Darkest Hour (Age of Misrule, Book 2) (13 page)

“If not you, then someone else is responsible. They’ll have to pay. I can’t forgive and forget what’s been done to me, to all of us.”

“Nor would I expect you to.”

“Then who arranged it? And who carried out the act? Who killed Marianne and the others?”

“I cannot say.”

“You can’t or you won’t?” He tried to keep his voice stable in case he offended her. Despite her demeanour, he sensed great power and unpredictability just beneath the surface.

She pressed her hands together, almost as if she was praying. “From your perspective, we may seem untrammelled by responsibility, as fluid in our actions as our natures. But we are bound by laws in the same way that you are, in the same way as the mountains, the seas and the wind. No one is truly free. I cannot tell you what you wish to know.”

“I’ll find out.”

She nodded, said nothing.

Once he had got that out of his system, he became more aware of the situation. “Why’ve you come to me?”

“To renew our acquaintance. To show you that I have no desire to abandon you, even though my people have achieved their desire.”

Church was troubled by the complexity of the emotions running through him. He felt drawn to the woman, but he couldn’t tell if that was an honest feeling or simply a by-product of her manipulation of him over the years. “What are you saying? That you want to be an ally?”

“That, and more.”

“How, more? A friend, then?”

She didn’t reply. Her smile remained seductive.

Church felt a shiver of attraction run through him, fought it. “If we’re going to be friends, then you ought to tell me your name.”

“I have many names, like all my brethren.”

He waited, refusing to be drawn by her game-playing.

Her smile grew wider. “I have been known as the Queen of the Waste Lands.”

This raised a spark of recognition in Church, but he couldn’t remember where he had heard it before.

“Of the many names I have been called when I last freely walked your world, the one most used by your people was Niamh.”

“Niamh,” he repeated softly. A gentle dreaminess seemed to encircle them both; when he looked away from her, the surroundings shimmered and sparkled. “So you’re royalty?”

“In the hierarchy of the Golden Ones, I hold a position of privilege.” She held out a hand to him, and he didn’t think he could resist it even if he had wanted to.

Her fingers were long and cool. They closed around his and gently pulled him towards her. As he moved in, the scent of her filled his nostrils, like lime and mint. For a moment they seemed to hang in stasis, their eyes locked; Church felt he was being pulled beneath green waves, deep, deep down to the darkness where miracles and wonders lived. And then, slowly, she moved her face closer. He felt the bloom of her breath on his lips; a tremor of anticipation ran through him down to his groin. When her lips touched his, he almost jolted from a burst of energy that could have been physical, emotional or psychological, but it left his head spinning. Her lips were as soft as peach-skin and tasted of some fruit he couldn’t quite place. Her tongue flicked out and delicately caressed the tip of his own. And then the passion rushed through him, driving out all conscious thought, filling him up with insanity, and he was kissing her harder and feeling his hands slide around her slim waist to her back. And the sensation was so beyond anything he had experienced before he was suddenly tumbling through a haze into blackness.

There was darkness and then awareness that someone was summoning him. Church thought instantly: I’m dreaming, although he knew in the same instant that it wasn’t a dream. From his vantage point at the centre of an inky cloud he saw Ruth’s owl circling and at first he wondered obliquely if it was hunting. Then he realised its movements were frantic, as if it was disturbed by something attacking it.

“What’s wrong,” he called out; his voice sounded like it had come from the bottom of a well.

The owl drew nearer, and then, suddenly, it was not an owl, although he wasn’t quite sure what it was. It had the shape of a man, yet certain characteristics of an owl around its face, and batlike wings sprouting from its back which flapped powerfully. There was something so terrible about it that he couldn’t bring himself to look it full in the face.

You must go to her. The creature’s voice sounded like a metal crate being dragged over concrete. She is in great danger. I can do nothing.

“Who?” Church asked.

Blood. Its voice was almost threatening. Blood everywhere.

Church woke on the ground so disturbed he instantly jumped to his feet, as if he were under attack. An overwhelming sense of dread flooded his system. At first he couldn’t fathom what was happening to him, but as he frantically looked around the deserted churchyard it started to come back. There was no sign of Niamh. And with his next thought he recalled the odd dream of the owl-thing and suddenly he understood his feelings.

“Ruth,” he murmured fearfully.

Shavi, Veitch and Tom were gathered together around a table in the hotel lounge. Church had no idea how much time had passed, but everyone else in the room had gone. They all looked up in surprise as he burst in.

“Where’s Ruth?” he barked.

“Went upstairs,” Veitch slurred. “Ages ago. Couldn’t stand the-“

But Church was already sprinting back out into the corridor to the stairs. As he reached the foot, he was brought up sharp by Laura, who was just making her way down. She was staring at her hands in a daze, leaning heavily against the bannister. In horror Church saw she was splattered with blood.

“My God.” His voice seemed to be coming from somewhere else. Desper ately, his eyes ranged from Laura’s hands, to her face, to the blood. “What’s happened to her?”

Laura shook her head blankly, struggled to find any words that made sense. But all the backed-up tension had suddenly burst out and Church was taking the steps two at a time, pushing past her. At the top he bolted down the landing until he came to Ruth’s room. The door was ominously open. He kicked it wide and barged in.

There was blood splattered across the quilt, droplets thrown up the wall like a Jackson Pollock painting, a small pool already soaking into the thick carpet. Church glanced around frantically. Ruth was nowhere to be seen.

He was halfway back to the door when his eyes lighted on the small table under the window and he was brought up sharp. Laura appeared in the door, still looking like she was somewhere else. But when her gaze followed Church’s it was like she had been slapped across the face.

“Jesus!” Her hand involuntarily went to her mouth.

On the table was another finger in a little puddle of blood with other droplets spattered around. And from its long delicate shape they could tell it was Ruth’s.

A few seconds later the others shambled in. Although they were worse for wear from the alcohol they soon sobered up when they glanced from Laura’s tearstreaked face to Church’s bloodless expression of horror and despair.

Before any of them could speak, Church shrugged off the paralysis and ran out onto the landing. For the first time he noticed tiny splatters of blood leading away from Ruth’s room down the stairs. Frantically he threw himself down them, following the stains out to the street. But there the trail ended and he found himself running backwards and forwards along the deserted road searching futilely for any sign of what had happened to her.

Back in the bedroom, the others could read what he had found in his dejected face.

Veitch suddenly noticed Laura standing apart, still in shock. “What did you do?” His voice rumbled out infused with so much threat, Church felt his blood run cold.

Laura shook her head dumbly. “I don’t know-“

Veitch moved quickly. He was already gripping Laura’s shoulders roughly before the others realised. “You better tell us, you bitch. You’re the one! Look at all the blood-“

“Ryan!” Church and Shavi grabbed him by the arms and hauled him off her roughly. His face was filled with rage.

“Look at the blood!” Veitch spat accusingly.

Laura held out her hands which were stained red. “It’s not like that-“

“What is it, then?” Veitch struggled briefly, than allowed the others to restrain him.

“I was asleep on my bed,” Laura began hesitantly. “I woke up … some kind of noise. My head was fuzzy … you know, the drink.” She looked around the room, didn’t seem to see any of them. “I got up to find out what it was … thought it might have been Church. When I was out on the landing there was another noise. I saw Ruth’s door was open.”

“Who was there, Laura?” Shavi asked calmly.

Her eyes widened and filled with tears as she looked past him into the shadows in the corners of the room. “I don’t know … I can’t remember!”

Veitch searched her face. “You’re lying,” he said coldly.

She shook her head, held out her hands pleadingly, but all anyone could see was the blood.

“You don’t remember anything?” Church asked.

There was a flicker of pain in her eyes. “Don’t you believe me?” She started to back towards the corner.

“Stay calm, Laura.” Shavi’s voice was warm and reassuring. “We are simply trying to find out what has happened to Ruth-“

“We haven’t got time for this!” Veitch snapped. His clipped movements and roving eyes reminded Church of an animal; he was surprised how concerned Witch seemed to be for someone who had hated him only a few days before; it suggested feelings beyond friendship. Church laid a calming hand on Veitch’s upper arm. He half-expected Veitch to throw it off instantly, but the Londoner responded almost deferentially.

Laura slumped on to a chair in the corner and rested her head in her hands before realising she was smearing the blood over her face. She jumped up in a fury and stormed into the bathroom to wash herself.

Her departure seemed to break the dam of disbelief that constrained the others. “Why weren’t we more careful? Christ, we should have known by now.” Church’s voice hummed with repressed emotion.

Veitch glanced from one to the other. “Do you think she did it?” he whispered, jerking his head towards the bathroom. “All that blood on her-“

Church gnawed on a knuckle. The others looked away, unsure what to say.

Veitch scrubbed his face, suddenly sober, then walked over to the window and threw back the curtains. “Where is she?” Then, fearfully: “Do you think she’s dead?”

“They’d have left a body,” Church replied. “Wouldn’t they?”

“Unless they needed it for ritual purposes,” Tom noted. Church glared at him for his unfeeling bluntness.

Veitch finally found it within himself to look at the finger on the table. “What kind of a sick bastard would do a thing like that? Christ, what must she have felt-” His voice choked off.

Shavi dropped to his haunches to scrutinise the stains on the carpet. “The amount of blood is commensurate with the removal of a finger. There is a chance-“

“Don’t touch it!” Tom yelled as Veitch stretched out a trembling hand towards the finger. Veitch snatched his arm back as if he’d been burned.

Tom marched over and bent down to examine the finger at table height. “I think it’s a sign.” He removed his cracked glasses and said, “Which direction do you think it’s pointing?”

Shavi glanced out of the window. “The sun set over there,” he said with a chopping motion of his hand, “so I would say, maybe, south-east.”

Tom replaced his glasses and stood up. “Exactly south-east, I would guess. Towards Edinburgh.”

Church broke the long silence that followed Tom’s comment. “What does it mean?”

“Whoever did it is showing us the way. They want us to follow.” He stared out to the shrouded countryside that lay beyond the feeble lights of the town. “In all this there is the pathology of evil, of ritual. Somebody is trying to bend the power that is loose in the land towards darkness.”

“Calatin?” Church suggested. “Mollecht? Some other Fomor?”

Tom shook his head. “This is not their way. It is the first play in a new game.”

he night dragged on interminably. They sat in a state of near-paralysis, fearing the worst, afraid to discuss what had happened, unable to decide what they should do next. The finger remained on the small table, the blood rapidly congealing. Their gaze kept returning to it, as if its unchanging pointing were a Poe-esque accusation.