free her spirit and he would not fail; his own redemption was tied up in his success.
The words of warning and encouragement from Ruth and the Bone Inspector had ended; they must have realised he was doing okay.
Several more steps passed unnoticed, so much did the bottle fill his mind. Memories of Marianne and the time they had spent together traipsed across his head until the black stone chamber almost faded from his perception. He was there with her, happy, as they always had been.
It was only when he realised he was having trouble moving forward that he jolted back to reality. What he found was so shocking it took him a few seconds to assimilate. His arms and the parts of his body he could see were strangely white. His dulled thought processes eventually told him the truth: he was covered in rime frost. It sparkled across his limbs, so thick his joints would barely work against it. Even his eyelashes were heavy with the weight of it, shimmering so that he found it hard to see past the glare.
If he had not had the Blue Fire coursing through him, he would most certainly have been dead; even now he was close to it. If he turned back there was still a chance he might actually survive. Yet the bottle was only a couple of paces away. How could he leave when he was so close? He couldn't abandon Marianne.
In his mind, there was no choice. He forced another step. Almost there. He couldn't feel any of his body now; his mind was disembodied, recalling a dream of being trapped in a person. Oddly, that helped him. With no physical sensations to distract him, his thoughts were pure and strengthened. He slipped easily into the perception where he was aware of the Blue Fire, and was surprised to see that even in that awful place the spirit energy still flowed, though much weaker.
By force of will, he drew some of it to him; a little but it was enough. He took the final step and swept the bottle off the stone with the back of his hand. It shattered on the floor to release the gentlest breeze; he could feel it even through the thickening frost. With it came the scent of a woman he once loved, of a hot day in the Caribbean and a warm night on a boat on the Thames when they had kissed. And something else: the faintest touch of an intelligence, like a lover reaching out to reassure themselves their sleeping partner was still there in bed, still breathing. It was a small thing, but filled with so much. Church felt enormous gratitude that swelled his emotions, and admiration for him and his abilities, and forgiveness; and love, but not the love of a young couple, a spiritual thing that sent his soul soaring.
Emotions that had been held in stasis for so long finally rushed through him; it felt like someone had plunged a hand deep within him and dragged out every shadow, every shred of misery, every tear. The burden that shifted left him as light as air. Finally, an ending for something that had manacled him for so long.
She was free. And he was finally free of the burden her death had placed upon him. A tear squeezed out of the corner of his eye and burned a path through the white down his cheek.
After that the getting back was easy, despite the cold and the weight of the frost, both of which appeared to be increasing. The shock of the heat outside the room made him lose consciousness for a moment, and when he came round he was lying on the floor, his clothes soaked, with Ruth wiping his face. Her concern was unmissable, but it faded when he forced a smile.
'It was the Kiss of Frost,' he said, recalling the Fomorii spell that had almost destroyed him on the Isle of Skye. 'Mollecht had obviously left it there for me, knowing I'd undoubtedly attempt to free Marianne's spirit. To remind me of how I screwed up last time. His final malicious act.'
'Well, you showed him, didn't you?' She brushed his hair away from his face. 'How do you feel? About Marianne?'
He knew what she was saying. 'It made me realise how much I love you. The relationship I had with Marianne was strong, but it's all in the past. What I felt in there was about something different.'
'Care to elaborate?'
Church looked at the Bone Inspector, who appeared to be considering whether he should clout Church with his staff. 'I don't think this is quite the time.'
He pushed himself to his feet, pleased at the recuperative powers the Blue Fire gifted him. What lay ahead would be much, much worse.
After Veitch had torn the grille away from the stone, he stumbled out into the cold waters of the Thames. The mist and smoke that had blanketed the city for so long was drifting away, leaving a sky that was golden and pink. The rooftops of the buildings along the south bank gleamed in the early morning light. Everything hinted at a beautiful day.
The quickest way to his destination was obviously to swim; he was thankful he now felt curiously immune to the chill. He kept to the shallows where he could not be seen from the bank and let the current push him along.
The spirit energy had raised his spirits, but there was still a dark area at the back of his head where all his worst traits lay. It was there where the selfloathing multiplied at the thought that he had failed again, not just Ruth, but Church, everyone, the world, and that was such an enormous failure he couldn't keep out the seductive fantasies of suicide. And it was there, where his consuming anger generated a dull heat.
Eventually the black tower was in view. He rounded a bend in the river to see Wave Sweeper launching an attack on Balor's lair. Bizarre flashes of energy lanced out from strange weapons positioned around the deck. The flying Fomorii dived and soared like crows over food, but the Tuatha lle Danann didn't allow them the slightest opportunity to get through.
As he drew closer, an enormous shadow passed over him. He craned his neck expecting to see another Fomorii creature, and was transfixed. A Fabulous Beast glittered like a jewelled brass robot in the sunlight, wondrous and terrible at the same time. It swooped down towards the tower to release a blast of fire that atomised a host of the flying Night Walkers. More of the serpentine creatures were approaching from all directions; Veitch had never dreamed there were so many. Columns of searing flame lanced down across the capital. As he drifted in the current, he saw the financial district engulfed in a fireball, Docklands decimated, pillars of billowing black smoke shoot up from the West End. Wherever the Fomorii had made their nests, the Fabulous Beasts sought them out.
Though he would dearly have loved to have joined in the simple battle of black and white, good versus evil, he passed unseen. He entered the Tower of London at the foot of the black tower through a riverside gate that opened on to a sandy area and a flight of stone steps where so many important men and women had trod before him.
Veitch still had his dagger, but it was little enough defence against what lay ahead. As he reached the top of the steps he came across a pile of items obviously discarded by the Fomorii as worthless. Amongst the broken doors and ripped tourist guides, jewels shimmered brilliantly. It was only when he fished out a crown bearing a remarkable diamond that he realised he was looking at the Crown Jewels. He considered-for a brief moment-prising out the diamond to slip into his pocket, but then his eyes fell on an ornate sword protruding from the bottom. He dragged out the Curtana, the Coronation Sword of Mercy. It was blunt, but it would still be a better weapon than his dagger.
As he made his way through the Tower, he was almost disappointed that he didn't meet any Fomorii. He was desperate to release some of the anger burning away inside him, an unpleasant sensation that was only getting worse.
At some point he left the historic castle and found himself in the black tower that circumscribed it. There, a pitched battle was taking place, and at the heart of it were Shavi and Laura.
Veitch was so overjoyed to see his friends, he rushed in with a whoop, whirling his sword around his head. His intervention cheered them immeasurably for they had reached a point where they feared they might be overwhelmed. Vegetation tangled everywhere, but Laura hadn't learnt enough to utilise it in close quarters. Shavi used a sword hesitantly, but his hatred of violence hampered him severely.
Once Witch had hacked a Fomorii warrior into a pile of seeping chunks, the battle turned, although both Laura and Shavi were a little concerned at the glee with which he despatched his enemy.
Yet it was a short-lived victory. More and more Night Walkers began to stream in from outside. 'They're trying to force us downstairs,' Veitch said. 'That means we go up.'
It was easier for them to hold their ground as they fought while edging backwards up the steps. The Fomorii could stand only two abreast and as every one fell it made it harder for the others to clamber over the bodies.
'I hope we do not meet any more coming down,' Shavi said.
'I'm more concerned about what happens when we get to the top,' Laura replied.
