The God Hunter (2 page)

 

CHAPTER 3

THE SUMMONING

I
ran the leads back to the main door. Ideally, I'd have liked a place high up, with a view over the site. There was a gallery, but the stairs came out halfway down the body of the church, no other exit. I didn't trust it.
Always leave a get-­out
. Behind me, across the forecourt, I could hear the generator chugging in the van, the firm, familiar pulse reminding me that there was still a normal, routine world outside, where ­people still did normal, routine things. Sometimes, caught up in the job, I found it all too easy to forget that.

So I linked up the control box, set it on a table in the vestibule, pulled up a chair, and sat. My command post. I took a ­couple of deep breaths. Told Shailer to get out. There's always a degree of risk. I didn't like the guy, but I didn't want him hurt. This wasn't altruism. Just, I have a conscience, and when things go wrong that I can otherwise prevent, it tends to bother me. A bit of an impediment in life, perhaps, but never mind.

“Watch from the van,” I told him. “Don't come close.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever.”

Whatever
. It grated on me. If that's the level of the help, I thought, I'd rather be alone, thanks very much.

Mostly it's simple. Mostly you press the switch and wait. Maybe you'll see it, maybe not. Assuming that it knows you're there—­sometimes they do—­there's a chance you'll get some flack. But the currents are against it, and in theory you're protected. In theory, like I say.

I've known a few who weren't. Carelessness, bad luck, call it what you will. Hendrikson got burned near Tromso, Norway, at a site long noted for its black metal connections. Burned literally, from inside out—­they think it entered through his mouth and turned his lungs to ash. Teri Whitaker spent years in mental wards; a gifted op, but always a bit flaky, a bit out there. None of us would work with her. Or Wolsey. I'd trained with Wolsey. Smart, engaging, talented; at least until he'd started cutting chunks out of himself. And there were more. Too many more. But if you did it right, followed procedures, the likelihood was you'd be fine. Statistically, it came out safer than a long-­haul flight, a fact which I remembered every time I took a long-­haul flight.

Safer
. Not
safe
.

I pressed the switch. I checked the meters, little rows of lights, low down, like measuring the volume of a symphony from half a mile away. There's always a moment when you wonder if it's going to work, if maybe this one time, you read it wrong, there's nothing there. And suddenly, a spike. A single, rapid blip, then it was gone. Strange. Not strange enough to worry me, but still, enough to put me on my guard. I waited, looking for the next spike. But the lights weren't climbing, just twitching in the lower levels. There was a noise, a kind of rasping, sawing sound. It had been going on a while, I think, before I'd grown aware of it. The hairs along my forearms tickled, rising in the sharp, electric air. I ran my hand over the back of my neck. I checked the meters. Still down. I could feel the thing, feel it like a living force. Except the instruments weren't picking up.

I stood. I took a few steps. I could see the nearer cables, taped over and around the pews. The system had been sound. I'd checked it through. Then Shailer had checked it. Everything working, everything right, except the reading wasn't there. I gazed into the body of the building, wondering what to do.

This was the danger point. The first charge would have roused it. For all I knew, it was no longer just a dormant entity. The next few minutes would be crucial. The attack, if it came, would be blind, but no less lethal if it caught me full on.

I tried the meters once again. It was a pattern I had never seen before. The lights were bobbing up and down, almost to a rhythm, to a pulse. The outer rings were working. But the rings were meant to shuffle any local powers inwards, to the flask, moving through the levels, each ring hemming it in tighter, binding it and narrowing its choices. Closing it down, one step at a time, until the only option left would be the genie-­in-­the-­bottle, right at the heart. With no three wishes to get out again.

That wasn't happening.

There was a smell, the ozone smell you get at fairgrounds, mingling now with something older, sweatier and earthier. An iron smell. I peered into the gloom.

The light moved over the altar, as if a shadow passed across the place, and then passed back.

You get no training for a thing like this. There's no procedure to fall back on. You hear the stories—­ops' gossip, passed around in bars and late-­night drinking bouts, whispered to the new recruits like creepy campfire tales, sometimes with happy endings, sometimes not.

If I was going to act, I had to do it now. That's one thing I knew. Delay would make it stronger, and before long it would see me there and do something. Which I most definitely did not want.

Alternatively, I could walk away. Or run away. Just say,
It's not my job.
Let someone else live with the consequences, whatever they might be. I could do it; I could justify it, too. No question there.
Avoid unnecessary risks
. Company policy. Black and white, rules and regs, plain as day.

The fault would probably be simple. A botched connection, a glitch in the circuit, fixable in minutes, maybe less.

But I'd checked it. So had Shailer.

I got my bag. Some tools, some spare parts. I wouldn't have the time to do a full round, not before the whole place turned into an adjunct to the Nine Circles of Hell, but I could take a quick look. Maybe I'd get lucky. And I was not being heroic, not for a minute. It was still there in my mind to turn and run, and very, very soon. I'm all in favor of professional pride, but stupidity? No. Stupidity's not in the contract, definitely not.

I put the bag over my shoulder. Then, without making a real decision, I was there. I cut across the aisle. Hopped over a ­couple of pews, watching the wiring as I went, visually checking the connections. No time for proper diagnostics. The light changed overhead, flaring and then quickly darkening again. I ducked like somebody had swung at me. But there was no one there, nothing solid. Not yet.

I jumped the rail into a side chapel. Shailer had been here. I'd seen him. There was a junction box. The green light shone a steady glow, all leads plugged in tight.

And I moved out again.

It was getting hard to walk. The place was slowing down, and every step was costing me an effort now, as if the air had thickened up around me. It was like pushing through a warm, clear soup. I reached out, and my arm left light-­trails. I grew wings of light. It was hard to see all of a sudden. I had to concentrate, force myself to work out what was real and what was not. I came level with the altar, on the outer edge, and still I hadn't found out what was wrong. There was a section where the cable disappeared beneath the seating. I didn't even think about it till I'd passed by; it could have slipped and fallen under—­perhaps I'd even put it there myself.

Except.

Except it wasn't how I worked. It just wasn't my style.

I went back. There was a wind now. Newsletters and hymn sheets whirled around my head. I dropped down on my knees, reaching underneath the bench, feeling for the cable.

It wasn't linked.

I had one end of the connection in my hand. And the circuit broke, right there.

I groped around frantically after the other lead. I dove full length under the pews, squinting as the shadows swayed and shifted. My eyes were watering. I blinked, squinted. Then I had it. I reached out, grabbed the loose cable, pulled it towards me. The two pieces looked fine. Not broken, not damaged. They just weren't linked up, that was all. I crouched there, stupidly, for maybe three, four seconds, trying to grasp just what was wrong, as if it were some complex puzzle almost beyond solving, one I could never hope to understand. Then something crashed down next to me and knocked me sideways.

The pews were moving. Buffeted by an unholy force, they shuffled, rattled; the air was full of sound. An ancient wooden bench reared like a ship in a storm. I ducked aside, still clutching at the cables. A candlestick went flying through the air, twirling like a baton. And in the center of the church, someone—­something—­danced.

It was a shadow. A shadow marked out by a whirl of dust and papers. Ten or twelve feet tall, its upper parts were almost man-­like—­a great head craning up from heavy shoulders, arms that flexed and twisted—­but its hind legs were the hind legs of a beast. It strutted, foot to foot, stepping with a wild and joyous grace, which somehow in itself was terrifying: too smooth, too powerful, too utterly, insanely perfect.

The air was hot. Now each breath seemed to burn. Movement became near impossible. I felt stifled, trapped: a fly in amber.

The god leaned over and thrust his huge face close to mine.

Not human. Eyes, nose, mouth—­but not a human face. The nostrils flared, sniffing at me. They closed a moment, then opened, issuing a wisp of ghostly vapor. I could smell its breath, earthy and rotten; I gasped, inhaling some small portion of its essence, for at once my mind was full of—­not memories exactly, but a sense of centuries long past, the turn of day and night, year on year, the scent of ancient woods, the stink of methane and of charcoal smoke. The sweat of armies tramping through the land. The rustle of the corn in spring, the rattle of the wind . . .

I didn't even try to stand. But something pulled me upright, and it seemed my every fiber strained to rise, tingling as if caught in a magnetic storm. All around, the pews shook, raging now like tethered animals. Cables snaked into the air, dancing in a whirl of light. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think. The air rumbled and boomed. I held the cables in my hand. Pressed them together. Pushed the tab that slotted one into the other—­

I dropped. Smacked down on the tiled floor. Everything seemed suddenly to shrink. I felt myself just squeezing up inside. My eyes ached, my temples throbbed, a pressure burned through my sinuses, deep inside my skull, and—­

Boom!

Like thunder, ringing off the walls.

Then nothing. Silence.

When I looked up, the air was full of snowflakes. Hymn sheets, papers, drifting down like snow. A soft, warm light slid through the western windows, touching on the far wall. The hour was late. A warm spring evening in rural Hungary. The air smelled fresh. I stood up slowly. Tomorrow, I would hurt. But for now, I felt only relief.

The lights on the flask were blinking.

I went over, tripped the second seal, then disconnected the container. Everything was fine. Everything was good. Just the clearing up to do. The cables to coil up and put away. The pews to move back into place.

Flask in hand, I walked back to the doors. The sun perched red over the valley. I could see ducks on their way home to roost, an arrow in the pale blue dusk. I took a deep breath. Two deep breaths.

“Shailer!” I called. “You've got work to do!”

It was a long, long pause before he came out from behind the van.

 

CHAPTER 4

REFLECTED LIGHT

I
drove.

“You should have called. I didn't even
know
you had a problem in there—­I didn't know. How could I know?” He was trying to make a point of it. “I mean, like, if I'd known—­if I'd known, I'd, y'know, obviously, I'd—­”

“What?” I said.

“You know.”

“No. Actually, I don't. What is it you'd have done, exactly?”

“ . . . well . . . something, anyhow.
Some
thing!”

“You wouldn't have known what to do. Leave it at that.”

The roads were difficult at night. Sometimes wide and sometimes narrow; all unlit. And the local populace weren't what you'd call predictable. Apt to take it in their heads to move their cattle or their farm machinery at hours when most ­people are thinking about drink or bed or telly. I got stuck behind a combine harvester for nearly twenty minutes, and I daresay I was lucky that it wasn't longer. As it swerved into a field, the driver, wearing a Tyrolean hat, bowed low to me, as if to passing royalty.

I kept on driving.

Shailer said, “You went the wrong way.”

“No.”

“The sign said—­”

I kept on driving.

Trying to sound friendly, he said, “You know a shortcut?”

Budapest Ferihegy is the only airport I can think of named after a brewer. Apparently he owned the land. Still, it tells you something about Hungary, and why it's one of the last fun places left on Earth.

He said, “My flight's tomorrow.”

“Itinerary's changed. Or will have, once I talk to the desk.”

“My stuff's at the hotel.”

“I'll have it sent on.”

I thought he might have quarreled, played the outraged innocent. But I got him to the airport, and he stood there like a naughty schoolboy while I booked him on the next flight home.

I left him there.

We didn't even say good-­bye.

T
he Hollywood Hotel, Budapest, comes just a few blocks and a few floors short of a good view, but otherwise it's not so bad. It was nicely hushed when I got back. I took a shower, suddenly aware how tired I was. The water sluiced around me, steaming hot, and in its hissing seemed to whisper words I strained to understand, blurred sounds like the voices that you hear right on the edge of sleep; dream-­voices, talking in forgotten tongues . . .

I toweled off. It was a warm night, damp and muggy. The ceiling fan whirred in the bedroom. I got my razor, soaped my chin. I studied myself in the mirror, my lower face all lathered up like that. The eyes looked different, somehow: too dark, and too intense, their over-­heated gaze trying to thrust itself deep into mine, probing for some secret knowledge, some lost meaning of which I myself was unaware. I took a razor to my stubble. Then I rinsed, went to the bedroom for some clean clothes. A fresh shirt felt good. I slicked my hair back. I contemplated going out to find a restaurant but decided not, and ate at the hotel. First the plum soup, cold and lilac-­colored, almost like dessert, though not as sweet; then chicken, giant portions, crisp in fried egg batter, and a colossal salad. I could barely finish half of it. I drank a glass of white wine. Finished with a coffee and a shot of kevert. Across the room, a mirror ran the full length of the wall. I picked myself out among the other diners, studying my movements and gestures the way a man studies a pretty girl. How I raised my glass. How I tipped my head to one side, or leaned it on one hand, index finger up, the other fingers balled.

“Is good?” the waiter asked.

I hadn't heard him coming. I was losing it a bit by now. Too tired. I ordered more coffee—­strong, I told him—­and a bottle of kevert to take away with me. Then I paid, tipped him generously, and retired to my room.

It wasn't a big room. Double bed, chest of drawers, small desk, a table by the bedside with a phone, glasses and decanter. Armchair. A full-­length mirror on the wardrobe door. I sat down, poured myself a drink. A table lamp with an old-­fashioned tungsten bulb stood on the desk; Eastern Europe still wasn't especially green. I took the bulb out, removed the shade, screwed the bulb back in, and doused the main light. It gave the place a hard, unfiltered look; the shadows black, the paler shapes near drained of color. I set the lamp where I could reach it. Sipped my drink. I watched my image in the wardrobe door, sitting there, lifting its glass in time with mine. Someone was shouting in the street. I heard my heartbeat, loud and fast. My palms grew damp.

I took another sip.

Presently, the figure in the mirror set his glass down. He stood up, turning slowly left, then right, as if assessing things. One hand pulled vaguely on his shirt front, plucking at the fabric in a troubled, dream-­like way.

I, too, set down my glass. My chest was tight. I moved my hand, inching forward till it touched the lamp. He saw, and stared, trying to gauge my interest. I knew those eyes. I'd seen them in the mirror while I'd shaved. They held focus, and intent. His face creased up and seemed to fold back in upon itself, then sprang out like rubber.

He put his hand against the inside of the glass. He bit his lip. Then, with slow determination, he began to push.

Nothing happened. He turned his wrist, changing the angle, tried again. All at once, three small nubs seemed to float across the surface of the mirror, joined quickly by a fourth, a fifth.

His hand was in the room with me.

It looked so much like my hand—­the same knobbed wrist jutting from the shirt cuff, long, slim fingers flexing in the warm night air . . . Out here.
Here
. Out in the real world.

He pressed his face against the glass, flattening his nose and cheek. There was a brief resistance, then something gave. The mirror seemed to flow around him, slicking from his skin like mercury.

He touched the frame, steadying himself. He raised his foot—­the right foot, just as I'd have done—­and stepped into the room.

I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think. I pushed myself back in the chair, one hand clutching at the lampstand.

He sniffed. He sucked the air, tasting, measuring, evaluating everything.

He made a half-­turn to the door.

And I was up. I swung the lamp. The shadows whirled. I hit him once across the forehead with the base, reversed it, smashed the bulb down on his skull.

The room went white. I screwed my eyes against the light, and it blazed under the lids, burning, scarlet. The lamp was stuck somehow, embedded in the air. I pulled at it. I tried to twist it free and all I did was twist myself around it. The thing bucked, shook. A jolt of power shot up my arm. I yelled out. There came a crack like gunfire and I hurtled backwards, smashed into the wall, and slumped down, dazed.

The room was dark. Quiet, dark . . . and cold.

The traffic noise came first. Car engines, a million miles away. My arm flopped uselessly. My fingers wouldn't close. I had to force myself to think, to move. A church bell rang, far across the city. There were footsteps in the corridor. Voices outside.

The air grew warm again. I pushed myself onto my feet. I found my pocket torch, shone it about. The lampstand lay upon the floor. The mirror on the wardrobe was undamaged, and I paused a moment, staring at my own reflection, eerily underlit, but
me
this time, no question: me. I put a hand up to my brow. My image did the same. I pinched my cheek, I rubbed my nose. Stuck out my tongue . . .

I checked the bathroom. Checked the wardrobe. Lightbulb glass crunched underfoot. I looked out into the corridor. An oldish man in hotel livery came tottering up, out of the dark, filled with reassurances: “Is no problem, yes? No problem.”

“No problem,” I agreed. I went back to my room, sat on the bed, and poured myself a drink. I couldn't keep my hand steady. The liquid dribbled down my chin, spotting my chest in small, cold drops.

I'd blown out every light in the hotel.

Not bad for one night's work.