rescued from Wewelsburg Castle.
For days all she had to do was sleep, eat and listen to the rats scratching around in the darkness. Only once had her captors visited her, to strip her of all her studs and her earrings and make sketches of her tattoos, but even this they had done in total silence.
But today, she sensed, was going to be different. Today there seemed to be a frisson of excitement in the air. From what Norma guessed to be early morning she had heard people scurrying to and fro along the corridor outside her cell and the barking of orders.
Now, as she lay on her hard cot, she heard boot heels snapping on the flagstones as someone marched down the corridor towards her cell. The footsteps came to a halt at her door. She heard a key turn in the lock and then the creak of the door as it reluctantly opened on oil-hungry hinges. Her visitor entered the cell holding a lantern before him and Norma had to flinch away, shielding her eyes from the glare.
‘On your feet, Daemon.’ It was the Witchfinder, his voice hard and angry.
It took a real effort of will for Norma to sit up. She had given up hope of being saved, she had given up hope of ever getting back to the Real World.
‘Take her,’ the Witchfinder ordered. ‘I want her cleaned up and her hair dyed – and I mean all her hair – within two hours. She must be made presentable for His Holiness.’
Two women SS warders grabbed Norma, pulling her to her feet, then dragged her out of her cell and along the corridor to a small, cold bathroom decorated in surgically white tiles. There they tore off all her soiled clothes, forced her to stand under a scalding hot shower whilst she was washed and scrubbed and her hair bleached a platinum blonde colour.
When they had finished, the Witchfinder came to inspect the naked Norma. ‘She has no tail,’ he observed in a disappointed voice.
‘Daemons of her rank are subtle creatures, Witchfinder Major,’ answered one of the female guards, ‘able to ape the form of humans perfectly.’
A disappointed grunt from the Witchfinder. ‘She is very gaunt,’ he observed. ‘Perhaps a little too gaunt.’
‘Not gaunt, Witchfinder Major, healthily slim,’ replied the guard. ‘Her diet has been in full accordance with the principles of Living amp;More laid down by His Holiness Comrade Crowley. Since she came to Wewelsburg, she has been fed just fruit and filtered water. All bad humours and harmful toxins have been purged from her body. She is purified just as the Other, in ExterSteine, has been purified.’
The Other? ExterSteine?
‘Very well,’ said the Witchfinder. ‘Bring her to the steamer.’ From somewhere Norma conjured the strength to protest. ‘Look, pal, I ain’t going…’
She was silenced by a savage slap across her face. ‘Be quiet, Daemon, you are not to speak. If you utter one further word I will have you gagged. Remember, I know you for the trickster you are. You should understand that all have been forewarned to be on their guard lest you seek to subvert them with your unholy wiles and your silver tongue.’
Norma almost cried: she was so tired, so dispirited, so helpless that she was only a moment away from being broken. She was just so fed up with being in pain, being cold and being abused. All she wanted was to get out of the Demi-Monde and to go home.
But at least they let her retain her modesty, handing her an ankle-length sheath made of rough white cotton which she gratefully slipped over her body. Then they manacled her wrists behind her back and led her to a steamer standing puffing in the courtyard of the Castle. Well, not just a steamer but a veritable convoy of steamers. Crowley, it seemed, was taking no chances: he didn’t want there to be any risk of Norma being rescued again.
The Witchfinder called over the SS-major in command of the convoy. ‘You understand your orders, Comrade Major? Your men will provide an escort to the Hub and will then establish a cordon sanitaire around ExterSteine at a distance of one mile. Under no circumstances are you or any of your men to come closer than that, otherwise your somewhat uncouth psychic vibrations will interfere with the ritual to be conducted by His Holiness Comrade Crowley. Understand?’
The Major snapped a salute.
So she was going to have the pleasure of Crowley’s company again, presumably so that he could enact his Rite of Transference. The chances were in a few hours she would be dead. A strange calm descended on Norma: she determined to meet whatever fate had in store for her philosophically.
It was her first sight of daylight since she had entered the sewers an eternity ago and she was surprised by the glorious feeling of sunshine on her face. The last time she had been outside, the Demi-Monde had been in the grip of Winter, but now there was a definite feeling of Spring in the air. Unfortunately her enjoyment of the sunshine was short-lived. The Witchfinder gave her a hefty shove in the back to bundle her into the rear passenger cabin of the steamer and once she was seated he blindfolded her.
They drove for perhaps twenty minutes until finally, after bumping along what was obviously an unmade road, the steamer came to a halt and Norma was pushed outside. By the smell of her surroundings she knew that she was no longer in the city: the air smelt almost fresh, there wasn’t even a hint of the foul tang of overcrowded humanity that perfumed the Rookeries. She was in the countryside, which meant she was in the Hub. It was a suspicion reinforced when she heard birds singing. Birds didn’t sing in the Rookeries, they coughed.
As she was pushed roughly forward, she felt the cold of snow beneath her naked feet, but after a walk of ten minutes or so this was replaced by rough stone.
‘Climb,’ ordered the Witchfinder in her ear and Norma found herself stumbling up a long, steep stone staircase, so long that by the end of it her damaged knee ached like the devil and her breath was coming in pants. Then, with the wind cutting through the thin cotton of her dress, she was led across what she imagined to be a narrow wooden bridge.
With a touch on her goose-pimpled arm the Witchfinder brought her to a halt and removed the manacles from her wrists. ‘Welcome to ExterSteine, Daemon,’ boomed out a familiar voice.
It was Spring Eve: Freyja’s Night.
Tonight was the night upon which Crowley would perform his magic, when he would perform the Rite of Transference. And from what Ella had learnt from Trotsky and the IM Manual, the rite would be held at this mysterious place ExterSteine. If Ella was to save Norma Williams, then she had to do it before dawn: once the Rite of Transference was complete Ella wasn’t even sure there would be a Norma Williams left to rescue.
But getting to ExterSteine seemed an impossible task. Here she was stuck in the chaos of the Ghetto’s Industrial Zone with less than eight hours of the last night of Winter remaining. Just eight hours to save Norma Williams. There was however one ray of hope: the word was out that once Baron Dashwood’s mishmash of an army had been brought into some semblance of order then the attempted breakout of the Ghetto would go ahead. Presumably with the SS still confused by the Baron’s attack, there was a better chance of success, but having seen how weak and tired the WFA soldiers were it was difficult for Ella to be optimistic.
‘Tea?’
Ella looked up to find Vanka, an enamel mug of steaming tea in his hand, standing in front of her. ‘Our glorious leader Colonel Dashwood has decided, as it’s Spring Eve, to distribute the last of the tea rations. I had been hoping for Solution but Trixie Dashwood is a very austere commander who doesn’t want any of her soldiers drunk before the breakout.’ Vanka looked around at all the fighters crowded into the warehouse and shrugged. ‘Fuck knows why: I’d have thought that it was best we all died pissed.’
She took the scalding hot mug carefully in both hands. ‘Thanks, Vanka. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’
‘My pleasure.’ He sat down beside her. ‘Penny for them. You’ve been sitting lost in thought for nigh on ten minutes.’
‘I’m just wondering how I can get to ExterSteine.’
‘Oh, not again. I thought…’
‘Please, Vanka, I’ve got to rescue Norma: it’s what I was sent to the Demi-Monde to do.’
He held up his hands in mock surrender. ‘Okay, but I think you’re getting a little ahead of yourself: the first thing we’ve got to do is get out of the Ghetto alive. Do that and then we can start worrying about rescuing Norma- I’m-a-shrew-Williams.’
‘What do you think are our chances?’
‘Of getting out of the Ghetto? The same chance we’ve got of rescuing Norma Williams: piss-poor. With the
