On the platform beneath the Anvil stood a fine woman with shining eyes, moving in rapid motions. She was completely batshit. Even amidst the chaos of the chamber, the cup she held – a plain thing to normal sight – drew his attention. Cole had never seen proper necromantic magic. Was this the artefact that raised the warrior spectre pacing above Andrew? Murk energy swirled around the cup with a deep, charred purple.
The woman with the cup was having some sort of fit as the Myriad magic the other mages were throwing around discharged in a crazy display of power and struck Her Nuttiness. It shrieked.
The Anvil’s diffuse pollution tightened into a single beam that passed straight through the ghost-fabric and struck Andrew, right in his vampire chest which hinged open as though he was about to feed. The flash that followed blinded Cole, but the unmistakable stink of burned-green vampire essence lifted out of Andrew’s chest, leaving his aura clear.
The maliciously spinning hole, the thing vampires called their souls, shot up toward the Anvil and rebounded off it, flying up and away like a bullet. A tiny trail of raw vampire leaked from the hole and funnelled out to the roof, disappearing. The trail was much smaller than the one he’d followed through the black-magic portal, but it was the same. He had just seen the creation of a vampire-ghost, he was pretty sure. The great black hole he’d seen flying above the fortress was the vampires’ souls, or evil fucking hearts, or whatever they were, torn out of their chests and wandering. It still didn’t explain why people were able to hear it in the city, but it explained its size, potency, noise and invisibility.
Ancroft slumped, released, and fell on the floor with a bruising thump. Hopefully, he’d broken something. He levered himself up on weak arms, the pink flesh of his chest rising and falling smoothly. Cole had just witnessed a miracle, and those were always bad news. Nothing came without a cost, and the bigger the miracle, the worse the price. It was no wonder his parasite hid inside him now. Implications blurred through Cole’s mind.
A flood of power washed from the Anvil, straight down, in a single, thick laser beam. Without warning, Cole’s brain was hauled forward in his skull as an indescribable weight pulled his mind down. The weight pulled his bindings, loosening his head so his vision tilted toward the immense gravity reaching up from below his feet. The platform became transparent, and he could see below clearly.
Burned-green cycloned upward, like a rainforest on fire captured in a tornado. A cloying heat washed over him, as though a furnace had been opened. Far below, through sky, smoke belched upward. Lights – unmistakably the city – shone through the smoky haze. Cole could make out a hole, shaped like a caldera, in the earth. It was by the side of Arthur’s Seat, which could only make what he saw the Pit. The powerful, thick limbs of beast vampires were propelling their broad, flat heads and blunt fanged mouths up toward the city from deep inside the caldera of the Pit. They hauled themselves toward the lip, moving fast and with a savage urgency. Far below them, in the belly of the Pit, hands that must have weighed a sun were pulling themselves up the rope of power the Anvil was injecting down into the Pit. Two great violet eyes burned up from the Pit, fixed on the sky.
The price for the miracle he had just witnessed was climbing toward the lip of the Pit; the source of the weight fracturing the place into pieces.
These women were turning vampires back to human, and the Anvil was drawing a god-like vampiric being out of the Pit in return. It was a trillion-pound bill for a fifty-pound steak dinner.
Frozen, held by the god-vampire’s gaze, Cole remembered Nessie’s bedtime stories. They had been full of myths and legends of the old world. Entire ages of the world had been lost at the birth of the oldest and most powerful of a species of monster: the one who fathered all others. The first of its kind was always the strongest. What was coming was surely the progenitor of the vampire race.
These women seemed completely oblivious to the danger of it. Couldn’t they see what was happening? Her Nuttiness’ face was a picture. She was stretched in what he would have described to anyone else as ecstasy. Blind, stupid ecstasy. Right under her feet, a birthing god crawled toward the soft, waiting world. Myriad mages were the perfect tools for this, blind to the world-ending black magic swirling right under their feet
Cole tried to scream, but he was still locked tight. His parasite squirmed. The siphon among the wytches, the necromancer, they wouldn’t have been blind to what was happening. Where the fuck were they?
Cole fought to speak, but his vocal cords were frozen as the Mother’s voice rang out.
‘Sisters, contain Andrew. I have thought of a more fitting punishment for Andrew Ancroft’s greed since our city’s armiger has brought us another human to power our ritual.’
Ancroft’s cry was cut off, paralysed by the binder who did some of the muttering and waving mages liked to do.
‘We will give Andrew back to the city, to live as a human being.’
Seemed Her Nuttiness was blind with a side order of vindictive.
‘Armiger, forgive me. Your body is a honed vessel your mind could never be. You are a broken soul. War is coming, and we will need warriors who can win it for humanity.’
Major deluded nutcase alert. This went way beyond standard bad-guy chat. Cole’s face ached. The rope of power from the Anvil had reduced to a thin line. The vampire progenitor paused in his ascent.
Her Nuttiness was a talker, like all true narcissists.
‘You will be my greatest experiment yet. Using the blessings of the Anvil, I will release you from the bind of the parasite you carry, and your life and body will be granted to a true champion of humanity. We raise Brude, son of Drust, Iron Gauntlet of the North, Pictish overking and, once, the scourge of the darkness.’ AKA tiny morsel for a massive god to pick his teeth with. Not that it would matter when the apocalypse hit in ten minutes, but this old king was probably a huge psychopath. Anyone referred to as Gauntlet could only be unstable.
Her Nuttiness smiled to herself, clearly pleased with her achievements. Great, a new champion and some vampires saved. And nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine years of species slavery in exchange, at the feet of a vampire-god. His voice remained paralysed. Probably for the best.
This king must be the ghost tramping around above him. The tiny spark raised by the possibility of the Anvil ridding him of his parasite wouldn’t matter a damn soon. Once the First Vampire climbed from the Pit, nothing the modern world held would stop him.
Cole wasn’t sold on the part where he died in this exchange, but at least he wouldn’t have to imagine the unimaginable fate that was currently a short climb away from freedom. Henry, beside him, might not survive this ritual either.
Her Nuttiness came over to him, staring at him with serene eyes. ‘You can rest, free of your burdens, and we will take the war to the corrupt Council you serve.’
There was a certain kind of bad guy who would do anything for a monologue. Usually, this presented a great opportunity to kick them in the teeth. The lengths of their monologues depended on the crazy scale, but there was truth to the stereotype perpetuated by James Bond villains. The real narcissists with anti-social leanings really couldn’t resist telling anyone who would listen all about how wonderful they were. Listening to this woman was like hearing a toddler say they were Van Gough after handing over a finger-painting of a stick man.
Chanting started from the magic users in the chamber. Cole and Henry were levered, utterly helpless, directly under the Anvil, their backs to the platform, just as Andrew had been moments before. How many more of these rituals could be had before the First broke free? The chanting echoed around the room, gaining tempo.
The binder had left him his tear ducts. Tears fell for Nat and Nessie, for Henry. A fate worse than death was coming for them, and he could do nothing at all to stop it. The filth in the atmosphere sucked up, above. If fate was kind, they would die in the shockwave of the First’s arrival at the top of the Pit.
The Anvil’s power lashed down; it str
uck Henry first, then an arc leapt, striking him. It squealed and the world vanished.
He was in pitch-black, on all fours. There were crumbling walls all around, close enough to touch. It felt like a tunnel in dirt. He could see nothing.
His parasite was no longer in him. He was free! It was gone. It felt different to the absence he had felt when the wytches’ prison had kept It at bay. That was more a loss of connection. He knew immediately – this was … freedom. Elation spiked, his stomach heaving in joy. Was this how it felt to be normal? It was peaceful inside. A long, keening call sounded from behind him. Then clicking sounds pulsed like nerve signals down the tunnel. A rumble began, low. In seconds, the rumble was louder.
It was coming.
‘Run, ye grave-hole!’ The voice came from all around. He crawled away from the approaching earthquake; the tunnel too narrow to stand upright in. ‘Move, ye fanny, what’s coming is too ugly fir words!’ Who the fuck was that? ‘Ahm in yer heid. That oat-sized skull pan o’ yours. I’m stuck in here with ye.’
The pscyho king? ‘Mah names Brude, shagger, now move yer arse, I dinny mean tae die trapped in this woeful excuse fir a mind.’ The ground pulsed rhythmically beneath his hands and knees. Cole crawled faster, the dirt and rocks scraping.
The earth was thick with things that moved. It was closing fast.
‘Git yer arse oot these tunnels!’
That was easier said than done. Cole crawled straight into a wall, a dead end. His hands groped for a turn, anything, any other way he could go that wasn’t back and into It.
The clicking sounded closer, loud in the tight space behind.
‘It’s there, laddie. Ah can see it. Dig up … do something!’
Fuck. He tried to stand, the soft earth showering around in a filthy tide.
‘It’s coming at ye!’
Soil refused purchase as he clawed through it.
‘Just stand up!’
He heaved with a push that left his legs burning and stood, his head breaking through the topsoil. His arms punched up, scrambling while he kicked his feet still trapped in the tunnel below.
He clawed up and out of the tunnel, lashing and kicking his exposed legs. It would skewer him any moment and drag him back down there. Outside, above the tunnel, was pitch-black. All around, shapes moved in darkness. The stillness was total and pregnant with menace, like a million hostile ears were listening for food. A great buzzing, chittering sound went up around him. The banquet had just arrived.
He broke free, scrambling to haul himself away across the wet, slimy ground.
‘Dinny think aboot what yer running on, trust me; I can see whit that thing is.’ Fucking marvellous. Why didn’t Brude try giving him some direction instead of the commentary?
A keening wail sounded from the hole.
‘Think on yer ain time, run!’
Where was he meant to go?
‘Forward, just move like there’s a headsman behind ye.’ Cole didn’t want to know. He stumbled forward. ‘Pick up yer feet – its bumpy here! Left – put yer hand oot!’ The ground sloshed, melted, squelched and hardened. It was like running on a pool of medical waste. His shoulders hit shapes as things scratched and scraped his skin.
Behind him … no, under him a rumble shook.
‘Jump!’
He leapt, landing hard against something solid, knocking his breath out. Something spiky crawled on his back. Earth showered over him as It came up from the deep. Fear bled into something hot and familiar. Fuck this and fuck It: If Cole was going to die here, he’d do it on his feet.
Fists balled, he leapt up. ‘Come on then!’ Hot, rancid air streamed into his face as an impossibly loud scream burst his ears. The memory of Its rage boiling, from when It had worn him, flashed. He could see the well-worn trenches in his body through his mind’s eye, where It had fed on his anger and hate.
‘Cole, when you’re not being crazy eyes – when you’re calm and being decent? I can’t feel that thing.’
Ice poured up inside his guts, like a tumbler full of bourbon and coke. Even now, thinking about whisky. He forced his breath to calm.
It stabbed the ground. It was hard to make It out in the blackness. Cole stood before It, totally vulnerable. His weapons weren’t with him in this horrible place.
‘Eh, ye might want tae run or something?’ One of them had to be in charge, and if It got in the driver’s seat, they were all fucked. It hadn’t known what to do, back when they’d arrived at the fortress. Cole wouldn’t show a dog who was boss by being scared of it. Its clicking sounded low. He could hear It as It stalked, side to side.
He waited.
‘Whit are ye doing?’
He was keeping calm and using his brain.
‘Ahm in that acorn of yours – if that’s what you’re relying on, we’re dead meat.’
He couldn’t fight murder and win. He had to hope he could show It what was best for both of their survival. It stamped; he could just make out Its needle-like gauntlets gouging the earth. They looked a lot like Cole’s fist-knives after he’d siphoned.
‘It’s okay, pal. It’s only me.’ What was he on about? But the clicking subsided to a low heartbeat rhythm. ‘It’s okay.’ Cole stepped forward, his hand inching closer and closer, not sure where the darkness ended and It began; some part of his mind recoiling as he reached out.
It stirred with skittish violence. It might attack on a whim. Fucking great. He edged closer.
‘Are ye mental?’
Cole ignored the old king. His hand touched It. Its skin was rocky, rough and cold. Suddenly, It shrieked murder, exploding into motion. Cole fell; It was a huge shape in the dark, rearing up. Something long and needle-sharp punched down into his gut. Breath left him in an instant as his heart tried to escape his body.
He waited for the pain from the rending, sucking puncture wound and massive body trauma. The seconds shivered by. There was no pain, but between Cole and It, a tiny whirling blackness hung, haloed in burned-green. The black hole hovered, just like a vampire soul or a dark-magic portal.
The portal hung, dreadful and beautiful, and a soft disc of light began burning around its outline in a tiny spiral. Its other limb, or whatever the gauntlet was, stabbed forward out of the darkness, twisting where the first had punctured. Breath fell on his face. It was inches away.
Cole looked down, not sure what he would find. Inside the wall of his body, a tiny light glowed inside his gut. It was off-white, like the power of the Anvil. It vanished, the black hole suspended between them swelling to a huge size for a fraction of a second, as if the universe had blinked, then It was back within him, inside his guts. It could make portals.
Cole jolted back to his body, snapped hard into reality. Noise boomed all around. Solid plates of protection, his gut armour, locked down around It. Natalia stood over him, her hand extended down toward him. A voice sounded in his ear.
‘Who’s this lovely lass, then? Ye’ll have tae introduce us – it’s been a thousand years!’
Chapter 26
On instruction, Natalia led the men of the Northern Lodge from the Council chambers, across Abbeyhill and down Leith Walk, toward Lorne Street. Nessie had a plan. She wasn’t sure why, but he seemed intent on reaching the place where she had come back into the city.
The soldiers were wearing camo-patterned backpacks and long overcoats to conceal their rifles issued from the Council’s weapon stock. Before Natalia left the Council barracks, she had extended her protection around Cruickshank and his men. The memory made her skin crawl. Extending like that always gave her a sense of a person, and Cruickshank’s men were various shades of bitter and cruel. Cruickshank himself was emptiness. While they walked, Cruickshank’s eyes leered at her, his gaze flicking up and down every time he caught her eye, like a printer scanning a piece of paper.
Princess, he’d taken to calling her, in that demeaning way men like him operated. She ignored him; her anger would have filled something in him she didn’t want to feed. His
soldiers were little better – cold and menacing, moving too close to her when they passed.
As soon as they reached Lorne Street, the men changed. They were sharp, focused and disciplined. They had moved to secure the approaches down the street, standing watchful and ready. The Northern Lodge had a reputation for ruthless violence matched only by their intolerance for all things supernatural. She and Nessie would need to watch their backs around these men in combat. And the men would need to be watched around the wytches, if they were to stand any chance of taking the Order of the Light down with minimal casualties. She still held hope.
As she approached the side alley on Lorne Street, she could vaguely sense Cole. He had passed that way, and it had to have been recently. Their bond had been intact for years, but now they were no longer bonded, her ability to sense him would dwindle quickly. Had he been captured on this side of the portal, in pursuit of the truth behind the vampire disappearances? What mess would she find on the other side? At least Cole would be contained in the pocket of the Ways, if he had fallen. Her heart fractured under the heavy duty that approached.
She couldn’t think about the good times; Cole had brought this end on himself. If he’d not been so insolent to the Council, he would have kept her protection. And she might have saved the wytches. He’d always been angry and rash, and she’d always protected him. But his pain might have cost more than she could give this time.
Nessie strode toward the wall, looking. It seemed useless. She moved close to him. She had to be careful about questioning him in front of Cruickshank. ‘Commander, how are we going to find them? We can’t see the portal; we don’t even know it’s here, never mind how to use it.’
Nessie ran his fingers along the brickwork as he spoke. ‘When Myriad creatures lived among our city populace, they could be tracked and followed through the Ways. The Ways are a Myriad construct, and creatures of the Myriad passing through it leave a signature. This appears to be so they could find each other easily. Some of our magi predicted the dying connections we see in the Ways today, if the creatures of the Myriad were ever to leave us. Their theory was that the portals sustained themselves on, or because of, the Myriad creatures using them.’
The Cost of Magic (The Ethan Cole Series Book 1) Page 29
