The Thirteen Hallows (22 page)

Skinner climbed the stairs slowly, heart hammering, lungs burning. He was so out of shape, and the elevator hadn’t been working. He had never liked elevators; it wasn’t that he was claustrophobic, but he remembered a story he’d read as a teenager, about a man who gets into an elevator, presses down…and it carries him straight to hell, and all the floors he passes are highlights in his life. He’d been ten years old when he read that story, and it had awakened him night after night screaming in terror…and then his father would come in, reeking of sour drink, with the leather belt in his hand….

As the skinhead climbed the stairs slowly, he decided that living in a place like this must be a living hell. Identical apartments, identical lives, no jobs, little money, identical grim futures.

At least he had a future.

Technically, he was unemployed. He collected his unemployment benefits every week, but Elliot had always made sure he had more than enough in his pocket. Skinner’s grin faded. With Elliot gone, who was going to run the clubs, the cinema; who was going to pay him? His new employer had said that he would be well rewarded, but he hadn’t mentioned money.

On the way over here, he’d had to fill up the stolen Nissan with gas. Usually Elliot would pick up the tab for that, but this time it had come out of his own pocket. He had twenty-two pounds in cash at the moment, but what was he going to do when that ran out? The next time he spoke with his new boss, he’d make a point of asking him.

Skinner rested on the eighth floor, breathing heavily, leaning against the greasy wall. His heart was tripping madly, and he had the feeling that he was going to throw up. Breathing in great gulps of air tainted with the smells of sour urine and cabbage, he tried to work out where he was going to put his hands on some cash. Elliot must have had money stashed away, but he had no idea where. He wondered if the old woman kept any cash in her flat. Old people didn’t trust banks; they always kept their savings with them. And then he wondered how much his employers would pay him for this hunting horn they wanted. If they wanted it that badly, then they would pay. Handsomely.

Brigid Davis stood before the window and stared out across the London skyline. “Individually, the Hallows appear throughout English history in one guise or another, usually as the property of kings and queens, or those closest to them. They are linked with all the great figures of legend, and they turn up, directly or indirectly, at all of history’s great tipping points. Their last known appearance was during the dark days of the war.” She paused for effect. “And I believe that they’ve taken on a power of their own, using and shaping the Keepers to their own ends.”

Owen smiled tentatively. “You make it sound as if they are alive.”

“The artifacts
are
sentient,” she said. “I believe they form a symbiotic relationship with the Keeper. They become rather like an addictive drug; you cannot bear to be parted from them.” She smiled at Sarah. “As you’ve discovered.”

“But I’m not the Keeper,” she said desperately.

“But you’ve fed the sword. You are linked to it. Since you’ve come in here, you’ve not let it out of your hands.”

Sarah looked at the sword in her rust-stained hands. She hadn’t realized she’d still been holding it.

“Someone is collecting the Hallows,” Brigid continued, turning back to the window. “Sometimes, at the very edge of sleep, I think I see him: a tall, dark man, powerfully built. And occasionally there is an image of a young woman, beautiful, deadly, her black hair blowing around her like a cape…. I’ve always had visions, and although these are fairly clear, I’m not sure if these are real visions or just a dream. I’m inclined to think that they are shadows of real people. I don’t know who these people are or why they are collecting the Hallows, but they’re dangerous. They are firing the energies of the collected Hallows, bringing them to magical life by bathing them in the blood and pain of the Keepers; then channeling the dark emotional energy into the individual Hallows.”

“But why?” Owen asked. “Surely you have some idea?”

Brigid nodded. “Yes, I have thought of a reason…possibly the only reason someone would want—
need
—all of the Hallows. But it is so abominable that it’s almost incomprehensible.”

“Tell us,” Sarah said softly.

“Why don’t
you
tell us?” Brigid suggested.

“Me!”

“The sword is at the heart of the legend.” The old woman’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Look at it, feel it, listen to it…listen to it, Sarah.”

Sarah attempted a smile—the old woman was mad—but the sword was suddenly a leaden weight, and she had to grip it in both hands. Her whole body shuddered, the vibration working down through her arms into her small wrists. The sword jerked in her hands, flakes of rust sliding off, revealing more of the sword-shape beneath, and she was suddenly able to see what it must have looked like when it was whole and complete.

Sarah closed her eyes…

…and she began to see.

Mist swirled, moisture beading on the metal, and then the creatures appeared, jaws gaping, talons flashing, yellow eyes blazing in the drab light. The boy Yeshu’a lifted the sword and pointed it at the creatures.

“What are they?” The boy’s voice was calm.

Josea placed a hand on his nephew’s shoulder, taking comfort from the young man’s curious calm. “Demonkind,” he said simply. “The local people call them Fomor.”

Yeshu’a watched the creatures swarm on the beach, angular, misshapen figures moving through the early morning fog. They were taller than men, but green gray and scaled like the crocodile from the Dark Southlands, with the same long, tooth-filled jaws. Unlike the blank-eyed crocodile, these creatures had eyes that burned with cold intelligence. They had fallen upon the merchants and mariners waiting on the beach, butchering them in sight of the approaching ships, killing some instantly, playing with others until their screams became too terrible and the sailors pressed wax into their ears. Then the Demonkind had feasted, and the stink of butchered meat tainted the salt fresh air.

Now they gathered on the beach, moving restlessly to and fro, waiting for the boats to land.

Yeshu’a allowed his consciousness to soar, to travel across the waves and hover over the beach, before slowly—tentatively—settling into the mind of one of the creatures…only to spin away, revolted by the brief images. “Demonkind.” The boy shuddered as his consciousness returned to his body on the boat. “Spawn of the Night Hag and the Shining Ones, the Fallen Spirits.”

“They hold this land in thrall,” Josea said quietly, forcing himself to keep his hand on his nephew’s shoulder, willing himself to say the words calmly, quietly, even though he knew that no boy—no ordinary boy—should know about the origins of the demon breed.

But Yeshu’a was no ordinary boy.

“When the First of Men spurned the Night Hag,” Josea said, “and cast her out into the Wilderness, she mated with the Fallen One, who had also been cast from the Garden. In time, she brought forth the race known as demons.”

When Josea looked down at the young boy, he had a glimpse of the stern face of the man the boy would become…and found that it frightened him. “They ruled the world until the coming of man,” Josea continued, “and then they were forced out, into the mountains and the marshes and the barren places.”

“But not always,” Yeshu’a said.

“No,” Josea agreed. “Not always. Sometimes they remained, or bred with the humans and created other abominations, eaters of flesh, drinkers of blood. Werewolves. Vampires. Over the centuries they have been pushed out of all civilized lands, and that is why they have ended up here, at the edge of the world. This is their domain, this is the realm of Demonkind.”

The boy nodded. “But this is an island; in time they will squeeze the life out of it, and perish.”

Josea squeezed his nephew’s arm. “There are people here, good people. Are we simply to abandon them to the Demonkind? And what happens when the Demonkind find a way to leave this island and strike out across the mainland into the lands around the Middle Sea? They are powerful enough to do so.”

Yeshu’a nodded. “Of course, Uncle. What would you have me do?” he asked simply.

“Can we destroy the beasts?”

Sarah.

“We can kill those who exist in this world,” Yeshu’a said simply. “But they will return again and again unless we can seal the door to their realm.”

“How?” the Master Mariner demanded.

The boy turned to look at him. “Why do you care, Uncle?” he asked. “These islanders are nothing to you, neither blood kin nor bonded.”

“If we do not stop these creatures now, then sooner or later, when they are stronger, much stronger, they will come south, and destroy everything I have spent my life building. And the Lord my God told me to love my neighbor as one of my own.”

Sarah.

“And yet there is much that your Lord tells you that will contradict what you have just said,” the boy said quickly.

Josea nodded but remained silent. He knew better than to argue points of philosophy or religion with the boy. Once, when he was younger, the boy had gone missing. He had eventually been found arguing points of philosophy and scripture with the Elders in the Temple.

Yeshua’s eyes turned flat and cold. “Every creature must be destroyed. None must be allowed to remain alive. Then we must trace them to their lair and close the door between the worlds. We must seal the portal between our world and the Otherworld.”

“Sarah!”…and the apartment swam back into focus as Sarah opened her eyes and found she was looking into the cavernous barrels of a shotgun.

Sex.

This was the oldest of all the magics, the simplest and the most powerful. When male and female joined together in the ultimate union, the energies generated could be shaped, focused, and controlled.

Vyvienne was the vessel, the conduit. Ahriman would feed her his energy. Vyvienne sat astride him, moving in a gentle rhythm while his lips and tongue and fingers worked expertly at her body, arousing her coldly, deliberately, and without passion. When he saw the flush creep across her breasts, felt the hardness of her nipples beneath the palms of his hands, he knew she was close. He then closed his eyes and concentrated on the ancient formula of words that would focus his power. Sarah Miller’s face appeared before him, sharp and clear, and for an instant it was not Vyvienne atop him, but Miller.

Vyvienne’s fingers bit into his shoulders, the signal that it was time.

The woman opened her eyes. The photograph of Miller had been taped above the bed, and she was looking directly at it. Pressing both hands against the wall, supporting herself on rigid arms, she stared into the face and imagined it was Miller beneath her. She felt her orgasm building deep in the pit of her stomach, felt it trembling in Ahriman’s legs and stomach muscles. Vyvienne focused on the images flickering behind her eyes…

…Miller and Owen naked in a nondescript beige room, making love, she moving atop the boy, her hands caressing his torso, sliding up along his throat, across his face. The boy transformed, his face and body twisting into that of a red demon. Sarah’s scream was soundless as she reared up, the Broken Sword clutched in both hands, truncated blade pointing downward…and the sword was falling, the broken blade biting into the red demon’s throat, blood spurting upward, hissing where it touched the metal blade, splashing onto her body, coating her in red, and her orgasm flooded through her as he twisted and writhed in death….

Ahriman grunted as Vyvienne’s own orgasm shuddered through her. They clutched each other, trembling together until the spasms passed. When they were quiet again, her master ran his large hands through her hair. “Well?” he whispered.

“It is done,” she murmured. “The seed has been planted. Tonight, Sarah Miller will see Owen as a red demon and kill him with the sword,” she said, and fell asleep, still locked around his body.

Skinner rested the shotgun on the bridge of Sarah’s nose, the rough-cut metal harsh and rasping. “Nice to see you again, luv.”

Sarah blinked at him, confused, lost. Where had the skinhead come from? She tried to turn her head to look at Owen and Brigid, but the weight of the gun on her face made movement impossible. Fragments of her dreams whirled and spun, and images of the demons’ snarling faces settled into the skinhead, the two becoming one.

Skinner thumbed back the hammers on the shotgun, the noise bringing her back to the present. “I should blow your fucking head off right now!” he hissed. “You killed Karl.”

“What do you want?” Owen demanded loudly.

Skinner turned, and the weight of the gun lifted from Sarah’s face as he pointed the short-barreled weapon at the boy. “You shut the fuck up. I haven’t come for you this time.” His twisted smile turned into a leer. “You’re just the icing on the cake.”

“What do you want?” Brigid repeated Owen’s question.

“Shut up.” Skinner backed into the center of the room, holding the shotgun close to his chest, observing the trio, suddenly unsure. Getting into the apartment had been childishly easy. He had simply knocked on the door, and when the old woman had called out, “Who is it?” he had replied, “Parcel for Brigid Davis.” When she had opened the door, he had put the shotgun into her face and walked into the apartment. Discovering Walker and Miller had been a pleasant bonus. The American had been shocked to see him, but Miller had been staring straight ahead, mumbling softly, filthy hands wrapped around a dirty piece of metal. Skinner had seen that blank-eyed, loose-lipped look before; he hadn’t realized Miller was a junkie.

His new employer would be duly impressed with this haul. He fished the cell phone out of his pocket and checked a scrawl of numbers on the back of his left hand before carefully dialing. It rang nine times before it was picked up, the line clicking and popping.

“Hello?” Skinner said.

There was silence at the other end of the line.

“It’s me, Ski—”

“I know who it is,” the voice snapped.

“I’ve got the old woman…” He paused, savoring the moment. “And a little bonus. Mil—”

“No names!” the voice growled.

“The male and female you were looking for earlier are here also.”

There was a long silence. “You have done very well, Mr. Jacobs, very well. I am extraordinarily pleased.” There was another pause. “Would you be able to take the three of them from the apartment without being seen? Answer truthfully. This is no time for arrogance.”

Skinner turned to look at the trio sitting on the couch facing him. An old woman, an injured male, and a drugged female. “It would be possible,” he said cautiously. “Possibly a bit later, under the cover of darkness. I could bring in some help.”

“No help. You must do this yourself or not at all. Be realistic. Could you manage the three of them?”

“Probably not,” Skinner admitted.

“Could you manage the old woman and the young man?”

“Yes,” he said confidently.

“Then take care of the other. Bring the man and the old woman back to your apartment. You will receive further instructions there. The old woman has a hunting horn, the man has a broken sword. It is imperative that they bring along both objects.” There was a click and the line went dead before he could ask any more questions.

Skinner pushed the phone back into his pocket. “Seems only you two are needed,” he said, looking from Brigid to Owen. He pointed the shotgun at Sarah. “You’re…superfluous.”

Sarah looked at him blankly. The youth’s features were still wavering, caught between their human face and the demon skull. She turned her head slightly and began to mumble incoherently as the walls of the apartment shifted, dissolved, white cliffs gleaming in the distance: She could smell the tart salt of the sea.

“What the fuck is she on!” Skinner snapped.

Owen shook his head. “Nothing.”

“Tell her to shut the fuck up.”

“She won’t listen. She’s…not well. Hasn’t been since the death of her family.”

The skinhead’s thin lips curled. He nodded slowly. “I remember them,” he whispered. “We took them before your aunt. I enjoyed her mother. I’d never done it with an older broad before…. Of course, I tried it again with your aunt,” he added.

Sarah’s scream tore her throat as she suddenly lunged for the skinhead’s eyes. Her attack caught him off guard, and he hesitated a moment too long. And then she was on top of him, nails raking his face, tearing the skin off his cheeks, pulling at the corner of his eye. Twisting, he swung the shotgun around and hit her in the stomach with the stock, the force of the blow dropping her to her knees. Towering above her, he gripped the shotgun in both hands, prepared to bring the stock down on her shoulder.

The sound rendered him motionless.

It vibrated up through the floor, thrummed through the air, solid, insistent, and terrible. There was such pain in the sound, raw, endless despair overlain with unendurable agony. The sound went on and on, a terrible, terrifying clarion call.

Pressing both hands to his ears, he staggered away from the crouching girl and then realized that the old woman was holding a curious object to her lips. It was shaped like a ram’s horn, yellowed with age, one end encircled with a golden band. For a moment he didn’t know what it was, until he saw her cheeks swell and then heard the sound increase. With a tremendous effort he lifted the gun.

He had to stop that deafening noise.

The pain behind his eyes was excruciating, and Skinner felt as if his head were about to explode. Pointing the gun at the old woman, his finger curled around the triggers.

Sarah was looking at the skinhead when Brigid blew the hunting horn. She heard a distant, almost ethereal sound, high and thin and sweet. But then she saw the look of agony on the youth’s face and realized that he was hearing something far different. Then she saw him change. His features turned bestial and serpentine, head elongating, mouth filling with teeth. Tiny nubs of horns formed on his skull, and his eyes turned yellow, the pupils a flat horizontal line.

She was looking at a demon.

The skinhead howled in agony. He fired the shotgun, both barrels blazing.

And in the smoking silence that followed, Sarah Miller surged upward and rammed the Broken Sword into the center of his chest.