The Thirteen Hallows (21 page)

Fowler kicked in the thin door on his first attempt.

“He’s not here,” the detective muttered, quickly scanning the squalid apartment. The hallway behind them was already filling with police. “How do you know?” Victoria asked, padding silently beside him, a long flashlight held tightly in both hands.

“What would you do if someone kicked in your door?”

“Make a run for it…or flush the evidence down the loo.”

“And what do you hear?”

“Nothing.”

Nick Jacobs—aka Skinner—lived in the top-floor apartment over an adult cinema on the fringes of Soho. Amid the clutter of scattered clothes, fast-food cartons, and crumpled beer cans, the flat-screen high-definition stereo television and matching stereo were starkly out of place. Alongside the filthy mattress that Skinner obviously slept on, an impressive sound system had been set up, the massive speakers facing inward toward the bed.

“I’ll bet he liked to play them loud,” Detective Fowler muttered before he turned to the four officers spread out around the room. “Take this place apart. Bag everything. And if you find anything interesting…” He left the sentence unfinished.

Victoria Heath wandered around the apartment. They had just come from Elliot’s sumptuous apartment in Bayswater, and the contrast between the two was startling. Elliot had everything. The apartment was exquisitely decorated and was spotlessly clean, with everything meticulously in place. Yet his lover lived in a pigsty. The only thing they both had in common were matching expensive sound and television systems.

She wondered where Skinner was. Had Miller killed him? And how had Miller, who had never been in trouble with the law before, gotten involved with this unlikely crowd? They had no evidence that Sarah Miller even knew these people, yet two days ago she had butchered her entire family and had then been involved in the deaths of at least another two people and kidnapped Owen Walker. There was a chance that the American was still alive, but for how much longer? She was stepping away from the filthy mattress when she spotted a scrawl of numbers and names written on the floorboards. Most were faded, but one address stood out. It had been scribbled in black ink, obliterating some of the other names and numbers. She tilted her head to read it. “Brigid Davis, apartment 8A, Waterloo House, Hounslow.” When she ran her finger across the writing, the ink smeared beneath her fingers.

“Tony! I think we’ve got something.”

Skinner eased the stolen Nissan to the curb and turned off the ignition. Draping both hands across the steering wheel, he stared at the blocks of flats, mirrored shades reflecting the gray towers.

The voice on the phone had given him precise instructions, and there had been the unspoken threat if he failed.

But he wasn’t going to fail.

From under the seat he pulled out the double-barreled shotgun, the sawed-off barrels only a few inches in length. He had used it only once before, when he’d been sent out to frighten a client who owed Elliot money. Skinner had been told to fire a shot into the ground to frighten him. Unused to the shotgun and the spread of the pellets, he had fired too close to the petrified man and had blown off most of his foot. Skinner’s lips twisted in a sour smile as he remembered. The client had paid up; Elliot had made the collection at the poor guy’s hospital bed.

The skinhead shook his head and pushed his glasses up onto his forehead. When he thought back on his association with Elliot, he realized that he must have been insane. He did all of Elliot’s dirty work, and all he got in return were small crumbs and enormous grief. Well, this was his golden ticket: He was working in the big leagues now, and although his new employer was more than just a bit terrifying, there would be a bigger payoff. Perhaps in a year, two at the most, he could really be someone, with money in his pocket, a car, an apartment, and his own minions to do
his
dirty work. He nodded sharply, the sunglasses sliding onto his nose; that’s what he wanted.

In a year or two, he would be someone.

Waterloo House, eight floors up. The woman’s name was Brigid Davis. When he had secured her, he was to make a telephone call—the number was written on the back of his hand—and he would receive further instructions.

Tucking the shotgun under his long coat, he climbed out of the car and walked toward the tower. He was whistling a song from
Wicked;
he loved that show.

There is so much I cannot tell you,” Brigid Davis said quietly, “simply because I don’t know. And because we’re running out of time,” she added quickly, watching the expression on Sarah’s face. “Let me speak, and then you can ask your questions.”

Owen squeezed Sarah’s arm, stilling her protests. “Let her speak,” he echoed softly.

Brigid Davis took a deep breath, then turned her head to look through the window, across the London skyline, toward the west. “Seventy-something years ago, at the start of the war, it was feared that the Germans would bomb the cities. Children were evacuated out of the major cities and sent to towns and villages in the country. Even today, I’m not sure how we were picked, or who chose our specific destinations. I ended up in a Welsh village called Madoc, just on the border. Including me, there were thirteen children shipped to the tiny village, five boys and eight girls. Everyone was around my age, give or take a few years, and we came from all different parts of the country. It was the first time away from home for most of us, and we thought it was a grand adventure.”

The old woman smiled, blinking quickly. “It was a lovely time, and I can say now with complete honesty that it was one of the happiest times of my life. The village was beautiful, the people were kind, the weather that year was glorious, I had new friends…and we had a secret. That was the autumn we were given the Hallows.”

She nodded toward the bag at Sarah’s feet. “You’ve got Judith’s sword with you. I can feel it. The Sword of…” She quieted and added respectfully, “Well, let’s just call it the sword, shall we? There is a magic in names.”

Almost unconsciously, Sarah reached into the bag and pulled out the newspaper-wrapped sword. More of the rust had fallen off, hints of metal amid the oxidization, the sword shape a little more distinct.

Brigid stretched out her hand toward the sword, then drew her fingers back as if they had been burned. “Has it fed?”

Sarah looked at her blankly.

“Has it tasted blood?” Brigid demanded.

“I used it to kill two men.”

The old woman’s breath escaped in a long hiss, and her face registered panic. The fingers of her left hand moved in a complicated pattern that ended with the hand closed tightly into a fist, index and little fingers extended, thumb crossed over the folded fingers.

“You were telling us about the Hallows,” Owen said quickly. “In the village of Madoc, during the war…you were given the Hallows.”

Brigid’s eyes slowly lost their glassy look. “Yes. Yes, we were given the Hallows. Because we children were all strangers to the town, we tended to stick together. In normal circumstances, we would never have mixed. We were from all different classes and backgrounds, and in those days that simply did not happen. Some of us had never even been to the countryside before. We were there about three weeks when we learned about Madoc’s famous haunted cave. Naturally, we all wandered out to explore it.

“And that’s where we met Ambrose.

“Ambrose was a tramp, and he’d been coming to the village for as long as anyone could remember. He would sharpen knives, mend pots and pans, help out on the farms, and tell fortunes in the evening. During the summer and early autumn, he lived in the cave in the forest on the edge of the town. Over the years, he had added wooden shelves and a makeshift bed of sorts, and the local children would dare each other to creep in and lie on the bed.

“All the children loved him. I suppose we all wanted to be like him. This was a different age, remember, when tramps were looked upon as noble. Gentlemen of the Road, we called them. They had a dignity that you don’t often see in modern-day vagrants.”

Brigid Davis fell silent, remembering the one-eyed tramp. When she spoke again, her voice was soft, distant.

“I think we all realized the moment we set eyes on him that we had known him before. Impossible, of course. But we knew him. And he knew us. He called each of us by name, oldest to youngest. First Millie and all the way down to Judith. He knew all of our ages, he even knew where we were from. It should have been terrifying, but even now, seventy years later, I can remember that he felt so…safe.” Brigid took a deep, shuddering breath. “In the weeks that followed, we got to know him so well that we began to dream about him. Odd, curious dreams in which he would be sitting surrounded by mirrors and talking, endlessly talking. Yet his words were strange and garbled.

“They were wild and disturbing dreams.

“It was only when we discovered that the others were also experiencing the same dream that we started to suspect that something very strange was happening.

“We took to gathering outside his cave in the late afternoons. Golden afternoons, with the sun slanting in through the trees, and the air still and heavy, rich with forest smells. It is something I have never forgotten…though nowadays the woods terrify me,” she added with a smile. “I don’t remember the last time I’ve been in a wood.

“Ambrose started telling us stories, rich, magical tales of legend and folklore. He was a remarkable storyteller: It was almost as if he had been there. And then he told us about the Hallows. The Thirteen Treasures of Britain. A week later he produced the artifacts themselves.” Brigid fell silent.

“What happened?” Owen asked softly.

The old woman smiled. “I’m not sure. That day remains confused in my memory, though so many of the others have remained vividly clear. I do recall that the day was heavy with thunder, the air electric. It had rained the previous day, torrential rain that turned the forest tracks to muddy ruts, making them impassable, and we were confined to our various homes. That night, it clouded over early, and those were the days before television, so we were sent to bed—”

“You keep saying we,” Sarah interrupted. “Who is we?”

“All of us.” Brigid smiled. “Me, Millie, Georgie, Judith, Barbara, Richie, Gabe, Nina, Bea, Sophie, Donny, Billy, Tommy…all of us. I’m telling you what happened to me, but it was happening to the other twelve children at the same time. We were all dreaming the same dreams, thinking the same thoughts.”

“What happened?” Owen asked.

“We awoke about midnight. We all felt compelled to go to Ambrose.” Brigid laughed shakily. “What a sight we must have been: thirteen naked children moving through the empty streets and back lanes, down the muddy forest tracks.

“Ambrose was waiting for us. He was wearing a long gray gown, belted around the middle with a white knotted cord, and he had a thick hood thrown over his head. He was standing before a moss-covered tree stump, which was piled high with dozens of strange objects. One by one we stepped forward, oldest to youngest…and he would reach around, without looking, and press one or another of the items into our hands, and whisper its name into our ears. Then we would step back and the next person would come forward….”

Owen stared at the old woman, suddenly remembering an entry he’d read from Judith’s diary:

We were in the middle of the forest…gathered in a semicircle around Ambrose…On the stump were loads of strange objects. Cups, plates, knives, a chessboard, a beautiful red cloak. One by one we walked up to Ambrose and he gave us each one of the beautiful objects….

He realized that Brigid was staring at him. “What’s wrong, my dear?” she asked.

Owen shook his head. “My aunt described the events you’re talking about, but she wrote that it was a dream.”

“At first it was a dream: every night for ten days, the same dream, the same sequence of events, and Ambrose would whisper the same words. On the eleventh night it came true, and by that time, of course, we were word perfect in the ritual.” She gave a gentle shrug. “I think the dreams were sent by Ambrose to prepare us for what was to come.”

“It wasn’t a dream?” Sarah asked.

Brigid pointed to the sword in her hand, then reached into her pocket and pulled out a small curved hunting horn of old yellowed ivory, capped with wrought gold and inlaid with intricate patterns in stone.

“This is the Horn of…B-R-A-N,” she spelled out. “I dare not say its name. And no, it wasn’t a dream.” Holding the horn in a white-knuckled grip, she took a deep, sobbing breath. “When it came my turn, I stepped up to the one-eyed old man and he pressed this into my hand. And when he said its name I knew—I suddenly knew—everything about this object…and indeed about all of the other Hallows. I knew what they were, where they came from, and, more important, their function.

“I’m not sure how the others reacted to their gifts. It was something we never spoke about. I got the impression that some of the others simply didn’t believe—or didn’t want to believe—what Ambrose had told them. When the war ended, we all went our separate ways, and we were all, in minor ways, successful. Professionally. Personally. Both. Those of us who believed in the Hallows, who instinctively understood their power, were a bit more successful than the others. But that had little to do with us; that was the residual power of the Hallows working through us.”

“Did the group ever meet again?” Owen asked.

“A few of us kept in touch, but Ambrose was insistent that all the Hallows must never be brought together again.”

“Why?” Sarah asked. She thought she could feel the sword becoming warm in her grip, and she knew instinctively that it was the proximity of the Horn of Bran.

Brigid’s smile was icy. “Too dangerous. There are thirteen Hallows. Individually, they are powerful. Together, they are devastating. They must never be brought together.”

“This Ambrose had brought them together,” Sarah said quickly.

“Ambrose was the Guardian of the Hallows, he could control them.”

Owen leaned forward, hands locked tightly together. “You said you knew the function of the Hallows. What was it?”

Brigid’s smile was cold, distant. “I’m not sure I should tell you.”

“Why not?” Sarah demanded.

“When Ambrose gave me the Hallow, he opened my mind to the ancient mysteries. I came from a deeply religious background, and what I learned that night shocked me to the core, making me doubt everything I had learned from childhood. I have spent my entire life in pursuit of religious knowledge, looking for answers, and despite my wonderful gift, I realized that the more I learned, the more I discovered that I did not know.” Her smile twisted. “I know that in the last few years, your aunt also delved into the area of arcane lore and folklore, seeking answers in the past to the same questions which have troubled me all my life.”

Owen shook his head. “You’re not making sense.”

“Tell us what the Hallows do,” Sarah insisted.

“They are wards, protections, powerful barriers. They were put in place to contain…” She stopped and sighed. “I cannot. It is far too dangerous. You are unprotected. Even the knowledge renders you vulnerable.”

“Tell me,” Sarah insisted. Brigid shook her head, and Sarah experienced a sudden snap of irrational anger. She surged to her feet, the sword clutched before her, towering over the tiny woman, who was now rocking back and forth in the chair. “Tell me!”

“Sarah!”

She suddenly stopped, her breathing ragged, heart hammering, aware that Owen was shouting at her, pulling at her arm.

Brigid reached out and touched her hand, and Sarah felt the sudden red rage flow away, leaving her weak and trembling. Shaken, she sank back into the chair, cheeks flushed with shame at her outburst.

“You see the danger of the Hallows?” the old woman asked. “You are not a woman prone to anger…and yet see what it did to you. If you continue to hold on to the sword, in another few days it will control you…and the paradox is that you will enjoy it. That is what happened to some of the Hallowed Keepers. They began to enjoy the power…and the power corrupted them.”

“I’m not a Hallowed Keeper,” Sarah said sullenly.

“No,” Brigid agreed, “but you are much more, I think.”

“Besides, the sword belongs to Owen.” Sarah smiled. “Judith asked me to pass it on.”

“Then give it to him,” Brigid suggested.

Sarah turned to the young man sitting beside her, abruptly alarmed by the idea of giving away the rusted piece of metal. She tried to raise her right hand, the hand holding the sword, but she found she couldn’t lift it. A vise closed around her chest, squeezing the air from her lungs, acid burning in her stomach.

“You see?” The old woman smiled. “You see the hold it has on you?”

Sarah slumped back into the chair, bathed in sweat. “What can I do?”

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”