The conflagration of the Earth raged around him, below him…he felt himself lifted from the ground, heading upwards. The snow-dusted fields below became postage stamps of white and scarlet before the fire obliterated them. He saw towns and cities overwhelmed by the blanket of fire that raced over the ground with ferocity, speed and a sheer hunger that surpassed any earthly inferno.
A fire that now spread across the planet. Once, the Earth viewed from space was a precious jewel of oceanic blue and swirling, pristine white. Now it was a sickening parody, a malevolent globe of raging fire that burned in the heavens.
Andraste’s promise of oblivion was delivered right before his eyes. Still the fires raged, though surely there could be nothing combustible left on the planet now. Surely…
“Oh Jesus…”
You see now. Is this not proof enough?
What he saw now wasn’t a planet in flames. It wasn’t a fire. Perhaps it never was.
In the mere seconds it had taken to overcome the Earth’s surface, the destructive wave had possessed the characteristics of fast moving lava. And a shade of scarlet far deeper, far more luminescent than that found in the bowels of the Earth.
The same shade of scarlet as the eye of Andraste.
The scarlet wave was slowing now, thickening. Brightening. A second eye of Andraste had been created.
A second eye, countless billions of light years from its twin. And in between them, an immeasurable distance that stretched from this solar system to the end of the universe.
All of creation was within Andraste’s eyes.
Now he knew for certain that All Souls had been taken in by lies and falsehoods. The belief that the Fellowship had taken as their creed was a false one. But not even Freeland saw this.
Andy doubted if anyone had seen the full extent of Andraste’s desire. Whereas the doubters - Freeland and Jason Franklin - had seen the truth behind the lie, that the propitiation strengthened Andraste rather than appeased her, it was unlikely they had witnessed this.
Andraste didn’t just want the Earth, she wanted everything. And so certain was she of her triumph she had become even more arrogant. She had shown Andy her true plan because she was certain he was powerless to prevent it. She wanted to feel his despair, savour his agony, knowing that not only was the love of his life to be sacrificed to an ancient evil, her soul was to be condemned to eternal agony. And all to complete Andraste’s passport to the secrets of the universe.
This was far worse than a pointless sacrifice. This was an abomination. It couldn’t happen. He couldn’t allow it to happen.
You still believe you can make a difference? Her laughter rang in his head. You enjoy fighting a battle that is already lost? What can you possibly do now?
“Put me back in All Souls, bitch. You’ll see what I can do.” He kept his voice calm, filled it with a confidence he didn’t feel. But he wasn’t defeated just yet. The fact that Andraste was so keen to boast to him gave him hope. Her attitude was one of conceit and pride - human failings.
Human failings that could be exploited.
“Back to the Hall. Give me a chance to prove you wrong.”
Your arrogance amuses me. You have no hope of convincing the Master of what you have seen. He has made his decision. He will not waver.
Still, it will please me for you to see with your earthbound eyes the ravages your lady undergoes. Franklin will be happy to show you…
Candlelight. His eyes were filled with dozens of burning candles. Each flame writhed in its wick and tallow prison as frantically as the lost souls in Andraste’s limbo.
He could smell them as well. Melting wax. The burning of disturbed dust motes that fell in their path. The familiar odour of cold, ancient stone. He was back in the Great Hall of All Souls College.
He blinked. Flaring candlelight, displaced dust…that should have told him something. But what?
He looked down. His hand was still clasped firmly on the meteorite. It felt warm, and his palm was slick with sweat. The weight of the SPAS 12 was painful on his shoulder.
He jerked his hand from the stone, rubbing the palm with his fingers. He looked up. The candles danced again, energised by something. The air rushing past them as something - or someone rushed behind the table, behind Andy…
He spun round. The shotgun flew from his grip, crashing to the floor with a clattering sound as the head porter smashed his two-way radio into Andy’s bicep. A jab to the stomach followed.
Winded, fresh pain added to the wounds caused by the boar last night and the policeman’s assault, Andy could only stare helplessly through a red mist of agony as Franklin kicked the shotgun away and lifted him up by the armpits, preventing him from sagging to the floor and raising him up to eye level.
“Hope you learned something, Hughes,” he said coldly. He squeezed his fingers under Andy’s armpits, bringing a fresh cry of pain. “Some lesson, eh laddie? That’s just the start. Your real education starts here.”
Franklin cocked his head and looked over Andy’s shoulder.
“Well, Master? What d’you say? Do we let him see how little Jennie’s going to save the world?”
The Master stared sadly at Andy’s back. “I think he’s earned the right to say goodbye to her properly. He can have that at least.”
Franklin grinned. He picked the shotgun up from the floor, jabbed Andy in the gut with the barrel and spun him around.
“Okay, bastard,” he whispered into Andy’s ear. “Come and see just how sweetly your lady sings to Andraste.”
The barrel of the SPAS 12 pressing into his spine, his stomach and upper arm on fire from Franklin’s assault, Andy Hughes staggered, half pushed, half supported by the head porter, to the double doors of the Hall where the Master was heading. Outside, to the chapel, where Jennifer Callaby waited for Andraste.
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
Jennifer Callaby had reached the point where she no longer knew if she was alive or dead. The darkness kept slipping over her eyes like a storm-tossed wave, so thick and heavy it felt solid. Reassuring, comforting, because it contained the promise of permanent oblivion.
And then the candles would punch bright holes in that blanket, light that reminded her of where she was and what she was going through. Then the pain would return. Waves of agony that spread throughout her body and had her curling up even tighter in her foetal position: rocking and shuddering on the cold stone of the cellar floor.
She didn’t know how long she’d been here, or when the fingers on her left hand had been taken. She could still taste the blood that had slipped down her throat from her broken nose, sickly sweet and metallic, making her gag. She’d had enough presence of mind to angle her head forward to stop more of the blood slipping down her throat, but this instead made it flood her already blocked nasal passages, adding to the pressure of the clotted blood already there. It was the chef who had done that, she remembered. That bastard Cassell. On arriving at the porter’s lodge she’d been directed to the kitchens, shown where to change into the overalls.
And the door had opened suddenly: the huge, sweaty bulk of the head chef bursting in on her and restraining her with one flabby but powerful arm before she had a chance to scream. Breaking her nose with the handle of the carving knife…
Candlelight reflected on something metallic nearby, a reddish glint in the corner of her eyes. She remembered seeing it before, wielded by the man who had taken the first of her digits. It was motionless now, lying on the thick, black cloth along with the other knives.
And here they still were, waiting to be used on her. So why are they delaying? What are these bastards waiting for?
She lifted her head from the floor, wincing at the fresh pain that hammered behind her eyes. She looked to the left, then to the right, her eyes streaming in the merciless glare of the candles. Nothing moved in the shadows beyond the candles. No one else’s breath misted in the air apart from hers. She was alone.
Had they been interrupted by something? Or was this ju
st one more part of the torture, to leave her alone with the instruments of her destruction, to imagine where they would cut, what parts of her would be sliced away next?
And all with no explanation. That was the worst part of it. She had no idea why they were doing this.
“No reason,” she croaked. The nearest candle fluttered in the breath from her lips, and the light on the knives lengthened. Her blood pooling around the stumps at the end of the palm turned from scarlet to black and then scarlet again. She stifled a cry and looked back at the knives.
They almost seemed to glow with the stolen souls of their former victims. Jennifer Callaby knew that she was not the first victim to feed the knives. And she knew that the former victims had gone through exactly the same despair she was. They too were given no reason. They too were ravaged: cut piece by piece, howling for release, screaming why?
She wept then. She wept for herself and she wept for those who had gone before her. But most of all, she wept for those who would surely follow her.
The candle flames danced again, higher, burning brighter, and she felt a colder rush of air on her back. She heard footsteps on stone stairs. A torch beam played across the dripping stone of the back wall, the shadows rearing as if to strike. She turned her head and the beam shone directly into her face.
And then she heard a voice she thought she would never hear again.
“JENNIFER!”
It was the only time she could remember him raising his voice. The only time he had ever shouted.
She looked towards the open door. The despair lifted from her at the sight of Andy Hughes.
It lifted for a few seconds only. When she saw the horror on his face, the haunted look in his eyes and the shotgun levelled at his head by Franklin, the despair came crashing back.
So they had Andy as well.
* * * * *
Andy froze, struck motionless at what he saw illuminated by Franklin’s flashlight. The head porter played the beam over the woman’s body slowly, from head to toes and then back again. Forcing Andy to see what Jen had been reduced to.
For just a brief moment there was hope in her eyes, a light of recognition and love, but just for a moment. Her eyes took in the weapon held to his head and the man holding it, and then that light died. Her eyes closed and a despairing sob worked itself free. Her head sank to the bloodstained floor again.
The sight of her mutilated left hand triggered something inside Andy. It was confirmation of his final fears: not only could he lose Jen, he would lose her in the most painful, obscene manner possible.
All to perpetuate a lie as old as humanity. The black rage overwhelmed him, pure, dark fury coursed through his body faster than the adrenaline that followed.
Franklin was still behind him. He could feel the cold muzzle of the SPAS-12 pressed tightly into the back of his head. He also knew that Franklin’s free hand was taken up with the flashlight.
Andy’s left foot left the floor and the ankle of his boot scraped down Franklin’s shin. Andy twisted his head away from the muzzle of the shotgun, whirled round, ducked and punched Franklin in the gut. Even in such a confined space Andy managed to impart enough force to dig his bunched knuckles right up and under the head porter’s diaphragm.
The bellow of pain and surprise roared around the stone walls of the cellar. Light spun crazily as the flashlight fell from Franklin’s grip and tipped over the ledge of the stone step. Before it fell to the floor and knocked over the candles nearest to Jen it lit the head porter’s face in a leprous mask of pain and fury, yellowed teeth bared in a bestial snarl. Then it was gone, just an afterimage burned onto Andy’s retinas.
In that split second Andy saw that Franklin had his index finger outside the trigger guard, not inside curling around the trigger.
He knew it wouldn’t stay that way for long. He pulled his fist back, rose and lashed out at where he thought Franklin’s face was, his left hand reaching for the SPAS 12.
His right fist was on target, but only just. Franklin must have jerked his head back because Andy’s fist only scraped along his left cheek, his thumbnail gouging a large scratch. His left hand made brief contact with cold metal. Metal that fought back.
An explosion rocked the cellar, and everything within was briefly illuminated. But it was Franklin’s face that dominated Andy’s view, the blood welling from the cut in his cheek, soaking his moustache a bright crimson. The eyes shone with manic glee at the confrontation, no trace of pain in his features at all.
Over his left shoulder Andy could see the shocked, open-mouthed face of the Master, his hands coming up to his ears - too late to block out the deafening sound from the combat shotgun.
Then Andy smelled the smoke and cordite, the burning blood and flesh of a shotgun wound.
The room tilted, his whole body forced off balance. It was only when he fell backwards down the stairs, his head jarring on the edge of the last step and bringing instant blackness, that he realised that the burning blood and flesh was his own.
* * * * *
The hijacked cook-chill van went through the outskirts of the woods at a speed Rob Benson thought was unwise, given the lack of visibility and the deadly cargo onboard.
The Transit dipped suddenly, an unseen pothole in the frozen dirt track making the vehicle rock violently on its springs. He swallowed nervously as one of the full petrol cans rolled against his thigh with a thick sloshing sound. The cap hadn’t been tightened properly and fluid spilled down the neck of the container.
There were four of them in total, five if he included the one emptied out on the last boar. The smell of petrol was strong in the cab, and for once he didn’t feel like lighting up a cigarette.
“Careful, young mentalist,” Rob snapped. He pushed the can back with the Browning Hi-Power nervously. “What the fuck are these for, anyway?”
Jason was hunched over the steering wheel. He grinned at Rob, then the side mirror. “I think you know, Roberto.”
“Repeat performance of last year’s fireworks. Jesus.” Rob found himself shrinking back in the seat, edging towards the door. He glanced in his own mirror. The trees raced past in the gloom and he couldn’t see anything following them.
Not yet, anyway. He should have felt safe in the van, an armoured shell against the creatures that lurked in the woods of All Souls College. But the driver of the van was probably just as dangerous.
“Those things out there - the wild boar? They are dead, aren’t they?”
Jason shook his head, struggling with the steering wheel as he hit another pothole. “As I said, death is temporary to them. During the winter solstice, at least.”
“So what the bloody hell are they? How come no-one’s mentioned them before?”
“The college doesn’t really want to draw attention to the Children of Andraste.”
“The what?” Rob pushed away another moving petrol can. This one leaked more fuel than the other. He felt the remaining blood drain from his face.
“They’re descendants of the wild boar that roamed here when everything was covered in forest. They made a permanent home here because of the food available in the Nemeton at this time of year.” Jason glanced out of the window again.
“Food?”
“Whatever was left over from the propitiation. Given to the beasts of the forest.” The tops of the Cloister Court buildings were now visible. “An exchange for one of their number submitting to the Feast.”
Rob opened the window to release some of the overpowering petrol fumes. Jason changed up a gear as the track levelled out. He glanced at Rob and smiled.
“Yes, Roberto, they come from here. Live wild boar hasn’t been on this ground since medieval times…but dead ones remain. They return on the shortest day of the year. One offered to the Fellowship, to complete the Communion. That’s why its body is buried with full ceremonial honours afterwards. Andraste demands that everything about her is treated with respect - especially the burial of her Children.”
Just when it
couldn’t get any more loopy. For fuck’s sake.
“Earth to earth, dust to dust…and flesh to flesh. And that’s the key, Roberto. Flesh. It’s flesh that allows them to return each year. Flesh from the propitiation, from the victim offered to Andraste, has special powers of its own.”
Special powers of its own…explains the boar in the warehouse, then. Jasper, you poor little fucker. Rob felt the comforting bulge of his cigarette pack in his fleece pocket. Perhaps it was the fumes from the leaking petrol cans that made his head spin. But there was something Jason had said earlier that had unsettled him.
“Hang on. You said whatever was left over from the propitiation. What did you mean by that?”
Jason smiled grimly. “Didn’t James Freeland put that in his dossier? No? Oh well, he did have a lot on his mind in the last few months, poor man.”
“Well, you helped compile that folder, didn’t you?” Rob was tired now: tired of the smugness, the arrogance and the bizarre word games. “Just fuckin’ tell me.”
“Next stop’s the kitchens. It’s at this time that Cassell is prepping the boar meat…so you’ll learn then.”
* * * * *
The blackness didn’t last long. Franklin had retrieved the rubber-cased flashlight and held it over the torn flesh. The torchlight spun furiously in Andy’s eyes, as did the surviving candles and the head porter’s grinning face. Behind him he could hear Jen moaning softly.
It was the sound of her pain that galvanised him, not his own agony. Despite the spinning cellar and the fire spreading from his left shoulder he forced himself up on his right elbow. Every shuddering breath he took fuelled the fire.
He fixed Franklin with a hate filled glare. Franklin just grinned back at him, circling the wound with the beam of the torch. The top of Andy’s shoulder was a charred mass of blood, burnt cotton from his sweatshirt and ground meat.
“Aren’t you the lucky one? Just grazed you. Never was very adept with combat shotguns. More of a rifleman, myself.” Franklin stepped off the final step and crouched down. He shone the torch in Andy’s face. Andy averted his head but kept his eyes open. A small act of defiance.
The Caretakers (2011) Page 39
