The Thirteen Hallows (25 page)

Sarah Miller had never really had a boyfriend before; her mother had seen to that. Previous attempts at lovemaking had been confined to hasty fondling in the back of a car. It was unromantic, uncomfortable, and forgettable.

She had lost her virginity six months earlier to a fellow bank employee. It was an awkward event after a drunken evening, and afterward they had both regretted it and barely spoken.

Sarah smiled as she turned toward the man lying beside her. After he had brought in dinner from a small restaurant on Oxford Street, they had wolfed down the food and collapsed on the bed, dead to the world. She hadn’t anticipated anything happening; in fact, it was the furthest thing from her mind. They had only a few hours to rest before heading to Madoc, and she had planned on using them to sleep. Yet something inside her stirred.

A need. A desire to connect. To feel safe.

Sarah had been around so much pain and death that she knew she wanted to feel the warmth of a human body, to experience a little of life and some pleasure. She surprised herself by instigating it, boldly straddling the dozing man and undoing his shirt. He’d come awake with a start, and for an instant she’d thought he was going to push her off his body. But then he’d reached for her and drawn her close.

As they’d made love, Sarah displayed a passion she had never felt before. It felt wicked, exciting, forbidden.

Eventually, they had fallen asleep in each other’s arms, spooning together as if they had been a couple all their lives rather than a pair of strangers who had met only the previous evening.

A few hours later, when she’d awakened, she’d held him close, her face against his back. And in that moment, she’d felt safe.

Sarah gently extracted herself from the sleeping man and headed for the bathroom. She’d bathed before while Owen was getting dinner, but she wanted to wash again. She felt as if the grime and pain of the past few days had soaked into her pores.

Gathering her clothes, Sarah wrapped the sword in a towel and carried it with her to the bathroom. She felt more comfortable, even more confident, with it by her side.

In a little over an hour, they would set out for Madoc. Convoys of buses were leaving Marble Arch every hour, and Owen had already booked tickets on the midnight bus when he’d gone down to Oxford Street. Depending on traffic, they would get to the Welsh village by dawn…though once they got there, she wasn’t sure what was going to happen.

She drew a bath for herself and tilted in some of the hotel bath salts. The air filled with an indefinable citrus odor. Easing her aching body into the warm water, she reached out to take the sword in her hands and lift it into the bath with her. It felt warm when she cradled it between her small breasts, and she imagined she felt it throb, beating like a heart. Closing her eyes for a moment, she breathed in the warm, scented water.

And a chill, salt-scented wind swept over her body.

T
he boy Yeshu’a watched impassively as the Demonkind gnawed on the right hand of one of the merchants it had slain. With every bite, the merchant’s fat fingers wriggled, giving it an appearance of ghastly life. There were at least a hundred of the creatures on the beach. Most of them were feasting off the fallen, though some were simply standing at the water’s edge, continuing to stare intently at the boat.

Waiting.

And although the boy had made a deliberate effort to blank out their thoughts, wave upon wave of their dark, violent emotions washed over him, until their thoughts became his thoughts. The Demonkind wanted the boat, but not exclusively for food. They desired transport and a crew to bring them south, to the center of the known world, to lands of teeming peoples, warm lands, rich lands, unlike these cold northern isles. The boy shuddered, imagining the creatures free in the cities of Italy or Egypt.

All that was chaining them to the island was the barrier of salt water.

“Legend has it that the Fomor came from the dark north, the Lands of Ice.” Josea stood behind his nephew, watching him intently, aware that a cold energy was shimmering in the air above the boy’s dark skin. The salt air tasted bitter.

“They are not of this world,” the boy said firmly. “They belong to a place beyond the ken of most of humankind; the demon realms, the abode of spirits and raw elemental forces. But a doorway was opened, a portal from the Otherworld. Blood sacrifices called them, and these abominations have walked through into this world.”

“They grow more dangerous and more numerous every year. I’ve heard reports of them attempting to build boats.”

Yeshu’a suddenly turned his head, dark eyes flashing dangerously. “You knew about these creatures, didn’t you. That’s why you brought me here.” It was a statement, not a question.

Josea resisted the temptation to mollify the boy’s anger. “These creatures have always been in this land. Once they inhabited the northern portion of this isle, the barren highlands of raw stone, where the natives knew them by a score of different names. Lately, however, they have been moving southward, and some have even managed to cross into the Isle at the Edge of the World, the place known as Banba.”

Yeshu’a continued to stare at his uncle, saying nothing.

Josea looked toward the beach, refusing to make eye contact with the strange child. “Your mother told me that you have the gift to cast out demons,” he said, lowering his voice. “She says you have the power to command the Demonkind.”

“Why would I have that power?” Yeshu’a asked very softly, and for an instant, Josea saw something else behind the eyes, something ancient and deadly, a creature of awesome power.

“Your mother claims that you are not the son of your father.”

The wind carried the howls of the creatures across the waves.

“And who does she say I am?” the boy asked.

“She says you are the son of God.”

“There are many gods.”

“But only one true God.”

“And who do you think I am?” the boy challenged.

“I think you are the son of Miriam and Joseph. But your mother has told me that you have cast out demons, and I believe her.” He gestured toward the beach. “Can you cast these out?”

“No,” the boy said simply, turning away. “For they are not within anyone…they are of the land and are part of it.”

“Could you not purge them from the land?”

Yeshu’a leaned on the wooden rails and stared toward the shore. One by one the Demonkind straightened and looked toward him, serpents’ tails hissing on the sand and stones, forked tongues flickering. One, younger than the rest, suddenly darted into the water, his talons raised. The boy watched impassively as the salt water washed over its hooves, the white foam suddenly frothing bloody, sending it screeching back onto the beach, where it lay twitching, white bone visible through the smoking skin. Several of the Fomor fell upon it, ripping it apart with teeth and claws.

“The natives claim that they mate with human women, and there are tales of half-breed abominations,” Josea said quietly. He was watching the boy intently, observing the way his knuckles whitened around the rail and the angry set of his shoulders. He realized abruptly that there was such anger in him, such a terrible rage, kept tightly in control but there, bubbling beneath the surface. “They are creating a new race, an ungodly race.”

“I could send them back to their own realm,” Yeshu’a said suddenly, “but I would need to remain here, to keep the gates closed. And I cannot stay here, for my work lies elsewhere.” He dipped his head, and Josea got the impression that the boy was talking to someone. And when he raised his head, his dark eyes were sparkling. “I could create special keys to keep the door to their world, to the Otherworld, shut.” He turned quickly, eyes falling on the bundle of trade objects under the leather tarpaulin: a pan and platter, a knife, a chessboard, a spear, a halter, a horn, a crimson cloak, a whetstone, a sword.

“I could banish them, lock them away behind thirteen keys, hallowed with a power older than this world….”

A sharp pain in her leg brought Sarah awake with a yelp.

During her dream, the sword had slipped from her hand and grazed her leg. The skin burned and blistered where the sword touched the bare skin. She jerked the Broken Sword free, aware of the heat radiating from the blade, bath water steaming off of the metal.

Sarah knew instinctively Owen was in grave danger. She jumped out of the bath, jerked open the door, and darted into the room. And suddenly a red demon reared up in front of her, claws raised. Sarah caught a glimpse of leather skin, bulging, slit-pupiled eyes, and a gaping, tooth-filled maw in the instant before the creature launched itself onto her. The sword moved, twitched in her hand, and rose toimpale the creature in its chest. Steam hissed, the sound shrill, screaming, before the creature dissolved and flowed into the sword, sparkling rainbow-hued oils curling across the broken metal, scouring off the last flakes of rust, leaving the sword gleaming and elegant.

Naked, she raced across the room. A second creature appeared, another red demon coalescing out of the air directly in front of her. Overlong curled saberlike talons slashed at her, the creature’s arm twisting at an unnatural angle. Sarah parried the blow, and the sword shifted in her hand of its own volition, catching the talons, sparks screaming off the blade. The demon drew back its arm for another slashing blow, but Sarah stepped forward and the sword screeched its way along the length of the talons, biting deep into the demon’s wrist, exiting through the other side, and continuing into the creature’s throat. It winked out of existence, leaving tendrils of blue green fire dancing along the length of the Broken Sword. The sword was pulsating madly, making her grip it in both hands. But when she got to the bed, she felt a wash of relief. Owen was lying still, breathing gently, in the bed.

“Owen…”

He murmured incoherently.

“Owen…we’ve got to…”

He turned, and a sour iciness flooded her stomach. Owen was gone. In his place was a naked scaled demon. The creature raised its head and opened its eyes. Sulfurous yellow slit-pupiled orbs regarded her impassively, and then the mouth opened and she saw the dirty teeth, ragged, needle-sharp spikes. “Sarah.” It stretched, arching its spine, a clawed arm coming out from beneath the covers to reach for her.

“Owen,” she tried to say, but her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth and the sound came out as a muffled grunt. The Broken Sword pulsed in Sarah’s hand, and she suddenly knew….

Demonkind.

Spawn of the Night Hag and the Shining One, the Fallen Spirit.

The first inhabitants of this land called them Fomor, savage flesh eaters who despoiled women and made them bring forth monsters.

Most wore the serpent form, but some were hideous beyond all reckoning, having too few—or too many—limbs.

But some—a few, a very few—were beautiful. They appeared as women and men and were sent to entice and ensnare the humankind. Yet Demonkind could only mimic the shapes of man and never fully adopt it, and even the most beautiful of the creatures was never perfect.

GRIPPING THE
sword tightly in both hands, Sarah brought it back over her head. She would feed the red demon’s soul to the sword.

Owen woke to find Sarah standing naked by the side of the bed, the Broken Sword held high in her hands. The look on her face was terrifying. Her skin was devoid of color, her face ashen and her lips bloodless purple lines, drawn back from teeth exposed in a savage snarl. Frothy spittle dribbled from the corner of her mouth. “Sarah…Sarah…
Sarah
!” Owen threw himself backward, scrambling off the bed as the sword descended, slicing through the thin cotton sheets, digging deep into the mattress, squealing off the springs. She slashed again, ripping another slice out of the mattress as she lunged across the bed.

“Sarah!”
Owen tumbled onto the floor, and the descending sword bit deeply into the wall above his head, showering him with plaster and grit. He attempted to crawl away, but her fingers grabbed his ear and twisted savagely, pulling his head back with an unnatural strength, arching his spine, exposing the line of his throat.

The sword appeared before his face, and Owen realized that he was going to die.

And then his flailing hands touched metal, curved and smooth. The Horn of Bran. With the last of his strength, he brought it to his lips and blew.

The sound of the horn.

I
will hallow these objects,” Yeshu’a said, picking through the trade goods piled on the ship’s deck. “I will make of them keys and symbols that will bind the Demonkind, barring them entry to this world.”

Josea bowed slightly, struggling to keep his face impassive. He knew now that what his sister had said was true—this was no ordinary boy.

Yeshu’a looked over the scattered trade goods on the ship’s deck. Stooping, he fingered a curved hunting horn, then lifted it and blew gently into it. The sound was high and pure. “This horn will warn of the Demonkind’s approach, and its tongue will scatter them, for is it not written that my father’s voice is the sound of the horn, the voice of the trumpet.”

Holding it to his thin lips, Yeshu’a blew hard.

And the Fomor on the beach scattered in howling agony.