Then Talon was in the apartment they’d shared. The furniture was pushed back against the wall, and he was on his hands and knees, drawing on the floor with chalk and paint. He slowly built a mandala from lines and geometric shapes. He drew one large circle, with a smaller circle and a triangle inside it. Inscribed around it were runes and symbols of power. He took a small brass brazier and a sharp silver knife from his and Jase’s shared collection of magical tools and lit candles at the four quarters of the circle. Soon, a bed of coals simmered in the brazier, and he sprinkled incense over them. A sweet, heady scent began to fill the room.
Talon made a quick, sharp cut across his palm with the knife. Blood welled up from it, dark and red. Three drops fell and sizzled on the hot coals, followed by three more, and three more after that. Then he bound the cut with a silken cloth and began his chant. He gathered all his anger and grief inside of him as the blood burned with a sharp, metallic tang that made his eyes water. He looked into the fire and thought of Jase’s funeral pyre, then he looked at the blood and thought of Jase’s blood on his hands and clothes. He thought of the Asphalt Rats, the gangers responsible for Jase’s death, and the flames roared in response.
Talon found the Asphalt Rats later that night, partying in a dead-end alleyway deep inside their turf in the Rox. From the amount of booze and discarded chip cases scattered around, they must have recently come into some nuyen. Talon stood watching them celebrating, drinking, and laughing after killing the best person he had ever known. A haze of red rage obscured everything he saw and felt. He hated them. More than anything, he wanted them dead. One of the gangers noticed Talon then, but he never got the chance to call out a warning.
Talon raised his arms and shouted his grief to the heavens, a cry of rage that erupted into an inferno whose flames poured into the alley like the fires of hell itself. Some of the gangers tried to run, some reached for their weapons. Most hadn’t even looked up before they were engulfed in a blast that charred their skin black and set their hair aflame. The gas tanks of the bikes exploded like a series of bombs, sending a black and orange fireball boiling into the sky and covering the sides of the nearby buildings with soot and ash.
Talon stood there at the mouth of the alley and watched it all happen. He didn’t flinch or turn away from the horror of it. His only thought was to see the ones responsible for his pain pay for what they did. The heat of the inferno was cool compared to his rage as he watched the gangers writhe, burn, and die in the flames.
It was over in a matter of seconds. The blackened and twisted remains of the bikes continued to burn, and a stream of acrid smoke billowed up from the alley. The charred corpses lay where they had fallen. Most of them never knew what hit them, or why. Tears ran down Talon’s face as he stared at the ruins.
"Forgive me," he whispered, then turned and walked away without looking back. The cut on his hand throbbed and ached, and he felt drained, empty, like he’d lost a piece of his soul. . .
Then he was lying on a cold concrete floor deep in the catacombs beneath Boston. The floor was covered with arcane diagrams drawn in paint and blood, while dark figures chanted in the shadows at the edge of the room. Above him, a dry, withered corpse dressed in tattered old clothes hung from a rusty pipe by a rope knotted around its neck. The skull-face looked down on him, its eyes burning with fire and its yellowed teeth spread in a macabre grin. A crackling voice whispered in his mind.
Hello, Father, it said. It’s been a very long time.
Talon bolted awake with a gasp and sat up in bed, his heart thudding in his chest. Drenched in a cold sweat, he threw off the sheets and sat up on the edge of the bed. He leaned forward slightly as he rubbed at his throbbing temples, letting some of the horror of the nightmare fade. It was so real.
He hadn’t dreamed it for over a year. Now it was back, as bad as ever. Most disturbing of all was knowing that he’d called down a raging spirit to kill the Asphalt Rats. The spirit that was still out there, somewhere.
Maybe the dream had returned because Talon thought he’d seen Jase tonight. Or maybe he thought he’d seen Jase because of the mana waves and fluctuations that had recently begun to surge. Talon didn’t share the general hysteria about the return of Halley’s comet, but no one could deny that magic had been acting strange of late.
No, he told himself. I’m sure I saw him, but why had Jase appeared? Was he trying to warn Talon of something? The only problem with being a mage was that it didn’t necessarily guarantee you could interpret everything you saw.
He fell back against the pillows and stared up at the ceiling. He checked the timekeeping function of his headware, and cool blue numbers appeared at the corner of his vision: 04:45:15. He’d only slept for a few hours. He canceled the clock and rolled over, but sleep eluded him. When it did come, Talon did not dream, but he could not escape the ominous sense that something terrible was about to happen.
CHAPTER FIVE
For Bridget O’Rourke, consciousness returned slowly. She struggled against the dark fog wrapping her brain, trying to recall what happened. The last thing she recalled was the get-together at Kelly’s. She’d had quite a bit to drink and was on her way to visit the ladies’ room. She dimly remembered powerful arms grabbing her from behind and the slap of the drug patch against her neck, over the carotid artery. She remembered the sensation of the powerful sedative spreading through her body, robbing the last bit of her strength. Then she slipped down into darkness as more strong hands dragged her away from the light and the noise of the pub.
The memories jerked her awake as she felt the same powerful arms holding her shoulders and feet, carrying her along. She opened her eyes, and in the dim light, she saw a hideous creature holding her bound ankles. It was an ork, but the ugliest ork she’d ever seen. His skin was gray, almost dead white, and his exposed flesh was covered with lumpy deposits of bony armor. Two long, yellow tusks curled over his upper lip, and his eyes were beady under a massive beetle brow. He could have easily held both her legs in one of his huge hands. Together, his hands gripped like a vice.
She tipped her head back toward whoever was holding her shoulders, and saw a troll who matched the ork ugly for ugly. His face was a hideous mass of warts and twisted bone, with three curly horns of different lengths emerging from the top of his head.
She began to struggle and tried to cry out for help, but she was bound hand and foot with silvery-gray duct tape. More tape covered her mouth, preventing her from screaming. She thrashed about, but the goblins only tightened their grip on her.
"’Ey, she’s awake," the ork said to his companion, glancing down at Bridget with a look that made her shudder. She could tell that he hated her, but that another part of him also wanted her. Terror was turning her insides to water. She was gripped with a panicked need to get away from these monsters, but her struggles were feeble compared to their strength.
"You think we should put her out again?" the troll asked.
The ork shook his head. "Naw, we’re almost there anyway."
Bridget looked around and saw that they were moving down an obviously abandoned tunnel with ancient cracked walls and scattered with rubble. Dark moisture leaked in through the cracks, and moss and fungus grew around the water. Rusting pieces of metal protruded from the floor and walls in spots, their original function unknown. The phosphorescent lamps set into the walls gave off a dull green glow that was barely enough light to see by. Bridget was sure she could hear things chittering and scuttling in the shadows, just out of sight.
She’d heard stories about the underground, that there was a virtual maze of old tunnels and catacombs down under Boston. The tunnels were supposed to be inhabited by street people, squatters, and even ghouls that came out at night to hunt for human flesh. But she had never really believed it—until now.
The ork and the troll came to a stop before a heavy, rusting metal door set into the tunnel wall. The ork handed Bridget over to the troll, who took her as easily as if she were no more than a baby. T
he ork went to the door and turned the wheel set into its center with a loud squeaking that echoed strangely in the tunnel, followed by a dull clunk. He swung the door open, and the troll bent down to step through, still carrying Bridget.
Beyond the door was a brick-lined tunnel lit with electric lights that cast a yellow glow into the tunnel beyond. The troll’s bulk barely fit between the walls as he carried Bridget toward a heavy velvet curtain closing off the other end of the tunnel. He pushed the curtain aside and went through. The room they entered made her eyes go wide.
The brick walls of the chamber were hung with heavy draperies of black and deep purple edged in gold fringe and braiding, making it seem more like a giant tent of sorts. The concrete floor was carpeted almost wall to wall by an Oriental rug woven in rich jewel tones. An antique couch and two chairs with clawed feet were of the same heavy fabric of the drapery.
The only light came from a fire crackling in the marble hearth. The flames glimmered off small objects of crystal and brass scattered over the shelves and side-tables. The air was warm and smelled spicy, like drying herbs, but the dank smell of the underground overpowered it. Despite the warmth, Bridget shivered as the troll set her down on the couch. Where was she?
As the troll bent to remove the tape binding her wrists and ankles, she considered bolting for the door even as it clanged shut and locked with a heavy clunk. She could never hope to outrun the massive troll anyway. And where could she go if she didn’t know where she was?
The troll peeled the tape from her mouth, and Bridget let out a yelp of pain. The sting seemed to spark her courage to confront the figure towering over her.
"Who the hell are you?" she demanded angrily. "Where are we?"
"You are in my home, child," a crooning voice said. "Welcome."
The troll immediately straightened up like a schoolboy when an adult enters the room. Looking past him, Bridget saw the heavy draperies part to reveal an old woman dressed in a floor-length robe of black velvet. The long, wide sleeves covered her bony arms to the wrists, leaving only her thin, gaunt hands visible. Draped over her head and shoulders was a darkly colorful shawl held in place by what looked like a cameo pin. She leaned on a gnarled wooden cane that thumped softly against the carpet as she came closer.
As the old woman approached in the firelight, Bridget got a good look at her. She was hideous, a withered hag like a witch from a fairy tale. Her prominent nose was a hooked beak, and she had a sharp, bony chin. Her skin was as wrinkled as a prune, and her small black eyes seemed to take in everything. She chuckled quietly to herself, her lipless mouth curled in a tight smile.
"Yes, welcome to my humble home," the old woman said again, looking Bridget over. "I’ve been expecting you."
"Who. . .who are you?" Bridget managed to mumble. The old hag’s smile chilled her to the bone. Her teeth were small and sharp, like a predator’s.
"You can call me Mama, my dear," the woman said. "Everyone does."
"We brought her, like you said, Mama," the troll murmured, sounding like he really was addressing his mother.
Could that be? Bridget wondered briefly. She could hardly imagine it, though the creature in front of her looked old enough to be someone’s great-grandmother, at least.
Mama reached up as far as her arm would reach to pat the troll’s cheek. "You’ve done very well, my sweetling," she said. "Very well indeed."
The troll beamed with pleasure. He stood near the entrance to the room, while Mama settled into a chair opposite Bridget on the couch. Bridget looked around the room, searching for a way out of the madness she’d been dragged into.
"Now, let’s have a look at you, my dear," Mama said, narrowing her eyes and leaning forward with both hands on her cane. Bridget could feel the force of her stare practically drilling into her. It was as if this crazy old woman was seeing directly into her soul.
Bridget tried to shrink back away from that stare, but she couldn’t move. Oh, Lord, help me, she thought. The instant seemed like an eternity before the old crone blinked, breaking the spell that had seemed to paralyze Bridget.
"Very nice," Mama said, more to herself than anyone else. "Yes, you’ll do nicely."
"Do for what?" Bridget said. "What do you want with me?"
"Why, you’re very special, dear, particularly because of your new friends and their cause."
"I don’t know what you’re talking about," Bridget lied desperately.
"Of course you do. You’re one of them, one of the Knights, and I need someone close to them, but not too close. You’re new. They still don’t know much about you, and you’re young and strong. . ." The hag reached out a bony hand to squeeze Bridget’s upper arm.
"Please, let me go," Bridget pleaded. "I haven’t done anything! Please, please don’t hurt me. . ." Her voice trailed off as Mama smiled again.
"Hurt you? Oh no, my child, you misunderstand. I have no intention of hurting you, not at all!" She shook her head like an indulgent grandma dealing with a grandchild’s naive questions, as if the very idea was absurd.
"Then why. . ." Bridget said.
"I need you intact, my dear." The stress the old woman put on the word "need" made Bridget feel like she’d just been invited to dinner as the main course. The stories about ghouls and vampires in the underground came flooding back, and she quailed under the old woman’s gaze. Mama seemed to sense her terror, leaning closer as though she could smell it in the air like a tantalizing aroma.
"Yes," Mama crooned. "You’ll suit us well enough. Won’t she, my pet?"
Us? Bridget wondered.
Mama supported herself on her cane and stood up. She beckoned with one bony finger for Bridget to come closer to the fire. "Come and look," Mama said.
Suddenly the fire roared, and a gout of flames shot from the hearth. Bridget screamed and scrambled along the couch away from the flames until she bumped against the far end. She huddled there, trembling. But the flames didn’t burn anything. They gathered into a cloud of fire that hovered in midair in front of the hearth, casting a reddish-orange glow over the room. Bridget almost thought she could see a pair of white-hot eyes deep within the flames, looking at her with an intensity—and a hunger—that exceeded Mama’s.
"Yes," whispered a voice like the crackling of flames, "yes, this one will do nicely. Her fear is the key and the gate for me." Bridget shivered as the thing spoke, and Mama smiled.
"Good, then she is yours, Gallow, my pet."
Bridget looked frantically from the old crone to the hovering ball of fire. She tried to get up, tried to struggle, but the flames surged toward her. Fire washed over her body even before she could move a muscle. Bridget screamed and thrashed, rolling onto the floor trying to put out the flames.
The fire didn’t burn her flesh, though. She could feel it searing into her mind, into her very soul. She could feel the touch of the fire spirit, and her soul shrank back in terror as the flames seemed to fill her whole being, making her feverish with heat.
"Who are you?" her mind cried out at the presence she felt.
"I am fear," it said. "I am terror. I am rage. I am vengeance."
As it spoke, Bridget felt thoughts and memories welling up within her, things she had tried not to remember: how her mother was raped and murdered by a gang of young elves out for a "wild hunt." The look on her father’s face at the funeral afterward. The night she killed her first elf at the age of fifteen. The look of shock and surprise on the elven gang-member’s face that such a wee girl knew how to fight so well. How much she hated them, how much she wanted to see them all dead. Hated them all.
"They will suffer," a voice whispered in her thoughts. "They will all suffer."
Bridget O’Rourke’s mind fell into a dark place, and the flames shrouding her body flickered and died. The woman that rose from the floor was not her in anything but appearance. She ran her hands over her body, luxuriating in the feeling of flesh and solidity.
"So long," Gallow whispered with Bridget’s voice. "It’s b
een so long. . ."
"Yes," Mama said. "Are you pleased with this little gift, my pet?"
Gallow turned toward the old woman, fire flashing in Bridget’s blue eyes. It regarded Mama for a long moment before replying.
"Yes," it said finally.
"Good. Now there is something you can do for your Mama. A little errand, but I think you will enjoy it. I know how much you have missed your dear, dear father."
Bridget’s eyebrows rose slightly, and her pretty mouth twisted in a grimace.
"Talon," Gallow whispered, then smiled wickedly.
"That’s right," Mama said. "It will be a chance to see him again and to feed well along the way. You’ll need to keep up your strength, my pet. The time is approaching, and events are already set into motion. Listen carefully, and I will explain what you need to do. . ."
Rory MacInnis hated guard duty more than he hated almost anything else in his young life. It was mind-numblingly dull, and besides, it wasn’t like anyone was going to come and find them. The Knights of the Red Branch had escaped the authorities in Boston for decades. Living here in the Rox, they could continue to hide for another thirty years before Knight Errant or the Feds would bother coming in after them.
Rory knew they wouldn’t be hiding much longer, though, because everything would soon change. The Knights were going to win back their homeland and overthrow the fragging elves who thought they could just barge in and take over a whole country as easy as you please. Well, the elves obviously didn’t understand the Irish at all or they’d know the people wouldn’t give up their land without a fight.
Truth to tell, Rory would have liked to see a lot more fighting than he had since joining up. There was a lot of planning, skulking around, and hiding out in places like this abandoned factory building in the Rox. There were meetings with people and deals to be made. Rory knew it was because the Knights weren’t strong enough to confront the elves head-on, and so they had to seek out other means. But he’d still rather be out busting heads and collecting a few pointy elven ears than waiting around on guard duty.
shadowrun 40 The Burning Time Page 3