'It's over.' The tears of relief came with the words. She scrubbed them away with the back of her hand, then turned to Veitch, smiling and crying at the same time. 'It's over,' she repeated, even though she knew he couldn't hear her.
The temperature rose dramatically within minutes as the summer rushed back in to replace the fleeing winter. The near-instantaneous thaw sent water gushing into the drains and pouring in torrents from the rooftops. As their hearing returned, Witch and Ruth were enveloped in the thunderous sound of the castle and the Royal Mile burning, filling the air with choking particles, obscuring the stars with thick, oily smoke.
They hurried down George IV Bridge as fast as they could, but in the aftermath of their victory the adrenalin retreated rapidly and Ruth, in particular, was overcome with a powerful exhaustion. Eventually she was clinging on to Witch as he almost carried her the last few yards into Greyfriars Kirkyard.
The graveyard sprawled away from the overpowering presence of the kirk, surrounded by high stone houses that made it a peaceful backwater untouched by the city. Ancient trees clustered all around, their thick cover blocking out the glare from the inferno. The choking fumes hadn't reached it either. There was only the sweet scent of the rose garden that lay before the main jumble of stones, mausoleums, obelisks and boxes that glowed eerily white, like bones, in the gloom.
None of the others had arrived, so Veitch and Ruth collapsed on to a stone box; he slid his arm around her and she rested her head on his shoulder.
After a second or two, he said, 'I know what you went through. Back at Dartmoor, when those bastards were dragging me through their torture mill…' He exhaled loudly. 'You did fine.'
'It doesn't feel fine. It was like, hanging on, you know?'
'You'll put it behind you soon.'
'Is that right?'
A pause. 'No.'
She retched and dipped her head between her knees.
'Are you okay?'
'No, I feel terrible.'
He laid her down on the box and put his jacket over her. Her skin was so pale it was almost the colour of the stone her cheek was touching. She huddled up into a fetal position and a second later she was asleep.
Veitch kept watch over her, his eyes flickering from the gentle rise and fall of her chest to the dark shadows that clustered all around. He wished the others would hurry up. Despite the destruction of the castle, he couldn't believe that was the end of it. With Ruth asleep, the kirkyard seemed too quiet and exposed; an attack could come from any direction. The rustling of the leaves and the shifting of the branches in the faint breeze made him think there was something moving around in the gloom. And the more he sat in silence, the more he thought he could hear faint noises on the other side of the kirkyard.
Another sound nearby warned him that it wasn't all in his mind. It could have been a squirrel or a cat, but over the last few weeks he had learned to expect the worse.
At first there was nothing. Then he glimpsed movement around the kirkyard, shapes flitting among the trees, appearing and disappearing behind the grave markers. He started to count, then gave up, although there was nothing to suggest they were Fomorii. But whatever was out there seemed to be moving closer. His grip grew tighter on his sword.
'Unclean.'
The word was just a rustle caught on the wind. He looked around suddenly in the direction it had come from, but the area was deserted.
'Who's there?' he called firmly.
No answer. The nerves along his spine were tingling; he had the uneasy sensation that he was being watched. More movement. He couldn't put it down to imagination; there was definitely someone out there.
'You better come out,' he said forcefully.
'What's going on?'
Veitch started at the voice. Church had just marched through the kirkyard gates, beaming broadly, Laura hanging on his arm, looking honestly happy for once. Behind them was Tom, as impossible to read as ever, and then Shavi, who seemed uncommonly downcast. 'Did you see it? Did you see what we did?' Church continued. 'All those screw-ups and bad luck and this time we got it right!'
Church suddenly noticed Ruth asleep under Witch's coat and threw off Laura's arm to run to her side. Laura's expression changed to one of irritation before she managed to mask it.
'Is she okay?' Church gently touched her wrist where it poked out from beneath the coat.
'She's had a bad time.' Veitch kept one eye on the kirkyard; all the movement had ceased. 'The Bastards really put her through it, but she's tough. She'll be okay.'
Church grinned. 'Then we're celebrating! Everything worked out fine. I don't believe it!'
'Unclean.'
This time the voice was clear and unmistakable. Church looked round, puzzled. 'What was that?'
'There's somebody out there.' Veitch pulled out the sword where it could be seen. 'I don't think it's the Bastards, but I don't have a good feeling about it.'
The others gathered around. 'I sense something-' Shavi began.
'Can't you see them?' Tom snapped. 'Amongst the trees?'
And then they could all see them: grey figures moving slowly, some of them raising their arms to the heavens as if they were in some kind of distress. They moved forward, silently at first, but as they drew closer faint whispers sprang up like echoes in their wake, growing louder until their voices were clear. They were protesting about something, frightened, outraged.
'What are they?' Church asked.
'The dead,' Tom said. 'The spirits of the kirkyard.'
'Eighty thousand of us.' The voice came from behind a mausoleum. Gradually a figure emerged, hollow- cheeked and staring, with eyes that made their blood run cold. He was as grey as the stone, wearing clothes which dated his time to the turn of the century. 'That's how many of us are buried here. Eighty thousand.'
The spirit of a woman rushed up to them, wailing so loudly they all flinched, but at the last minute she turned away and fled among the stones.
'What's wrong with them?' Laura's voice was hushed, frightened.
The spirits were in a semi-circle before them now, tearing at their ghostly hair, beating their breasts; their anguish was palpable.
'Leave now.' The man near the mausoleum was pointing at them accusingly. 'You are damned!'
'They are coming for you! They are not departed!' a woman shrieked, her hair as wild as snakes. 'They will not let you go!'
'Coming into this place, so unclean!' the man continued. 'Foul! Besmirched! And the Night Walkers will follow in your wake, hunting you. You will bring them here!'
'What's wrong?' Veitch yelled at them. 'We've actually done some bleedin' good for a change-'
He was cut off by more shrieking.
'Come on,' Church said, 'let's go.' He shook Ruth, who struggled to stand, barely able to keep her eyes open.
The spirits followed closely as the six of them started to back away to the kirkyard gates; the voices became more shrill and intense, wailing like sirens, enough to set teeth on edge.
'Unclean!' the man yelled so loudly Laura jumped back a step. 'You corrupt this sacred ground! Your black trail scars our home!'
The dead crowded in suddenly, and although they appeared insubstantial, their clawed fingers caught at the group's clothes, tore at their hair. Church and the others broke into a run, pursued by the shrieking spirits, which were dipping and rising across the kirkyard like reflected light on mist. It was as if the spirits were being tortured by unimaginable pain.
Only when the group was resting against the foot of the bridge outside the kirkyard gates did the sound subside; and even then the spirits could be glimpsed flitting around the kirk in a state of distress.
'That freaked me out,' Laura said. A flicker crossed her face and she glanced to Church, hoping perhaps that he would deny her thoughts. 'They were saying the Fomorii were going to hunt us down.'
