The Thirteen Hallows

by Michael Scott; Colette Freedman

  Vyvienne was the vessel, the conduit. Ahriman would feed her his energy. Vyvienne sat astride him, moving in a gentle rhythm while his lips and tongue and fingers worked expertly at her body, arousing her coldly, deliberately, and without passion. When he saw the flush creep across her breasts, felt the hardness of her nipples beneath the palms of his hands, he knew she was close. He then closed his eyes and concentrated on the ancient formula of words that would focus his power. Sarah Miller’s face appeared before him, sharp and clear, and for an instant it was not Vyvienne atop him, but Miller.

  Vyvienne’s fingers bit into his shoulders, the signal that it was time.

  The woman opened her eyes. The photograph of Miller had been taped above the bed, and she was looking directly at it. Pressing both hands against the wall, supporting herself on rigid arms, she stared into the face and imagined it was Miller beneath her. She felt her orgasm building deep in the pit of her stomach, felt it trembling in Ahriman’s legs and stomach muscles. Vyvienne focused on the images flickering behind her eyes…

  …Miller and Owen naked in a nondescript beige room, making love, she moving atop the boy, her hands caressing his torso, sliding up along his throat, across his face. The boy transformed, his face and body twisting into that of a red demon. Sarah’s scream was soundless as she reared up, the Broken Sword clutched in both hands, truncated blade pointing downward…and the sword was falling, the broken blade biting into the red demon’s throat, blood spurting upward, hissing where it touched the metal blade, splashing onto her body, coating her in red, and her orgasm flooded through her as he twisted and writhed in death….

  Ahriman grunted as Vyvienne’s own orgasm shuddered through her. They clutched each other, trembling together until the spasms passed. When they were quiet again, her master ran his large hands through her hair. “Well?” he whispered.

  “It is done,” she murmured. “The seed has been planted. Tonight, Sarah Miller will see Owen as a red demon and kill him with the sword,” she said, and fell asleep, still locked around his body.

  65

  Skinner rested the shotgun on the bridge of Sarah’s nose, the rough-cut metal harsh and rasping. “Nice to see you again, luv.”

  Sarah blinked at him, confused, lost. Where had the skinhead come from? She tried to turn her head to look at Owen and Brigid, but the weight of the gun on her face made movement impossible. Fragments of her dreams whirled and spun, and images of the demons’ snarling faces settled into the skinhead, the two becoming one.

  Skinner thumbed back the hammers on the shotgun, the noise bringing her back to the present. “I should blow your fucking head off right now!” he hissed. “You killed Karl.”

  “What do you want?” Owen demanded loudly.

  Skinner turned, and the weight of the gun lifted from Sarah’s face as he pointed the short-barreled weapon at the boy. “You shut the fuck up. I haven’t come for you this time.” His twisted smile turned into a leer. “You’re just the icing on the cake.”

  “What do you want?” Brigid repeated Owen’s question.

  “Shut up.” Skinner backed into the center of the room, holding the shotgun close to his chest, observing the trio, suddenly unsure. Getting into the apartment had been childishly easy. He had simply knocked on the door, and when the old woman had called out, “Who is it?” he had replied, “Parcel for Brigid Davis.” When she had opened the door, he had put the shotgun into her face and walked into the apartment. Discovering Walker and Miller had been a pleasant bonus. The American had been shocked to see him, but Miller had been staring straight ahead, mumbling softly, filthy hands wrapped around a dirty piece of metal. Skinner had seen that blank-eyed, loose-lipped look before; he hadn’t realized Miller was a junkie.

  His new employer would be duly impressed with this haul. He fished the cell phone out of his pocket and checked a scrawl of numbers on the back of his left hand before carefully dialing. It rang nine times before it was picked up, the line clicking and popping.

  “Hello?” Skinner said.

  There was silence at the other end of the line.

  “It’s me, Ski—”

  “I know who it is,” the voice snapped.

  “I’ve got the old woman…” He paused, savoring the moment. “And a little bonus. Mil—”

  “No names!” the voice growled.

  “The male and female you were looking for earlier are here also.”

  There was a long silence. “You have done very well, Mr. Jacobs, very well. I am extraordinarily pleased.” There was another pause. “Would you be able to take the three of them from the apartment without being seen? Answer truthfully. This is no time for arrogance.”

  Skinner turned to look at the trio sitting on the couch facing him. An old woman, an injured male, and a drugged female. “It would be possible,” he said cautiously. “Possibly a bit later, under the cover of darkness. I could bring in some help.”

  “No help. You must do this yourself or not at all. Be realistic. Could you manage the three of them?”

  “Probably not,” Skinner admitted.

  “Could you manage the old woman and the young man?”

  “Yes,” he said confidently.

  “Then take care of the other. Bring the man and the old woman back to your apartment. You will receive further instructions there. The old woman has a hunting horn, the man has a broken sword. It is imperative that they bring along both objects.” There was a click and the line went dead before he could ask any more questions.

  Skinner pushed the phone back into his pocket. “Seems only you two are needed,” he said, looking from Brigid to Owen. He pointed the shotgun at Sarah. “You’re…superfluous.”

  Sarah looked at him blankly. The youth’s features were still wavering, caught between their human face and the demon skull. She turned her head slightly and began to mumble incoherently as the walls of the apartment shifted, dissolved, white cliffs gleaming in the distance: She could smell the tart salt of the sea.

  “What the fuck is she on!” Skinner snapped.

  Owen shook his head. “Nothing.”

  “Tell her to shut the fuck up.”

  “She won’t listen. She’s…not well. Hasn’t been since the death of her family.”

  The skinhead’s thin lips curled. He nodded slowly. “I remember them,” he whispered. “We took them before your aunt. I enjoyed her mother. I’d never done it with an older broad before…. Of course, I tried it again with your aunt,” he added.

  Sarah’s scream tore her throat as she suddenly lunged for the skinhead’s eyes. Her attack caught him off guard, and he hesitated a moment too long. And then she was on top of him, nails raking his face, tearing the skin off his cheeks, pulling at the corner of his eye. Twisting, he swung the shotgun around and hit her in the stomach with the stock, the force of the blow dropping her to her knees. Towering above her, he gripped the shotgun in both hands, prepared to bring the stock down on her shoulder.

  The sound rendered him motionless.

  It vibrated up through the floor, thrummed through the air, solid, insistent, and terrible. There was such pain in the sound, raw, endless despair overlain with unendurable agony. The sound went on and on, a terrible, terrifying clarion call.

  Pressing both hands to his ears, he staggered away from the crouching girl and then realized that the old woman was holding a curious object to her lips. It was shaped like a ram’s horn, yellowed with age, one end encircled with a golden band. For a moment he didn’t know what it was, until he saw her cheeks swell and then heard the sound increase. With a tremendous effort he lifted the gun.

  He had to stop that deafening noise.

  The pain behind his eyes was excruciating, and Skinner felt as if his head were about to explode. Pointing the gun at the old woman, his finger curled around the triggers.

  Sarah was looking at the skinhead when Brigid blew the hunting horn. She heard a distant, almost ethereal sound, high and thin and sweet. But then she saw the look of agony
on the youth’s face and realized that he was hearing something far different. Then she saw him change. His features turned bestial and serpentine, head elongating, mouth filling with teeth. Tiny nubs of horns formed on his skull, and his eyes turned yellow, the pupils a flat horizontal line.

  She was looking at a demon.

  The skinhead howled in agony. He fired the shotgun, both barrels blazing.

  And in the smoking silence that followed, Sarah Miller surged upward and rammed the Broken Sword into the center of his chest.

  66

  Ambrose stopped in the middle of the street, the sound of a hunting horn ringing in his ears, memories whirling, echoes and images dancing before his eyes. And then he almost doubled over as the agony lanced into his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut, tears of pain trickling down his lined cheeks. Fire burned through him, moving down to his stomach in a ragged tear, as if a blade were slicing through his flesh. He pressed both hands to his stomach and for an instant imagined he could feel the warm wetness of the wound, the gaping hole where his flesh had been torn. When he opened his eyes, he could actually see the ghostly image of the sword protruding from his stomach, the ragged wound cut from his chest to his navel.

  Dyrnwyn.

  The sword was Dyrnwyn, once the Sword of Rhydderch, now the Broken Sword.

  Echoes of the hunting horn.

  The horn was Bran.

  And he was Ambrose.

  And with the name came more memories, and with the memories came more pain.

  67

  Shots fired in the vicinity of Waterloo House, Hounslow. All cars in the vicinity…”

  Victoria Heath glanced at Tony Fowler as she leaned over to raise the volume. The senior detective’s face was set in a rigid mask, and he refused even to acknowledge the radio report.

  “All cars in the vicinity…”

  Sergeant Heath lifted the radio. “Mobile Four responding.”

  “Location, Mobile Four?”

  The sergeant took a deep breath. “Directly outside Waterloo House.”

  “Say again, Mobile Four.”

  “You heard me the first time.”

  OWEN CRADLED the dying woman’s head in his lap. Brigid Davis had taken the full force of both barrels in the chest and stomach, shredding most of the flesh, glints of bloody bone peeping through the seeping wounds. A smattering of pellets had bitten into the soft flesh of her neck and face. Owen examined the wounds and knew there was nothing that could be done for the woman. By rights she should be dead; only her will and determination kept her spirit clinging to her body. Her eyes flickered, then bubbles of frothing blood formed on her lips. “Is he dead?”

  “Yes,” Owen said softly. Against his will, he turned his head to see Sarah still standing motionless over Skinner’s eviscerated corpse.

  Thick ropes of blood dripped from the Broken Sword, adding to its length and giving it the appearance of wholeness. “Yes, he’s dead,” he whispered. “Sarah killed him.”

  Brigid’s ice-cold hands found his, pressing the ancient hunting horn, the yellow ivory now splashed with her blood, into them. “Into your hands I command it,” she breathed.

  Owen bent his head as he brought it close to the old woman’s face.

  “Madoc,” Brigid whispered. “Madoc. That’s where it started. That’s where it must end. You must go to Madoc.”

  GASPING, SHUDDERING, Vyvienne reared upright, pulling herself off Ahriman’s damp body. “What is it?” he hissed.

  “The Horn of Bran has sounded.” Closing her eyes, tilting her head to one side, she listened, but all she could hear now were the faintest echoes of the hunting horn.

  Ahriman sat up, his broad back to the wall, and watched the woman carefully. “Can you find Skinner?” Placing both hands on her naked shoulders, he poured strength into her. “Find Skinner. Quickly.”

  Vyvienne’s eyes rolled back in her head…

  …AND SHE opened them again in the Astral.

  She had walked this shifting, shadowy landscape since she was a child, not knowing then that her talent was remarkable and unusual. She had learned early on how to interpret the colors that danced in the grayness. She recognized the places from the world below that sent dark echoes into the Astral: ancient sites, old battlefields, and certain graves, which were capable of catching and holding a spirit, like an insect against flypaper.

  She knew Skinner’s color and shape, the abstract criteria by which she identified him in the Astral world. He was a petty soul, dark maroon saturated with anger, bitterness, and resentment. Willing herself to his spirit, she rose over the landscape and then fell toward the countless pinpricks of light that were London.

  The sounds of the horn were audible now, faint trembling echoes of the magical sound that had only recently soared across the grayness. Vyvienne found herself tracking the receding sounds, tracing them to their source.

  In the dream state, she dropped into the apartment….

  SARAH STOOD over the body of the demon. In death, the creature seemed diminished, its scales softer now, the sulfurous yellow of its eyes lighter, its savage rows of teeth retreating into its mouth. Its features melted, twisted, altered subtly, and became almost—but not quite—human. And then Sarah felt a sour bitter wind across her sweat-damp face. A heartbeat later she smelled it, tasted it on her tongue…and then another demon, a female demon, stepped into the room, materializing out of thin air.

  And with a great howl, Sarah charged at it.

  OWEN WATCHED in horror as Sarah cut at the empty air, the Broken Sword slashing a picture from the wall, the metal leaving a long groove in the embossed wallpaper.

  “Talk to her,” Brigid mumbled as she let go of her last breath of life, “call her by name, bring her back before the sword subsumes her.”

  “Sarah,” Owen whispered. “Sarah…”

  VYVIENNE JERKED awake with a shriek, her eyes wild and staring, heart hammering wildly. She scrambled off Ahriman and raced into the bathroom, where she leaned over the toilet, expecting at any moment to be sick, stomach lurching, bile flooding her mouth. When nothing happened, she straightened and turned to lean on the sink and stare into the mirror, shocked at her exhausted appearance.

  She was only twenty-one; today, however, she looked twice that.

  Ahriman filled the doorway. “What happened?” he asked softly, his Welsh accent, which he took great pains to hide, obvious now.

  “Skinner is dead, his soul fed to the sword. The sword wielder killed him…and she saw me.” She turned to look at him. “She saw me, struck out at me! How is that possible?” she asked. “I’ve looked at her aura; she is nothing special. And yet she wields the sword….” She shook her head at the paradox.

  “Skinner dead. And Brigid Davis?”

  “Dead or dying. Skinner had shot her.” She had briefly glimpsed the undulating gray-black envelope around the woman’s head as her spirit prepared to leave her body.

  “The horn?”

  “In the boy’s hands.”

  The Dark Man swore, using an oath that was five thousand years old. He took a deep breath, trying to master his rage. “So they now have the sword and the horn.”

  He was unable to hide the tremor in his voice.

  68

  Oh Christ!”

  Victoria Heath stopped in the doorway, pulled out her radio, and called for an ambulance, although she knew the old woman lying on the floor was beyond help.

  Tony Fowler moved quickly through the flat, ensuring that it was empty before he returned to Skinner’s corpse. He nudged it with his foot, though he knew that the skinhead could not possibly have survived the massive wound to his chest and stomach. “Miller’s handiwork again. Though I can’t say this one causes me too much grief.”

  “What happened here?” the sergeant asked. She was kneeling in front of the old woman, her fingers searching desperately for a pulse.

  Tony glanced from Skinner to Brigid Davis. “Looks as if Miller shot the old woman, and then cut up Skinne
r.”

  “Why?”

  “Who knows?” he breathed tiredly.

  “Skinner could have shot the woman,” she suggested.

  “He could have, ballistics will let us know. But it’s unlikely. I’d lay money that Skinner had never met her before today.”

  “Then what was he doing here?”

  “How do I know?”

  “How do you know it was Miller; how do we know she was even here?” she asked.

  Fowler bit back a sharp retort. “How many maniacs do we have running around London cutting people open with a sword?” he asked mildly.

  Victoria Heath nodded. “Then where is she now? These bodies are minutes old. And where’s Walker?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “Do you think he’s still alive?”

  “If we haven’t found his body, then I’m guessing he is. Though I’m not so sure that’s a good thing.” He turned to look out the window. The London skyline in the west was deepening toward twilight, lights appearing in some of the shaded tower blocks. Clouds boiled on the horizon, made darker and more ominous by the setting sun behind them. “She’s going to kill him, sooner or later, she’s going to use the sword on him,” he said without turning around, and Victoria wasn’t sure if he was talking to her or not. “All we can do is wait.”

  “Maybe we can find some connection between this woman and Judith Walker that could give us some clue….”

  Fowler turned to look at the sergeant and she fell silent. “Do it. If we have a serial killer on our hands, I want the pattern established yesterday.”

  He looked back outside, wondering where Miller would strike next.

  69

  Today was…today was Friday, the thirtieth of October.