Drinking Midnight Wine

  “You can’t have him,” said Gayle, in a calm, steady voice. “He’s a focal point.”

  Then Luna was back in her pastel dress in her rattan chair, and her eyes were just eyes and her smile was just a smile. Toby felt the tension run out of him like a fading pain; he sat slumped in his chair, breathing heavily. Luna looked at him sadly.

  “Must be nice, to be a focal point. To be so … focused. To have such a straightforward role to play.”

  “But I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” said Toby. His voice was weak but steady, like someone recovering from a harsh illness. “I’m also supposed to be Humanity’s Champion, but no one will tell me what that involves, either.”

  “I know just what you mean,” said Luna. She looked at Gayle, her eyes suddenly clear, her mouth firm. “The solar flares are signs that the Serpent is stirring. Sometimes I hear him when he talks to Nicholas. Even after all these years, after everything I’ve done to myself to be free of him, we’re still connected. By what he did … and what I did later. The Serpent plans to change everything. Veritie, Mysterie; everything and everyone. You’ve got to do something, dear sister. Do something. I would, but … I’m just me, poor broken Luna. Even holding myself together long enough to talk like this takes everything I have.”

  “What do you think I should do?” said Gayle. Her voice was quiet, unusually subdued.

  “Kill him. Nicholas. The Hob. Kill him, if you can. You know I can’t.”

  “Yes, I know.” Gayle frowned, and Toby realised with a slow chill that she was seriously considering the idea. Killing a man in cold blood, because it was necessary. “But what if that’s what the Serpent wants me to try? Because I’d have to change to do it, become my true self, my whole self. And I was happy being human, damn it!”

  She got up and turned away from them both, her arms crossed tightly across her chest, scowling at something only she could see. Luna looked kindly at Toby and he almost flinched. For a moment, back then, he would have done anything, anything at all, just for the touch of her, the taste of her. Even though he knew, on some deep, primal level, that she would have chewed him up and spat him out, ripped the heart out of his chest—and made him love every moment of it.

  “Gayle remembers when this town was new,” Toby said slowly, searching for safe ground. “What do you remember, Luna?”

  She laughed breathily, a happy, guileless sound. “I remember when it was all new. We had such plans then … such hopes. Oh yes. The things we were going to do … But the Serpent, the old Enemy, wouldn’t let us. He was so much older than us, you see. We depended on him. It took us so long to break free of his will, to make our own lives, our own destinies. It was mostly her, even then. I was never strong, like her. This world could have been a paradise. It should have been a paradise. But the Serpent has always had his own plans; so afraid of anything that might challenge his power … And then, of course, there was the Hob. Nicholas. Dear, damned Nicholas.”

  She sat brooding for a while, and then glanced at Gayle, still lost in her own thoughts. “You love her, don’t you, Toby?”

  “Yes,” said Toby. “Even though everyone tells me it’s a bad idea.”

  “Oh, it is,” said Luna. “Really. You can’t conceive how bad. You’re afraid of me, but you should be much more afraid of her. Still … she’s not a bad sort, not really. She’s just been hurt so often. Be kind to her, Toby Dexter. Not many are. I can almost see the skeins of fate connecting you two. The chains of destiny and purpose. Don’t turn away, Toby. You’re capable of much more than you think. Eventually you’re going to have to face Nicholas, and Angel. And if Gayle can’t or won’t give you the support you need, try Jimmy Thunder. He’s always been a generous man to those in need. And you may find it easier to trust a man like Jimmy rather than Gayle, who is so much more than a woman.”

  And then her eyes went vague again, and her speech began hopelessly confused and rambling. She could tell she wasn’t making sense any more, tried to pull herself back together and broke into loud, wet tears when she couldn’t. Gayle immediately snapped out of her mood and tried to calm her sister, but what little coherence and clarity Luna had been able to summon had slipped away. She didn’t even know who Gayle and Toby were any more. So they said their goodbyes and left, leaving Luna mumbling querulously to herself as she and her room changed, again and again and again. Out in the street, Toby looked furiously at Gayle.

  “What the hell did the Serpent do to her, to make her like that?”

  “He raped her,” said Gayle.

  SIX

  THE COMFORTS OF STRANGERS

  In the dead woods, in the dead house, in the dead room, Nicholas Hob and Angel were drinking winter wine. Old wine, cold wine; wine so cold it frosted the outside of their glasses, and snowflakes swirled endlessly in the ice-clear liquid. Not a drink for mortals, poor delicate mayfly creatures born to die too soon. Winter wine had the delicacy of snow crystals and the strength of glaciers, and a taste like all the cold drinks on all the hot days that ever were. Hob and Angel drank their wine in slow appreciative sips, and their breath steamed thickly on the hot air in the rotten room.

  Blackacre farmhouse was in an appalling state, held together by spite and inertia, and the parlour was particularly foul, with its seeping walls and filthy floor; but Hob found the presence of so much corruption consoling, and Angel was above or beyond noticing such things. The room attracted flies, which buzzed aimlessly back and forth on the still air, confused by so much decay without a source. Every now and again they’d stray too close to Hob and spontaneously ignite, burning fiercely for a moment before dropping silently to the floor like so much soot. None of the flies went anywhere near Angel. The light from the hanging oil lamps had a sickly yellow glow, and the sweaty heat in the room came from the continuous process of corruption.

  Hob and Angel sat at ease in their comfortable chairs, on either side of a hideously valuable coffee table Hob had picked up for a song some centuries earlier, and tried to find things to talk about. Fate, and the implacable will of The Serpent In The Sun, had made them partners and companions, but for all their more than human characters, they had little in common. And, for all his improbable age and ancestry, Hob was still basically human, while Angel’s grasp on her new human state was precarious at best.

  “This is good wine,” said Angel. “I like this. The pleasure of its taste is fleeting, but still it has in it hints of immortality.”

  “The world turns, but winter always returns,” Hob said smoothly. “Winter wine would be one of the wonders of the world, if the world only knew it existed. It’s rarer than gold or frankincense or myrrh, but you can find pretty much anything in Mysterie, if you know where to look. This fine vintage came to us courtesy of Ultima Thule Distilleries, the old firm; purveyors of the coolest booze in this world or any other. The price for such a treasure of the grapes is normally a lien on your soul, or someone else’s, but Ultima were kind enough to send me a whole crate of the stuff, in the hope of … future considerations. They can feel changes beginning in the patterns of fate, in the warp and weft of destiny, and like others, they are hurrying to hedge their bets by establishing credit with as many sides as possible. Not that it will save them from my father’s plan, of course.”

  “Of course,” said Angel, draining her glass and pouring herself a fresh libation. Hob winced, just a little.

  “Do try to savour this one, Angel. I swear, the subtler pleasures are wasted on you.”

  “Pleasure,” said Angel, licking frost from her dark lips with a surprisingly pale and pointed tongue. “An interesting concept. Much like pain. So much is new to me, filtered through this body’s senses. You tell me some things are good and some are bad, but I have no background against which to judge your conclusions. I have to try them for myself, to see what they are, what they mean … and my senses are such limited things, now.” She scowled suddenly, and glared at Hob. “Why do we have to stay here? I’ve seen so little of this world since I
was exiled here. I want to go out and play with things. Hear them laugh and scream and praise my name. I want to do other things … and I don’t even know what they are yet. I don’t want to be here, in this place. It smells of failure.”

  “We’re here because we’re following the Serpent’s plan,” said Hob carefully. “Everything’s going as it should. You have to be patient.”

  “I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to! You keep talking about your father’s plan. Why can’t I know what it is?”

  “It’s dangerous to say some things out loud,” said Hob, holding her unsettling gaze with his. “You never can tell who or what might be listening. Even in this dead place, behind all my shields and protections, there are still presences who could hear our faintest whisper, and perhaps even some of our louder thoughts. You’re just going to have to trust me, Angel. I tell you as much as I can, as much as I dare. There’ll be work for you shortly. Bloody work. The kind you like best.”

  Angel stirred in her chair, glaring sulkily into her wine. She was restless. This was a new sensation, and therefore intriguing, but she was pretty sure she didn’t like it. Hob sighed quietly to himself. Sometimes Angel was like a small child, who has to be kept endlessly fascinated and placated with new things, for fear she’ll throw a tantrum. Or go wandering through the town again, freaking the locals.

  “How would you like to go after Jimmy Thunder again, my dear? You can learn a new thrill. It’s called revenge. You’ll like it.”

  “But not yet, right?” said Angel pointedly.

  “No,” said Hob. “Not just yet.”

  He closed his eyes, just for a moment. He was deathly tired, after a hard day’s work raising the dead and summoning them to Blackacre, and he had hoped for a little peace and quiet this evening, a little rest, but he should have known better. Babysitting Angel was getting harder all the time. More of his father’s instructions, of course. No one realised just how much hard work there was in necromancy, how much concentration and will-power was required to pull the dead from their graves, walk them unseen through the town’s streets and then set them to guard the dead and empty woods of Blackacre. He had a fearful headache. The wine was helping to soothe it, but Angel very definitely wasn’t.

  It was also hard work babysitting someone who could destroy the farmhouse and the woods and possibly the whole damned town, if she ever got angry enough to put her mind to it. He’d survive, of course, because he always did, but his father would be displeased with him, if he let Angel off the leash too soon. And just the thought of that was enough to make Hob shudder.

  “Talk to me,” Angel said implacably. “Tell me what you’re feeling. It helps me understand what I’m feeling. You were thinking about your father just then, weren’t you? I can tell. When you speak of him, I hear only hatred in your voice. Love and hatred are different, yes? One is good, one is bad. I have trouble making such distinctions. I have so few references to set them against. You don’t want to do what you’re doing now, but you do it anyway. Why?”

  “No, this isn’t what I’d rather be doing,” Hob said tiredly. “But I don’t have any choice in the matter. Like so many only sons, I inherited the family business. Mine just happened to be Evil. Luckily, I’m rather good at it, but still … I had to follow in my father’s footsteps. Carry out his plans and ambitions. It was expected of me.”

  “What did you want to be?” said Angel, studying him with her unblinking crimson eyes.

  “I never got the chance to find out,” said Hob. “All my life I’ve danced to my father’s tune, one way or another. Rarely had any time to myself. I’ve always been alone. No close family, or friends, or … lovers. Love isn’t for the likes of me. Anyway, being the Hob is a full-time job. Women have been drawn to me, down the years, for various reasons. Ambition, usually. Villains and adventurers and the occasional romantic who saw herself as consort to my Prince of Evil. It’s always the bad boy that makes a girl’s heart beat that little bit faster. I’ve known companionship, but never love. Sex, but never tenderness. Alliances, but never friends … There were even a few women brave enough to try to use me for their own ends. I think I liked them the best. But no matter why they came to me, it always ended badly, for them and for me. I try to have fond memories of some of them, for the few bright moments they brought into my life. I have known some remarkable women. Sweet Susie Slaughter, also known as The Suffering. What times we had, in Revolutionary France, dancing in the blood around the guillotines. Then there was Crow Jane, the Eidolon. I had to kill her. Twice. It was for her own good. And not to forget dear Annie Abattoir of London’s East End, the scheming little minx. I hammered a stake right through her cheating heart.”

  “Ah,” said Angel. “She was a vampire.”

  “No.” Hob stared moodily into his empty glass. “They always end up leaving me, one way or another. Sometimes I just outlive them. Humans are such transitory things. Another of the damned tricks fate played on me, making me what I am. Just human enough to tease me with thoughts and dreams of things I can never have, and not quite monster enough not to care. Doomed to live among mortals, while ensuring I can never share the sweet, passing joys they all take for granted. And so I hurt the world, as it hurts me, every day.” He smiled humourlessly at Angel. “You don’t understand a damned thing I’ve said to you, do you? And that’s probably why I can talk to you like this. Because you can never use it against me.”

  “I understand what it is, to be alone,” Angel said slowly. “Ever since I first fell to earth, I’ve found nothing and no one who can match what I am, let alone what I was. Except perhaps you. You are my anchor. A rock I can cling to, in a storm of things that make no sense to me. Your singular nature is comforting. Emotions confuse me, especially those connected with love. Sexuality. Sensuality. I know the words, but … I feel things I don’t understand. Don’t know what to do with.” She leaned forward suddenly, and slowly stroked the side of Hob’s face with the back of her hand. He sat very still as she ran a single soft fingertip down his face, from brow to cheek to chin, and then back to his lips, frowning as she concentrated on the sensation of skin touching skin. Hob was careful not to react in any way. This close, Angel was like some dangerous animal from the wild, some unknown creature that might do anything, anything at all. The hand that touched him so lightly was the same hand that had punched holes through the solid stone walls of the railway station. He didn’t think she could really damage him, but still … Angel took her fingertip away from his lips and held it up before her, studying it closely, and Hob allowed himself to breathe a little more easily. He controlled Angel only because she let him, and more and more just lately he was beginning to think she knew that. Angel sniffed her fingertip and then licked it, but there was no more to it than some great cat licking its paw. Angel shrugged suddenly, and let her hand fall.

  “The Serpent,” she said calmly, as though nothing of any note had happened. “Your father. The Serpent In The Sun, the Old Enemy. Have you ever seen him? Do you know what he really is?”

  “No,” said Hob, and was pleased at how calm and steady his voice was. “As far as I know, the only person ever to see my father in the flesh, so to speak, was my dear mother, and the experience drove her quite mad. Sometimes I hear my father’s voice, in my mind. When he wants to give me orders. And that is always … unpleasant. His voice is awful, unbearable. Overwhelming. There’s nothing human about the Serpent. He’s so much bigger than that. No one knows much about The Serpent In The Sun, not really. Most of the world’s religions have taken a guess or two, down the centuries. I’ve read up on most of them, and I’m no wiser. All anyone knows for sure, from records that predate Humanity, is that my father was the First-Born; the very first living consciousness in the solar system. Everything else came after him; all the Powers and Dominations, all the lesser presences, all the way down to poor benighted Humanity. Sometimes I wonder—”

  Hob convulsed in his chair, his wineglass flying from his spasming hand. He cri
ed out in pain, a terrible, animal sound, and then his mouth snapped shut, forced into a grinning rictus by the straining muscles of his face. His whole body was shaking and twisting now, seized by an outside force that racked him unmercifully. He screamed behind his locked teeth, and tears flew from his wide-stretched eyes. The convulsions grew worse, throwing him from his chair, and he crashed helplessly to the floor, unable even to put out his arms to break his fall. He hit the floor hard, twitching and shuddering all over as his limbs flailed wildly.

  His body stretched unnaturally, muscles tearing and bones cracking, as his shape and form altered violently, struggling to contain something from outside, something too big and too strange for the human form to accommodate. Hob was crying out all the time now, awful animal sounds of unbearable pain and horror, forced out of a twisting mouth. His body grew and shrank in sudden spurts, convulsing muscles tearing themselves free from bones that couldn’t transform fast enough. He still looked basically human, but moment by moment he was leaving that state behind, his whole being racked by invasive, inhuman energies. Tears ran down his face in sudden jerks and streamings. Hob reached out one hand, with its crooked, foot-long fingers, in helpless supplication to … someone.

  Above it all, a great Voice filled the rotten room, loud beyond bearing, terrible beyond belief and utterly inhuman. It spoke in a tongue beyond all human languages, or perhaps the root of them all, unknowable, unfathomable, to anyone in the mortal world except the Serpent’s Son. Angel flinched back in her chair just at the sound of it, not understanding a word and yet somehow drawn to it, as though it reminded her of some other tongue, from her time before this world. The Voice was as loud as thunder, an earthquake or a volcano, and just as implacable, a force that could not be denied.