Debris & Detritus Page 3

She had never heard that trolls were real, but maybe they were . . .

  It was an interesting question whether she would be better off walking up to the . . . things, or try and flank them. If they had poor periphery vision, she might be able to sneak up on them, but was that wise with something Magical? That tended to result in hexes first and questions later, and there was always a chance that this could be resolved by negotiation.

  Or threats. And you had to be facing an entity to deliver threats, so it was the full-frontal approach . . .

  Susan coughed, politely announcing her presence to the entities. If there was any reaction, she couldn’t tell.

  She moved forward slowly, keeping a weather eye on the blobs. There were no sudden moves; there were no moves at all. At fifteen feet she stopped and waited. If they didn’t move now, they really were just lumps of rocks, and she could go home and have the rest of her Monday off.

  “’Ello,” said a lump.

  “Yeah, ’ello,” said the other lump.

  “Good morning,” Susan replied. “You seem new round here.”

  “I suppose we are,” said the first lump.

  “New to here anyway, but not really new overall,” said the second lump.

  “So you’re old?”

  “More immortal,” said the first lump. “You know how it goes.”

  Susan had the sinking feeling that she did. “So, what brings you to these parts?”

  The lumps would have shuffled their feet in embarrassment if they’d had feet.

  “Who did you cross?” Susan said, with a sigh.

  “Not cross,” protested the first lump.

  “If certain gods were more reasonable and more appreciative when others were trying to help them, then this would never have happened,” said the second lump.

  “You expected gods to be reasonable,” Susan said. “It’s really not in the job description.”

  “I’d object to that remark, being a god,” said the first lump. “But, for once, I feel like siding with a mortal.”

  The second lump shrugged. “I agree. She has a point.”

  “What Pantheon are you from?” Susan asked.

  The two lumps conferred. “I don’t really understand the question,” said the first lump. “There is really only one set of gods.”

  “Not really,” Susan said, wondering whether it was wise to introduce her new acquaintances to comparative theology. “Rather more than one, to be accurate.”

  “If you mean those Eastern gods, well, they’re just different aspects of us,” the first lump continued.

  “Yeah, we’re all drawing from the same well, except our well is nicer, with columns and lots of marble. And sunken baths.”

  “Greek, then,” Susan said. She let the matter of other pantheons drop. The Greek gods tended to be sniffy about the Roman gods as cheap copies of themselves, viewed the Eastern gods as primal urges which they had sublimated and improved on, the Norse gods were just barbarians, and anyone else were Johnny-come-lately upstarts. Just like any other god, they viewed their Pantheon as the one true Pantheon, and the others as . . . well, inconvenient.

  Susan had often wondered whether the gods had the neighbours round in heaven where they would gather round the heavenly wine and nibbles and complain about her at number 26 who was no better than she ought to be and how the snake gods were lowering the tone, what with not even bothering with clothes or limbs.

  She was in no hurry to volunteer to experience this. Firstly, she would probably have to be dead, and secondly, she had the feeling she would end up as cup bearer or whatever and serving the nibbles. She’d been a part-time waitress, once, and she had no interest in repeating the experience with a clientele who wouldn’t dream of tipping.

  Gods did like to be the centre of attention. And talking, lots and lots of talking. It was their Achilles’ heel.

  Susan congratulated herself on the culturally appropriate metaphor. “So, what are two fine Greek gods doing hanging around in a garden in north London?”

  “Looking for a way home,” said lump one. “But she’s not talking.”

  “Er, Demeter?”

  “Yeah. We thought she might put in a good word for us.”

  “With whom?”

  Lump one replied, “The son-in-law.”

  “Hades?”

  “That’s the one.

  “I hate gods,” said Susan. “I really do.”

  “You and me both,” said Lump One. “And I am one.”

  Susan wished there was a book of etiquette to deal with situations like meeting strange (non-hostile) gods for the first time. She knew what to do when the god was trying to rain down hellfire or sacrifice some followers to open an eldritch portal, but not what to do when the god was shambling around looking a bit lost.

  In the end, there was only one thing to do, the thing that any Brit did when faced with an awkward situation that had no precedent.

  “Do you want a cup of tea?” she asked.

  “What’s tea?” replied Lump One.

  “Yes,” said Lump Two and poked his mate in the ribs. “Whatever it is, we want it.”

  There was a little cafeteria in the grounds of the house to service the day trippers’ need for sustenance and tea, and Adrian had the key to the nearest thing to Heaven that could be found this side of the aetheric boundary.

  “I’m not sure we should be doing this,” he said, turning the key in the lock. “I’m only supposed to use it for the loo.”

  “If you want to disappoint two gods . . . ” Susan said. “But I warn you, it tends to lead to seven years’ bad luck.”

  “Only seven weeks,” Lump One said. “We’re only minor gods, though I say it as shouldn’t.”

  “Still nasty though,” Lump Two added, just in case anyone got any ideas that a short smiting stopped short of being a full smiting.

  Adrian pushed the door open, conceding the point, and allowed Susan and her two followers to shuffle into the small space round the back of the café where the kettle and tea things stood on the side of a long stainless steel counter.

  “So, what’s this tea then?” Lump One said.

  “It’s a drink,” Susan answered, filling the kettle. “It’s hot, it’s soothing, and it’s good for drinking in all sorts of crises.”

  “Is this a crisis?” Lump One asked.

  “There’s no blood,” Lump Two replied. “Usually there’s blood in a crisis. And limbs. Limbs that are not usually attached to bodies. That’s an infallible sign.”

  “Or the sacrificial fires going out,” Lump One said. “You don’t see a lot of that these days.”

  “There’s a definite lack of sacrificial fires to go out,” Lump Two said. “It’s a disgrace.”

  Susan poured the hot water into a novelty teapot in the shape of a London bus and swirled it round to brew properly.

  “Milk?” she said to Adrian, who nodded yes. He kept looking at the two self-described deities with something halfway between horror and admiration. Like someone who had a live snake by the tail and was wondering whether it would be better to try and get a better grip closer to the head or just throw it away and hope he could run faster than an angry snake.

  Susan knew how that felt, though her job was mostly predicated on getting a better grip both literally and metaphorically.

  “So,” she said airily, pushing a mug of dark tea towards the two Lumps. “What are your names?”

  Lump One and Lump Two exchanged wary looks.

  “I can’t make an offering of a biscuit without knowing what gods to call on,” Susan said, trying to pass off the issue of the Knowing of Names as something minor she was mentioning in passing, just as a courtesy really, and with no intention of using a Name to banish an entity back to whence they came.

  “You can call me Detritus,” said Lump One.

  “Debris,” said Lump Two.

  “You don’t need our real names,” Detritus said with a look that spoke of smiting if someone was foolish enough to press th
e point.

  “No worries,” Susan said mildly. “I offer you, Detritus, a chocolate hobnob as an offering to secure your good will. I offer you, Debris, a Jaffa cake as an offering to secure your good will. May you both look kindly on me and mine.”

  “We accept your offerings,” both Lumps said, then snaffled their biscuits.

  Susan didn’t feel the cold fingers of fate running down her back, which just goes to show you how little fate knows about anything.

  The lumps peered at their tea suspiciously then took a cautious sip apiece, followed by a nibble of a Jaffa cake.

  “That’s nice,” said Debris.

  “Relaxing,” said Detritus. “I feel all calm and ready to take on any task.”

  “Yes,” said Debris. “So if you’ll just offer up your prayer request, we’ll sort that out before we head back.”

  “If we can work out how to head back,” added Detritus. “But answering prayers first.”

  Susan had the feeling she’d made a huge misstep. “I don’t have a prayer that needs answering,” she said. “I’ve made a propitiary offering as a matter of good manners but that’s all. I don’t need a favour.”

  “We have to reciprocate your offering,” Debris said.

  “Not have to, really, but we want to. We’re not like those stuck-up posh gods you know—we keep our word,” Detritus said.

  “Bugger,” said Susan, and no more heartfelt prayer had ever been uttered by her.

  It is embarrassing, at her level of experience, to acquire two shambling gods determined to grant her a wish, or a prayer at least.

  “You need to ask us for something,” Debris said.

  “Something unrelated to home décor,” Detritus added quickly, but wouldn’t be drawn on why.

  “Is there someone you want smiting?” Debris said. “We could manage a small smite.”

  “A smite-ette,” Detritus said.

  “Lots of people,” Susan said darkly. The bloke who had sat next to her on the train journey here and put his feet on the seat opposite, he was in need of a good smiting. And the mechanic who’d serviced her car, who she was sure had charged her extra for being female. And the chap who administered her expenses claims, and who wanted receipts for everything, and had no sympathy for anyone who didn’t manage to have a countersigned fee note in triplicate simply because they were being set fire to at the time.

  But if you started down that road, there was no stopping until you turned into a Dark Practitioner and started wringing the necks of chickens at midnight and cursing your enemies.

  “But no one in particular,” she added, letting that particular dream of vengeance pass quietly away.

  “Some crops that need to be encouraged?” Debris asked. “Technically, we ought not to do something like that as it’s not strictly our line of work, but that was a very nice biscuit.”

  “Very nice,” said Detritus.

  Susan shook her head.

  Susan had no crops. Susan had a small courtyard garden surrounded by pots of fake plants that looked pretty all year round and needed neither watering nor weeding but which confused the local snails no end.

  “A swain you wish to seduce?” Debris suggested.

  “Got one, thanks,” Susan replied. Or as near as she was going to get to one in her line of work. Her shabby little necromancer had tidied himself up, bought a suit, had a haircut, and had bought her a present. Admittedly, Demons and How to Thwart Them wasn’t the most romantic gift, but it was useful, and it was the thought that counted. It wasn’t as if she needed to do anything more complicated than buy him a pint and show him her bra to seduce him. The higher arts of champagne and lingerie were not necessary.

  “Perhaps we could think about it later,” Susan said. “Once we’ve worked out how to get you home.”

  They looked at each other. “Well,” said Debris.

  “Let’s not rush into anything,” added Detritus.

  “I mean, I’m sure they’re missing us, but perhaps they should be given more of a chance to miss us, if you see what I mean,” Debris said.

  “Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” said Detritus.

  “Out of sight, out of mind,” offered Susan, more in hope than anger, but they were not to be moved.

  “So, as our worshipper, you need to find us a temple to inhabit,” Debris said. “Somewhere we can lay our godly heads.”

  Susan did not believe in taking her work home.

  She reached into her pocket, took out her phone, and sent a text message – Need somewhere to keep two gods out of trouble for a while. Any suggestions?

  She didn’t have long to wait for a response.

  Warehouse in the Old Kent Road. I’ll meet you there.

  “Right,” she said. “You’d better come with me. I’ve found you a temple.”

  It was fortunate that the Great British Commuter took everything in their stride, tucked up in their own worlds, protected by headphones and smartphones from the harsh realities of existence. Susan did not fancy explaining to others whilst she had two rocks lumbering after her, even if they were lumbering rocks with tickets.

  They had to change twice, and then take a bus, to reach their destination: a gloomy building tucked down a grubby side street that looked like it had not been cleaned since the Victorian era. It was just the sort of place that a necromancer would choose to conduct their experiments—short on visitors and so far away from the passing traffic that screams would not be heard.

  It was perfect for storing gods.

  “Hello luv.” Stephen’s head appeared from the shadows, almost disembodied in the dark depths of the doorway that could dimly be seen to one side of the alley. “Will this do?”

  “It’s just what I need,” Susan replied.

  There was an awkward pause whilst they worked out whether there would be kissing, and if so, where, until Susan took the lead and dropped a short, sweet kiss on his mouth. Stephen turned a shade pinker and ducked his head, his hair falling round his face.

  “Ooh,” said Debris. “Is this your swain?”

  “Yes,” said Susan, surprising Stephen into a quick grin.

  “I’ve never been a swain before,” Stephen said. “Will I have to recite poetry, and wear straw behind my ear?”

  “Poetry is always nice,” Detritus said. “It’ll win any woman’s heart.”

  “If you could see your way clear to a nice offering, we could make sure that Susan here stays yours for ever, or at least until someone else makes a better offer to us,” Debris said.

  “And she’s no Helen, so you should be safe there,” Detritus continued. “Not many will be falling over themselves to make a better offer. No offence.”

  “Plenty taken,” Susan said.

  “I’m a necromancer,” Stephen said. “I might need help with romance, but I’m a dab hand at death. I can take care of any rivals myself, thank you very much. I know a couple of very hungry demons, and some very nasty spell traps.”

  Susan grinned. That was her kind of man.

  “This is Debris and Detritus. Don’t offer them any tea, don’t offer them any food; in fact, don’t offer them anything at all without agreeing a price up front.”

  “Right oh,” Stephen said. “I invite you to take shelter under my roof, and ask only that you leave the place in the condition you find it in and never breathe a word as to what you find here.”

  “Fair enough,” said Detritus.

  “Done,” said Debris.

  The three of them crossed the threshold, Susan first, and then the two gods bringing up the rear. Inside, the warehouse was bright and airy, and largely empty. There was an ornate carved bed at one end, a long line of bookcases along the far wall filled with the sort of books that amateurs should not be allowed within ten feet of, and a large Persian rug in deep shades of red.

  “Kitchen and bathroom through there,” Stephen said, pointing at a couple of doors.

  “I thought this was a warehouse,” Susan said.

  “So d
id the Council,” he replied. “It’s no good having a secret lair that someone can find by looking you up on the voting registry, is it?”

  “This is your lair? It’s lovely.” Susan moved deeper into the building, her fingers twitching towards the books. “Are you sure you’re happy to take this pair in?”

  “They can’t get up to much in here. It’s the centre of a large protective circle that damps down most magical activity apart from mine.” Stephen waved a hand in the direction of the floor. “It’s built in, unscuffable and unmovable.”

  “We’re not magical,” said Debris.

  “We’re gods,” said Detritus.

  “Whatever you say.” Susan didn’t want to get involved in complex theological arguments, particularly with gods who tended to sulk if you disagreed with them and start smiting. She wanted to pack them off to heaven, have a nice alcoholic beverage of her choice, and sweet talk her swain into letting her read some of his books.

  “You really need a sofa in here,” she said, thinking of the books.

  “I second that,” Debris said.

  “In a nice taupe,” Detritus added. “Perhaps with a red stripe.”

  “Red makes me think of blood.” Stephen’s eye twitched. “And taupe makes me think of cold, dead flesh.”

  Debris and Detritus looked at Stephen, with the long hard look of gods trying to work out whether a worshipper was several thuribles short of a censing.

  “Right,” said Detritus.

  “Ooookay,” said Debris.

  “Black goes with everything,” said Susan. “And doesn’t show the dirt or the bloodstains.”

  It was Susan’s turn for being stared at hard.

  “I’m not sure you’re the right class of worshipper we are looking for,” Debris said.

  “No,” said Detritus.

  Susan shrugged. “You’ll be the first gods I’ve met who were fussy about blood.”

  “We don’t mind people making offerings. That’s right and proper,” said Debris.

  “But not on the soft furnishings,” said Detritus, and shuddered.

  “In my line of work, you tend not to be that fussy about that sort of thing.” Susan shook her head sadly. “It tends to get messy. If it’s not the blood, it’s the unguents, the herbs, and the salt you track in from the circles . . . ”