Rowan interrupted. ‘Sergei shot one of them in the head. It got straight back up again.’
‘Ah, well. That’s a shame. If that doesn’t have any effect on Autumn and his ilk, I’m a bit stuck. I am also led to believe that Samuel Autumn was decapitated and it didn’t stop him, so I think we can discount that as well. In fact, none of the old lycanthropy tales have proven in any way helpful.’
‘So, that’s it then?’
‘Not quite. Lycanthropes are people restricted to turning into wolves. I pursued this after the description Sergei gave me of Samuel Autumn’s metamorphosis. However, lycanthropy is, in fact, a subsidiary of a greater genus. The umbrella term for the concept of a person changing into an animal is therianthropy, and Therians are slightly different.
‘Lycanthropes are believed to be creatures of the devil, whereas Therians are thought to be magical creatures, much like the Elves and suchlike that Mr. Jones hunts. I believe that they are related. This is borne out by the old myths of silver being used as weapons against werewolves, when we know it is effective against the fairy folk.
‘I did some further digging on therianthropy, and there are rafts of material: Shamanism, Egyptology, Greek and Roman mythology … these creatures are scattered through the histories of the world. I did find one rather interesting piece of information regarding some kind of apocalypse for the Therians that occurred around two and a half millennia ago. The father of their race was killed by a tattooed man, and the rest of them were hunted to extinction.’ Jason sat back with a self-satisfied look on his face.
‘So?’ Rowan asked after a moment, irritation threatening to flare into anger.
Jason looked nonplussed. ‘The tattooed … oh, yes, of course. You don’t know.’
‘Know what, Jason?’
‘Mr. Jones has had me tracking a target – an Elf of rather pathetic means: a drunkard and wretch, but still an Elf. Mr. Jones intended to hunt it down, but of course we got rather side-tracked by this whole Autumn business.’
‘So what?’ Rowan growled.
‘Well, last Thursday my operatives noticed that the Elf had a new companion. This companion was covered in tattoos. So, this new race of Therians springs up just as a man closely fitting the description of the warrior that destroyed them over two millennia ago reappears? I don’t believe in coincidences, Rowan, not ones as big as this at any rate.
‘We recorded a conversation that Target One – that’s the Elf – and this new man – Target Two – had in a pub in Manchester. I quite forgot that I had set it to translate. Anyway, I checked, and the translation has been done for several hours now.’ Jason pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. ‘Voilà,’ he said. ‘And it makes interesting reading.’
‘Give it to me,’ Rowan said. Jason handed him the paper. After a moment, he looked up. ‘The Courts?’
‘The Seelie and Unseelie Courts – the two opposing factions of the fairy folk. They live in a Tower somewhere outside of our reality. That’s all I really know.’
Rowan went back to reading the transcript. ‘Cú Roí?’
‘Like the Elf says – he is a bogeyman. His disappearance coincides with the Therian apocalypse. I believe that he is the progenitor of the race.’
‘And now he’s back?’
‘Yes.’
‘And he’s going to kill everybody unless this tattooed guy gets to have a pop at him?’
‘I believe so.’
‘And this Cú Roí’s the one who’s got Tabby?’
‘It’s more than likely.’
‘So, we’ve got to find this tattooed guy? He’s the only one who stands a chance, right?’
‘I know where he is.’
‘Where?’
‘According to the translation, they were going to pass through a Fairy-Ring and into The Tower. They disappeared on a hill in Lyme Park. I’m guessing that’s where they went through.’
‘Then that’s where we’re going,’ Rowan said. ‘Wake up Sergei. I think he’s in one of the guest bedrooms. We’re going to need every gun we can get.’
Chains chafed his wrists. Blackness surrounded him. The darkness was a physical thing, crowding into his eyes, clawing at his face, reaching, cold and ophidian, down his throat to tickle at his heart. The air was chill and dank. The only noise was the dripping of water some interminable distance away.
Hanging naked in the centre of the room, Mark cursed himself for a fool. The alarms hadn’t gone off. Autumn and his friend had been let in. There was only one person it could have been – Sergei. It had to be. Jason had let him into the house. Mark had ushered him off unattended to get a shower and some sleep. The mercenary knew where Mark's office was, knew how to open the main gate and disable the door security. Mark had been an idiot – what could the monsters offer a mercenary? Power. All the power in the world. They had turned him. It was so obvious. How could he have been so stupid? The question echoed in his head, and Mark did not know if he was asking it of Sergei, or himself.
One thing was clear though: the Russian had betrayed him and put Tabitha in terrible danger. In his lonely prison, Mark swore to himself that the man would die, and that he would not die well.
Still dizzy from loss of blood, Cam clung to the side of the turret at the top of The Tower at Dusk. The window to the next apartment was almost within his reach. The air was thick and heavy around him. The bruised sky disappeared in all directions, hulking clouds spinning across the horizon. Above, there was nothing but hazy darkness. Below, the lunar landscape of the desert promised a pulverising death. Cam concentrated on the next finger hold and edged another few inches across.
Numb fingers grabbed the edge of the window, and with a sigh of relief, Cam swung himself into a small room full of boxes and bric-a-brac. As he unholstered the shotgun, Cam was pleased to note that the room did not have a bed in it. Then he moved like he had seen in the movies, gun pointed out ahead of him, looking down the barrel so that where he could see, he could shoot.
Silently letting himself out of the storage room, he found himself in a narrow corridor. Fifteen feet to his right there was a large door. He figured this was the door that led back to where the Tattooist and the guards waited. There were more doors on either side, but they looked dusty and unused. Another corridor ran off at a right angle to the one he was currently in.
Walking quickly but quietly, Cam made his way to the junction and peeped around. It was empty. At the far end was a spiral staircase in a free-standing iron frame. He went over and peered up it. More of the twilight gloom awaited him at the top. He stood there for a second in indecision. Then he heard a door behind him open and close. Gasping with cold fear, Cam ran up the stairs two at a time, wishing he had thought to put the hooded robe back on. He felt naked without the disguise.
He ignored the first landing he came to, and ran up another level just to be sure. The staircase terminated there, and Cam found himself in a low room with doors in each direction. He was near the roof of the turret, and the ceiling above him was curved. Long tapestries, ragged blue and purple affairs, covered the walls. Waist-high columns rested in each corner. On top of each one sat a blackened skull with weak candles flaming in the eye sockets. It made the room treacherous with flickering shadows. Picking a door at random, Cam went through and closed it gently behind him.
This time, he found himself on a narrow curving balcony. The ceiling arced in a high dome out over a wide gloomy hall. A massive throne, carved from black stone, had been placed directly beneath the centre of the dome. Something sat in the throne, something hidden in deep shadow. The man he had followed stood before it; Cam grinned in triumph. The two were talking.
‘She is still under control?’ asked Master Creachmhaoil.
‘Yes,’ a cadaverous voice said from the throne. ‘She is in Kilmanoi’s Hall. The Blind Room holds her. I have an army of Ifrit guarding her and the Hall.’
‘In The Tower at Dawn? Are you mad? If anybody finds out, they’ll think it’s an invasion …’
‘And what? Your people are weak, Elf. Even if they had the means to penetrate so far into their own territory, they could not defeat me. The Ifrit guard against those creatures that swarm the lower levels of your home. They are necessary – it would not do for her to escape now, would it?’
Creachmhaoil nodded. ‘If she ever gets out, Damballah, we’ll both be finished.’
‘You fear your mistress, Elf?’ chuckled the voice.
‘I doubt the Satyr would be best pleased, either, if he found his wife was being held against her will.’
‘The Satyr of Fire and Air has not been seen in eight hundred years,’ Damballah said dismissively.
Creachmhaoil grunted irritably. ‘How do your experiments progress?’
‘It is useless. The last of the Therians died centuries ago, killed by the humans. If there are more, they have hidden well. Without them to study, I cannot reproduce the spell accurately. After the last attempt … you know how flawed the Firstcomer’s magic was. After that failure, I am unwilling to risk another guess.’
‘Then I believe I bring good news.’
‘It better had be, Elf,’ Damballah said lethargically. ‘My people slip away one by one, and without me, your own people will suffer a similar fate.’
‘Oh, it is good news. Your witchery worked. It found Cú Roí: the Miracle Child is finally returned to us!’
There was a moment of silence. ‘Ah, the spell finally found him … good. After all this time, I had quite given up hope. You have him?’
‘No, that monster Leach got to him first.’
‘So, the worm still lives? Amazing really. Where is the Miracle Child now?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Even if we did, he is useless without the Seed … Cú Roí may show us the path, but without the Seed, we still lack the means to follow it.’
‘Cú Roí has returned … and with him, that tattooed Jötnar who hunts him,’ Creachmhaoil said with satisfaction.
‘Impossible! Grímnir was ripped to pieces. He is dead … unless … the Maiden’s magic? The Seed – it must be: where else could she have put it, the devious bitch!’ Damballah's voice was hungry.
Even from up on the cramped little balcony, Cam saw Creachmhaoil smile. ‘As I said: good news.’
Damballah stood from his throne and walked towards Creachmhaoil. He was tall, very tall, around seven feet and spindle thin. His body was comprised of shadows that shifted like clouds in a gentle breeze, leaving him without features. Some twisted down his back and splayed on the floor in an amorphous cloak. He looked like a man’s shadow, stretched out thin from a low-angled lamp.
‘We must have them both. If I can study the Miracle Child … if I can harness the Seed, then I could save us all. The mistakes of the past would not be made again …’
‘I have the Jötnar’s trust. It is the Miracle Child that will prove difficult.’
‘We will find …’ Damballah’s next words were cut off by the sound of a door being flung open. Cam strained his neck and saw Leanan storm into the room.
‘Shit,’ he muttered under his breath and tried to pull back out of sight. It was too late. Two milk-white eyes settled on him, and her face twisted in a riot of hatred and triumph.
‘You have a spy, brother,’ she shouted and pointed up at Cam, even as her body faded away. Cam stood up and turned to run back the way he had come, but she was there behind him, morphing out of the shadows and streaking towards him, her mouth wide open, fangs bared and shining.
Cam tried to bring the shotgun around, but she cannoned into him and he stumbled backwards. His back hit the railing and he teetered on the edge … and then he was falling.
As an Elf, Cam was blessed with incredible speed and agility. He put it to good use, throwing his falling body around, twisting impossibly, and pushing his feet out below him just as the stone floor rose to meet him. He bent his legs, letting the force of the impact run through his body, hands spread for balance, until he was crouching on the floor. The shotgun lay in front of him, his hand at the weapon’s centre.
Immediately he was moving. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Leanan striding from another shadow. Damballah appeared to be watching the events in polite confusion. Creachmhaoil stared in shock. Cam darted towards the older Elf and grabbed him by the throat before he could react. Spinning Creachmhaoil’s body, he wrapped an arm around his neck and jammed the shotgun under his chin. It took less than three heartbeats.
‘It’s silver twelve-gauge.’ Leanan stopped at the mention of silver. ‘One more step, and I’ll blow his head off.’ The words sounded a lot calmer than Cam felt.
Damballah held out his wraith’s hand and Leanan went to stand at his side. ‘What makes you think I care?’
‘Because I’m still alive. You need him, or Vampirella over there would be sucking me dry right now. Let me go, and he can walk.’
‘Then go,’ Damballah said pleasantly.
‘He’s coming with me to the Fairy-Ring.’
‘Fine, fine. I won’t try and stop you.’
Cam slowly backed towards the door, pulling Creachmhaoil with him and avoiding the deep shadows obsessively. ‘Stay where I can see you,’ he warned the siblings.
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ Damballah said, making no attempt to move. ‘Go on – away with you.’
Slowly, Cam edged Creachmhaoil towards the door. He backed into it, pushing it open, and hoped that the Tattooist was still out in the corridor waiting for him. The two Ifrit who guarded the door started when Cam came out; he warned them back, but they didn’t look convinced.
‘Let them go,’ said the voice of the Prince of Rattlesnakes from out of the shadows. Cam shuddered. The Ifrit backed off wordlessly. The Tattooist appeared, carrying a burning torch. ‘Stay as much in the light as possible,’ he hissed. ‘Step into the shadows, and they’ll take you before you know what’s happening.’
‘What do you think I’ve been doing?’ Cam muttered back. ‘I’m not a complete idiot.’ The Tattooist grunted in obvious disagreement. His eyes burned, and the shadows receded further. ‘We can’t go around the Fairy-Ring like this,’ Cam said, ignoring the Tattooist’s disdain. ‘He has to go willingly, or the magic won’t work.’
‘We leave him here,’ the Tattooist said.
‘You are a fool, Camhlaidh Ó Gríobhtha,’ Creachmhaoil said as they walked. ‘You have signed your death warrant. I will do everything in my power to exterminate you – you won’t be safe in either Court.’
‘I can guess why – don’t want anybody to know you’re good mates with a fucking Ringwraith, right?’
‘You have no idea what I am doing here.’
‘Collaborating, by the looks of things. And you want to betray Grímnir.’
‘I seem to recall you were in agreement when I sent you into The Tower with him.’
‘That was before I knew you were in cahoots with count nob-feratu and his merry band of bloodsuckers.’
‘You are a child, Camhlaidh Ó Gríobhtha. You know nothing of what I am trying to accomplish. You yourself have whined constantly that the Courts are not doing enough to save our races. Now that I am, you whine that we shouldn’t work together. You are ridiculous.’ Cam didn’t answer. ‘No words, boy? No arguments? No petty threats? Maybe you are learning.’
‘Maybe so. Now stop dragging your feet.’
They kept going. Cam’s arm began to ache beneath the weight of the shotgun. Together, the three of them made it out of the turret and into the desert on top of The Tower at Dusk. A crowd of Ifrit followed, maybe thirty of them, but every time they looked like they were about to attack, the voice of Damballah intervened, echoing from the deepest shadows. With every step they took into the desert, the crowd around them grew, flaming eyes watching them hungrily, the silence absolute. Cam found that his throat was very dry. It took them five harrowing minutes to make it to the Fairy-Ring nearest the turret. It took them another twenty to make it to the mirror of the one that he had origina
lly entered The Tower at Dawn through with Grímnir and Dow.
‘You really are important to them, aren’t you?’ Cam asked Creachmhaoil.
‘I can control the Jötnar.’
‘You think?’
‘Grímnir Vafthrúdnir trusts me. Where is he, by the way?’
‘Subtle.’ They were finally stood at the edge of the Fairy-Ring. It was desolate here. There was no forest, no birdsong, no stream, no swans. No dawn sun. No life except the crowd of silent Ifrit. He jammed the shotgun under Creachmhaoil’s ribs. ‘You’re going to walk around with us until you can’t feel the shotgun anymore. Any funny business, and I’ll split you open.’
They began to walk in a circle. ‘Where is Grímnir Vafthrúdnir?’ Creachmhaoil asked again. The desert, the crowd of Ifrit, everything was fading.
Before the world completely disappeared, Cam gave Creachmhaoil his answer. ‘He is trapped somewhere in The Tower at Dawn with Dow Sė Mochaomhog, surrounded by the Twisted.’
Then they stood back on the hill in Lyme Park. A short white man with a muscular build and close-cropped hair pointed an assault rifle at Cam’s belly. The gunman’s blue eyes were cold beneath the moon, and steel teeth glinted menacingly in the half-light as he smiled.
‘You must be Target One,’ he said without a hint of friendliness. ‘Drop the shotgun.’
Damballah strode through the crowd to where Creachmhaoil stood at the Fairy-Ring. The Elf was apoplectic with rage.
‘The little bastard,’ he said. ‘I’m going to kill him.’
‘No you aren’t. You are going to find the Jötnar. We need him.’
‘A couple of zombies can’t kill him,’ Creachmhaoil said dismissively.
‘I didn’t say they could. Just bring him to me.’
‘What about Cú Roí?’
‘Leave him to me – it is about time the Prince of Rattlesnakes took an interest in the realms of men once more. Before I do, I must gather my retinue and return to the Blind Room in The Tower at Dawn. I must ensure that the cohorts guarding it are aware of this new threat – it would not do for that young Elf to disrupt things there.’
Immortals' Requiem Page 29
