Garnoff made his way to the edge of the platform, too quiet and unalarming within the cloak of his own thoughts to be noticed over the fears of the people who stood nearby, tears more real to them than the flesh and blood around them. He guided the young woman to walk in front of him, and they followed the edge of the platform into the tunnel. Garnoff paused to let his eyes adjust to a dimness broken only by the flickering lights embedded in the ceiling, then touched the woman’s elbow and guided her on.
“What is your name, slave?” he said casually.
“Elaine, Elaine Dumont.” she replied in a hollow voice.
“Well, Elaine, you’re a prize catch.” Garnoff said, almost to himself. “You should be able to help me nicely. You want to do that, don’t you, Elaine?”
“Yes.” she said, then added, “Master.” Garnoff smiled to himself. So easy.
In short order, they arrived at a juncture between the present and the past. An old tunnel entrance lay off to the side of the main line, closed over like an old scar in the underbelly of the city when the underground system had grown and expanded long ago. Garnoff turned and made his way through the darkness of the tunnel with the ease of familiarity and continued for some time in the blackness, needing almost no light to guide his steps. Elaine walked at his side, Garnoff guiding her with a grip on her mind like an invisible leash.
A muffled creak echoed quietly through the tunnel, like the sound of an old rocking chair or a ship at sea. It was a rhythm with which all the other small sounds in the passageway seemed to harmonize, from the dripping of rusty water to the scurrying of unseen things in the shadows. Garnoff pulled his heavy overcoat closer around him in the chill dampness. Even his steady footfalls had begun to unconsciously synchronize with the steady rhythm of the creaking. He quickened his pace with anticipation as they neared the end of the tunnel.
A cursory examination of the stone wall sealing off the end of the tunnel revealed that all was as it should be. With a smoothness born of repetition, Garnoff drew a slim white wand from one of the many pockets of his coat and used it to sketch symbols in the air in front of the wall, leaving faintly glowing traceries behind as it moved. Alow, whispered chant began under his breath and seemed to follow in time with the tunnel sounds and the steady, dull creaking. After a moment Garnoff lowered the wand and turned to Elaine with the mockery of a courtly bow.
“Ladies first.” he said. Without question, the entranced woman moved toward the wall, as if she would walk right into it. Another step forward and she passed through the dark stone as if it weren’t even there, then disappeared from sight. The illusion was perfect. Even someone closely inspecting the wall wouldn’t imagine it was nothing more than a magical trick of light and shadow. Garnoff pocketed the wand and stepped through the wall himself, disappearing from view. The dark stones swallowed up his form like a heavy fog and the tunnel again grew silent.
Before him hung a figure from the rusting pipes overhead. It swung gently from side to side, like a pendulum, despite the fact that it was utterly limp and unmoving. The dull creaking of the heavy rope looped around its neck was louder here than in the tunnel. The only other sound was that of Garnoff’s footsteps as he entered and moved deeper into the room to look up at its permanent
occupant.
The hanging figure seemed very old, its skin withered and yellow like dry parchment beginning to peel at the edges. Dark, brittle hair hung lank around a face contorted in pain. The whiteness of bone peeked out in spots on the figure’s face, its eyes bulging and mouth open in a silent scream. The head hung at an unnatural angle, and thin limbs hung slack below. The figure was dressed in a jacket of black synthleather, cracked and discolored with age. It also wore a T-shirt, blurred and threadbare, and a pair of jeans faded and worn with holes in places. Stained and dirty sneakers covered the limp feet. The clothing hung on the skeletal frame like garments on a scarecrow. Parts of them looked scorched and burned as if by a great heat.
Garnoff stood silently looking up at the gently swaying figure. The corpse’s bulging eyes shifted to look down at him, and Garnoff suppressed a shudder at the fire of hatred gleaming in those blue orbs.
* * *
The dry rope creaked relentlessly as it sawed against the heavy metal pipe. Even though it had been doing so for years, the strong hemp showed little sign of fraying or weakness. The lone, limp figure had long ago blocked out the endless, maddening sound from its consciousness. Its presence was more like a whispering, subconscious reminder of its imprisonment.
Once, time had no meaning for me,
it thought,
but years of waiting, locked in this dry, dead shell have taught me much about the suffering of isolation and the endless, drawn-out boredom of the slowly passing years as they tick by, minute by minute, second by second. I have watched each grain of sand fall in the hour glass of time. I have learned my lessons well. Soon the world will know just how well. . .
A stirring at the base of the scaffold alerted Gallow to his servant’s presence. The servant’s stylish suit and overcoat were in stark contrast to the ancient and decayed surroundings. Behind him, near the entrance to the chamber, stood a young woman, held in the grip of Garnoff’s spell like a trapped animal. Gallow could sense her life force, bright and strong, like a thirsty man scenting water on the desert wind. Below the outward calm imposed by Garnoff’s spell, he could sense her terror welling up, like sweet nectar. Although Garnoff concealed his fear well, Gallow could sense it radiating off him in waves as well. He drank deep of that heady brew for a moment before acknowledging Garnoff’s presence.
“
Well? ”
he said in a whispery, dry voice that crawled through Garnoff’s mind.
Garnoff swallowed once and mastered himself enough to answer. “She has escaped, and she is on her way to him.”
“
Good. Very good. And she will bring him to us. ”
“Are you sure? She may just disappear into the shadows, try to lay low. There are other reasons she might have gone to DeeCee . . .”
“
Do not be concerned, Anton. All is proceeding according to our design. The girl will bring him to us and then no one will be able to threaten us. She is the perfect tool. She will find him and he will want to help her. I know his nature. I know it very well. They will come here. Then we will deal with the both of them. Do not be concerned, ”
Garnoff bowed his head in respect to the swaying corpse. “As you say.”
“
Tell the barukumin to prepare for the ritual. The time grows near and I want to be ready. ”
Garnoff bowed again and a slight smile tugged at his lip. “
Even the power of our rituals is nothing in comparison to what will soon be yours, my friend. Now go and make ready. ”
The mage turned and walked to the stone wall. He passed through the solid stone and then out into the tunnel again, quickening his pace as he made his way back to the platform. As he hastened to inform his own servants to prepare for the night’s working, he listened to the muffled creaking recede behind him. It seemed now to sound very much like a low, dry laugh.
* * *
Elaine Dumont’s first thought as she slowly made her way back to consciousness was to wonder why her grandmother's rocking chair was creaking away all on its own. She had a dream that granny had come and spoken to her as she often did when Elaine was little, taking her granddaughter in her lap to rock her gently to sleep. The dull, relentless creaking seemed to pound into her brain and prevent any attempt at going back to sleep. Elaine stirred a bit and started to wake up.
When she realized she couldn’t move, a memory sparked in her mind and she was suddenly wide awake, only to discover that the waking world was the true nightmare.
She lay on a dry wooden surface, worn silvery gray with age. Its surface was covered with painted symbols and designs and surrounded by a ring of candles that cast the only light in the room. Plastic ropes bound her arms and legs to the platform, and dark shapes moved in the flickering light just at the edge of her vision. Elaine looked straight above her and let out a scream that echoed in the chamber and brought titters of laughter from the shuffling shadows.
Hanging above her was a corpse suspended by a rope around its neck. The creaking was coming from the rope as the grisly form swayed gently back and forth. Elaine struggled and thrashed against the ropes in a mad effort to get away from the horrible sight, but the ropes held firm. Finally, the skin on her wrists and ankles rubbed raw and bloody, she stopped and went limp, gasping for breath and shivering in terror.
She looked around and saw a number of dark-clad figures standing outside the ring of flickering candles. One figure detached itself from the group and moved into the circle of golden light. He was an older man, wearing a long black robe made of some velvety material. He had dark hair, graying at the temples, and a salt-and-pepper beard. He looked rather like someone’s kindly uncle, except for the long knife he held, its razor edge gleaming in the light. Elaine recognized him as the man from the subway, the man who spoke to her before everything went blank and she found herself here.
As the man approached, Elaine shrank away from him as much as the ropes would allow. He smiled warmly, like he was comforting a scared child. She noticed a murmur that began in the shadows outside of the circle, a rising chant that kept time with the steady, creak, creak, creak of the swaying body above.
The chant grew louder and louder, and the man reached out to stroke Elaine’s hair gently. She wanted to scream, to struggle, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t think. All she could do was listen to the echoing chant, the dull, creaking rhythm, and watch the dark-haired man smile silently at her. His eyes were strange, like he was looking right through her, past her flesh into her very soul. Elaine wondered for a moment if he really saw her at all. He never said a word, only continued to stare and smile as the chanting built all around them, higher and higher.
When Elaine Dumont’s blood stained the front of his robe bright crimson and the lingering power of her life filled his veins with a warm rush of power, Anton Garnoff was still smiling, and the swaying corpse seemed to smile with him.
I hate bugs. I always hated them, even as a kid. I think there’s just something hardwired, deep in the human brain, that says bugs are
wrong
somehow. Just looking at them creeps me out. So, naturally, there I was inside the rusting corpse of a factory complex some fifty kilometers outside the Federal District of Columbia, facing down a guy in charge of some bugs bigger than me.
Not
a nice feeling, let me tell you.
I flattened myself against a support girder along one of the upper walkways of the dimly lit complex and tried to still the sound of my own breathing so I could listen. I heard a distant humming echoing through the large open space above the maze of machinery quietly rusting away on the floor of the factory. It was broken up by random clicks and tapping noises. I tried to ignore it and focused instead on closer sounds that might give away the presence of my quarry.
I heard a faint rattling of the catwalk behind me and to the left and a muffled cry that was just as quickly cut off. I spun around the support girder and leveled my Ares slivergun across the open space toward the opposite wall and fired off a shot. It went wide of the mark, but I wasn’t actually trying to hit anything. Gunfire would endanger the person I’d come here to save, and I had more precise weapons to use than a gun. The slivergun’s plastic flechettes smacked against the ferrocrete wall with a loud crack as the dark figure on the other side waved his hand and called out in a harsh language of clicks and buzzes not mean to be spoken by a human tongue.
I ducked behind the girder again and heard a spattering and a loud hiss. A terrible stench filled the air as the acid began to eat away at the corroded metal, dissolving it. I spun and took a couple of quick steps back to stay out of the small puddle of greenish-yellow liquid that dripped from the edge of the catwalk, taking the liquefying remains of the top of the girder with it as it began to quickly evaporate.
“Give it up, Crosetti!” I called across the open space. “There’s nowhere for you to run. You’re trapped. Give up the girl and you might be able to walk away from this.” Fat chance. Like I was going to let a total wacko like this one actually walk away, but I had to try and reason with him. As long as he had the girl, he was dangerous. Mocking laughter, high and shrill, answered me.
“You should be the one begging for mercy, Talon. You are in
my
domain here.” The two of them had reached a staircase leading down to the factory floor. Crosetti had the girl in front of him like a shield, clasped protectively to him, with one arm clamped over her mouth to keep her from screaming. The other hand was empty, but I knew that a mage as powerful as Victor Crosetti was never truly unarmed. He began guiding her down the stairs, keeping his eyes on me. I was running out of options. The girl looked up at me with pleading eyes and I considered the fate that awaited her down below.
Victor Crosetti was a shaman, one of the people blessed (or cursed, maybe, in his case) with the Talent. Since the Awakening some fifty years ago, one out of every hundred people developed the ability to use magic. Crosetti was one of the unlucky few whose magic was more than his sanity could handle. Shamans had totem spirits that guided them, animals like Bear, Fox, and Raven. Crosetti’s totem was Ant, and contact with such an alien intelligence drove all insect shamans mad. But it also gave them great power. So, here was a lunatic with the power of a master wizard at his command and obsessed with Mary Beth Tyre, age fifteen.