The calamity came to a grudging end.
The three Representatives stood amid scorched earth. Mrs. Gimble was burning like an effigy and Mr. Pig Iron was missing his right arm, while Mr. Crane’s tie had gone badly askew.
None of this seemed to trouble them.
Mrs. Gimble passed her hand before her absent face, and fire gathered in her hand. She offered the flame to him reverently, the blaze nestled in her palm like a precious stone.
John was smothered by flame in an instant.
Only the lime-green radiance of a barrier separated him from immolation.
“Why fight what is inevitable/best for you/mandatory?” Mrs. Gimble asked. “The difference between us is far too great. You should admit defeat/submission.”
John banished the flames and the barrier with a wave of his hand.
“You are wrong,” John said, brushing ash from his coat. “I am the only appropriate solution to this problem, and it is time that you recognized that fact.”
John disappeared, and then reappeared behind the bulky figure of Mr. Pig Iron. He squared up and threw a straight right, his fist crackling with vivid blue telekinetic energy. His hand went straight through Mr. Pig Iron’s chest and emerged between the lapels of its white suit, expelling an inky mass of tubes and pulsating tumors across the ground. The air around them was thick with charged Ether, excited by the force of John’s simultaneous telepathic attack.
Horns tore out of Mr. Pig Iron’s back, impaling John.
John spat blood and groaned, cursing when he looked at the horns perforating his chest and stomach. John closed his eyes, and his body turned to a cloud of ash that swirled away, caught by a wind that seemed to affect nothing else.
The ash coalesced not far from where the Representatives of the Fifth Assembly stood, taking on form and rigidity, creating a grey cast of John Parson’s features. The mold cracked, and John stepped from the ash, coughing into his hand.
“This would be an excellent time for my allies to arrive,” John Parson suggested, dabbing the blood from his lips. “Really, any sort of intervention would be appreciated.”
The Representatives waited. John glanced at his watch and sighed.
“I was a fool to trust Emily Muir,” he said, running his fingers through his hair. “Not the first, and likely not the last, I suppose.”
“You are a fool,” Mrs. Gimble agreed. “All who trust/clutch/cling are foolish.”
Mr. Pig Iron extracted a wet piece of paper from the void hovering above his neckline, and then gingerly unfolded the scrap with his backward fingers, holding up the result for all to read.
The word “weakness” was written in crude pencil scratches across the soggy paper.
“Can you really afford to be so critical?” John asked. “There are three of you, and only one of me, after all.”
John flexed his fingers, and claws extruded from his cuticles. He bared his pointed teeth.
The Representatives watched without comment, Mr. Pig Iron’s gelatinous guts still leaking from a gaping hole in his chest.
John blinked out of existence, and then stepped from nowhere to tear a chunk out of Mrs. Gimble’s side. His claws left deep gouges along her side, cinders bleeding out from between the dull ivory of her exposed ribs. Her smoldering blood stuck to John’s claws, and the smell of scorched cartilage predominated.
Mrs. Gimble unhinged her jaw like a snake and spewed a torrent of blue-white fire. John apported, jumping behind Mr. Crane and laying into him with both sets of claws, shredding his suit and the flesh beneath like crepe paper, viscera squelching between John’s talons.
John was struck with a bolt of telekinetic force that knocked him over and flattened him to the ground, crushing the air from his lungs and grinding his bones into the topsoil. He apported several meters to Mr. Crane’s left, only to be pulverized by two colliding telekinetic strikes, invisible force splintering his ribcage, launching fragments of crushed bone into his organs.
He turned to ash with an exasperated sigh.
The ash drifted across toward the brushfire that was consuming the dry grass above the library and formed into a grey statue. John broke free from the mold, looking markedly the worse for wear. Blood dripped from his nose and mouth, and the vessels in his eyes burst, staining his sclera.
“This is becoming troublesome,” John complained. “If you would just…”
“No more talk,” Mr. Crane said, with the voice of a thousand clamoring sea birds. “End this.”
Mr. Pig Iron gestured like a composer urging a crescendo from a lackluster orchestra, and mineral spikes burst from the loam to skewer John, puncturing his arms and legs, running him through at the hip and breastbone.
Mrs. Gimble opened her mouth wide and breathed a river of blue flame into him, incinerating his clothes and burning his skin to a charred, flakey black.
Mr. Crane glowered, and the sheer malice of his empathic assault stripped green needles from the nearby pines even as it fractured John’s consciousness, pulverizing his identity into a fine powder.
John turned to ash, but this time, the ash drifted aimlessly, settling on the dirt not far from where his body had been.
The cast formed slowly, as if the ash struggled to recall its former shape. The mold cracked, and John Parson collapsed in the dirt, his clothing soaked through with blood and his breath rattling in his throat.
“You would have died for your failure. Those who oppose the Church of Sleep are not allowed to die,” Mr. Crane explained, speaking in the voice of tide pounding the sand. “It is not deserved. You will be taken to the White Room.”
“You will be abused/violated,” Mrs. Gimble said, looming over the dying man. “You will never leave the White Room. This is a permanent arrangement.”
Mr. Pig Iron reached its hand into his abdomen, its fingers pushing easily through the skin. It made a fist and then pulled, disemboweling him. John screamed, but his scream died as his skin burned away, the interior of his lungs scorched when he tried to breathe.
John could not laugh, but he smiled even as blood dribbled from his lips.
Mr. Pig Iron watched in astonishment as his arm began to dissolve, the flesh dripping from his bones like candlewax.
“I warned you,” John said, pinching the skin back together across his chest. “You are making an error, and I plan to correct it personally.”
Mrs. Gimble watched Mr. Pig Iron dissolve into a pink and grey puddle, and then turned to her companion.
“Go,” she told Mr. Crane. “Find the Changeling. I will deal with this failure/mistake.”
Mr. Crane nodded and reached out with fingers that were little more than bone and rags, hooking the sharp edges of its fingernails into the fabric of reality, and then tearing it open.
Mr. Crane took a step into the wound he created.
“That won’t do at all,” John said, tugging his clothing back together, the cloth reknitting as smoothly as the flesh and bone had. “I have a better idea.”
Mr. Crane screamed like one of the dying Horrors overhead, the tear in reality closing behind him as he disappeared.
“You sent Mr. Crane somewhere,” Mrs. Gimble observed. “Why?”
“I cannot claim that I saw all of this coming, but I had an ally who made some very good guesses,” John said, fixing his cufflinks and adjusting his jacket. “I’ve had years to cultivate options and resources. Mr. Crane will find himself suitably occupied while I deal with you.”
“This is not it. You are broken,” Mrs. Gimble said. “You will be consumed/purged.”
The smile evaporated from John’s face.
The Church of Sleep seemed to loom over him, though its lines remained perfectly straight and infinite. He found himself standing in the shadow of the white tower, though the sky had gone dark, and the light of the grassfire was not enough to cast such a great shadow.
The Church did not open, because it had no doors.
The Church did not take him inside, because it had no in
side.
The Church loomed, and then John was gone, only a faint wisp of steam remaining where he once stood.
***
They chanced Alistair’s codes, because the risk of arriving in Hvolsvöllur any other way was judged to be even greater. Whatever his intentions were in handing them over, the access codes worked perfectly, and the apport station was promptly provided with coordinates and calculations.
They arrived in Iceland just before the dawn, though the sun had never entirely disappeared for the last several days, due to the season and the latitude.
Anastasia started toward the manor, her staff hurrying after her.
Mai jostled Renton, pushing him aside and muddying his shoes.
“You are wrong, you know,” she said, giving him an icy look as she walked past. “This is not a mistake. You are a witness to the rising of the Black Sun.”
Renton smiled at her and took a handkerchief from his jacket pocket.
“Poetry at a time like this,” he muttered, bending to wipe the muck from his shoes. “What are you doing, Ana?”
***
I don’t see anything special.
Be careful. We have two Operators down since yesterday on this street, and no reason to think that they’ve moved on.
Yeah, but…it seems fine. It seems normal. Empty.
Just hold back for a second. Hayley, what do you have?
I’ve been using a stray cat to scope out the next few blocks, and they look deserted. Either the Thule Operators are good enough to hide their Etheric Signatures, or this whole neighborhood is empty.
Okay. Still feel like taking a little walk, Grigori?
That sounds preferable to hiding around the corner all afternoon. I’m moving out.
Grigori finally turned the corner where he had been lingering for more than ten minutes, crouched beside a torched Mercedes, his nostrils filled with the stink of melted tires and singed plastic, waiting for the go-ahead from Rebecca.
He walked with the easy gait of a man on a neighborhood stroll, his body language as nonchalant as training and telepathic preparation could make it.
He braced himself for the crack of the sniper’s rifle as he stepped into the open but was met with silence. That should have been a welcome development, but instead it just made him feel worse.
The Auditors had been in Central since before dawn, clearing occupied blocks, destroying sniper nests, and dealing with barricades and booby-traps across downtown. It had been hard fighting, the whole way, and Grigori was completely unnerved by the empty street he was currently walking.
The colorful row of houses known locally as the Easter Eggs had suffered greatly in the Thule occupation, and every third house was burned out or toppled. Broken windows and kicked-in doors on the remainder of the homes offered evidence of the widespread looting that had taken place during the occupation. Grigori glanced at the upper windows, wondering a little about survivors, and more about snipers.
The Operation had been conducted cautiously, in a radical departure from Ms. Gallow’s leadership of the Auditors. Ms. Levy considered every step of their deployment carefully.
To his surprise, Grigori was not entirely sure he liked it.
Their advance was a complicated dance, requiring Ms. Levy to act as remote observer and tactician, while Hayley scouted ahead and provided telepathic support. Min-jun was their barrier tech, while Xia was tasked with removing barricades, destroying traps and explosives, and occasionally burning out buildings when the Thule Cartel soldiers inside refused to surrender.
That left only Grigori to play decoy.
He cleared the first block of the Easter Eggs without incident and was nearly clear of the second when the screaming started. Grigori spun about, trying to locate a source.
Where is that coming from? It sounds like someone is dying!
What do you mean? Hayley replied. I’ve got nothing. There’s no Signature or…
Grigori caught a flash of movement from the shop on his right hand. Another scream rang in his ears, even more horrific than the prior one.
It was a woman, Grigori was sure. A woman screaming in pure agony, or unmitigated distress.
Listen to me, Grigori, Rebecca interjected. It isn’t what you think! I want you to wait for...
The third scream started, and Grigori kicked the door down, and burst inside.
“Hello? Tell me where you are, and I’ll…”
There was a terrific sound accompanied by a wave of pressure, like a train passing by so close that he could feel the wind on his skin. His last thought was to activate his protocol, and then Grigori was carried from his feet, and deposited on the concrete several meters away. There was no pain.
Grigori! Are you okay? What happened!
He’s alive! He’s alive. I’ve got him. It was a…
The second detonation was like wind passing through the grass – nearly soundless, a ripple of force that whipped through his surroundings, breaking what could not bend with it.
His protocol activated without his willing it, without even a conscious thought, a brute force activation that scoured out his head from inside. The air was knocked from his lungs, and then he was sent flying again, stopping only when he collided with one of the shop walls.
***
Alex was checking the gear he had cobbled together for the second time, tightening the straps on his field bag when Leigh arrived, tossing her gear beside his own.
“Hey,” the vampire said. “Guess we’re all going together?”
“I guess. We were supposed to go with Marcus, but he didn’t show, or something like that,” Alex said, shrugging nonchalantly, though he was happy for any conversation. Eerie had not spoken a word since breakfast. “Emily doesn’t really tell me much.”
“Probably because you never ask questions,” Leigh said. “Or you ask stupid questions.”
Vivik walked into the apport station before Alex could respond, his arrival timed so close to Leigh’s that Alex suspected they had walked together, and only split to avoid public notice.
“Could be,” Alex said, grinning at Vivik. “I don’t miss everything, though.”
“Good morning,” Vivik said. “What’s happening?”
“Nothing exciting,” Alex said. “We’ve been waiting around for an hour.”
He took his maintenance kit from his bag and started to clean the lens on the scope he never used, for the rifle he rarely used.
“I thought you guys were going with Marcus?”
“That was the plan,” Alex said. “Like I said, we waited, but he never showed.”
“That settles it,” Leigh said. “If Marcus didn’t show, he has either betrayed us, or he’s dead.”
“Marcus wouldn’t betray us,” Emily said with conviction. “He wouldn’t do that.”
“Then he’s dead,” Leigh said, sitting beside Alex and stealing one of his cleaning rags for her sidearm, which she rapidly dissembled. “What else?”
“I don’t know,” Emily said. “I truly have no idea.”
“That’s ominous,” Leigh said. “Thanks for the reassurance, boss.”
“Would you rather that I lied to you?”
“Not too often,” Leigh said. “Only about the important things.”
Mitsuru pushed open the door to the apport station, then held it so that Adel and another technician could scramble into the room. They were breathing hard and sweating heavily, burdened by full backpacks and armloads of tech gear.
“Sorry for the delay,” Adel gasped, hurrying to the control panel. “We burned out a hard drive this morning recalibrating, and I had to go all the way to Processing to find another. We’ll have it up in just a few minutes…”
“That will be fine, Adel,” Emily said, smiling gently at the technician. “We appreciate you getting this done on such short notice.”
Alex noticed that Eerie was pacing the apport station, her sneakers squeaking when she turned about at the edge of the metal platform. He shoved the scope
in his bag, pushed the maintenance kit into Leigh’s lap, and hurried over to the Changeling’s side.
“Are you okay?” Alex put a hand on her shoulder. “You seem worried.”
“We need to go,” Eerie said, wide-eyed and nearly hyperventilating. “We don’t have much time. We don’t have any time!”
“It’s okay,” Alex said. “We’ll be there in just a few minutes.”
“Why isn’t Marcus here? Why didn’t he come?” Eerie tugged at her hair. “This has never happened before!”
“This is the first time any of this has happened,” Alex reminded her. “There’s bound to be some surprises.”
“Not for me,” Eerie said. “That’s not how it is supposed to work.”
***
The mud was thick as paste in the furrows and the elevated banks around the Thule estate. The vampire carried the Mistress of the Black Sun carefully across the worst of it, perching her delicately on one of his narrow shoulders. The maids had prudently worn plastic bags over their shoes for protection, but Renton and Simeon were coated to their knees. Donner and Blitzen were caked with brown mud from their paws to their ears, and slunk about miserably, waiting for the humans to clear the mire.
They assembled before the gates of the Thule estate, grimy and chilled by the arctic winds.
Lord Gao set Anastasia carefully down on a dry spot on the dirt road. She surveyed her troops, then fixed her eyes on Daniel Gao and nodded.
Daniel bowed and then disappeared.
Sure, Renton thought sourly. Why not?
***
Grigori brushed plate glass from his clothes as he limped from the wreckage of the shop. He was pale and bleeding from scratches on his face and arms, and he had a pronounced limp.
The concussion was the worst of it. Grigori was dazed and nauseous, and even Central’s muted light was too much for his eyes.
“I see you’re still alive. That’s fine. I’m not mad about it.” Alistair grinned at him, backgrounded by burning buildings. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard the news? Probably not, what with being in the field and all.”
The Church of Sleep (Central Series Book 5) Page 76
