Pure Dead Brilliant (23 page)

Forthcoming Attractions

A
storoth leapt aside as two colossal bottles rolled toward her, halted, and then—for no obvious reason—reversed their direction and rumbled back in the direction they'd come. The deafening crashes as the contents of Luciano's picnic hamper rolled around were causing the demon to feel all too mortal. Squeezing through a gap in the wicker, she found herself once again in the open air—and, if she wasn't mistaken, within range of something edible. . . .

I can't
believe
I'm doing this, Astoroth said to herself, alighting on a vast chunk of pale raw meat. Inhaling deeply, all the better to savor its aroma, she plunged her proboscis straight into Damp's leg. Since gnat bites are rarely painful, Astoroth's young victim hardly registered the intrusion. Giving a quick squirt of histamine to make Damp's blood run freely, the demon-gnat settled down to the feast. So engrossed was the demon that she failed to register the presence of a spider bearing down on her. A spider with a distinctly murderous gleam in her eyes. A spider lurching in her direction with a less than full complement of limbs, which was more than made up for by her overabundance of spleen.

Tarantella paused, listening to the repulsive slurping noises coming from her enemy. She laid down a minuscule homemade crutch, with a finality that boded ill for Astoroth. It had been the stench of sulfur that had alerted the spider to the gnat's true identity. Astoroth looked like a gnat, flew like a gnat, and certainly had the appetite of a gnat, but the brimstone reek of Hades marked her out as a demon, albeit a very tiny one. Tarantella sighed with pleasure, produced a tiny lipstick from somewhere under her abdomen, and liberally applied this to her mouthparts, the absence of a mirror proving no hindrance to her skills at applying what was, in essence, war paint. Grooming her remaining legs with a bone comb, she assessed how best to dispatch the demon. Tear its legs off? No, no, no—
way
too simplistic. Tit-for-tat was
such
a mug's game. No, what was needed was a creative way to best exact her revenge on the monster that had amputated her eighth leg. . . .

Waving from the shore, Mrs. McLachlan was unaware that the Strega-Borgias were in such close proximity to the newly reincarnated demon Astoroth. Had she known, she wouldn't have hesitated to fling herself fully clothed into the loch and swim out to where the family floated in blissful ignorance of the demon in their midst. They rocked gently as Titus plied the oars on the little rowboat that was the best birthday present he'd ever had in his thirteen years on the planet.

“Look,” Pandora said, “your boat's so new that there's still sap oozing out of its planks. . . .”

Under one of these planks that formed a seat in the bow, Tarantella reached out a hairy limb and plucked Astoroth off Damp's leg. Before the demon could open her gnat's mouth in protest, she found herself overwhelmed by something sticky and suffocatingly redolent of pines. Whatever the something was, it crushed her antennae, flooded her staring eyes, seeped past her mandibles, and trickled into her gizzard—thus coating her, inside and out, in viscous glop. Tarantella regarded her handiwork with satisfaction before flicking the resinous droplet into Lochnagargoyle to jump-start its chemical transformation from pine sap to amber, the ultimate preservative. Amber—the substance in which insects dating back to the Stone Age have been found conserved, their tiny bodies imprisoned for eternity.

“I love that smell,” Signor Strega-Borgia said, sniffing appreciatively. “Reminds me of the forests near my father's house when I was small. . . .” He reached into the picnic basket and withdrew a bottle and three glasses. “Elderflower champagne, or peach nectar?”

The diminutive figures of Latch and Mrs. McLachlan waving from the shore receded as Titus sculled out farther into the loch. The sky had faded to a deep purple and the evening's first stars were beginning to appear. Overhead, Ffup and Sab circled, their wings hardly moving as they worked the thermals rising from Lochnagargoyle's surrounding hills. With a discreet
pop,
Luciano withdrew the cork from his hoarded Barolo, and poured a tiny mouthful for his wife and a glassful for himself.

“I'd, um—ah,” he began, looking across to where Baci smiled encouragingly at him. “Yes . . . er, children. Raise your glasses to—er . . .”

Titus and Pandora peered at their father in confusion. Damp, not understanding the importance of glasses full of peach nectar, hurled hers over the side of the boat. Recognizing the bottle of Barolo to be one of the pair her father had rescued from Fiamma d'Infer, Pandora's curiosity grew exponentially. She was at the point of asking what exactly they were celebrating when the answer arrived fully formed in her mind.

“No—NO,
DON'T
!” Titus shrieked, as a gigantic head broke the surface of the water ahead, followed by several serpentine coils that reared alarmingly above their tiny boat.

“Dinnae get your knickers in a twist, son,” the Sleeper hissed. “I've no capsized a boat yet, and I'm no about to start now.” Then, clearing his throat with a sound like an industrial espresso-maker, the Sleeper began to serenade his distant girlfriend,

Ae fond kiss . . . and then we sever.
I love youse and . . . och, whatever.

“That's not the version that I'm familiar with . . . ,” Baci murmured, her eyes sparkling.

Bonnie little dragon-mither
Ae fond kiss . . . I'm yours forever.
So marry me, and dinnae dither.

Overcome with embarrassment, the gigantic beast sank back beneath the surface of Lochnagargoyle and, to the family's delight, initiated the most stunning display of phosphorescence they'd ever seen.

“Okay, okay—I'm
impressed
!” Ffup shouted, arrowing down to the loch to retrieve her embarrassed swain. She splash-landed with wings outspread and her jaws in a wide grin. The Sleeper's head reappeared, beet-red with mortification, and he immediately closed his eyes as Ffup launched herself across the loch to wrap her wings round his neck.

“I will!” she squeaked. “I do . . . I mean
yes
!” She flapped a paw in the direction of the watching Strega-Borgias. “And they'll be
delighted
to do all the catering, the flowers, the invitations, and all that stuff. Oh, I can't
wait
to tell Nestor. . . . I'm going to be a teenage bride—”

Overhead, Sab flew back to the shore to inform his fellow-beasts about Ffup's forthcoming nuptials. “What an
air
head,” he muttered, dreading the girly excesses to come, but pleased that someone, at last, was going to make an honest dragon of his colleague.

“Is that what we're raising our glasses to?” Titus said, peering at the bubbles rising to the surface of his elderflower champagne.

“I
don't
think so,” Pandora whispered, wondering when her father was going to stop staring off into space and Get On With It. From the faraway shore came a round of applause and wild whoops as Sab delivered the glad tidings of Ffup's wedding to the waiting beasts. Damp crawled over Titus's legs and into Signora Strega-Borgia's arms, gazing up at her father, who appeared to be about to say something, since he kept opening his mouth and then closing it again.

“So . . . ,” he managed at last, his voice strangely hoarse. “I'm, ah . . . we're, um . . . that is to say . . . er—your mother . . .”

Baci rolled her eyes. At this rate it would be dawn before Luciano managed to get the words out and, if she wasn't mistaken, Pandora knew already, judging by the huge smile on her face.

“Children”—Signor Strega-Borgia took a deep breath—“your mother and I are delighted—” He stopped, raised his glass to his lips, paused, brought it up to eye level, and looked into it, as if it alone understood what he was going through, then continued, “We've just found out . . . well, no, actually it was this morning when—the most amazing thing. . . . Next New Year there'll be a . . .”

Taking pity on her father, Pandora patted him on the arm and raised her glass, nudging Titus with her foot. “A toast—to all of us, especially our new baby.”

Titus's jaw dropped, then, catching Pandora's eye, he immediately closed his mouth.

“Congratulations, Mum and Dad,” Pandora continued. “Well
done,
both of you.”

Titus blushed. Stop . . . stop, please, he silently begged his sister. Too much information. He knew where babies came from, but he'd tried to forget exactly how they got there in the first place. Eughhhh. Grown-ups? Dis
gus
ting. However, he reminded himself, he had concrete evidence that one day he would be one, too. But not, thankfully, for
ages
yet. Cheered enormously by this thought, he raised his glass and toasted the new little stranger in their midst.

“What shall I
wear
?” Ffup muttered to herself, unable to settle to sleep in the dungeon. Beside her, Nestor snored faintly, his long tail coiled round himself, an old teddy of Titus's tucked in one paw.

“Purple velvet? Red? Ugh, no, it would
clash
with my scales—um . . . blue? Oh, divine . . . perfect—blue velvet, with silvery details . . .”

“Shut
up,
would you?” groaned Sab, rolling over and stuffing his ears with straw in an attempt to block out Ffup's ravings.

“And my flowers . . . ,” the dragon continued, oblivious to her fellow dungeon-mates. “Blue, I think . . . and white, um—”

“Forget-me-nots,” suggested Tarantella.

“No I
won't,
” declared Knot, outraged at the suggestion. “I'll never forget you.”

“I
wish,
” growled Sab, sitting up and glaring at Ffup. “How long are you going to drag out this wedding? How many more nights of broken sleep am I going to have to endure before you finally get married to your giant
eel
?”

“He's
not
an eel,” Ffup squeaked. “He's a beast, just like
we are.”

“Speak for yourself,” Tarantella muttered. “
I'm
an arachnid, myself. Although—” She dropped her voice to a whisper and added, “I'm not going to be by myself for much longer. . . .”

Down at the jetty, Titus's birthday present rocked gently at anchor. Inside it, under one of the seats, hundreds of baby spiders hung suspended in an egg-sac waiting till the time was ripe for hatching. A little sign written in lipstick beside them read:

Gliossary

A
LLOPATHICA FOR
A
RACHNIDAE
:
This is a surgeon's manual of correct procedure when operating on eight-legged hairinesses. Nope, I don't know how to pronounce it, either.

A
ND FIR WHIT?:
Meaning, and for what? Pronounced exactly as it is written.

A
STON
M
ARTIN:
The car of this author's dreams. Made in England, by hand as opposed to machine, this car is so fast and so ridiculously expensive that only the seriously wealthy can afford one. When the engine is turned over, the ground around the car vibrates. The seats are covered in hand-stitched leather hide, the dashboard is carved from a single piece of wood and burnished to a deep gloss by a wee man wielding a tin of beeswax and a cloth. It's the kind of car that makes heads turn, grown men weep, and petrol-heads the world over salivate uncontrollably. As driven by Mr. James Bond. Pronounced
ass-tin mart-in.

A
VE
:
As in “
Ave
, Caledon.” Not a reversal and contraction of Caledon Avenue, but a form of greeting employed by Ancient Romans. Meaning roughly, “Hi, Caledon.” Pronounced ah-vey.

A
WFY SAD, YON:
Translates as “that's deeply tragic, that is,” said with deep sincerity and accompanied if possible by eyes that are on the verge of “gaunny chuck it doon.” Pronounced
aw-fay sad, yawn.

A
WW, COME OAN, HEN:
Placatory Glaswegian phrase, always used by a male to a female. Hen is the female form of jimmy, which is a blanket term for a Glaswegian man. “Aww, come oan, hen,” thus loosely translates as “don't give me a hard time, woman.” Pronounced aw, come oh-ahn, hen (in a faintly whiny voice).

T
HE BOGS:
Scottish slang for bathroom. Pronounced bawg-z.

B
ONNIE LITTLE DRAGON-MITHER:
Compliments in Glasgow rarely come higher than this, with occasional use of
pure dead brilliant
as a long-winded addition to
bonnie
. Straight translation is “beautiful little mother to dragons.” Awww, the Sleeper
does
love his wee Ffup. Pronounced baw-nay little dragon mih-theh-rr.

C
ARA MIA:
Italian for “my darling.” Aww, isn't that nice, Luciano does love Baci. Pronounced car-ah mee-ah.

A
CASUAL CACK:
Slang for a recreational dump/poo. Derived from the Italian
caca
. Pronounced to rhyme with snack. On second thought, perhaps not. Let's try to rhyme with sack.

C
LUDGIE:
Affectionate name for toilet. Although why one would want to refer affectionately to what is, in essence, a poo depository, is quite beyond the limitations of this glossary. Pronounced cluh-jee, to rhyme with budgie.

D
INNAE DITHER:
Literally, don't dawdle, get a move on. Pronounced dih-nay dih-theh-rr.

D
OLL MADS:
The correct spelling, according to locals on the Greek island of Crete, is “dolmades.” Totally delicious (no, really) little parcels of minced lamb and mint wrapped in vine-leaves and oven-baked till ready. Pronounced doll-mad-ez.

E
NGINE ILE:
Dialect for engine oil. Pronounced igh-ill (who'd've thought such a wee word could have two syllables?)

F
IREBOX OF THE RANGE:
Not a reference to firearms, or shooting ranges, but merely a nod to the Strega-Borgia's oven. Dear reader, imagine a vast range-type cooker/oven, in this case a cream enamel color, powered by a mixture of coal and wood that burns within the firebox, thus heating the following: four ovens behind four doors at the front of the range, a platewarming oven, a simmering oven, a baking oven, and a roasting oven. On top of the range are two vast, round, hinged lids, which when opened reveal a simmering plate and a boiling plate. To one side of these is a flat metal sheet known as the warming plate. Always on, always warm, the range is an essential part of Scottish country houses on the same scale as Strega-Schloss. Without it the Strega-Borgias would freeze to death.

F
LOREAT
A
ETHERUM
:
Arcane enchantment dating back to Roman times. A rough translation is “the continued health, happiness, and flowering of the etheric medium.” Nope, I'm not going to tell you how to do it. What d'you take me for? A witch? Pronounced flaw-ray-at eeth-er-um.

G
AUNNY CHUCK IT DOON:
Translates roughly as “it's going to pour with rain.” Said with unusual relish (especially to visiting tourists) in Scotland, which is unused to precipitation on such a grand scale. Pronounced gaw-nay chuck it doon.

I
L
G
RANDE PARMIGIANO:
Slang for the Boss, the C.E.O., he-who-must-be-obeyed. Pronounced eel gran-day par-meedj-eeh-ah-no.

I
N NOMINE
F
LORIS
—
APERTE
:
Without giving too much away, this means “in the name of the goddess Flora [not Mrs. McLachlan, incidentally]—open.” Frequently muttered by amateur Celtic gardeners during a wet summer, when one's flowers remain squeezed shut. Pronounced een naw-meen-ay floh-ris—ah-per-tay.

L
EGLESS:
In this case not a reference to a state of being without lower limbs, but to a state of being intoxicated by alcohol. Also known as puh-shhed, shlaughtered, shquiffy, and—
boringly, tediously—drunk. Pronounced leg-lesh.

M
AH:
Not a blood relation, but merely Glaswegian for the possessive pronoun “my.”

P
ANFORTE AND CANTUCCINI:
Gosh, it must be getting close to lunchtime.
P
ANFORTE
(literal translation—strong bread) is a kind of Italian cake made from almonds, honey, candied citrus peel, and a tiny amount of flour to keep it all hanging together. Pronounced pan-for-tay.
C
ANTUCCINI
are little dry, dry, dryyyy biscuits studded with whole-shell almonds. Pronounced
can-too-chee-knee.

P
OOR WEE BAIRNS:
Translates as “the poor little children,” said with maudlin sentimentality. Pronounced poor wee bay-rin-z.

P
URE
D
EAD
B
RILLIANT
:
In common with this book's predecessors (
Pure Dead Magic
and
Pure Dead Wicked
), this Glaswegian phrase means “very fine indeed, verging on the excellent.” A word of warning, however. If pronouncing this title in Glasgow, to avoid being slandered as a complete
numpty,
you might want to say it: pew-rr dehhd brull-yant.

A R
IGHT NUMPTY:
Presumably the opposite of a left numpty. This quaint insult translates approximately as “a complete idiot” and is much bandied around in barrooms to the detriment of all and sundry, bar fittings and fixtures, and, in due course, the police cells into which the numpties are dragged. Pronounced numb-tay, but if you could squeeze the “p” in the middle without adding another syllable, it would sound more authentic.

R
OBERT THE
B
RUCE,
B
OB THE
B
RUTE:
More formally known as King Robert I of Scotland (
A.D.
1274–1329). Legend has it that at a particularly low point in his military career, Bob spent several freezing months hiding in a cave in the wilds of Scotland, and was hugely encouraged by the sight of a tiny spider struggling to build a web. Twice the fragile structure was blown away by the kinds of winds common in Scottish caves, but on the spider's third attempt, the web held. From this, Robert the Bruce was to draw the conclusion that “if at first you don't succeed, try, try again.” But, hey, we know better, don't we? The true moral of this tale is “two legs bad, eight legs good, but never travel without a spare Band-Aid.”

R
UMTOPF:
Rumtopf is a Northern European delicacy, usually eaten at Christmas as a rather superior form of dessert. It consists of layers of strawberries, gooseberries, black currants, figs, and peaches, but since each successive layer is preserved by submersion in brandy, it's the kind of food that should have a health warning writ large upon it. Pronounced rum-taw-pfff.

S
ANG DI
D
RACO
:
Not a vampire's lament, but literally translated as “blood of dragon.” Pronounced sang dee drack-oh.

S
ETTLE:
Wooden bench seat with back. Spectacularly uncomfortable, thus ensuring that guests do not linger in one's Great Hall. Pronounced seh-till.

S
OLE
V
éRONIQUE:
Heaven on a plate. Take a skinned sole, poach gently in mixture of one glass of white wine, juice of half a lemon, large spoonful of chopped parsley, about six black peppercorns, one chopped shallot, smear of butter, pinch of salt, and cook until the flesh is just growing opaque in color. Reserve liquor from fish (discarding soggy shallot and parsley into compost bucket) and keep fish covered and warm. Still with me? Good. Now comes the tricky bit. Peel and de-seed twelve green grapes (aaaargh), and fold them into velouté. Pour sauce over fish and devour immediately. Pronounced (with enormous pride, especially if you've just cooked it) sohl vay-row-neek.

S
OUL
M
IRROR:
A mind-reading device employed by Mrs. McLachlan in
Pure Dead Wicked
. Also known by the name of I'Mat.

V
ALE
:
Ancient Roman valediction/way of saying good-bye. As in “
Vale,
Caledon,” meaning, in context, “Good-bye, Caledon, fnurk, fnurk.” Prounouced vah-lay and not to be confused with
valet
.

W
HEENS OF METAL FILINGS:
Translates as “loads of metal
filings” in engine oil. This indicates that the driver of the car has thrashed it beyond its capabilities, thus stripping particles of metal off the pistons. Pronounced just the way it reads.

W
OAD:
A dye made from plant of same name and used by ancient Celts to adorn their bodies and frighten Roman invaders. Pronounced woe-d.

Y
IN:
Not to be confused with yin and yang, but referring to the number one. Pronounced yih-n.

Y
OUSE:
Plural of you. One wonders if medieval Glaswegians also said “thou” and “thouse”? Pronounced yoo-z.