Chapter Three
I creep along the dark tunnel, the point of an inverted V, trying not to think about my non-meeting with Patrick. Even with a few days between it and now, I still feel like I failed. I want to find him and talk to him, but first I have to get through this mission.
Four others of the team are with me, two on either side. We haven't run across any Bottomdwellers so far, but we're still a little ways from the meet point. We still have to traverse the old Underground tracks that lead to the closest unused station. The Tube has been abandoned for decades; nobody dares to venture down here since the demons that can't survive in sunlight or are too weak for possession have made the tunnels their home. Nobody dares, except us.
"Amaranth," someone whispers.
I turn and glare at a young man to my right. Is he thick? Doesn't he know what silent means? He gestures behind us. I remember his name is Tyler and that he has better ears than I do down here. He's been on a couple of runs with me before, but nothing this important. I use hand signals to indicate that Tyler and his opposite should keep an eye on our backtrail.
We continue moving on, but I'm straining to listen, to catch a noise behind us. I can't hear anything, so after a few minutes I keep all of my attention focused on what's ahead of me. The tunnels are dark, illuminated only by our small torches and the few wall-mounted maintenance lights we've been able to keep repaired.
I can feel we're getting close to the station platform by the change in the air. It's crisper, a little fresher and definitely cooler. The Tube tunnels tend to be close and humid, but the open space of the platform allows the air to move more freely. We're almost there.
Tyler shouts a warning from somewhere behind me and then I smell it: the sulfurous brimstone scent of demons closing on us. I turn, drawing two blades in one motion. There's more light here, probably from the platform and I'm grateful for it, although I don't exactly need it. I've been training in blind fighting for the past year.
My weapons are thin blades, almost as long as my whole arm and edged on both sides. They are light and fast, but not flexible like a fencing foil. The metal of the blades is hard and etched with holy symbols and runes of protection and destruction, then anointed with holy oils and blessed by the priests. At their forging, the blades were quenched with holy water. My blades have been baptized by fire and water and oil and smoke, and now stand ready to rend demons and send them back beyond the Gate to where they belong. Wrapped around the hilt and small crosspiece of the right blade is my mother's rosary, supposedly bought in Vatican City—when there was a Vatican—and blessed by the Pope himself. We haven't had a pope in decades and I know I am lucky to be entrusted with such a relic.
It also makes me a bigger, tastier target. Lucky me.
I can see them now: six Bottomdwellers. Three are humanoid in shape, which means they are more powerful, and the other three look like, well, demons. One inches forward on backward jointed limbs, serrated arms like a praying mantis' outstretched to try and catch someone and rip them apart. I surge forward, swiping at those horrid arms, the metal of my blade biting deep into shadowy substance. Sparks flicker inside the demon flesh, and the thing howls. I follow up with my second blade, driving it into the depths of the creature and twist, ripping upwards. The blessed blade tears through it, exiting out the demon's split head and leaving behind a fiery wreck.
I turn to the next demon. The team has engaged the remaining Bottomdwellers while I was dealing with my demon, but even facing only five, we are still outmatched. I see one of the other men go flying across the tunnel to strike the wall with a wet crack and lay twitching on the floor.
My breath comes fast as I close in on one of the humanoid ones, slashing at it to drive it away from the group. It still leaves the three remaining men fighting four demons, but there's no help for it. The tunnel is a battleground now, all curses and hissing, the smell of sulfur thick in the air. The demon evades my strikes, but moves farther away from me and from the dim light coming from the platform. I leap after it, trying to stop it before it can get away and maybe rally more help from its kind.
It suddenly lunges forward, catching me off guard and tries to grab me. I dodge, throwing myself to the side. Off balance, I stumble. The demon is on me then, appendages wrapping around me, tightening like a vise. The thing's like a constrictor, so I try not to lose my breath so it can tighten further and suffocate me. The smell of sulfur bites into the back of my throat, making me gag. It’s like the rankest body odor combined with rotten eggs, and it’s just lovely in the fetid, humid air down here. A real breath of spring.
My right arm is pinned against my body, but the left is still free. And my blade is still clasped in my hand. I adjust my grip, raise my hand over my head, and then drive the blade down as deeply as I can into the demon's back. The demon screams in my face, the red flare as the blade meets demonic flesh dimly illuminating the creature's form. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the old station sign: Charing Cross. I glimpse scales now against the black skin, a bit more definition to what I tend to think of as a formless thing.
Unfortunately, the demon doesn't loosen its hold on me. My peripheral vision is beginning to waver at the edges, and I can feel my ribs aching from the pressure of the creature's arms. I look into its face and eyes like an acetylene torch glare back at me. Its mouth gapes, a dribble of smoke pouring from between blackened lips. I twist the blade and pull it towards me, trying to cut into more of the thing. More red lightning flares along its skin.
It drops me with a yowl, like a child slapping its hand on a hot stove. I'm panting as I find my feet, gulping in sulfur-scented air. I've never been so happy to smell it since it means I'm not dying. Yet. My blade is still in the demon, but I also have the one in my right hand. My knees are a bit weak, but I advance, the adrenaline flooding into my system giving me a natural boost. I close with it before it can get too far and lead with my right blade, cutting into the demon's flank.
It spins and I'm able to grab my sword that's still in the beast's back. I yank it out, leaving a trail of sizzling light. As it heaves, I rear back and punch it in the face with the rosary-wrapped hilt. The spelled beads sink into the shadow flesh slightly, pale lightning shimmering beneath my hand. The demon reels back, more than the strength of my punch alone would warrant, and I slam both blades into its neck on opposite sides, carving through it like a wedge of cheese. Two pieces of shadow, one significantly larger than the other, drop to the floor and begin to dissipate into greasy green smoke.
And Patrick wonders why I seem to be keeping things from him. I can just see my saying, “Spent a lovely day in the Underground fighting demons. How’s rhetoric?”
I widen my awareness and see the three remaining members of the team still fighting with two of the demons, a third lying on the ground oozing the green smoke that means its essence is leaving this world for the gate home. But that leaves one unaccounted for.
“Amaranth!” Tyler yells as he dodges a demon’s blow.
I take a step in his direction, thinking he’s calling for help. Instead he says, “Over there!”
I try to follow his line of sight, but he’s moving around too much. “Where?”
“There!” He points to his left.
My eyes scan the area and I catch sight of it slinking towards the base of the platform. I can see shapes at the platform's edge, peering into the dimly lit gloom, trying to gauge what's going on. I glimpse the glint of steel reflected from a stray light and am only a little relieved that at least one of them is armed.
I push myself into a sprint, determined that this thing will not wreak any more havoc than it has done already. It turns as it registers me pounding after it. This demon is not humanoid; rather it is squat and dense, with a face like a tortoise crossed with a lion. It has three arms, all longer than its legs, the third one sprouting from the middle of what I take to be its chest, although it is so short, it's hard to tell.
The demon swings its arms and I t
wist, trying to evade rather than block since I could only stop two of the three possible attacks. My hair slips loose from the pins I hastily put in to keep the braid in a neat bun, and it unspools in a dark rope. The creature grabs it with one of its taloned hands and begins to reel me in, mouth open to reveal teeth poking up like rocks along a desolate shore. I try and pull against the force that's hauling me backwards, but all I do is make my neck wrench at a painful angle and risk losing my footing as it yanks harder on my braid.
This is not how I would have preferred to spend my afternoon.
I look down at the blades in my hands, making my decision in a split-second. The choice is simple. Life or death. It’s just hair--it will grow back. My sword flashes down, severing the rope that connects me to the demon, just as the rolling sound of a deep-voiced bell rings out.
The result is startling. The demons freeze, becoming as still as statues, though I can tell by the fires burning in the backs of their eyes that they are still aware. I look to the sound of the bell and see a young man climb down from the platform. He’s not much older than me. As he walks closer, I can see he holds a large bell in both hands. Before the sound from the first ring dies out, he lifts the bell again and its bass boom rings out once more.
He's a Ringer. I've never met one before, although I have heard of their existence. The talent for the bells is incredibly rare; Ringers wield the few remaining blessed handbells that have power over demons. The sound of a working bell can disable a demon, torment it, or even banish it. The effect of the sound varies with the bell’s age and size. We don't know why bells have such a powerful effect on demons, but they do, and we guard them, and those that can ring them, carefully. Churches and their bell towers have all been destroyed, but some hand bells have managed to remain hidden and in Resistance hands.
Two more people clamber down off the platform after him. They trail in his wake as he continues to sound the tone. I keep my eyes on the Ringer. He's maybe nineteen or twenty, with dark blond hair and light eyes. I can't tell much more because of the lack of real light.
He comes level with me, mindful of my steel. "You may want to do something about them. The bell will only hold them for so long." He has an American accent and it sounds slow and lazy to my ears. I'm more used to the clipped British used around London. But more than that, it sounds like home. My mother was born in New Jersey, so hearing him is like hearing her all over again.
I nod and go over to the demon I'd been fighting just moments prior. My blades slice through it, severing head from trunk. I nab the braid from the demon's dead hand as it falls. I feel a twinge as I tuck the hank of hair into my vest. I’ve no idea how I’m going to explain my hair to Patrick when next I see him.
To squash the start of regret that I can feel bubbling up inside me, I look at Tyler. “Make sure you finish them.” I indicate the ones close by him.
“On it.” He and the other two get to work.
When all remaining demons are dispatched, I return my attention to the Ringer. He has placed the bell's mouth against his chest, stilling the sound. The Tube tunnel feels poorer for the silence, sad and empty.
My eyes flick to his two companions. Both are older men and one of them I recognize as a member of our Resistance cell. "I take it he's the package we're supposed to transport?" My head dips in the Ringer's direction. I sheath my blades in the scabbards crossed behind my back.
"My name's Dham," he says, his voice as unpleasant as the bell's was soothing.
I've walked over to the man lying against the wall. I check for a pulse, even though I know he's already dead. “Give us a hand, will you?”
“Sure.” He packs his bell onto his belt. I can see other bells hanging from straps spaced evenly on the leather belt that circles his waist.
The Ringer comes over, as do the others of the team. With their help, I strip the body of anything that might be useful, including the old Kevlar vest he wore. Not much help against a head injury that pulped his brains to marmalade. When we've removed everything of value, I take a hip flask from my pocket and upend the contents over the body. Accelerant. Tyler lights a match and drops it. We won't leave a body of one of ours behind to be possessed, not if we can help it anyway.
"Let's move," I say, taking point again and starting off down the tunnel still marked “Way Out.” The two escorts fall in behind me, followed by the Ringer, then Tyler and the rest in the rear. I put on a bit of speed to flee the smell of burning flesh behind me.
The Iron Bells Page 2