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“The Orpheus Quest.”
She snapped her fingers. “Down into the underworld to rescue the princess, right? You still have it?”
Ash shrugged. “Went to the charity shop years ago, sorry.”
“What happened? We used to hang all the time. I only live round the corner.”
“I stayed in the Nerd Herd and you didn’t, I suppose.” Ash put his hands in his pockets. “We ended up in different crowds. High school’s a big place.”
“Do you think I’ve changed that much?” she asked.
“We all change, Gemma.”
“That doesn’t have to be a bad thing.”
Ash’s mobile phone buzzed. It was Parvati, with an address. She wanted to meet at six-thirty.
Typical. Of all the days since time began, why today?
Gemma glanced down at the glowing screen. “Problem?”
“No. There’s just something I need to do, but it shouldn’t take long. I’ll meet you there. In case I’m late or something.”
“Oh, OK.” Gemma paused by the door. “Bye, Ash.”
“Bye, Gemma.” He closed the front door behind her.
Ash’s parents both fell silent as he entered the kitchen. They were each staring intently at their mugs.
Ash’s mum turned to his dad. “That Gemma, I know her family well. Very respectable.”
“Yes, her father is a dentist. Perfect teeth, both Gemma and her sister. Have you ever seen more beautiful smiles?” said his dad. “There is the dowry, him having two daughters. But no rush. We will wait until Ash has finished university, then the wedding.”
“But can she cook curries?” asked his mum. “It is simple to fix. I will teach her once they are married.”
“Just…” Ash backed out of the kitchen. “Oh, just shut up.”
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he plan was simple. Ash would meet Parvati in Soho at six-thirty, get the Koh-i-noor off this Monty fella, then head off to Dulwich Park and the fireworks at eight. And hang out with Gemma. Sorted.
This was turning out to be more fun than he’d thought.
Lucky shoved his clothes off the bed and threw herself on it. Resting her chin on a pillow, she surveyed the wardrobe scattered across the carpet. “How many T-shirts can one person need?” she asked. “And Mum told you to tidy up.”
“This is tidy,” Ash said. There were no clothes on the floor that didn’t belong there, most of his books were up on the shelves, and the bed was made, sort of. You could even see some of the carpet. Disney wallpaper for a fourteen-year-old was social death, so it had to be covered up with posters, though poster selection was a minefield. The posters told any visitors who you were, what you were, your religious beliefs. Ash was going through a major superhero phase. Batman. The X-Men. Even a vintage Bond from the 1960s. It informed the casual observer that Ash was either a dangerous outsider with superpowers, or a total geek. It just so happened he was both.
Ash sniffed his deodorant. According to the ads, this particular brand would attract a whole planeload of European supermodels. He’d better use just a small amount.
He checked his hair in the mirror as he slid his gel-coated fingers through his thick black locks. He’d grown them out over the last few months and they were getting perilously long; the gel barely held his hair under any sort of control. “Pass us the Levi’s T-shirt,” he said. “The black one.”
“They’re all black.” She picked up a random T-shirt. “What happened to all your other clothes?”
“Thought it was time for a new look. Anyway, a lot of my old stuff didn’t fit any more.” After his time in India, he’d come back a different shape. The old Ash had been ‘cuddly’; this new Ash was as sharp as a razor.
“So you’ve decided to go all skintight and superhero-ish?”
“Something like that.”
As Ash took off his shirt, he saw the scar – a pale white line locked in the dark skin, wedged between hard muscle at the top of his stomach. He drew his fingernail along it. That was where Savage had pushed the arrowhead in. Another Ash had died that night in the ancient capital of the demon king. Another boy had bled to death on the sand-covered flagstones before the Iron Gates. Now Ash was a dead man walking, brought back to life by Kali to be her weapon.
“Do you miss him?” he asked Lucky. “The old Ash?”
“You’re still here. Same as you ever were.”
Ash slid the T-shirt on. “We know that’s not true.”
“Where it matters, it is.” She glanced at the mirror. Ash stood there, the T-shirt taut across his chest, clinging to the contours of his torso. He double-knotted his Converse All Stars. It wouldn’t do to go tripping over a loose shoelace.
Ash pulled out his shirt drawer and dropped it on the floor. He stretched his arm to the back of the dresser and felt around. His fingers touched bare steel. The object was taped to the back panel of the cabinet. He ripped the tape off.
Hands tightening round the hilt, Ash pulled out his katar.
The Indian punch dagger was thirty centimetres long, the blade almost half the length. Its handle was shaped like an H, gripped along the short, horizontal bar, with the wide triangular blade jutting forward, so the attack was delivered via a straight punch. The tip was diamond-hard and designed for penetrating steel armour. It was like no other weapon in the world, unique to India.
Lucky drew in her breath. “I didn’t know you still had it.”
Ash checked the edges. Still razor-sharp. “You approve?”
“No.” She sat up. “I don’t want you getting involved with Parvati.”
Ash took out a folded piece of leather. He’d made the scabbard himself one evening at the school workshop, doing some after-hours work to earn more credits. He slipped his belt through the straps and then put it on. The katar went into the leather sheath, nestling in his lower back.
“Ash…”
“I’m just doing her a favour, that’s all.” Ash put his Victorian Army greatcoat on over the katar, a knee-length number, his ‘Sherlock Special’. He checked himself in the mirror. The coat hid the katar perfectly, but with a flick he could instantly grab it. Lucky peered over his shoulder.
“You’ll knock ’em dead,” she said before grimacing. “But not in the literal sense. OK?”
“OK.”
“And Gemma will be there.” Lucky sniffed the deodorant and wrinkled her nose. “Who knows, you might get your first real kiss tonight.”
“I’ve kissed a girl before.”
“Really? Who?”
There was a long pause. “Parvati.”
“Parvati? As in daughter of Ravana? As in half-demon assassin?” Lucky leaned forward. “What was it like?”
“All I remember was the abject fear and the sense that I was about to suffer a slow and hideous death.”
“I’m sure it’ll be better next time round,” she replied.
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n hour later, Ash got off the bus at Piccadilly Circus. Despite the cold, London was buzzing. Tonight was the fifth of November, Guy Fawkes Night. Fireworks flared into the night sky, but a dingy fog was sinking over the city, steadily smothering all light and colour.
Ash checked his mobile phone. Parvati wanted to meet at the Royal Bengal Restaurant. He went along Shaftesbury Avenue, with its theatres showing musicals and Shakespearean plays. The Lyric had a revival of Faustus, and a glaring red devil loomed over the passers-by, his face split by a bloody grin. Ash turned down Great Windmill Street and away from the bright lights and bustling streets into a very different part of Soho.
Soho still had an edgy, forbidden atmosphere, especially for a boy with parental locks on his computer. His parents would go mental if they knew he was wandering around here at night. In spite of the gleaming towers and flash shops, most of London still lay upon ancient streets and winding lanes, which made Soho a labyrinth of seedy, dark alleys where dimly seen figures lurked in the doorways and the encroaching fog seemed to choke all colour, fading it to grey. Ash kept his eyes down.
“Nice coat,” said Parvati as Ash entered the restaurant. The place was packed with diners and smelled of spices – fried onions, cardamom and garlic. A waiter slipped past holding a sizzling balti tray. Molten butter shone on the fresh naan bread. Ash’s mouth watered. “Dinner first?”
“Just tea.” Parvati pointed out of the window. “Monty’s flat is round the corner.”
The neon lights from the bar opposite filled the front window with garish colour, and it took Ash a second to realise there was someone waiting at the table for them.
“This is Khan,” said Parvati, taking a seat.
Khan stood up and reached across to greet Ash. “Namaste.” His voice was a deep, rumbling growl – the sort of sound that wouldn’t be out of place in a jungle. Over six feet tall, the guy had bronze skin with cropped light brown hair, and the stitches on his dark purple shirt strained against the pressure of his muscles. He met Ash’s gaze with confident, amber eyes. Despite his size, he moved with feline grace.
Ash felt Khan’s nails prick his skin as they shook hands. He sat down, acutely aware that everyone in the restaurant was watching him. No, they were watching Khan. The phrase ‘animal magnetism’ sprang to mind.
Dark stripes marked Khan’s arm. Ash didn’t need any more clues to know what sort of rakshasa this guy was. “Tiger,” Ash said. “Yes?”
Khan nodded. Once, and not that long ago, Ash hadn’t believed in rakshasas. They were the bad guys in Indian mythology, immortal shape-changers that had fought humanity thousands of years ago over rulership of the world. The Ramayana was the story of that long-ago war, recounting how Prince Rama had defeated Ravana, the biggest and baddest of the rakshasas, and led humanity to victory.
Rakshasas were legends. Now here Ash was having tea with two of them.
Parvati put her hand on Khan’s arm. Ash’s blood boiled at the way she smiled at the tiger demon. “Khan and I go way back. He’s here to help.”
Khan grinned. “Sikander, wasn’t it? You were leading the maharajah’s infantry to the left, I was with the royal bodyguard.” He stretched out his arms and the grin grew even wider. “Now that was a fight. Nothing gets the blood going like an elephant charge. I don’t care what the historians say – Sikander crapped his pants.”
Sikander? Ash frowned. Wasn’t that the Indian name for…
“You fought Alexander the Great? Seriously? What was he like?”
Khan put out his hand, holding it around shoulder height. “Shorter than you’d imagine and, on that day, in need of a change of underwear.”
Ash stared at the two of them. Khan was showing off, name-dropping Alexander like that, but Ash had to admit the story was still pretty awesome. He was into history, thanks to Uncle Vik. What his uncle would have given to be here, sitting with a pair who had been part of all the history he could only read and guess about. But the two of them treated it so casually, barely acknowledging the legends they’d met. Maybe if you were a legend yourself things like fighting Alexander the Great didn’t seem like such a big deal.
Parvati laid her mobile phone on the table and pointed at the map on the screen. “There’s an easy way into Monty’s place from the side alleyway. It’s blocked off so no one goes down there.”
“Any visitors we should know about?” asked Ash.
“Like Savage?” replied Parvati. “Let’s ask Monty. Nicely.”
“Nicely?” Ash grinned. “You’re terror made flesh, Parvati.”
Parvati stopped and looked at him in a particularly meaningful way. “That’s an interesting phrase, Ash,” she said. “Where did you hear it?”
“Dunno. Just made it up, I suppose.” Ash couldn’t miss the way she was looking at him now. Worried. “Why?”
Parvati shrugged. “I thought I’d heard it before. Some time ago.”
A minute later they were climbing over a large rubbish bin that hid the alleyway from view. A greasy kitchen exhaust duct rattled and spat above their heads, and black plastic bin liners, stinking with rotten vegetables, lay scattered under foot. A mangy dog tore at one of the bags and sniffed at the spilled rubbish. Khan gave a throaty growl. The dog whimpered and fled.
“I don’t like dogs,” said Khan.
“It’s high up,” said Parvati, ignoring him.
She was right. There was a single window facing into the alley, but it was about four metres up and semi-opaque.
Khan shrugged. “Will that be a problem?”
“No,” said Ash. He stepped back and focused on the small window. Closing his eyes, he drew down within himself, feeling his mind, his senses, descending into a dark swirling maelstrom somewhere where his soul might be.
Ash shuddered and enjoyed the electric thrill as preternatural energy swelled within him. It was the rush of riding a tidal wave. No, like riding a tsunami.
Ash opened his eyes and gazed about him.
Every sense buzzed on overload. He could see the very grains of the brickwork, each stroke of the brush on the paint that covered the walls. He smelled and separated every odour, however faint: the pungent, moist cabbage leaves that covered the floor, the gurgling drains with old, sooty rainwater, the sharp, sweet stink of petrol.
He looked up at the window and merely reached for it. It wasn’t much of a jump; he barely flexed his muscles, and then he flew upward. A moment later he touched down on the narrow window ledge, balancing on his toes four metres above the ground. He perched there for a moment, ear pressed against the window. Nothing.
Ash curled his fingers and drove his fist through the glass. He peered into the darkness beyond; to him it was as bright as day. A small, simple, smelly old bathroom. He climbed in.
There was a snarl from behind him and suddenly Khan was there. His nails were a few centimetres longer than before, and Ash saw the faint ripple of black-striped fur across his arms.
Parvati slipped in behind Khan, and suddenly the bathroom was awfully cramped.
“This is cosy,” she said. “Shall we wait here for Monty to join us?”
Ash opened the bathroom door and entered Monty’s flat.
Aged, yellowed wallpaper hung off the walls and patches of snot-green mould stained the ceiling. They went into the living room and found it covered with discarded books and tottering piles of newspapers that went back years, decades even. The furniture looked like it had been collected from skips. The table was missing one leg and rested on a pile of bricks. More books filled the shelves, stuffed in with no sense of order. Ash registered the number of titles specialising in Indian jewellery. Flies buzzed around an unfinished meal. Green mould covered the cups, and the plates were encrusted with who knew what. And his mum complained about his room being untidy. She would have a heart attack if she saw this place.
“There’s no one at home,” said Ash. He picked up an old bowler hat. Strange, it was the only clean thing here. A set of clothes sat, neatly folded, beneath it.
“Thanks for stating the blindingly obvious,” said Parvati.
“Disgusting,” said Ash. “There are mouse droppings everywhere.”
Parvati turned to him, finger to her lips.
Ash listened, not sure what for – something that didn’t fit, something that was wrong.
