Church of Sin (The Ether Book 1) (41 page)

“And what did they leave behind?”

“Offspring, doctor. Children. Children like you.”

She exhaled slowly, a bead of sweat trickled down her temple.

“When they came to the Ether from afar,” continued the Harbinger, “the Ancient Travellers looked much like man. Tall, handsome, pale - but still quintessentially man.  The records of their visit were lost in the destruction of wars centuries ago along with the memories of their time here. They found man to be a primitive species but found their company acceptable for a short while. And after time had passed they began to spread their seed. Today, the bloodline of the Ancient Travellers runs thin and there are but a handful of descendants left. Whereas the world was once run by those men and women whose veins flowed with alien blood, there are only isolated pockets of them left now.

“But there is a significance. The Ancient Travellers controlled a powerful energy, powerful enough to allow them to defy Cronos and pass between the Nine Great Worlds unchecked. Part of that power survives amongst their dwindling numbers and is practically of little value, save that it does have one particular property.”

Her eyes remained resolute as she stared at him, sat holding the Spear before her, as if he had just come in from battle, victorious and still high on bloodlust. Every inch of her burned with hatred. Beside her, almost within reach, Ash’s body lay still.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she told him through gritted teeth. “What do you mean
children like me
?”

“I mean exactly what I say, doctor Franchot. You are a descendant of the most powerful species of humanoid that ever existed.”

“How do you know this?”

“Because all Hosts are. That is, only those that are capable of hosting a Necromire are descendants of the Ancient Travellers. Which is why it surely must have been
fate
that brought you two together.”

So Anwick, Harker, Alix... you... you’re all- what? Related?

“We are family, Alix.”

“No,” she shook her head. Didn’t believe, didn’t
want
to believe.

“Actually, we’re very alike, you and I.”

“No, we’re nothing like each other.” Her eyes scanned the church for a way out but she knew her movement was limited. Her feet were swelling and the pain was unbearable if she put any weight on them.

“In fact we are. All of us. Zara to.”

The words rasped through her ears like sandpaper on wood, seeming to shave off a little of the skin as they penetrated her. Fresh anger rose up within her, formed at the back of her throat making her voice sound hoarse.

“What do you know about Zara?” she demanded.

Baron smiled and got up from the pew, the Spear of Destiny in his hand. He walked a little way towards her and she leant backwards, trying to expand the gap between them.

Then silence before-

Baron advanced on her with unnatural speed. In a second he was on her, his weight pressed up against her, their skin touching, the Spear lodged deep into her stomach. He felt her relax into his arms, supporting her weight with his arm before gently lowering her to the floor.

The blood drained quickly from her face and she felt herself descending quickly into the shadows of unconsciousness again. There was a horrible sound – like a fist through a watermelon – as the Spear was hauled from her body, taking with it a bloodstained chunk of skin.

Her heart slowed, every beat ached. Her lungs deflated and his words grew fainter and fainter.

Chapter 86

Ernst’s lip quivered as he slowed the old Ford to a halt on the outskirts of White Helmsley. Ahead of him, a roadblock had been set up. He had been told that access to the village was restricted but he wished that he didn’t have to speak to any policemen.

But it was not to be and a
burly policeman indicated that he should wind down his window. He fumbled for the handle. The cold swept into the car. The smell of the skunk was obvious.

“I’m afraid this road’s closed,” said the policeman.

“I’m here on official business,” Ernst stammered. Then, the voice of the Harbinger ringing in his ears, he thrust some papers into the policeman’s hand. Confused, he took them to a colleague to study. Ernst began to tap on the steering wheel. He felt the rash spread across his neck and over his face. The urge to dig into the wound was irrepressible but he resisted. He had to keep it together. This was the hardest bit, the Harbinger had said.

The policemen were studying the papers carefully. They kept looking up at the car and then back down again. They weren’t buying it! Ernst glanced behind him. If he put the Ford into reverse he could get to a gap in the hedge and turn quickly enough before they could react.

But that would mean failure. And the wrath of the Harbinger.

He bit down hard and turned back to the policemen. To his shock, one of them was standing by the window again.

“Mr Stranger?” he said suspiciously.

“Yes.”

“You’re from the Home Office?”

“Yes.”

“This is a government car?”

“Yes.”

The policeman clicked his tongue. “I’m going to make a call.” He pulled a mobile out of his pocket and walked a few paces from the car but not far enough to stop Ernst from hearing one end of the conversation. “DI Casper, please. Yes. No, now please. Guv? Yes. Yes, just arrived. But it’s strange, guv... yes? But...? If I could... yes, sir.”

The policeman took the phone away from his ear and studied it for a short moment. Ernst got the feeling the
recipient had hung up. He looked back to the clapped out old Ford and inspected the plate one more time. Ernst shrank into the seat.

He breathed a sigh of relief as the officer waved him through.

Chapter 87

There was a soft breeze on her face. It was comforting, familiar. Like that feeling when the sun breaks through the rain clouds.

And there were birds, too. Tiny chirps everywhere.

The ground was soft and earthy and the ends of her fingertips could feel grass. She was momentarily taken back to a day a long time ago, shortly before Ash had become a DS. They had spent the afternoon together in the park, lying on their backs with their eyes shut, the sunlight flashing across their eyelids. There was music playing from an old wind up radio nearby and the sound of kids kicking a football around. It was one of the most peaceful afternoons she had ever had. They didn’t talk but it didn’t matter. The silence created a bond between them, something they shared together. And when it was over, Alix felt warm and content, knowing that whatever happened after that day, no one could remove that memory. 

But then h
er stomach lurched and she feared she had died; feared she had died before she had undone her mistakes.

She sat up. She was lying in a soft meadow, nothing but green valleys around
her fading into the distance. The sun high in a cloudless sky. Daisies grew everywhere, along with daffodils at the edge of the field before a wooden fence that surrounded it. There were gates at differing intervals with large poles next to them and signs with numbers on. She saw three and four quite close to her and seven on the other side.

Unafraid, she got up and inspected the landscape closer. There were nine gates on the outskirts of the enclosure, each gate leading to a path of dirt and stone that meandered up the valley and over the ridge of the surrounding hills. On a collection of large rocks piled high on each other sat an old man inattentively puffing on a long, wooden pipe from which emanated a trail of thin purple smoke which rose high above the rocks before dissipating into the air.

He wore a brown coat that fell about his knees and was holding something that looked like a Shepherd’s crook. His face was weathered but kindly and, as she approached him, she saw a pair of bright green eyes dazzle in the sunlight.

She stopped within a few feet of the rocks, not sure how to address
the elderly figure who looked like he belonged to a different time from her.

“Hello, Alix.” The old man spoke without looking up. Instead he took another puff from the pipe and gazed out over the valley, as if looking for something that had evaded him for a very long time.

“Hello,” she said, standing a little awkwardly with her thumbs in her jeans pockets and her legs crossed over each other.

The old man looked at her.

“You’ve come a long way,” he observed. Then back to the horizon and his pipe.

“Yes,” she agreed. Then, after some time had passed in silence, “this is the Inter-World, isn’t it.”

“Yes. And I see you chose to come here. Like Orpheus searching the Underworld for his beloved.”

“I’m sorry, who?”

“Orpheus? You must know of Orpheus. Oh, well, I suppose ancient Greek isn’t your thing.” The old man cleared his throat and turned to her oddly, so he could appraise her from over his shoulder. He smiled. Too much gum, she thought.

“Orpheus was a Greek poet and musician. When he found his wife killed by a viper, he played such sad music that the gods wept and urged him to travel to the underworld to retrieve her. He did so and was permitted by Hades to bring her back to the upper world on the condition that he should lead her back through the underworld without looking back at her.”

“Did she make it?”

The old man looked away from her again and back out into the distance.

“This isn’t the Inter-World of my dreams,” she said.

“No. The Inter-World is like oil drifting through a river, forever changing pattern and form. It is never the same no matter how many times you visit. I’m equally as baffled as you are half the time but there is a certain tranquillity about this place that has, I think, the evidence of intelligent design about it, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I’m sorry,” she shuffled her feet. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”

“Well, the green fields, the
Shepherd’s crook, the lovely birds and the warmth. It’s a far cry from buildings made out of the organs isn’t it?”

“I guess. Why is that?”

“I suppose it’s for your benefit. Well,” the old man suddenly laughed, “it’s not for mine!” It seemed as though somehow he wasn’t just
here
, but he was a part of what
here
was. Like he had grown up through the earth and blossomed on this pile of rocks like the vines and ivy that surrounded him.

“You suppose?”
she said.

“Yes. I suppose.”

She perched herself on a rock near the old man and looked out over the valley to where one of the lanes wound up the hillside, shrinking into the distance. She thought that in the very distance, where the colours softened and everything became less certain, things moved. Cattle grazing maybe. She wasn’t sure and the sun was bright that she had to squint to see beyond the fence.

“So, am I dead?” she asked.

The old man sighed and looked away, as if the question caused him pain to answer.

“Is it necessary to think of everything as either alive o
r dead?” He said. “Can’t there just be different forms of existence?”

“I suppose.”

“You suppose?”

“Yes. I suppose.”

“Well then, your body has suffered a fatal injury on the Ether but you are not your body. You are you. And you are now here. As the Forty Nine Laws provide.”

“In the Inter-World?”

The old man shrugged his shoulders and smiled.

“I
n a field. On a fine day,” he said.

“The nine gates rep
resent the Nine Great Worlds,” she said, nodding to each gate in turn but the old man didn’t look.

“If you say so.”

“Can I go through them? The gates, I mean. Into another World?”

“All gates can be opened. If you know how.”

“Which one is the Void?” she asked.

He shrugged again. “Seven?”

“For the creator of the Worlds you don’t seem to know much about your creation.”

“Who said I was the
Maker?”

“You are Cronos.”

“I am an old man in a field.”

She blew out air from her nose and pushed herself up off the rock. The old man took another puff on the pipe. He didn’t really seem to be enjoying it, she noticed.

“So if you’re not Cronos, who are you?” she said, allowing just a fraction of annoyance to creep into her tone.

He smiled again, like he was done playing with her but it had been amusing w
hile it lasted. “A messenger,” he said.

“Do you have a name?”

“Gabriel?” he suggested, but he didn’t seem certain. Like he had no name but had just picked one this minute to appease her.

“Gabriel. Should have known really, I guess.”

“Why?”

“It’s nothing.
There’s a religious connection to... well to everything. They had the Spear that was supposed to have killed Him. You know: Jesus. That’s what sent me here, I think. And they kept going on about the Ancient Travellers and the Book of Enoch or something and it was all to do with the Bible. Weirdly I think Baron actually said that Jesus had a Necromire but I was quite freaked out by that point and not really listening.”

“Oh.”

She offered her hands to him, trying to encourage something a little more helpful than, “oh”. “So the Gabriel thing kind of fits with the general pattern that’s emerging out of all of this.”

“Or perhaps it’s just what you want to hear? Anyway, what pattern?”

“That all of this is something to do with God.”

“God? Which one?”

“The Christian God.”

“Why that God? Why not Ala? Or Zeus? Or Hod? Or Angus Og? Or Juichimen? Or Qadeshtu?”

“Okay, point taken.”

She sensed that the old man wasn’t too impressed by her. He seemed more interested in
the view. Alix looked down at herself. She was wearing the same clothes she had been wearing in the Church of Our Virgin St Mary but there was no evidence of her trauma. The holes in her wrists and feet were gone. There weren’t even blood stains on her clothes. Most obviously, though, was the familiar sound of blood rushing through her head; that hollow sound that one hears when all around is silent, disturbed only occasionally by the warm breeze. It was an odd sensation. Like finding something that was lost; like smelling or tasting something that reminds you of your childhood. She tried to think why the noise should sound so familiar and yet so distant.

Because she hadn’t heard it in a while.

It was a sound that had been taken away from her in Innsmouth.

“Azrael,” she murmured.

“Who?” Gabriel choked a little on the smoke and looked round at her quizzically. “Oh, right. The Necromire. No, she can’t cross with you. She’s bound to the Ether unless destroyed, in which case she goes- now let me see- actually, I’m not sure.” He turned back to his pipe, tapping the end to get the burn going again.

“Is she okay?” she asked, suddenly worried.

“Fine. I think. I’m not sure what sort of existence a Necromire would have inside a soulless body. I’d imagine it’s quite dull.”

“But she said that if I was destroyed, she would be destroyed. That’s why she transposed to me
when Anwick was killed.”

“True but
you’re not destroyed. Obviously. You’re here. You are here because there is a Portal opened between the Ether and the Inter-World. Weren’t you listening earlier?”

She thought back to what Gabriel had said earlier. Perhaps there is no death; just different stages of existence.

Ash.

“Do all souls destroyed in the Ether
end up here?” she asked, looking around. Straining to see if the figures she saw in the distance were people or something else. They seemed not to be there anymore.

The old man thought for a while.

“I’m pretty sure that’s right,” he said finally.

“What about souls whose bodies aren’t destroyed by the Spear of Destiny?”

“Oh, no, the Spear doesn’t make any difference. The point about the Spear is that it enables a soul to
get back
to the Ether.”

“What? So if a body is destroyed
and travels through a Portal to the Inter-World it can only get back if the body was destroyed by the Spear of Destiny? Like me?”

Gabriel chewed his tongue thoughtfully. Her heart was in her mouth. The thought that Ash was trapped here, in this world and she couldn’t bring him back cut deep into her, twisting itself into her mind.