Desolation

  And she turned and jumped straight through the window.

  It was an impressive exit, and in response the Hound threw Milo down and strode to the door. For a wonderful moment, Virgil thought he was going to follow her – but he stopped, and turned back, and Virgil had the sneakiest suspicion that he wasn’t as dumb as he looked. Why give chase, after all, when he could make his target come to him?

  The Hound pressed a fingernail to his wrist and sliced. Blood flowed, dripping from his forearm in a steady stream, and he walked in a circle around Milo.

  “Hey,” said Javier, “what’s he doing? Hey, you! Stop doing that!”

  The Hound easily ignored the shouts of an old man, and when the circle was complete the blood began to steam, and then it caught fire—

  —and in that instant both Milo and the Hound disappeared.

  “Amber!” Linda screamed. “Get back here!”

  Virgil forced himself to stand. It wasn’t over yet.

  Amber ran back in. “Where is he? Where the hell is he?”

  “He disappeared,” said Javier. “He took Milo with him. Just disappeared.”

  Amber stared at him for a long moment. “Shit,” she said, and bolted. Virgil heard her kicking open the door to the garage.

  Linda limped over to Ronnie and checked his pulse and Two ran over to Warrick, started licking his face.

  “I’m okay, boy,” Warrick mumbled. “I’m okay.”

  Amber ran back in, tugging the stopper out of a large leather pouch. She poured a circle of black powder around herself, then threw down the pouch and tapped her pockets. “A match!” she shouted. “Something!”

  Warrick pushed himself up on to his elbow and dug a hand into his pocket. Coins and tissues and lint fell as he tossed her a cheap lighter. Amber caught it, flicked it, put the lighter to the powder and the powder went up, the fire looping in both directions, and she straightened as they met and then she disappeared.

  Warrick blinked. “Everyone saw that, right?”

  Linda folded her jacket, put it under Ronnie’s head. “How’s everyone else? Javier?”

  “I’m good,” said Javier. “But Virgil looks like he’s having a heart attack.”

  “I’m fine,” Virgil said gruffly.

  “Kelly,” said Linda, “how about you?”

  From the far corner, Kelly groaned and Virgil’s eyes widened.

  His legs were numb, his feet dead weights, but he forced himself to walk, to hurry to the kitchen. The back door stood open. He plunged into the cold night air, managed to get to the gate in his fence without toppling over. The gate swung open and he stayed there for a moment, breathing, then plunged onwards.

  On the trail behind his house, he saw Austin being led away by someone who looked just like Kelly. But of course she wasn’t wearing Kelly’s clothes. Virgil had missed that the first time.

  “Austin!” he shouted. “Run!”

  The Narrow Man, still wearing Kelly’s face, whipped his head round and Austin took that moment to tear free of his grip and run into the woods.

  The thing-that-wasn’t-Kelly looked at Virgil, gave him a smile, and followed the boy.

  AMBER HAD BEEN HERE BEFORE.

  Astaroth’s castle, with walls of stone that reached high beyond the wooden rafters, high into the darkness and the emptiness above. Here, the cold air danced to the distant symphony of screams and sobbing that rattled the stained-glass windows, in which each scene was another depiction of the depraved, the wanton, the butchered. Tapestries hung from those stone walls, different from those she had seen last time she had been here. Terrible splendours, new and fresh and eager to offend in their explicit extravagance.

  No welcoming committee this time. No sign of the ungendered thing called Fool. Perhaps her arrival had gone unnoticed. She hoped so. This castle was one of many in the kingdom over which the Blood-dimmed King ruled, and as such it had its rules which could not be bent, bypassed or broken. It struck Amber that hell, no matter its faults and its cruelties, was at the very least honest. She wondered if heaven was half as trustworthy.

  One of the rules for visitors, and this was the rule that had been repeated to her the most, was that she should never, under any circumstances, step outside the circle. Ever.

  So Amber took a deep breath, and stepped out of the circle.

  When the walls didn’t come crashing down upon her and she wasn’t immediately cast down into the fiery pits, she hurried through the first doorway, and found herself in a winding corridor with narrow windows on one side. Beneath a coal-black sky, and across a forest of twisting, clutching, grasping trees, a vast city rose from the horizon. There was a palace at the centre of that city – she could see it from here. She could even appreciate the beauty found in its sharp edges and sinister angles. The palace of the Blood-dimmed King, no doubt.

  The corridor split into three directions, but only one was wide enough for her to comfortably fit. Even so, as she made her way through, her shoulders began tipping off the walls, again and again, until she was moving sideways, then grimacing and squeezing further.

  There was an opening ahead. She just had to squeeze a little more. Just a little …

  And then she was stuck.

  The wall in front crushed against her belly and chest. The wall behind crushed against her ass. She could extend her left arm out into the opening, but she couldn’t even turn her head without jamming her horns. It was hard to breathe. Amber tried to suck her belly in, but she had no purchase with which to move. She couldn’t go forward or back. Panic began to claw at her mind.

  “Hello,” said a voice.

  Her eyes widened. “Fool? Fool, is that you?”

  A silhouette appeared in the gap ahead. “Caught,” said Fool. “If the Master knew it’d be this easy, he wouldn’t have sent the Hounds after you. All he needed was a tight space.”

  “Help me.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m stuck.”

  “No – why would I help you?”

  She did her best to smile. “Because … because I’ll help you in return. I’ll take you away from here.”

  “Away?”

  “I’ll bring you back with me.”

  “Away from here? But the castle is my home.”

  “Then what do you want?” she asked. “Tell me what you want and I’ll do it. But first get me out of here.”

  “Hmmm,” said Fool. “I don’t know. You’re a tricky one, Amber Lamont. You gave me Edgar Spurrier and told me it was Gregory Buxton.”

  “I’m sorry about that, I really am.”

  “The Master was not pleased with me. The Master punished me.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “The Master did not want Edgar Spurrier. He let me have him. I changed him. He wouldn’t stop talking so I gave him a new name. He is Bigmouth now.”

  “Edgar did talk a lot.”

  “It’s nice,” said Fool. “Having a pet is nice.”

  “I’m glad you like him,” Amber said. “It’s always good when people enjoy their presents.”

  “Bigmouth was a present? For me?”

  “Of course,” said Amber. “And you like him, don’t you?”

  “Bigmouth is ever so much fun!”

  “Good,” said Amber. “I’m so glad. But you owe me now. You get that, right? I brought Bigmouth here for you, and now you have to repay the favour. That’s how presents work. You understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Take my hand, Fool. Pull me out.”

  Fool’s hands closed around Amber’s and she was pulled and tugged and she didn’t budge.

  “Come closer,” she said. “Closer.”

  When Fool was close enough, she grabbed what clothes she could and pulled. Fool made some strangled noises, but she was dragging herself through now, inch by inch, and then she pushed Fool back, reached over with her other arm, gripped the edge of the wall and kept going. Her head was out. She gasped and sucked in a breath and heaved again and stumbled out into
the corridor beyond.

  “Holy crap,” she said, raking her claws through her hair. “Holy crap.”

  She got herself back under control as Fool stood. The patchwork robe it wore was torn where she’d grabbed it.

  “Sorry about that,” said Amber, and Fool turned to her. Its bald head was caked in ash-grey foundation and its thin lips were hidden somewhere in that smear of red lipstick. All of this Amber had seen before. Its teeth of broken glass that rose from bloody gums no longer shocked her. Instead, it was the thick shards of glass that had been plunged into each eye that now made her gasp.

  “Fool,” she whispered, “what happened to you?”

  Fool tilted its head, then said, “Oh! The eyes! Yes, this was the Master’s punishment for me being fooled by Amber Lamont.” It giggled. “Fool being fooled.”

  “The Shining Demon did this to you? Did it hurt?”

  “Obviously.”

  “Oh Jesus …”

  “Don’t worry. Bigmouth makes up for it. Having a pet is nice.”

  “Fool, a Hound arrived here a few minutes ago. He had someone with him. Where did they go?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Yes, it does, Fool. It matters to me. I have to find my friend.”

  “No, Amber Lamont,” said Fool, “it doesn’t matter which way they went. All ways lead to the same place.”

  So Amber started running.

  The corridors here were wider. Much wider. She turned corners and ran on. In some corridors, the screams were so loud that she expected to burst into a torture chamber. In others, they were so faint it was like she was leaving them behind. But there were always new screams. That was the one constant in the land of the Blood-dimmed King.

  She passed through junction after junction, chose a direction at random, and ran on. The geography of the castle was impossible. She was never in the same place twice and yet she should have been, she should have criss-crossed and doubled back, but every step she ran was a step on to fresh ground. She was running through another junction of corridors when movement caught her eye. She followed it, moving quickly but quietly now, catching up to her quarry.

  Then she saw him.

  In the land of the Blood-dimmed King, the Hound’s true form was revealed. He was bigger, bulkier, his hair longer and thicker, his skin a deep mottled brown. His heavy jaw jutted awkwardly, like it had been repeatedly broken and badly reset. Sharp teeth strained against his lips. The Hound’s nose had melted back into his face, and his eyes were a simmering yellow. He dragged Milo by the ankle. Milo was too unconscious to care.

  Amber spent too long trying to figure out a plan of attack. Before she’d even looked around for a weapon, the Hound was entering a grand hall of mirrored walls, at the centre of which was a throne, and, atop that throne, Astaroth, the Shining Demon.

  Fierce orange light burned from within him and, reflected in the thousands of mirrors, lit up the whole hall. Upon his translucent skin were islands of black, like missing jigsaw pieces.

  Amber’s time was up. The moment for sneakiness had passed.

  She sprinted after the Hound, intending to shove him aside, grab Milo, and run. But he saw her coming – of course he did, how could he not? – and he turned, catching her with a swinging arm. She had thought the Hounds had been strong on the streets of Desolation Hill – but here, this Hound’s strength was something else entirely.

  She flew across the room, hit the ground, and her broken ribs jangled and she screamed so much she thought she might pass out.

  The Shining Demon gazed at her, and smiled.

  “There you are,” he said.

  EDISON’S SHARD JUTTED OUT high over the old quarry like an accusatory finger, pointing to the mountains in the west. When Virgil had first moved into town, he had held the notion that the highest point in Desolation Hill had been named after Thomas Edison and his work with electricity. He’d been living there five years before someone, he couldn’t remember who, told him that no, it was named after Edison Samuels, a young man who had hurled himself from its heights a hundred years earlier. As Virgil climbed, using the trees for purchase, he couldn’t help but re-evaluate his assumptions about young Mr Samuels. Perhaps it hadn’t been a maudlin disposition that had sent him plummeting to his doom – perhaps it had simply been an unwillingness to live with the things he had done during Hell Night – or the things he was about to do.

  Virgil leaned his shoulder against a tree and angrily sucked in air. His body was failing him. His stupid old muscles weren’t up to the task anymore. His lungs were capable of only the shallowest of breaths. His legs burned and his hands shook, and his heart …

  He pushed himself upright. His heart could wait. His pain and discomfort could wait. There was a boy up here and a monster chasing him. The ailments of an old man meant nothing compared to that.

  He heard a shout. There. Beyond the trees. Movement.

  He adjusted the overnight bag on his shoulder, and moved onwards. One foot in front of the other. Funny how difficult the simple things could get, like walking. And breathing.

  He reached the last of the trees. Austin had backed himself on to Edison’s Shard, where the wind alone might have been enough to pluck him away. Stalking him was the Narrow Man, his too-wide smile spreading across his face.

  Virgil fumbled in his pocket with shaking hands, pulled out the mask and used it to wipe the sweat from his forehead. Then he looked at it, at the empty eyeholes, and, while a part of him felt ridiculous, another part, a larger part, felt right. Felt good.

  He pulled on the mask, and it fitted just like it had forty years ago. Then he put on his hat, tilted it just right, like all the best crime-fighters did, and straightened himself the hell up.

  “Hey,” he shouted. His voice was lost to the wind, so he shouted louder. “Hey! Come and pick on someone your own size!”

  Javier was right. Virgil’s dialogue was pretty dreadful without a scriptwriter.

  But at least he’d got the Narrow Man’s attention away from the boy. Virgil walked forward towards the cliff edge, putting every ounce of strength he had into pretending his body wasn’t about to fail at any moment.

  “This was what you wanted, wasn’t it?” Virgil asked. His words sounded wrong. Thick. His mouth was dry. “You wanted a showdown, didn’t you? The Shroud versus Insidio, one last time? Well, here you go.”

  Virgil stood his ground while his adversary moved closer and loomed over him. Up close and personal, the Narrow Man’s eyes were bottomless pits leading straight to hell. There was an emptiness in there, a void, that would have turned Virgil’s skin cold were it not for the sharp wind that had already succeeded in that regard.

  But those eyes also looked into Virgil, and, as much as he tried to fight it, Virgil knew what the Narrow Man saw in there. He saw a faded actor and an old man. He saw a bad heart and all the pills that were needed to keep that heart ticking. He saw a shrivelled presence, the stooped shadow of the man he had once been.

  The smile faded on his adversary’s face, and settled into a thin, wide line. The Narrow Man turned away, walked back towards Austin.

  Virgil was failing.

  He broke into a run, a desperate, old man’s run that nonetheless took him past the Narrow Man and out on to the Shard, because he was such a non-threat that the Narrow Man didn’t bother to stop him. Gasping, Virgil stood in front of Austin as a trembling, decrepit shield. They were close to the very point of the Shard now. There was mud beneath his feet. Virgil tried not to look to either side, tried not to look down. He must be 300 feet up. The wind plucked at his clothes. He focused on the task at hand.

  Fine. So Javier was right. Virgil needed a scriptwriter. So what? His body might have been failing, but his mind was as sharp as ever.

  “This is where it ends!” Virgil called out. “This is where I put a stop to your decades of evil!”

  The Narrow Man froze, listening to words that had been written years earlier, that had been first spoken when the
cameras rolled for the final episode of When Strikes the Shroud.

  “For too long you have walked this earth,” Virgil continued, “destroying the lives of those you meet. No more, you hear me? No more!”

  The Narrow Man came closer, the smile on his face again, and Virgil gave him a smile back beneath his mask.

  “Do an old actor a favour, why don’t you? You say you’re a fan? Here’s your chance to be part of it all.”

  Virgil threw him the overnight bag. It was unzipped, and gaped open when it fell. The Narrow Man reached down slowly, pulled out the velvet frockcoat.

  “That’s the real thing,” Virgil told him. “The actual coat worn by Javier Santorum when he played the part of Insidio. There were three. Javier has one, one was ruined during filming, and I snagged the last. You took the face of my arch-enemy. I think it’s time you became my arch-enemy, what do you say?”

  The Narrow Man smiled. He held the coat out in front of him, admiring it, and then with a flourish he twirled it as he shapeshifted. He slipped an arm into the sleeve and he got a little shorter, a little broader. He reached back and slipped in the other arm and his skin became awash with colour and black hair grew from his scalp. He shrugged the coat up on to his shoulders and his features rearranged themselves and became those of Oscar Moreno, otherwise known as Javier Santorum, otherwise known as Ernesto Insidio.

  “It is an honour,” said Insidio, actually talking in that rasp that Javier adopted for the part, “to face you in your final moments.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Virgil said, backing away a little more on the muddy outcrop as Insidio neared. He reached behind, his fingers tapping Austin’s sleeve, making sure he was in place. Insidio took another step.

  Virgil met him with a jab. It rocked Insidio, made him slip in the mud, set him up perfectly for the haymaker, but now it was Virgil’s turn to slip and his fist clipped Insidio’s chin instead of putting him on his back.

  Still, for something that would appear to be the second last punch he’d ever throw, it had been a decent jab. He’d have to be happy with that.