Rachel tries to lift her hands to push herself upright. The effort is too much. Her limbs barely move, her hands fall back onto the table.
“Kicks in quickly, doesn't it?” asks Bill, leaning over her and looking into her eyes. “Pupils nicely dilated. I had to estimate dosage based on weight, which is of course rather low in your case. Didn't want to over-do it. The sacrifice must be at least semi-conscious. Fear is part of the process.”
She tries to speak, to demand to know what's happening to her. She can't. She can only blink, move her eyes, and hear. Nothing else.
“Paralysis, but not to a dangerous degree,” says Bill. “We don't want to harm the subject, now do we? Well, at least, not yet.”
He moves away again. Because Rachel can't turn her head, he steps out of her view. He returns to put the brown-glass beer bottle on the table in front of her.
“It was clever of those ghosts, giving you a clue like that,” he says. “There are images of me hidden everywhere, you see, dozens of them concealed all over Furniss Manor. They form a significant part of the spell, the groundwork if you will. The symbol is the thing in magic. Like voodoo dolls, the image helps channel power!”
He picks up the square of black card that Charlotte left in the kitchen just a few short hours earlier. He puts the card on the table between them, then puts the beer bottle in the central circle.
“Hope you can make that out from there? It's quite a good likeness of Edmund Beaumont, Lord Furniss. Technically, that makes you my honored guest.”
The bottle is slightly too big, but the reflection in the curved glass is still clear enough, transforming the swirl of colored paint into a small portrait. It shows a man in Renaissance costume, complete with elaborate collar and neat beard. The man's eyes are cold, calculating, and ruthless. His mouth is curved in a cynical smile. The face is undoubtedly Bill's.
“Well, I know it's a Hollywood tradition for the bad guy to explain everything to the helpless heroine, but I'm afraid that's one ritual I don't have time for. See?”
He holds out his hand and she sees veins standing out like wires, nails yellow and ragged, brittle. Bill's face looks older, too, his skin gray and lined, eyes bloodshot, the whites actually yellowing as she watches.
Why did I not notice anything before? Is he falling apart moment by moment, decaying at an accelerated pace? His body making up for lost time?
“Yes, time is short!” he confirms. “This old body is entering its last regeneration. Soon, I will be liberated from all mortal limitations forever, or I will literally fall apart. A tricky business! But now, thanks to both of you, the odds of it working have vastly improved.”
Both of us? He's going to kill Tony!
He leans closer so she can smell his breath, and there's a whiff of the same foulness she first smelled in London, proof of his link to the demon.
“As I told you before,” he says, “none of it was down to chance. You had a sense of destiny from the start, you just didn't know that it was my destiny shaping your life! Everything significant that's ever happened to you brought you closer to this place, to this moment, to me! You exist to serve me, to be consumed by me.”
He places a hand on her abdomen.
“You, and your unborn child!”
Unborn child?! I can't be pregnant! I'd have known, Rachel thinks, her mind reeling. But then, why would he lie to someone he's about to kill? It must be true. Oh God, I can't die before we become a family! I've got to fight this bastard!
“Alone,” Edmund goes on, “you would be a wonderful source of occult energy, far more than any normal human. But the child that's growing inside of you is also gifted, in a sense, enchanted. An even more precious source of power to exploit. You will both form my Black Sun, the giver of eternal life!”
No!
But Rachel can't even scream as he lifts her out of her chair and half-carries, half-drags her out of the kitchen and towards the great hall of the house.
Chapter 12: The Black Sun
Stairways in fortified places spiral anticlockwise. Favors right-handed defenders when the enemy is coming up. Trouble is, that only helps when you're armed with swords, spears, and axes.
The thought pops into Tony's head as he kneels to take down the stone steps. Archie stands behind him, aiming the pistol with two hands. The torch is on the floor, throwing indirect light at whatever is about to emerge.
Tony sees a movement, what might be a huge head and set of shoulders emerging from the darkness. Archie fires, the shot deafening as sound rebounds from the stone walls. Tony fires, too, both barrels in quick succession, then breaks the shotgun to reload. Clouds of powder-smoke obscure the target almost completely in the gloom. But then Archie gasps and Tony sees their opponent.
Baalphegor is so broadly-built that he looks squat despite standing, at least, seven feet tall. The demon is almost a caricature, a cartoon devil, with mottled gray skin, glowing yellow eyes, and curved horns. But Tony sees now the difference between the idea and the reality; Baalphegor is truly monstrous. His mouth sags open in a drooling leer revealing canines that are almost tusks. The Haunter pauses in its climb to raise huge claws in mock supplication.
“Don't shoot, Major, please!” says the demon, “I'll come quietly! It's society that's to blame, I've had a really hard life!”
Archie fires again, three rapid shots, and the bullets strike home in the demon's torso. The demon's flesh simply expels the bullets and the holes in its flesh close up. Tony levels the shotgun and fires both barrels into the creature's face. The spray of pellets blast Baalphegor's features to a pulpy ruin, bursting both eyeballs. But again, the hole simply expels the lead shot and reforms in a heartbeat.
“Now it's my turn,” chuckles the monster, then puts on a tremendous turn of speed, charging up the stairs like a rugby footballer.
Tony only has time to stand upright before the huge creature knocks him down and the shotgun is sent flying. His head strikes the stone floor. Dazed, he can barely raise himself on one elbow to watch as the demon knocks Archie down, then scoops up his body and slings it over one immense shoulder.
“At least it will be quick, Major Beaumont,” rumbles Baalphegor, striding over to him.
As the demon scoops him up as well in its huge arms, the reek of its flesh overwhelms him. Just before he passes out, he hears the thing gloating.
“Time is short, soon I will be free. And so will you, your wife, and your unborn daughter. All liberated from your puny mortal bodies.”
***
Armstrong guides the snowplow towards the dim lights of Furniss Manor. Croft sits next to his sergeant while Bryce leans out of the open passenger door, gun in hand. They are just passing the round building that Croft recalls is a chapel of some kind. He keeps glancing around, half-hoping that the demon will appear and matters can be settled, either way. But all he sees are statues in the frozen landscape.
“Croft, is that someone running back to the house?”
The detective looks where Bryce is pointing. There does seem to be a tall figure sprinting across the snow. As they watch, there's a brief flood of light from the house's front door and they see an undeniably human form silhouetted against the yellow rectangle.
“Well, at least one of 'em's still alive, boss,” says Armstrong.
Croft wonders, Yes, but for how long?
“Quite a few of them should still be alive,” shouts Bryce above the diesel's roar. “The idea is to drain them of their life-essence. We may be able to save them if we can find them. There's a lot we simply don't know.”
“You can bloody well say that again,” mutters Armstrong.
The sergeant almost crashes the clumsy vehicle into a snow-covered mound but manages to stop in time. From its position, Croft guesses the mound is a car abandoned hours earlier. They've discussed what to do on the way up the drive, and now the three men climb out, each one carrying an iron weapon. In addition to Bryce with his gun and dagger, Armstrong has a large screwdriver and Croft
has a hefty wrench, both from the snowplow's toolbox.
“We'll start on the ground floor, and remember to stick close together!” warns Bryce, striding quickly towards the front door.
***
Rachel wakes in near-blackness.
After a few moments, her eyes adjust to the gloom and she sees that she's in the center of a circular room with a domed ceiling. She's lying on a crude wooden bench, bound to it by ropes at her wrists and ankles. The light is coming from a circling mass of glowing motes like fireflies. Dozens of them are whirling above her, sometimes one or two break out of the formation for a moment only to seemingly be sucked back in.
Where am I? It must be the chapel. The Sun, in Braid's scaled-down universe.
She remembers Bill's last words to her about the 'Black Sun'.
The Sun is the giver of life, so the Black Sun must take it away. From myself, and my baby. I didn't even know I was pregnant, and now we are the sacrifice.
Rachel struggles frantically, trying to pull her arms free of the ropes, but they're well-tied. She gives a gasp of despair, then shouts out.
“Help! Somebody help me? I'm trapped, I'm tied up!”
If Bill thought there was any chance of me being heard, he would have gagged me, she thinks. She starts jerking and writhing again, crying with fear and frustration.
The circling blue motes start to dip toward her. A few sweep close to her face, and each time Rachel feels a mental presence.
One of the glowing points expands to an orb, then resolves itself into the ghost of a teenage girl. Another mote expands, and a third, and soon, Rachel is surrounded by phantoms.
As well as the girl, there is a thick-set middle-aged man in winter clothes and an elderly couple holding hands. They all look anxiously down at Rachel, and the girl speaks.
“She sent us to tell you something, miss!”
“What? Who sent you?”
“The foreign lady, she says you know her,” says the old man.
“He's got us trapped here, but the murdering bastard's not in control, not properly anyhow!” snarls the thick-set man, unshaven face filled with rage.
The thief, Rachel thinks. The one taken to be Mercury, the trickster.
“He's right miss,” says the girl. “He stopped us talking to you for ages, but he's trying to do too much at once. We're strong enough to defy him for a minute or so.”
“The message, Maisie!” prompts the old woman.
“Oh yes, sorry missus! The foreign lady says you can free yourself if you put your mind to it, and then go to the Tower and sow discord among the proud.”
“What?” asks Rachel. “How can I free myself?”
But as she speaks the ghosts are fading, shrinking, and soon they are re-absorbed into the rotating cloud of glowing motes above her.
“How can I free myself?” she shouts.
If I put my mind to it. Worth a shot.
Rachel closes her eyes and tries to shove all thoughts and fears out of her mind. Moments pass, then minutes, as she struggles to recall how she floated free of her body under Bill's guidance.
Perhaps it was all him, maybe I can't do it?
She gathers all her willpower, all her confidence and sense of self-worth. She recalls her Dad telling her not to be a quitter. She sees again the Sentinels at Duncaster hailing her as the wise woman; the lady who sees the way to the high places. She remembers the ghosts of bombed, half-ruined London who needed her to be freed from their earthly torments.
I could always do it, I just didn't know. I can do any goddamn thing I like!
Rachel's spirit is suddenly free, flying up wildly like a bird that's barely learned to fly. She soars out through the chapel roof and into the winter night and sees the Manor laid out below. As before, the evil mechanism that harvests souls is lit by blue-ish lights. All the statues are marked by glowing, and the chapel shines brightest of all. Striving for control, she heads down slantwise towards the Tower, passes through the ancient stonework, and finds herself in the chamber from her dream of the night before.
The sorcerer is in the center of the pentacle, and facing him is the demon Baalphegor. Again, Rachel feels the psychic foulness of the creature, but this time, the wave of disgust is worse because any resemblance to Bill Rolt, the amiable scholar, is altogether gone. The robed figure before her is the centuries-old Edmund Beaumont, far gone in physical decay and as repellent as any demon.
As Rachel drifts into the chamber, two pairs of eyes turn to glare at her. Baalphegor emits its disgusting chuckle, while the sorcerer looks vaguely irritated. She recalls the ghost's claim that Edmund is losing control.
“Did you enjoy my performance earlier, mortal?” asks the demon, grinning hugely.
“You come to witness my triumph, Rachel?” croaks Edmund. “Very well, though it's obvious you won't live to tell the tale.”
Edmund turns back to the demon and raises his hands.
“Baalphegor, I conjure thee to do my bidding. By Araton, Garamadon, Liriel, Tiriel, and Zephon, by all the Lords of the Nether Worlds, by the Great Old Ones who ruled this world and will rule it again, I command thee to gift me life eternal! Bring me life's essence from thief and virgin, lord and warrior, graybeard and lover!”
The demon strides forward and stands over the hunched figure that continues to chant.
“Draw from the heart of the Black Sun the fountainhead of life from mother and daughter! Pervert the miracle, my servant, debase the sacred, give me all that I desire!”
Baalphegor reaches down and grasps Edmund's head between its massive paws. The demon stoops as the sorcerer opens his mouth, and then the creature gives a heave and starts to vomit into his master's mouth. Glowing green fluid cascades over Edmund's face, staining his robe and splashing onto the stone of the pentacle.
At the same time, Rachel feels a sudden stab of pain. Streams of dark energy flow into the chamber and she realizes that the accumulated energy of all the victims is being drained through Baalphegor, Edmund's slave and conduit. The pain grows, and with it a sense that it is not only her own life that is being drained. Within her body, another life is dying in the evil light of the Black Sun.
What can I do? How can I stop this? “Sow discord among the proud,” what does it mean? Lucifer was cast out of heaven for the sin of pride. Arrogance, selfishness, power-hunger, the characteristics of all evil beings. And this demon has been a slave for three hundred and fifty years!
“Baalphegor, he will not free you!”
The agony continues, and the demon shows no sign of having heard her. Edmund's body is now visibly growing, straightening up, his skin becoming less wrinkled. Rachel forces herself to move closer.
“Baalphegor, you will be a slave forever if you grant him immortality!”
Now the demon straightens up, still clasping Edmund's head in its hands, and turns a baleful look at Rachel. The pain recedes a little.
“I shall be free this very night! That was the covenant.”
“He's a liar! He deceived us all, used us all! If he becomes a true immortal, he will exploit you the same way!”
“She lies, Baalphegor!” shouts Edmund. “Continue with the ritual!”
The demon hesitates, looks down into the man's eyes.
“I am in thrall to you, mortal, but if you seek to deceive me, you will suffer an eternity of torment.”
“Can't you look into his mind? See for yourself if he plans to cheat you! What kind of shitty demon are you?”
“No!” cries Edmund. “I abjure thee, demon, to do my bidding!”
That was a bit too snippy, thinks Rachel, as the pain eases some more. But can the demon read Edmund's mind? And did I guess right about just how big a bastard he is?
Again, Baalphegor bends down over the man, but this time it glares deep into his eyes.
“Reveal your true desire to me, worm! I have waited too long to be cheated at the last moment!”
“No, I will free you, but you must complete the ritual!”
Edmund begins to wriggle in the demon's grasp, and grabs hold of the creature's colossal forearms to try and free his head. He struggles in vain as Baalphegor rams his vast skull against his master's forehead. The sorcerer is gabbling now.
“No, no, I abjure thee Baalphegor by Metraton and Shamshiel, by the sacred name, by the Great Old Ones, let me go, damn you, let me go!”
Instead of freeing the sorcerer, the demon jerks back his head and gives a hiss of fury.
“You see yourself bestriding this world like a colossus, mortal, slaying and debauching as you wish, and that is of no matter. But something else is there, a glimpse of a truth you seek to hide from me.”
“No, you are mistaken! Let me go!” Edmund tries to shake his head, sweat pouring down his face despite the freezing cold in the chamber.
“You keep the whole thought from me, but I see a thing like a dog at your feet, a slave or worse than a slave!”
“It's you, Baalphegor!” insists Rachel. “You'll be his little demon puppy dog, and if he gets annoyed, he'll kick you right in your fat red ass!”
The demon throws back his head and gives a roar.
“She lies! The woman lies, you stinking dullard!” cries Edmund, lapsing into the English of his youth. There is no disguising his terror now.
“I am bound by our covenant until the hour of midnight,” hisses Baalphegor, turning his yellow gaze on Rachel. “I cannot do him any real hurt or fail to serve his needs.”
Stunned, Rachel realizes that the monster needs her help.
“What happens if you refuse? Do you die?”
“No! Far worse! I will be bound to this earthly plane forever! And here I suffer as much agony as you would in my realm!”
“Then you're damned if you do and damned if you don't!” Rachel points out, playing for time in the hope of inspiration.
The demon gives another roar of fury, paralyzed by indecision.
“I abjure thee to work my will!” shouts Edmund.
A black-clad figure appears at the top of the spiral stairs and two shots ring out. Edmund gives a cry of pain and surprise. Baalphegor drops his supposed master onto the flagstones as two more men emerge from the stairway. Rachel recognizes the gunman as Colonel Bryce and the second man as the police officer from Newcastle.
The Haunter (The Sentinels Series Book 2) Page 14
