The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [275]
“The manuscript will be released to the publishers first thing tomorrow morning,” said Kaine as he and Volescamper strolled in. Tweed pointed his automatic at them, and they jumped visibly. I pushed the door shut behind them and spun the locking mechanism.
“What is the meaning of this?” said Volescamper in an outraged voice. “Miss Next? Is that you?”
“As large as life, Volescamper. I’m sorry, I have to search you.”
The two of them meekly acquiesced to a searching; they were unarmed, but Yorrick Kaine had turned a deep shade of crimson during the process.
“Thieves!” he spat. “How dare you!”
“No,” replied Harris, beckoning them further into the room and signaling for Raffles to continue with his work, “we have only come to retrieve Cardenio—something that does not belong to either of you.”
“Now look here, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” began Volescamper, who was visibly outraged. “This house is surrounded by SO-14 agents—there is no escape. And as for you, Miss Next, look here, I am deeply disappointed by your perfidy!”
“What do you reckon?” I said to Harris. “His indignation seems real.”
“It does—but he has less to gain from this than Kaine.”
“You’re right—my money’s on Kaine.”
“What are you talking about?!” demanded Kaine angrily. “The manuscript belongs to literature—how do you think you can sell something like this on the open market? You may think you can get away with it, but I will die before I allow you to remove the literary heritage that belongs to all of us!”
“Well, I don’t know,” I added. “Kaine is pretty convincing too.”
“Remember, he’s a politician.”
“Of course,” I returned, snapping my fingers. “I’d forgotten. What if it’s neither?”
I didn’t have time to answer as there was a crash from somewhere near the front of the house and the sound of an explosion. A low guttural moan reached our ears, followed by the terrified scream of a man in mortal terror. A shiver ran up my spine and I could see that everyone else in the room had felt it too. Even the implacable Raffles paused for a moment before returning to work with just a little bit more urgency.
“Cat!” exclaimed Harris. “What’s going on?”3
“The Questing Beast?” exclaimed Tweed. “The Glatisant? Summon King Pellinore immediately.”4
“The Questing Beast?” I asked. “Is that bad?”
“Bad?” replied Harris. “It’s the worst. Think loathsome, think repulsive, think evil, think of escape. The Questing Beast was born in the oral tradition before books; an amalgam of every dark and fetid horror that ever sprang from the most depraved recesses of the human imagination—all rolled into one foul-smelling package. It has many names, but its goal is always the same: death and destruction. As soon as it comes through the door anyone still in here will be stone cold dead.”
“Through the vault door?”
“There is no barrier yet created that can withstand the Questing Beast, except a Pellinore—they have hunted it for years!”
Harris turned to Kaine and Volescamper.
“But there’s one thing it does tell us. One of you is fictional. One of you has invoked the Questing Beast. I want to know who it is!”
Kaine and Volescamper looked at Tweed, then at me, at each other and finally at the steel door as we heard another low moan. The light machine gun at the front door fell silent and a splintering of wood met our ears as the Questing Beast forced its way through the main entrance and moved its odious form closer to the library.
“Cat!” yelled Tweed again. “Where’s that King Pellinore I asked for?”5
“Keep trying,” muttered Tweed. “We’ve still got a few