Madison waited, found he was holding his breath, let it out slowly. A minute ticked by. When a voice squawked from the walkie-talkie he was holding, he jumped.
“You read me, Superintendent?” Wilson’s deep voice sounded tinny coming from the small speaker.
“Loud and clear,” Madison replied. “What have you got?”
“We’ve got a mess. Place looks like it was torn apart by an anti-tank gun. We’ve got one body—an old man, Caucasian, looks to be in his early sixties, severe burns about his face and chest. We—Just a moment. Corporal Holger says the corridors appear to be clear. Do you want to come up and take a look for yourself?”
“I’m on my way.”
Madison handed Collins the walkie-talkie and started for the House.
“I don’t think this is such a good idea,” Collins said, trailing after the Superintendent. “You going up there.”
Madison paused with his hand on the ladder and looked back. “I don’t see as we have a whole lot of choice, Dan,” he said. “We don’t know where Tucker is. We don’t know what’s going on in there, but we’ve got a better idea than Holger and his men do. One of us has got to be on hand. You’ve got your burn, so that leaves me.”
“And you’ve got your leg.”
“But at least I can fire a weapon. Look, Dan. Neither one of us knows exactly what we’re up against, but at least we know some of the whom better than Holger and his men do. One of us has to be in on this.”
“Okay,” Collins said. “Just don’t play the hero.”
“You’ve got a bargain, Dan.”
They clasped hands, and then Madison started up the ladder.
By the time he was nearing the top, Madison was a bundle of nerves. Gingerly he left the last rung and stepped into the rubble. He felt a mild shock—it touched his bad leg most strongly—but saw nothing in front of him. Just a wall of grey. He looked back. The crowds and police barricades seemed very far away. It was almost quiet up here, the crowd noise just a faint murmur. Turning back to the House, he took a deep breath and stepped into the greyness.
A sensation hit him, like a feeling of vertigo. He would have stumbled, but someone caught him by the arm, steadied him. He looked up to see one of Holger’s men holding him and nodded thanks.
“Weird shit, isn’t it?” Wilson said. “I forgot to warn you ’bout it.”
Madison looked back, but instead of the wall of grey, or the park, he saw wild bushland bordering a field. The House appeared to be in the middle of it.
“I forgot to warn you ’bout that, too,” Wilson said.
“What in God’s name. . . .”
“I don’t know ’bout you,” Wilson said, “but I don’t think God’s got a whole lot to do with this place. You recognize the victim?”
Madison followed the man’s finger with his gaze and nodded. It was Traupman. “Have you found any other bodies?”
“Not so far, Superintendent. Holger’s waiting for you in the hall. C’mon.” Wilson turned to the two other men that were in the room. “You guys hold this place, right? One at the gap, one at the door. Let’s go, Superintendent.”
They found Holger at a landing on their right. The Corporal looked up as they approached, frowned when he saw that Madison wasn’t wearing any protective gear.
“We found some more of your monsters down below, Superintendent,” he reported. “From what we can tell, it looks as though they were burned to death—like the man upstairs.”
“Anything . . . human?”
“One more man,” Holger said. “But these things . . . I’ve never seen anything like this. What the hell are they?”
“Where’s the other body? The human body?” Madison’s stomach was starting to react again. God, the stench in this place. It was like a charnel house.
Holger led him to one of the doors leading outside. In front of it lay the remains of a man who had been literally torn in half. Madison’s stomach gave a lurch, but he forced himself to look. His gaze stopped at a severed head, then he looked away.
“Hengwr,” he said. “That . . . was Thomas Hengwr.”
“Whatever did that—I don’t think it was the same as those creatures we’ve found so far.”
Madison saw the strain in the man’s features. He was doing a good job of maintaining a professional air of detachment, but it was costing him, “What makes you say that?”
Holger shook his head. “Can’t put my finger on it. It’s more just a feeling. The creatures look fairly strong, but to tear a man in two like that—I just don’t think they’re big enough. Look at the size of their paws and talons. They might’ve torn him to bits, but they couldn’t have cut him in two like that.” He lifted his face-guard and wiped his brow before replacing it. “Jesus. Let’s get a move on. I just hope the rest of this place isn’t filled up with more of the same.”
“You want me to call up forensics?” Wilson asked. “Let ‘em get a start on the two we’ve found so far?”
“Not yet,” Madison replied. “Let’s have more of a look around first.”
He didn’t know if he was going to make it through this. The smell was bad enough. But seeing Traupman back in the other room, and now Hengwr . . .
“Upstairs or down?” Holger asked. “We could split up and—”
“No. We stick together.”
They followed the corridor north, to the side of the house that would have faced Patterson and made their way to the ground floor.
“Christ,” Holger murmured. “How big is this place anyway?”
“Too big,” Madison replied.
Rounding the corner, they found more of the dead creatures, though not as many as with the first group. There were two human bodies here. They looked like they’d been savaged by the creatures, but not dealt with as Hengwr had been. That added fuel to the argument that something else had killed Hengwr. What kind of something else?
“You recognize them?” Holger asked.
Madison shook his head.
“I’ve got a real bad feeling ’bout this place,” Wilson said softly. “Like something’s watching us, you know?”
One of the other men started to nod, then froze. “Down there,” he said. “I saw something move.”
“I don’t see anyth—”
Suddenly the corridor, behind and in front of them, was swarming with the creatures. The SMGs chattered, dropping the first line of them in a spate of bullets.
“In here!” Wilson shouted.
The men moved for the comparative safety of the room he indicated where at least the creatures could only attack them a few at a time, but before the echoes of gunfire had faded, the halls were empty once more. All that remained were the creatures that had been gunned down.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” Holger said. “The place must be crawling with them.”
Madison nodded. “We need more firepower. Christ! We need an army.”
“I think I’d prefer a few mad-dog terrorists,” Wilson muttered as they made their way cautiously back to the stairs. “Leastways, they like to yap a bit before they jump you.”
“Amen,” one of the men said.
“Anything?” Lieutenant Deverell asked Collins.
The RCMP constable shook his head.
“Hasn’t been a thing,” he said as he shook out a Pall Mall and accepted a light from Deverell. “How’re things on the front lines?”
The Lieutenant grinned. “The rabble are restless. But they’re starting to thin out some.” He pointed to the walkie-talkie that Collins had stuck in his pocket. “Why don’t you give them a call?”
“Sure.”
As he started to reach for it, one of Deverell’s officers came up to them.
“Lieutenant?”
“Watcha got, Zurowski?”
“Guy wants to see you. A Mr. Walters. J. Hugh Walters.”
Deverell blinked. “The J. Hugh Walters?”
“That’s what he says.”
“Where is
he?”
“Over there.” The officer pointed back towards Bank Street. “Standing between those two goons. Business associates, he calls them, but I know goons when I see them. What do you think a guy like him’s doing with a pair like that?”
“I don’t know. But I mean to find out.”
“Wait a minute,” Collins said. Something clicked inside him. Nothing he could pin down—just an intuitive feeling that he knew he had to play out. “Do me a favor, would you?” he asked Deverell. “Stick to the story we’ve been giving the press—no matter what he says. Can you do that?”
“Yeah, but . . .”
Collins drew him aside, out of the patrolman’s hearing. “I’m going to level with you. But you’d better keep this under your hat or there’ll be all hell to pay. We’ve got a leak—a big leak and high up.”
Deverell held up a hand. “I don’t want to hear any more.”
“But you’ll do as I ask?”
“By the book. No matter who he is, until your people give me a release, this has got nothing to do with civilians. Period.”
“Thanks, Deverell. That’s one I owe you.”
As he watched the two policemen confer, Walters knew that he had made a mistake in coming here. He had been unable to sit at home, waiting for something to break, and with Gannon gone, there had been no one he could trust to come in his place. Not that he was even certain what he would do, once he was here. He had planned to play it by ear—some combination of concerned citizen with a liberal mix of the informed advisor. Instead, all he had managed to accomplish was to tie himself to what was happening here tonight. Not a good move. Definitely not one of his best ideas.
As Deverell approached he knew the best thing to do now was to make a strategic retreat. He would have Williams make sure that he remained unconnected to this incident. It would be simple enough if he left immediately—before speaking to the Lieutenant. He turned to one of the men with him.
“Stall him,” he said, indicating Deverell and turned rapidly away, his other bodyguard flanking him.
From his own position, Collins saw the move and nodded to himself. Right, he thought. Gotcha. He pulled out his walkie-talkie. “Give me Superintendent Madison.”
There was a moment’s silence, then: “Hang on.”
“Dan?”
“I’ve got something for you, Wally. J. Hugh Walters made an appearance here not a few minutes ago. Tried to bully his way in, but as soon as we went to talk to him he took off like a scared rabbit.”
“Walters?” Madison’s voice sounded strained.
“You okay, Wally?”
“We’re . . . yeah. We’re okay. We’re on our way out, Dan. You’d better get on the blower and call up more men. A lot more men.”
“What the hell did you find in there?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“What about Tucker—”
“I’ll tell you all about it when we’re out.”
Madison cut the connection, leaving Collins staring at the silent communicator. Wally sounded in a bad way. Collins knew he wasn’t going to like what the Superintendent had to tell him. He wasn’t going to like it one bit.
Chapter Three
Tucker reacted first. He’d been leaning against a wall, half watching the proceedings, the other half of his mind planning on how they’d get by the tragg’a to have their showdown with Mal’ek’a. But before Tom changed, before he spoke, before the others were even aware that something was wrong, he knew.
He swept his gun up from the floor, aimed between the rathe’wen’a and fired. The bullet passed through Mal’ek’a, not bothering it in the least. Blue started for Tucker, Maggie was hauling at his arm trying to hold the Inspector back, and then they all knew and understood what he’d been doing.
Tucker flung himself between Ha’kan’ta and another of the rathe’wen’a and hit Mal’ek’a with a shoulder block. Something . . . some force . . . picked him up and flung him across the room. He smashed into the wall, his breath whooshing out of him. He tried to sit up, but he couldn’t see straight. There was a sharp jabbing pain under his heart. One or two ribs were cracked—maybe broken. He couldn’t use his left arm.
He pushed himself up with his right arm, but his legs wouldn’t hold him. The room spun in his sight. Get up, he told himself. Stop screwing around, Tucker! But there was a pounding in his head. Concussion, he told himself, as he still fought to get up. You’ve got a concussion, that’s all. You’ve—
Everything went black and he collapsed where he lay. The rathe’wen’a at the door turned from her post to face Mal’ek’a’s sudden threat, pouring her concentration into the battle of wills between her drum-kin and the dread one.
Blue started for Mal’ek’a, hesitated when he saw what happened to Tucker. Got to be some way, he was thinking as he turned to see the Inspector hit the wall. He still had Ur’wen’ta’s totem stick thrust into his belt. He took it out to use against Mal’ek’a, then saw the tragg’a coming up the stairs.
He meant to shout a warning, but it never left his lips. The tragg’a tore the rathe’wen’a from her post by the door and dragged her down amongst them. The warning left Blue’s throat as an inarticulate roar of anger. As the creatures came up the stairs, pounding the rath’wen’a woman under their paws, he lunged at them. The first caught a boot in the face and fell back into the others, but they were swarming like rats on the stairwell.
“Goddamn motherfucking sons of stinking bitches!” Blue roared. He had the advantage of being above them, of holding a small opening where they could only get at him one at a time. He matched their fury, howl for howl, savage as the devil-bear that was said to have sired them on the darkness.
Sally had been coming to his aid, the .38 held in a sweaty hand, but at the sudden berserker rage that overtook him, she stepped back, stunned. She looked to where Maggie crouched beside Tucker, the Margolin pistol in her hand, to the rathe’wen’a that encircled Mal’ek’a and Sara, to Jamie sitting slack-jawed in the easy chair, his eyes unfocused.
“Oh, God,” she mumbled, and the gun shook in her hand.
“Blue,” she pleaded, not daring to touch him in case he turned on her. He frightened her more than the tragg’a did. “Please . . . Blue. . . .”
He never heard her. His entire being was focused on each tragg’a that met him at the stairtop. He was beyond fear now—just as the creatures had overcome their fear of Ur’wen’ta’s totem. He struck one or two of them down with it, choked on the stench of searing flesh as the stick burned them, felt the stick break, fought then with his bare hands.
The rathe’wen’a fought a battle of another sort. In the realms of the spirit the drumming of their sen’fer’sa was locked in a struggle against the power of the being they called the Dread-That-Walks-Nameless. Named, they could have power over it, for names have power. Unnamed, they could only try to hold their own against it. They worked to keep the spark that was Sara’s soul from being snuffed out, to keep the ring of power from the monster’s grasp. They fought inside Sara, used the ring’s power to aid them. But the ring, clasped in Mal’ek’a’s hand, was also used against them.
When their drum-sister died at her post by the door, the loss of her sen’fer’sa at first strengthened rather than weakened them. As they felt her soul spin away, their anger grew and fed their hearts; but the struggle slowly turned against them. While they grew weaker, Mal’ek’a seemed to grow more potent, and his darkness seeped into their souls, stilling the drumming note by note. Mal’ek’a grew blacker still, grew like the heart of all darkness.
Soon, they knew, he would have them—as surely as his tragg’a had taken their drum-sister. And then indeed all would be lost. For Mal’ek’a would emerge stronger still, and all the worlds would be his battleground. The dark of his soul would spread until nothing remained but shadow. His shadow. And he would still be unnamed.
Jamie had felt Mal’ek’a’s presence vanish in the east wing and reappe
ar in Sara’s tower. It was a puzzle that his mind stored away for later reference. For now he was concentrating on the House, and the souls of his father and grandfather that inhabited it still.
How can you still exist? he asked.
It was a gift, the House’s spirit replied. From a Horned Man. A gift and a curse.
I don’t understand.
The druid is our kin, James. We are his only descendants. It is we that must set his evil right.
Thomas Hengwr is our ancestor?
The House shifted in agreement. He sired the first of our forefathers—on a serving woman in King Maelgwn’s retinue. From that small bastard boy our line sprang. Our people lived in Wales—then called Gwynedd. They moved to Cornwall—then called Kernow. Finally they came across the Atlantic to settle in the Ottawa Valley. That was Simon Tamson, your great-great-grandfather.
But why did you have to wait so long to tell me this?
The time was not right, James. It would have served no purpose. That was what the Horned Man said. It was not until Hengwr came to you a few nights past that I knew the moment had come, but your soul was closed to me. I did what I could to keep the evil at bay, but I needed you, before the monster could be confronted.
This . . . Mal’ek’a?
It is not Mal’ek’a we face, but the evil of our ancestors given a life of its own. Mal’ek’a is Thomas Hengwr—separated from him these many long years, but still one half of the druid’s soul.
No!
The House sighed.
When the bard Taliesin imprisoned Thomas Hengwr in the longstone, only one half of Hengwr remained trapped. The other half escaped to wreak its evil on the world. But sooner or later they had to meet again, the one to destroy the other, for there could not be two of them in the world. It upsets the balance. Twice the Horned Man slew Hengwr’s evil half, and twice it rose again—more powerful than before. It can only be killed by one of us, James. Only one related to it by blood can destroy it forever.
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