‘Do you remember that? Even you can fail him, apparently. Well, he’ll definitely have to rethink things now. I don’t think I could be killed by a tank. I was decapitated, after all. I think me and you are going to have a big role in the new order. Women, money, cars, houses, slaves, dungeons …’ Sam laughed again. ‘Me and you, buddy,’ he said and gave Leach a friendly punch in the arm. Leach turned that baleful stare on him again. ‘Best mates,’ Sam said with a smile.
After Cú Roí left them, in what Sam liked to think of as a huff, they had begun to follow their orders. Annalise was sent out to capture more women for the birthing pits – not an easy task at two o’clock in the afternoon, but she seemed quietly confident. Sam and Leach went to steal a nondescript car – in this case a blue Honda Accord – and then headed over to the address Sergei had told them about. Sergei, still stinking of shit, came with them. When they reached the address, he went in. That was ten minutes ago.
Once Sergei understood that immortality was the carrot, and being eaten alive was the stick, he had become quite cheerful about betraying his companions. Sam suspected the reward would have been enough – that the threat was offered more for form’s sake than anything else. Sergei struck him as the sort of man who would revel in the power Sam currently enjoyed – the sort of man who would do anything to obtain it.
Eager to tell the Master about Mark Jones, Sergei waxed lyrical about Jones’s obsession with Sam’s wife. Apparently, this weirdo had been stalking Tabby for God alone knew how long. He brought in the mercenary about six months ago to keep an eye on her. He had this insane idea that Tabby was going to die tomorrow and wanted to protect her.
A small part of Sam’s mind fought within him, screaming that maybe it was him who would kill her, and that it wasn’t right. That he loved Tabby. Sam had no trouble ignoring it.
It still rankled that Jones had been watching his wife. He felt anger rise in him as he listened to Sergei speak. The mercenary told Cú Roí about what had happened over the last few days. He sounded nervous as he described the events in the Hilton Hotel, the tracking of Sam, the finding of Rowan, and the raid on the station. After he finished, Cú Roí stared at him for a moment, and then he smiled.
Now, Sam stared moodily at the house. The plan was simple, but he hated waiting out here. Something occurred to him. ‘Hey, Leach, do you change shape as well? I bet you do. What do you turn into? A rabbit? A goldfish?’ Leach didn’t even look at him. ‘Hey, take it easy, big guy! I’m just playing with you!
‘You know what we’re like? Visionaries. Do you remember that cartoon from when we were kids? Blokes in armour with holograms in them? They could turn into animals too. Do you remember? Were you ever a kid? We’re like them though, aren’t we?’ Leach didn’t deign to reply. After a moment, Sam sighed. ‘Yeah, I suppose you’re right – we don’t have those cool holograms, do we?’
Not that it mattered, Sam thought. He could feel the monster inside him straining to get out. ‘God this is boring,’ Sam said with a yawn. ‘Where is that Russian prick? Still, it’ll be worth the wait when we get in there, won’t it buddy?’ He gave Leach another slap on the arm and again, two dead, bulbous eyes fastened on him. Sam stared back at him hungrily. If he could have seen himself, he might have been pleased to see that his jaw had elongated into a lupine sneer.
Sergei looked – and smelled – like shit. Rowan stared at the dishevelled mercenary suspiciously. ‘How did you get out?’ he asked.
‘They caught me … they were going to kill me. I … fouled myself,’ he said, looking deeply ashamed. Then he rallied and looked back at them. ‘Something happened. There was an explosion. One of those things with the tentacles got killed. The others went crazy – the Autumn boy and the naked girl ran off to look, and I ran into the station and hid. Once things had quietened down, I slipped out. Lost my goggles somewhere when I was running. I’ve never been so scared – I kept expecting one of those things to drop on my shoulders and tear my head off. But I got out, stole a car, made my way here.’
‘Where’s the car?’ Mark demanded.
Sergei looked angry, some of his old fire returning. ‘I dumped it about ten minutes’ walk from here and made my way on foot. I didn’t want to leave them any pointers,’ he snapped.
‘Good. Did you learn anything in there?’
‘Only that the Autumn boy’s some kind of shape-shifter. When he thought the naked piece was done for, he turned into a horrible, great big furry motherfucker, seven feet tall at least. I shot the bitch in the head,’ he said with grim pride. Then his shoulders slumped. ‘Didn’t stop her, though: she got right back up again.’
Rowan glanced at Tabby to see how she was handling the news that her husband was even more monstrous than they previously thought. She was pale and her mouth was set in a narrow line, but she seemed calm enough.
Mark stepped forwards and slapped Sergei on the shoulder. ‘I saw that shot – it was a good one. I’m glad you made it out, my friend. We need all the help we can get. Go and clean yourself up. Get some rest. We’ll talk later.’
Sergei walked from the room, and Rowan watched him go. ‘Do you trust him?’
Mark hesitated. ‘He’s a mercenary – he works for the highest bidder. But what can those stinking animals possibly offer him that I can’t? Besides, if he’s lying, then I fear the damage is already done.’ For a second it looked like he was going to say something else to them, then he turned away. ‘Keep your weapons handy, just in case.’
‘What next?’ Tabby asked.
Mark turned to Jason who had stood by silently, listening to the exchange. ‘Jason, I need you to find out everything you can about shape-shifters – myths, legends, anything – but find me their weaknesses.’
‘I’ll have to go back to my office.’
‘Then do it. Let me know when you have something. We’ll come up with a plan then.’ He turned and walked out. After a brief shrug in their direction, Jason followed.
‘That’s it?’ she asked Rowan.
‘Well, I don’t have any ideas either. Give him some time; he seems to be resourceful enough. Come on, I’m going to teach you how to use a gun.’
‘You think that it’ll help?’
‘Who knows … but it’ll make me feel a damn sight better.’
They made their way to the garage where Mark stored his weapons. Rowan quietly and competently showed Tabby how to use a handgun, an assault rifle, and hand grenades. His initial intention wasn’t to go over the principles of the hand grenades with her. They were much too dangerous and unpredictable. Then he remembered the only thing that had proven even vaguely effective was a damned great big explosion. With that in mind, it didn’t seem such a bad idea after all.
Mark found them there a couple of hours later. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked.
‘Teaching little sis how to shoot,’ he said with an affectionate smile at his sister. When he looked back, there was something in Mark’s expression; it was gone before he could work out what it was.
‘Nothing that’s going to hurt her, I hope?’ Mark said, looking pointedly at the grenades.
‘They’re the only weapon that seem capable of stopping those things … What else would you recommend?’
Mark didn’t answer. Instead, he turned to Tabitha. ‘So, what has your brother suggested?’ he asked.
‘Shoot them in the head, then toss a grenade at them while they’re down,’ she replied matter-of-factly. Mark nodded approvingly and smiled the faintest of smiles.
He opened his mouth to say something more, but another voice cut over him. ‘You humans and your guns.’ It was a laconic, sarcastic drawl that Rowan recognised instantly. He turned and snatched up an assault rifle.
Sam and another man stood at the door that led from the garage to the main house. Sam’s companion was of medium height and of an indeterminable age. His frame was so thin and scrawny, Rowan thought he could probably break him with one hand. The man’s head was far too big for his body; his
wide, unblinking eyes were pale and bulbous and devoid of any life. His hair was fine and as white as his sickly skin, to which the dew of desiccation clung; it seemed only a step away from rotting off his skinny carcass. He wore a frayed and filthy suit that might have once been blue.
Rowan fired a couple of shots into the pale man. He spun to the floor and lay still. Sam laughed and his voice deepened, his form shifting slightly, bulging in places it shouldn’t bulge. He leapt forwards impossibly fast and cannoned an arm into Rowan’s ribs with terrible force. Rowan flew to land in a dazed and winded heap on the bonnet of the silver DB7. The gun spun from his hand.
Vaguely, through the fugue of blood pounding in his head, Rowan saw Sam approach Tabby. His sister pointed a Browning Hi-Power at Sam’s head.
Sam laughed. ‘What are you going to do with that, dear?’ He walked up until the muzzle was pressed firmly into his forehead. ‘Don’t you remember our vows? To love and to cherish, till death do us part,’ he sneered. ‘You haven’t got the …’
A fountain of blood and brains surged from the back of Sam’s head, instantly turning to red dust. The gun’s report slammed through the confined space. Tabby staggered backwards from the recoil as Sam slipped flaccidly to the floor. ‘Fuckin’ A!’ Rowan managed to whisper as his breath returned.
He slumped from the bonnet and looked around to see what was going on. The pale man in the cheap suit was back up. He had Mark pinned, face down, over the bonnet of a Lamborghini and seemed to be biting at the back of his neck. No matter how Mark struggled, he couldn’t shrug the pale man off. Rowan couldn’t help; he turned to look for Tabby.
Gun clutched firmly in her hand, she stared down at Sam’s writhing body with disgust and fear. Tendrils snaked their way from the two holes in his head – one front, one back – as the raw wounds healed. Rowan watched determination set over Tabby’s features. She picked up one of the grenades.
Panic washed through him, brushing aside the last cobwebs in his head. ‘Tabby, no!’ he called. She stared at him, confused. ‘Not in here,’ he shouted in alarm. ‘It’ll kill us all!’
She dropped it like it was poisonous. Rowan ran forwards and grabbed Tabby by the arm. ‘Come on,’ he shouted, pushing her towards the DB7. Something heavy landed on his shoulder. Terrible strength spun him around, and he came face-to-face with Sam, his face twisted somewhere between animal and man.
His yellow eyes glared malevolently, and his teeth were too long in a wide, sloping jaw. Rowan did the only thing he could: he let go of Tabby and punched Sam hard in the face … snout … whatever. If it was possible, the half-man smiled.
When Rowan came to, he was lying on the floor near the Harley Davidson. Sam was struggling with Tabby near the Lamborghini, and Leach was pulling an unconscious Mark towards the door. Rowan felt like a freight train had trundled over him. His neck and back felt like he had the onset of whiplash.
He struggled to his feet; Sam turned and looked at him. ‘You’re next, brother dearest,’ he said, his voice slurred by his malformed jaw. He looked less like a man now than ever. Leach dropped Mark’s unconscious body and began to open the garage door.
Rowan made a snap decision. If he stayed, he would die; to rescue Tabby, he needed to live. He jumped on the Harley Davidson – the keys were in the ignition – and gunned the motorcycle towards the open door. The last thing he heard before he burst out into the grey December drizzle was Tabby screaming for him not to leave her. Shame wound its cold fingers around his soul as he concentrated on his escape.
It had been nerve-racking to follow the figure back across the desert to the turret that jutted up from The Tower at Dusk, and then up through its mezzanine levels. Cam felt that he stuck out like a sore, elfin thumb. Their quarry never looked back, apparently preoccupied with something, and Cam and the Tattooists’ less-than-stealthy creeping went unnoticed.
The upper levels were dark. Where before sputtering torches had lined the wall every three feet or so, here they were spread thin, leaving puddles of gloom to pass through. Every time he stepped into one of these deep shadows, Cam gritted his teeth. Stories of the Svartálfar came to him unbidden, and his flesh crawled. The last thing he wanted to do was step into one of those monsters.
Black, solid-looking doors marched along each side of the corridor, all firmly shut and brooding. Cam had no desire to see if any were unlocked; he skulked past each one with a suspicious look. The Tattooist didn’t seem to notice them, nor did he hesitate when he walked into the pools of darkness. Cam glared at his back, hating the creature for its self-assurance.
Ahead, the figure turned a corner. The Tattooist edged up and poked his head around quickly. He pulled it back even quicker and slid back towards Cam along the wall. ‘There are guards at the end of the corridor – two Ifrit. We won’t get through that way. They’re outside the door your man just went through. You’ll have to find another way.’
‘You mean, we’ll have to find another way?’
‘No, I mean you. I’ll stay here in case he comes out before you find him. Better for one of us to follow him.’
Panic surged through Cam. The idea of being alone in the eerie turret frightened him. ‘Don’t you think it might be better to stay together? I’ve seen the movies: splitting up never ends well. I’ll come back and just find a blood trail, and then I’ll follow it and some oversized nut-bag will be wearing your face and hanging your entrails up for his Christmas decoration … or I’ll get lost and end up in an abattoir somewhere, and some naked guy will toss me your head … or …’
‘Shut up,’ the Tattooist hissed, his eyes flaring in rage. ‘Grow up, Camhlaidh. You are a man, not a child to jump at shadows. Do you think I want to be here in this place with you? I can barely trust you to walk in a straight line. But I must rely on you to help me discover what that man is doing here. If I die in this, then I die. That is a price I pay willingly for the welfare of my people.
‘But I will not die because you lose your nerve. It is time to prove to yourself that you are not some pathetic, spineless, whining child. Now go – if I am not here when you get back, I will meet you by the Fairy-Ring outside the turret at the top of The Tower.’
Cam stared at the Ifrit and felt hatred. How dare this thing question his bravery? He wasn’t a coward, but he wasn’t suicidal either. He wanted to tell the Tattooist where to go, but as he stared into his incandescent eyes, his will slowly wilted. As he trudged towards the nearest door, he felt angry and ashamed of himself for backing down so easily.
Reaching the door, he wrenched at the handle angrily. To his great surprise, it opened smoothly under his fingers.
You have done well, Leach, as have you, Samuel Autumn. I am pleased by your success.
Sam felt relief. He had wondered how Cú Roí would take Rowan’s escape: apparently, quite well. Mark Jones and Tabby were lying at Cú Roí’s feet. Both were awake, and both were firmly tied and gagged. That Jones was conscious seemed to disturb Leach, because he kept prodding the prostrate man with his toe. Sam thought Leach’s habit of biting people on the neck was all a bit eighties – a throwback to The Lost Boys and in his opinion, a bit sad.
Both captives lay still, their eyes flickering around sightlessly in the darkness. Seeing in the dark – now that was cool, Sam thought to himself smugly.
Cú Roí walked over to them and gently touched their heads. Mark didn’t move, but Tabby wrenched her head away angrily. Cú Roí didn’t seem to notice or to care.
The spell holding these two together has great potential. They are connected in a way that truly spans the vagaries of time. Do you remember, Samuel Autumn, when I asked you about those close to her? I felt the magic in her then, strong and wild. But I needed both halves to tap the power of the whole. I had thought that it must be the brother, but I was wrong. It is this man. They are soulmates. He looked at Sam with a smile on his gaunt features. Can you not feel their connection, Samuel Autumn? Can you not feel how these two were made for one another? Can you not feel
the magic?
Hot, surly anger swelled up in Sam’s stomach. That was his wife. This Jones guy was messing with his wife! He took a step towards him, murder on his mind. Cú Roí laid a gentle, long-fingered hand across his chest.
No, Samuel Autumn, they are mine now. Leach, take the man – I do not trust Samuel Autumn to be entirely gentle with him. Samuel Autumn, please take your wife and place her back in her pit. I will attend to them shortly. It will take a little preparation to harness the magic that they hold.
Leach scooped up Mark as if he weighed nothing and disappeared towards Cú Roí’s private quarters. Cú Roí followed sedately. Sam stared after them with impotent rage. Then he grabbed Tabby by her hair and dragged her, kicking wildly and screaming through her gag, back towards the birthing pits. As he walked, he slowly worked his anger up into a seething thing of hatred.
When he reached the pits, he dragged her to her feet and tore her gag from her mouth. ‘You fucking bitch,’ he hissed at her.
‘Sam?’ she asked in a weak, scared voice. ‘Sam, is that you?’
Her pathetic tone only angered him further. ‘Yes, it’s me, you slut.’
She started to cry. ‘Sam, please don’t do this. Please help me – I’m scared. You’re my husband.’
He grabbed her by the upper arms and shook her violently. ‘Your husband? You’re out there fucking this Mark Jones, and you’ve got the nerve to say that to me? Whore! Slut! Cunt!’ He screamed the last word and backhanded her across the face. The blow launched her backwards, and she fell into the pit silently.
Sam stared down at her still form. Worry suddenly gripped him. What if he had killed her? Cú Roí would be furious. Then a low moan escaped her, and he sighed in relief. ‘That’s what you get, bitch. That’s what you get for being unfaithful to me.’ Turning, he stalked away from the pit.
Five storeys below a wide window, quartz and mica twinkled sidereally from the compact desert sand. Powder-blue light flooded through the window into a wide stone room, bathing it in a tricky glow that threw out a thousand shadows. A bed sat against one wall: a huge four-poster monstrosity, shrouded with dark crumpled sheets. Cam’s gaze was fixed on the shape that was moving beneath them.
Immortals' Requiem Page 27