The Thirteen Hallows (23 page)

Ambrose stopped in the middle of the street, the sound of a hunting horn ringing in his ears, memories whirling, echoes and images dancing before his eyes. And then he almost doubled over as the agony lanced into his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut, tears of pain trickling down his lined cheeks. Fire burned through him, moving down to his stomach in a ragged tear, as if a blade were slicing through his flesh. He pressed both hands to his stomach and for an instant imagined he could feel the warm wetness of the wound, the gaping hole where his flesh had been torn. When he opened his eyes, he could actually
see
the ghostly image of the sword protruding from his stomach, the ragged wound cut from his chest to his navel.

Dyrnwyn
.

The sword was Dyrnwyn, once the Sword of Rhydderch, now the Broken Sword.

Echoes of the hunting horn.

The horn was Bran.

And he was Ambrose.

And with the name came more memories, and with the memories came more pain.

Shots fired in the vicinity of Waterloo House, Hounslow. All cars in the vicinity…”

Victoria Heath glanced at Tony Fowler as she leaned over to raise the volume. The senior detective’s face was set in a rigid mask, and he refused even to acknowledge the radio report.

“All cars in the vicinity…”

Sergeant Heath lifted the radio. “Mobile Four responding.”

“Location, Mobile Four?”

The sergeant took a deep breath. “Directly outside Waterloo House.”

“Say again, Mobile Four.”

“You heard me the first time.”

OWEN CRADLED
the dying woman’s head in his lap. Brigid Davis had taken the full force of both barrels in the chest and stomach, shredding most of the flesh, glints of bloody bone peeping through the seeping wounds. A smattering of pellets had bitten into the soft flesh of her neck and face. Owen examined the wounds and knew there was nothing that could be done for the woman. By rights she should be dead; only her will and determination kept her spirit clinging to her body. Her eyes flickered, then bubbles of frothing blood formed on her lips. “Is he dead?”

“Yes,” Owen said softly. Against his will, he turned his head to see Sarah still standing motionless over Skinner’s eviscerated corpse.

Thick ropes of blood dripped from the Broken Sword, adding to its length and giving it the appearance of wholeness. “Yes, he’s dead,” he whispered. “Sarah killed him.”

Brigid’s ice-cold hands found his, pressing the ancient hunting horn, the yellow ivory now splashed with her blood, into them. “Into your hands I command it,” she breathed.

Owen bent his head as he brought it close to the old woman’s face.

“Madoc,” Brigid whispered. “Madoc. That’s where it started. That’s where it must end. You must go to Madoc.”

GASPING, SHUDDERING,
Vyvienne reared upright, pulling herself off Ahriman’s damp body. “What is it?” he hissed.

“The Horn of Bran has sounded.” Closing her eyes, tilting her head to one side, she listened, but all she could hear now were the faintest echoes of the hunting horn.

Ahriman sat up, his broad back to the wall, and watched the woman carefully. “Can you find Skinner?” Placing both hands on her naked shoulders, he poured strength into her. “Find Skinner. Quickly.”

Vyvienne’s eyes rolled back in her head…

…AND SHE
opened them again in the Astral.

She had walked this shifting, shadowy landscape since she was a child, not knowing then that her talent was remarkable and unusual. She had learned early on how to interpret the colors that danced in the grayness. She recognized the places from the world below that sent dark echoes into the Astral: ancient sites, old battlefields, and certain graves, which were capable of catching and holding a spirit, like an insect against flypaper.

She knew Skinner’s color and shape, the abstract criteria by which she identified him in the Astral world. He was a petty soul, dark maroon saturated with anger, bitterness, and resentment. Willing herself to his spirit, she rose over the landscape and then fell toward the countless pinpricks of light that were London.

The sounds of the horn were audible now, faint trembling echoes of the magical sound that had only recently soared across the grayness. Vyvienne found herself tracking the receding sounds, tracing them to their source.

In the dream state, she dropped into the apartment….

SARAH STOOD
over the body of the demon. In death, the creature seemed diminished, its scales softer now, the sulfurous yellow of its eyes lighter, its savage rows of teeth retreating into its mouth. Its features melted, twisted, altered subtly, and became almost—but not quite—human. And then Sarah felt a sour bitter wind across her sweat-damp face. A heartbeat later she smelled it, tasted it on her tongue…and then another demon, a female demon, stepped into the room, materializing out of thin air.

And with a great howl, Sarah charged at it.

OWEN WATCHED
in horror as Sarah cut at the empty air, the Broken Sword slashing a picture from the wall, the metal leaving a long groove in the embossed wallpaper.

“Talk to her,” Brigid mumbled as she let go of her last breath of life, “call her by name, bring her back before the sword subsumes her.”

“Sarah,” Owen whispered. “Sarah…”

VYVIENNE JERKED
awake with a shriek, her eyes wild and staring, heart hammering wildly. She scrambled off Ahriman and raced into the bathroom, where she leaned over the toilet, expecting at any moment to be sick, stomach lurching, bile flooding her mouth. When nothing happened, she straightened and turned to lean on the sink and stare into the mirror, shocked at her exhausted appearance.

She was only twenty-one; today, however, she looked twice that.

Ahriman filled the doorway. “What happened?” he asked softly, his Welsh accent, which he took great pains to hide, obvious now.

“Skinner is dead, his soul fed to the sword. The sword wielder killed him…and she saw me.” She turned to look at him. “She
saw
me, struck out at me! How is that possible?” she asked. “I’ve looked at her aura; she is nothing special. And yet she wields the sword….” She shook her head at the paradox.

“Skinner dead. And Brigid Davis?”

“Dead or dying. Skinner had shot her.” She had briefly glimpsed the undulating gray-black envelope around the woman’s head as her spirit prepared to leave her body.

“The horn?”

“In the boy’s hands.”

The Dark Man swore, using an oath that was five thousand years old. He took a deep breath, trying to master his rage. “So they now have the sword
and
the horn.”

He was unable to hide the tremor in his voice.

Oh Christ!”

Victoria Heath stopped in the doorway, pulled out her radio, and called for an ambulance, although she knew the old woman lying on the floor was beyond help.

Tony Fowler moved quickly through the flat, ensuring that it was empty before he returned to Skinner’s corpse. He nudged it with his foot, though he knew that the skinhead could not possibly have survived the massive wound to his chest and stomach. “Miller’s handiwork again. Though I can’t say this one causes me too much grief.”

“What happened here?” the sergeant asked. She was kneeling in front of the old woman, her fingers searching desperately for a pulse.

Tony glanced from Skinner to Brigid Davis. “Looks as if Miller shot the old woman, and then cut up Skinner.”

“Why?”

“Who knows?” he breathed tiredly.

“Skinner could have shot the woman,” she suggested.

“He could have, ballistics will let us know. But it’s unlikely. I’d lay money that Skinner had never met her before today.”

“Then what was he doing here?”

“How do I know?”

“How do you know it was Miller; how do we know she was even here?” she asked.

Fowler bit back a sharp retort. “How many maniacs do we have running around London cutting people open with a sword?” he asked mildly.

Victoria Heath nodded. “Then where is she now? These bodies are minutes old. And where’s Walker?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Do you think he’s still alive?”

“If we haven’t found his body, then I’m guessing he is. Though I’m not so sure that’s a good thing.” He turned to look out the window. The London skyline in the west was deepening toward twilight, lights appearing in some of the shaded tower blocks. Clouds boiled on the horizon, made darker and more ominous by the setting sun behind them. “She’s going to kill him, sooner or later, she’s going to use the sword on him,” he said without turning around, and Victoria wasn’t sure if he was talking to her or not. “All we can do is wait.”

“Maybe we can find some connection between this woman and Judith Walker that could give us some clue….”

Fowler turned to look at the sergeant and she fell silent. “Do it. If we have a serial killer on our hands, I want the pattern established yesterday.”

He looked back outside, wondering where Miller would strike next.

Today was…today was Friday, the thirtieth of October.

Was it only two days ago her family had been butchered?

So much had happened in that short space of time that she could no longer distinguish the reality from the fantasy.

On a casual, almost unconscious level, she was aware that she was sitting on a tube platform with Owen holding tightly to her arm, fingers strong against her flesh. She was also keenly aware of the bag on her lap, the weight of the sword in it.

Sarah’s last clear thoughts and images were from when she stood before her home on Wednesday afternoon, then pushing open the door and stepping into the darkness. After that, everything dissolved into a terrible unending dream.

“Sarah?”

She turned her head to look at the young man sitting beside her. Was he real or another dream? Was he likely to turn into a demon, was he—

“Sarah?”

He looked real, forehead shining with sweat, a strong clenched jaw, a bandage on his cheek, his full bottom lip bruised where he had bitten into it. She lifted a hand and squeezed his forearm; it felt real enough, the material of his flannel shirt rough beneath her fingers. And he smelled real: a mixture of sweat, fear, and the faintest hint of blood and gunpowder.

“Sarah?” There were tears in his eyes now, magnifying them into enormous green orbs.

“Are you real?” she asked, her voice sounding childlike, lost and distant.

“Oh, Sarah…does this feel real?” His fingers dug into her flesh, squeezing as hard as he could. “Does this feel real?” He pinched the soft web of flesh between her thumb and forefinger. “And does this feel real?” He leaned forward and kissed her gently on the lips.

A train thundered into the station, stale air billowing around them, disgorging passengers in a noisy frenzy. Neither Sarah nor Owen moved. When the train pulled out of the station a few moments later, there was a brief lull when the platform was empty and silent.

Finally, pulling her lips from his, she sighed. “Yes, it feels real.”

There were tears on her face now, though she was unaware of them. “I thought it was a dream. I hoped it was a dream, a nightmare I was going to wake up from…but I’m never going to wake from this, am I?”

Owen stared at her, saying nothing.

“I was hoping I was in the hospital,” she said with a shaky laugh. She frowned. “I
was
in the hospital…I think, or was that a dream, too?”

“You were in the hospital.”

She nodded. “I kept hoping I was going to wake up and I’d find my family standing around the bed. But I won’t.” She reached into the bag and touched the cold metal. “And it’s because of this sword.” Warmth seeped into her, tingling up from where her fingers rested on the rusted metal, doubts and fears dissolving in that moment.

“What do you want to do, Sarah?”

Lying atop Owen in a nondescript beige room, the sword held high in her hands…

The metal beneath her questing fingers felt soft and fleshlike. “I was going to give myself up to the police, remember?” She glanced sidelong at the young man. “Should I do that now? It would end all of this madness.”

Owen looked away, staring deep into the tunnel, knowing how he would answer, knowing that Sarah knew it, too. “I’m not sure it would,” he said quietly. “The madness would continue…more elderly men and women would die for these ancient objects.”

“But at least the police would know what’s happening,” Sarah protested. “I could tell them.”

“What would you tell them?”

“Everything. About the Hallows and the dreams and—” She stopped suddenly, realizing the futility of what she was saying.

“The police think you did it,” Owen reminded her. “And the only way for you to clear your name is to solve the mystery. For us to solve the mystery. Avenge your family. Avenge my aunt.”

The sword vibrated softly beneath Sarah’s touch. She was about to say that she couldn’t get involved. The old Sarah would have shied away. But now she was a part of it and had been from the moment she met Judith Walker. And lately she had begun to think that her involvement predated even that. She was beginning to suspect that the dreams were more than just dreams, that they were hints and clues to the Hallows’ true meaning. The small face of the cold-eyed boy Yeshu’a swam into view. “I suppose I should have walked away from your aunt when she was being attacked,” she said. “Maybe if I had, then my family would still be alive,” she added, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice.

“But you didn’t walk away,” Owen said firmly. “You were there when she needed you, and then later, you were at the house, which enabled her to give you the sword, and we were at Brigid Davis’s flat when the skinhead turned up.”

“Coincidence,” she said shakily.

“I don’t believe in coincidence. That’s something I did inherit from my aunt. She once wrote a sentence in a book she gave me that has stuck with me ever since.
‘There is a season for all things.’
And she’s right. There is no such thing as coincidence. Everything happens in its own time. There’s a reason we’re here together. There’s a reason we were meant to meet. My aunt gave you the sword to give to me….” He grinned suddenly. “Not that I’ve had a chance to hold it.”

He could feel the weight of the Horn of Bran beneath his coat, the metal rim cold against the flesh of his belly. “Maybe I wasn’t meant to have the sword. Maybe it was yours all along. Maybe I was meant to keep another Hallow.”

Sarah started to shake her head, but Owen pushed on.

“I think we owe it to your family, to my aunt, and to people like Brigid who died to protect these Hallows to find out what’s going on. We have to try and stop it. Maybe that way we can clear your name.”

She nodded tiredly. “I know.” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “What do we do?”

“We should get a good night’s sleep, and then we should go to Madoc, the village where it all started….” He stopped, seeing the surprised expression on her face. “What’s wrong?”

Sarah raised her arm and pointed straight ahead.

Owen turned his head, expecting to see someone standing next to them. But the platform was empty. “What…,” he started to say, and then he saw it. Plastered to the wall on the opposite side of the tracks was an enormous orange poster, the black letters spiky and archaic, a bronze border of twisting spirals and curls. It was advertising The First International All Hallows’ Eve Celtic Festival of Arts and Culture…in Madoc, Wales.

“Coincidence,” Sarah whispered.

“Oh, sure.”

The festival was the following day, on Halloween.