midswing. Slowly the dust settled.
As their eyes adjusted to the gloom beyond, Laura saw Shavi had been correct in his assumptions. He had uncovered a large tomb filled with dusty stone sarcophagi; on several were carved the sign of the sword which Marshall had attributed to the Knights Templar. The atmosphere that swept out was so unpleasantly stale it forced Laura to clutch her hand to her mouth. But it was more than just the odour that choked her; there was a wave of oppression and threat which came on its heels. She couldn't bear to stay any longer. She hurried back up the steps; Shavi didn't even notice. His gaze was fixed on an intricately carved column of death's heads, Green Men and dragons which he guessed from its siting was a continuation of the Apprentice's Pillar above. Halfway up the column was an area where nothing was carved at all. Gently he touched it. It appeared to vibrate coldly beneath his fingertips.
'Here we are, then,' he whispered.
Marshall still sat with his head in his hands, didn't even look up when Laura walked by. She wanted to be out in the open air, where she could breathe, but the Bone Inspector didn't show any sign of giving up. If anything, his hammering against the wooden door had grown even more frenzied, his yells hoarse and broken.
'Give it a rest,' she said angrily. 'This is supposed to be a place of peace and serenity. We can't hear ourselves think in here.'
At her voice he subsided. It was so sudden Laura felt a brief moment of panic that he had something planned, but then he spoke in a voice that was full of such desperation she was shocked. 'You musn't go through with this. You have to stop now. I'm begging you.'
'If you hadn't acted so up your own arse and told us exactly what was wrong we might have listened.' She chewed on her lip. 'So what's the big deal?'
'Listen, then.' His voice echoed tremulously through the wood. 'It is not what lies here, but who: The Good Son.' He laughed bitterly. 'A name of respect given to placate, to keep something terrible at bay.'
'He was supposed to be a good guy,' Laura noted.
'You should know by now,' the Bone Inspector said with thin contempt, 'that when it comes to the old gods there is no good or evil. They are beyond that.'
'You know what I mean,' Laura replied sourly.
'If you could trust any of the Tuatha De Danann, then he was the one,' he conceded. 'He was loved. As I said, it would be wrong to attribute human emotions to these gods. They're alien in the true sense of the word, unknowable-'
'But you're going to,' Laura noted slyly.
'The Fomorii loathed Maponus-'
'Jealous of his good looks and way with women, I'd guess,' she said humourlessly.
'In their bitterness at their overwhelming defeat at the second battle of Magh Tuireadh, the Fomorii were determined to launch one last desperate strike at the Tuatha De Danann,' the Bone Inspector continued. 'And Maponus as the favourite son of the Tuatha De Danann was the perfect target. They attacked as he attempted to cross over from Otherworld to visit his worshippers here.'
'Attacked how?'
'All that's known is that Maponus was struck down as he crossed the void between there and here-'
'If he was killed-' Laura interrupted.
'Not killed. These gods never truly die anyway. What the Fomorii planned was much worse. Whatever they did to him in the void, when he arrived here, he had been driven completely, utterly insane. That's the ultimate punishment: eternal imprisonment in a state of suffering. The world never knew what had hit it. The first sign of what had happened was a small village in the Borders. Every inhabitant was slaughtered, torn apart in so vile a manner it was impossible to identify the dead, even to estimate how many had died. In his dementia Maponus roamed the wild places and in the long nights people spoke of hearing his anguished howls echoing among the hills. Every attribute he had was inverted. He was not the giver of light and life, but the bringer of darkness and death. No love, only mad animal frenzy, no culture, only slaughter. It is impossible to guess how many died during his reign of terror. Tales passed down through the generations told how the fields ran red with blood. And the Good Son, once a name to be revered, became a source of fear.'
'What happened to him?' Laura's voice sounded oddly hollow, as if the room had mysteriously developed other dimensions which allowed it to echo.
'He couldn't be allowed to continue in this way,' the Bone Inspector replied darkly. 'He may have been seen as saviour once, but now he was cast in the role of destroyer, and if humankind wanted to survive, it had to destroy him. Or the next best thing.'
'We're a fickle bunch, aren't we?' Marshall was suddenly next to her, his voice painfully sour. 'If salvation doesn't arrive just how we expect, we bite that outstretched hand.'
'My people gathered in their college, first at Anglesey, then at Glastonbury,' the Bone Inspector continued. 'It was their time, you see. After so long in the dark, the Sundering had allowed them to grow in strength and hope. Their sun-powered cosmology, their worship of that bright side of Maponus, allowed them to turn their backs on the night and the moon and hope for a greater role for mankind in the mysteries of existence. They weren't going to see all that swept away, especially by a god whose time had passed, even one so close to their hearts.
'In a ritual which took seven nights to prepare, they eventually drew up enough power to bind Maponus in one spot. Even so, it cost the lives of two hundred good men, so the legends tell, reduced in Maponus's frenzy to a shower of blood, bone and gristle. But the others held fast, and Maponus was caught.'
Laura glanced over her shoulder towards the steps to the Sacristy. The flinty clink of pick-axe on stone echoed up. 'Jesus.' Her voice sounded pathetically small.
'You have to stop him!' Marshall hissed. 'For the love of God! Before it's too late!'
'But we don't have a choice.' Laura repeated the mantra, her head spinning. 'If we don't do this here, everything goes fucking pear-shaped.' And then she was running towards the steps, yelling, 'Shavi!'
Shavi couldn't hear anything, not even the sound of his own frenzied attack on the pillar. His concentration was drawn into the stone and nothing beyond existed. He coughed through the clouds of dust he was raising, scrubbed at the sweat that was dripping from his brow, and swung, and swung. And then finally, with a crack that seemed to tear through the very foundations of the chapel, a sound almost like a human roar, the pillar burst apart. Shavi staggered backwards and fell. And as the dust gradually cleared he saw what lay inside.
'They cut off his head!' the Bone Inspector was bellowing. 'They cut it off while he was still alive and sealed it in a pillar. And it was still alive even then! Still screaming! And they buried his body nearby-'
Laura reached the top of the steps, still shouting Shavi's name, just as the first tremor rattled through the building. A shower of dust fell from the roof as a large crack opened up in the stone floor, pitching her to one side. She hit the flags hard, knocking the wind out of her.
Marshall was already moving past her, his arthritic joints cracking under the strain. Laura caught a glimpse of wild emotions in his face as he headed down the stairs. Another tremor hit and he fell from halfway down, banging his head against the stone. Blood spattered from a deep gash as he slammed into the sacristy floor.
The tremors came faster, building in intensity. As she hauled herself to her feet, Laura had a sudden image of the chapel crashing down on top of her, crushing every bone beneath the enormous weight of stone.
Shavi's head was spinning and for a brief moment it felt like he was surfacing from a dream until reality suddenly jolted him alert. The clouds of dust that swept through the chamber were almost choking, and the intense vibrations running up through the floor made him nauseous. But it was the sound that disturbed him the most; it moved effortlessly from a barely audible bass rumble to a high-pitched keening. There was something in the quality that filled him with an overwhelming despair, while making his gorge rise; he could hardly bear it.
And then the dust cleared and he saw the origin of that awful noise. Where he had smashed away the stone of the pillar lay a dusty space, and within it was a severed head. It took him a second or two to make any sense of the features, but gradually they fell into relief: full lips, perfect cheekbones, large eyes, a straight nose. There was something about the face that was incredibly beautiful, yet at the same time sickeningly corrupt. The skin seemed to glow with an inner golden light, but near the jagged skin of the severed neck the hue was queasily green. And the eyes, though dark and attractive, moved from an angry red to purple. The rear and sides of the head were still trapped in the stone, so only the face peered out, as if the owner was comically peering through some curtains. Long hair turned white and matted with stone dust poked out on either side.
Shavi could barely tear his eyes away from those full lips, which moved sensually to make that foul sound. He
