The Bathory Book

Fingers snaked down my abdomen, sending goosebumps rippling down my body. Mermaids—perpetually insatiable. I stretched, toes tensing at the coolness of Safyl’s scales. Still, I’d made a lot of coin out of their otherworldly urges, despite the single cloaca. Safyl sat up, too, the seaweed covers slipping off her perfectly distracting breasts. “Leaving already?”

“Sorry, baby. Go fish.” I planted a kiss on her shimmering pout. “I’m late.” Snatching my cargos off the floor, I tugged them on, commando.

I’d saved her from being a basic bitch in Ursula’s Clam Shanty when the ‘SeaToo’ movement started driving MythPimpers underground. Within months, Bergzerker and Bobs offered me a job promising real old-world money. I’d felt like a million doubloons. Letting me keep Safyl was a concession for everything the position description neglected to mention.

Safyl flipped her tail, annoyed. “How can you possibly be late? Can’t you recalibrate?”

“I can, but it’s a real testicle-scrambler. You want those Merfry you keep hinting at …?” I bit my lip, aware I was making promises I didn’t intend to keep. Bending, I tucked one gleaming aqua tress behind her ear. “TimeSwagglin’ ain’t easy, babe. Seen my Cramer?”

She pointed to the corner, where my shirt and some empty cans of Whisk lay crumped around a portable wormhole. My Discombobulator was strewn nearby. Damn! I’d forgotten to charge it. I slotted it into the battery pack, hoping half an hour would make a difference.

“You thought about putting that thing on charge each night, Cal? It’s kind of important.”

“Kinda.” I’d never achieve Rubble Grande’s mission without a fully charged Discombobulator. I patted the vial of Torturechimp I’d tucked into my pocket. Who knew that if you excruciated generations of primates in research labs they’d secrete a supercharged hormone that sent the staunchest of nutjobs nigh-nigh with a dose? We did—at least by 2065.

“Hey, babe. Actually, I was thinking. You’re always on about seeing the unicorns, and today’s job is right near the farm. Fancy riding along?”

“Really?” She wiggled out of bed. “My, aren’t we getting serious? Should mama be expecting a little calamari?” She waggled her ring finger.

I grinned to hide my guilt. “We’ll see, beautiful. We’ll see.”

* * * * *

Three months earlier

“Arrgghgghgh!” I clutched my shinbone. Why do I always forget about peg legs? Bergzerker and Bobs’ checklist of hoarders to extort, exploit, or exterminate included thousands of pirates, but you really had to suffer for the corsair coin. It took lots of fighting and digging and melting down to make buccaneer bucks suitable for B&B’s modern investments, but why be content with 1% of today’s wealth when you collect it all—from all time! Still, between pirate pushing and unicorn mustering, I didn’t have to hock anything to keep Saffy in jeweled seashell bras, and while I’d had an inkling today’s job would be tough, I hadn’t expected it to go this pear-shaped.

It was Blackbeard, for a start. Also, his crew was Crowsnest high on Hornsnort. Given my side hustle as a unicorn dealer, I resented decapitating folks who’d buy my product. But B&B wouldn’t sign over my doubloons until Blackbeard’s head was in a sack. Savvy?

“Cleave this bilge-sucking dog to the brisket!” Blackbeard commanded, spitting a huge snotgoblin at me.

I leaped to my feet, frantically searching for something to lamp him with. That was when I saw a stranger on the poopdeck. Dressed head to toe in rainbow tie-dye, a tatty straw hat over his fair curls, he stood watching Blackbeard kick my ass. Anachronism, glitch, or TimeLord? He threw me an effeminate wave, sauntered over, and T-boned Blackbeard fair in the cods.

Yo, ho, ho! I’ve got an ally.

* * * * *

“So…” I gasped when we were finally sprawled on the deck, surrounded by body parts and pirate piss, sharing a bottle of ‘hair on yer bum.’ “You a TimeTourist from 1969, or is there something you want?”

He’d want doubloons, of course; that was only fair. I’d have been creamed without his Muay Thai skills. I propped myself up on one elbow and wiped the sweat from my brow. “We’ll split this.” I waved the treasure map I’d liberated from Blackbeard’s cabin. “But take the Hornsnort, too, if that’s your bag.”

“About that…” my new friend said. “How’d you like a side hustle?”

“You’re here to offer me a job unicorn farming?” He didn’t look like a recruiter.

He passed me back the rum. It was half dregs and tasted of fish, but I was used to that. I slugged the rest, plopping the empty into Davy Jones’ Locker.

“More to … save the world.” He rose to his feet, doubling over to stretch. “I’m from the future.

“Holy cyborg! Skynet sent you?” I deadpanned. “Aren’t we all?”

“Touche. Have you heard of the nine?”

“Nazguls! Don’t tell me they’re fuckin’ real, man? I mean, I had a hard time accepting Chupacabra. Some monsters are out of my pay grade.”

“Not Nazguls. The nine who rule it all—literally.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “If you’re loyal to Mork Bergzerker and Gill Bobs, you might tap out now. What I’m proposing isn’t merely a job. It’s … the right thing to do.”

Oh, that horseshit. “Yep-yep. Well … what did you say your name was?”

“It’s unimportant.”

“See champ … Mr. Unimportant ... If I’m making a deal, I do it on a first-name basis.”

“All you need to know is that I work for Rubble Grande.”

I scratched my head, trying to place the name.

“Messianic pop star.” He tried to help me out. “Had that chart-topper with My Virgin Bubble, then married Titsy McFeelin’, made a stack of green from KoolAid.com selling Universe Vibes. You know … long hair, handsome, chav?”

I mentally flicked through a list of British wankers.

“He’s not like that in real life. He’s just a frontman, selling sex and stardust to the masses. But backstage …” He tapped his nose sagely. “He’s got a plan. Do your own research. It’s the second coming.”

“Oh… you mean Essex Christ.” I took on his accent. “Wif the curls?” I didn’t rate that chap for thwarting the New World Order. “What's 'is plan den?”

“There’s this book.”

I dismissed him with a wave. “Nope! Don’t read 'em. Don’t like 'em.”

B&B had discombobulated me deep at one point to dig up Yahweh’s first edition. I even met Pontius Pilate—fat git. And that Matthew, Mark, Peter, Judas stuff … get a room with a lockable door, lads.

“If it’s a publishing grift, try Stupid Murder. He’s good for it,” I suggested.

He put up one palm. “It’s not that sort of book. It’s more like … doxxing.”

“Exploitation?” I grinned. “That’s my alley. How much?”

“All of it, essentially.”

I squinted at him. “Rubble Grande doesn’t want a cut?”

“He’s minted. Doesn’t need the dosh. It’s the principle.”

“Really? Thought he liked his own voice, seeing his mug on the telly.”

“Yes, yes, well there’s that.” His face clouded over. “But mostly …” He cleared his throat. When he continued, his voice held the unmistakable rasp of doom. “If we don’t do this, they take it all. Billionaire bingo. Game over for humanity.”

“Shiiiit!” I whistled through my teeth, clapping the eschatological bastard on the back. “A 'monger job? Try StinkingInsurrection; they love an apocalypse gig. What’s your name anyway?”

“Timothy Driglington-Turner.” He extended his hand. “OAM. Services to Social Justice.”

Crapperdick! It figured he’d be double-barrelled, but social justice? That raised a flag of some indeterminate color and gender.

“Callum Capulet.” I curtsied. “Services to Harden Up, Romeo.”

“I appreciate this is … confronting.” Timothy positioned himself on a barrel, crossing his legs mid-calf like a therapist. “But all we’re asking you to do is bring us a book.”

“It’s not that other book is it? Because I’d rather piss into a hatful of snakes than bother them again. No Book of the Dead either—too many mummies. Now, if Rubble were keen on, say, the Vedas … Kali is a real piece of work, though—"

“No, no,” he cut me off. “It’s just a little black book, a list of names, including the nine most powerful, most secretive. They’ve been protected for millennia by rituals that rebirth them, like an immortal Ponzi scheme, in exchange for ignoring a sick witch’s desires. All you have to do is snatch the book, get the names. We’ve TimeSnipers on standby to bag and tag them after.”

“Not Marie Antoinette, is it? She comes off kinda ditzy, but she was mega-pissed when I nicked the Hope Diamond in 1791. Great blo— ”

“Listen, I’m not sure you appreciate the seriousness of this task,” he sniped.

“Happy to forgo, Timbo. B&B keep me flat out. Maybe try bribing this lady?”

“Tried it. Rubble invested in blood banks in the early 2000s, even a stem cell business. Offered her free spa services. This bitch prefers things done the hard way. I’m afraid you’ll need lots of Torturechimp for Elizabeth Bathory.”

I shot to my feet. “Bloodbath Bathory? Dracula’s mistress?”

He nodded gravely. “The Bathory Book is the key to Rubble Grande ridding the world of vacuous evil capitalist competition to establish a multinational Pegasus Poop stress slime and Phoenix Feather cocktail market that eliminates all need for excess global consumption.”

“And blood-bathing…” I added.

“One more thing…” Timothy stared at me, his dilated pupils suggesting he’d already taken his share of the pirates’ Hornsnort. “This is a life-ending job.”

“A suicide mission!” I shook my head so hard I nearly toppled off the deck. “Shit no, bruh! I got a good thing goin’—mermaid missus, some unicorns. I’m not ready to die.”

“Not die, per se. Just … reinvent yourself. Set yourself free. Start over. You can’t turn a nymph into a nurturer, you know.”

“Start over in 1984?” I snorted.

“Why not? And if you’re truly keen on scale-babies, take her with you. Didn’t you ever see Splash? Mermaids were ‘in’, and Cramer tech makes it possible now. Plus, if it doesn’t work out, we offer insurance. Billions in crypto, for a day’s work, tops.”

The rum, the heat, the stink of unwashed death, the thought of selling out Safyl, all made my head throb. “Plus a pegasus of my own,” I demanded.

“Deal!” We shook on it.

* * * * *

“So you thought you could just moonwalk into 1984, find yourself a sweet condo and a D-grade, D-cup popstar and what …? Chill on the down-low? Drink Phoenix Feather cocktails, make womb fruit, enjoy the rest of human history in Utopia without breathing a word to anyone? Without ME?”

I stroked the stubble on my chin. I’d never seen Safyl so pissed, or so incredibly hot, which was both intoxicating and terrifying. Even riding a pegasus didn’t seem to calm her down, despite the special side-saddle I’d rigged up.

“Well, at first I thought … Gorgon head, right? Lop off Medusa’s medulla, turn this Bathory bitch to stone, steal the book? But Timothy said that since Gregory Petsteen definitely killed himself it looks bad if they can’t keep perverts alive.”

“So you planned to put me in danger?”

“Look, word on Mythnet was that Bathory craved a mermaid. She’s been banging on about a pegasus, too. Rubble suspects dark arts, but if we flutter in there on a sky pony …”

“Then what?”

“You keep her occupied while I rifle through her knicker draw and grab the book. Then I offer to swap you for the pegasus, and we Cramer ourselves anywhere in 1999…”

“Anywhere?”

Like most Mythers, she’d never traveled. I could see the out-of-time desire fizzing in her eyes.

“Anywhere, babe. Promise.”

“Times Square, NYC. 11:30 pm. 31st December 1999.”

“Totes.” I kissed her. “We got this. It’s … it’s the right thing to do.”

* * * * *

“Arrgghgghgh!” Why do I always forget medieval castles are freaking ridiculous?

I brandished the wall sconce, smashing it as hard as I could at Lady Bathory’s skull while simultaneously injecting the syringe of Torturechimp as deep into her vein as it would go.

“Safyl,” I yelled. “Time to go! Drawbridge is closing!” I stuffed the little black book in the back pocket of my cargo pants. Mission accomplished.

Safyl slithered from the bathtub, covered in red goo and welts, wearing a glare that almost made me want to take my chances with Bathory. “Where’s Windspringer?”

“Erm, about that … no time to explain. He’s back on the farm.”

She screwed her face up suspiciously.

“Trust me, sweetie! Now, hold my hand real tight…” I pressed the teleport button on the Discombobulator and pointed it at the Cramer. “1999, here we come.”

* * * * *

“Are you meant to be, like, Madison or something?”

The scent of rum on his breath was so strong that it made me recoil. Blackbeard? I reached for my Cramer, my Discombobulator, my girl ... but I found none of them. What the…?

“Hey, don’t worry. I won’t hurt you. I only want to have some fun. We gonna party, aren’t we? Like it’s 1999.” His teeth gleamed blue-white under the neon.

How long was I out? Discombobulation always made me feel scatty. Fireworks flashed around me in the dark as I struggled to stand. And what the hell’s wrong with my legs?

“Where … where are we? Saf—“ My words were cut off by the roughness of stubble on my face, the overpowering scent of Drakkor Noir, and the unmistakable sensation of a finger sliding dry into my … cloaca!

Shit! Timothy! Go fish!

* * * * *

“Sir?’

“What is it now, Timofy?” Rubble Grand turned down the telly in his four million pound apartment in Islington, muting the impressive millennial firework display illuminating Times Square. "It's New Year's Eve, for feck's sake."

“We have it! We’ve done it!” Timothy bowed slightly, an enigmatic smile revealing his crooked teeth.

“Procured Aleister Crowley’s house?”

Timothy shook his head. “No, sir. Not yet.”

“Ended child poverty?”

Timothy sighed and shifted his weight. “Not that yet either. We’re working on it. The Bathory Book, sir…”

“Oh, that! Brill! Giz it here, would ya?”

Timothy’s hands trembled as he passed it over. Grande flipped through the pages, his eyebrows shooting up his forehead at each name. Then he threw it at the coffee table in disgust. “Disappointing,” he slurred.

“How so, sir?”

“Didn’t make it in, did I! Shagged her four times. Four, mate! Once a full house using my signature upper thrust.” He demonstrated with his hips. “Didn’ even rate a bally mention.”

Timothy cleared his throat. “Mr. Grande, I think you’ll find that’s a good thing.”

“Is it? Is it, tho? I mean, it’s history innit? I just watched some weirdo fingerbang a mermaid in Times Square. It’s all over the telly! I mean, what’re they like, kids these days? Yet I can’t even make it into the Bathory Book! What do you have to do to be famous nowadays?”

“Sir, I …” Timothy was lost for words. “I … I think we might have to deliver on some insurance … and a pegasus … with a ... side saddle.”

“Whatever, mate. Get it done! And make poverty history, okay. Put that on the New Year’s Eve resolution list.” Grande waved him off and went back to watching the fireworks. “Oh, and Timofy?”

He paused at the door. “Yes, sir.”

Grande pointed a shaking finger at the television. “Bring me that mermaid, will you?”