Tales of the Hidden World (9 page)

“How many rooms in this residence, Mr. Caine?” Mr. Cuthbert demanded, peering suspiciously about him.

Peter didn’t like to say
It depends,
so he just guessed. “Nine?”

“Oh dear,” Mr. Cuthbert said smugly, shaking his head happily. “Oh dear, oh dear, Mr. Caine . . . That doesn’t agree with our information at all! I will have to make a note.”

And he got out a notepad and pen, and took his own sweet time about making the note. Peter tried to lean in to see what he was writing, but Mr. Cuthbert immediately turned away so he couldn’t.

“I haven’t been here that long,” said Peter. “The wife and I only moved in three years ago.”

“You haven’t got around to counting the number of rooms in your house in three years, Mr. Caine?”

“I’ve had a lot on my plate,” said Peter.

“So, you don’t actually own this desirable residence?” said Mr. Cuthbert.

“We hold it in trust,” said Peter. “It’s like the National Trust. Only more so. You’ll find all the proper paperwork was submitted to the Council long ago. . . .”

Mr. Cuthbert sniffed loudly, to indicate he didn’t believe that for one moment but would let it go for now. He was so busy with this little performance that he didn’t notice all the faces in the portraits on the walls turning to look at him. Disapprovingly. Mr. Cuthbert wasn’t supposed to notice anything of that nature, but with the avoidance spells malfunctioning, God alone knew what else might go wrong in the House. . . .

Two small hairy things chased their ball down the hall and then slammed to an abrupt halt to stare at Mr. Cuthbert.

“My nephews,” Peter said quickly. “They’re visiting.”

“What a charming young boy and girl,” said Mr. Cuthbert, just a bit vaguely. And to him, they probably were. Though given his expression, charming was probably pushing it a bit. He reached out to pat them on the head, but some last-minute self-preservation instinct made him realize this wasn’t a good idea, and he pulled his hand back again. Peter hurried him past the hairy things and showed him the downstairs rooms. Mr. Cuthbert was, if anything, even less impressed than before, and made a number of notes in his little book. Finally, they went upstairs.

“We have two Guests staying with us at the moment,” Peter said carefully. There were others, but none of them the kind that Mr. Cuthbert could usefully be introduced to. “In the first room we have a young lady called Lee, visiting from the Isle of Man. Next door is Johnny, a young man just down from London, for a while. Do we really need to disturb them this early in the day?”

“Early?” said Mr. Cuthbert. “I myself have been up for hours. I am not the sort to let the day pass me by when there is important work to be done. Oh no, I must see everything while I’m here. And everyone. My job requires it.” He stopped suddenly and looked around. “What the hell was
that
?”

“The hot water boiler, up in the attic,” Peter said quickly. “It’s temperamental. Though you’ll have to bring your own ladder, if you want to inspect it. We don’t go up there.”

“The boiler can be inspected on a future visit,” Mr. Cuthbert conceded. “There must be something seriously wrong with it if it can make noises like that. Sounded very much like something . . . growling.”

“Oh, you are such a joker, Mr. Cuthbert,” said Peter. “Such a sense of humor.”

Mr. Cuthbert headed for the Guest rooms. Peter glared up at the attic. “Keep a lid on it, Grandfather Grendel! We’ve got a visitor!”

He hurried after Mr. Cuthbert, who had stopped outside the first Guest door. Peter moved quickly in and knocked very politely on the door.

“Lee? This is Peter. We have a caller from the local Council. Are you decent?”

“Close as I ever get, darling,” said a rich sultry voice from inside the room. “Come on in, boys. The more the merrier, that’s what I always say.”

Peter swallowed hard, smiled meaninglessly at Mr. Cuthbert, and put all his trust in the House’s special nature. Fortunately, when he and Mr. Cuthbert entered the room, it all seemed perfectly normal, if a bit gloomy. A slim and very pale teenage Goth girl was reclining on an unmade bed, dressed in dark jeans and a black T-shirt bearing the legend
I’m only wearing this till they come up with a darker color
. She also wore steel-studded black leather bracelets around her wrists and throat. Her unhealthily pale face boasted more dark eye makeup than a panda on the pull, and blood-red lips. The bedroom walls were covered with posters featuring
The Cure, The Mission,
and
Fields of the Nephilim
. The girl rose unhurriedly to her feet, every movement smooth and elegant and just that little bit disturbing, and then she smiled slowly at Mr. Cuthbert. Peter moved instinctively to put himself between Lee and the man from the Council.

“Just introducing Mr. Cuthbert to the Guests, Lee,” he said quickly. “He can’t stay long. He has to get back. Because people might notice if he went missing.”

Lee pouted. “I don’t know why you keep going on about that. It was just the one time.”

“Are you . . . comfortable here?” said Mr. Cuthbert, apparently because he felt he should be saying something.

“Oh yes,” said Lee. “Very comfortable.” She smiled widely at Mr. Cuthbert, and there was a flash of very sharp teeth behind the dark lips.

Peter quickly manoeuvred Mr. Cuthbert back out into the corridor. The man from the Council was flustered enough that he let Peter do it, even if he didn’t quite understand why.

“Does she pay rent?” he said vaguely.

“No,” said Peter. “She’s a Guest.”

“I’ll have to make a note,” said Mr. Cuthbert. And he did.

The next door along opened as they approached it, and out stepped a quiet, nervous young man, in a blank white T-shirt and distressed blue jeans. He was handsome enough, in an unfinished sort of way. He put his hands in his pockets, because he didn’t know what else to do with them, and looked mournfully at Mr. Cuthbert.

“Hello. You’re not from the tabloids, are you?”

“No, Johnny,” Peter said quickly. “He’s from the local Council.”

“Don’t I know you from somewhere?” said Mr. Cuthbert, doubtfully. “I’m almost sure I’ve seen you somewhere before. . . .”

“I was on a television talent show,” Johnny said reluctantly. “It all got a bit much, so I came here to . . . get away from it all for a while.”

“Oh, I never watch those shows,” Mr. Cuthbert said immediately, in much the same kind of voice as one might say
I never watch bear baiting
. He insisted on a good look around Johnny’s room, found nothing of any interest whatsoever, made a note about that, and then trudged back down the stairs again. Peter hurried after him. Mr. Cuthbert strode back through the House, into the kitchen, and then stopped abruptly at the front door. He gave Peter a stern look, the kind meant to indicate
I am a man to be reckoned with and don’t you forget it.

“I can see there are a great many things that will have to be dealt with, to bring this property up to scratch, Mr. Caine. I will of course be sending in a full investigative team. Have all the floorboards up, to inspect the wiring. Might have to open up all the walls, rewire the entire House. And a residence this size, with Guests, should have proper central heating, not just some noisy old boiler in the attic. That will definitely have to be replaced. I’m sure I saw rising damp, the whole of the outside needs rendering, and what I can see of your roof is a disgrace! We’ll have to put up scaffolding all around the property.” He smiled thinly, his eyes full of quiet satisfaction. “I’m afraid this is all going to prove rather expensive for you, Mr. Caine, but regulations are regulations, and standards must be maintained. Good day to you. You’ll be hearing from me again, very soon.”

He left the house as importantly as he’d arrived, slamming the door behind him. Up in the attic, Grandfather Grendel made a very rude noise, and the House smelled briefly of rotting petunias.

Jubilee led the Elven Prince Airgedlamh around the House, though of course he saw a very different establishment. He strolled arrogantly down the hall, refusing to be hurried, remarking loudly on the substandard nature of the ambience, and the lack of proper protective magics. He did notice the portrait faces on the walls glaring at him with open disdain and met them all glare for glare. He was used to general disapproval. He was an Elf. Jubilee let him wander around the downstairs rooms, making haughty and occasionally downright rude remarks as the mood took him, before Jubilee was finally able to lead him upstairs to the Guest rooms. Grandfather Grendel made some more extremely rude noises.

“Be still, old creation,” said the Elven Prince, without even looking up at the attic. “Don’t make me have to come up there.”

He pushed open the first door and strode right in, not giving Jubilee time to knock or even introduce him. Inside, the room was dark and clammy and subtly oppressive. The Elven Prince slammed to a halt in spite of himself, and Jubilee moved quickly in beside him. Lee might be just a teenage Goth in the day world, but here her true nature was unleashed. Leanan-Sidhe was a dark Muse, from the Isle of Man. Inspiration for artists of the macabre and the mysterious, those who dreamed of her often produced powerful and magnificent work, only to burn out fast and die young. Leanan-Sidhe was a harsh mistress and a debilitating Muse, and everyone knew what she fed on.

The Elven Prince bowed stiffly to her, again almost in spite of himself. The Muse’s room was a dark cavern, with blood dripping slowly down the rough stone walls. Leanan-Sidhe reclined at her ease on the huge pulpy petals of a crimson rose, floating in a sea of tears. She was a dark presence, of overwhelming demeanor, more shadow than substance. Her ashen face floated in the darkness like a malignant moon on a very dark night. She had no eyes, only deep dark eye sockets, and her mouth was the color of dried blood. She smiled sweetly on Prince Airgedlamh, revealing rows of very sharp teeth, like a shark.

“Come on in, sweet prince, my very dear, and I’ll show you what dreams are made of.”

The Elven Prince wavered but stood firm. “Tempt me not, dark muse. . . .”

“But, darling,” said Leanan-Sidhe, “that’s what I do. . . .”

She laughed richly, and the Elven Prince couldn’t get out of the room fast enough. Jubilee smiled sweetly at Leanan-Sidhe, who dropped her a brief wink, and then she went back out into the hall. With the door safely shut again, Prince Airgedlamh quickly regained his composure and insisted on moving on to the next room. Jubilee nodded, and again Johnny was there waiting for them.

“Hello,” he said sadly. “I’m Johnny Jay, the voice of the suffering masses. Pop prince of show tunes. Simon Callow says I’m a genius.”

“I do not know you,” said Prince Airgedlamh.

Johnny Jay actually brightened up a little. “Really? Oh, that’s wonderful! Such a relief to meet someone who doesn’t want something from me. Even if it’s only an autograph.”

Prince Airgedlamh looked at Jubilee, who shrugged briefly. “Mortal stuff. He sings.”

“Yes,” said the Elven Prince. “I see the mark upon him. Send him to the Unseeli Court. The Fae have always had a fondness for human bards.”

“I think he’s got enough problems at the moment,” said Jubilee.

But the Elven Prince had already lost interest and turned away. Johnny nodded glumly and went back into his room. Prince Airgedlamh stopped at the top of the stairs and looked up at the attic, where loud shifting noises suggested something very large was trampling down its bedding.

“What
is
that? I can sense its age, but its true nature is hidden from me.”

“Oh, that’s just Grandfather Grendel,” said Jubilee. “He’s been up in that attic for centuries, according to the House records. My husband and I inherited him when we moved in. As long as we throw him some raw meat once in a while and a handful of sugar mice, he’s happy enough. Every now and again, he threatens to spin himself a cocoon and transmogrify into a whole new deity, but it hasn’t happened yet. I think he’s just bluffing. Of course it could just be a plea for attention.”

“Guests are supposed to be strictly temporary,” said the Elven Prince. “That is the point of a Guest, is it not?”

“Nothing in the rules,” Jubilee said blithely. “Besides, who knows what temporary means, with a lifespan like Grandfather Grendel’s?”

They went back down the stairs and had only just reached the bottom when two small hairy things came running down the hall, pursued by the bouncing ball. They stopped abruptly to stare at the Elven Prince and then snarled loudly at him. Huge mouths full of jagged teeth appeared in their fur.

“Vermin,” said Prince Airgedlamh. “I will have to make a note.”

“We are not in any way vermin!” snapped one of the hairy things. “We are scavengers! We keep the House free of pests. We’re only supposed to eat small things. . . .”

“But we are perfectly prepared to make an exception in your case!” finished the other. “No one bullies Jubilee while we’re around.”

“Want me to do something appalling to Prince Scumbag here?” said the ball, bouncing threateningly in place.

“Everything’s under control, thank you,” said Jubilee, in her best calm and soothing voice. “You boys run along.”

They did so, reluctantly. The Elven Prince did his best to pretend nothing had just happened. He sniffed coldly and looked down his long nose at Jubilee.

“I can see there is much here that will have to be done, to bring this House into line with all the relevant agreements. The gargoyles must be neutered, the moat must be dredged, and many of the old magics have been allowed to fade around the edges. They will all have to be renewed, with the appropriate blood sacrifices. Your garden is a disgrace, and where have all the mushrooms gone? This House has fallen far from what it should be, and much work will have to be done to put things to right. Appropriate payments will, of course, also have to be made.”

He bowed quickly to Jubilee, before she could stop him, and then he strode back through the House and was out the back door and across the wicker bridge, heading off into the night. Jubilee closed the door thoughtfully after him and then walked back down the hall.