The Thirteen Hallows (12 page)

They had spotted her the moment they stepped onto the platform. She’d been skulking in the shadows, head bent, arms wrapped protectively around a bulging shopping bag, hugging it close to her chest.

Next Train Two Minutes.

“Get Skinner,” Larry McFeely snapped. He brushed strands of his long hair out of his eyes and eased his glassy-eyed companion toward the stairs. “Get Skinner. Tell him we’ve found the girl.” He saw the girl duck into the shadows and wondered if they’d been seen. Larry chewed on his thumbnail, trying to formulate a plan, regretting the dope he’d smoked earlier. It had mellowed him out, sure, but right now he simply couldn’t think straight. Should he tackle Miller now and maybe cause a scene or wait until Skinner arrived? But if he did that, the skinhead would probably claim all the credit for himself.

McFeely was still dithering when the train arrived, and he immediately guessed that the girl was going to hang back in the shadows and then dart aboard at the last moment. There was still no sign of Skinner: Where the fuck had he got to?

Train Now Arriving…

McFeely darted onto the train and then hovered in the doorway, watching intently for Miller to make her move.

Stand Clear of the Doors.

He’d been just about to step off the train when the woman appeared out of the shadows, moving fast, and jumped aboard. As the doors hissed shut and the train lurched off, Larry had turned to see Skinner and the others come running into the station. Larry grinned at their expressions, but the smile faded when he realized that he didn’t know where the train was going…and when he dug into his pockets, he discovered he had exactly one pound and fifty pence on him, hardly enough for a phone call and definitely not enough to get back to his flat. He was now trapped on the train with Miller. Straightening, he looked down the train and a slow smile curled his fleshy lips as an idea formed in his befuddled brain. He was alone on the train with Miller…which meant that she was his and the psycho skinhead couldn’t attempt to steal his reward.

Pushing his way through the crowd toward the door that connected the carriages, he wondered how much Elliot would pay for the return of the girl.

Later, shocked eyewitnesses would describe the incident in almost identical terms.

Martha Hill, who was on her way back into London after a visit with her grandchildren, reported that a blond-haired young man had come through the adjoining cabin doors and approached the wild-haired, dirty-looking young woman who was sitting hunched over, arms wrapped tightly around her chest. The two young people seemed to know each other. Martha Hill had gotten the impression that the blond had called the young woman by name: Sarah. She saw them speaking briefly together.

Jonas Gottlieb was coming off a thirty-six-hour shift and was dozing in his seat when he heard the sliding doors between the compartments open and a young man with long, dirty blond hair stepped through. He’d moved unsteadily through the compartment, even though the train ride was smooth, and Gottlieb guessed that the man was either drunk or stoned. He’d stopped before a young woman, who’d stared at him with red-rimmed, sunken eyes. Jonas Gottlieb dismissed them both as junkies. He had heard the blond-haired youth call the girl’s name and watched while they chatted together.

SARAH HAD
dozed off. Her brief rest was interrupted by vivid dreams, violent nightmares in which she’d been fighting horrific creatures with a shining sword….

“Miller…”

The sound of her name brought her instantly awake, and she looked up at the skinny, blond-haired man with the darting wild eyes. He licked his cracked and scabbed lips and smiled, revealing yellowed teeth.

“Hello, Sarah,” he said simply. He turned his hand, displaying the surgical scalpel held flat along the palm. “Mind if we have a quick chat?” he whispered as he sat next to her. “Move and I’ll take your eye out.” He tilted the knife, allowing it to throw a sliver of metallic light onto Sarah’s face. “You won’t need your eyes where I’m taking you.”

“Leave me alone, please leave me alone,” Sarah whispered. Her heart was beating so fast, she could feel her ribs trembling.

“We’re getting off at the next stop, and you’re going to come along nice and quiet like a good little girl. Now give me the bag—real slow.”

Sarah didn’t move.

“You deaf?” The junkie grinned. “You know, the granny was stubborn…and you saw what we did to her, didn’t you?” He bit back a giggle. “Only you’re not a bad-looking bird; we might be able to have a bit of fun with you first. Now, give me the fucking bag.”

Abruptly, the lump of metal was a solid weight in her lap. Sarah almost imagined she could feel it throb against her belly. A chill seeped through her, a numbing sensation that spread up into her chest, tightened her lungs, and set her heart racing. She reached into the bag, and her hand closed around the rusted pommel, fingers sliding naturally into the ancient well-worn grooves.

“No, I won’t,” she whispered.

“Oh yes, you will,” he hissed.

IN A
sworn statement, Martha Hill claimed that the girl had pulled what looked like a hammer from a shopping bag on her lap and struck the blond-haired youth beside her.

Jonas Gottlieb had seen an iron bar, possibly a crowbar.

THE BROKEN
Sword came out of the bag in a smooth movement and struck the junkie on the temple. The snap of bone was clearly audible above the clatter of the train. Heat raced the length of Sarah’s body, and she felt a sudden surge of strength and red rage. A roaring wind filled her head, fragments of whispered words barely audible.

The youth staggered to his feet, swaying, eyes rolling back in his head, mouth opening and closing spasmodically, though no sound came out. Sarah jumped to her feet, braced herself, and hit him again, catching him low on the face, shattering his left cheekbone, the force of the blow fracturing his skull. A long ribbon of bright blood spurted, dappling the window and ceiling. Although he was almost unconscious on his feet, animal instinct sent the young man staggering back, blindly waving the scalpel in front of him. Sarah followed, the blood-smeared Broken Sword gripped so tightly that her knuckles hurt, rusted metal biting into her hand. She knew what she had to do.

He was turning and falling when the final blow caught him on the back of the neck at the base of his skull, snapping his spine, sending him headfirst into the window. With one last thrust, Sarah brought the sword down on Larry McFeely.

And decapitated him.

HORRIFIED WITNESSES
then described how the young woman had calmly pulled the emergency cord, bringing the train to a screeching halt. She had used the manual door levers to open the doors and jump down onto the track. The witnesses estimated that from the moment the blond-haired youth had sat beside the girl and spoken to her to the time she’d leapt off the train was probably less than two minutes.

THE ROARING
voices stilled, then stopped, leaving only the silence and the realization: She had killed him.

Sarah licked dry lips, tasting the metallic copper of blood. She’d bitten down hard on them, breaking the skin. She had killed the man without compunction. And what troubled her more than anything else was that she didn’t feel more upset. Killing him, she realized, had been the right thing to do.

As she raced down the line, gravel crunching underfoot, Sarah shoved the Broken Sword back into the bag. She didn’t notice that although she herself was spattered with crimson, there was no blood on the metal.

B
lood.

Fresh and salt, warm and meat. It had been a long time since it had tasted blood. And the blood is life.

Memories stirred….

Memories of the time when the sorcerer-smiths, following a thousand-year-old tradition, had driven the inanimate lump of gleaming metal into the bodies of a score of slaves. And at the moment of their deaths, in that instant of excruciating pain, there had sprung the spark of consciousness.

It had developed awareness.

Consciousness returned….

The sorcerer-smiths thought they were imbuing the artifact with life; however, they were mistaken. They were merely opening a portal. The first blood sacrifice had sent ripples out into the Otherworld, calling, calling, calling…and the invitation was accepted. A presence as old as the universe slipped into the newly crafted object, a presence that hungered. In the time that followed, it had feasted off flesh and blood and souls aplenty. This was a time of Chaos when men ruled by the sword, when justice was bought on the edge of a blade. The consciousness that inhabited the length of blade rejoiced as it fed, and the wielder of the weapon experienced a tiny fragment of that alien joy. And it was addictive.

Centuries passed, and then everything changed. The presence in the sword found itself fettered, bound by something far stronger than its own will.

It was still used as an instrument of death, it still feasted off flesh and souls. Yet it took little sustenance from the killings; that energy was directed elsewhere. Now, it drank the souls of men and women of learning and intelligence; it supped off those who worshipped strange gods in dark lands. Those who wielded the weapon had changed, too: Primitive, gnarled hands had given way to leather and then mail gloves, and the iron gauntlets—cold iron—shielded it from the ecstasy of blood.

And then it had been broken.

THE TWO
men fighting in the churned field considered themselves knights on the opposite side of an ancient battle. They were fighting for causes that they themselves did not truly believe in. They fought because they were expected to fight and because they knew no other trade.

Nor did they know that they were fighting with weapons that were claimed by entities older than the race of mankind. While the men hacked and hewed, the metal blades sparking and blunting, another battle, bloodless but far more savage, was being enacted in the place known to humankind as the Otherworld.

And because one sword had been fed with innocent blood—sweet and clean—and the heady elixir of virgins, because the wielder was a despoiler of women, who took pleasure in rape and butchery, he was victorious. Battering his opponent to his knees, his demon-blessed weapon had hewn through the other weapon, shattering it into two pieces.

It had lost consciousness then, allowed itself to sleep….

The same scything blow had taken the head from the kneeling knight. The sword had keened in victory, and the armored knight raised it high in triumph. And later generations would call him Arthur and name the demon sword Excalibur.

And the Broken Sword would be forgotten. But it was called Dyrnwyn.

And now, after centuries of hunger, it had fed.

The Broken Sword had awakened.

Sarah pulled out the envelope and rechecked the address before turning into the side street off Earls Court Road. She stood in the dark, nervously practicing her bizarre introduction. “Mr. Walker, I realize that it’s really late and you don’t know me, but…” She shook her head. No, that would be too weird. She should be friendlier, more personable. “Hi, Owen, your aunt Judith sent me…” She nodded quickly, reassuring herself. Yes, she must mention Judith’s name to get his attention….

She stopped, becoming aware that a young couple on the opposite side of the road was watching her closely, and she realized that she’d been speaking aloud, head nodding. “I must look like a maniac,” she muttered as she reached the complex, looking for Owen Walker’s apartment.

Sarah ran her finger down the lighted bells on the cream-painted door. Against the faint hue, the blood wedged into her once perfectly manicured fingernails stood out vividly. All of the bells had names on the white cards beneath them. Two were doctors, the rest went by initials only…yet there was no Walker. She dug into the bag and checked the envelope again, then stood back to look up at the number on the door. They matched.

The hall door suddenly opened and a tall Asian woman, wearing a nurse’s uniform beneath a light coat, stepped out. The nurse gave a tiny gasp when she saw the figure standing before her.

Sarah attempted a smile. “I’m sorry if I startled you. I have a package for Mr. Owen Walker.” She showed the nurse the envelope. “I thought he lived at this address.”

“He does. But in the basement fl…” The nurse started to speak, then stopped as she looked the young woman up and down. She stepped back into the hall and closed the door slightly, obviously prepared to slam it shut. “He works odd hours. I’m sure he’s sleeping, so if you’d like to leave the parcel with me, I’ll make certain that he gets it.”

“I’m sorry. I have to deliver it into his hands.”

“It’s no trouble,” the nurse said quickly.

“Thanks, but I promised his aunt that I’d give it to him.”

“Judith?” The woman’s defensive face melted into a semblance of warmth.

“Yes, Judith Walker. She asked me to give this to Owen.”

The nurse relaxed a little. “I haven’t seen her around for a while. She promised me an autographed book for my son. How is she?”

“Fine,” Sarah lied.

“Owen’s apartment is just around the corner, down the stairs, can’t miss it.” She pointed helpfully before adding, “Tell Judith that Rika’s still waiting for her book.”

“I will,” Sarah said grimly, turning away.

There was a single bell on the basement door, which was hidden directly beneath the steps. The faded name on the sliver of white paper stuck to the bell said walker. Sarah raked her fingers through her tangled hair and smoothed her stained clothing before pressing the button. It buzzed deep in the flat. Moments later, the chocolate-colored curtains to her right twitched. The windows, she noted, were barred. Through the gap in the net curtains, she thought she could make out a man’s face, curly hair, eyes dulled with sleep. Again she held up the letter, showing the address. “I’ve a parcel for Mr. Owen Walker.”

The face disappeared from the window.

Footsteps padded in the hallway, a floorboard creaked, and then she heard the rattle of a chain. The door opened, but only to the extent of the safety chain.

“Are you Owen Walker?”

“Who wants to know?” A man’s husky voice.

“I do. I have a package,” Sarah said, frustrated by the man’s caution.

“Do you know what time it is?”

“Yes.”

“A bit late for a delivery.”

“I know.”

“I’ll take that,” the man said impatiently.

“Look, I can only give this to Owen Walker, no one else,” Sarah said, squinting to make out some details of the figure lurking behind the door. Tall, maybe six feet. “I promised,” she added lamely.

“I’m Owen Walker.” He spoke with an American accent. Boston, she guessed.

“Can you give me some proof?”

“What?”

“Proof. Can you give me some proof? Mrs. Walker made me promise that I’d give this to her nephew and no one else.”

“Judith? Aunt Judith?” The door closed, the chain clattered, and then the door was reopened.

“Aunt Judith gave me this to give to you.”

A young man stepped out of the shadows, tousled black hair glistening in the moonlight. He was handsome in a boyish manner and wore a navy blue Yale sweatshirt. Sarah guessed he was only a couple of years older than she was. His eyes narrowed as they took in Sarah’s disheveled appearance, her ashen features, and the deep shadows beneath her eyes. He reached out politely to shake her hand.

“I’m Owen….” His grip was strong, the flesh soft and cool beneath her.

“She told me to give you this and say…and say…” Sarah suddenly stopped, energy draining away, leaving her legs rubbery, icy sweat on her forehead, her tongue thick in her mouth.

“Are you all right?”

She tried to lick her dry lips, but her tongue felt huge and swollen. “I’m fine,” she mumbled, reaching out to grip the wall. “Just a little faint. I’m just out of hospital,” she muttered. There were bright red spots at the corners of her eyes, exploding like tiny stars. She swayed and would have fallen if Owen hadn’t reached out and caught her midcollapse, scooping her up into his arms.

“Hey. Just take it easy. Take it easy.” He carried her into the tiny hall, turned to the right into the small sitting room, and eased her gently into a battered fireside chair.

SARAH LOOKED
up into Owen’s concerned face. She attempted to push herself upright, but he placed a hand on her shoulder and pressed her back onto the chair. “Just take it easy. Glad to see you’re back among the living,” he said lightly before he disappeared into the kitchen. She heard a tap running, and then Owen reappeared with a glass of water. Sarah sipped it.

“Slowly. Take your time,” Owen advised, “or you’ll get a stomachache.” Folding his arms across his broad chest, he observed her critically. “You fainted, probably from exhaustion. I know it’s not polite to say to a lady, but you really don’t look that great.”

“Thanks,” Sarah whispered. She felt completely disoriented, and if she turned her head too quickly, the world shifted and spun.

“You said you were in the hospital. What for?”

Sarah started to shake her head and stopped as the world tilted and swayed. “Observation…shock…I don’t know.”

“You don’t know why you were in the hospital?” the man asked, incredulous. “Are you on medication?” he asked.

“No. Nothing. I’m not taking drugs,” she said, suddenly realizing what he was saying.

“Which hospital were you in?”

“Crawley…I think.”

“You think?”

Sarah shook her head. “I’m not sure. Everything is a bit…The events of the last few days are confused.”

“When were you discharged?”

“Today.”

“Didn’t anyone pick you up?”

“I discharged myself.”

Owen crouched down facing Sarah, emerald green eyes searching her face. “I think you should go to the nearest hospital or even back to Crawley and see if they’ll readmit you. I could call someone,” he added.

“I’m fine,” Sarah said quickly. “I just wanted to get the bag to you.”

“The bag?” Owen reached over and dragged the heavy Tesco bag toward him, grunting in surprise at the weight. He pulled out the envelope and glanced at it quickly before looking back at Sarah, eyes narrowing. “Where did you get this?”

“I told you: Your aunt gave it to me. She told me—she made me promise—that I’d put it into your hands. And she told me to say…she told me to say…” Sarah could feel the burning at the back of her throat, the sour acid in her stomach. Her eyes filled with tears, and the room blurred and fragmented. She stood up suddenly, and Owen came quickly to his feet to help. Holding an arm out in front of her, Sarah backed away in alarm. “She told me to say that she was sorry, so sorry,” she said in a rush.

“Sorry?”

Sarah nodded quickly. “So sorry.” Then she turned and staggered from the room. Owen watched in astonishment as she rushed out the door, ran past the window, and disappeared into the night.