In the cavernous warehouse, the fire provided little warmth, particularly at night when the chill radiated up out of the concrete floor. For some reason she felt the cold more than she ever had.
She pulled the packing crate closer so she was almost on top of the flames and rubbed her hands together. She found it amazing she still hadn't given in to despair. The Fomorii now appeared to be everywhere in the city. They'd climbed up into the roof of the building to peer through broken slates across the capital. There were swarming black shapes as far as the eye could see. The sheer volume was sickening, drawing on the basic human revulsion for anything insectile. At times they would disappear to some lair, possibly beneath the ground, in an eerie, silent exodus. The Bone Inspector had suggested fleeing through the deserted streets at that time, but the beasts were never gone for long and the thought of being trapped as they swarmed out of the sewers filled Laura with dread.
In the firelight, her skin looked even greener. Earlier she had cut her wrist on a rusty nail. The blood-green blood-had flowed freely for a second before performing a startling u-turn on the back of her hand, returning to the wound, where it proceeded to seal it as if it had never been there.
The Bone Inspector had stared in amazement, but nothing shocked her any more. She'd died and come back; after that anything paled into insignificance.
She was a freak in a world that no longer made any sense. What was the point in considering it for even an instant? Instead, her thoughts were for the others: Church, of course, Shavi, Ruth, Tom, even Veitch. She missed them in a way she never thought she'd miss anyone. More than anything, she wanted to be sitting round a roaring campfire in the cold night, laughing, teasing, mocking; the company of good friends made life right.
The army of Fomorii on every side told her it would probably never happen. Samhain was coming up hard, the world was going to hell, and they were scattered God knows where.
She wondered what was to become of her; what was to become of all of them.
The rope bit roughly into Church's wrists and his joints ached from having his arms dragged so tightly behind him. He'd been in this position before, looking up at a sneering Callow pacing maniacally and triumphantly back and forth, and it had made him sick to his stomach then; of course, on that occasion Callow hadn't looked like someone had injected printer's ink into his veins. Now his nightmarish appearance made the situation even worse, as if Church had found his way into a Goya painting.
The Malignos kept to the shadows-they'd extinguished several torches to feel more comfortable-and the Fomorii were now nowhere to be seen. Baccharus was next to him, bound just as tightly, but the rest of the room's occupants had been dragged somewhere else, out of sight, possibly out of the chamber.
It was obvious what his own eventual fate would be, but Callow was determined to get some kind of payback for the suffering that had been heaped upon him; agonies which he blamed on Church and the others, but which had come only from his own will.
'These are the ways we live our life,' Callow was saying, not making much sense any more. 'In fear of this and in fear of that, never quite knowing the wherewithal and the whywithal. It makes us broken, like dogs in the yard. But you wouldn't know about that, would you?' He turned and spat in Church's direction, the lamps of his lidless eyes bright and terrible.
'Take a stress pill, Callow.' It was childish, but Church couldn't resist it, even knowing the reaction he would get.
Callow hovered for a long moment, then threw himself forward wildly to swing a vicious kick into Church's gut, as if he were planting a football the length of the pitch. Church snapped shut, retching, before two of the Malignos ran forward to haul him back up. The pain was so acute he cursed his stupidity, fearing something had ruptured and his stomach was now filling up with blood.
'Violence is unnecessary,' Baccharus interjected gently. 'You fail to see we have a common enemy.'
'Oh, you're so superior,' Callow mocked in a pathetic singsong voice. 'I have no friends, I have no enemies. That makes it easy to understand how things work. No surprises.' He bent down until his face was inches from Church's, the rotten meat reek of his breath blooming, his features hideously distorted by the tear blur in Church's eyes. 'You and your filthy little followers destroyed everything. I had plans for my life. I had a way out of the misery of my existence. Unlike you and your favoured brood, there have been no opportunities in my life. No pleasant acts of chance that lead me on to the sunlit uplands. It has been hard toil and suffering. And when I found a way out of that, you spoiled it for me.'
'Quisling,' Church said through gritted teeth. 'You tried to sell out all of humanity just to get some grubby little advantage for yourself.'
'You say that like it's a bad thing.' Callow jumped back, his eyes rolling like a madman. 'Life is brutal and short and we need to take what we can to make ourselves comfortable before the jaws of night close around us forever.'
'Fine. As long as no one else gets hurt in the process.'
'Oh, why qualify it? Will it matter you made a few people cry when the worms are crawling in and the worms are crawling out?'
'Look at yourself, Callow. Where's your self-analysis?' The sharp pain had turned to a dull throbbing. 'Has that philosophy worked for you? At all?'
'There is only hope,' Baccharus interjected, 'if you look beyond your petty concerns, to the needs of your fellow Fragile Creatures, to the needs of all things of existence. Everything is-'
'You should not preach goodwill to your fellow man.' Callow danced around him, but couldn't bring himself to strike out.
'So you've teemed up with those things now?' Church nodded towards the Malignos. 'Are they the only ones left who'll have you?'
'The Malignos recognise the opportunities for personal gain in any situation. They always loved their hoards of gold. And their human flesh, of course.'
'But you're helping the Fomorii again, after all they've done to you!'
'I may not be able to forgive, dear boy, but I am incisive enough not to antagonise the eventual winners.'
Church snorted bitter laughter. 'You think they're going to take over like any other invader? They're going to wipe out everything, you mad bastard! They're not interested in gold, or any other creature comforts.' He laughed again at the stupid pun. 'They're driven by the need to eradicate all of existence. They're a force of nature. A hurricane-'
'Oh, well, you've won me over. Of course I'll help you,' Callow mocked.
He wandered over to converse with the Malignos. Church seized the opportunity to talk to Baccharus. 'How did the Fomorii manage to get on board the ship without anyone knowing? I thought it was completely under Manannan's control?'
'The power of the Heart of Shadows is growing. The Night Walkers can achieve things they never would have been able to do before.'
'Do you think this might actually motivate your people to do something about it?' Church asked acidly.
'It may already be too late for that.'
'What do you mean?'
'If the Night Walkers can strike at the heart of Wave Sweeper, they can strike anywhere. They might have already launched their assault on the Court of High Regard.'
'If only you'd done something before.' Church caught the negativity before it spread. 'The first thing we have to do is get out of here.' He looked over at Callow, who was performing a mad little dance around the Malignos. 'Before that bastard slits my throat. Or worse.'
'Then you are fortunate to have friends in low places.'
The voice was barely audible, but Church recognised it instantly. It felt as if a mouse was scurrying around his hands. Marik Bocat was hard at work severing his bonds with a tiny implement that occasionally pricked his flesh. A surge of hope rose in his chest, but he kept it from reaching his face.
After a few moments, Callow returned, loping like a wolf. 'The arrangements have been made.' His eyes slithered from side to side while he rubbed his hands oleaginously. 'Once this filthy little skiff has fallen, then it's the turn of your happy little palace of dreams.'
Church felt Baccharus stiffen beside him at the news that the Fomorii had not yet moved on the High Court of the Tuatha De Danann. Still hope. Always hope. 'What now, Callow?' he said. 'Is this where you get your
