," she said softly, almost disbelievingly. "Before I was even born, you ruined my life."
The boy with the demon inside him, the great dome of the throne room beyond him — all of it was turning blurry and dark.
Remember your mother...
"But I swear," she said, "I'll make you pay for what you've done."
She stared up at the demon, her amber eyes flashing fiercely.
'I'll have my revenge," she hissed. "I will have my revenge. I swear it."
Her breath choked in her throat.
She fell back.
And for Esme, everything went black.
* * * * *
"Bravo!" said a voice, and the throne room resounded with slow, ironic handclaps. "Bravo!" said the Emperor again.
With regal slowness, he stood up from his throne.
"That went even better than I'd hoped!" he said. "The battle. The great revelation. Truly, that was all most amusing. But now, I think, it's time to proceed to more important matters." He waved one cloven red hand, and his Overministere shimmered into view beside him. "Gukumat!'
Sire?
"Bring the boy. You know, the other one. Let's have all three of these tiresome earthlings in one place. It's time to get this whole thing wrapped up.
At your command, Sire.
The air in front of the throne seemed to bulge for a moment — then Jack appeared.
For a second, as the jelly stuff slithered off him and slipped over the sides of the carpet to join the rest of the pool, Jack just stared at Esme's limp body. Then he ran to her and knelt by her side.
"You've killed her," he said, looking up at Charlie.
The Scourge made Charlie's head swivel toward Jack. It looked at him.
"No," it said, "I have not. And this state she is in now is not of my doing. Believe me," it added, "I have no wish to harm her.
"Khentimentu," the Emperor interrupted. "Let's start with you."
Charlie's head turned to face the throne.
"I've let you have your fun for long enough," the Emperor announced. "It's time to add this girl's powers — and yours — to my own. Gukumat?" he added. "Put Miss Leverton into the pool."
There was a pause.
"What?" said Jack.
"I can't let you do that," said the Scourge.
"Come, come Khentimentu," said the Emperor, smiling again. "You didn't seriously think I'd allow you to run around Hell making plans behind my back, did you?"
He gestured at Esme.
"You and that girl are connected by a special bond, as you've just proved. By adding her essence to my collection," he went on, indicting the slowly rippling pool of jellylike matter that rose and fell all around them, "I will take your powers and add them to my own, just as I have with any other demon who poses a threat to me, and any gladiator who showed any promise." He smiled.
"Hold on," said Jack. "You mean that's where that jelly stuff comes from? It's all — he grimaced, staring around at the oily liquid, hardly believing it — "dead demons? "
"Even in death, my subjects continue to serve me," said the Emperor, his golden eyes glinting. "Oh." He frowned, pointing at Jack. "Except for you, of course. You're no use to anyone, alive or dead, quite frankly."
Jack blinked.
"Your powers are a sham, Hacha'Fravahsi," said the Scourge, squaring Charlie's shoulders. "You are weak and decadent, and you do not have the strength to stop me from fulfilling my destiny."
"Which is what again?" asked the Emperor, raising his eyebrows. "Remind me."
"I will awaken the Dragon," said the Scourge. "It's breath will be destruction. Its fury will cleanse the firmament. Its gaping jaws will swallow us, every one, and at last all Creation shall—"
"Oh, yes," said the Emperor, pretending to stifle a yawn. "Boring."
Then he struck.
His handsome face sharpened into a scowl of pure rage, and his right arm flashed across his chest in a vicious backhand slap. At the same moment, a kind of undersea explosion lit up the surface of the throne room floor, and something like a ripple in the air passed between the Emperor and his victims. Though they were twenty feet apart, Charlie's body suddenly bent double, as if something large and heavy had smashed into his midriff. Flung back across the throne room, he hit the wall again, a full thirty feet up off the ground this time. Then he slid to the floor in a helpless heap and lay there, unconscious once more.
Jack just gaped.
Standing where Charlie had been was a man-shaped blob of blackness. The Scourge sank to the floor, shuddering with pain, looking at itself as if in sheer disbelief at what had just happened.
With a single blow, the Emperor had completely separated the Scourge from its host body.
"There," said the Em
peror, lifting into the air. He floated smoothly over and touched down on the carpet in front of the Scourge. "Perhaps now you'll realize how much trouble you're really in." He looked down at the demon at his feet. "How's it feel," he asked, "being forced outside your vessel? I imagine you must be feeling a bit... exposed. Defenseless, even."
On the word defenseless, the Emperor leaned over the Scourge, staring down hard, his golden eyes livid with superhuman concentration. The jelly stuff around him lit up again — and suddenly the Scourge was writhing in soundless, convulsive agony. The Scourge lost its man shape, turning into nothing more than a splatter of black, jerking and flapping on the carpet in front of the Emperor's spotless white shoes. Just as suddenly, the Emperor stopped what he was doing and stood upright again.
"Gukumat, did you hear me or not?" he snapped. "Put the girl into the pool!"
Obediently, Gukumat floated over, reaching toward Esme with long, elegant fingers.
"No!" said Jack, his voice coming out in a kind of squeak. "I mean, leave her alone!" he added, as gruffly as he could manage.
Now everyone in the room was looking at him.
"Yes," said the Emperor, regarding Jack with obvious distaste. "I suppose we'll have to do something about you too. Lord Slint!" he called, looking round. "Where is he? Ah, there you are. If you'd be so kind..." He gestured vaguely in Jack's direction.
Jack turned, just as the giant flying shark slithered in through the throne room's double doors. He caught a pinkish-gray glimpse of a widening mouth.
"Oh, shi—" Jack had just enough time to say as he was lifted off the ground.
And then, with a great sweep of his tail, Lord Slint swam away through the air, powering his way up towards the vaults of the throne room's roof, where he could devour his freshly plucked morsel in peace. Jack hadn't even had time to scream.
In the shadows over by the wall, Charlie stirred. Across the throne room, the Emperor and the Scourge faced each other.
"Now," said the Emperor. "Time to have some real fun." And he lashed out with his power again.
* * * * *
The world spun crazily. The walls of the throne room slid past at hideous speed — but Jack's thoughts, strangely, were quite clear.