Soft footsteps hurried up the stairs, and the officers stopped outside the flat. Sarah put her mouth close to Owen’s ear, her lips moist against his flesh. “He’s Detective Fowler, and the woman is Sergeant Heath.”
They watched as the man produced a key and carefully inserted it into the lock. Then, holding the key in both hands, he turned it with infinite care, ensuring that it made no sound. The detective then eased open the door, and the couple stepped inside.
“Now!” Sarah whispered. Holding Owen’s hand, she pulled him down the stairs and they crept past the door. They could hear voices from inside, the woman speaking. “The bed’s been slept in, and there are two sets of dishes drying. The teapot’s still warm.”
“Let’s go. They can’t have gone far.”
Sarah’s eyes widened in alarm as she looked around desperately…and then Owen pulled the door shut and turned the key, leaving it in the lock. By the time they reached the hall door, the police officers were pounding on the door.
“What now?” Owen demanded as they rounded the corner. “We’ll have every policeman in the country after us. They’ll definitely think we’re guilty.”
“Not the royal we. Just me. I am guilty. After me, you’re just an innocent victim.” Sarah shook her head. “I don’t know what to do. Let me think. I just have to think for a second.” She reached into the bag to adjust the sword, which was protruding over the top. A tiny spark of static electricity leapt from the metal to her fingertips.
And suddenly she felt confident.
Straightening, she pointed down the road. “First we’ll buy a change of clothes for both of us. I’m sure the cops in the flat saw us from the window, so they’ll know how we’re dressed.” She ran her fingers through her long, tangled red hair. “And I’ll get a haircut. Then we’ll go to Brigid Davis. We have to warn her.”
“Let’s just hope we’re not too late,” Owen muttered.
54
Someone—something—had awoken him.
The initial stirring was always the hardest part, the moment when the memories returned, flooding into him as if a dam had broken and a stream of fragmented histories rushed furiously into his psyche. Rising, he nudged the empty paper-wrapped wine bottle at his feet and then shuffled away from his latest refuge near Earls Court.
He tried to remember who he was. His name…his identity.
He was…Names whirled through his head, and he stopped suddenly in the middle of the busy street, trying to focus on the letters, attempting to work them into a shape and pattern, to make a word. But the words wouldn’t come, and he wandered on, moving aimlessly, content to allow his instincts to control his actions, the same instincts that had propelled him into so much trouble…and usually out of it again. He had spent several lifetimes relying on the same instincts.
Shifting focus, he looked around him, trying to determine where he was. The buildings were strange, identical, and characterless.
And the people: They were so diverse.
He looked at the faces of the nameless people whirling by him, seeming to move so quickly. So many races, white to black and all shades in between, so many costumes and dresses. All speaking in different tongues. English, French, German, Spanish, Chinese, and Polish.
The tramp looked down at his own body, grimacing when he discovered that he was dressed in foul rags: the overlarge shoes on his feet held together with duct tape, a frayed cord around his waist holding up a pair of dirty trousers. He rubbed his hand against his face. It tangled in his coarse white whiskers.
Dear Gods, how had he ended up like this?
He wandered on, stopping to stare at himself in a dress-shop window. The well-dressed mannequins inside seemed to mock him as he slowly raised and lowered his arms, ensuring that the filthy image he was seeing was, in truth, himself. He was a vagabond, a degenerate, and the patch over his left eye gave him an evil appearance.
He was…
It was so close.
He had almost grasped on to his name. Almost. He also knew instinctively that the knowledge would bring pain. And his aged and tired body recoiled from pain; there had been so much suffering in his life. So many deaths….
Deaths.
There had been a death.
Was it a death that had awoken him?
Images flickered at the periphery of his vision, and then with appalling swiftness the people and places around him faded, becoming insubstantial, the landscape evaporated into gray, speckled with tiny winking lights.
And he saw the demons gathering.
Shadow shapes with crimson eyes and snarling beastlike faces. They were gathering, all moving toward the same focal point, in the Otherworld. He blinked, and the images faded, leaving him back on the busy street, shaken and trembling. He never doubted that the beasts were real.
Something had called him…something powerful, something ancient.
Digging into his voluminous pockets he pulled out a small flask and took a healthy swig. The fiery liquor brushed past his cracked lips and raced down his throat, burning all the way to his stomach but cleansing the sourness from his mouth. He shuddered, pulled the bottle away from his lips, and screwed the cap back on. The world faded again, and now he was watching letters tumbling, falling, making shapes and sounds and words. Some of them he understood.
Ambrose.
That was his name. Ambrose. And with the name came the memories of who he was.
Of who he had been.
55
In his time, Skinner had tried both male and female lovers and always seemed to end up with a male. It had taken him a long time to admit that he was gay; it was a difficult and confusing process. So when he discovered that he was attracted to women also, he became hopelessly confused.
Then he met Robert Elliot. Elliot too was attracted to men and women, but Elliot had liked his sex spiced with pain and domination. So the small man had taken the impressionable sixteen-year-old youth and shaped him, first introducing him to the shadowy world of bondage, then teaching him to enjoy the heightened sensations that pain brought and the infinite pleasure of inflicting pain. And Skinner, in turn, had gone on to teach others, become master to their slave, just as he had been slave to Elliot, the master. But Elliot was gone now. And for the first time in his life, since he had run away from a brutal father and an uncaring mother and come to London, Skinner was free.
He stood before the burning car and watched the small man twist and writhe in agony, mouth open, leaking smoke, eyes running molten down his face, blue flames licking from his ears. He still couldn’t understand why Elliot hadn’t simply opened the door and jumped out. If he had, Skinner would have been ready for him. The voice on the phone had told him that there were to be no marks on the body, no visible injuries. Elliot had taught him how to do that, how and where to strike and inflict pain but leave no mark. He had brought along a nylon stocking filled with sand; a blow to the temple would render Elliot unconscious, and the fire would burn away the bruised flesh. But in the end, he hadn’t needed to use the cosh. And watching Elliot burn had aroused him.
Now he lay on the stained mattress and watched the woman moving in the bathroom, the flash of naked skin in the light arousing him again.
He couldn’t remember how or where he’d picked her up. He had the vague idea that he’d gone to one of the clubs afterward, drinking to take the taste of petrol and the stench of overdone pork and burned rubber from his mouth. He didn’t remember coming back to the flat—though that wasn’t too unusual. Pushing up on the mattress, he laced his fingers behind the back of his head and watched the bathroom door, wondering if the woman was any good, wondering if he’d remembered to take precautions, realizing that if he’d been too drunk to remember where he’d picked her up, he’d been too drunk to remember to wear anything.
The woman stepped out of the bathroom and flicked off the light before he had a chance to see her clearly. It took his eyes a few moments to adjust to the gloom. The curtains were long rectangles of ligh
t; obviously it was late in the morning, but this morning he was his own boss, in charge of his own destiny. He had nowhere to go, no errands to run, nothing to do. Except the woman, he thought, leering.
The woman moved around to stand before the curtains, a naked silhouette against the light, turning slowly, allowing him to see her profile. She tilted her head back, and long hair cascaded down her back to the small of her spine.
Skinner grinned. He knew now why he’d chosen this woman: long hair. He had always been attracted to men and women with long hair. Sometimes, when he thought of his mother, he remembered that she’d had long hair; he couldn’t remember her face anymore, but he remembered the hair.
Crouching low, the woman moved slowly, sensuously, across the floor, then dropped to her knees at the foot of the mattress and crawled toward him. Grinning, he threw back the single sheet to greet her. Pressing her ample breasts against his feet, she slithered up him. He was reaching for her when she reared up, pressing her breasts against his face, her nipples against his lips.
And his cell phone rang.
And Skinner woke up.
He was sitting up on the mattress, his naked back against the flaking wall, arms behind his head, elbows aching, pins and needles tingling in his forearms. Moving his arms was agony; he must have fallen asleep in this position. When he allowed his arms to drop into his lap, sensation flooded back, setting his muscles trembling and cramping. The pain was incredible…and enjoyable.
The phone continued to ring.
The insistent ringing was setting his teeth on edge, beginning to pulse in time with the headache that was gathering behind his eyes. He snatched the phone off the floor, hearing the static howl of a long-distance call. “Yes?”
“Were you enjoying the dream, Mr. Jacobs?”
Skinner stared at the phone, recognizing the voice. Elliot’s employer, the man who had given him Elliot’s address. “The dream?” he said dumbly.
“Yes. She is a particularly accomplished lover. You will enjoy her in the flesh, Skinner, I promise you. And her hair—like silk. She can arouse a man in a hundred ways, she can give you such pleasure. Unimagined pleasure.”
There was a long pause, while Skinner tried to make sense out of what he was hearing. Was the man suggesting that he knew what Skinner had been dreaming about?
“You should know, Skinner, that there is very little I do not know about you. The late unlamented Mr. Elliot also knew this, but he chose to ignore it. There is nothing you can do, nowhere you can go, to escape me. And do you know why, Skinner? Because you must sleep, and while you sleep you dream, and no one can run from their dreams.” There was another pause and then a rasping chuckle. “Now why don’t you wake up—”
The phone rang.
And Skinner woke up.
He was sitting up on the mattress, his naked back against the flaking wall, arms behind his head, elbows aching, pins and needles tingling in his forearms. Suddenly nauseated, confused, his heart hammering madly, he snatched the cell phone off the floor. Static howled on the line.
“So you see, Skinner,” the male voice said, continuing the conversation he had begun in the dream, “I don’t want you making the same mistakes that Mr. Elliot did. You cannot hide from me. Obey me however, and I will reward you well. Now, here’s what I want you to do….”
56
Vyvienne opened her eyes and smiled at the Dark Man. “The poor boy is dreadfully confused. He’s still looking at the phone, wondering if this is a dream also, waiting to wake up.” The smile faded. “Why are you using him?”
“He is a useful tool. And he knows Elliot’s methods, he knows what we require, he’s done this work before…it does not disturb him. But when we’re finished you can have him. He’s young, strong, and has learned to enjoy pain. You could toy with him for a long time.”
Vyvienne sat up on the bed and started twisting her thick hair into a simple braid. She stretched like a cat, extending her sinewy limbs. “You should know that the Astral is in turmoil,” she said matter-of-factly to Ahriman. “When Miller called the sword by name, she unleashed dark shadows. I have felt peculiar…echoes.”
“Are we in any danger here?”
“Not yet. But with so many of the Hallows collected around us, I’m sure even a tiny leakage of their power must be trickling through to the Astral. Sooner or later someone—or something—will come to investigate.”
“They will come too late,” he said confidently.
“Are you sure?” she began.
Ahriman suddenly leaned forward and cupped the woman’s small throat in his large hands. “Do not doubt me now….”
Vyvienne choked. “I don’t—”
“We already have ten of the Hallows. We know Miller has the eleventh, and the woman Brigid Davis has the twelfth. We’ll have the location of the thirteenth within the day. But,” he added with unusual caution, “now that the sword has been awakened, do we want it? Can we control it? Do we really need it?”
Vyvienne tried to shake her head, but the hand clutching her neck squeezed tightly. “I…I…I think,” she managed to whisper, “we need them all.”
“Miller has tainted the sword. She has fed it unsanctified blood,” he snapped. “And with Judith Walker dead, we cannot fire it clean again.” He spun away in disgust and stood before the arched windows, arms folded, staring out toward the mountains.
Rubbing her bruised throat, Vyvienne pulled out a picture of Owen Walker from the manila folder on the bedside table. It had been taken at a Christmas party the previous year, and the boy’s cheeks were flushed, his forehead gleaming with sweat. Vyvienne spent a moment examining the young man’s strong, masculine features. She placed the picture of Sarah Miller, which Elliot had stolen from her home, next to Walker’s picture. They made a good-looking couple. Miller’s blue eyes contrasted with her alabaster skin, and her ordinary face was made remarkably striking by her strong cheekbones and beautiful red hair.
“What if…” An idea slowly formed in Vyvienne’s mind. She smiled as she formulated her thoughts. “What if Miller were to slay the Keeper?”
Ahriman turned to look at her.
“Miller is now with Judith Walker’s nearest blood relative,” Vyvienne suggested softly, allowing Ahriman to put the pieces together as she approached him seductively, standing behind him, wrapping her arms around his torso, pressing the palms of her hands against his chest. She could feel the strong beat of his heart beneath her fingers.
“Miller is the sword wielder now. Yet she doesn’t know it. She has no idea of the forces she has unleashed. But if she were to slay the Hallowed Keeper…”
Her master smiled, following her train of thought. “An unsanctified sword wielder slaying a Hallowed Keeper,” he said softly. “That would make the sword powerful.”
“Exceedingly powerful.”
“Do it!”
The woman spread her arms lasciviously. “I will need energy. You must feed me your power.”
Ahriman undid her long silk cloak, allowing it to drop to the ground. He then watched his beautiful young wife return to the bed and open herself up. At times like this, he experienced a tiny trickle of concern at the power the woman had over him. But it wouldn’t always be that way.
Soon it would be time for the final sacrifice.
57
I’ve been expecting you.”
The tiny woman opened the door wider and stepped back. Sarah and Owen looked at each other blankly. They had rehearsed their opening conversation with Brigid Davis, trying to devise a gambit that would get them past the door without the old woman calling the police. But the door had been opened on the first ring, the woman smiling as if she knew them.
Brigid Davis lived in one of the faceless tower blocks that had been built on the fringes of London in the sixties and early seventies. The young couple had spent the better part of an hour wandering around the enormous complex, trying to track down the old woman, but all of the spray-painted blocks had names—Victory Ho
use, Trafalgar House, Agincourt House—and Judith Walker had not recorded the name of Brigid’s building in her address book. Most of the letter boxes in the sour-smelling hallways were hanging open, and Owen suspected that the few closed boxes had been glued shut.
No one seemed to know the old woman, nor did they know the address. Even if they did, they certainly were unlikely to give it to the buzz-cut youth with the bright green eyes and bruised face or the elfin red-haired young woman with the sloppy pixie haircut and intense stare.
Sarah and Owen had been on the verge of quitting when they had spoken to an aged West Indian man who had directed them to an apartment on the eighth floor of Waterloo House. “An architect with a sense of humor,” Sarah muttered as they climbed the eight floors to the top of the building. “Probably never came back to look at the building he designed.”
Apartment 8A was just to the left of the stairs. The young couple rang the bell and leaned on the rusted railing, catching their breath, when the door opened and the tiny woman appeared.
“I’ve been expecting you,” Brigid Davis repeated, closing the door behind them, then ramming home two bolts and sliding a heavy chain into place. Catching hold of the couple’s arms, linking them both, she maneuvered them down the narrow hallway and into the small sitting room.
“Please sit, sit. Don’t look so surprised.” She smiled at their shocked expressions as she eased them into the overstuffed settee. She perched opposite them on a scarred rocking chair. When she sat back into it, her feet didn’t quite touch the ground, making her look even more childlike.
In her youth, Brigid Davis must have been spectacularly beautiful, Sarah decided. Although she knew she was Judith Walker’s contemporary and therefore into her seventies, her skin was mostly unlined, almost translucent in its clarity. Her sparkling blue eyes were wide-set, and her teeth were strong and white. Yellow white hair was pulled straight back off her face, knotted into a long rope that hung along her spine. She was dressed in a simple black dress. The only jewelry she wore was a large turquoise necklace and a matching turquoise ring.
The Thirteen Hallows Page 18