“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…
“You fought Alexander the Great? Seriously? What was he like?”
Khan put out his hand, holding it around shoulder height. “Shorter than you’d imagine and, on that day, in need of a change of underwear.”
Ash stared at the two of them. Khan was showing off, name-dropping Alexander like that, but Ash had to admit the story was still pretty awesome. He was into history, thanks to Uncle Vik. What his uncle would have given to be here, sitting with a pair who had been part of all the history he could only read and guess about. But the two of them treated it so casually, barely acknowledging the legends they’d met. Maybe if you were a legend yourself things like fighting Alexander the Great didn’t seem like such a big deal.
Parvati laid her mobile phone on the table and pointed at the map on the screen. “There’s an easy way into Monty’s place from the side alleyway. It’s blocked off so no one goes down there.”
“Any visitors we should know about?” asked Ash.
“Like Savage?” replied Parvati. “Let’s ask Monty. Nicely.”
“Nicely?” Ash grinned. “You’re terror made flesh, Parvati.”
Parvati stopped and looked at him in a particularly meaningful way. “That’s an interesting phrase, Ash,” she said. “Where did you hear it?”
“Dunno. Just made it up, I suppose.” Ash couldn’t miss the way she was looking at him now. Worried. “Why?”
Parvati shrugged. “I thought I’d heard it before. Some time ago.”
A minute later they were climbing over a large rubbish bin that hid the alleyway from view. A greasy kitchen exhaust duct rattled and spat above their heads, and black plastic bin liners, stinking with rotten vegetables, lay scattered under foot. A mangy dog tore at one of the bags and sniffed at the spilled rubbish. Khan gave a throaty growl. The dog whimpered and fled.
“I don’t like dogs,” said Khan.
“It’s high up,” said Parvati, ignoring him.
She was right. There was a single window facing into the alley, but it was about four metres up and semi-opaque.
Khan shrugged. “Will that be a problem?”
“No,” said Ash. He stepped back and focused on the small window. Closing his eyes, he drew down within himself, feeling his mind, his senses, descending into a dark swirling maelstrom somewhere where his soul might be.
Ash shuddered and enjoyed the electric thrill as preternatural energy swelled within him. It was the rush of riding a tidal wave. No, like riding a tsunami.
Ash opened his eyes and gazed about him.
Every sense buzzed on overload. He could see the very grains of the brickwork, each stroke of the brush on the paint that covered the walls. He smelled and separated every odour, however faint: the pungent, moist cabbage leaves that covered the floor, the gurgling drains with old, sooty rainwater, the sharp, sweet stink of petrol.
He looked up at the window and merely reached for it. It wasn’t much of a jump; he barely flexed his muscles, and then he flew upward. A moment later he touched down on the narrow window ledge, balancing on his toes four metres above the ground. He perched there for a moment, ear pressed against the window. Nothing.
Ash curled his fingers and drove his fist through the glass. He peered into the darkness beyond; to him it was as bright as day. A small, simple, smelly old bathroom. He climbed in.
There was a snarl from behind him and suddenly Khan was there. His nails were a few centimetres longer than before, and Ash saw the faint ripple of black-striped fur across his arms.
Parvati slipped in behind Khan, and suddenly the bathroom was awfully cramped.
“This is cosy,” she said. “Shall we wait here for Monty to join us?”
Ash opened the bathroom door and entered Monty’s flat.
Aged, yellowed wallpaper hung off the walls and patches of snot-green mould stained the ceiling. They went into the living room and found it covered with discarded books and tottering piles of newspapers that went back years, decades even. The furniture looked like it had been collected from skips. The table was missing one leg and rested on a pile of bricks. More books filled the shelves, stuffed in with no sense of order. Ash registered the number of titles specialising in Indian jewellery. Flies buzzed around an unfinished meal. Green mould covered the cups, and the plates were encrusted with who knew what. And his mum complained about his room being untidy. She would have a heart attack if she saw this place.
“There’s no one at home,” said Ash. He picked up an old bowler hat. Strange, it was the only clean thing here. A set of clothes sat, neatly folded, beneath it.
