Darkest Hour (Age of Misrule, Book 2) (15 page)

“What are you talking about, girl? Words can’t hurt anyone! Who’s listening?” The farmer’s face was flushed with anger. “This is what’s important: the farm’s going broke and we’ll all be in the poorhouse by the end of summer if something’s not done!”

His rage was born of desperation and tension bottled up for too long, and he probably would have carried on for several more minutes if the woman hadn’t suddenly jumped to her feet and marched to the toilet.

The strained atmosphere ebbed over the next few minutes as Church drifted again. In that dreamy state, he found himself faced with an image of Ruth pleading with him for help in a scene disturbingly reminiscent of when the spirit of Marianne had begged him to avenge her death. His anxiety knotted: so much pressure being heaped on his shoulders, so much expectation he was afraid he couldn’t live up to. And then he looked into Ruth’s face and all the emotions he had tried to repress came rushing to the surface. He had tried to pretend she hadn’t suffered, wasn’t dead, butA piercing scream echoed through the carriage. All five of them jumped to their feet as one, ready for any threat, hearts pounding, bodies poised for fight or flight. The woman had returned from the toilets and was standing opposite her father, who had his back to them; her face was frozen in an expression of extreme shock.

Shavi was the first to her, grabbing her shoulders to calm her. She was shaking her head from side-to-side, oblivious to him, her eyes fixed so firmly on her father Shavi was forced to turn to follow her gaze. The old man was no longer there; or rather, his clothes and his briefcase were there, but his body had been replaced by straw; it tufted from the sleeves, dropped from the trouser legs to fill the shoes, and sprouted from his collar into a hideous parody of a human head, like an enormous corn dolly.

“Dad!” the woman croaked.

Veitch reached out to prod the shoulder curiously and the mannequin crumpled into a pile of clothes and a heap of straw. This set the woman off in another bout of screaming.

“What happened?” Laura asked with a horrible fascination.

While Shavi led the woman to the other end of the carriage where he attempted to calm her, Tom knelt down to examine the remains. “You heard the things he was saying,” he said.

“I don’t get it,” Laura replied. “So he was a crotchety old git like you-“

“In the old days, the people who worked the land were terrified of saying anything which might offend the fairies, the nature spirits, whatever,” Tom snapped. “They even had a host of euphemisms like the Little Folk or the Fair Folk in case the powers took offence at their name.”

“And now they’re back …” Veitch began without continuing.

“They always were a prideful race,” Tom said. “They demanded respect from all those they considered as lesser.”

“But all he said was …” Laura caught herself before she repeated the farmer’s words. She glanced back at the sobbing daughter. “Poor bitch. At least the old man will be able to keep the crows off the fields.”

“Oh, stop it!” Church said sharply. He looked at the broken expression on the daughter’s face and read her future in an instant; he felt a deep pang of pity.

“It simply shows the contempt in which they hold us,” Tom noted. “We need to be kept in our place.”

Veitch looked round suddenly. “Wasn’t there someone else in here?”

“That’s right. There were three other passengers.” Church looked to the seats where the third traveller had been. “I don’t remember him getting up. No one got off.”

“That might have been one of them.” Tom hurried to the adjoining door to peer into the next carriage. It was empty. “Now they are back, I presume they will be moving among us, seeing how things have changed.”

As if in answer to his words they heard a sudden scrabbling on the roof of the carriage, then a sound like laughter and footsteps disappearing to the far end. Veitch ran after it and pressed his face up close to the window in an attempt to peer behind, but all he saw was a large, oddly shaped shadow cast on the cutting. It separated from the train, rose up and, a second later, was gone.

Soon after, the train trundled slowly through the regimented green lawns and blooming flowers of Princes Street Gardens into Waverley Station, the volcanic ridge topped by the imposing stone bulk of Edinburgh Castle rising high above them. The daughter was bordering on hysteria by the time Shavi led her out on to the platform in search of a guard, who promptly took her off to the medical centre for treatment. There were few travellers around for such a large station, but that only made the small pockets of police more obvious; at the furthest reaches of the platforms where they would be unobtrusive to the majority of travellers, armed troops patrolled.

“This is creepy,” Laura hissed. “It’s like Istanbul or something.”

Paranoia crept over them when some of the police started looking intently in their direction, and they hastily collected up their bags and moved off. “Do you think that bastard in Callander radioed through our descriptions?” Veitch said under his breath.

“Just another worry to add to the list,” Church replied darkly.

They argued briefly about conserving their cash-a policy favoured by Church and Shavi-but eventually agreed credit cards would probably be useless within a short time and so opted to live in style while they stayed in the city. It was Laura who won the argument when she said, “Might as well make the most of it. We may not get the chance again.”

For accommodation, they selected the Balmoral, an opulent Edwardian pile that loomed over Waverley Station at the eastern end of the bustling main drag of Princes Street. They all laughed at the comically shocked expression on Veitch’s face when he first walked into the palatial marble reception, but although he slipped to the back, where he furtively eyed the smartly uniformed staff as if they were about to throw him out, he was soon making the most of the luxurious surroundings when they were shown to their rooms with views of the castle and the Old Town.

Despite all that was happening, at first glance the city seemed virtually unaffected; cars still chugged bumper-to-bumper through the centre, people took their lunch in the sun in Princes Street Gardens and the shops and bars of the New Town seemed to be doing a brisk trade.

But as they took a stroll towards the Old Town, they could see it was different. It was almost as if the people had taken a conscious decision to avoid its long shadows and gloomy stone buildings, driven out by an oppressive sense of old times. The pubs, restaurants and shops still remained open, but the crowds that moved among them were thin; they always kept to the sunny side of the street, expressions furtive, shoulders bowed by invisible weights.

It was Shavi who characterised it the best as he stood on the Esplanade and looked from the jumbled rooftops of the Old Town to the clean lines and Georgian crescents of the new: it was a city split in two, Jekyll and Hyde, light and dark, night and day.

“Another sign of the duality that seems to be infusing everything in this new age of metaphor and symbolism.” The wind whipped Shavi’s long hair around his face as he scanned the area.

Laura pressed her sunglasses up the bridge of her nose. “At least we know which side we’ll be drinking in tonight.”

Tom shook his head. “Look at the New Town-it hasn’t been affected yet. This seems to be the centre of change. If we want to learn anything, we have to come here.”

Laura scowled at him. “You always know how to bring things down, you old git.”

They ate dinner in the hotel’s elegant dining room at a table far from the few other residents. But despite the high quality of the food, they only picked at their meal; after Ruth’s disappearance, an air of hopelessness had started to congeal around them, growing stronger with each passing hour.

It was Veitch who finally gave voice to the questions that troubled them all. “What’s the plan? Try to find Ruth or work out why we’re supposed to be here?”

All eyes turned to Church, but he kept his gaze fixed on the remnants of his venison. “We can’t waste time looking for Ruth.” His words sounded harsher than he intended, but it was impossible to soften them. “We don’t know if she’s still alive. And if she is, we can’t even be sure she’s here in the city. A hunch about the direction of the city just isn’t enough.”

“What are you saying? That we just forget about her?” Veitch’s face grew colder.

“Of course I don’t want to forget about her, but we’ve only got a few short weeks to prevent the Fomorii bringing Balor back and that time will go quickly, believe me. Christ, we’ve got no idea how we’re going to start. The way I see it, it’s our responsibility. We’re the only people who might stand a chance of succeeding, and a slim one at that. If we get distracted, the whole of the world goes to hell. Could you live with that?”

“You know what? Right now I don’t really care about that.” For a second Veitch looked like he was going to cry.

“It’s heartless, but those are the kind of choices we’re being forced to make.” Church kept his face impassive because he knew if he allowed vent to even the slightest fraction of the emotion he was feeling, he wouldn’t be able to maintain the strength they expected of him. Ever since Ruth had disappeared he’d been tearing himself apart about what they should do, but on cold reflection he knew where his responsibilities lay, whatever that did to him, however much the others grew to hate him for it.

“So that’s it? She’s gone? Just like that?” Veitch looked around the others for support. They said nothing, but the conflicting emotions struggled just behind their features. Veitch shook his head slowly. “Fuck it.”

“Ryan-” Church began.

“What is it? She means nothing-“

“Of course she doesn’t mean nothing.” The steel in Church’s voice brought Veitch up sharp. “And I don’t believe this is the end of it. Whatever got to her isn’t going to leave us alone. And when he or it or whatever it is comes back we’re going to find out what happened to her before we gut the bastard.”

The unrestrained venom took the others aback. Laura pushed the vegetables around her plate with her fork while Tom tapped out a beat with his spoon.

Shavi leaned forward and broke the silence diplomatically. “Then what is our next step?”

Tom answered. “The guidance offered to us specifically mentioned the Well of Fire. Historically it was the most abundant and powerful source of the earth energy. Some say it even provides a direct channel with the source of the energy, whatever or wherever that might be. But with the gradual break between land and people it has lain dormant for a long time.”

Church nodded. “We’re supposed to be waking the sleeping king … arousing the wounded land … whichever metaphor you want. This fits the pattern. How do we get to it?”

Tom shrugged. “The entrance lies somewhere on Arthur’s Seat, that big pile of rock at the bottom of the Royal Mile, in the middle of Holyrood Park-“

“But the guidebook says the name has nothing to do with Arthur,” Church interjected. “Not like all the other places where the blue fire is strong. Historians think it’s just a corruption of Archer’s Seat.”

“Which shows how much they know.” Tom removed his spectacles and polished them with the tablecloth.

“Then we head up there.” Church glanced through the window at the late afternoon sun. “Tomorrow, now. And tonight-“

“Tonight,” Tom continued, “we visit the Old Town.”

The warm evening was filled with the oddly comforting aromas of the modern age: heated traffic fumes, food cooking in restaurants downwind, burnt iron and hot grease rising from the train tracks that cut through the city. Girls in skimpy summer clothes and young men in T-shirts and jeans lounged in the late sunlight outside the Royal Scottish Academy on the Mound. There was an air of spring optimism that made it almost impossible to believe that anything had changed.

But as the companions wound their way up Ramsay Lane into the Old Town, the shadows grew longer and an unseasonal chill hung in the air despite the heat of the day. The area centred on the Royal Mile was the oldest part of the city. In the Middle Ages it had been hemmed in by city walls, forcing the housing to be built higher and higher; they were crammed too close together, blocking out the sky, so that a claustrophobic anxiety seemed to gather among them. Tom, who had obviously been in the city before, led them down Lawnmarket to one of the numerous, shadowy closes that lined the Royal Mile. At the end was an eighteenth-century courtyard and the jolly judge pub. They decided it was as good a place as any to discuss their plans.