Ash (61 page)

‘Don’t worry, I won’t abuse it. I’m not made that way.’

‘Yet you drink absinthe.’

That shook him. ‘How . . .’

‘Sir Victor had your case searched before it was taken to your room.’

Ash sat back on the couch, bemusement clear in his dark blue eyes. ‘And he told you? Why?’

‘He wanted me to keep an eye on you. Maseby said you were once virtually an alcoholic.’

‘So that was it? You’ve just been keeping an eye on me?’

She hurried round the desk and sat close to him on the couch. With a gentle hand, she turned his face towards her. ‘I would never have spied on you, David. You must understand that. What happened between us was more than just attraction – there was no ulterior motive on my part.’

Ash was silent for a moment and then his body seemed to relax. He pulled her close and kissed her hard on the mouth, and she kissed him back.

When she finally pulled away she said breathlessly, ‘I love you, David.’

‘After two days?’ There was neither cynicism nor mockery in his response, only wonder. ‘You don’t know enough about me,’ he forced himself to say.

‘We both did a lot of talking earlier this morning. I don’t need to know any more to love you.’ She suddenly looked uncertain. ‘Have I been too blunt? If I have, I’m sorry. I’m just being honest.’

He nuzzled her cheek. ‘You can be as blunt as you like if what you said is true.’

‘It is. I’ve no doubts.’

‘I feel the same, Delphine.’

‘I know you do.’

‘Bloody psychologists,’ he said quietly.

They kissed again, their embrace tight.

Remembering their plight, Ash gently eased her away. ‘We’ve got things to do. Like get as far away from this place as possible.’

Her eyes had been closed in the joy of the moment, but now they snapped open, although she still acted as if in a daze.

Ash was serious. ‘I want you to go up to Lewis’s room and stay with him while I talk to Lord Edgar. Get him ready to leave and pack any medication he needs in your bag.’ He tore the strip of Modafinil in half and handed one side to her. ‘Five each, okay? Perhaps you can give one to Lewis, if it won’t react badly with any other medication he’s on.’

‘It shouldn’t, but I have to be careful. The medication he takes already is what he needs to stay balanced and to prevent any seizures.’

Ash put his strip into a pocket. ‘Okay, you’ll just have to use your judgement.’

‘I don’t know, David. It all seems so . . . so drastic. And unbelievable.’

‘Oh, you’ll believe before the night’s out. I can feel –
sense
– the pressure growing. Can’t you?’

As if on cue, the ceiling light in the consulting room suddenly flickered, then dimmed. The investigator felt the floor beneath his feet begin to tremble once more.

Delphine clutched him tightly. She looked round the room and saw the softly rendered landscapes on the walls begin to tilt. One of her framed diplomas dropped to the floor, the glass shattering.

‘Come on, we haven’t much time,’ Ash told her, pulling her to her feet.

‘Is there a staircase to the fifth?’ Ash asked as they began walking away from the front lobby.

‘Yes, off the old armoury, but we can take the lift. The newer one used by the VIPs.’

‘No.’ Ash had no desire to be trapped inside
any
other lift, no matter how grand it might be. ‘We’ll take the stairs. It’ll be safer.’

She looked at him quizzically, but followed.

As they approached the armoury, he sensed a familiar vibration coming from the room ahead.

He grabbed Delphine before she could step over the threshold. She looked at him in surprise, her eyes wide, and he pointed into the room.

‘Look at the weapons.’

She did, and gasped.

All the ancient pieces – the swords, the pikes, the axes, and more – were bristling on their well-organized installations; a low thrumming sound came from their battle-worn metal as the lethal instruments of conflict quivered on their mounts.

‘David . . . ?’ Delphine whispered.

‘It’ll be all right. I don’t think it’s strong enough to release them. Not yet.’

‘What isn’t?’

‘The dark power rising from beneath this castle.’

‘David, we can’t go in there! It isn’t safe!’

Suddenly he had a flashback to Grace, flayed in front of his eyes as he lay helpless on the ground. He was afraid for himself, but more afraid of what might happen to his new love. He would not let the forces of evil take her from him this time.

‘We have to go back,’ he shouted above the noise. ‘We’ll use the grand staircase to get up to the next floor, then double-back on ourselves.’

They turned together and, holding hands, ran back down the marbled hall, the curving staircase just ahead of them. Ash saw the big wooden entrance doors at the far end and wished he could just keep running, take Delphine away from this evil place. But he knew they had things to do first. As they took to the broad curving staircase he noticed the old guard’s seat was still unoccupied, and that the two receptionists were no longer behind the long counter.

In fact, Comraich appeared to be empty, as if Haelstrom had finally heeded his warning and evacuated the whole building.

But in his heart, David Ash knew it was not so. In fact, the castle was filling with entities presently without form, elementals with one purpose in mind.

To destroy Comraich and everyone in it.

Placid Pat finally reached the fifth-floor landing and sat awhile in the empty chair he found there to get his breath back and give the muscles in his legs a rest.
That’s what you get at my age
, he told himself,
when y’sit on a bloody chair all day and y’get no exercise. Weak legs and haemorrhoids
.

He’d been content to wallow in his own guilt for decades without conversing with the Lord, and in truth he’d been too ashamed to try. They hadn’t let him confess his crimes to the Garda, and even in the confessional box, his bishop had not forgiven him his sins, nor even ordered penance, but had merely sat behind the wooden latticework screen contemplating how to distance the young priest from the Catholic Church. The time had come for things to change.

The source of anger for Placid Pat’s woeful existence nowadays was watching defrocked Archbishop Carsely while the poor, sweet-faced Sister Thimble followed in his wake, her lips moving silently as she passed the wooden beads of her rosary through dainty fingers after each repeated prayer. Pat had no doubts at all that she was praying for the soul of the man she followed. The man who abused her.

But although it was commonly accepted among the castle’s staff by now that the relationship between the cleric and his acolyte was an unholy one, no one had prevented its continuation; no one, to his knowledge, had even tried.

Until now, for he, the once Reverend Father Patrick O’Connor, had determined to stop this disgrace to his Church, to his religion, on this very evening.

Stiffly, he rose from the chair and made his way towards the chapel. He heard voices coming from one of the fancy staterooms further along the red-carpeted passage and he made an effort to lighten his steps, already deadened by the lush carpet. He came upon the slightly open door from where the hum of voices came, accompanied by an occasional eruption of laughter: the VIP conference delegates upon whom all the staff had been instructed to make a good impression.

But what a wrong time to have them visit. Strange things were happening in the castle. What would be on the agenda at the conference that night? Would they be discussing these supernatural events? Might they even see some at first hand? Pat thought it highly likely.

For now, however, other concerns were more pressing. Placid Pat knew that carrying out God’s will by bringing an end to Archbishop Carsely’s debauchery would be a righteous retribution for his own sins.

As he crept past the door he peeked into the stateroom and glimpsed some of the men inside, standing straight and immaculate in their formal evening wear.

Let them drink their champagne or expensive brandies, let them enjoy themselves before all hell breaks loose.

Pat moved slowly through a warren of passageways and corridors until finally he reached the arched double doors that led to the castle’s chapel. He put his ear against the crack between them and listened. He could hear recorded music, a hymn that was only vaguely familiar. He thought he heard a woman’s feeble cry. With no further ado, Placid Pat pulled his Second World War Colt .32 ACP revolver from its shoulder holster, a reliable enough weapon for an old warrior who had never used it yet and would probably never use it again. He held it with the barrel pointing upwards as he pushed through the doors and stepped into the intimate chapel, crouching low, knees bent, both arms stiff and extended, hands curled round the nickel-finished grip, the pouched tip of his right index finger poised to pull the trigger.

He almost dropped to his knees when he saw the figure, a statue of the Virgin Mary, the Immaculate Mother of Jesus, looking down at ex-Archbishop Carsely and Sister Thimble from a pedestal by the side of the altar with its high, arching stained-glass window behind, the colours muddied by the darkness outside. Instead, he approached the pair boldly, heedless of the noise he was making.

The nun was facing away from him, bent over the first pew. Carsely was standing directly behind her, his hands around her waist. He glanced at the guard, took in the revolver, but didn’t stop what he was doing; if anything, the threat seemed to give him renewed vigour. Sister Thimble’s habit was pushed up above her pale rounded buttocks and she gave a tiny scream of pain as Carsely thrust himself hard into her. For a few moments more, so greedy was he for satiation he ignored the old guard, moaning in his ecstasy, perhaps the added danger increasing his perverse pleasure, and rammed himself even further into the nun, as blood began to trickle down her plump white thighs.

Pat too groaned aloud, though in despair at the pagan barbarity that was taking place before him in all its profanity and filth in the very House of God.

‘Oh, dear Mother of God . . .’ he moaned in painful anguish.

Sister Thimble, her dishevelled habit ruffled around her waist, heard his distress and slowly swung her head round towards him.

And the lascivious, lewd grin she gave the guard, her mouth filled with blood because in her own ecstasy she’d absently bitten into her lower lip, caused him to fall to his knees, the gun shaking in his hands.

The wild, excited pleasure in her eyes seemed to be inviting him to join in the fun. And when she smeared the blood around her lips with her tongue, he felt a wave of bile rise into his throat and spill onto the short centre aisle.

Ash and Delphine were both breathless by the time they’d run through the first-floor landing, passing the great oval dining room which was now spotlessly clean and free of people, past two of the castle’s five libraries and several relaxation areas, every one of them equally empty and strangely soulless, despite their sumptuousness. On the way, Ash had spotted those dense black orbs floating through the halls, either singularly or in groups, as if exploring the castle. So dense were they, so deeply black, that they appeared to absorb the light itself. A grey haze like obverse halos shimmered around their darkness as the light was drawn in.

Delphine slowed, as if fascinated by them, and Ash had to grab her hand and almost drag her along. Even with the exertion of running he could feel the cold spots as they sped through them, the chill dragged along behind like dust from a meteorite’s tail before falling away to ebb back into the infinite bleakness that was their source.

And now, trying to regain their breath and their energy, they stopped by an elegantly framed set of lift doors the colour of matt gold.

‘This . . .’ Delphine drew in another breath. ‘This lift can take us up to the fifth floor.’

‘No, I told you: we need the stairs.’ He stood for a moment, panting. ‘I think it’s time for my first “fix”. Won’t you join me?’

He took the blister pack from his pocket and popped a Modafinil tablet into his mouth; Delphine followed suit – reluctantly, it seemed to Ash – and together they hurried onwards.

Soon they reached a far less elegant section of the building. Here there was no plush carpet or grand portraiture, just a long, narrow corridor, the ceiling lights dim, though from low-wattage bulbs or the oddness of the castle’s oppressive atmosphere it was impossible to tell. They continued their journey to the rear of Comraich Castle and every time they passed beneath a ceiling light, it flared brightly, then shattered over their heads, causing them to duck before hurrying on.

When the first bulb exploded, Delphine gave a small scream of surprise, her free hand reaching up to brush thin shards of glass from her hair. But they continued on, each lamp flaring, then detonating with the sharpness of a gunshot, leaving the corridor behind them in darkness.

‘Where to now?’ he asked as they reached the end of the corridor.

He saw that Delphine was shaking, visibly trying to keep herself under control. She pointed a trembling finger. ‘The tower. We’ve reached a corner tower. This is the staircase used by maids and porters when they’re working this side of the building. At the very top is Lewis’s apartment.’ She was taking small gasps of air.

‘You okay?’ He slipped a hand behind her neck, his fingers reaching through her lush black hair.

She nodded vigorously, swept into his embrace for a moment, and said, ‘Let’s – let’s go on. Lewis will be frightened on his own tonight.’

The lights on the stairs had dimmed almost to nothing, so Ash brought out the Maglite. ‘Take this,’ he told her. ‘You lead the way.’

As they climbed they passed tall vertical slits through which archers used to shoot their arrows. Ash peered out of one to see the calm sea sheeted in silver from the full and now magically bright moonlight.
So much for Frankenstein and his pal Dracula, thunderstorms with boiling clouds and forked lightning
, he thought. The pill was obviously kicking in.