John Connolly - The Infernals aka Hell's Bells

BREW 1: Subject hiccup, then vanish in puff of smoke.

BREW 2: Subject fall off chair. Appear to die.

BREW 3: One of subject’s eyes fall out.

BREW 4: Two of subject’s eyes fall out.

BREW 5: Subject claim that he can fly. Subject try. Subject wrong.

BREW 6: Subject claim that he can fly again. Subject try. Subject succeed. Gath remove subject from ceiling with broom.

BREW 7: Subject beg for mercy. Threaten to sue. Fall asleep.

BREW 8: Subject turn green. Become violently ill. Appear to die again.

BREW 9: Subject say worst version yet. Subject say it wish it really was dead. Subject plead for mercy.

BREW 10: Subject claim tongue on fire. Gath examine. Subject’s tongue actually on fire.

And so on. Beside each unsuccessful attempt to make a drinkable version of Spiggit’s Old Peculiar, Shan and Gath had glumly added a big X. But they now had high hopes for Brew 19. This one looked like ale. It had a nice frothy head, and its color was a deep, rich red. It even smelled like something that one might drink without a gun being held to one’s head.

They handed the stone cup to Brock, who examined it carefully. He was becoming quite the expert. He sniffed it, and nodded approvingly.

“That doesn’t smell bad at all,” he said.

Shan and Gath nodded encouragingly. Brock took a sip, held it in his mouth for a time, then swallowed.

“Well, I have to tell you, that’s really very-”

Brock exploded, scattering pieces of himself over the walls, the brewing equipment, and Shan and Gath. They wiped Brock off themselves, and watched as the various bits slimed and scuttled across the floor to reconstitute themselves once again. When he was complete, and apparently recovered, Brock looked warily at the liquid that was now smoking on the stones by his feet.

“Needs a bit of work, that,” he said.

Shan sank to the floor and put his head in his hands. Gath groaned. All of that effort, and they still had not managed to create a drinkable beer, let alone a satisfactory imitation of the wonder that was Spiggit’s Old Peculiar. They would never succeed, never. A second cup of Brew 19 stood beneath the stone tap. Gath was about to pour it down a hole in the floor when a dwarf entered the cave, followed by three more individuals of similarly diminished stature.

“All right, lads?” said Jolly, rubbing his hands together. “I’ll have a pint of your finest, and a packet of peanuts.”

“That’ll be two,” said Angry.

“Three,” said Dozy.

“Unk,” said Mumbles, who had reverted to type now that the beer had been found.

Shan and Gath looked confused. Not only were there unexpected dwarfs in their cave, but they were unexpected dwarfs with a death wish if they were actually prepared to sample the local brew.

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” said Brock. “It’s got a bit of a kick.”

Jolly saw that Gath was poised to throw away the cup of Brew 19.

“Hey, hey! Don’t waste that,” he said. “Give it here.”

He ambled over to Gath and took the cup. Gath was too shocked to do anything more than gape. He had wondered if the dwarfs really existed at all, and had speculated that he had possibly been exposed to too many toxic brewing fumes. Nevertheless, this dwarf did seem to be speaking to him, and Gath no longer had a cup in his hand, so either the dwarfs were real or Gath needed to have a long lie-down.

“You’ll never make any money that way,” said Jolly. “You should pour it back in the barrel if it’s bad. Nobody will notice.”

He sniffed at the cup.

“I’ll tell you what,” he said to his comrades. “It’s Spiggit’s, but not as we know it.”

He took a long draft, swirled it round his mouth, and swallowed. Shan and Gath immediately curled up and covered their heads, not terribly anxious to be covered in bits of dwarf, while Brock hid behind a rock.

Nothing happened. Jolly just burped softly, and said: “Bit weak, and it’s lacking a certain… unpleasantness.”

He handed the cup to the others, who each took a sip.

“I’m getting a hint of dead fish,” said Angry.

“Oh, definitely your dead fish,” said Jolly. “No complaints on that front.”

“Is that petrol?” said Dozy.

“Diesel,” said Jolly. “Subtle, but it’s there.”

“Trusap,” said Mumbles.

The other three dwarfs stared at him.

“He’s right, you know,” said Angry.

“Brilliant,” said Jolly. “He has the tongue of a god, that boy.”

“I might be able to help,” said Dozy. He rummaged in his pockets and pulled out the core of an apple that was so old it practically qualified as an antique. He dropped it into the cup and swirled it around with his finger.

“Try it now,” he said, noticing that his finger was starting to burn, always a good sign when it came to Spiggit’s.

Jolly did. For a moment he couldn’t see anything at all, and his head felt as though a piano had been dropped on it from a great height. He teetered on his heels so that only the shelf of brewing equipment stopped him from falling over. Slowly his vision returned, and he found some stability.

“Wonderful,” he croaked. “Just wonderful.”

Shan and Gath appeared at his shoulder.

“Just needed some rotten fruit,” explained Jolly. “Apples are usually best, although I say that you can’t beat a hint of strawberry. More rancid the better, mind, but it’s all a matter of personal taste.”

He handed the cup to Shan, who tried it and then passed it to Gath. They both winced, and reached out to support each other, then recovered.

“Hurh-hurh,” said Gath.

“Hurh-hurh,” said Shan.

And they held each other and laughed while the dwarfs looked on indulgently.

“It’s that Spiggit’s moment,” said Angry.

“That special moment,” said Dozy.

“That moment when you realize you’re going to survive,” said Jolly. “Probably. Magic, just magic…”

SAMUEL, NURD, AND WORMWOOD, with Boswell dozing beside them, sat at the mouth of the cave and watched the acid rain fall. It really was acid, too: it had corroded a coin that one of the dwarfs had dropped, and it left a faint smell of burning in the air after it splashed on the ground. They had managed to get the Aston Martin and the ice-cream van into shelter, and Nurd had assured them all that they were safe for now. Nothing hunted or flew during the acid storms. Even demons didn’t care much for unnecessary pain, or at least not self-inflicted unnecessary pain.

“What do we do when it stops?” asked Samuel. “We can’t hide forever.”

“We know that there has to be a portal, and somehow Mrs. Abernathy is in control of it,” said Nurd. “If we find it, then we can send you all back.”

A look of what might almost have been grief passed across Nurd’s face, and was mirrored by Samuel. They were both thinking the same thing: after being separated and now, against all the odds, reunited, it just didn’t seem right that they should be forced to part again so soon. Even though Samuel desperately wanted to return home, and Nurd wanted him to be in a place of safety, their fondness for each other meant that the ending for which they both wished was destined to cause them great unhappiness. All of this remained unspoken yet understood between them.

Strangely, Wormwood knew it too, for as his master and Samuel silently considered the fact that the best-case scenario would see them divided again by time and space and various dimensions, he coughed softly and said:

“I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ll be glad to see the backs of those dwarfs. They have the potential to be quite, um, troublesome.”