Stephen Jones - The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror. Volume 19

The mysterious Mr Sewell Head, the other side's last recruit for the Winter War Effort, was out in a snowfield somewhere with Gene-vieve's party. Catriona suspected they'd have a hard time getting through. Fair enough. If this council failed, someone needed to be left alive to regroup and try a second wave. Genevieve had Young Dr Shade and the interesting Rodway Girl with her — they had the potential to become Valued Talents, and the Cold Crisis should bring them on. Still, it didn't do to think too far ahead. In the long run, there's always an unhappy outcome — except, just possibly, for Ariadne.

Watching Jago and Maureen flex and flutter, attracting like magnets, Catriona worried that the Club's Talents were relics. Swami Anand Gitamo, formerly Harry Cutley, was only here for moral support. He had been Most Valued Member once, but had lately taken a more spiritual role. Still, it was good to see Harry again. His chanted mantras irritated Jago, a point in his favour. Paulette Michaelsmith had even more obviously been hauled out of retirement. She could only use her Talent (under the direction of others) when asleep and dreaming, and was permanently huddled in a bath chair. Catriona noted Dr Lark wasn't too busy playing gooseberry to take an interest in poor, dozy Paulette. Dr Cross, the old woman's minder, was instructed toward the witch off if she made any sudden moves. Louise Magellan Teazle, one of Catriona's oldest friends, always brought the sunshine with her — a somewhat undervalued Talent this summer, though currently more useful than all Karabatsos' dark summonings or Jago's reality-warping. It was thanks to Louise that the Cold was shut out of the Manor House. She was an author of children's books, and a near neighbour. In her house out on the moor, she'd been first to notice a change in the weather.

While Catriona relayed what Leech and Richard had told her, Louise served high tea. Paulette woke up for fruitcake and was fully alert for whole minutes at a time.

"This Cold," Drache declared. "Can it be killed?"

"Anything can be killed," said Karabatsos.

"Yes, dear, anything," echoed his wife.

"We know very little about the creature," admitted Catriona. "The world's leading expert is Professor Cleaver, and his perceptive is — shall we say — distorted."

"All life is sacred," said Anand Gitamo.

"Especially ours," said Maureen. "I'm a mum. I don't want my girl growing up to freeze in an apocalypse of ice and frost."

Catriona had a minor twinge of concern at the prospect of more Mountmains.

"How can all life be sacrosanct when some life-forms are inimical, being! said Drache. "Snake and mongoose. Lion and gazelle. Humanity and the Cold."

"Tom and Jerry," said Paulette, out of nowhere.

"I did not say 'sacrosanct'", pointed out Anand Gitamo.

"The Cold can die," said Ariadne. Everyone listened to her, even Jago. "But it should not be killed. It can kill you and live, as you would shrug off a virus. You cannot kill it and expect to survive, as you cannot murder the seas, the soil or the great forests. The crime would be too great. You could not abide the consequences."

"But we do not matter?" asked Drache.

"I should miss you," admitted Ariadne, gently. "As you cannot do without the trees, who make the air breathable, the Kind cannot do without you, without your dreams. If the Cold spreads, we would outlive you — but eventually, starved, we would fade. The Cold has mind, but no memory. It would retain nothing of you."

"The world doesn't end in ice, but fire," said Jago. "This, I have seen."

"The Old Ones will return," said Karabatsos.

"Yes, dear, Old," echoed his wife.

It seemed to Catriona that everyone in this business expected a personal, tailor-made apocalypse. They enlisted in the Winter War out of jealousy — a pettish wish to forestall every other prophet's vision, to keep the stage clear for their own variety of Doom. The Cold was Professor Cleaver's End of the World, and the others wanted to shut him down. Derek Leech, at least, needed the planet to stay open for business — which was why Catriona had listened when he called a truce with the Diogenes Club.

The doorbell rang. Catriona would have hurried back to the hall, but David Cross gallantly went for her. Louise poured more tea.

It was not Genevieve and her party, but Mr Zed, last of the Undertakers. He brought another old acquaintance from the Mausoleum, their collection of oddities (frankly, a prison).

Mr Zed, eyes permanently hidden behind dark glasses, stood in the drawing room doorway. Everyone looked at him. The brim of his top hat and the shoulders of his black frock coat were lightly powdered with snow. Many of the Council — and not only those on Derek Leech's side of the room — might once have had cause to fear immurement in the Mausoleum, but the Undertaking was not what it had been. Mr Zed politely took off his hat and stood aside.

Behind him was a little girl who could have stepped out of an illustration from one of Louise's earliest books. She had an indian braid tied with a silver ribbon, and wore a neat pinafore with a kangaroo pouch pocket. She looked like Rose Farrar, who disappeared from a field in Sussex in 1872, "taken by the fairies". This creature had turned up on the same spot in 1925, and come close to delivering an apocalypse that might have suited Jago's biblical tastes. At least she wasn't playing Harlot of Babylon any more.

"Good afternoon, Rose."

Catriona had not seen the girl-shaped creature since the Undertaking took her off. She still had a smooth, pale patch on her hand — where Rose had spat venom at her.

The creature curtseyed. When she looked up, she wore another face — Catriona's, as it had been fifty years ago. She used the face to smile, and aged rapidly — presenting Catriona with what she looked like now. Then, she laughed innocently and was Rose Farrar again.

The procedure was like a slap.

The thing that looked like Rose was on their side, for the moment. But, unlike everyone else in the room — good, bad or undecided — she didn't come from here. If the Cold won, Rose wouldn't necessarily lose a home, or a life, or anything she put value on.

Catriona wasn't sure what Rose could contribute, even if she was of a mind to help. Ariadne, Louise and, perhaps, the Rodway girl were Talents — they could alter reality through sheer willpower. Jago and Paulette were "effective dreamers" — they could alter reality on an even larger scale, but at the whim of their unconscious minds. Rose was a living mirror — she could only change herself, by plucking notions from the heads of anyone within reach. She resembled the original Rose because that's who the people who found her in Angel Field expected her to be. She had been kept captive all these years by confining her with people (wardens and convicts) who believed the Mausoleum to be an inescapable prison — which wasn't strictly true.

"What a dear little thing," said Ariadne. "Come here and have some of Miss Teazle's delicious cake."

Rose meekly trotted over to the Elder's side and presented her head to be stroked. Jago turned away from Maureen, and was fascinated. Until today, he hadn't known there were other Talents in the world. Paulette perked up again, momentarily — the most powerful dreamer on record, now in a room with at least two creatures who fed on dreams.

End of the World or not, Catriona wondered whether bringing all these big beasts together was entirely a bright idea.

"More tea, Cat," suggested Louise, who had just given a steaming cup to the Undertaker.

Catriona nodded.

Jamie wasn't surprised when the snowmen attacked. It wouldn't be a war if there weren't an enemy.