Ghosts of War (7 page)

He wondered sometimes what it was that had caused him to fracture, to wake up one day and decide that the life he was living was nothing but a trivial fantasy, that everything that comprised Gabriel Cross was a lie. That first time, just a few months ago, when he had donned the black suit and trench coat and ventured out into the city had been so liberating, so
real.

It wasn't power that attracted him, nor the desire to inflict or receive violence. He'd seen enough of that in his short time to last a lifetime. No, it was something else entirely. Something to do with being truthful, with letting the world see everything that those strange floating orbs had once seen, all those years ago in the skies above France. Something to do with accessing that part of his mind he had once closed off and sealed away, swearing he would never reveal it again, not even to himself. Something to do with revealing himself, exposing the real man, the man he had buried in France over a decade earlier. And it was also something to do with the city.

He couldn't bear to watch the city slide into turmoil and corruption without doing something to try to prevent it. Protecting the city gave him a purpose, a reason to be alive. When he was the Ghost, he could
feel
again. The numbness was banished, just for those few hours.

Gabriel stepped out of the shower, dripping all over the bathroom floor. For a few moments he considered going back to bed. It was still early, and he'd been late getting back from the city. But then the scent of cooking eggs and bacon stirred his stomach, and he reached for a towel.

Perhaps he needed the party back? Perhaps that was it. If he surrounded himself with people again, he might feel more alive. But those people couldn't bring back Celeste. Hers was the only face he looked for in the crowds.

At Christmas, the last time he'd thrown open his doors for the interlopers, he had thought for a moment he had seen her there, standing in the doorway of the drawing room, dressed in a glossy red dress that matched her hair, beaming at him, an unfiltered cigarette clutched between the fingers of her right hand.

When he had looked again, she had gone, and in her place stood another of those mindless girls who swished around in their party frocks, searching for oblivion, wishing only for someone to come and take them and fuck them and help them drink until they were sick. Only then would they feel able to tell their friends they'd had a “swinging time” at the party, that the other girls were missing out and that they “really must come along next time, there's a heated pool, you know! Be sure to bring a costume.”

Gabriel hadn't been able to look the woman in the eye.

As he dressed, pulling on his usual black suit and white shirt, leaving it open at the collar, Gabriel remembered Ginny.

What had she been doing here, stretched out on his bed when he'd returned from the city? How had she known he would come here after all these weeks?

In her way, Ginny was as damaged as he was. That much had become clear the other day, after the boxing match, when he'd taken her for a drink. It had always been there, of course, but he'd never thought to ask, never even tried to understand her. As far as he'd been concerned, Ginny was just another part of the lie that was Gabriel's life, along with the parties and the fast cars and the booze.

At the time he hadn't seen the truth, hadn't realized what he could have had. Only later had that realization come, and by then it was already too late.

Ginny had tried to know him once, to truly
know
him. Foolishly, he had locked her out, always keeping her at arm's length. She had stuck with him for some months, but after a while, worn down by the constant barriers, she had given up. Whether she'd decided she would never be able to get close to him, or that there was, in fact, nothing beneath that shiny veneer of Gabriel Cross, he didn't know. Whatever the case—one way or another he had lost her because he hadn't allowed her to get close.

Now, though, she was back. Had she seen something different in him, this time? Had he given her a glimmer of hope? He wasn't sure that he wanted that. He certainly didn't want her pity. Yet something inside him wanted her to know he'd been wrong, all those years ago. That much was clear to him: this time there would be no secrets. No lies.

She was still drinking. After the match the other day she'd dragged him to a speakeasy around the corner, a sleazy joint with sticky floors beneath a flower shop, where the barman knew her and had cracked open a bottle before opening time so she could have a drink. She'd polished off nearly a full bottle of gin, drinking it straight over ice, and Gabriel had had to practically manhandle her back to her rented apartment at three in the afternoon.

Now, he could hear her voice drifting up the stairs, chattering away to Henry as he fixed her breakfast. He was probably grateful of the company. He'd been left out here, looking after the old house, while Gabriel had been living—hiding—in the city. Gabriel had offered to take Henry with him, of course, but the butler was having none of it, preferring to keep to his routines, perhaps knowing that it was only a matter of time before Gabriel deemed it appropriate to return.

Of course, Henry didn't know anything about what had really happened before Christmas, but he knew about Celeste, had even helped Gabriel to bury her in the family mausoleum when he'd proved unable to locate any records of her family.

Henry was a rock, and more than anyone he'd understood the need to give Gabriel space, to allow him to mourn in his own way.

Gabriel didn't know what had made him return to Long Island last night. He'd haunted the rooftops of the city for hours, searching for any sign of the raptors, but in the end had been disappointed. He'd stopped a petty thief from getting away with a shopkeeper's takings around midnight, but other than that the streets had seemed unusually quiet. He supposed Commissioner Montague's advice to remain indoors must have been taken to heart.

Still, he was here now, and he wasn't about to miss out on one of Henry's famous breakfasts. He descended the stairs, listening to the banter coming from the breakfast room. It sounded like Ginny was in good spirits, and Henry was clearly taken with her, just as he had been three years ago when she'd been around all the time, the life and soul of the party.

Gabriel crossed the hall and then, keen not to make too much of an entrance, walked straight into the breakfast room and dropped into a chair at the table, opposite Ginny. “I don't suppose there're any more of those eggs going spare, Henry?” He beamed up at his old friend, who was standing just to the left of Ginny, dressed in his usual immaculate black suit. “And perhaps a side of toast?”

Henry turned to stare at him, a startled expression on his old, careworn face. This soon gave way to a warm smile, however, and he inclined his head in acknowledgment. “Good morning, sir. I'd be only too pleased to rustle something up.” He offered Ginny a short, polite bow and then turned and strode off in the direction of the kitchen. Clearly, Gabriel thought, Henry hadn't realized that he'd slipped in during the early hours, and hadn't seen the car parked around the back.

He turned to Ginny, who was leaning back in her chair, a wide grin on her face. She looked perfectly groomed, even for this time in the morning. Her hair was set in a smart bob, and she peered out at him from beneath a severe, but not unattractive, fringe. She was wearing a pink dress that revealed the tops of her arms. It wasn't the same dress she'd been sleeping in the previous night when he'd discovered her on his bed, so, he realized, she must have brought a bag. Sly old Henry, inviting her to spend the night. Gabriel wondered what she'd told him. She was still grinning. “What is it? Why are you grinning like that?”

Ginny emitted a heartfelt laugh and reached for the bloody mary on the table. It was her second of the day—he could tell by the empty glass that Henry had forgotten to clear away in his haste. “I knew it!” she exclaimed, taking a long swig of the drink. “I just knew you'd come back to the house last night!”

Gabriel frowned. Was he really that predictable?

“Why didn't you wake me?” she asked, as if she already knew the answer and was wondering what he would say. She placed her drink back on the table and leaned forward, listening intently.

“I found you asleep on my bed. So I did the gentlemanly thing and slept in the guest room.”

Ginny laughed again, and her blue eyes flashed with amusement. “Oh, Gabriel,” her shoulders slumped in mock disappointment, “I didn't want you to be a gentleman.”

Gabriel felt himself flush red. He didn't know quite what to say. Thankfully, Ginny stepped in and saved him. “So, how about it?”

“How about what?” For a moment he wondered if she was getting at…

“A party, of course! Just like the old times. You know, everyone drunk and dancing and raising cahoots. It'll be fun! What d'ya say?” She seemed so excited by the idea that he didn't have the heart to say no. And, besides, he was relieved the subject had moved on from their bedroom arrangements.

“All right, Ginny. We'll have a party. Tonight, if you like. But first—you still haven't told me why you came back.” His head was spinning with all the questions he wanted to ask her, but this seemed like the most important place to start.

Ginny snatched up her bloody mary. “Well…I…” She was saved by the reappearance of Henry, who shuffled into the room bearing two silver platters, each containing a plate heaped with eggs, bacon, and slices of toast.

“Henry!” Ginny almost shouted, the relief evident in her voice.

“We're going to have a party! Tonight, right here at the house. Isn't that wonderful?”

Henry issued a heartfelt sigh. “Are we indeed, Miss Gray.” He caught Gabriel's eye, a weary expression on his face. But Gabriel could tell he was secretly delighted. The house was going to be full of people again, buzzing with life. Henry thrived on that. For all his complaints, all the work it created, he loved it when the house was full of people. Perhaps, thought Gabriel, the party was what Henry needed, too. Perhaps it was what they all needed.

“Shall I make the necessary arrangements then, sir?” Henry asked, carefully placing the silver tray down before Gabriel.

Gabriel nodded. “I think it would be rather a shame to disappoint Miss Gray, Henry, don't you?”

Henry raised an eyebrow at this. “And may I be so bold as to enquire, sir—are you planning to stay?”

Gabriel speared a forkful of bacon. “I rather think I am, Henry, yes.”

T
he creature in the pit was hungry. That much was clear from the way it was thrashing about, slamming its proboscis against the walls and snapping its many jaws in frustration.

Abraham hated the noises it made when it did that. Sooner or later he'd have to teach it a lesson. If he'd had a more ready supply of the solution he used to control it, slowly withering its tentacled limbs to keep it in check, he'd have done so already. As it was, he'd have to put up with the noise for a while longer, at least until he'd finished making the necessary alterations to his leg. Then he'd be able to give it something to eat.

Abraham was sitting at the back of his makeshift workshop down by the docks, converted from an old boat-builder's hangar. It was cold, drafty, and damp, but, Abraham had to admit, his patrons had provided him with everything he needed. For a man in his position, he lived a life of relative comfort. And besides, he was surrounded by his many pets.

Currently, he had his leg up on the workbench before him, peering at it through a large magnifying lens strapped to his head. He'd detached the mechanical limb in order to repair one of the servos in the knee joint, and for the last hour had been having trouble getting the new components to work. He cursed loudly when, after introducing a slight electrical charge, the limb began to spasm, as if operating under its own free will. Nuts and bolts scattered to the floor all around him as Abraham fought to keep the crazed limb under control. After a moment, the spasm subsided. He set about making another adjustment with his screwdriver.

Abraham Took was a leper. This was evident to anyone who saw him from less than a few feet away: his face was blemished by unsightly lesions that had caused his flesh to swell and bloat, leaving him with a permanent, heavy frown and the gnarled, withered look of a man twice his age. However, what people tended to notice first upon encountering Abraham Took was the fact that he was now considerably more machine than he was man.

Abraham Took had spent the last three years slowly, steadily, rebuilding himself. This, in part, was a result of his progressive disease, rather than a simple fashion or fetish with mechanization. It had started with the growing numbness in his left hand as the disease took hold of the appendage, effectively rendering the entire arm useless to him, preventing him from carrying on with his work. For weeks Abraham had struggled on, carrying the limb around like a dead, useless weight, unable even to use it to help him eat, or to hold open doors. Then, one day, whilst assembling the components of one of his raptors, he had struck upon the idea of replacing the limb altogether.

It had seemed like a radical idea at the time, but his work fusing human bone to the metal skeletons of his pets had meant he already had an idea of how to go about achieving his aim. And it gave him hope. The disease was slowly stealing his identity, smothering him, hiding him away inside a body that refused to behave as it was told. This was how he could fight back. This was his means of stealing victory from the arms of defeat.

Abraham had spent the next week constructing the new limb, improving on his older designs, adding further articulation and precision control, fashioning the hand and fingers to be as close an approximation to the original limb as possible.

It had only occurred to him later that he could actually
improve
on the original human form. At first, he had tried only to emulate it.

The new limb had been magnificent, a triumph of microengineering, and the day after its completion he had pumped his shoulder full of local anesthetic and flayed open the diseased arm, fixing it in a vise and using his good hand to saw through the bone. He'd tied off the artery as quickly as possible, still spilling a tremendous amount of blood on his workshop floor. Then he'd slowly deconstructed the appendage, freeing tendons and hacking away necrotic tissue. After he had finished he had cauterized the exposed flesh of the stump. Then, without any further ado, he had set about attaching the new mechanical arm, fusing the bone to the brass and attaching the tendons. It had taken a number of attempts to get it right, and he'd been forced to sleeve the arm in brass plating to protect the exposed tendons, packing the new limb full of moisturizing jelly to stop them from drying out.

Ten hours later, however, tired but triumphant, Abraham Took had regained the use of his limb.

That had only been the start. Abraham hadn't been able to stop tinkering, making constant improvements to his design. In the end he'd replaced the tendons entirely with a less perishable material, disposing with the need for any organic matter whatsoever.

Next had been his left leg, then his right, and finally parts of his chest and stomach. All of them had been rebuilt, redefined, mechanized as the disease progressed.

It wasn't that he wanted to live forever, that he was attempting to extend his life indefinitely—not at all. It was simply that he wanted to beat the disease. He couldn't let it win, couldn't let it smother him and change him and keep him from his work. So he had continued, altering himself, shedding his soft, diseased body in favor of the new brass components he constructed in his workshop.

Of course, the new appendages were not without their faults, and now, sitting in his workshop trying to reconnect his leg, flustered by the constant shrieking of the creature in the pit, Abraham could almost wish he'd never started. But he knew that was only frustration talking. The mechanization had given him a new lease on life, helping him to live with his disease, and he had learned a few things in the process, things he'd been able to use to make improvements to his pets, the raptors.

He glanced up at them now, watching them scrabbling around among the rafters of the warehouse. They were beautiful. His finest creations. They looked down on him from the shadows, chittering and clicking, and he thought he could see awe in their piercing red eyes. He was their god, their creator. He had given them form and breathed life into them, constructing their bodies from so much lifeless scrap. He was their master, and they obeyed him explicitly.

There were nine of the raptors, plus the two he had sent out into the city and the two he had temporarily decommissioned for repair. Thirteen in all; the perfect quorum. He'd made another six for the senator, of course, but he tended not to think of those orphaned beasts as part of the family.

Abraham had been shocked to find one of them had returned damaged the previous night, its wing torn to ragged shreds by some kind of projectile weapon, but he had patched it up that morning, flaying some fresh skin from one of the corpses and stretching it over the skeletal wing to form a membrane. Within an hour it had been as good as new. He didn't yet know who was responsible for hurting one of his pets, but he intended to find out. When he did, he would make them pay.

Abraham placed the cupped end of his mechanical leg over the fleshy stump of his thigh and gave it a sharp twist. He grunted in satisfaction as it snapped into place. He wiggled the brass digits experimentally to ensure it was working. Then, rising from his chair, his metal feet scraping on the concrete, he turned to survey his work.

The warehouse was cluttered with all manner of bizarre machinery. Electrical components lay strewn across the floor or heaped against the walls. Iron girders were stacked neatly to one side, and electric flood lamps flickered and hummed, illuminating the entire scene in brilliant white light. Rising out of this sea of mechanical detritus were the twin spurs of a great machine, curving like the tusks of some enormous land mammal to form an archway, a doorway, a portal. These spurs were at least twenty feet high, and each was precisely engraved with an array of arcane symbols and ancient pictograms. It had taken Abraham months to etch those markings, carefully tracing the outlines from grainy photographs and line drawings in long-forgotten history books, studiously deciphering their ancient occult significance. Accuracy had been tantamount; any deviation and the machine would fail to work. But Abraham had been careful, and he had not failed.

This, Abraham mused, was his life's work. It was almost complete, almost ready to install in the vessel that waited in the neighboring hangar, ready for its long journey across the ocean. He knew that it worked—the creature in the pit was evidence enough of that. Yet there were more tests still to be run, and before it could be put to use, his raptors had to do their work.

The creature in the pit was still flailing about and screeching, desperate for sustenance. He walked over to it now, looking down over the edge of the hole.

The original purpose of the pit had been to enable the shipbuilders to access the undersides of their vessels, to repair the hulls while the ships were out of the water. But Abraham had found a much better use for it. He'd used it to incarcerate an alien.

The creature was like nothing he had ever imagined, not even in his wildest dreams. It was huge. Its form approximated that of a giant squid, but it was a thousand times more bizarre than anything born of the physical world. The hulking mass of its body was a globular sphere of translucent, glistening flesh, with one large, cyclopean eye at its epicenter. That eye stared up at him now, a sphere of bright, glowing amber, burning with hatred and menace. It had twelve ropy tentacles that served as limbs, formed from the same thick, translucent flesh as its body. Each one terminated in a snapping mouth, lined with razor-sharp teeth, which the creature used to burrow into its prey, extracting the blood that gave it sustenance.

What was more, Abraham had come to realize, it had a very particular taste for human blood.

He looked down at it and sneered. This thing, this alien, had been dragged through his portal from its own dimension. It wasn't really an alien at all, not in the truest sense—it hadn't originated on another world. Rather, it belonged to a dimension of time and space that functioned alongside the one inhabited by the human race, in parallel to it.

These were the creatures that inhabited the nightmares of men, the ghosts on the other side of time. These were the creatures that had known of men since the first primates had dropped down from the trees, that had already been ancient when the dinosaurs had roamed the earth.

This creature and its brethren shared the universe—and the planet—with humanity. Yet the two dimensions were out of sync with one another, only rarely coming into contact. And now Abraham had one of them prisoner in his workshop, by virtue of his creation, his machine that collapsed those dimensions together, creating a gateway between worlds, a doorway into another place.

At first, Abraham had feared the creature, feared everything it represented, feared that it might find the strength to haul itself out of the pit and consume him. The solution he'd developed, however, derived from a sample of blood that he knew to be anathema to the creature, had worked to control it.

He'd perhaps been a little overzealous in his application of the poison at first, accidentally rendering one of its tentacles dead. This had taught the creature a lesson, though, and now Abraham was a little more conservative with its use, applying it only when it was required to force the beast into submission. Consequently, the creature was pockmarked all over its body with patches of decaying, necrotic tissue, much like Abraham himself.

Now, however, Abraham needed more of the solution. He barely had enough to keep the creature in check, and with mounting pressure from his patrons to have the machine fully operational, he'd had to increase the frequency of his raptors' trips to the city. He'd tested over a hundred people now, probably more, and not one of them had resulted in a positive match for the blood type he was searching for. Nevertheless, the rejects had served as a ready food supply for the creature, as exemplified by the random assortment of human bones and articles of discarded clothing that surrounded the thing at the bottom of the pit.

The creature had grown still as it regarded him. Its tentacles curled and writhed, but no longer thrashed against the walls of the pit.
Good
, Abraham thought. It was finally learning respect. He'd reward it with some food.

Abraham circled the large hole, his metal feet clopping as he walked. He approached the far wall of the warehouse, where three people—a young man and two women—were chained to iron stakes in the ground. He stood over them, trying to decide which of them to throw to the creature first. It had to be the man. He'd proved the most difficult when Abraham had sliced open his arm to test his precious blood, struggling and kicking and trying to break free. Abraham had been forced to employ the raptors to hold him still while he'd worked.

The man was cowering now, however, bound and gagged, a pitiful sight on the warehouse floor. Abraham smiled. He enjoyed the power he commanded over these people. He could choose whether they lived or died. Today, he chose that this man would die.

Abraham hauled the man to his feet, slapping him hard across the face with his mechanical arm to warn him that any insubordination would not be tolerated. The man gave a muffled cry from behind his gag as his cheek split open with the impact. Abraham carefully unclipped the man's wrists from the iron cuffs that bound him to the stake. His wrists were still bound together with twine, as were his ankles, making it impossible for him to flee. If he tried anything, Abraham knew his raptors would make short shrift of him, anyway.

Abraham gave him a short, sharp shove toward the pit. The man stumbled and tried to shuffle away, but Abraham shoved him again, harder this time, and the man fell to his knees. He was crying now, tears streaming down his face, whimpering and moaning. He knew what was coming. He'd seen a woman dropped into the pit the previous day.

Abraham stooped and grabbed the man by his collar. He dragged him forward to the edge of the pit, watching the creature stir again in excitement as it realized what was coming. Without further ado, Abraham pushed the man over the edge, watching him tumble into the slimy folds of the alien's flesh, which blanched under the impact.