Sarwat Chadda - Ash Mistry and the City of Death

Ash sniffed his deodorant. According to the ads, this particular brand would attract a whole planeload of European supermodels. He’d better use just a small amount.

He checked his hair in the mirror as he slid his gel-coated fingers through his thick black locks. He’d grown them out over the last few months and they were getting perilously long; the gel barely held his hair under any sort of control. “Pass us the Levi’s T-shirt,” he said. “The black one.”

“They’re all black.” She picked up a random T-shirt. “What happened to all your other clothes?”

“Thought it was time for a new look. Anyway, a lot of my old stuff didn’t fit any more.” After his time in India, he’d come back a different shape. The old Ash had been ‘cuddly’; this new Ash was as sharp as a razor.

“So you’ve decided to go all skintight and superhero-ish?”

“Something like that.”

As Ash took off his shirt, he saw the scar – a pale white line locked in the dark skin, wedged between hard muscle at the top of his stomach. He drew his fingernail along it. That was where Savage had pushed the arrowhead in. Another Ash had died that night in the ancient capital of the demon king. Another boy had bled to death on the sand-covered flagstones before the Iron Gates. Now Ash was a dead man walking, brought back to life by Kali to be her weapon.

“Do you miss him?” he asked Lucky. “The old Ash?”

“You’re still here. Same as you ever were.”

Ash slid the T-shirt on. “We know that’s not true.”

“Where it matters, it is.” She glanced at the mirror. Ash stood there, the T-shirt taut across his chest, clinging to the contours of his torso. He double-knotted his Converse All Stars. It wouldn’t do to go tripping over a loose shoelace.

Ash pulled out his shirt drawer and dropped it on the floor. He stretched his arm to the back of the dresser and felt around. His fingers touched bare steel. The object was taped to the back panel of the cabinet. He ripped the tape off.

Hands tightening round the hilt, Ash pulled out his katar.

The Indian punch dagger was thirty centimetres long, the blade almost half the length. Its handle was shaped like an H, gripped along the short, horizontal bar, with the wide triangular blade jutting forward, so the attack was delivered via a straight punch. The tip was diamond-hard and designed for penetrating steel armour. It was like no other weapon in the world, unique to India.

Lucky drew in her breath. “I didn’t know you still had it.”

Ash checked the edges. Still razor-sharp. “You approve?”

“No.” She sat up. “I don’t want you getting involved with Parvati.”

Ash took out a folded piece of leather. He’d made the scabbard himself one evening at the school workshop, doing some after-hours work to earn more credits. He slipped his belt through the straps and then put it on. The katar went into the leather sheath, nestling in his lower back.

“Ash…”

“I’m just doing her a favour, that’s all.” Ash put his Victorian Army greatcoat on over the katar, a knee-length number, his ‘Sherlock Special’. He checked himself in the mirror. The coat hid the katar perfectly, but with a flick he could instantly grab it. Lucky peered over his shoulder.

“You’ll knock ’em dead,” she said before grimacing. “But not in the literal sense. OK?”

“OK.”

“And Gemma will be there.” Lucky sniffed the deodorant and wrinkled her nose. “Who knows, you might get your first real kiss tonight.”

“I’ve kissed a girl before.”

“Really? Who?”

There was a long pause. “Parvati.”

“Parvati? As in daughter of Ravana? As in half-demon assassin?” Lucky leaned forward. “What was it like?”

“All I remember was the abject fear and the sense that I was about to suffer a slow and hideous death.”

“I’m sure it’ll be better next time round,” she replied.

n hour later, Ash got off the bus at Piccadilly Circus. Despite the cold, London was buzzing. Tonight was the fifth of November, Guy Fawkes Night. Fireworks flared into the night sky, but a dingy fog was sinking over the city, steadily smothering all light and colour.

Ash checked his mobile phone. Parvati wanted to meet at the Royal Bengal Restaurant. He went along Shaftesbury Avenue, with its theatres showing musicals and Shakespearean plays. The Lyric had a revival of Faustus, and a glaring red devil loomed over the passers-by, his face split by a bloody grin. Ash turned down Great Windmill Street and away from the bright lights and bustling streets into a very different part of Soho.

Soho still had an edgy, forbidden atmosphere, especially for a boy with parental locks on his computer. His parents would go mental if they knew he was wandering around here at night. In spite of the gleaming towers and flash shops, most of London still lay upon ancient streets and winding lanes, which made Soho a labyrinth of seedy, dark alleys where dimly seen figures lurked in the doorways and the encroaching fog seemed to choke all colour, fading it to grey. Ash kept his eyes down.

“Nice coat,” said Parvati as Ash entered the restaurant. The place was packed with diners and smelled of spices – fried onions, cardamom and garlic. A waiter slipped past holding a sizzling balti tray. Molten butter shone on the fresh naan bread. Ash’s mouth watered. “Dinner first?”

“Just tea.” Parvati pointed out of the window. “Monty’s flat is round the corner.”

The neon lights from the bar opposite filled the front window with garish colour, and it took Ash a second to realise there was someone waiting at the table for them.

“This is Khan,” said Parvati, taking a seat.

Khan stood up and reached across to greet Ash. “Namaste.” His voice was a deep, rumbling growl – the sort of sound that wouldn’t be out of place in a jungle. Over six feet tall, the guy had bronze skin with cropped light brown hair, and the stitches on his dark purple shirt strained against the pressure of his muscles. He met Ash’s gaze with confident, amber eyes. Despite his size, he moved with feline grace.

Ash felt Khan’s nails prick his skin as they shook hands. He sat down, acutely aware that everyone in the restaurant was watching him. No, they were watching Khan. The phrase ‘animal magnetism’ sprang to mind.

Dark stripes marked Khan’s arm. Ash didn’t need any more clues to know what sort of rakshasa this guy was. “Tiger,” Ash said. “Yes?”

Khan nodded. Once, and not that long ago, Ash hadn’t believed in rakshasas. They were the bad guys in Indian mythology, immortal shape-changers that had fought humanity thousands of years ago over rulership of the world. The Ramayana was the story of that long-ago war, recounting how Prince Rama had defeated Ravana, the biggest and baddest of the rakshasas, and led humanity to victory.

Rakshasas were legends. Now here Ash was having tea with two of them.

Parvati put her hand on Khan’s arm. Ash’s blood boiled at the way she smiled at the tiger demon. “Khan and I go way back. He’s here to help.”

Khan grinned. “Sikander, wasn’t it? You were leading the maharajah’s infantry to the left, I was with the royal bodyguard.” He stretched out his arms and the grin grew even wider. “Now that was a fight. Nothing gets the blood going like an elephant charge. I don’t care what the historians say – Sikander crapped his pants.”

Sikander? Ash frowned. Wasn’t that the Indian name for…