"I hope you will help me," he continued.
"Ye shouldnae have come here." It was not friendly advice.
Knowing what was at stake, Shavi arranged his thoughts carefully. "I understand your pain. I recognise the wrong that has been done to you. But I come to you with open arms, seeking aid. Would you turn your back on another who walks the long, hard road?"
Shavi's heart seemed to hang steady in the long, ringing silence that followed. He couldn't tell if the girl was ignoring him or if her dark, luminous eyes were coldly weighing his presence.
Eventually the glass sliver of her voice echoed once again. "You're a wee hank of gristle and bone. There's no a handful of meat on ye."
There was something about her words that made him shiver.
The little girl looked away from him into the sucking dark. "I can hear Mama calling. Always the same. `Will ye no come here? Marie. Marie!"' Her voice rose to a sharp scream that almost made Shavi's heart stop. "But I've no had any food for days and my poor belly hurts! And then the night closes in and still Mama calls!" Her face filled with a terrifying fury. "And now the men with the choppers are coming, with the sound of squealing pigs in their ears and dirty old rags tied across their faces!" She turned the full force of her regard on him and his head snapped back involuntarily. "Are ye sure ye wish tae lay your heart afore us?"
Her question was weighted with some kind of meaning he couldn't discern, but he felt he had no choice. "I am."
There was another unnerving period of silence and then she suddenly cocked her head on one side, as if she had heard something. A few seconds later Shavi heard it too: a sound like chains rattling. It was accompanied by the overpowering, sickly-sweet stink of animal blood.
The little girl looked back at him. "They're coming. Ye better run now. Ye better run."
And then she took a slow step back and the darkness folded around her until she was gone.
The appalling claustrophobic atmosphere of pain and threat grew even more intense. Shavi realised he was holding his breath, every muscle in his body rigid. Then, in the blink of an eye, he was abruptly aware he was no longer alone. He couldn't see who was out there in the dark, but he felt that if he did perceive their forms, he would go instantly insane. He swallowed, unable to ignore the feeling that his life hung by a thread.
"Welcome," he began.
"Ye come with death at your heels and darkness like a cloak." The hollow voice cut Shavi off sharply; there wasn't a hint of warmth or humanity in the sepulchral tones.
"We hate all life." Another voice, even colder. "Here, in the deep dark, we are imprisoned. Abandoned tae shadows, forgotten by almost all. We have nothing tae believe in but revenge. So we wait. And we remember. And we seethe."
Shavi steeled himself. "I know your story. You were the innocent victims of abject cruelty." Somewhere distant came the dim sound of chopping, growing louder, becoming distorted before disappearing; bitter memories, trapped but continuously recurring. "There is nothing I can say to assuage your suffering, but my heart goes out to you."
"And ye think that is enough?"
Shavi swallowed again; his throat was too dry. "It is all that I can do, apart from offer my prayers that you will soon be freed from this Purgatory to find the rest you deserve."
A heartrending shrieking erupted all around. Shavi's heart leapt and he wanted to clutch at his ears to shut out that terrible sound. After a few seconds it died away and then there was just the tinkling of nonexistent chains and faint movement in the dark. He hoped what he had said was enough.
Then: "Ye have fair eyes and ears tae sense us. Most only feel us like a shiver on the skin."
"What d'ye want?" Another voice, gruffer, more uneducated; a hint of threat.
"Knowledge," Shavi replied. "I can see some, but not all. From your dark place, you can see everything. You have great power. I bow to you and ask for your aid." Shavi smelled woodsmoke and that disturbing stink of animal blood once more.
"Speak."
"The world is plunging into darkness-"
"Why should we care?"
"Not everyone is like your persecutors. Somewhere, descendants of your friends and family still live. Do not forget the good-"
"Dinnae preach tae us!" The voice cracked like a gunshot.
The atmosphere of menace grew stronger; Shavi knew he was losing control. "Then I will not argue my case at all. I will simply say, we need you. And the world needs you." In the absence of a reply, he continued talking, hoping that at least the sound of his voice would keep them at bay. "The old gods have returned and they are already wreaking havoc across the land. But now some of them are attempting to bring back the embodiment of all evil. Balor." The dark susurrated with their whispers. "You must have sensed all this?"
"Aye."
"And if he returns, it will truly mean the end of everything. He will draw the darkness of the abyss across all existence. Somehow we have to stop the Fomorii. Whatever they are planning is beginning here, in this city. But where? And how can we stop them? They are so powerful, we are so weak. But there must be a way. We will never give up while we breathe." Shavi tried to order his thoughts. There were so many questions he wanted to ask, but he had to be selective; the dead would have only limited patience, if they told him anything at all. Yet there was only one other question that truly mattered. "And I would beseech you to answer one more thing. One of our number is missing, presumed dead. Ruth Gallagher, a good, decent woman. We hope in our hearts she is still alive. Perhaps you could guide me towards the truth."
As his words drifted out into the dark, he was sure that whatever was out there had drawn closer while he spoke. Every sense told him if he reached out a hand he would touch… what? He shook the thought from his head.
"There is a price tae pay for anything gleaned from the other side."
"I will pay it."
"Do ye not want tae know what it will be?" The words were laced with stifled triumph and sharp contempt, which unnerved him greatly, but it was too late to back out.
"It does not matter. I have my responsibilities. This information has to be uncovered. I will have to bear the burden of whatever you demand, however great."
"So be it."
Shavi felt a wash of cold. He couldn't shake the feeling he had agreed to something he would come to regret, but what he had said was correct: he had no choice. Whatever the price, he would have to find the strength to pay it.
"The woman lives, but only just. And her future looks very dark. Hold out little hope." Shavi had not heard the voice before. It was clearer, younger and had an intelligence that wasn't present in the others.
Shavi didn't know whether to feel joyous or disheartened by the answer. "If there is anything we can do to save her we will do it," he said. Odd, muffled noises which sounded like mocking laughter echoed away in the gloom.
"Seek out the stones from the place that gave succour tae the plague victims if ye wish to find the path beneath the seat." A woman's voice this time. The words were cryptic, but Shavi had expected no less; the dead were helping and hoping to torment at the same time.
"But the Well of Fire will not be enough tae help ye. The worms have burrowed deep in their nest and the Cailleach Bheur is tae powerful for even the blue flames."
"Then, what?" Shavi asked.
More mocking whispers rustled around the edge of his perception. When the woman spoke again, her voice was tinged with a dark glee. "Why, call for the Guid Son, Long Jack. Only he can help ye now."
Shavi hoped Tom could make some sense of their cryptic words. "I thank you for all the aid you have given me. But one thing still puzzles me-"
"The where," the educated voice interrupted. "Know this: the girl and the worms keep their counsel together, deep beneath Castle Rock."
Shavi felt the tension ease slightly; he had all he came for. But his muscles still knotted at the prospect that the dead had merely been toying with him and, having given up their secrets, would not let him leave
alive. Tentatively, he said, "You have been most gracious in your aid." He took a deep breath and steeled himself. "I am ready to pay the price you requested."
"That has already been put intae effect. Your time here is done. Get thee gone before we rip the life from ye."
Shavi bowed slightly, then made his way in the direction of the exit as hastily as he could muster without breaking into a run. The hatred of the jealous spirits was heavy at his back and for a few steps it felt like they were surging in pursuit of him, unable to contain themselves any longer. Anxiously he flicked on the torch, which appeared to make them hold back beyond the boundary of the light. But he didn't breathe easily until he was up in the empty street, sucking in the soothing night air, his body slick with cold sweat. The intensity of the experience had left him shaken, even after everything else he had been through over the past few months; he had never believed he could suffer such mortal dread.
But he had come through it and that alone gave him strength. Knowing it wasn't wise to tarry in the Old Town any longer than necessary, he hurried back towards the hotel, desperate to tell the others everything he had learned; but most of all that Ruth was still alive.
As he marched back towards the lights of the New Town, he didn't notice a dark shape separate from the shadows clustering the entrance of an alley. It began to follow him, shimmering in the light, insubstantial, as it dogged his every step. If he had thought to glance behind him, curious at what price the spirits had asked of him, he would have recognised it instantly: his friend and lover, murdered in a South London street two years before.
There were no longer songs, just drum and bass suffusing her brain and body, mixing with the drug, driving reality away on waves of sound. Laura couldn't even recollect a conscious thought for the past hour; she had given herself up to the trip of flashing lights she could hear and noise she could see, dancing, sweating, not even an individual, just a cell in the body of the crowd-beast.
Will and Andy had led her to an old building on the eastern edge of the Old Town. From the outside it didn't appear to have been used for years, but inside it had been transformed by vast batteries of lights, stacks of speakers fifteen feet tall and machines pumping out clouds of dry ice and occasional frothing spurts of bubbles. The place was big enough to cram in several hundred people, yet managed to avoid feeling impersonal. By the time they arrived, the trip had already started and the two young Scots were growing animated.
Will leaned forward to whisper in her ear, "This drug always makes me feel horny. Come on, let's away to the toilet for a bit of slap and tickle."
He was right; her pleasure centres were already being caressed by the warm waves that washed through her and she felt herself grow wet at the thought of him between her legs. It wasn't as if she hadn't had numerous other episodes of seedy, horny, loveless sex while off her face in some club or other. She wasn't a prude; it was fun, like taking the drug in the first place; nothing more. At least that's what she had always told herself, but although it would have been the easiest thing in the world to give in to, she suddenly realised she felt strangely reluctant. Part of her was telling her to do it to punish Church, but even then, she couldn't bring herself. It didn't make sense to her at all, and the more she thought about what it meant, the more uneasy she felt.
In the end she grabbed hold of his right hand and raised it in front of his face. "This is more your scene."
She flashed a fake smile and left hurriedly to get a drink of water.
On her way back she got drawn into the heart of the dance floor where she lost herself in the music. It was the relief of nothingness, but as the trip reached one of its plateaus, she was irritated to discover occasional thoughts leaking through to her foremind. Most of them concerned Church, but she didn't want anything to bring her down. Angrily, she looked for something to distract her, losing the rhythm of the music in the process. Stomping off the dance floor she leaned against a pillar with her arms folded, where she waited for the trip to pick up again. A good-looking young man with an annoyingly untroubled face came up to talk to her, but she couldn't hear a word he was saying over the unceasing thunder of the music. She waved him away furiously.
After a few moments, she was relieved to feel the drug begin to take her to the next level and her mood calmed. A smile sprang to her face; she was surprised at how good it felt. The closeness of all the other clubbers cheered her, made her feel part of something. She surveyed the moving crowd warmly, then found her gaze drawn to the flashing lights which a moment ago had seemed dissonant, but now, with the music, made perfect sense: red, green, blue, purple. A white flash. Red again. A strobe. The meaning of life. Slowly she raised her eyes heavenwards, revelling in the growing sense of bliss. And there, as if in answer to her feelings, was an astonishing sight. The entire ceiling was sparkling like a vast canopy of stars in a night sky. She caught her breath as a revolving light splashed upwards, adding to the coruscation. "That's amazing," she whispered in wonder.
In the throes of the trip she suddenly became obsessed with sharing her breathtaking vision with Will and Andy. The crowd was so densely packed she felt a moment of panic that she wouldn't be able to find them, but after pushing her way back and forth through the dancers for a few minutes, she spied Andy sitting at a table near the door with a glass of water before him and a cigarette smouldering between his fingers.
"You've got to see this!" she called out. He didn't respond, even glance her way. She guessed her voice had been dragged away by the rumble of the music. She waved excitedly to catch his eye. Still nothing.
The trip started to roll with force and she was almost distracted by the music and the lights, but one thing stuck in her mind and wouldn't shake itself free: the sparkling that had glimmered across the ceiling had now transferred itself to Andy. His corkscrew hair glistened in the occasional beam of light, stars gleamed in his goatee.
"Amazing," she whispered once more.
But the thing was still niggling at the back of her head, like fingernails scratching on a window pane. It was something more than the spangly effect; something discordant. What was it? she mused. She tried to take a step back through the effects of the drug. His skin, too, had that faint twinkling quality. It wasn't that he had been dusted with the gold make-up some of the women dancers used, nor was it the drug. She was seeing it. Wasn't she? Her inability to distinguish reality from mild hallucination began to irritate her, throwing the drug off-kilter.
Be careful, she warned herself. You don't want this trip to go bad.
She concentrated, focused. The effort twisted the trip a little more.
And there it was. The water before him had risen a full half-inch above the level of the glass. And there it hung, suspended in time.
First the scratching at the back of her head turned to an insistent hammering. Then the trip turned, sucking up the anxiety from the pit of her stomach. She knew. If only she hadn't been drugged she would have seen it long before. She wouldn't have gone there at all. She would have known better.
The water hung, suspended. Frozen.
She took a step back, desperately trying to stop herself falling into full-scale panic. Her heart was thundering like it was going to burst out of her chest. She was finding it difficult to breathe.
Andy's stare was locked on the dance floor. It didn't waver, he didn't blink. There was no movement in him at all.
Frozen, she thought.
Behind him, the walls, too, glistened. It was spreading out gradually from the doorway like an invisible field, creeping across surfaces, leaving its tell-tale sign.
Poor Andy, she thought obliquely. Then, a drug-induced twist: My God! He's dead!
And now that she knew, she could feel the bloom of it on her skin; the temperature had dropped several degrees and was still falling fast.
She's conning. The notion drove her into action. She ran for the door, but as she neared it the cold was almost unbearable; her skin appeared to sear from its presence. It was more
than winter, more than Arctic; it seemed to Laura to represent the depths of space. She took another few paces and then gave up as the hoar frost thickened on the door. She began to shake as cracks developed in the wood. She was already backing away rapidly when it was torn apart by the freezing moisture and burst inwards with a resounding crack.
The Cailleach Bheur was framed in the doorway, painted red, then blue, then green, then purple by the club's lights, like some hideous MTV video effect. Laura's breath caught in her throat. At first she couldn't quite make out the creature's appearance as the shape shimmered and danced, becoming briefly this and then that. But then her mind settled on a form which it found acceptable and Laura saw an old crone hunched over, dressed in tattered, shapeless rags, her face a mass of wrinkles, her hair as wild as the wind across the tundra. She supported herself on a gnarled wooden staff that was bigger than she. And all around her the air appeared to shift with gusts from unknown origin, suffused with an icy blue illumination that seemed immune to the club's lights; in the glow were flurries of snowflakes that came and went eerily without leaving any trace on the floor behind her.
She moved forward spectrally, almost as if her feet weren't touching the ground. And then she slowly turned her terrible gaze on everyone in the room. In the depths of those swirling eyes, Laura saw nothing remotely human; they contained the desolation of the ice-fields, of the depths of frozen seas. And the sight triggered the trip to bring up a fear so powerful and primal it wiped out all conscious thought. Laura turned and drove herself wildly through the crowd, knocking people over, punching and gouging to get away, oblivious to the angry shouts directed at her.
She was on the other side of the club, huddled behind a table on the beerpuddled floor, when some semblance of sense returned to her, and even then the panic was coming and going in waves. She cursed the drug, but knew she had no option but to ride it out; and that could last for several more hours.
The lights were still flashing, the music still pounding, but through it she became aware of sudden frenzied activity. The dancers had recognised the threat of the Cailleach Bheur. They were surging around crazily, searching for an exit, trampling anyone who fell before them in their panic. Raw screams were punching through the beats like some hellish mix. Laura tipped over the table in front of her to offer her some kind of protection and then desperately tried to order her thoughts enough to get out of there. An emergency exit. Surely there must be one somewhere. But it wasn't a regular club, probably wasn't even legal. What if there was only one way out?
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