Chapter Four
I lead the group back the way we came, eyes and ears alert for any more Bottomdwellers that might have been roused by the sound of fighting. Occasionally, I glance back for a curious look at the Ringer and the men who came with him. They all move through the darkness easily, as though used to it, so I stop worrying about them getting lost. A Ringer, I suppose, would be used to the dark places, wherever he hails from.
I see the train car ahead that demarcates the beginning of the Resistance’s area of the Underground from the more dangerous ones that the Bottomdwellers inhabit. The train cars were put in years ago—I have no idea how it was managed—and they block the tunnel that leads to the Northern Line, our part of the London Underground. The way in is through the last car's back door and one of our people guards it continuously. I signal with my torch and the guard, Grant, slides the door open to meet our party.
I pull myself up the steps and let him press a cross against my forehead. The silver feels cold against my clammy flesh, but that's all. No sizzling or burning or smoke that indicates infernal possession. I proceed into the train car and wait while the rest of the group is similarly tested.
It's highly unlikely any of my original group would have been possessed; we're all marked with sigils of protection and warding somewhere on our bodies. These marks help to make sure we stay in possession of our selves, rather than become meat for a hitchhiker demon. Our marks are well-hidden; they have to be. When it was first discovered that demons were here and borrowing bodies, permanent protection tattoos became commonplace.
By the time anyone actually realized what was happening, the possessed were already placed in positions of power, exerting their control on governments and military. No one knew why they were here or what they wanted, but humanity had missed the opportunity to stop them. And, it seemed, the desire.
After the destruction of all of the holy sites across the globe—Jerusalem, Mecca, and Vatican City being hit first and hardest—the demon-possessed governments outlawed any and all religious practice. No more mass, no more temple service, no more bells ringing out in calls to prayer in the holy cities. Oh, they couldn’t root it out completely; people still tried to practice in the privacy of their homes, but it had to be kept secret. Leaders from all religions were killed off and raids began on the homes of suspected practitioners. It became almost impossible to follow any kind of religious doctrine without punishment due to "concerned" neighbors—busybodies—or betrayal by family members.
Then came the New Inquisition. I guess the demons thought it was funny to bring up that particular lowlight of religious history and trot it out for another round of fun. Raids began, ferreting out the priest holes and other hiding places of the few clergy that survived. Inquisitors began rounding up anyone sporting a visible protection sigil. Some of those arrested were released, their marks mutilated to uselessness, but a larger number were never seen again. In some cases, offenders were flayed in public as a warning to others. This was before I was born, but we still have to be careful. Inquisitors are not easily fooled. They still routinely inspect people under suspicion of wearing a mark, shaving their head and body in the search for any illegal tattoos.
And what started as a sort of demons-only club didn’t stay that way for long. Humans soon began to fill the ranks, seeking protection and power, more than willing to sell out the futures of their fellow men for comfort and a modicum of security in the here and now. The demons allowed it--for their own reasons, none of which anyone seems to know--even raising up promising humans to the highest ranks. I suppose it encouraged regular humans to rat others out.
I think it’s a sad statement of humanity. Sad, but not terribly surprising. There will always be someone willing to trade temporary power for permanent indentured servitude. Those kinds of people only ever think of the short term benefits and not the life-long consequences. For those people, the war is already lost. They are simply profiteers. Now, normal people—people not under the influence of anything remotely demonic except their own instincts—regularly turn in their friends and family to torture or worse. It’s become impossible to know who to trust. The Resistance has to be very careful when accepting a new recruit for a cell; it can take months or even years before the newbie knows the full extent of our operations. We smuggle priests, rabbis and imams through our tunnels to where they're needed and they bless bullets, swords, and other weapons for us and keep us in holy water for our troubles.
I stroke the braid I've tucked into my vest. My sigil is tattooed at the base of my skull, done when I was small, too small to really remember. It's part of why I wore my hair so long. My fingers brush the ends of my newly shorn hair; it comes down to my shoulders now, instead of my waist. I hadn't cut it since my mother was taken, as a reminder of her. But I tell myself that it's just hair. It will grow back. Better to have lost my hair than my head.
When the entire group has checked out clean, I make my way through the train cars until I come to the final car. As I slide the door open, Ryland and his lieutenants are waiting for us in the large, open space of the unused station at Aldwych. This is one of the more secure stations we have, the main entrance above sealed years before.
"Nice haircut," he says, his voice a low rumble, like granite given sound. It echoes off of the stone walls.
"I wanted something to bring out my eyes." I grimace and move to the side. I can see him giving me the once over, making sure I'm in one piece with no appreciable damage. He's the closest thing to family that I have now. I didn't know my father and my mother's been dead seven years. Ryland sort of adopted me when I was eleven, after my mother went missing. Maybe he felt responsible for what happened to her or maybe he's just the good sort, but he's watched out for me since my mother's death. Satisfied that I'm relatively unscathed, he turns back to the group. I can see him counting in his head and coming up short.
"We got attacked by six Bottomdwellers," I fill in before he can ask. "We lost one."
"I can see that." His voice is dry, but I can tell in the tightening of his mouth that he's upset to have sent someone out who didn't make it back. I duck my head, a bit ashamed and not sure why. I couldn't have saved the man; I'd been too far away. But the feeling still clings to me stubbornly. "You secured the package though." Ryland walks closer to the young man who all the fuss was about. "Ringer." He extends his hand.
"Dham," the Ringer says, taking the older man's hand. It feels all portentous and everything; if Patrick were here we’d probably be making rude comments about important speeches and choruses of angels singing out to mark the occasion, but he’s not here. All I want to do is head back to the surface and take a shower. "And this is Peter." He gestures to the younger of the two men he's with. “And I guess you all know Kevin.”
Since I’m already acquainted with Kevin, I spend a moment getting a good look at Peter. He's maybe Ryland's age, perhaps a few years older. He's tall and fit, but his features look haggard. I get an odd feeling from him, one that makes me uncomfortable. I try to pin down what it is I don't like about him, but can't come up with anything, except maybe that his expression isn't one to make people want to get to know him. I turn away from him.
Ryland nods at Peter, and then he turns to me. "Amaranth, lead the way."
I take the front again, passing more men and women—some of them guards—on the way deeper into the tunnels. I navigate down a side corridor and open a rough hewn door, waiting for everyone to go inside. Ryland lays a hand on my shoulder as he passes, a brief assurance that I'm still there and solid perhaps. I close the door behind me and go to the corner of the room behind the way the door opens. Not that I expect a demon to make it this deep into our sanctuary, but it never hurts to be cautious.
I'm curious to find out what a Ringer is doing here, and one that sounds like he's from the States. I wonder if he’s from the same place as my mother. How did he get over here with those bells? Air travel is tricky these days and he certainly wouldn't be let on a pla
ne with those bells in his luggage. Even sea travel is difficult, with the Inquisition now taking an interest in what's being smuggled into various countries.
Ryland switches on several lights and I am able to get a better look at the Ringer. My assessment of his age seems correct; he's about nineteen or twenty--barely older than I am. He's got skin browned from the sun, so he's used to being outdoors or has been outdoors a lot recently. His hair is longish and a dark blond, the back of it curling around his collar. There's a bit of stubble on his face, a shadow on his strong jaw. His brows slant down sharply over remarkably green eyes.
"Did you run into any problems, Kevin?" Kevin is also one of Ryland's advisors.
Kevin’s one of the old guard, probably in his early fifties but still fit. He's older than Ryland by maybe a decade, but he follows the younger man. "Not until we hit Charing Cross and this lot ran afoul of those Blights. I picked these two up at the docks and got them here as quick as I could."
Ryland gives Kevin a nod, then turns to the newcomers. "How was the trip?"
I perk up. This is what I've been wanting to hear about. It's not every day we get visitors from across the ocean. Travel between the continents is possible, but the amount of red tape you have to cut through and the palms you have grease along the way make it next to impossible for all but the very wealthy. I'd love to know how they managed to get themselves and their gear over here without being caught. Our resistance group is able to travel reasonably well on the continent, but crossing the Atlantic is far more difficult for us. It's been attempted numerous times, but most of them only end in failure.
Dham speaks, which surprises me. I thought the other man traveling with him would be the one to do the talking; he's older after all. I don’t know why I’m surprised--in the Resistance, age doesn't always equate to rank. I listen carefully, trying to get as much from what he doesn't tell us as from what he does. "Long. And rough. The blockade runner we were on hit a few rough patches, but got us through. That's all that matters."
"You know why you're here?" I swivel my head to look at Ry. This is interesting. I haven't been told why he's here--I wasn't even told that the package I was to pick up was human. I'd been expecting the usual packet of arcane and religious texts and remnants: bones of saints, burial shrouds, the odd crucifix or packet of communion wafers. Ever since religion had been forced underground, there's been a huge call for the smuggling of holy relics and various items necessary for practice and defense.
But I'd always been told when I'd be escorting in a person before. We have the itinerant priests and rabbis that come by on their circuits, re-blessing weapons, dropping off the odd relic or two, and performing various priestly duties, like the anointing of the sick, confession, and communion when they could. I’d even escorted a Buddhist monk through the tunnels once. Their job was to get in and get out as quickly as possible, moving on to the next place on their circuit before their presence was found out by the Inquisition or their Sniffers. But a Ringer was different.
Apparently, I am to be kept in the dark a while longer. Lovely. Dham nods his head, but says nothing, his eyes flicking to me and the others gathered in the room. I take it to mean he doesn't feel comfortable talking about whatever he's here for in front of the rest of us. I have to stop a derisive snort. He's the one we know nothing about and he's going to play cagey with us?
Ryland lets this pass. "The meeting isn't for a few more days. Until then, you'll need to get acclimated. Amaranth, think Auntie can squeeze in one more?"
I arch a brow at him, and he gives me a knowing look. So I'm to babysit the newbie, eh? There are worse duties I could pull, but I can't think of many right now. "There's always room at Auntie's." Auntie runs a boarding house just off of High Holborn. A lot of Resistance use her place as a stopping point. I let a room there. It's secure and one of the few safe places aboveground for us, and Auntie is above reproach.
I glance at the Ringer out of the side of my eye. He looks confused and a bit curious, but seems content to follow our lead. He does not protest about having to wait for a meeting or express concern over being led around unfamiliar territory by a girl he hardly knows. I can't decide if he's dim, unimaginative, or just used to following orders.
"Right. Peter, let's get you squared away," Ryland says, gesturing for the older men to stay. The rest of us are dismissed. He turns back to the Ringer. "We'll send word of the meeting."
I turn, gesturing for the Ringer to follow. Before we can go topside, we need to be rid of a few things and I'll need to change into my street clothes. Wandering around London in body armor and black clothes with holes and stains on them is not recommended. Relatively little has obviously changed since the demons and those possessed took power, but standing out from the norm does not spell for a long, happy life. Everyone changes into "work" clothes while in the tunnels and it is only rarely that we dare to wear them aboveground.
I lead him down a corridor that twists sharply to the right, then turn down another tunnel. I doubt the Ringer would be able to find his way back to where we entered. I follow this tunnel for a few meters, then step into a room carved into the rock.
It's a locker room, of sorts. Chests, footlockers, old valises, and steamer trunks fill the room in a moderately orderly fashion. I head to a battered steamer trunk tucked away in the corner of the room and remove the lock on it. On the outside the trunk looks perfectly normal, a relic of antiquity, of a more enlightened and mannered age. As I lever the halves open, the interior fabric is decked out with wards and sigils of concealment and obfuscation. I unstrap the sheaths from my back and hang my blades in the trunk, taking extra care removing the rosary. I place it in a velvet bag embroidered with sigils of hiding and slip the bag's drawstring over my head. The rosary is the one thing I risk taking with me out of the tunnels--a reminder of my mother. Then I shuck off my vest and clothes, pulling on denims and a long sleeve cotton shirt. I grab my peacoat and backpack from the trunk too, but don't put them on.
I turn to face the Ringer, only to find him flushed. He has a hard time meeting my eyes and I wonder what it is that might be the problem and then I realize. I just stripped down to my skivvies in front of a complete stranger. Lovely. I try not to flush, clenching my teeth together. I've become so used to changing on my own, of having the place to myself that I had forgotten he'd followed me. I have nothing to be embarrassed about, I tell myself. He's the outsider.
It's a testament to how softly he walks and how silent he can move that I had lost sight of him. That is an impressive skill, and one that took me a long time to master. I tend to clomp around when not actively trying for stealth. I brush the stray strands of hair out of my face in frustration and tuck what I can behind my ears. "You can share mine." I gesture to the other side of the steamer trunk that is now empty. "You'll have to keep your bells here. These are warded to prevent detection by the Inquisition. I'm betting you don't have anything spelled to carry them in outside of the tunnels." At his nod, I gesture to the empty side of the trunk.
He puts his hands to the belt that he carries the bells on, as if reluctant to part with them. I can understand it; I hate giving up my blades, even though I know it is for my safety and that of the Resistance. I feel small and vulnerable without them. Twitchy even. At least the rosary is easy to mask. I try to reassure him. "They'll be safe here. No one will touch them."
He eyes me dubiously. I stare back. I can't get a read on him yet. He seems older than his years, but then he seems terribly tentative. I'm about to say something cutting to get him to move it along, when he speaks, surprising me. "I'm not used to going out without them. I feel...naked." He turns away but I can see the red burning in his cheeks. Oh, the changing thing again. "But if you're leaving your swords..."
"Safe as houses." I gesture expansively at the trunk again.
He unbuckles the belt and I'm able to get a closer look at his rig. It looks like a modified toolbelt, the kind construction workers sometimes wear. It holds six bells
, three on either side and then at the back is a sheath holding a wickedly long dagger. The bells are on the large side, ringing his waist in metal. I peer at the leather straps attaching the bells to the belt and see that there is a piece of leather that holds the clappers still. Ingenious.
"Did you make this?" I ask, pointing at his belt.
His head comes up from his work of divesting himself of holy objects. When he nods, a piece of hair flops down over his left eye. I find I'm fighting the urge to brush it out of his face. "I'm good with my hands." He looks away nervously for a moment, then says, "I mean, I like to tinker with stuff. I'm good at fixing things." He lays the belt and bells into the bottom of the trunk and adds a few packets to the top of the pile.
I fix him with a critical eye. His clothes are travel-stained, but serviceable. Cargo pants and a t-shirt with a jacket zipped over it. My gaze takes him in, until I'm practically staring at him. He's not completely objectionable. And his clothes would pass aboveground for now. "Do you have anything else?"
"Nope, this is it. We lost our packs when we had to swim for it." At my raised eyebrow, he says, "Long story."
"Maybe you'll tell it to me one day. We’ll get you some fresh things when we get to Auntie’s." I want to hear the story of his trip over, but he makes no further mention of it. I take that to mean he doesn't want to get into it, so I drop the conversation. I close the trunk and latch it. I want to get back to my room and take a shower. I still feel a bit grungy from the fight and from being down in the tunnels. "Come on then." I shoulder my bag and troop out the door.
I lead him farther into our parts of the tunnels. We excavate carefully as we have need, but these tunnels are at least a few decades older than me. Resistance numbers are dwindling as more and more of us are found out and taken by the Inquisition. We’ve been trying to hold the line, but it's becoming more difficult and dangerous to operate any kind of resistance to the demons. They have possessed powerful people and use that power to great effect to stamp out anything that threatens them. Still, it is better to fight than to be a puppet, a passenger in your own body. Or worse, evicted completely from it.
I don’t swing my blades because I want to. I swing them because I have to, because someone has to try and stop the body snatching, the soul stealing, and the torment that comes from seeing a loved one simply vanish in the night. That’s why I joined the Resistance. If I can help stop the demons and those they serve from hurting anyone else, then I’ll keep at it until the day I die. I remember all too well what it was like for me in those terrifying days after my mother was taken….
I stop that avenue of thought and pull the torch from my bag, turning it on as we reach the end of the tunnel. I wave it at the metal rungs of a ladder that heads off above us into darkness. The ladder will take us up to an abandoned warehouse, again patrolled by Resistance. From there, we'll go up to the upper floor and head into another building, this one much like a tenement and we'll head to the ground from there. Two school kids won't attract attention leaving a complex like that. From there we'll leg it to Auntie's.
"Ready for a bit of a climb?" I shrug into my jacket and put the backpack on both shoulders so my hands are free and my weight balanced.
His eyes spark green when I train the torch at his face. He smiles grimly and says, "As I'll ever be."
I nod and put the torch in my teeth. Then I began to lead the way out, as we climb in darkness toward light.
The Iron Bells Page 3