“Mrs. Davis…,” Owen began.
“Miss,” the old woman corrected gently. “You are Owen Walker, dear Judith’s nephew. I was so sad to learn of her death.”
“You know?” Owen was surprised.
Brigid nodded.
“I didn’t realize it had been on the news.”
“Maybe it has and maybe it hasn’t,” the old woman said in a disturbingly singsong manner before excitedly grabbing Sarah by the hands. “And you are Sarah Miller. The police seem very eager to interview you,” she added with a wry smile.
“A misunderstanding…,” Sarah began.
The old woman raised a hand, silencing her. “You needn’t make explanations to me.” Folding her hands in her lap, she concentrated on them for a few moments, and when she looked up again, her wide eyes were further magnified by unshed tears. “You were coming here to warn me about the deaths of the other Keepers. I’ve known about those deaths for a while now.”
“You have!” Owen cried. “Why didn’t you tell the police?”
“I’m not sure the police would consider my sources reliable,” Brigid said softly.
“What are your sources?” Sarah asked.
“Tea?”
Owen and Sarah looked at her. “I beg your pardon?”
“Tea?” she asked again. “Would you like some tea? Of course you would,” she said, standing. “I’ll make us some tea, I have Darjeeling and chamomile; complete opposites and yet each quite delicious in its own right. It feels more like a Darjeeling kind of day, don’t you think? First tea, then talk.” She skipped into the kitchen, and moments later water thundered into a kettle.
“Is she mad?” Sarah whispered.
“I think she’s completely bonkers, is what I think.”
“I’m not mad or bonkers,” Brigid said, popping her head around the door, “though I can understand how you would think so.”
Sarah opened her mouth to reply, but Owen pressed his hands to her lips, silencing her. He stood and crossed to a small table below the window where a dozen framed photographs were laid out. Most were of Brigid: in a fuchsia ball dress, a maroon graduation robe, a teal bridesmaid’s dress. Others showed her surrounded by small children. One picture, older than all the rest, was at the back. It was a faded sepia photograph of a group of children.
“The Hallowed Keepers,” Brigid said, returning with a laden tray. Owen stood to take it from her, and she smiled her gratitude. “Your aunt is there, second from the left, middle row. Your aunt and Bea are wearing the matching dresses and headbands, I’m sitting two down from them, next to little Billy Everett. Gabriel was behind me and he kept pulling my frock. I wore such a pretty emerald green dress that day. Almost the color of your eyes.” Without pausing for breath, she added, “Why did you do that to your hair? It is not a good look for you.”
Owen uncomfortably ran his fingers across his buzzed skull. It was supposed to be a disguise; however, it seemed only to make him look like a thug.
Changing the conversation, Owen pointed to the tiny blond girl who seemed so much smaller than the others. “Is this you? My aunt has the same picture in her sitting room. You haven’t changed much.”
“It’s sweet of you to say so. That photograph was taken seventy years ago. The last time we were all together. We all got one. A copy of the photograph, that is.” She lifted the photograph from Owen’s hands and tilted it toward the light.
“Now there are only three of us left alive. Myself, Barbara Bennett, and Don Close. We’ll be dead soon. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” she added matter-of-factly as she poured the tea.
“Barbara and Don…they’re Hallowed Keepers, too?” Owen asked.
“They are. Donnie’s the one in the middle row with the freckles, in between Sophie and Barbara.” She glanced sidelong at Owen and Sarah. “He has him, you see? He has Don…I think he has Barbie, but it gets cloudy sometimes.” She squeezed her eyes shut and concentrated. “Maybe he has Barbie. He definitely has Don. Yes, both of them I think. He has them.”
“Who has them?” Sarah asked.
“The Dark Man. And every hour he tortures Don to get him to reveal the location of his Hallow. He hasn’t yet, but he will. It’s only a matter of time before he tells him. They always tell him. Sugar?” The old woman smiled again, holding out the sugar dish to Owen, and this time he realized that she really was quite mad, quietly and dangerously mad.
“Are you saying that two people are being held prisoner?” Owen asked cautiously, unsure if he had heard correctly.
“Yes.” Brigid Davis sat down and dropped two sugar cubes into her tea, then took a large bite of her biscuit.
“Why haven’t you told the police?”
“And what am I to tell them?” Brigid asked, looking into his bright eyes. “A man and a woman are being held prisoner, I neither know where they are nor do I know who has them. I simply know. What do you think the police will do about that?”
“You obviously know a lot more about what’s going on than we do. What can you tell us?” Owen prodded.
Brigid smiled brilliantly. “Enough to terrify you. Enough to convince you that I really am truly quietly and dangerously mad.” She smiled again, her eyes locking on his face.
“Lady, if you know something that could help us, tell us,” Sarah snapped. “Right now, the police are convinced that I’ve killed two men, butchered my entire family, and probably kidnapped Owen. I’m locked in some sort of living nightmare and you’re playing word games!”
“Milk?”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake!”
“Language!” Brigid snapped. “Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain.”
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “I didn’t mean to offend….”
“You didn’t offend…it is simply that there is a power in names, and it is foolish to call upon them unnecessarily.”
She waited until they were both sipping the scalding tea before she spoke. “It is difficult to know where to begin, and we have so little time left. I could begin seventy years ago, when thirteen children were drawn from all parts of this island to the tiny village of Madoc, almost in sight of the Welsh border. I could begin four hundred years ago, when the first Elizabeth ruled England, or I could begin five hundred years before that, when history and mythology met…or I could begin nearly two thousand years ago, when the Hallows were first brought to the land that would one day be called England.”
“Yeshu’a,” Sarah breathed.
Brigid gasped and her teacup dropped, shattering on the floor. “What do you know of Yeshu’a?”
“I dreamed…”
“Yeshu’a was a big man, blond, blue eyes,” Brigid suggested quietly.
Sarah shook her head. “No, I dreamed of a boy, dark-haired, dark-eyed…”
Brigid Davis smiled thinly. “Aye, that’s him. So you did dream of the boy.” She suddenly reached out. “Give me your hand.”
Glancing sidelong at Owen, Sarah put down the cup and stretched out her hand. The old woman caught her, fingernails digging into her flesh. “Who are you?” she whispered.
“I’m Sar…” The grip tightened painfully on her hand, silencing her.
“Who are you, really?” The old woman’s smiled turned feral. “Don’t tell me who you are…tell me who you were.”
The sound of a hunting horn, hounds bellowing…
The boy Yeshu’a turning, looking at her, dark eyes lost in shadow, thin lips twisted in a smile…
An old man turning, looking at her, half his face washed in the light of a setting sun, the other half in shadow…
A powerful warrior, mail-clad, turning, looking at her, blood on her face, a broken sword in her hand…
Judith Walker’s face, bloody and broken.
…the small man with the evil eyes.
…the skinhead with the leering smile.
Owen’s face.
Brigid’s.
“SO…,” THE old woman murmured, releasing her hands.
Sarah blinked, the images fading. “What was that? What’s happening?” She felt sick to her stomach, a dull headache throbbed behind her eyes, and there was a sour taste in her mouth. Owen reached over and squeezed her arm, and she could actually feel the warmth flowing from his touch, moving through her body, easing across her chest, and settling into her stomach.
She exhaled explosively, realizing that she had been holding her breath. When she brought the teacup to her lips again, her hands were trembling so badly that she could barely hold it.
Owen broke the long silence that followed. He looked earnestly at Brigid. “Why don’t you begin with the Hallows,” he said.
58
Fowler kicked in the thin door on his first attempt.
“He’s not here,” the detective muttered, quickly scanning the squalid apartment. The hallway behind them was already filling with police. “How do you know?” Victoria asked, padding silently beside him, a long flashlight held tightly in both hands.
“What would you do if someone kicked in your door?”
“Make a run for it…or flush the evidence down the loo.”
“And what do you hear?”
“Nothing.”
Nick Jacobs—aka Skinner—lived in the top-floor apartment over an adult cinema on the fringes of Soho. Amid the clutter of scattered clothes, fast-food cartons, and crumpled beer cans, the flat-screen high-definition stereo television and matching stereo were starkly out of place. Alongside the filthy mattress that Skinner obviously slept on, an impressive sound system had been set up, the massive speakers facing inward toward the bed.
“I’ll bet he liked to play them loud,” Detective Fowler muttered before he turned to the four officers spread out around the room. “Take this place apart. Bag everything. And if you find anything interesting…” He left the sentence unfinished.
Victoria Heath wandered around the apartment. They had just come from Elliot’s sumptuous apartment in Bayswater, and the contrast between the two was startling. Elliot had everything. The apartment was exquisitely decorated and was spotlessly clean, with everything meticulously in place. Yet his lover lived in a pigsty. The only thing they both had in common were matching expensive sound and television systems.
She wondered where Skinner was. Had Miller killed him? And how had Miller, who had never been in trouble with the law before, gotten involved with this unlikely crowd? They had no evidence that Sarah Miller even knew these people, yet two days ago she had butchered her entire family and had then been involved in the deaths of at least another two people and kidnapped Owen Walker. There was a chance that the American was still alive, but for how much longer? She was stepping away from the filthy mattress when she spotted a scrawl of numbers and names written on the floorboards. Most were faded, but one address stood out. It had been scribbled in black ink, obliterating some of the other names and numbers. She tilted her head to read it. “Brigid Davis, apartment 8A, Waterloo House, Hounslow.” When she ran her finger across the writing, the ink smeared beneath her fingers.
“Tony! I think we’ve got something.”
59
Skinner eased the stolen Nissan to the curb and turned off the ignition. Draping both hands across the steering wheel, he stared at the blocks of flats, mirrored shades reflecting the gray towers.
The voice on the phone had given him precise instructions, and there had been the unspoken threat if he failed.
But he wasn’t going to fail.
From under the seat he pulled out the double-barreled shotgun, the sawed-off barrels only a few inches in length. He had used it only once before, when he’d been sent out to frighten a client who owed Elliot money. Skinner had been told to fire a shot into the ground to frighten him. Unused to the shotgun and the spread of the pellets, he had fired too close to the petrified man and had blown off most of his foot. Skinner’s lips twisted in a sour smile as he remembered. The client had paid up; Elliot had made the collection at the poor guy’s hospital bed.
The skinhead shook his head and pushed his glasses up onto his forehead. When he thought back on his association with Elliot, he realized that he must have been insane. He did all of Elliot’s dirty work, and all he got in return were small crumbs and enormous grief. Well, this was his golden ticket: He was working in the big leagues now, and although his new employer was more than just a bit terrifying, there would be a bigger payoff. Perhaps in a year, two at the most, he could really be someone, with money in his pocket, a car, an apartment, and his own minions to do his dirty work. He nodded sharply, the sunglasses sliding onto his nose; that’s what he wanted.
In a year or two, he would be someone.
Waterloo House, eight floors up. The woman’s name was Brigid Davis. When he had secured her, he was to make a telephone call—the number was written on the back of his hand—and he would receive further instructions.
Tucking the shotgun under his long coat, he climbed out of the car and walked toward the tower. He was whistling a song from Wicked; he loved that show.
60
There is so much I cannot tell you,” Brigid Davis said quietly, “simply because I don’t know. And because we’re running out of time,” she added quickly, watching the expression on Sarah’s face. “Let me speak, and then you can ask your questions.”
Owen squeezed Sarah’s arm, stilling her protests. “Let her speak,” he echoed softly.
Brigid Davis took a deep breath, then turned her head to look through the window, across the London skyline, toward the west. “Seventy-something years ago, at the start of the war, it was feared that the Germans would bomb the cities. Children were evacuated out of the major cities and sent to towns and villages in the country. Even today, I’m not sure how we were picked, or who chose our specific destinations. I ended up in a Welsh village called Madoc, just on the border. Including me, there were thirteen children shipped to the tiny village, five boys and eight girls. Everyone was around my age, give or take a few years, and we came from all different parts of the country. It was the first time away from home for most of us, and we thought it was a grand adventure.”
The old woman smiled, blinking quickly. “It was a lovely time, and I can say now with complete honesty that it was one of the happiest times of my life. The village was beautiful, the people were kind, the weather that year was glorious, I had new friends…and we had a secret. That was the autumn we were given the Hallows.”
She nodded toward the bag at Sarah’s feet. “You’ve got Judith’s sword with you. I can feel it. The Sword of…” She quieted and added respectfully, “Well, let’s just call it the sword, shall we? There is a magic in names.”
Almost unconsciously, Sarah reached into the bag and pulled out the newspaper-wrapped sword. More of the rust had fallen off, hints of metal amid the oxidization, the sword shape a little more distinct.
Brigid stretched out her hand toward the sword, then drew her fingers back as if they had been burned. “Has it fed?”
Sarah looked at her blankly.
“Has it tasted blood?” Brigid demanded.
“I used it to kill two men.”
The old woman’s breath escaped in a long hiss, and her face registered panic. The fingers of her left hand moved in a complicated pattern that ended with the hand closed tightly into a fist, index and little fingers extended, thumb crossed over the folded fingers.
“You were telling us about the Hallows,” Owen said quickly. “In the village of Madoc, during the war…you were given the Hallows.”
Brigid’s eyes slowly lost their glassy look. “Yes. Yes, we were given the Hallows. Because we children were all strangers to the town, we tended to stick together. In normal circumstances, we would never have mixed. We were from all different classes and backgrounds, and in those days that simply did not happen. Some of us had never even been to the countryside before. We were there about three weeks when we learned about Madoc’s famous haunted cave. Naturally, we all wandered out to explore it.
; “And that’s where we met Ambrose.
“Ambrose was a tramp, and he’d been coming to the village for as long as anyone could remember. He would sharpen knives, mend pots and pans, help out on the farms, and tell fortunes in the evening. During the summer and early autumn, he lived in the cave in the forest on the edge of the town. Over the years, he had added wooden shelves and a makeshift bed of sorts, and the local children would dare each other to creep in and lie on the bed.
“All the children loved him. I suppose we all wanted to be like him. This was a different age, remember, when tramps were looked upon as noble. Gentlemen of the Road, we called them. They had a dignity that you don’t often see in modern-day vagrants.”
Brigid Davis fell silent, remembering the one-eyed tramp. When she spoke again, her voice was soft, distant.
“I think we all realized the moment we set eyes on him that we had known him before. Impossible, of course. But we knew him. And he knew us. He called each of us by name, oldest to youngest. First Millie and all the way down to Judith. He knew all of our ages, he even knew where we were from. It should have been terrifying, but even now, seventy years later, I can remember that he felt so…safe.” Brigid took a deep, shuddering breath. “In the weeks that followed, we got to know him so well that we began to dream about him. Odd, curious dreams in which he would be sitting surrounded by mirrors and talking, endlessly talking. Yet his words were strange and garbled.
“They were wild and disturbing dreams.
“It was only when we discovered that the others were also experiencing the same dream that we started to suspect that something very strange was happening.
The Thirteen Hallows Page 19