She had not communicated her fears to Iffie, who was not yet unduly worried. She believed her father was indestructible. It was hardly surprising. She had, over the years, seen him stabbed, shot, drowned and hit by lighting, all to no ill effect.
And it was less than two weeks since they had lost Finvarra. Iffie had not been close to him, of course, but death affected everyone. And Iffie was still so young to have tragedy upon tragedy heaped upon her.
If he was dead (and Tamar, try as she might could not come up with any other explanation) she knew there were two things she could do to bring him back. And Denny would severely disapprove of both of them.
There were the history files. She could go back and change what happened. Get it right this time. And, no doubt, cause a hideous paradox that would probably trap them all forever, and maybe countless other innocent people too.
The other way… Well only she would get hurt. And Iffie would still have her father, after all.
No. She was a mother now; it was irresponsible in the extreme to even consider it. But … if she did it. Denny could save her. Would save her.
If she had not had a daughter to consider, she would not have thought twice about it.
‘I am worried about Tamar,’ said Hecaté. ‘Denny has been missing for four days now. I fear she may do something … reckless.’
‘First Finvarra and now Denny,’ said Stiles grimly. ‘I reckon there’s a curse on this house.’
‘Do not be so silly,’ she replied, ‘as if I would not sense such a thing.’
‘I didn’t mean it literally,’ he told her. ‘What do you think she will do?’ he asked.
‘What did she do the last time he died?’ said Hecaté.
‘We don’t know that he’s dead,’ Stiles pointed out.
‘I am sure that she thinks he is. What else would keep him away so long?’
‘If we knew that, we’d have no problem.’
‘You do not believe he is dead?’
‘I know Denny. I reckon it’d take more than a tidal wave to finish him off. That’s all I’m saying. I’m not saying he isn’t in trouble – bad trouble maybe. There’s definitely something fishy about this. But he isn’t dead. I’d stake my life on it.’
‘Then I believe I know what to say to Tamar,’ said Hecaté.
‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ said Hecaté. ‘There might yet be another way.’
‘No,’ said Tamar plonking a distinctive looking bottle on the floor between where they sat face to face. ‘This is the only way.’
‘My goodness. That looks just like …’
‘There are a lot of them about,’ said Tamar. ‘It wasn’t too hard to pick up another one.’
‘It’s a terrible risk,’ said Hecaté. ‘Are you …?’
Tamar grinned wryly. ‘I’m certain,’ she said. ‘What I really need now is a dose of phenomenal cosmic power.’
Hecaté shook her head.
‘I have to get him back, Hecaté,’ said Tamar, clutching at her hand. ‘I have to.’
‘Whatever it takes?’ asked Hecaté
‘Whatever it takes,’ said Tamar lifting the familiar bottle and clenching it in her fist. ‘Whatever it takes.’
* * *
‘He is contained?’ Cindy asked.
‘As you desired mother. He fought me – he is strong. He does not look strong, but he is. It has to be the Devil’s power he has in him. He will have nightmares because he fought. Blood and fire.’ He looked pleased at the prospect.
‘Fitting,’ said Cindy. ‘His own personal hell.’
‘Yes Mother.’
‘What a pity we cannot deal with her in the same manner,’ said Cindy. ‘She would certainly fight too.’
‘It only works once,’ said Ashtoreth.
‘I am aware of that,’ said Cindy. She surveyed her son with satisfaction. Such power. He was not aware of how much power he possessed. Her own paled by comparison. But no matter, all his power was at her disposal anyway. It was her power really. Angelic power, combined with a natural cruelty that was oh so very human. What he had done was nothing short of a miracle. And he did not even know it.
‘Don’t gloat,’ said Slick. ‘It’s very unattractive.’
Cindy turned to him. ‘You can always bugger off,’ she said. ‘See if I care.’
‘He isn’t dead yet, you know,’ said Slick, breaking the rules of their game. ‘Don’t go getting ahead of yourself.’
Cindy glared at him and looked meaningfully at Ashtoreth, who was looking from one to the other with a puzzled expression.
‘Next we deal with her,’ said Cindy changing the subject. ‘After that, the rest of them will be easy.’
‘What shall I do with her mother?’ asked Ashtoreth. ‘You have not yet told me.’
‘Ah, that’s the beauty of it darling.’ said Cindy with a smile. ‘You will not have to do anything to her. She will do it to herself. Divide and conquer. Take him away and she will destroy herself. It has already begun.’ And she smiled cruelly.
‘I might just bugger off actually,’ said Slick, suddenly disgusted. ‘I’ve had just about enough of all this shit.’
‘Go then. No one will try to stop you,’ she said.
Slick slouched and pulled his hair over his face, and suddenly, Ash saw it. He was much older, but he looked like … What had he looked like as a younger man?
Cindy caught her breath.
‘Are you sure you want to risk it?’ said Slick and stalked from the room.
* * *
Denny awoke bathed in sweat. That horrible dream again, this was getting ridiculous … He snapped the light on when he smelled the smoke. He sat up, horrified. He was in a strange room and, apparently, it was on fire.
That explained the sweating then.
The room was filled with fire and smoke and Denny suddenly realised, to his utter horror, that he was choking. He did not choke – or burn. He snatched his hand away from the superheated wall and wrung it painfully. Ouch! He tried to teleport and found the he could not. This was a problem.
‘Okay. Don’t panic. You’re only in a strange place, without powers, burning to death. You’ve been in worse jams.’
And what the hell was that horrible smell? He forced himself to pay attention. He looked around to see if there was a viable way out of this furnace and noticed that, not only were the walls burning, they were running with blood. It was a nightmare. He ripped off his shirt and wrapped it around his face – ugh blood on his shirt too – and fell to his knees, without removing the bloody shirt, remembering vaguely that you were supposed to keep low and cover your face during a fire. He crawled to the door and sat facing it, kicking out hard with legs that were far weaker than he was used to. The door was rotten, though, and even his limited strength was enough to kick it open.
He crawled out into the relatively fresh air of the corridor. People were running past him and screaming. Denny ignored them as he collapsed onto his face and passed out.
Strong arms picked him up and carried him outside – he was dumped onto a gurney and left. Gradually he became aware of ambulances and fire engines. Everywhere around him there was pandemonium. He slipped off the gurney and walked swiftly away to find a nice quiet place to have a nervous breakdown. No one noticed him go.
Standing on the beach trying to clear his mind so he could figure out what had happened, he glanced at his watch – an automatic gesture, done without thinking, but then he did a double take. It was Friday – Friday? Somehow he had lost five days.
~ Chapter Six ~
Iffie swung lazily on the garden seat; Jack was lying face down on the grass.
‘Jack?’ she said. ‘I need to talk to you about something.’
‘Mmm?’
‘What if there was something that you really wanted to know about, but it turned out that it wasn’t really a good thing after all. Would you want someone to tell you about it anyway?’
‘What?’ Jack sat up, the better to wrestle with t
his unusual conundrum.
Iffie patiently repeated everything she had just said.
‘Is there something?’ he asked.
‘Theoretically,’ she temporised.
Jack sighed. ‘You’d better just tell me,’ he said.
‘I think … I know I found your stepbrother, but … he … he isn’t right in the head or something.’
‘You found him? When? Where? Why didn’t you tell me? Is he all right? Why didn’t you tell me? Where is he?’
‘Jack, Jack, slow down. I’m trying to tell you.’
‘Sorry, it’s just … okay, tell me then.’
‘I don’t know where he is now. I-I ran off. He scared me. I think he’s … dangerous.’
‘He scared you?’
‘He was talking about killing people. I think he meant it. He isn’t like you at all.’
‘Killing people? Oh Iffie, he must have been joking.’
Iffie slipped of the seat and came to kneel in front of him; she took his face in her hands. ‘He wasn’t joking Jack,’ she said seriously.
‘He … he didn’t hurt you, though?’ stammered Jack.
‘No. Not me, but I think he might have hurt someone else.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know. It was just the way he was talking. Jack I think he needs help. I’ve been thinking about it, and I don’t think he’s a bad person. He was really nice in some ways. I think he’s just messed up.’
‘You liked him?’
‘Yes, he was nice … until he said … all that stuff about bad and good and how he has to kill all the bad people.’
‘He said that? Like a nutty religious serial killer. Oh my God!’
‘I shouldn’t have told you.’
‘No, I’m glad you did. At least I know he’s alive. But … what a fruitcake!’
‘We don’t know what his life has been like. I know he isn’t all bad. He was so … well … He was kind of sweet really.’
‘Ted Bundy,’ said Jack laconically.
‘Oh, shut up, he was a psychopath. I think Ash is just … messed up royally. We could help him maybe. We’re his family.’
‘Ash?’
‘Ashtoreth. I mean anyone named that is bound to have severe psychological issues.’
‘She re-named him then?’
‘Well? So what? He’s still your brother, whatever he’s called.’
‘Did he … does he still look like me?’
‘How do you think I knew who he was? But he’s way better looking than you … I’m kidding. He was kind of a dork actually. I don’t think he gets out much.’
‘No, just at night to go on a killing spree.’
‘Don’t!’
‘I don’t want you going near him again Iffie, do you hear me?’
‘But … I could … we could … if I could just talk to him maybe …’
Jack took Iffie by the shoulders and shook her angrily. His face was dark, suffused with emotion. ‘I said no, Iffie. Stay away from him. Just … stay … away.’
‘All right, all right, I promise. Jeez!’
* * *
Jack lay on his bed pondering on what Iffie had told him. It was wonderful and yet terrible. His brother was alive, but a killer. He just did not know what to think. He had wanted to find him for so long, and to find him now, when it was too late for his father. And what exactly had she found anyway? A murderer? A possible murderer anyway. And Iffie had liked him. She was crazy that girl. He was as confused about his reaction to this as he was about any part of this. Why was he so angry about the fact that she clearly wanted to find him again? It was a noble sentiment, and one that he would have expected of her. Was he just worried about her safety, which would be understandable considering what she had told him, or was it something else? Was it that he was – ridiculous idea – jealous?’
Iffie was his. They had been as close as bugs in a rug from their earliest years. Now there was a chance that he might have to share her. And he did not want to – not even with a brother – perhaps especially with a brother.
Was it possible that all the love and companionship that he had built up with her over the years could be so easily transferred to another who just happened to look like him? Surely not. Or worse – he was a mere brother to her. What might this one become to her? More than that? The comfort of the familiar mixed with the tang of the unfamiliar. What might that conjure up? Horrible idea – disgusting. Why, in all the years that he had yearned for his brother, had he never considered this possibility?
He realised he was being ludicrous. Iffie was still a child for all her world weariness. Still sharp and cynical and cold, in the way that only the very young, who have not yet been bruised and battered by life, can be.
When she said she liked him, she meant just that and nothing more.
No more tender emotion had been awakened in her yet. No one knew it better than he. After all, when you got right down to it, he was not her brother either.
* * *
Iffie had no intention of keeping her promise to Jack. She had thought it over and decided that Ash was not a threat to her. Jack was just being overprotective. Probably because Dad was away from home.
She had a feeling that she would find him down at Griff’s again. He was probably looking for her too.
She called a friend to go down with her, in case he was not there. After all, what kind of a loser hung around a bar on their own?
For some reason, she paid special attention to her appearance – the bedroom was strewn with clothes (all black) and she reapplied her face three times before she was satisfied.
She practised, in front of the mirror, what she would say if he showed up. A casual greeting, the carefully inviting brush off, a mere knowing smile.
It was important to get it right, she felt. Not because he was attractive. That would be silly. But because it was important to Jack. (Jack who looked exactly the same, but who was not attractive in the same way because he was only Jack.)
This time she would teleport out of the house. Just in case Jack was hanging around to catch her again.
She checked her watch; it was 2.30. Griff’s would not even be open for another five hours. Oh, well, maybe she would change into the dark purple. It brought out her eyes better anyway.
What if he were not there, though? But he would be, of course he would be; it was Saturday night – hard rock night. Everyone would be there.
* * *
Cindy was pleased with herself. Denny was dying and Tamar had reacted exactly as predicted. She knew this because she had taken the chance of sending out spies – as she had always known she would have to do at this late stage. It was true that if her plan had not been working, then the spies could have been traced back to her, which was why she had never risked it before. But there could be no victory without some risk.
And victory was now within her grasp. Tamar’s predictability, her reckless sacrifice, had made it certain.
And Denny was not going to be able to save her this time. He could not even save himself.
‘Two down,’ she thought. And with those two out of the way, there was no one left on earth who could stand up to her. She had no real grudge with either Stiles or Hecaté, but they would still have to die. Casualties of war, for even without the protection of Tamar, they would certainly try to stop her. And it was better that way anyway. They had not been a part of her humiliation, but they had witnessed it. She wanted no reminders.
She reviewed her plan from the beginning. The only pleasure available to her now, as she waited for the fruition of her plan. When her spies informed her that Denny was dead, then, and only then, would she risk returning to the world. There was no point in being precipitate, after so many years of careful patience.
So, first Finvarra had died to test her son’s resolve and to throw the house into distress. A minor matter in itself but it had had the advantage of leaving Tamar questioning her own judgment when Denny had disappeared. Had she been distracted and mi
sjudged the tidal wave? Was it her fault somehow? Had Denny been thrown off his game by the tragedy in the household? Cindy knew these thoughts had gone through Tamar’s mind as surely as if she had been able to read them there. In this way, Denny’s death by natural disaster would not seem such an impossible event as it might otherwise have done. The idea of a setup had not even occurred to them.
Cindy had seen Tamar stricken by grief and remorse before. Impetuous and thoughtless, she would risk everything to get him back. Without even stopping to consider the consequences, she would recklessly throw away her life or her freedom to save him; either would do. The only problem with that was that, this time, she did not know what she was trying to save him from. She would get it all wrong – never find him. She would make the deal to bring him back from the dead before he had even died. It was tragically funny to Cindy. And in the meantime, Cindy would take away her only chance of regaining her freedom by killing the only person left who was capable of freeing her. At least, the only one likely to do so.
Jack Stiles would die tonight at the hands of her son. That would leave only Hecaté, and Hecaté, for all her powers, was not a human being. She had not the power to save Tamar. Only a human could do that. Only a human being had the ability to make a wish.
As for the impostor (she must not keep forgetting him) well, he was not human either and would be easy to dispose of, at some point, if it became necessary.
* * *
‘Hey, Ash!’ Iffie spotted him across the street from Griff’s and hailed him over. She had known he would be here.
Ash hesitated, and then crossed the street. He had plenty of time to fulfil his mission – all night, in fact. What could a few hours matter? As long as he was back home by dawn.
Rise Of The Nephilim (The Tamar Black Saga) Page 5