Authors: Caitlin Kittredge
He sighed and rubbed his forehead. “Too good and pure for words, aren’t you?”
“Talk,” Pete reminded him. Around them, the wraiths flitted, clustering over an old corner of the graveyard. Several of them converged on one grave, and Pete sighed as she saw
a flash of silver spirit energy and felt rather than heard a spectral scream rake over her mind. Another poor ghost, caught up in the feeding frenzy.
“This isn’t normal,” Donovan said. “You felt it in the village, how the Black stops flowing. All of this, with the wraiths and the creepy village and Hell, even the fog.” He swatted at a tendril of mist. “Do you know where we are?”
“Herefordshire,”
Pete said. “Village of Overton.”
Donovan nodded. “Too right. And just over the border in Wales is where a lot of the airy-fairy types think Camelot used to lie.”
“You are joking?” Pete said. “I mean, Camelot? That’s a story.” Morwenna’s idiotic story about the Merlin and the thousand-year cycle came back to her, but what were the odds that was anything except a load of crap, designed to make
Pete more willing to work with her?
“You may have heard another story,” Donovan said. “Of a lady in the lake who gave a mage unimaginable power, the power to live for a thousand years, to return when the end of the world was near.”
“Second verse, same as the first,” Pete said. “Have you got a theory about what’s going on
here,
at this moment, or do you want to spin me the same tale as Morwenna
Morgenstern did back at the Prometheus Club?”
“Herefordshire is riddled with holy wells,” Donovan said. “Pilgrims been coming since the lion-baiting days to drink from the water. Curative properties and all that.” He leaned forward, eyes bright with a fever light. Droplets of moisture hung from his skin, and he couldn’t keep his hands still. “But there’s another sort of lake that occurs, in the
fabric of the Black. I think you’ve felt it before, when you and my boy ran up against Abbadon. All that old boy wanted was Hell on earth, but the principle is the same—a tear, a void in the Black leading to another place.”
Pete thought of the white place, the bleeding sky, the feeling of endless nothing that was worse than any torture Belial and all his legions in Hell could dream up.
“That’s
your theory?” she said. “We’ve run into the magic porthole to nowhere?”
“I think we’ve run into what could give a mage the power to unite the Black, at least for a short time,” Donovan said. “Power so thick it’s corrupting everything in range. But that’s only my theory, and I can’t check it with the higher ups.”
“And why not?” Pete said. “Afraid they’ll think you’re as far around the bend as
I do?” She didn’t trust Donovan, but she couldn’t come up with a better explanation for the creeping wrongness that was spreading across the hills and through the people of Overton.
“No,” Donovan said, ducking his head sheepishly, not meeting Pete’s eyes. “I can’t check in because I can’t leave.”
Pete felt as if the air were touching her bare skin, all at once, all over her body. The deep sort
of cold she only felt when making contact with something from the Land of the Dead shot through her, deep down and straight to her core. “What do you mean, can’t?” she whispered.
“I mean I walk to where the motorway should be, and I find myself back here,” Donovan said. “I try to make a call, and my mobile battery goes dead. I’ve walked tens of miles away from this bloody village and I always
end up right back here. It’s the void, wherever the worms come from—it’s fucking with the Black, and once you’re in it you don’t get out.”
Pete felt panic rising on a tide of bile in her throat and swallowed hard to keep from screaming. “There’s got to be something you haven’t tried.”
“I’ve tried locator spells, scrying—hell, I even broke into the pub and tried to dial out collect. I’m stuck.
It’s all chaos and rude magic writhing around this place from the tear. Imagine what’ll happen if it spreads. It’ll infect the earth. Infect the spirit of anyone nearby. Allow all sorts of dark-dwelling monsters like the worms to run free.” Donovan rubbed a hand over his face, dislodging the mist. “It poisons everything, and it will just keep coming. Preston must have stumbled onto it, and that
idiot Crotherton couldn’t see that they weren’t dealing with a demon but with something like Purgatory itself, the way Dante understood it.”
“That’s a lot of shit and you know it.”
Pete and Donovan both whirled and gaped at Jack, standing unsteadily in the door of the tomb, supporting himself against the jamb on one side and a hand on Margaret’s shoulder on the other.
“Jack!” Pete went to him
and examined him, even though he tried to wave her off.
“Don’t fuss,” he said. “I’m fine.”
“You look like a pile of entrails shat out on a sidewalk,” Pete told him. “But I’m just glad you’re awake. Try to stay that way.”
“I hardly think I made up something that’s happening in front of your eyes for my own amusement, boy,” Donovan said. “I’m only telling you based on what I’ve seen.”
“Voids
of magic that grant you eternal life and power?” Jack grumbled. “Yeah, tell me another.”
“How long exactly were you eavesdropping?” Donovan demanded. Pete felt a smile twitch over her face.
“Long enough,” Jack said. “Just because you’re stuck doesn’t mean we have to hang around here.” He looked at Pete. “We did what Morgenstern wanted. Now we’re leaving. Aren’t we, Margaret?”
Margaret looked
between Pete and Jack with wide eyes, and Pete soothed her with a hand. “Don’t put her in the middle of your fight with Donovan, Jack.”
Jack’s jaw knotted up, and his hands twitched. “Donovan, is it? Haven’t you two gotten cozy.”
“Enough,” Pete said. “You know it’s not like that, so stop trying to pick a fight with me. You’re going to stay with Margaret, and I’m going to try to find a way to
get in touch with Morwenna.”
She grabbed Donovan’s arm and drew him close. “You need to say to Jack what you said to me. And don’t start anything while I’m gone.”
“Your wish is my command, my dear,” he purred, and Pete shoved him away before she could get any of Donovan’s slime on her.
“No,” Jack said, causing Pete to pause in mid-stride.
“What d’you mean, no?” she said.
“No, you’re not running
out there by yourself,” Jack said. He pointed at his father. “Go with her.”
Judging by his expression, Donovan was at least as surprised as Pete at his son’s pronouncement. “I don’t think she’ll have me, Jackie,” he said. “She’s only got eyes for you, and being the hero of the hour.”
“Fuck off,” Pete said. It wouldn’t be such a bad idea to have another body around. At least Donovan could keep
the villagers off her arse long enough to figure out how to get in touch with Morwenna. “You better keep up,” she told Donovan. “If you fall behind, that’s where you’re staying.”
“Mercenary and cold, just like I like my women,” Donovan said. “Lead the way then, Ice Princess. I’ll follow you anywhere.”
21.
Pete decided to skirt the village, staying to the side streets, and she walked in silence with Donovan until they reached the police call box she’d spotted on her way into Overton. It felt like months ago. Had it really been less than three days since she’d come to this place?
A dial tone buzzed encouragingly in her ear when she picked up, and she used her old code from the Met to bypass
the direct line and dial out. Whatever was fouling the lines in town had missed the rickety call box. Morwenna picked up before the phone had even completed one ring.
“I trust you’re calling with good news, Petunia.”
Pete cast a look at Donovan and forced a smile into her voice. “Would I be calling with bad, Morwenna?”
Donovan lunged forward at the mention of Morwenna’s name, but Pete knocked
him back with the force of her glare.
Trust me,
she mouthed, though at this moment she couldn’t care less what happened to Jack’s father. He was in bed with black magic, and he deserved what he got. Much as she resented calling in the cavalry, she wasn’t leaving Margaret and Jack to be consumed by the infection spreading through the village.
“That depends on if you’re going to tell me you found
Crotherton,” Morwenna said.
“Oh,” Pete said, gripping the phone at the memory of the Killigans’ basement. “I found him, all right. There’s much more, Morwenna—”
“And the Prospero Society’s agent?” Morwenna snapped. Pete sighed.
“Right next to me,” she said.
“Excellent. We’ll be there shortly,” Morwenna said.
“I don’t think you understand…” Pete started again, but Morwenna cut her off.
“You
can explain it all to me in person. Now go to the village square and wait for me with the Prospero Society’s agent. And Pete?”
Pete gave up on warning Morwenna. If she and the Prometheans wanted to rush in blind, that was their problem. “Yes, Morwenna?” she said with exaggerated politeness.
“He better be there,” she said. “If you tip him off, it’s your arse.”
Morwenna hung up, leaving the phone
buzzing once again in Pete’s ear. Donovan was staring at her, face red and hands quivering with rage.
“You,” he spat. “You treacherous little bitch. You dimed me out.”
Pete spread her hands. “How else exactly am I supposed to get her here, Donovan? Like it or not, the Prometheans are probably the only ones who can get us away from here. You two can duke it out all you like when she arrives.
It’s no skin off my nose either way.”
She pointed back down the road. “I need you to go get Jack and Margaret and meet me in the village square. You better hurry, too—if you’re not about when Morwenna shows up, I’d say it’s time we bought a cottage and settled down in Overton to enjoy the zombie apocalypse.”
“I did
not
agree to this,” he snarled. “I told you the Prometheans don’t care about
you one way or the other, but you didn’t want to listen.” He spread his hands. “I’ll get Jack to you, but then I’ve got to light out. You brought Morwenna down on us, you take your chances. I’m sorry—I didn’t want to, but you pushed me.”
“But you did,” Pete said, surprised at how calm she sounded, given how slagged off Donovan looked. “You didn’t want to abandon Jack, but you did. Didn’t want
to get him involved in this, but he is. Your son needs you and you’re running. You’re in this for yourself, Donovan. That’s obvious. So if you want to save your arse, stop with the indignation and do as I say. Morwenna is the only one strong enough to stop this spell.”
He stared at her, eyes burning, mouth working with too many curses to actually articulate. Then he stomped to the center of the
road and threw up his hands. “Fine! I’ll meet you back in the square. If you haven’t been chewed to bits by then.”
Without another word, Donovan turned and stormed off. Pete started to walk back to the village as well, but she caught the raven gliding across her vision like a flicking across the sun. As quickly as it came, it was gone, but Pete wrapped her arms around herself and jogged the rest
of the way, keeping her eye out for wayward villagers. Many lay on the pavement and in their gardens as bloated corpses, not moving. A few reached lamely for her as she jogged past, but they were sluggish in daylight, even the diffuse, gray light of the half-day that dawned on Overton.
The square was as deserted as when she’d first arrived in the village, and Pete sat on the edge of the St. Francis
statue, keeping the bronze monk’s feet at her back. She had a good view from the small hump of earth, and she watched white shapes wander to and fro in the fog.
No sign of the worms, for now, but at least two of them were still out there. The thought of touching them again, of seeing that place of nothing from which they came, made Pete want to scream.
She sat, perfectly still and quiet, counting
off the seconds in her head, and that worked for a few minutes, before her eyes started roaming again and her nerves started pinging. The pull of the void was stronger than it had been even this morning.
How long before it spread beyond Overton? How long before it reached Manchester, Leeds, Newcastle, London?
Movement stalled her wondering, and Pete was almost thankful for it. It wasn’t the
slow rolling gait of a spirit-poisoned villager, and it wasn’t the quick flicker of a raven. This was a deliberate gesture, and as a slim figure appeared in the door of the inn across the square, it grinned and beckoned to her.
Pete’s stomach plummeted. She’d know the trim suit, the dark hair, and the permanent sneer anywhere. Of all the fucking things in existence, this was the one bastard who
could make her day even worse.
Still, she got up and walked, because to ignore him would invite even worse consequences.
“Hello, Petunia,” Belial said when she was close enough. “Thought it was about time you and I had a heart-to-heart.”
22.
“Look at you,” Pete said, staying out of reach of Belial’s black nails and shark’s teeth. “Swanning about England, and nobody even had to summon you. You’ve come up in the world, Belial.”
“I don’t mean to brag,” he purred as the door of the inn shut behind Pete, “but I am a prince now.”
“Forgive me if I don’t go weak in the knees,” Pete said. The front room of the inn was like every
other sad pub in every other tiny village she’d ever seen—a few sticky tables, video poker, and dusty signs advertising lager on the walls. “I’ve got more pressing matters to deal with than you.”
Belial’s eyebrows went up. He could pass for a man, if you didn’t look too closely. Black hair, black eyes, pale skin, and a funeral suit. The thin man who held out his hand and offered you bargains
beyond your wildest dreams—all he wanted in exchange was everything.
But Pete had encountered him far too often to feel the swell of terror that should accompany confronting a Prince of Hell.
“You’re rather less pleasant than the last time we met,” he said. “I don’t know as I like it.”
“Then fuck off and leave me alone,” Pete said. “I don’t owe you anything this time. We’re square—we got rid
of Abbadon and you cleared my note. Mine and Jack’s. I believe the phrase ‘Never darken my doorway again’ might have been used.”