Chapter Five
I walk along the street, head down like everyone else in the city. Clothes are in shades of greys, browns, and blacks; the only splash of color is the red on an Inquisitor's coat. Their presence on the street ensures that everyone moves along quickly. People don't speak in the streets or make eye contact with one another. The mood outside is always tense--no one likes being out in public for long anymore. Cameras on corners and in shops record the comings and goings of passerby.
No one knows exactly when the possessions began. It must have started small. By the time the public became aware that something was wrong, the demon’s and those they were possessing were too well entrenched to get rid of them easily. Laws were passed restricting religious practice, but people just sort of went along with it--it was easier than fighting and disappearing. Too many people were dropping off the face of the earth. The mantra it will get better was tossed around hopefully.
But it didn’t get better. Once the demons had consolidated power, they began surgical strikes on the holy cities. They closed churches, mosques, and temples, then demolished them. A kill order was issued for religious leaders, but it was done quietly. By the time anyone knew enough to raise the alarm, it was too late.
It didn’t help that humans began to sell out their own kind. The Resistance was formed to fight back, but the demon’s public relations machine branded it a terrorist organization. Soon we were being blamed for bombs we didn’t plant, for riots we didn’t start. And the vast majority of people didn’t want to risk dying or torture. They just want to live their lives in whatever peace they can find.
I can’t really blame them. Until my mother was taken, I probably felt the same way.
And so now, when I walk down the street and see things going on as usual, but always with the presence of the Inquisition’s Red Coats, I feel equal parts sympathy and anger. Children go to school, parents go to work. Men and women still get married, have kids, live their lives. But there are still the ones that go missing, there are still the ones that come back changed or no longer themselves, but still alive.
I don’t know why the demons let it go on like this. They have to have a reason. I just don’t know what it is. All I know is that I hate what we’ve turned into.
The Ringer walks beside me, taking in the scenery of central London. He seems impressed by the old buildings, still primarily law offices and printing houses. Fleet Street isn’t as splashy as Piccadilly—nothing really is—but it has a seriousness to it. Cars go by, and buses, but I don't want to risk those. You never know who or what you could wind up sitting next to and I don't want to risk anything that might catch the interest of the Inquisition. I look over and grit my teeth. I'm not sure why I'm annoyed, but I am. I try not to think about it, instead choosing to observe him. After a few streets I notice that whenever we walk by large piles of rubble that had once been the great churches of London he looks sad.
We walk in silence for a time. Then he speaks to me. "You’re pretty good with those blades."
I look around. There aren't a lot of people on the street, but it is still unwise to discuss what happens underground up here. The possessed aren't the only demons that are above ground. And spies are everywhere. Maybe it's different where he's from, but in London a careless word could get you hauled before the Inquisitors. I glare at him. "It's not exactly the most brilliant of ideas to mention that up here," I hiss, glancing around us once more. No one is close enough to have heard; at least I don't think so.
He looks around as well, his expression angry. He seems to stew for a minute, as if he's trying to figure out a caustic response and is having a hard time coming up with one. "How old are you anyway?"
The question surprises me. It wasn't at all what I expected. I'm so surprised that I answer truthfully. "Just turned nineteen."
He stops. After a few steps, I stop as well, looking back at him. "What?"
The Ringer shrugs. "I guess I thought you were older. You're a little young to be so…"
"Accomplished?" I suggest when he seems at a loss for the right word.
"I was thinking bitchy, but let's go with your word." He smiles at me coldly, then continues walking while I stand there incredulously. Bitchy?
I jog to catch up to him. "That was rude."
He looks sidelong at me, and I'm struck by his green eyes. I feel like I'm being evaluated. It is uncomfortable, especially coming from this American, although I can't say why. "So were you."
I go silent, thinking. I suppose my brusqueness could be taken for rudeness if looked at the right way. I'm not used to dealing with people, and certainly not unknown entities from across the ocean. I am not a friendly person by nature. I know that. I only have one real friend left from my childhood and I don’t get to see him often enough. Patrick would be shaking his head and laughing at me before calling me a savage or something. Ry once joked that Patrick was the only thing that kept me from going completely feral. Ryland keeps trying to get me to work on my people skills, but that's not a strength I see any point in cultivating.
We walk a ways in silence. I want to apologize, but can't bring myself to do it. The words I'm sorry do not come easily to me anymore. Sometimes I feel that if I start saying them, I won't be able to stop. Finally I decide on, "I did not mean to be rude. We don't get visitors often." At all, really. I know I need to establish a comfortable relationship with him, especially if I'm to be his guide. I smile, and it feels odd on my face. "Let's start over." I take a deep breath and extended my hand. "Hello, I'm Amaranth." He takes my hand, his warm one enveloping mine firmly. "And you are?"
"Dham." He shakes my hand, then lets it go. "It's good to meet you."
"You too." I turn around and continue walking. "Are you new to London?"
"Just got in." He's grinning now, but it isn't mocking.
"Well then, allow me to give you a tour." We’re heading towards the Old Bank of England. I launch into describing our surroundings, pointing out the horrible fish and chip shop on the corner that the locals know not to frequent, the take-away market, and the unhappy fruit and vegetable seller in the stand across the street. His pickings are slim--the Inquisition and their kitchens always gets first crack at the fresh stuff.
That may be what's bothering me so much about the Ringer and his sudden appearance. I wasn't even told to expect him; just that I was supposed to pick up a package. I have no idea why he is here or what he is going to be doing. And the meeting that Ryland promised is news to me. There is something going on and I didn't like not knowing. It feels strangely like I am being kept out of something. But why?
“So what brings you to our far shores?” I ask as we walk.
The Ringer doesn't respond, just smiles again.
Fine. "How old are you?" I might as well find out some information about this newcomer.
"Twenty."
“Positively a Methuselah," I say, a mocking edge to my voice. He was calling me young?
We pass the ruins of St. Dunstan's-in-the-West on Fleet Street. He stops and stares at it, so I stop as well. The great stone blocks are rubble now, with most of the ironwork and anything else that might be usable spirited away in the night. Nothing has sprung up to take its place, not that anything would. The sites on which the churches were built are never built on again. Eventually Nature will overtake this place and it would just be another empty overgrown lot.
Still, you could see the bones of the church in the ruin and how great it must have been at one time when still standing. I can't see much trash, which always makes me happy. I hate seeing bottles and papers and random rubbish strewn about a former holy place. But it looks clean here. I don't know of any humans who would desecrate the grounds, not anymore anyway, but that doesn't mean the demon possessed won't.
"It must have been beautiful," the Ringer says in a whisper, eyes skimming along the detritus. He's looking with his mind's eye now, he must be—imagining the grand arches, the windows, the great doors leading inside.
/> "It was." He looks at me sharply. "I've seen pictures," I say to clarify. "It was rubble long before I was born."
"Did it have a bell tower?" Before I can answer, he's off, making his way through the shattered stone remnants.
I can't remember, truth be told, but that doesn't matter. It is a bad idea to go blundering around old religious sites. You have to worry about being reported or caught by the Inquisition, and you have no idea if you'll run across squatters who might be using the place as a way to lie low. Neither one are people you want to cross paths with.
I take off after him, scrabbling my way through broken bricks and mortar and shattered glass. This is not an idea designed to lead to a healthy life, something I plan to explain to him at length and volume, but he's moving like a mountain goat over the piles of rock and his legs are longer than mine. I finally catch up to him when he stops, looking down. I wipe scraped and battered hands on my jeans as I come up beside him.
A huge iron bell lies half-buried beneath blasted fragments of what must have been the church tower. The Ringer stands and stares down at it, his face closed like a shutter. I can't tell what he's thinking as he looks at the exposed metal. He bends down and touches his hand to it lightly, almost as if it might wake and ring on its own.
I want to say something, anything, but have no idea what. This moment fills me with sadness, and an almost overwhelming need to express it. The sound of cars and foot traffic is distant and muted and it feels like the Ringer and I are the only two people in the city. I am scared of loneliness, and this one minute is filled with it. I have to clench my fists to keep from touching the Ringer, as if he were some anchor.
His eyes catch mine, and I am held still. The space feels charged somehow, like I can expect to be flattened by lightning at any minute. His eyes are more a jade green, muddier than the clear, brilliant green of emeralds. This is going on in the back of my head, where the voice of logic is still able to speak, while the rest of me is fairly screaming SaysomethingsaysomethingSAYSOMETHING.
"YOU TWO!" I spin to see a policeman bearing down on us. His insignia is slashed with red, signifying that he's a police liaison to the Inquisition--he reports directly to an Inquisitor General. I can't tell if he's demon-ridden or not and I don't plan to find out, especially since he's one of the Inquisition's men.
I yank the Ringer to his feet, hauling on his arm. "Come on," I urge, dragging him after me as I head us towards the back side of the church.
"STAY WHERE YOU ARE!"
Unlikely. My sneakered feet pound against the ground, my breath sounding harsh in my ears. I pray I don't twist an ankle on the uneven pavement littered with blocks of stone. The Ringer is close behind me, practically stepping on my heels. I can't hear the sound of pursuit over the noise we're making, and I can only hope that the bobby doesn't have a partner patrolling the area close by. I swing wide around the rear of the remains of the building and see an alley off of what must have been the rectory at one point.
I grab the Ringer's arm again, propelling him toward the alley. I take a moment to look behind us and swear I see a flash of movement among the rubble, but it is opposite the side the bobby would be coming. I push myself to run faster now that we're on flat pavement and we come skidding out of the alley into a busy throng of people heading for home. We glide along with the flow of human traffic as I try to get my breathing back to normal.
The Ringer touches my arm, jerking his head to the left as I look up at him. I shift my gaze to where he indicates and see several police officers scanning the crowd. It looks as though we aren't free and clear just yet. People move away from them quickly, afraid they could be caught up in whatever is going on. They've all learned it's safer to stay out of it. I change my focus before they notice me staring. I see a pub's sign hanging just ahead of us. It says it's the Winchester and there's a curious curlicue mark in the c of the name. It's a safe house.
With a light touch on his arm, I guide the Ringer inside the dimly lit pub. Ryland told me that the Inquisition tried to close the pubs once, but then decided to leave them open. Something about giving the people an outlet where they can drown their sorrows and numb their troubles. Rubbish. The bar is a bit less than half full, although most of the tables are taken. I lead the way to the long wooden bar that has an old Winchester rifle mounted above the mirror. At the same time, I slip a bank note out of my pocket, the intricate folds of the bill telling a story of their own. As we sit, I pass it to the barkeep.
He's a middle aged man, brawny muscles bleeding slowly to fat. His dark eyes flick first to me, then the Ringer as he palms the note. "Follow."
The Ringer gives me a questioning look, and I nod slightly. We leave the bar and follow the man around to the back of the room and down a narrow hallway. He motions us down a left turn that ends in a door. He takes a key from a ring hooked onto his belt loops, using it to open the door. He gestures us inside the storeroom and closes the door behind him.
"What's this then?"
"We need to get out of here without being seen," I say, watching the barman carefully. I know I've taken a risk coming here, but his sign has the symbol and he accepted the note. He's part of the Resistance.
He nods sharply. He rummages in a box stashed in a corner and pulls out two rain jackets. "Get those on, you two. You can put your kit in the boxes." He points to two mid-sized supply boxes, stamped with a food logo.
I shrug out of my peacoat, placing it and my backpack into the box. The Ringer does the same with his hoodie. The barman hands him a cap. We get into the rain jackets and stand before the barman who eyes us critically. "You'll do," he pronounces. "This way."
We pick up our respective boxes and follow him to the back of the storeroom. He moves several large racks and boxes out of the way to reveal a hidden door. He pushes against it; the door seems reluctant to open, but it doesn't squeal or groan on its hinges. Instead it moves slowly and quietly and when it stands open, I can see another alley before us.
"Off with you now." He pushes us out with large hands. The door closes as slowly and silently as it opened, leaving us staring at each other in the gloom of the alley.
The Ringer hefts his box to a more comfortable position. "You do this often? Pretend to be a delivery person to outrun the cops?"
I nod. "Sometimes twice on Sundays." He laughs, the deep sound soaking into the darkness of the alley. "I don't usually make it a habit to go sifting through church ruins."
He frowns as he walks beside me. "I don't make a habit of it either. But I…" He shakes his head, trailing off.
"But you what?" My voice is pitched softly, sounding almost foreign to my own ears. He's odd, this one, and there's a draw for me there that I hadn't expected. I move in closer so I can better hear him.
He ducks his head, a gesture almost shy. "I had to see it. I had to see the bell."
"But you didn't even know there was a bell there." I'm confused and it must show on my face. "Did you?"
He readjusts the way he's holding his box, tucking it atop his hip and under his arm. "I didn't. I just sort of felt something. Like I could tell it was there." He quickens his pace and I stutter-step to catch up. "Sounds pretty crazy, I know."
I shrug. "Hardly. You're talking to someone who sticks swords in…" here I lowered my voice to a whisper, "…demons on a regular basis."
The look he gives me seems to say Point to you, but he doesn't add to my comment. We get to the end of the alley and I take a quick look for anything odd before leading us back onto the street. We aren't far from the boarding house and seem to have escaped notice for now, so I relax the slightest bit. "So how did you get to be a, you know?" I keep my voice low so that we can't really be heard amidst the pedestrian traffic on the sidewalks. I lead us back toward Holborn, and Auntie's boarding house in the neighborhood beyond it.
The Ringer thinks for a long time. I wonder if he's going to answer me or if I perhaps made a mistake in my question. It might be something he'd care not to talk abou
t, like my decision to fight with the Resistance. We turn onto the block that houses Auntie's place when he finally speaks. "My family. We've always been able to make the bells work."
His voice is tight, clipped. I glance at him and see that his face is set in a frown, his brows drawn down in anger or unhappiness. It's clear that this is not a topic of conversation I should continue. I try to change the subject without being obvious. "It's pretty amazing, the effect they have on…things." It goes against some basic part of me to not ask. I have the need to delve deeper, to pry open doors to see what's hidden behind them. I'm sure it's part of what makes me so obnoxious. According to Ryland I would do better if I didn’t push.
"It's nothing." The angry line is still showing between his eyes, but then it clears. "Now you and your…items… are pretty handy to have around. I've never seen anything like that back home."
It's my turn to frown. I do not want to talk about what I do or how I came to do it so well. I do not like to think about it at all. I prefer to treat it like muscle memory; when confronted by a threat of a certain stripe, I react accordingly. Preferably without thinking. "Like you said, it's nothing." I fiddle with my box, trying to find a more comfortable way to hold it so that the pointed edge of one side will stop digging into my middle. "Where's home for you?"
"New York." Not where my mother was from then. I ignore the vague feeling of disappointment. He's watching me, I can see him looking over from out of the corner of my eye. Then a strand of my newly shortened hair falls across my face, obscuring my vision. I try blowing it away from my face, but it just falls back in place. My hands are full with the box, but I try to grab it awkwardly with one hand and rest it on my leg to free one of my hands to deal with the hair.
"Let me." Before I can register complaint, the Ringer brushes the dark strands of my hair back and tucks them behind my ear. I watch, noting how long his fingers are. He has the hands of a musician, a pianist's hands. They move with a supple grace, but I can see the calluses and scars on them, telling a tale of harder use on instruments other than a piano's keys.
His hand slowly drops away from my face, but we're standing, staring at each other like we're the only two people on the street. It isn't busy, not off the main thoroughfares; we're into residential sections now. His eyes are cast in shadow beneath the brim of his cap, but I remember the pure green color of them. The silence is stretching past the point of comfort, and I feel as though something must happen, though I have no idea what.
My box slips, causing me to scrabble to grab it before it hits the ground. The moment is broken; when I look back up, the Ringer's face is turned away. He's looking back the way we came. I hoist my burden back in front of my chest—the box isn't heavy, just awkward—and say, "Come on. We're almost there."
In only a few more minutes we're in front of Auntie's house. The building is a bit run down, but Auntie keeps it neat and tidy, if slightly rough around the edges. Auntie’s neighborhood, St. Giles, is still in fairly good repair, unlike a lot of the smaller residential sections of London. A slow decay seems to have set in in places, as if people—or what's inside them—no longer care about maintaining their property. Entropy has begun. I'm glad it hasn't touched what passes for my home, at least not yet.
The Ringer looks up at the brick townhouse. He looks a bit grim. He's already run from the police and been in a battle with demons and yet he looks hesitant about going into a simple boarding house. I begin to mount the six steps that lead up to the front door. "Right then. Time to meet Auntie."
The Iron Bells Page 4