Mammon (30 page)

AT THE REAR
of the mansion, in a warmly lit, circular room bordered by golden drapes and large bay windows, Halphas watched the scene develop. Mammon was standing directly behind Malcolm, his hand clamped on the boy's head. Malcolm was standing, but not of his own volition. Like a great puppetmaster, Mammon was keeping the boy upright – while also devoting his energy to the small rift that had emerged in front of the pair.

It had materialised strangely, its clouds seeping into the atmosphere as if by force.

Now, it began its rapid growth.

Mammon's fingers dug harder; frost oozing from his flesh as he strained, teeth clenched, dark eyes locked on the expanding rift.

Halphas peered at the three apprentices standing nearby. To the youngsters, it must have seemed that Malcolm was in a deep, painless trance.

But Halphas knew better.

Hours before, his Master had finally realised there was only one way to make Malcolm open a Dark Rift. Something that Halphas had known the day he'd met the boy.

Malcolm would have to walk through his own nightmare. To live inside the same dream he'd woken from, sweating, as the rift shuddered above his hospital bed.

And so Mammon had entered his mind and dragged him into the dark place where his fears lived; flinging him into the pit where his terror tore at him, trapping him in its tentacles, rolling him down into the well of his subconscious; a place from which he would never return.

And now, a Dark Rift was forming.

Halphas sank into a chair, groaning as his pelvis creaked. His gaze flickered to the door and his senses tingled. Joe was out there, in the darkness. No doubt he'd brought an army with him. A warm, secret satisfaction flooded Halphas as he stared at his master's back. Mammon had never known – Halphas could detect where each and every Ferryman was at any moment. Down to the square inch. He didn't need to tune in, or search for a Sign. The Signs came to him. Of course, that wasn't something Halphas was about to reveal. Too big a trump card.

The rift grew some more, and Halphas pictured the Shadows: pressing, pushing against the rift's inner walls, bursting to come through and claim their hosts, who were kneeling in neat rows along the floor. Halphas's eyes creased with worry as he watched the rift grow. But of course, if Joe didn't kill his master tonight, that was a card Halphas was very willing to play.

* * *

ANDRAS GLANCED AT
the CCTV monitor. He gasped at the swarm of bikes that were making their way around the insensible crowd. ‘Master! We have trouble outside!'

‘What?' Mammon glared at him. ‘Well, see to it, Andras!' With gritted teeth, he turned back and kept giving energy to the rift.

The cloud expanded.

Andras closed his eyes and began to join with the hosts downstairs.
Fight!
Kill them all!
The demons jolted – yanked out of Grace's trance and turned on the intruders. They dropped their champagne glasses and tore off their fine clothes as they raged towards the bikes.

They pounced on the mercenaries. Supernatural strength oozed through well-manicured fingers, breaking necks, squeezing throats until they burst. Those who had the power to move objects sent a combined wave of telekinetic energy across, crashing into several of the bikes and sending them into a violent roll.

‘Fire!' Ivan shouted.

Grace raised her shotgun and pulled the trigger. All around her, a tide of bullets hit the hosts. Some of them fell.

‘Wait! Get back!' Joe roared. He shot up his arms – the air exploded into a giant ball of cloud, spewing shards of lightning and sending a thunderous boom into the air. Consuming the demons in a frantic, turbulent death.

Joe dropped his arms. The disturbed earth settled into a shallow crater. Joe gave a delirious grin. ‘Cookie cutter.'

For a few seconds, the entire battalion stared at the Ferryman in silent awe.

Joe slumped. He rubbed his forehead. ‘Whoa. That was intense.'

‘Conserve your energy, Joe!' Ivan pushed the bike towards the building. As they rode past the hedgerows, two guards – both demons – stepped out of the greenery, swiping their arms across the bikes. Ivan swerved; Grace shot a look back just as Sarah blasted the pair to kingdom come.

They rode on towards the left-hand side of the mansion, where a giant garage was dwarfed by an airplane hangar, next to which a dark strip of tarmac ran from the lawns all the way to the edge of the river.

Another demon guard sprang out from behind a statue, his cold hand slamming against Grace's throat. She soared backwards, hitting the pavement with an agonised gasp as sharp pain dashed up her spine. In the distance, she saw the bike skid to a stop.

The demon seized her around the neck, and she was dragged off her feet. Her hands flew to her neck, but too late – his fingers had begun their death squeeze.

Then, his Shadow dissolved into nothingness. The demon lurched backwards, hands searching the back of his head for the neurotoxins that Ivan had just fired into him. Powerless, he staggered around.

Grace slumped to the ground, leaning on the statue's column. She watched in terrified fascination as Ivan pulled the demon towards him and plunged a knife into the side of its neck. Blood erupted from the wound. Ivan sank the knife into the guard's abdomen and then drew the blade up, rupturing the vital organs and slicing him open.

The demon fell in a puddle of blood, flesh and entrails.

With weak legs, Grace dragged herself up, using the column to help her. She stared at Ivan's face as he wiped his knife on the demon's shirt and put it back into its sheath.

‘You okay?' His eyes were hard. Savage, even.

Trembling, she nodded. ‘Ivan the Terrible,' she whispered.

But when he took her hand and helped her to her feet, his grasp was soothing, his voice gentle. ‘Come on.'

The squads began to regroup at the side of the mansion, near the hangar. Grace settled on the ground, next to Sarah. For a time, they watched the grounds in vigilant silence. Mercenaries shot regular looks upwards, but no more guards appeared on the balcony.

Joe nodded to the airstrip. ‘Bet he's planning a getaway straight after.'

‘Good point, Joe,' said Ivan. ‘Adams, go into that hangar and put a banana in the tailpipe.'

Grinning, the mercenary ran off, explosive in his hand.

Ivan watched as Evans, one of the squad leaders, approached with a grim expression.

‘All accounted for?'

‘We've had some casualties,' said Evans.

Ivan nodded, his eyes grim.

Grace looked up at him. ‘We should be careful when we go inside. Someone in there interfered with our telepathy, big time.'

‘If only we could get in there and have a sneaky look.' Bemused, Ivan scratched his chin.

‘I could.'

Ivan's gaze fell on Grace. ‘How?'

‘You know . . . what I said at the meeting.'

‘Not a good idea. We may need to move suddenly. Anyway, you're unpractised at that kind of thing.'

‘But we don't really know what's in there, do we?'

Ivan stared at her. ‘That's true,' he admitted.

‘I might not even be able to do it. But it's worth a try. Nobody will know I'm there, and I can find out what we're really up against.'

Ivan knelt in front of her. ‘Are you sure?'

With a deep breath, she nodded.

‘All right. But don't waste time in there, Grace. In and out.'

A hush fell as she sat back, leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. ‘I haven't practised very much.'

Ivan's voice was close. ‘Just try. If you can't do it, we'll go in anyway.'

Grace focused – imagining the white room. She always visualised this room when she was trying to go to sleep, using it as a springboard into a calm, peaceful dream after a harrowing day of training. The white walls appeared more quickly this time.

She imagined sitting inside the room, crossing her legs on a feathery floor.

Minutes passed, and she opened her eyes. ‘I need something to trigger it. Last time, it was tasering.'

A mercenary, overly eager, stepped forward and took aim at Grace.

‘No!' Ivan shoved him away. ‘Sanderson. Can you help?'

Grace looked at her friend. ‘The psi-attack, Sarah. Do it to me.'

Sarah nodded. ‘If you're sure.'

Grace closed her eyes again; Sarah focused on her forehead.

Something was battering at one of the white walls. It trembled, vibrating like the ground when an earthquake hit. Grace's fingernails began to dig into the ground. Heat spread through her forehead. It stung, as though a scar was being slowly burned into her skull. She clenched her teeth, struggled to endure it, and then the white walls were trembling, shaking.

They exploded into pieces and fell away into the blackness.

She was out.

She turned her consciousness towards the mansion. Straight through the solid front doors – doing this freaked her out just as much as that first, horrible time – and she tried to close her eyes.

Can't. Not in body, stupid.

The joke was a tactic to remain calm, to avoid the desperate, disconnected feeling that being out of her body brought on.

Into a large entrance hall. Above, a giant dome with gold patterns lent an elegant light to the twin staircases that graced the back wall, their marble steps swathed in red velvet. Giant terracotta pots lined the walls, their innards bursting with white lilies.

A quick count put the number of hosts in here at one hundred. The light sparkled off the multiple chandeliers – somehow, it seemed brighter than it would if she were in her body, looking through her eyes. The women's dresses shimmered like peacock feathers – a vibrant blend of red, gold and blue – while the men's white collars were luminescent.

They milled around an immense statue of a golden calf, nearly as tall as the landing above the staircases that wound their way along the circular walls. On the right-hand wall, a massive portrait of Mammon.Yuck
.

Up the stairs and towards the rear room of the mansion. That guy – Anthony, or whatever – stood at the top of the staircase, staring down at the gaggle of hosts. She looked into his eyes and remembered the calming sensation she'd felt when he looked at her.

He was the one controlling the hosts. Messing with their telepathy.

She soared past Andras and through the final door. There was a strange, squelchy sensation and she realised she'd just passed through a throng of human guards, stationed at the exit. Now she knew the difference – there was a cool, neutral feeling when passing through wood.

It was a circular room – an elegant ballroom.

Malcolm was standing on a dais, three steps higher than the crowd; Mammon directly behind him. The high demon's energies seemed to be directed at the rift but also at keeping the boy entranced. Grace looked into Malcolm's face. Vacant eyes sat deep in his skull; she sensed all his energy had been squeezed out by Mammon and dumped into the rift.

Malcolm was in a standing coma.

Malcolm wasn't there anymore.

She looked at the rows of hosts, and outside, back in the safe gloom of the night, her body reacted – her stomach raging with nausea. Top-level ghoulies. They kneeled in rows on the parquetry floor, arms behind their backs, heads bowed. All men. Each had his own Shadow – of course – which pulsated with energy, striving to touch the essence of the High One himself.

Grace glanced around; a rough count estimated fifty of them. Plus Mammon, Malcolm, and two of the ‘mercenaries': another guy and that girl whom Joe had liked.

‘Behold!' Mammon shouted. ‘The Dark Rift!'

Grace was spellbound. The Rift's tumbling whirlwind, its thunderclouds in turmoil were drawing all physical matter in. She watched the curtains pull and strain against their fixings.

A doorway into Hell.

Dark shapes – Shadows – began to emerge from the Rift's mouth and spew out into the air. Each of them bore a unique, bestial shape. Each moved with the urgency of a beast mid-hunt – shadowy limbs chasing down prey. The energy field reversed, and the curtains fell back into place as the dark forces flooded the room.

MAMMON WATCHED GLEEFULLY
as his Shadows spilled out of the Dark Rift. ‘That's it, my generals! Assume your places!'

It was sickening – Grace watched the first Shadow home in on its chosen host and then loom above the back of his head for a few seconds, forming a tornado-like shape, the tail a fine point like a bee's stinger, poised to enter. The Shadow pushed inwards, its dark energy rippling behind the skin, invading face, neck and torso – bringing gasps of pain from the host.

The gasping stopped. Grace watched the host calmly stand up and pull a cigar from his pocket. He lit it, took a puff and smiled at Mammon. ‘Good to be back.'

Mammon smiled. ‘Good to have you here, Bathin.'

There was no more demonic gloom around the body; no sign that this was an Earthborn demon. This Shadow, this Hellborn thing seemed to have obliterated the consciousness of the host.

Bathin looked at Haures. ‘Mammon, I see you're keeping the same calibre of company as always.' His eyes lingered on her cleavage. ‘Perhaps she can provide me with my first sample . . . of many.'

Haures scowled. She stepped towards Bathin and shapeshifted into his image: a fifty-something man – pale, sweaty and balding. ‘I don't know if you'll like what you see.'

Grace backed out as quickly as she could – through the mountain of human flesh at the door, the cold, flat mass of the wood – and fled back to the dark corner of the house, sinking into her body as quickly as she could.

Her eyes fluttered open. She sat forward and tried to jump up.

‘Steady!' Ivan was crouching in front of her. He grabbed her by the arms. ‘Just go slow now.'

‘The Rift is open!'

‘Then we don't have much time.' Ivan nodded at the other squad leaders. ‘Be ready to move.'

Grace looked over at Joe, who was sitting nearby. ‘It's mammoth! Out of control. Like the one you opened that night, on my birthday – but worse.'

Ivan glanced at the mansion. ‘So, how many are there?'

‘The entrance hall is full of hosts. And about fifty upstairs. And they're already coming through.'

‘What, through the Rift? What did they look like?'

‘Shadows. Just Shadows. And when they possess a body, the Shadow disappears completely. You just can't tell they're demons.' Her eyes darted to Joe.

‘That girl is there as well.'

‘Haures,' he said.

‘There's another guy there, from the table that night.'

‘Andras?' said Joe.

‘I don't remember their names.'

‘You know – the one who gave you the drinks that night, at the festival.'

‘No, he's out on the balcony, controlling the hosts. Another guy. I don't know what he can do.'

‘Okay, then.' Ivan stood up. ‘We crack the door and go in firing.'

* * *

ANDRAS PEERED OVER
the balcony, sweeping his gaze over the hosts assembled in the entrance hall. ‘Get ready to attack,' he said. ‘Your futures are at stake here, and you will lose your chance at power if you let these mercenaries win.'

But it was quiet. For fifteen minutes – nothing. No point in sending a patrol outside just so they could get chewed up by the Ferryman's rift. Andras shuddered at the thought. He turned and slipped back into the circular room, where Mammon's Shadows were still floating about their hosts' heads.

Mammon shot him a demanding look.

‘The hosts downstairs are ready,' Andras said, with a slight nod of his head. ‘If you hurry, your next wave of troops can take their bodies and win the fight far more easily.'

‘There's a protocol to follow here, Andras. These are my generals.' Mammon waved to the Shadows that were flying out of the Rift. ‘They take the more important hosts, then we move down to the lesser-ranking folk downstairs. We will make it in time. The mercenaries are delaying. I suspect they may retreat. At the very least, they seem to be waiting for something. Courage, most likely.' With a smirk, he looked back at the rift.

For the first time in his apprenticeship, Andras felt angry at his master. ‘If we had our mind-reader, we'd know why,' he muttered.

The front door exploded, sending ripples of shockwaves through the walls. Andras burst out of the circular room and back onto the balcony. He drew in a sharp breath as a group of mercenaries flooded through the front entrance. Once again his hosts were acting like sheep, and the mercenaries were slicing through them.

For the first time, he saw why. That girl! She was the cause.

‘Damn it!' He swept a powerful telepathic wave over the remaining hosts. It was as though he'd shoved a battery up their arses. They retaliated, throwing themselves against their attackers. The fighting began to move up the stairs. The mercenaries had produced riot shields and were deflecting the attacks neatly.

That bitch – Joe's sister – was standing in the doorway, eyes entranced – obviously sending out a telepathic wave, overriding Andras's power; the hosts became docile, sheep to the slaughter.

‘I should have killed her that night. Zagan! Get out here!'

Haures tried to run, but Mammon grabbed her arm. Amidst the multiple Shadows that were now pouring out of the Rift, he looked more frightening than ever. She froze.

‘You stay right here,' he said. ‘You owe me, remember?'

Zagan jogged over next to Andras. He looked down at the scene. ‘What the hell went wrong?'

‘We've lost them!' Andras hissed. ‘The girl, Grace! She's too strong!' He watched as the last of the hosts was impaled by a harpoon.

Zagan gave Andras an impassive look. ‘Not good for you, huh?'

Andras grabbed Zagan by his jacket, spitting in his face. ‘Throw something at them!' He turned and ran through a side door, which led to a staircase. It would take him down to the garage, to freedom.

Zagan watched him leave and then turned with a smile. He slammed his hand through the air; the giant statue swayed and crashed to the floor, bouncing spear-sized splinters of marble through the air. The last living host was stumbling about, harpoon wedged in his chest. A marble splinter shot into his skull, killing him.

The mercenary who'd fired the harpoon laughed.

Zagan twisted his hand and lashed it forward. A large chunk of marble smashed into the mercenary's face.

The demon lifted more lumps and began throwing them around the room. There was nowhere to run – hunks of marble crashed down on the floor right below the staircase, even behind it, where a row of mercenaries were hiding.

Ivan lifted his shotgun and fired, sending a harpoon straight at Zagan's heart. The demon deflected the shot with ease, sending the harpoon spiralling down to the ground.

‘Okay then,' Ivan snarled, flicking to live rounds. ‘Cop this!'

Bullets rained through the air but then swept upwards, met by a tidal wave of telekinetic energy. They soared to the ceiling, losing energy as they climbed, then they bounced off the plaster, rattling to the floor like pins.

Ivan lowered his gun. ‘Impressive,' he admitted.

Zagan smiled. He picked up another boulder.

‘Take cover!' Ivan grabbed Grace, both moving out of the way as another giant wedge of marble crashed on to the tiles.

They dodged out the front door; Joe followed.

‘Now we're outside! This is no good.' Grace looked at Joe. ‘When I tell you, in here . . .' she pointed to her head. ‘Open a small rift right underneath, where the rubble is.'

She shot a look back at Ivan. ‘I'll mask my way upstairs, until I'm right behind him. Otherwise, he'll crush us all.'

‘That's risky,' Ivan said.

‘It's the only way. He's going to keep throwing things at us. And the Dark Rift is still open!'

Ivan nodded. ‘All right.'

‘He won't know I'm coming. Just get ready, Joe.'

Zagan swooped his arms through the air and clapped his hands together, then he burst them apart at speed. Below, a pile of rubble lifted and slammed out in various directions, taking chunks out of the wall. Grace climbed the stairs, keeping a steady level of concentration.

So far, so good. She crept up to the top of the stairs, her steps silent on the velvet. But that wasn't going to be enough. She doubled her focus. If Zagan turned around, all he would see was an empty staircase.

He paused for a second. Grace's heart nearly stopped. But he just hung his arms over the balcony, grinning. ‘Come out, come out! I know you're there, little telepath! Or did you run away?' He feigned a pout.

Grace stared at his back. ‘I'm right here, you jackass.'

Now, Joe!

Grace planted her foot in Zagan's back. For good measure, she hit him with a telepathic assault. He gasped at the sudden, hot pain in his skull. Fingers grappling at his head, he tripped and stumbled into the railing, then fell over the edge. Desperate to regain control, he somersaulted towards the floor – straight into Joe's rift. Grace watched him disappear inside. Joe paused, cocked his ear. ‘Listen!'

They all stood in silence, listening as the Reavers came and ripped the demon's body to pieces.

‘That still amazes me,' said Joe, shaking his head.

The mercenaries peeled away from the walls, running towards Joe, smacking his back with congratulatory slaps.

Ivan's voice cut into the clamour. ‘It's not over yet! Up we go!' He took the stairs two at a time and then caught Grace around the waist. ‘Well done.'

He moved towards the door.

‘We can't just go in there,' Grace said. ‘Mammon will destroy us.' She looked at Ivan. ‘Let me check it out again. I can reach Malcolm there.'

Disapproving murmurs abounded. ‘We're so close,' said Joe. ‘We can just go in, guns blazing.'

‘Come on!' Grace shot him a disbelieving look. ‘Any minute now, those things that have come through the Dark Rift are going to come through
that
wall and start looking for bodies to take! We need to close the Rift!'

‘We can take the room.'

‘The demons in there are different, Ivan. We don't know what they're capable of.'

‘Okay. Sit down.' He crouched next to her. ‘Give her some cover.' An entire squad of mercenaries took their places in a defensive circle around Grace.

Sarah poked her head through. ‘Do you need me again?'

‘I'm going to try to do it myself.'

Darkness first, then she pictured the catalyst that seemed to come first: the white walls. She didn't have time for this. Grace blasted through the walls.

Malcolm
.

Grace floated through the doors, past the rows of hosts, some still kneeling in wait, others fully possessed and gazing into mirrors, admiring their new vessels. Calmly, she headed over to hover next to Malcolm.

But how to reach him? She saw Mammon – thankfully, unaware of her presence – and his fingers pressed into Malcolm's head in a vicious lock. Then, Grace knew it.

She had to become part of the nightmare.

She pressed her hand towards Malcolm's face and felt herself begin to fall. Tumbling through a dark, narrow space. It was dark, but then – abruptly, she was standing.

The first thing she noticed: her feet, grey and cold. Her jeans bunched up around her knees, her chest shaking with cold under a sheer t-shirt. But there was a sun – she could just see its outline in the whitewashed sky. She stared; her eyes didn't hurt. The sun only gave off a grey, cool light.

There was no warmth to be found. The air seemed thin and she could only draw shallow lungfuls. No wind. Trapped inside an airtight container.

Her feet were carrying her across hard sand. A spike of pain hit her left foot. She lifted it to find a broken seashell sticking into her flesh. Pulling it free, Grace watched as dark grey blood oozed from the wound.

To her left, peeling flagpoles with torn, wrinkled flags slumped at half-mast. Behind, faded funhouse buildings sat, their colours eaten by salt. At the northern end of the beach sat a hulking pier that looked ready to fall down. Its iron supports were flimsy, like matchsticks. Closer, a smaller metallic shape jutted strangely from the sand: a ferris wheel, crashed to the ground. A weak tide dribbled over its rusty railings.

No people anywhere. No seagulls. A smell in the air – smoke from distant fires. The water was riddled with rotting seaweed; it gave off the smell of a rancid pool, instead of the fresh, salty scent of a healthy sea.

Malcolm was in front of her, kneeling – barely leaving an imprint on the unforgiving sand. Grace descended to her knees, her hands flat on the beach.

Malcolm?

He didn't look at her.

Do you understand what's happening?

He drew shapes in the sand with a small, white tree branch. His eyes seemed to register that she was there. His whole body tensed.

Why are you here, Malcolm?

Can't get out.
His voice tightened with terror – he twisted up his face and trembled. Tried to shake off the fear.