The clouds stopped swirling and solidified far above his head. Then the sky sped down towards him and the light died. His night vision was good, perfect, and he watched, waiting for the moment he would be crushed to bloody paste.
Red brick hung several feet above his head. Sam took a quick breath. He looked around. He was in the small room in the Mayfield Station. A golden creature with black spots crouched across the room, staring at him. He stared back, wondering what he should do.
The thing was big and it looked vicious. It had yellow cat’s eyes and stood on all fours, though Sam thought it might stand upright if it wanted to. A thick, wedge-shaped head lay host to a square jaw that bristled with big, evil-looking teeth. Its paws – if they could be called paws – had a distinct primate twist to them: long talons extended from the end of simian fingers. He tried to speak, but a growl came from his throat. The leopard creature growled back, and Sam lifted a hand up in a gesture of peace.
Great talons extended from his fingers, like those of the monster across from him. He realised he was also crouched on all fours. His chest was massive, barrel-like, and covered in coarse black fur, just like the wolf from his dream. His stomach was similarly coated, as were his thick, muscular arms. He stood and felt a surge of power in his legs. Reaching up, he felt his mouth, and razor-like talons nicked his long muzzle.
Roaring with sudden fear, he looked for an exit. The door was shut. He made his way over and stared at it, but he couldn’t remember how to open it. With terrifying speed, intelligence began to seep away. He clung desperately to his conscious mind, but it was becoming more and more difficult. Familiar pangs of hunger were rising in him, and it was getting harder and harder to concentrate on anything else.
A hiss of a snarl came from behind him. The creature that had been Sam spun just in time to catch the leopard thing in his arms. It tore a chunk from his shoulder. The tang of his own blood filled the room, and the last of his reason fled away. Then there was only the fight for survival.
Sam woke, naked and twisted up in Annalise’s limbs. The room was a scarred and pitted bomb site. The walls were lashed with massive talon marks that had been scored into the brick. The door was similarly scarred and dented. What little furniture there was – an old bureau of some sort and a flimsy desk – had been dashed into splinters. Smears and speckles of powdery blood were everywhere.
Standing up, he stretched and groaned as bones clicked and distended, snapping back into place. Annalise moaned and rolled onto her knees. Her heavy breasts swung free, and Sam felt a surge of desire wash through him. He reached out to her but she slapped his hand away absently.
‘Did you dream?’ she asked.
‘Yes – something about a wolf …’ He looked at the devastation around him, then back at Annalise. ‘You?’
‘A leopard.’
Sam remembered the golden creature he had fought in his dreams.
The door swung open with a groan, and Cú Roí stepped in with Leach lurking behind him. Cú Roí looked around and nodded. The change is upon you, he said, his voice washing around Sam’s mind like a thrashing worm. Soon, you will be able to control it.
‘This is normal?’ Sam demanded. Leach stepped in and his hand lashed towards Sam’s face. He caught it and stared into the man’s bulbous eyes. ‘Master,’ he added after a long moment. Leach stepped away.
You are one of my children, now. Both of you are. The rewards are unimaginable. Get dressed, and join me. I have some questions for you, Samuel Autumn. Cú Roí turned and walked away.
Leach slung some ripe-looking clothes on the floor in front of them and then followed his Master. After they had gone, Sam began to laugh. ‘What is it?’ Annalise asked.
He reached out and pulled her to him, his hand slipping down to cup a buttock. ‘Don’t you get it? I’m a fucking werewolf!’ He began to laugh again, and only stopped when she dragged his face down into a hungry kiss.
Flaming eyes flickered and spat out of a black face. The Tattooist stared at his uninvited guests with undisguised hostility. At least that’s what Cam thought it was – it was difficult to get a good handle on emotions when twin balls of fire sat in place of honest eyeballs.
Dow seemed just as worried as Cam. He stood to one side, one gauntleted fist pushed into the palm of his other in an absent display of aggression. Grímnir, on the other hand, had greeted the Tattooist with a cry of pleasure and a bone-breaking hug, the tattoos on his biceps stretching as muscles swelled with the effort. The Tattooist had pushed him off irately before shooing them into the room behind the thick door. He peered out over the flimsy bridge suspiciously and harrumphed when he saw the zombies milling at the other end. Then, ducking back, the Tattooist pushed the heavy door closed with an ominous thunk. It must be counterbalanced, Cam thought to himself.
Once the solid barrier had clunked back into place the Tattooist released the ratchet on a nearby winch and a heavy portcullis dropped down from the ceiling with a deafening clang, effectively sealing the door shut. The Tattooist turned to face them. His eyes blazed, great loops of fire spilled down his face, and his mouth turned down into an ugly moue.
Grímnir wasted no time. ‘Hello, my old friend, I need your help.’
‘I thought you were dead,’ the Tattooist snapped.
Cam looked around. They were in a large vestibule. It was two storeys tall and around the size of a fairly decent hotel lobby. The ceiling was high above them; cross-hatched beams were lost in the shadows of its vaulted depths. The walls were coarse grey limestone, more suited to the rearing balustrades of a castle than an entrance hall.
Cam put the door to his back. It was comforting to have a solid slab of stone between him and the ORCs. There was an archway opposite him, around fifty feet away across irregular slate flags that made up the ground floor. It punched through the far wall and was big enough to comfortably drive a van through. Beyond it, Cam could see green lawns, and beyond them, the rich pastels of daybreak. Inside, a balcony ran above the arch, jutting out from the back wall to create a long gallery with doors facing each other at either end. Where the gallery met the doors, it swept around corners of the room and then turned into twin stairways that descended to the grey stone floor, curving like a bull’s horns. There were two more doors, one set in the wall at the base of each stair.
A stained-glass window, a huge affair of lambent red and blue-green, was set in the gallery wall. The same size and shape, it was a counterpoint to the arch directly below it. The window glowed soft rose and aquamarine. The light spilling through the arch, unfiltered and raw, was bright and cheerful in comparison.
They were back at the edge of The Tower. Cam wanted nothing more than to walk between the stairways and through the arch they flanked. He took an unconscious step towards the light; it was the first he had seen in what felt like a very long time. He desperately wanted to gaze out on the perpetual dawn that embraced this reality.
The Tattooist placed a hand on his chest to stop him. Cam could feel its heat even through his clothes. The Tattooist was a huge man with jet black skin. It was not the black of somebody whose ethnic origins lay in Africa: it was the complete black of night. His hair was henna-red, stuck up in deranged clumps from his scalp, and his lips were thin and bloodless white. He wore a dirty grey robe that fell rather ridiculously to his shins, and his slim frame and hunched shoulders should have made him look like an escaped lunatic. He should have looked comical, but any desire Cam might have had to laugh never made it further than his hindbrain because of the Tattooist’s eyes.
‘He’s an Ifrit,’ Cam hissed at Dow.
‘But I am not deaf,’ the Tattooist’s words were full of contempt.
‘Oh, er, sorry?’ Cam muttered.
The Tattooist ignored him. His attention was firmly placed on Grímnir. ‘What are you doing here?’ The words were anything but welcoming.
‘We need to find the Maiden.’
‘And you came here? You’ve brought those freaks right to my fro
nt door.’
‘Well, there is some poetic justice there,’ Dow muttered.
‘What? What did you say?’ spat the Tattooist.
‘You heard me, Ifrit. Your kind created those monsters; maybe it’s right that you should be besieged by them.’ He turned back to Grímnir. ‘Why have you brought us to this creature?’
‘Ignorant whelp,’ the Tattooist said. He stepped towards Dow, his fingers flexing and the fires of his eyes spilling brighter to his cheeks. Cam suddenly became very aware of how tall the Ifrit was. Easily seven feet. His length made him appear slight, but on closer inspection, it was obvious that the Tattooist rivalled Grímnir for breadth.
‘Er,’ Cam said.
Dow stepped towards the Tattooist, his own face a mask of rage. Grímnir stepped between them and thrust out with both hands. Dow stumbled and fell on his arse. The Tattooist was more difficult to move, but even he was forced backwards two inexorable steps.
‘Stop this,’ Grímnir growled. ‘You do not know his story, but he can be trusted,’ he said to Dow as the angry Elf hauled himself back to his feet. ‘These are good men who have risked themselves to help me,’ he said to the Tattooist. ‘Old hatreds die hard – I know this better than most. But we have a common enemy, and for now we must work together. Now still your tongues, or I will put both of you out onto the bridge until you make your peace.’ Cam did not doubt that Grímnir would do just that. The big man stared at Dow and the Tattooist until he received a nod from each of them. ‘Good. Now, is there somewhere we can sit and talk?’
‘Follow me,’ the Tattooist said and walked to the closest door on their left. Great bands of iron crossed its width, held in place by huge spikes with flattened heads. The Tattooist pulled it open and ushered Grímnir through. Dow followed after a pointed pause. Cam walked to the door and put a hand against it. A series of thick industrial-looking deadbolts were attached to the inside.
‘Why is it so big? This thing looks like it was designed to stop a battering-ram.’
‘This whole place is a fortress,’ the Tattooist snapped. ‘There are alternative exits through the apartments either side of this hallway, and each of these doors is strong enough to keep an army out. They’re a failsafe. Do you know why that is, Elf?’
‘Erm …’
‘It’s because,’ the Tattooist continued over him, ‘I live alone deep in a magical Tower infested with ravening monsters. I’ve survived for centuries without them even knowing I was here, but I’m the paranoid type. That’s why I live hidden away down here. And being the paranoid type, I thought that one day some idiot – some incredible dolt, some fantastical thick-headed nincompoop, some unbelievable ignoramus … some … some … some …’ the Tattooist trailed off, apparently so angry that he was lost for words.
‘Wanker?’ Cam suggested helpfully.
The Tattooist glowered at him. Looping streams of incandescent fire spat from his eyes, and Cam turned his face away from the heat.
‘Wanker. Yes. That’s exactly it. I always thought that some wanker might bring them down on me. And here you are. Now get in there.’
Cam nodded and stepped quickly through the door. The Tattooist closed the door and pointedly slid all the deadbolts into place. They were in a kitchen. A big hearth was embedded into the wall on their right. There was a spit across it. A solid-looking table sat nearby, with matching chairs set neatly around it. Various chopping boards and a couple of kitchen knives rested on the scarred work surface.
Around the wall, a series of crude cupboards had been put up. A crackling fire was set into the hearth, and the kitchen was hot and smoky. The Tattooist walked through this room and through another door opposite. This door was more normal – a simple wooden affair without locks or other reinforcement. A comfortable sitting room lay beyond it with yet another door opposite them. A large window lay open in the right-hand wall, and beyond it Cam could see what looked like trees. He gaped at them.
‘There is a large balcony on this level with a small forest on it.’ The Tattooist shrugged as if this were the most natural thing in the world. Cam had to concede that for The Tower at Dawn, it wasn’t really that strange.
They sunk into comfortable leather-bound chairs around a table and stared at each other suspiciously. ‘Take off your shirt,’ the Tattooist said to Grímnir. The big man pulled off the jerkin. The Tattooist stood and walked over to him. He started poking at the tattoos that covered Grímnir’s body with a long, spindly finger. Cam stared at the blue and green snakes that covered his pale flesh. He thought, not for the first time, that there was something very creepy about them. He was sure they squirmed when he wasn’t looking directly at them.
‘They are still fresh – they have not faded. Incredible.’
‘I lost the sword.’
‘Camulus? You lost Camulus? How could you be so stupid?’
‘I am sorry – I impaled Cú Roí as he fled. I don’t remember much after that. Just pain … and reawakening in this time.’
‘If you are resurrected …’
‘Cú Roí has returned,’ Grímnir said.
‘At least we know the spells I worked into your body were successful. I never expected them to be so powerful.’
‘Broken bones can still be problematic if they set wrong.’
‘Stop whining! You’re back from the dead and you worry about a crooked arm or leg? Just break them and set them again. Back from the dead …’ He turned and looked at Dow. ‘I assume your masters have thought about the worth of such spells? The power they represent?’
‘Of course they have,’ Dow snapped. ‘Grímnir Vafthrúdnir refuses to relinquish the magic that might save us all.’
‘Bah,’ the Tattooist scoffed. ‘Grímnir is right. You might buy a few extra years. More likely, it would be a few months. The magic is safe where it is, bonded to his flesh with ink. To remove it would see it trickle away like piss down a hill. No, unless they have a plan – some spell ready to be cast – Grímnir may as well use it to track down and destroy Cú Roí. He is the real threat.’
‘And what do you know, Ifrit?’
The Tattooist ignored Dow. ‘Where is Cú Roí now?’ he asked Grímnir.
‘Back in Miðgarðr. I need to find the Maiden. I could not get close enough to kill Cú Roí. He escaped, and I cannot afford for that to happen again. He is too dangerous. Too strong.’
‘Yes, he is.’ The Tattooist frowned. ‘And we have become weak. Why has he returned now? There is something here that we are overlooking. The Maiden may be able to help us. But we must be quick – Cú Roí will be growing more powerful every day.’
‘How can he?’ Cam asked with an exhausted yawn. ‘The magic is dying. He is in the same situation as the rest of us.’
‘No. Cú Roí is a new breed. His father was the Last of the First, a freak – a Svartálfar called Trauco-Lilû, who was able to mate with other species. He bred with a human first, and his by-blows still thrive in the world of men. Before he was exiled for that perversion, Trauco-Lilû forced himself upon an Ifrit female. The result of the rape was Cú Roí.
‘The child’s mother wanted to throw her son from the top of The Tower at Dusk, but a powerful faction of scholars – representatives of both Courts – protected the child. Foremost amongst them was an Elf called Morgaene Lė Euhirudinea, a biologist and philosopher. The people of The Towers do not change; we are eternal, but stagnant. Yet here was a mutant, a changeling, that Morgaene could not – would not – ignore. Poor Morgaene. He was the first of Cú Roí disciples. The first to be corrupted. He’s called Leach, now.’
‘This is all very interesting,’ Cam said, ‘but in a few years’ time, Cú Roí – if he exists – will die just like the rest of us.’
‘Cú Roí is unique and very powerful. Morgaene and his cult called him the Miracle Child, and with good reason. They thought he represented the future, a chance for us to grow – to evolve! They did not see Cú Roí as the abomination he truly was. Yes, our magic would sustain him.
But the humans have their own magic, divorced from ours, and Cú Roí thrives on it.
‘It does not matter to the Miracle Child that the land is dying. He will seek out those humans with magical talents, and he will feed on them. Cú Roí will harvest immense power, and he will use it to build an army of shape-shifters and monsters that will put your worst nightmares to shame … that would put my worst nightmares to shame, and I guarantee that mine would stop your heart.’ He smiled, and the flames of his eyes crackled mockingly as he looked around the room. ‘Cú Roí will continue to grow in power until he is invincible. Time is against us.’
‘Us?’ Cam asked.
The Ifrit turned its fiery gaze back on him, and he felt the heat of its glare. ‘I will be coming with you, of course.’
‘Unacceptable,’ Dow said flatly.
‘You have no choice in the matter, Elf. Where we need to go, you’re going to need me.’
‘Where is the Maiden?’ Grímnir asked.
The Tattooist said, ‘She came through here after The Transmogrification. She was profoundly disturbed – she said the fate of her people was somehow connected to the Miracle Child. I told her what I knew, but it was no more than she did. She said she needed more information; she needed to go to where Cú Roí came from. The Maiden has gone to The Tower at Dusk, and that is where we must follow.’
‘I can’t just sit here – that madman’s got my sister!’
Rowan’s voice was angry and loud. Mark could hear it as he walked through the dark corridor that led to the kitchen. ‘You have to be patient. You’re a marine – you know this. Without a plan, we’ll all get killed.’ Sergei’s accented voice was calm and composed.
‘Fuck the plan. I need to go and get my sister. God knows what’s happening to her.’
Mark stopped just outside the door and listened. ‘It won’t be long,’ said Sergei. ‘Mr. Jones is an intelligent man, and he has the resources to ensure that any mission we mount is a success. You need him …’
Immortals' Requiem Page 22
