Mammon

by J. B. Thomas

  Her eyes fluttered open. She sat forward and tried to jump up.

  ‘Steady!’ Ivan was crouching in front of her. He grabbed her by the arms. ‘Just go slow now.’

  ‘The Rift is open!’

  ‘Then we don’t have much time.’ Ivan nodded at the other squad leaders. ‘Be ready to move.’

  Grace looked over at Joe, who was sitting nearby. ‘It’s mammoth! Out of control. Like the one you opened that night, on my birthday – but worse.’

  Ivan glanced at the mansion. ‘So, how many are there?’

  ‘The entrance hall is full of hosts. And about fifty upstairs. And they’re already coming through.’

  ‘What, through the Rift? What did they look like?’

  ‘Shadows. Just Shadows. And when they possess a body, the Shadow disappears completely. You just can’t tell they’re demons.’ Her eyes darted to Joe.

  ‘That girl is there as well.’

  ‘Haures,’ he said.

  ‘There’s another guy there, from the table that night.’

  ‘Andras?’ said Joe.

  ‘I don’t remember their names.’

  ‘You know – the one who gave you the drinks that night, at the festival.’

  ‘No, he’s out on the balcony, controlling the hosts. Another guy. I don’t know what he can do.’

  ‘Okay, then.’ Ivan stood up. ‘We crack the door and go in firing.’

  * * *

  ANDRAS PEERED OVER the balcony, sweeping his gaze over the hosts assembled in the entrance hall. ‘Get ready to attack,’ he said. ‘Your futures are at stake here, and you will lose your chance at power if you let these mercenaries win.’

  But it was quiet. For fifteen minutes – nothing. No point in sending a patrol outside just so they could get chewed up by the Ferryman’s rift. Andras shuddered at the thought. He turned and slipped back into the circular room, where Mammon’s Shadows were still floating about their hosts’ heads.

  Mammon shot him a demanding look.

  ‘The hosts downstairs are ready,’ Andras said, with a slight nod of his head. ‘If you hurry, your next wave of troops can take their bodies and win the fight far more easily.’

  ‘There’s a protocol to follow here, Andras. These are my generals.’ Mammon waved to the Shadows that were flying out of the Rift. ‘They take the more important hosts, then we move down to the lesser-ranking folk downstairs. We will make it in time. The mercenaries are delaying. I suspect they may retreat. At the very least, they seem to be waiting for something. Courage, most likely.’ With a smirk, he looked back at the rift.

  For the first time in his apprenticeship, Andras felt angry at his master. ‘If we had our mind-reader, we’d know why,’ he muttered.

  The front door exploded, sending ripples of shockwaves through the walls. Andras burst out of the circular room and back onto the balcony. He drew in a sharp breath as a group of mercenaries flooded through the front entrance. Once again his hosts were acting like sheep, and the mercenaries were slicing through them.

  For the first time, he saw why. That girl! She was the cause.

  ‘Damn it!’ He swept a powerful telepathic wave over the remaining hosts. It was as though he’d shoved a battery up their arses. They retaliated, throwing themselves against their attackers. The fighting began to move up the stairs. The mercenaries had produced riot shields and were deflecting the attacks neatly.

  That bitch – Joe’s sister – was standing in the doorway, eyes entranced – obviously sending out a telepathic wave, overriding Andras’s power; the hosts became docile, sheep to the slaughter.

  ‘I should have killed her that night. Zagan! Get out here!’

  Haures tried to run, but Mammon grabbed her arm. Amidst the multiple Shadows that were now pouring out of the Rift, he looked more frightening than ever. She froze.

  ‘You stay right here,’ he said. ‘You owe me, remember?’

  Zagan jogged over next to Andras. He looked down at the scene. ‘What the hell went wrong?’

  ‘We’ve lost them!’ Andras hissed. ‘The girl, Grace! She’s too strong!’ He watched as the last of the hosts was impaled by a harpoon.

  Zagan gave Andras an impassive look. ‘Not good for you, huh?’

  Andras grabbed Zagan by his jacket, spitting in his face. ‘Throw something at them!’ He turned and ran through a side door, which led to a staircase. It would take him down to the garage, to freedom.

  Zagan watched him leave and then turned with a smile. He slammed his hand through the air; the giant statue swayed and crashed to the floor, bouncing spear-sized splinters of marble through the air. The last living host was stumbling about, harpoon wedged in his chest. A marble splinter shot into his skull, killing him.

  The mercenary who’d fired the harpoon laughed.

  Zagan twisted his hand and lashed it forward. A large chunk of marble smashed into the mercenary’s face.

  The demon lifted more lumps and began throwing them around the room. There was nowhere to run – hunks of marble crashed down on the floor right below the staircase, even behind it, where a row of mercenaries were hiding.

  Ivan lifted his shotgun and fired, sending a harpoon straight at Zagan’s heart. The demon deflected the shot with ease, sending the harpoon spiralling down to the ground.

  ‘Okay then,’ Ivan snarled, flicking to live rounds. ‘Cop this!’

  Bullets rained through the air but then swept upwards, met by a tidal wave of telekinetic energy. They soared to the ceiling, losing energy as they climbed, then they bounced off the plaster, rattling to the floor like pins.

  Ivan lowered his gun. ‘Impressive,’ he admitted.

  Zagan smiled. He picked up another boulder.

  ‘Take cover!’ Ivan grabbed Grace, both moving out of the way as another giant wedge of marble crashed on to the tiles.

  They dodged out the front door; Joe followed.

  ‘Now we’re outside! This is no good.’ Grace looked at Joe. ‘When I tell you, in here . . .’ she pointed to her head. ‘Open a small rift right underneath, where the rubble is.’

  She shot a look back at Ivan. ‘I’ll mask my way upstairs, until I’m right behind him. Otherwise, he’ll crush us all.’

  ‘That’s risky,’ Ivan said.

  ‘It’s the only way. He’s going to keep throwing things at us. And the Dark Rift is still open!’

  Ivan nodded. ‘All right.’

  ‘He won’t know I’m coming. Just get ready, Joe.’

  Zagan swooped his arms through the air and clapped his hands together, then he burst them apart at speed. Below, a pile of rubble lifted and slammed out in various directions, taking chunks out of the wall. Grace climbed the stairs, keeping a steady level of concentration.

  So far, so good. She crept up to the top of the stairs, her steps silent on the velvet. But that wasn’t going to be enough. She doubled her focus. If Zagan turned around, all he would see was an empty staircase.

  He paused for a second. Grace’s heart nearly stopped. But he just hung his arms over the balcony, grinning. ‘Come out, come out! I know you’re there, little telepath! Or did you run away?’ He feigned a pout.

  Grace stared at his back. ‘I’m right here, you jackass.’

  Now, Joe!

  Grace planted her foot in Zagan’s back. For good measure, she hit him with a telepathic assault. He gasped at the sudden, hot pain in his skull. Fingers grappling at his head, he tripped and stumbled into the railing, then fell over the edge. Desperate to regain control, he somersaulted towards the floor – straight into Joe’s rift. Grace watched him disappear inside. Joe paused, cocked his ear. ‘Listen!’

  They all stood in silence, listening as the Reavers came and ripped the demon’s body to pieces.

  ‘That still amazes me,’ sa
id Joe, shaking his head.

  The mercenaries peeled away from the walls, running towards Joe, smacking his back with congratulatory slaps.

  Ivan’s voice cut into the clamour. ‘It’s not over yet! Up we go!’ He took the stairs two at a time and then caught Grace around the waist. ‘Well done.’

  He moved towards the door.

  ‘We can’t just go in there,’ Grace said. ‘Mammon will destroy us.’ She looked at Ivan. ‘Let me check it out again. I can reach Malcolm there.’

  Disapproving murmurs abounded. ‘We’re so close,’ said Joe. ‘We can just go in, guns blazing.’

  ‘Come on!’ Grace shot him a disbelieving look. ‘Any minute now, those things that have come through the Dark Rift are going to come through that wall and start looking for bodies to take! We need to close the Rift!’

  ‘We can take the room.’

  ‘The demons in there are different, Ivan. We don’t know what they’re capable of.’

  ‘Okay. Sit down.’ He crouched next to her. ‘Give her some cover.’ An entire squad of mercenaries took their places in a defensive circle around Grace.

  Sarah poked her head through. ‘Do you need me again?’

  ‘I’m going to try to do it myself.’

  Darkness first, then she pictured the catalyst that seemed to come first: the white walls. She didn’t have time for this. Grace blasted through the walls.

  Malcolm.

  Grace floated through the doors, past the rows of hosts, some still kneeling in wait, others fully possessed and gazing into mirrors, admiring their new vessels. Calmly, she headed over to hover next to Malcolm.

  But how to reach him? She saw Mammon – thankfully, unaware of her presence – and his fingers pressed into Malcolm’s head in a vicious lock. Then, Grace knew it.

  She had to become part of the nightmare.

  She pressed her hand towards Malcolm’s face and felt herself begin to fall. Tumbling through a dark, narrow space. It was dark, but then – abruptly, she was standing.

  The first thing she noticed: her feet, grey and cold. Her jeans bunched up around her knees, her chest shaking with cold under a sheer t-shirt. But there was a sun – she could just see its outline in the whitewashed sky. She stared; her eyes didn’t hurt. The sun only gave off a grey, cool light.

  There was no warmth to be found. The air seemed thin and she could only draw shallow lungfuls. No wind. Trapped inside an airtight container.

  Her feet were carrying her across hard sand. A spike of pain hit her left foot. She lifted it to find a broken seashell sticking into her flesh. Pulling it free, Grace watched as dark grey blood oozed from the wound.

  To her left, peeling flagpoles with torn, wrinkled flags slumped at half-mast. Behind, faded funhouse buildings sat, their colours eaten by salt. At the northern end of the beach sat a hulking pier that looked ready to fall down. Its iron supports were flimsy, like matchsticks. Closer, a smaller metallic shape jutted strangely from the sand: a ferris wheel, crashed to the ground. A weak tide dribbled over its rusty railings.

  No people anywhere. No seagulls. A smell in the air – smoke from distant fires. The water was riddled with rotting seaweed; it gave off the smell of a rancid pool, instead of the fresh, salty scent of a healthy sea.

  Malcolm was in front of her, kneeling – barely leaving an imprint on the unforgiving sand. Grace descended to her knees, her hands flat on the beach.

  Malcolm?

  He didn’t look at her.

  Do you understand what’s happening?

  He drew shapes in the sand with a small, white tree branch. His eyes seemed to register that she was there. His whole body tensed.

  Why are you here, Malcolm?

  Can’t get out. His voice tightened with terror – he twisted up his face and trembled. Tried to shake off the fear.

  Where is this place? Why are you here?

  He screwed up his face again, not from fear, but rather to show contempt for her not knowing where she was.

  This is Blackpool. I was born a few miles from here. My mum used to bring me in summer.

  Grace peered around at the bleak beach. But it’s not summer now . . .

  Yeah, I know. He took a shuddering breath.

  Must get him to move, to do something.

  Is this a bad dream for you, Malcolm? What is it in here that frightens you?

  For the first time, he looked at her. Aren’t you afraid? Look around. Look at what you see. It’s all gone.

  She’s all gone.

  He never brought me back here. I begged him to. He never took me anywhere. Just dragged me out to the end of the world. To that place.

  Then she died. He didn’t let me see her then, either.

  Malcolm didn’t look up, but he pointed up the beach to where a shadowed figure stood. The cold light dropped on Marcus’s outline; his face eternally turned away from his son.

  Grace crouched in front of him. You mustn’t want to stay here, Malcolm. Surely not.

  Malcolm looked at the horizon. But I don’t want to die.

  Now, the sun was dropping at a frightening speed. Night swept over the sand like a dark, unwelcome wind. Malcolm turned back to his drawing. But the stick dropped from his trembling fingers and he couldn’t see in the dark. He hugged himself, rocking back and forth. It’ll get better, eventually. I just have to wait. He’ll get what he wants – and then I’ll be free. It’ll be warm, and I can lie in the sun by the pool . . .

  Grace looked at his outline. I don’t think so. I think it will get dark and cold before summer comes. It’s only the beginning. You’ll have to wait a long time for the sun. Mammon will never let you be free, Malcolm.

  He turned to her, his eyes devastatingly vulnerable.

  I don’t want to live in the dark.

  No. Do you want to see her again?

  His face began to crumple. Oh, yes.

  Where it’s warm?

  Yes. Tears spilled from his cheeks, plopping onto the sand.

  Suddenly, a new light began to shine on his face, bringing colour, accentuating the redness in his cheeks down to the capillaries, the tiny veins in his eyes, even the clear shimmer of his tears. It was a light in which nothing could hide, but it was warm, emanating from the southern edge of the beach.

  Did she make that happen?

  No. This was something far bigger than any illusion she could pull.

  This was home.

  The light was moving away, radiating across the ocean. Up until that point, it had flooded everything else in the vicinity, but now a red and white lighthouse revealed itself, sitting on a grassy plain that seemed to hover above the water.

  Grace pointed to the lighthouse. Go now, Malcolm.

  A woman was waiting there. Her hair was loose, flapping around her shoulders in a temperate wind. Slowly, Malcolm stood up. Without looking back at Grace, he walked towards the woman, leaving the grey, ruined memory behind.

  Once again, the lighthouse’s bright beam saturated the beach. Grace blinked and squinted – but she could not see anything. When the light subsided, she looked again – and Malcolm had disappeared.

  ‘NO!’ MAMMON’S ROAR shook the walls as his Dark Rift began to collapse. His fingers pressed deeper into Malcolm’s skull, desperate to spark another connection, but the boy had gone limp. With a thump, his body hit the carpet.

  Mammon threw his head back and howled. ‘Why?’

  In the safe darkness of the corner, Halphas allowed himself a very small smile.

  The high demon watched, almost tearful as the clouds evaporated, leaving nothing but a trashed room and a tense, almost embarrassed silence among his generals.

  Then, they all heard it. The reason – gasped through dying lips. ‘Grace. Thank you.’ A final breath escaped Ma
lcolm’s body, and then he was free.

  ‘Damn you!’ Mammon lunged at the boy, smashing his foot into Malcolm’s ribcage, over and over. A cracking noise accompanied each kick.

  ‘Mammon,’ Bathin said, half-amused by the tantrum. ‘He is dead!’

  ‘I realise this, Bathin.’ Panting, Mammon glared at the door.

  Outside, Grace opened her eyes to see Ivan’s face in front of her. Thank God. She was back. She gave him a weak smile. ‘The Dark Rift is gone.’

  ‘We know,’ Joe said. ‘It’s quiet. Too quiet.’

  Ivan helped Grace to her feet. ‘Well done. Now, to get in there and finish this.’

  ‘The door is locked,’ Joe said.

  Ivan took a charge and planted it on the door. ‘Take cover!’

  Mammon pointed to the window. ‘Get to the helipad, all of you!’

  As the generals clambered out of the nearest windows, Haures darted into the throng. Halphas was limping in front of her. ‘Hurry up, old man!’ She shoved him through a window. He landed on the outside roof with a thump, crawled to his feet and threw her an indignant look before hobbling after the others.

  ‘Oh, no you don’t!’ Mammon snatched Haures’s hair and yanked her back; she squealed. ‘Not you. You lost Joe, now you owe me!’

  The door exploded, leaving dust and plaster in its wake.

  Ivan led the others, shotgun trained. Mammon stood in the middle of the room. Ivan pulled the trigger. ‘Now, Joe!’

  A ball of cloud exploded. Joe’s brow was tense – the concentration painful as he directed the energy upwards.

  Mammon stumbled around as the harpoon skewered his torso, the back end forming an X behind his spine. His eyes were wide, fixed on Joe as he tried to open his mouth to speak. But no sound came; he watched in silent horror as Ivan turned the gun, aimed it into Joe’s rift, and hit the trigger a second time – a controlled, yet rapid firing.

  The diamond wire shot into the cloud.

  The wire grew taut, and they all knew the Reavers were on the other end. Mammon flew into the dark void, screaming in a strange, high-pitched tone.