Death's Hand

by N. P. Martin

  On the way back through Schull as the mid-morning sun began to break through the clouds, who should I see sitting on the side of the road outside a pub with a tin of beer in his hand, but Paul, the bastard that sold me out to that demented faery in the bug hotel. He was sitting on top of a suitcase, as glum as anyone I’d ever seen, having the look of a man who had just lost everything, and I stared at him as we drove past. His eyes said it all, as did the conspicuous absence of his wife, who had clearly gone her own way, perhaps for good. I was tempted to smile smugly at him, but he looked like he was on the verge of tears as it was, so I merely stared at him for the few seconds it took me to pass him by.

  "Karma’s a bitch," I muttered.

  "What?" Amelia said. "Do you know that sad-sack?"

  I nodded. "Sort of."

  "Who is he?"

  "Just a man who wishes he had kept it in his pants, that’s all."

  Amelia shook her head as if she didn’t understand and we drove on toward Dublin.

  When Amelia parked the car near the book shop, I told her she could take it if she wanted, in order to get home. "I have a penthouse near Grafton Street," she said. "I don’t have far to walk."

  I raised my eyebrows in surprise. "Really? I thought you’d still be staying at Iolas’s place."

  She shook her head. "Not likely, not after everything that happened there."

  I got the feeling she wasn’t just talking about recent events, but also events long past as well. "Fair enough. Have you spoke to Iolas since his arrest?"

  "Nope. He can rot."

  "Amen to that."

  She paused by the front of the shop as I opened the door. "I had the chance to do a lot of thinking while I was in the med center," she said.

  "Oh yeah? Always a dangerous thing."

  She smiled slightly. "Maybe. Anyway, I’ve been thinking about the past, and certain things that happened, like why Iolas would have my parents killed, and the strange things that went on in that house of his."

  "Strange? What like?"

  "You remember that ritual you saw when you soul-gazed me?"

  I nodded. "Yeah."

  "I’d like to know what that was about. There’s other things as well, things I haven’t told you about."

  "The past is a foreign country," I said. "Maybe you should forget about going there."

  She made a face at me. "Really, you of all people are telling me that?"

  I smiled as if she had a point. "I guess we can’t escape the past."

  "Anyway," she said. "I could use your help at some point in doing some digging."

  "Sure, it’s the least I can do."

  She stared at me a moment and then smiled, a rare trace of sentimentality in her face. "I’m glad we met."

  I went and kissed her. "Me too."

  "I’m going to go. I’ll call you."

  "You sure you don’t want to come in?"

  She shook her head as she walked away. "Go and see your friend and get that hand sorted out."

  I held my right arm up. "What, you won’t sleep with me until I miraculously get a new hand?"

  "That’s not the hand I was talking about."

  "Oh," I said, realizing that she was talking about the Hand of Drakkar, which was still wrapped up in the boot of the car.

  Amelia laughed to herself as she walked away, seeming lighter of being since breaking away from her despot uncle. I smiled after her for a moment, and then turned and went inside the shop, locking the door after me.

  Inside the book shop, it seemed desperately quiet and empty, my mother still painfully conspicuous in her absence. Going to the desk, I poured myself a whiskey and sat sipping on it for a while as I couldn’t help but stare at my stump. Every time I looked at it all I could see was Manannán’s great steed chewing my severed right hand to bits before swallowing it. It was an image that would stay with me for the rest of my life, no doubt, even if I did somehow manage to magically replace the lost hand.

  When I’d finished my drink, I went upstairs and slept for a few hours, eventually being woken up by a familiar pain in my chest. A pain I recognized as that caused by Drakkar, and although it wasn’t as extreme as the last time, the pain was enough for me to get the message Drakkar was sending me.

  He wanted a body, and soon.

  23

  That evening, I called a taxi to come pick me up and take me to Davey Carvell’s place on the North Circular. The taxi driver, a large middle-aged man with a tattoo of a swift on the side of his neck, turned the radio up slightly when the news came on. I was almost shocked to hear that the murder of Glen Morely was headline news, though I don’t know why I was shocked, given how bloody brutal and mysterious the murder was, at least from an outside perspective. I couldn’t help tensing and shifting uncomfortably in my seat—with Drakkar’s hand in a plastic shopping bag in my lap—as the radio broadcaster relayed the details of the murder, or what details were made public, which were very few. The newsreader just said that Morely had been murdered under very mysterious circumstances, and that the police had no suspects yet, for which I breathed a sigh of relief. Clearly, the authorities were intending to keep the full details of the murder under wraps, probably because they couldn’t explain what happened. The whole case would probably be buried along with Morely and forever remain a mystery, which is how I liked it.

  "Good enough for the bastard, eh?" the taxi driver said.

  "Yeah," I said nodding. "Good enough for him."

  After the taxi driver dropped me off, I went up to Davey’s front door and knocked. Davey appeared a moment later, dressed in dark slacks, shirt and buttoned cardigan. Thankfully, he didn’t come to the door covered in blood this time. "Corvin," he said smiling. "What a pleasant surprise." His smile faltered when he noticed my stump.

  "I know," I said, holding my arm up. "It’s why I’m here. Plus, this." I held up the plastic bag containing the Hand.

  "What’s that?"

  I sighed and shook my head slightly. "A pain in my ass."

  Davey nodded as if he understood. "Come in, son, and we’ll see if we can get you sorted out."

  Liking the sound of that, I followed him into the dimly lit house, down the hallway and into the large living room, which appeared to have turned into more of a library over the years, as there were books everywhere, with one wall being entirely taken up by them. "This is quite a collection," I said admiringly as I looked around.

  "This is just a fraction," he said as he went about pouring two whiskeys. "I keep bringing books in here to read and they end up staying. I’ll have to clear them out at some point, though since it’s just me these days, I don’t really see the point."

  I nodded as I gratefully accepted the whiskey he gave me. "I get it."

  Davey smiled as he sat down in a well-worn armchair, groaning slightly as his bones creaked. "I know you do, son. You take after your mother in that way. She was quite empathic as well. It’s what made her a people person."

  "I wouldn’t call myself a people person exactly," I said as I sat down on the couch. "I’m more of a loner."

  "Even loner’s can know people."

  "I hardly know myself, Davey."

  Davey chuckled slightly. "Does anyone? At the end of the day, we’re all a mystery, even to ourselves." His eyes went to the plastic bag in my lap. "What you got there, son? The suspense is killing me."

  Downing my whiskey, I placed the empty glass on the floor and unwrapped the Hand, holding it up for Davey to see. "The Hand of Drakkar."

  Davey reared back slightly as if he wasn’t happy about such a thing being brought into his home, but at the same time, he seemed somewhat fascinated by it. "Drakkar," he said. "The Magi?"

  I nodded. "You’ve heard of him?"

  "I’ve heard a few stories of an evil Magi by that name who lived around the sixteenth century. I thought they were just myths, to be honest."

  "Clearly not. His spirit lives on inside this hand, and now he wants a body to put it on."

 
"A body? Why would you aid him in that?"

  "It’s a long story, but the bottom line is, I don’t have a choice. Drakkar, or his spirit, will kill me if I don’t do as it asks."

  "I see," Davey said nodding. "And you thought I could get you said body."

  "Yes."

  "I’d be somewhat reluctant to give such an apparently evil spirit its freedom."

  "So am I, but it beats dying. If it comes to it, I can always hunt Drakkar down." A sudden pain in my chest let me know that Drakkar was listening. "Once I find a way to break the hold he has over me that is."

  Drakkar’s familiar laughter echoed in my head. "Good luck…" he hissed.

  "Okay," Davey said after giving it some thought. "I suppose you’re caught between a rock and a hard place on this one. I’ll help you out. I have a fresh body in the basement, an old wizard that was murdered. The Council gave his body to me because they didn’t know what else to do with him. He has no family and the Council didn’t want him going into the system, so they gave him to me to dispose of."

  "Sounds ideal," I said, just wanting rid of the Hand at this point. "Let’s do it."

  Down in the basement, the body of the man Davey was talking about lay naked on the autopsy table. The body was thin and wizened by death, the flesh on the old bones gray and flaccid. "Where’s Dalia?" Davey asked as he put his green apron on. "She was supposed to come and work with me again."

  "She’s a little tied up at the moment," I said. "I’m sure she’ll come and see you when she’s ready."

  "She’s a good girl, I like her. Quite suited to this line of work, which I can’t say about many people."

  The fact that she almost died passed through my mind again. The sense of relief I felt when she didn’t still hadn’t left me. "She likes you too. She likes the work here."

  Davey nodded as he picked up a scalpel and cut through the flesh of the dead man’s right wrist. "I’m glad. It’s important work, and needs to be carried on. I won’t be around forever."

  "You’ve a while left yet, Davey."

  He smiled as he picked up a bone saw. "These old bones of mine would disagree with you."

  I turned away as he began to saw through the bones of the dead man’s wrist. On the shelf next to me, I saw jars filled with various body parts, including hands. "Do you plan on giving me one of these?" I asked him.

  "Yes," he replied, as if that was the very reason he kept them in the first place.

  "I’m not sure I’d be comfortable wearing someone else’s hand."

  "Well, it’s either that or go without." He had finished sawing off the dead man’s hand, which was gnarly and riddled with arthritis, which he was now waving at me. "You can have this one if you like."

  I made a face as I shook my head. "No thanks."

  Davey laughed as he placed the severed hand in a dish. "Give me Drakkar’s hand."

  I hesitated before handing the wrapped appendage over to him, knowing what was going to happen when I did. But just in case my doubts were getting the better of me, Drakkar sent another bolt of pain into my chest. "Here," I said, giving the Hand to Davey like I couldn’t wait to get rid of it, which I couldn’t.

  Davey took the Hand and examined it, flinching slightly when the eye in the center of the palm suddenly opened to stare at him. "Well, hello there," he said grimly.

  "Just place the hand near the wrist. It will do the rest."

  Davey set the severed Hand next to the severed wrist of the cadaver, and within seconds the two started to knit together. "Well, isn’t that something. It’s almost seamless."

  I wasn’t as fascinated by the process as Davey was, having seen it happen before anyway. I was also more anxious about what was going to transpire next, and as it happened, I didn’t have to wait long to find out. Within moments of the Hand connecting itself to the old man’s body, the corpse suddenly opened its eyes, causing Davey to step back in surprise.

  Here we go, I thought, having no idea of what was going to happen next. It was all I could do not to go running back up the stairs to get myself far away from the now fully animated corpse. As Davey came to stand beside me, I noticed him reaching out to a drawer, opening it and taking out a revolver. "You’re going to shoot him?" I said. "He’s dead already!"

  "I know," Davey said quietly. "I was thinking it might slow him down, though, if he tries any funny business."

  "Like trying to bloody kill us, you mean?"

  "Exactly."

  As we both watched in horrified fascination, the corpse of the old man, now seemingly possessed by the spirit of Drakkar, slowly sat up like some mechanical thing and stared right at us. The eyes were milky and well, dead looking, but behind the necrotic tissue I could see Drakkar’s spirit moving around in there as it filled out its new, and no doubt only temporary, vessel.

  What the hell have I done? I thought as Drakkar slid the stiffened legs of the corpse off the table and unsteadily got to his feet. He stood for a few moments as if getting used to his new vessel, then he slowly turned his head to look at us, his neck creaking horribly as he did so. The body was full of rigor mortis, so when Drakkar walked toward us, he did so as if he had to drag his near useless legs and arms behind him, shuffling along like a stereotypical zombie from the Walking Dead.

  As Davey and I resisted the urge to step back, Drakkar finally came to a stop just in front of me and peeled back his bluish lips into some sort of rictus grin. He tried to speak at that point, but the old man’s voice box had long since ceased up, so the only sounds to come out were garbled groaning sounds as his jaw moved grotesquely up and down.

  "You’ll have to speak up," Davey said.

  I turned slightly and looked at him in disbelief. "Are you taking the piss?"

  "Yes."

  "Well don’t."

  Drakkar shuffled closer, his dead-eyed stare focused completely on me now.

  "You’ve got what you wanted," I said to him, hoping he wouldn’t come any closer. "What now?"

  His voice suddenly sounded in my head. "You have freed me… Corvin Chance. Thank you…"

  "No need to thank me," I said aloud. "You can just… go, though I don’t know how… or where you’re going to go looking like that."

  "Perhaps he’ll go and get laid," Davey said out of the side of his mouth. "I’m sure it’s been a while."

  "He’ll lay you in a minute if you don’t be quiet," I whispered back.

  "Would you like to see your future?" Drakkar asked, again telepathically.

  I shook my head. "Not really."

  "What?" Davey said.

  "He’s talking telepathically."

  "Oh, I see. What’s he saying?"

  "Nothing much—"

  "My gift to you…" Drakkar said, and then, with a speed that came out of nowhere, he suddenly lurched forward and planted his cold hand on my forehead. Instantly, I was hit with a barrage of images that I could barely take in there were so many of them, including: Prince Constantine baring his fangs as he hissed angrily, just before flying at me; many images of dark suited individuals, some of them performing strange magic; an image of a man in long, white robes holding aloft a great staff as he seemed to cast some immensely powerful spell; and finally, blood; lots and lots of blood that washed over everything until it looked like I was seeing the world through a red lens.

  When Drakkar took his hand from my head, I reeled back disorientated, Davey grabbing my arm before I fell against a shelf full of glass jars. "What the hell did you do to him?" Davey said to Drakkar angrily.

  As I regained my composure, Drakkar gave us his rictus grin, then he sent his final words to me. "I’m sure we’ll meet again, Corvin Chance. Slán…"

  Just as he began to turn to smoke before our eyes—a smoke that soon dissipated as he disappeared—Davey shouted, "Don’t kill anyone!"

  When Drakkar had gone completely, I turned to Davey. "Don’t kill anyone?"

  "Do you think he’ll listen?"

  Sighing, I shook my head. "I seriously doubt i
t."

  After pulling a bottle of whiskey from between two jarred livers on a shelf, Davey poured us each a drink, which he gave me in a stainless steel cup. "What is this?" I asked holding it up, wrinkling my nose at the strange smell.

  "Just a cup," Davey said as he drank from a similar one. "I use them to collect the urine from the bodies."

  My mouth was full of whiskey when I suddenly sprayed it all over the floor. "What?!"

  Davey started to laugh. "You should see your face, son… I was kidding, they’re just cups."

  I shook my head at him. "Very funny."

  "I mix blood in them sometimes but the whiskey should sterilize them."

  Giving him a look, I put the cup down on the empty autopsy table. "I think I’ll pass."

  "Suit yourself." Davey downed the rest of his drink before putting the empty cup next to mine. "Now, about this hand of yours."

  I turned to look at the jars of pickled hands, wondering who they all belonged to. "I really have to chose one of these?"

  "What? No." Davey shook his head. "I was just pulling your leg about that. I’m going to grow you a new one. All I’ll need is your DNA."

  Relieved that I didn’t have to have another stranger’s hand grafted onto me, I said, "What? How?"

  "Magic and science," Davey said. "Although some would say they are one and the same."

  "I didn’t know you could do that." I paused as a tingle of excitement passed through me at the thought of getting my hand back, or at least a copy of the original, which would do just as well. "How does it work? Is it like a 3D printer or something?"

  Davey moved his head from side to side. "Hmm… in a way. It’s a complicated process, and the result of my many years of experiments. I’m not at the stage where I could grow a full human being yet, but I can certainly grow parts of one."