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“No.”
“Then let’s do it. I hope there’s a Sabatier or a tire iron or something—it’ll be a pretty messy job with an eggbeater.”
So while Spike slipped into the kitchen, I went to the door of the front room where Major Pickles was watching TV. He was seated on a floral-patterned settee with a cup of tea and a slice of fruitcake on a table nearby.
“Hello, young lady,” he said amiably. “Done already?”
“No,” I said, trying to appear unflustered, “but we’re going to use the nail gun, and it might make some noise.”
“Oh, that’s quite all right,” he said. “I was at Tobruk, you know.”
“Really? What was it like?”
“My dear girl, the noise—and you couldn’t get a decent drink anywhere.”
“So a nail gun is no problem?”
“Nostalgic, my dear—fire away.”
Spike hadn’t yet reappeared, so I carried on. “Good. Right, well—Hey, is that Bedazzled you’re watching?”
“Yes,” he replied, “the Brendan Fraser version—such a broad head, but very funny.”
“I met him once,” I said, stalling for time, “at the launch party for the Eyre Affair movie. He played the part of—”
“Thursday?”
It was Spike, calling from the kitchen. I smiled and said to Major Pickles, “Would you excuse me for just one moment?”
Pickles nodded politely, and I walked to the kitchen, which was, strangely enough, empty. Not a sign of Spike anywhere. It had two doors, and the only other entrance, the back door, had a broom leaned up against it. I was about to open the fridge to look for him when I heard a voice.
“I’m up here.”
I glanced up. Spike was pinned to the ceiling with thirty or so knives, scissors and other sharp objects, all stuck through the periphery of his clothing and making him look like the victim of an overenthusiastic circus knife thrower.
“What are you doing?” I hissed. “We’re supposed to be dealing with the Raum guy.”
“What am I doing? Oh, just admiring the view—why, what do you think I’m doing?”
I shrugged.
“Thursday,” added Spike in a quiet voice, “I think he’s on to us.”
I turned to the door and jumped in fright because Major Pickles had crept up without my realizing. But it wasn’t the little old gent I’d a seen a few moments ago; this Pickles had two large horns sticking out of his head, yellow eyes like a cat’s, and he was dressed in a loincloth. He was lean and muscular and had shiny, bright red skin—a bit like those ducks that hang in Chinese-restaurant windows. He also smelled strongly of sewage.
“Well,” said Raum in a guttural, rasping voice that sounded like a box of rusty nails, “Thursday Next. What a surprise!” He looked up. “And Mr. Stoker, I presume—believe me, you are very unpopular from where I come from!”
I made a move to thump him, but he was too quick, and a moment later I was thrown to the ceiling with a force so hard it cracked the plaster. I didn’t drop; I was held, face pointing down, not by any knives or scissors but the action of an unearthly force that felt as if I were being sat upon by a small walrus.
“Thursday,” added Spike in a quiet voice, “I think he’s onto us.”
“Two unsullied souls,” grow
led Raum sadly. “To His Infernal Majesty, worthless.”
“I’m warning you,” said Spike in a masterful display of misplaced optimism, “give yourself up and I’ll not be too hard on you.”
“SILENCE!” roared Raum, so loudly that two of the kitchen windows shattered. He laughed a deep, demonic cackle, then carried on. “Just so this morning hasn’t been a complete waste, I am prepared to offer a deal: Either you both die in an exceptionally painful manner and I relinquish all rights to your souls, or one of you gives yourself to me—and I free the other!”
