The Honours (33 page)

‘Wait,' she said. Steam twisted from a chunk of horseshoe lodged in her eye socket. She focused on the ruin of her arm. Parts of it had fused with the floor. The sinews went taut. She exhaled and they fell slack.

Reg Gillow started coming round. He moaned, went rigid in the armchair. Professor Carmichael ran over and slit his bonds. One of his arms hung by his side. His other hand went to his eye. He doubled-up, howling.

‘Reggie!' Alice dashed across the banqueting hall and hugged him. Reggie was gibbering, shrieking and clutching his face. ‘What's wrong? What happened to you? Reggie, tell me, please!'

‘No, no, no.' Mr Wightman was dazedly making his way towards the doors. ‘I've had enough of this madness.'

Delphine looked from Reggie, to Miss DeGroot, to the door. The vesperi should have returned by now.

‘We must go.' The speaker was Propp. He had managed to stand. His wrists were still tied behind his back. His waistcoat was torn, face fruiting with bruises.

‘Wait!' Miss DeGroot tried to walk towards them but the remnants of her arm tethered her in place. She tugged and twisted but only succeeded in rucking the hearth rug. She swore. She was weeping from her remaining eye.

Miss DeGroot spun to face Delphine.

‘Please,' she said, reaching out with her human hand. ‘Don't leave me.'

Small fires guttered around Gideon and the Devil.

They faced each other on the great chessboard. The angels were dead. The Devil stood with His horns low, two arrow shafts sticking from the hump of muscle behind His neck. He breathed in wounded snorts. He could not raise His head.

Gideon held a curved angel dagger, serrated on its inner edge. He pressed the pommel to his crashing heart.

The Devil charged.

Delphine fought against her shuddering hands and the sickness rising in her throat, and forced herself to meet Miss DeGroot's gaze.

Miss DeGroot took a long breath.

‘I don't . . . feel anything.' She looked back at the flesh trailing from her shoulder and seemed to experience a kind of vertigo. ‘I can feel the
shape
of it, but . . . there's no pain.' She squinted the raw cauterised flesh of her eye around the shrapnel.

‘Mmm.' Propp stepped forward. He nodded towards Reggie, who moaned as Alice cradled his head and wept. ‘He feels your pain now. It cannot be undone.'

Miss DeGroot swivelled to face him, melted arm plaiting round on itself. ‘This is your fault.'

‘Please, noble friend . . . '

Miss DeGroot closed her eyes and shook her head.

‘No, Ivan. No more of this . . . of this Mr Ghandi schtick. I can't bear it.' She sighed and massaged her hairline with her fingertips. She glanced at Delphine. ‘Please. I need some help.'

Delphine stared at her.

‘Look,' said Miss DeGroot, ‘I never meant for Titus to get hurt. I was just trying to reunite a daughter with her father.' She took a step towards Delphine and the wet ropes tensed, jerking her shoulder back. ‘The cancer was eating me alive. Ivan wouldn't tell us how to beat it. Don't you see? I had. No. Choice.'

There was a flurry of footsteps and a bang from the double doors. Delphine turned. A quick inventory of the room revealed that Mr Wightman had made his escape.

‘Hey!' Miss DeGroot cast about. ‘Who was that? What are you doing?'

Professor Carmichael cupped his hands to his mouth. ‘Everyone –
run
!'

Delphine froze, unsure of which way to turn.

‘Please!' Miss DeGroot's face passed through confusion and fury, before settling on desperation. She grasped for Delphine with her normal hand, her bare feet slipping on the hardwood. ‘Don't leave me!' Her fingers opened and closed on air.

Delphine glanced around for Mother, saw her tugging at Alice's elbow, trying to get the girl to stand. Alice made a small, choked sound. She had Reggie's blood and vomit down her dress.

Delphine looked back at Miss DeGroot. She was kicking and straining against the tendrils binding her to the floor, but they were thick as oak roots. A vein stood out on Miss DeGroot's forehead. She turned to Delphine, her single pupil shrunken with fear.

‘Wait,' she said.

Everyone else was moving towards the east doors. Delphine hesitated.

‘Wait!' said Miss DeGroot. She swallowed. She clutched at the air between them. ‘Why won't you wait for me?'

Delphine took an involuntary step back.

Cables of skin and muscle stretched taut, elongating as Miss DeGroot pulled against them. Reggie screamed. Where they met the floor, they had begun to secrete a black, oily fluid. She had blood on her teeth. She reached for Delphine. ‘Come . . . here . . . '

Delphine could not move. She was paralysed by the motion of Miss DeGroot's clammy human fingers. The air was full of a warm stink like brewer's yeast. Miss DeGroot grimaced, bracing her knees.

‘Miss Venner!' Professor Carmichael was calling.

Delphine looked away.

‘No!' The ragged strands radiating from Miss DeGroot's shoulder began singing with mounting tension. They were puddled in tarry
liquid. It smouldered. ‘Come . . . ' She swiped at Delphine with her good hand. ‘Here . . . '

Delphine began backing away. Miss DeGroot's face fell. ‘Please. Don't leave me here.' She grunted and gasped, advancing her trembling fingers an inch, half an inch.

The yeasty stink grew stronger. Delphine took another step back and her heel slipped in something black and viscous. Dark fluid was pooling around her. It seemed to be bubbling up through the floor.

‘Delphine!' said Mother.

Miss DeGroot cried
hnnngh
and jerked backwards. Around Delphine's feet, shapes started rising from the fluid. She tried to run and something whip-thin coiled round her ankle. Delphine yelled and grabbed at it. A wet, knuckled appendage lunged from the black water and snared her wrist. More were rising – sticky, half-formed tendrils, grasping for her, clutching.

She twisted to look at Miss DeGroot and saw her crouched, her shoulder almost to the floor, raw, living flesh flowing into the smoky dark pool beside the hearth.

Delphine felt a tendril oozing round her throat and tried to claw it loose with the crab hook. A second, thicker limb slid round her rib cage. Above her spread the lunar mandala, a shining diadem.

‘Let go!' she said, but she barely had the breath. The ringing in her ears grew deafening.

She heard footsteps. ‘Delphine!'

‘Everybody stop!' Miss DeGroot lay on her side. Her panting echoed through the banqueting hall. ‘Nobody take . . . another . . . step.' Slowly, slowly, she clambered to her feet. Pale tissue trailed from her shoulder into the steaming pool beside her. She took a breath. She glanced at Mother, Professor Carmichael. ‘If you move, I will hurt her.' The thicket of limbs binding Delphine squeezed. ‘I'm not a bad person. I just . . . ' She gripped her brow with her human hand. ‘Just give me a moment to think.'

CHAPTER 36

MERE OBLIVION

M
artin Wightman emerged in the Great Hall, panting. His breaths echoed in the cavernous space. What were those idiots playing at, staying behind?

Well, he supposed it didn't matter. This was clearly a nightmare.

The full moon shone through the portico windows. He allowed himself to admire the play of silverblue light, marvelling at the complexity of the delusion. He could smell smoke. There were bodies all over the floor, mostly winged fiends. They were black and sticky, as if scorched. He wiped a palm across the ridged scar on his scalp. The sweat on his fingers felt warm and slick. Incredible.

The body of a minotaur lay in the centre of the chequered floor. Funny – it had two arrows sticking out of its wide back. They were the same type the Society used for archery practice – he recognised the red fletching. His mind had obviously taken elements of the real world and reused them for his dream. He walked over and tapped the shafts with the back of his finger. Lodged in the creature's withers, they shivered.

There was something queer about the minotaur's head. He peered at it, frowning.

A noise from the top of the stairs. Despite his certainty that all he saw and felt was no more than a nasty hallucination – and it was,
of course it was, what sort of pillock believed in goblins – his belly cramped. He would very much like the dream to end now.

A man stepped onto the staircase, clutching a bow. He was wearing some sort of sling.

Mr Wightman squinted.

‘Mr Venner?' His paunch dipped over his belt as he exhaled. ‘I thought you were another monster.'

Mr Venner said nothing. His teeth gleamed in the moonlight. Mr Wightman could not see his eyes.

Mr Venner reached into his sling. Very slowly, he withdrew two long, pointed objects. Mr Wightman took a moment to realise they were horns.

He glanced at the dead minotaur. Protruding from its flat brown skull were two rough nubs.

‘What in Hell's name?' said Mr Wightman.

Mr Venner's chuckle echoed through the bloody hall. He lifted the horns to his temples.

‘Moo.'

Henry kept the shotgun trained on the grimacing bat-monster and tried to forget about the pain in his legs.

‘Surrender,' he told the hunched beast, his voice echoing through the low, rocky chamber. ‘Tell your master the fight can't be won. This chamber's rigged with explosives – look for yourself.' He gestured with the gun but the valet, shuddering, did not look up. ‘In fifteen minutes I'm going to detonate the charges and if you and your forces haven't retreated through it you'll be cut off from your homeland for all time.'

He wasn't sure if the creature had heard. It was barely conscious, sprawled in the middle of the room, beside the swirling black pool. Perhaps an old battle wound had opened up during their fight. Perhaps it had taken a blow to the head earlier on which was only just taking effect. Still, if it couldn't get back to its master, the plan was ruined. Stokeham needed to order a retreat – needed to believe Henry was prepared to blow up the chamber and strand the troops in England. Of course, if Henry really did detonate the charges,
then yes, Stokeham would have no way of getting home, but the remaining troops would fight with the tenacity of cornered rats. Henry was gambling that Stokeham would not call his bluff – that, as someone who had lived for more than a century, Stokeham was prideful but patient, and would sooner withdraw than die in a glorious last stand.

But to order a retreat, Stokeham had to know the battle was lost. Henry was not sure the creature before him was capable of climbing a flight of stairs, never mind running back to the Hall to deliver terms of surrender.

‘Do you understand me?' said Henry.

The beast grunted, spat blood.

‘Don't test me.
Do you understand?
'

It nodded.

‘Good. And do you agree to tell your master my terms?'

The valet pressed a claw to its stomach. It nodded.

‘That's what I like to hear. Now, off you go.'

Blood foamed over the creature's lips. It mouthed something.

‘What?' said Henry. He hadn't thought the beast could talk.

A tendon stood out in its neck as it strained to lift itself upright. Its shrivelled wings pumped. It spat more blood. Its lips worked through the same motions.

Henry could not make out words. He leant forward.

‘Don't toy with me.'

The valet exhaled, spluttered. With its good hand, it steadied itself against the raised edge of the pool. It tried again.

Henry watched the movement of its thin, furred lips. He felt he almost had the words, but for whatever reason the creature was unable to aspirate them.

‘I've no time for this. Whatever you've got to say, I don't want to hear it. Go. Tell your master. You've now got fourteen minutes.'

The valet dropped to one knee, gasped with agony, clawing at its gut. Blood stippled its lapels. Still, it mouthed through the pain.

Henry watched its lips.

You must . . .

He leaned in nearer. ‘What? I must what?'

The creature's jaw was taut. The capillaries in its eyes had burst. It inhaled in three jagged stages, wiped the blood from its lips.

You must . . .

It collapsed into wheezing.

‘What?' Henry was at the pool edge. He could make out the hiss in the thing's throat, could hear it trying to speak.

Be . . . ware . . .

The valet thumped a fist against its heart.

‘Beware? Beware of what?' He could almost hear the words.

Be . . . ware . . .

‘Of what?'

Be . . . ware . . .

‘Why?'

The claw flashed up from under the valet's velveteen jacket and connected with Henry's jaw. The force of the blow lifted him up onto his heels, enough time for the creature to swat the shotgun from his grip then climb onto the lip of the pool, swinging round behind him to put him in a chokehold. Henry grasped at air; the weight of the valet dragged him backwards.

In the shadows, he caught a glow of huge eyes: one of the Little Gentlemen watching. If this creature killed him, they would be next. Henry felt a blow to his temple and his vision pulsed with sparks. He tried to reach behind his head but he was losing strength. He had one last move in him before he passed out. His heels were pressed against the raised edge of the pool, the yeasty smell building in his nostrils. He made his decision.

Henry grasped the arm around his throat and dug his fingers in. He shut his eyes. He kicked his heels against the wet stone floor and pushed himself backwards into the pool. The valet realised too late what was happening and tried to let go, but with the last of an old man's dogged, bloodyminded tenacity, Henry dragged the monster in with him.

The black liquid plopped like a peat bog. Henry felt it close over his head, oozing into his nostrils, pushing past ceramic dentures into his throat. He pressed his tongue against the upper plate and felt it crumble like mint cake. The crackling in his ears dropped to a
rumble. He was numb. His eyelids tingled as the fluid melted them, ate into his corneas. He bit down, and his tongue had dissolved. The rumbling grew louder than his thoughts.

He broke apart on the tides.