Immortals' Requiem

by Vincent Bobbe (Jump Start Publishing)

  More and more often, Sergei found himself lying awake at night, unable to sleep, thinking of all the terrible things he had done in his life. Sleepless night followed sleepless night, and Sergei could feel the foetid stink of death’s breath caressing the back of his neck. The monster stalked him, and there was nowhere to run.

  Sergei had been a good communist and rejected all concepts of God. In his youth, he murdered at the state’s behest without any moral objection or fear of a higher power. Now, as he approached the end, he wasn’t so sure. He caught himself fervently praying for forgiveness, less and less inclined to chastise himself and stop.

  Misery and murder were his legacies. If there was an afterlife, Sergei knew where he was going, and it scared him. At least, it had scared him. Not anymore. Not since he returned to the Master the night before and reported where Rowan and his bunch of misfit friends were hiding. His reward was a bite in the neck from the Master himself. He had lain delirious until the morning, when he was kicked out of his slumber by Samuel Autumn and ordered to lead the way to the flat.

  Upon first awakening, Sergei felt weak and sick. Now, a few hours later, he felt power rushing through his body. His old bones no longer ached, his stick-like arms were powerful and solid. His lethal training, driven by the new strength in his limbs, aided him in the massacre on the street. Sergei shot every man, woman, and child he could find.

  When he ran out of bullets, he used his hands. The exhilaration was still with him. The sound of cracking bones and snapping necks still rang in his ears; the memory of soft flesh giving way to his steel fingers made his palms itch; the taste of blood …

  Sergei stopped walking after the naked woman, Annalise, who was dragging a young girl back for the Master to impregnate. They were halfway up the stairs to the Master’s lair in the Beetham Tower. The multiple flights did not bother him, but the flood of saliva that rushed into his mouth at the thought of human blood did.

  He wiped his hand across his face; it was sticky. Sergei looked down and saw more red on his fingers. He licked his lips and the delicious taste of blood filled him with ecstasy. Sergei stood still, confused for a moment. He couldn’t remember eating anybody – surely, he would remember that.

  Shouldn’t it worry him more? Cannibalism, after all, was one of the final taboos he had never broken. He realised it didn’t bother him. In fact, he realised he wanted more. Shrugging, he ran up the stairs to catch up with Annalise. He revelled in the ease with which he did it.

  The lower floors – the hotel – were dark and dingy, without power and were currently empty. In the next few hours they would be the lairs of new Barghest and the freshly bitten: those humans selected to join the Master’s legion of gods.

  The upper floors – the apartments – were accessed by a separate door at street level and were inaccessible from the hotel. The apartments had replaced the birthing pits; they would soon be filled with women, hundreds of them, struggling with the heavy, rapidly maturing pregnancies of the Barghest. The woman Annalise dragged behind her was one of the first. Sergei had a busy day ahead of him if the Master was to have his army.

  Cú Roí himself had taken his seat of power on the top floor, in a penthouse apartment of lavish luxury, far removed from the filth of the Mayfield Station. He had found a smart grey business suit that nearly fit him. Though the legs and arms were almost comically short, he looked half respectable in a scruffy, long-haired sort of way. As far as Sergei was concerned, the Master could dress any way he wanted. He was a god amongst gods, after all. Life was good, Sergei thought with self-satisfaction … and it was going to last forever.

  The huge shadowy creature – which Cam had taken to calling the Penticock, in reference to its five remaining phallus-like limbs – had left a trail of upturned cars along Deansgate, as far as Camp Street. Cam gazed along the path of destruction. Rowan sat down on the kerb of the road. He felt strange. His brother-in-law was dead. Rowan had liked Sam a lot; he was a nice man and good to his sister, until he became infected with whatever it was that the monsters had given to him. Yet Rowan had experienced a real sense of satisfaction when Cam ripped him from existence. Rowan felt a bit guilty about that, and he couldn’t quite work out why.

  He sat for a moment and tried to sort through his feelings. He stared idly at the Beetham Tower. Slowly it stole his attention. It looked broken, but it wasn’t dead. It was a tall building; forty-seven storeys of glass and steel. A hotel made up the first twenty-three storeys while the upper half comprised of private apartments. Halfway up, where the two distinct sections met, the building was cantilevered outwards towards the north. It was as if a child had taken two matchboxes, one slightly wider than the other, and then stacked the larger atop the smaller. It was a monolith of elitism, used to ruling the skyline: a dominating reminder of what wealth and power could achieve.

  Now something wicked had taken up residence within it, and somehow the building had turned sinister and warped. He felt like it was watching him, and he could feel its malevolence. It was calling to him. Tabby was in there. She had to be. He stood up and took a step towards the dark entrance.

  ‘We have to go after it,’ Cam said, breaking the spell.

  ‘After what?’

  ‘The Penticock.’

  ‘No way. I need to find Tabby.’

  ‘Remember what the Tattooist and my dad told us. We can’t win – not without getting Camulus back to Grímnir and finding the Maiden.’

  ‘I need to find my sister. I have to get to her. You don’t understand … I have to.’ Rowan didn’t know how to explain the burning need inside him to save Tabby.

  ‘It’d be suicide.’ Cam put a hand on Rowan’s shoulder. ‘The Penticock is our best chance of finding them. Which means it’s the best chance of defeating Cú Roí. Which means it’s the best chance of bringing your sister out alive.’ A Barghest appeared from the wreckage in front of the Beetham Tower, and Cam blasted it into ash with a casual gesture. ‘You have to give me a few hours, Rowan. You have to trust me.’

  Rowan eyed his companion and rescuer warily. The Elf was different from the tired but sarcastic individual he’d met on a hill in Lyme Park the day before. He was quieter, more introspective, yet Rowan could sense a rage in him. His newfound power was a worry as well. Rowan did not know much about the Courts and how they worked, but he had picked up enough to know that the four races did not like each other very much … why would an Ifrit, even one seemingly allied with what passed for the good guys … imbue Cam, a self-confessed wastrel, with such unimaginable power?

  Still, it was handy to have a walking napalm strike on your side. He clutched his gun as tight as he could, but knew it was nothing more than a comfort blanket against the likes of the now deceased Sam. He looked at his watch. It was nine-thirty. The truth was, he needed the Elf. His shoulders slumped in resignation. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’

  From Camp Street, the Penticock had moved randomly through the back streets until it finally turned into Gartside Street. They knew this, because it had left more crushed cars and flattened lamp posts along the narrow road.

  On Gartside Street the Penticock’s trail suddenly stopped. There was more ruin here, but they could both see it was old. Barriers surrounded a big hole in the ground where roadworks had been started and then forgotten about. To their left were modern-looking brick buildings. The tasteful bronze plaques by their doors suggested that they were business premises. To their right, a grey breeze-block monstrosity rose several storeys into the air. Ahead of them another modern building, all glass and steel, blocked the winter sun, casting a chill shadow onto the small street.

  ‘Where’d it go?’ Rowan asked.

  Cam looked around, his face blank. ‘It has gone to The Tower at Dawn.’

  ‘Not the other one?’

  ‘No,’ Cam said. ‘No, it will have gone to its master, and its master will be with the Maiden. The Blind Room. Do you remember?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘My dad said
it,’ Cam said slowly. ‘The Blind Room in The Tower at Dawn is the only place that can hold the Maiden. I think there’s a Ring here. I can feel it.’

  ‘Can we use it?’

  ‘The Penticock did … I suppose so. We just have to find the boundaries.’

  ‘How do we do that?’

  ‘We walk.’ Together they began to walk in a clockwise circle around the hole in the ground. It seemed the most obvious place to start. They began in a wide loop, climbing over lumps of debris where they had to. Rowan followed on Cam’s heels, staring at the shotgun that slapped gently against the Elf’s back with every step. Slowly the circle got tighter, until they were in the roadworks themselves, jumping over ditches and stumbling over discarded jackhammers and lengths of pipe.

  ‘It’s not working,’ Rowan said, but even as he did, he felt his stomach lurch.

  ‘It’s working,’ Cam said. His voice seemed distant. ‘Keep walking.’

  Slowly the street faded from view. The sky turned muddy, the buildings began to warp into strange, impossible shapes, dripping away and running as if subject to an intense heat.

  A series of glowing points appeared at Rowan’s feet and with every turn the world got darker and the lights got brighter, until he was following Cam in a void. ‘Keep to the lights – don’t stray from them or you may fall,’ Cam said, his voice garbled as if his head was in a bucket.

  ‘Fall off what?’ Rowan demanded. Cam didn’t answer. Cautiously, Rowan followed the circle.

  Then they stood in a dark space that flickered with the sputtering of thousands of fires. Around him there was some sort of shanty town; ramshackle wooden buildings marched along haphazardly, the stalls of a market following no street plan the marine could discern. He could not see through the maze, but he could see above it. A shaft of soft, natural light rose from the centre of the room and hit the distant ceiling like a nine-mile floodlight. There was a smaller shaft in the centre of the ceiling – it looked small because of the distance and scale of the place, but Rowan thought that it probably spanned a mile or so.

  Figures moved through the shanty town – lots of figures. Cam grabbed his arm and pulled him into the shadow of a nearby stall. Rowan stumbled and fell, and Cam went down with him. They rolled into cover. Heavy feet tramped past nearby, and Rowan went still.

  ‘This is it,’ said a voice, uncomfortably close to where they hid.

  ‘This will take us to the human world?’ This second voice was female. It had an unnatural, metallic twist to it. The Elf suddenly tensed as if he wanted to stand up, but Rowan restrained him.

  Rolling, Rowan managed to position himself so he could see the group stood talking next to the Ring that he and Cam had just travelled through. Six Ifrit towered next to it, their massive bodies swathed in dark robes, their flaming eyes searing points of red and orange light that flickered and spat in front of them. In their centre stood a beautiful woman and a shadowy shape that Rowan could not quite focus on.

  ‘My dear, any of the Rings in this hall will take us to the mortal world, but this one will take us to the Miracle Child.’

  ‘Will there be people to eat?’

  The male figure laughed. ‘Of course, my dear – you will return to The Tower fat and bloated.’

  The woman slapped at the shadow creature’s arm. ‘You are unkind, brother,’ she said sulkily.

  The shadow laughed again. ‘Come, we must make haste.’ The small party began to walk around the fire, their shapes becoming fainter and fainter. On the third turn they vanished.

  Cam pulled Rowan up silently. ‘“Make haste.” Who says something like that?’ asked the Elf. ‘It’s like they’re actually reading dialogue from a Tolkien movie script.’

  ‘What were they?’ Rowan asked. ‘I thought you were going to attack them.’

  ‘Vampires,’ Cam said. ‘Dark Elves, Svartálfar … they have many names. The woman was the creature who bit me.’ Rowan heard hate in Cam’s voice.

  ‘Well, they’re gone now. What next?’

  ‘We find Grímnir and the Maiden. Come on – we need to get somewhere high to figure out where we’re going.’

  They ran quickly through the ghost town. It took them a while; they ducked in and out of sight as Ifrit patrols marched past. Eventually, they got to the wall that ran around the giant room. They moved to their right, following the wall until they found a doorway, which they slipped through.

  It was one of the concealed subsidiary stairwells that serviced the residences higher up the interior wall. They climbed silently together until they were ten storeys up. They found a balcony and gazed out across Kilmanoi’s Hall. It was an awe-inspiring sight. The central light-well looked like a vast lucent sea. Wisps of white cloud tumbled sedately a mile above its pearlescent face. Tens of thousands of fires flickered across the halo of floor that surrounded it. Smaller sparks moved this way and that between the fires. Vertigo hit him, and his perspective changed. He felt as if he were looking down at a full moon, close enough to touch, surrounded by a firmament of yellow sparks. Rowan closed his eyes tight.

  ‘Good God,’ he whispered. He took a deep breath.

  ‘Ifrit,’ Cam said coldly.

  Rowan opened his eyes again. ‘Are the moving sparks their eyes?’

  Cam didn’t answer straight away. He leaned on the balustrade and gazed out over the hall. It was peaceful, Rowan thought settling in next to the Elf. This high up, there was no sound. The air was moving, but it was gentle and warm. ‘People think that the Ifrit only hunt in arid climates,’ Cam said. ‘Deserts. Places like that. The Djinn of Arabia. But they used to hunt in Europe and the Americas as well. My dad told me about it when I was a kid. I used to beg him for scary stories before I went to bed. He was a good man. A good father. I wish I had been a good son.’

  ‘Hey, come on …’ Rowan began. Cam waved him quiet. Rowan was frightened that Cam was slipping into shock and melancholy. The last thing he wanted was to get lumbered down here with an emotional wreck.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Cam said as if reading his mind. ‘I’m not going to freak out on you. It’s difficult though … I miss him, and I don’t feel that I deserve to miss him. Do you understand?’

  Rowan sighed. ‘I don’t know, Cam. I miss my dad too. And my mum. And I miss Tabby, Cam. I miss her desperately, and I need to get her back and make sure she’s safe.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Cam went quiet. He didn’t bother to explain exactly what he was sorry for. Rowan itched to get moving, but he knew he couldn’t push the Elf. People reacted to grief in different ways. Of course, strictly speaking, Cam wasn’t a person.

  ‘Those were good years,’ Cam started again, almost whispering. ‘I worshipped my father. He was so strong, so wise, so calm. Why did I leave? Why did I abandon the one person in the world – in two worlds – who loved me absolutely? It all seems so … petty now. So juvenile.’

  ‘We all do stupid things,’ Rowan said lamely.

  ‘Yes, we do,’ Cam said. ‘They would hide in the forests, where it was dark,’ he continued without pausing. It took Rowan a moment to realise he was talking about the Ifrit again. ‘Their skin is black but their eyes … well, you’ve seen them. They would wait in the gloom, still, silent, and they would watch. And when somebody passed by, maybe in the late evening, maybe at night, they would see those bright twin balls hanging there. Twin suns. Their eyes in the gloaming. And when they went to investigate, the Ifrit would take them. Witchfires. That’s what my father used to call them. Witchfires. Or will-o’-the-wisps.’

  ‘Why?’ Rowan asked.

  ‘Why what?’

  ‘Why wait like that? They could just walk into a house and take somebody.’

  ‘My dad said it was because of the meat.’

  ‘The meat?’

  Cam stared out at the fires so far below him. He seemed distracted. ‘If the animal is scared or gets chance to run, lactic acids build in the muscles and make the flesh tough and stringy. Not pleasant to eat. But if the animal comes
to you and you kill it before it knows what’s happened, then it stays tender. The Unseelie Court is all about their blood and meat.’

  ‘Human meat,’ Rowan said flatly.

  ‘Of course,’ Cam agreed absently. ‘Human meat.’

  ‘Is that what they are, then? All those lights down there? Will-o’-the-wisps?’

  ‘Their eyes? No. We’re too far away. Probably torches. Lots and lots of torches. Held by lots and lots of Ifrit. There must be thousands of them.’

  ‘Can’t you just burn them?’

  ‘I doubt it – they are creatures of fire … I’m not sure it’s worth the risk to find out. Look over there.’

  Cam pointed sideways along the circumference of the vast hall. To their left, there was a much greater concentration of lights near one cliff face wall of the great circular room. It was darker there, away from the lightwell, and they looked like swirling embers against a night sky. From this height, it did not look so far away, but Rowan estimated that if they went back down to the hall’s floor and then followed the building line to that spot, they would have to walk about five miles.

  ‘They’re crowded around something,’ Rowan said.

  ‘That is where Grímnir must be. Where the Blind Room is. They’re guarding him. We’ll never get through them on our own. Not on our own, but I think I’ve got an idea.’

  ‘Great. Let’s hear it.’

  Cam looked at him and smiled. ‘Hunger. It’s an honest thing, hunger. Hunger makes you predictable. You can always rely on something that is hungry: it has to eat. You just have to bring it to the dinner table.’ Cam explained his plan to Rowan, who listened in horrified silence.