“Are you still with me, Brother?”
Of course. His Brother’s voice was clear and sharp, with a much stronger sense of presence, now that they were both in Mysterie. This is bad, Leo, really bad. Whoever gutted Blackacre to make it his own has to be one of the Powers and Dominations. In which case, we are both well out of our depth and sinking fast. It disturbs me that I sensed nothing of such a presence operating recently. Or that I knew nothing of Blackacre’s destruction in the real world. I should have known. Proceed cautiously, Leo. These are deep, dark waters we find ourselves in.
Leo didn’t need telling. Just walking through the dead woods was enough to put all his hair on end. Blackacre felt like long fingernails scraping down his soul. The blackened trees bore no leaves or blossom, and never would again. Thick black boles and stark black branches were held utterly still, undisturbed by any trace of a breeze. Nothing moved in Blackacre, not even the air. Nothing but Leo Morn, and a dead man. The ground was inches deep in ashes, and Leo’s every footstep made loud crunching sounds, for all his stealth, announcing his presence. He let himself fall farther back, still keeping Reed in sight, as he glanced warily about him. There were no animals, no insects, no birds. This was a dead place, where perhaps even time stood still.
It was like walking on the moon. Life had come and gone, and nothing would ever thrive in Blackacre again. Once, there had been a great fire here, some awful heat that had scoured all life away and left only dead things behind. Which rather raised the question of where the dead man was going, and who or what was waiting to receive him. Like the rest of the town, Leo had heard rumours of a new owner of Blackacre Farm and its surrounding land, but he’d assumed that was only in Veritie. Reed seemed to be heading straight for the deserted farmhouse, and whatever occupied it now—something so powerful it could even hide itself from The Brother Under The Hill.
Leo was breathing hard now, cold beads of sweat standing out on his forehead, but he didn’t slow his pace any further. He’d come this far. He wanted, needed, to know.
He could feel a pressure building on the still air, as he neared the centre of the dead woods and the farmhouse. The air seemed to push back against him, until it was like walking headlong into a harsh, relentless wind. He had to lean forward as he walked, digging his feet into the ash-covered ground. Each step became an effort, and he grunted and growled deep in his throat as he forced his way on. His eyes were narrowed and his teeth were showing. If someone was determined to keep him out, there had to be something worth knowing about at the end of it. He’d almost forgotten his earlier intention to avenge his friend Reed; this had become personal now. No one kept Leo Morn out when he wanted in.
He could feel necromantic energies growing all around him now, crackling on his skin and spitting sparks from his hair. He’d never encountered magical defences this strong before. They would have stopped any normal man, and most magical creatures. But Leo was born of both worlds, and his dual nature seemed to confuse the defences, so they couldn’t get a firm grip on him. He trudged on, stronger and more stubborn than any mindless defence could ever be. And then suddenly the pressure broke, and he almost fell forward.
He stopped for a moment to get his breath back, glaring about him. There were dead trees everywhere he looked, for as far as he could see, as though the Blackacre woods were now much bigger on the inside than they appeared on the outside. As though Blackacre was growing, expanding, under the influence of its new owner. Leo sniffed at the still air, but there were no living scents. Just the dry and dusty air, the kind you find in a room that’s been left locked up and abandoned for many years The silence was so complete now he’d stopped moving that he could hear every sound he made, from his harsh breathing to the rustling of his clothes to his own heartbeat.
Stand very still.
“Why?” Leo said quickly “What’s happening?”
I sense something. It’s hard for me to see anything in Blackacre, it’s like trying to see things out of the corner of your eye, but I think I’m getting the hang of it. You’re not alone here, Leo I can sense ten, maybe twelve, dead men in the woods with you. Can you see them?
Leo looked quickly about him, into the artificial gloom of the thick woods, but couldn’t see or hear or smell anything, except Reed, moving farther away from him, up ahead.
“All I can see are trees. Are you sure about this? What are these other dead men doing?”
Of course I’m sure, I’m always sure. Make it twenty dead men, I’m finding more all the time. As far as I can tell, they’re just standing in the woods. Standing guard, presumably. Don’t get too close to any of them. Proximity probably triggers an alarm. Proceed with extreme caution, Leo. Are you sure you can’t see any of them? You’re right on top of half a dozen.
“Great,” growled Leo. “Just bloody great. This gets better all the time. No, I can’t see any bloody dead guards. You’ll just have to guide me. Steer me clear of the bastards. Brother, who the hell are we up against? This is more than just some rogue necromancer.”
Powers and Dominations, said his Brother Under The Hill Would I be wasting my time if I suggested you make a strategic retreat, and not come back until you’ve acquired a few more powerful allies of your own?
“Yes.”
I thought so.
“Would you shut up a minute and let me concentrate? I may not be a Power or a Domination, but I can still be pretty damned sneaky when I put my mind to it.”
Leo moved slowly forward, setting each foot down so carefully that the ashes burying the ground accepted his weight without a murmur. He swivelled his head slowly back and forth, not even blinking his eyes, and at last he caught sight of one of the dead men, standing as still as the dead trees. Leo froze in place, and studied the dead man for a long time. It wasn’t anyone he knew, and it seemed to be in a good state of preservation. The corpse’s utter stillness was quietly unnerving, inhuman; like some machine waiting for instructions. People weren’t supposed to look like that. Leo moved on, giving the dead man a wide berth.
Defensive spells formed on the air before him like static snowdrops, intricate and elegant, shimmering with unearthly colours; magical anti-personnel mines. Invisible to ordinary eyes, there were change spells and death spells, and a whole bunch of curses Leo didn’t even recognise. He slipped cautiously between them, bending at awkward angles to avoid touching and activating them. He had no doubt that there were other, subtler defences too, so complex even he couldn’t hope to sense them in time, but he trusted to his dual nature to protect him, and pressed on. He’d come too far to turn back now. Leo had few positive qualities, but stubbornness was definitely one of them.
At last the dark trees fell away to reveal a great open clearing, with the farmhouse standing at its centre, like the bait in a trap. It was a long two-storey building, in the old half-timbered style, its mottled exterior filthy and corrupted, the victim of nature’s relentless working and long neglect. Leo crouched at the edge of the clearing, and just looking at the farmhouse made him feel sick. There was a disturbing wrongness to it, as though it was both more and less than just a house. The gaping black windows were like eyes, and the great front door a mouth with concealed teeth. It wasn’t a sane place, where sane and normal people might live. The angles were all wrong, and the decaying features played tricks of perspective on him, as though parts were rushing towards and retreating from him, at the same time. It was a structure from another time and another place, where they did things differently. An alien place, perhaps neither real nor magical, but something … worse.
The slumping rotten heart of Blackacre stood all alone, with no obvious defences. No dead men on guard, no attack spells floating on the air, nobody watching from the empty windows. It had to be a trap. Leo crouched where he was, considering his options, and then almost jumped out of his skin as Reed walked out of the woods some ten feet away, and headed straight for the farmhouse. Leo seized his chance. He padded quietly across the open clearing, keeping close
behind Reed, following in his footsteps. No one challenged him. Reed pushed open the front door and went in, while Leo dropped to the ground beside it, struggling to control his breathing and his heartbeat.
He pressed his back against the wall, and the moist surface gave disturbingly under the pressure. The dead woods were still and quiet. Leo swallowed hard. Now that he’d got this far, he wasn’t absolutely sure what to do next. Just walking in the front door like Reed did not strike him as a good idea, and he didn’t even know if there was a back door. A light suddenly appeared at one of the downstairs windows; a calm, golden light quite at odds with the rest of the farmhouse. Leo slid along the wall, as quiet as a mouse in carpet slippers, until he was right underneath the lit window. All he had to do now was rise up and peek in, but somehow that didn’t appeal to him at all. For all his stubbornness and curiosity, that last step seemed so big as to be almost overwhelming. He didn’t want to look in, for fear of what might look back at him.
There were monsters in Mysterie. Things much nastier than a little half-breed like Leo Morn.
And then he thought of Reed, his friend Reed, his dead friend Reed, walking helplessly into this house at the call of whoever or whatever had summoned him up out of his grave, and the chill in Leo’s veins was driven out by a hot flush of anger. It wasn’t courage, but it would do to get him moving. He sucked in a deep breath, held it, turned slowly and carefully rose up to look in at the glowing window.
At first, the glass was so filthy he couldn’t see a damn thing. But as his eyes adjusted to the glare of the light and the smeared fog on the window, his preternaturally keen gaze was able to make out two distinct figures sitting at their ease in what had once been a parlour. Nicholas Hob, the Serpent’s Son, was having coffee with the woman Angel. Now that he saw them, Leo couldn’t say he was totally surprised. Shocked, scared and in urgent need of a toilet, but not actually surprised. If Hob had returned, then raising the dead was just the kind of unpleasantness you’d expect from the Serpent’s Son. He was a Power and a Domination, and more besides. Nicholas Scratch. Hob. Old names for the Devil, the Enemy of Man. And Hob was all that.
Angel was more of an enigma. You couldn’t really use terms like good and bad with her; they were just too limiting. Brutal and vicious certainly, and capable of anything … but applying morality to Angel was like ascribing motives to a force of nature. Angel was new to the material plane, and couldn’t be expected to understand minor concepts like right and wrong. She was probably still working on life and death. Angel was dangerous precisely because she was so unpredictable. If she had fallen under Hob’s influence …
Now would be a really good time to leave.
“I told you to shut up!” said Leo, in the mental equivalent of a shocked cry. “That’s Hob and Angel in there!”
They can’t hear us. I’ve been probing their defences for some time, and they haven’t even noticed.
“Now he tells me.”
You run for the trees. I’ll cover you.
“Hell with that. I didn’t nearly wet myself getting this far to turn back without finding out what the hell is going on here. I didn’t know Hob was back. Did you know Hob was back?”
No. I can’t see him. Or Angel. Usually. They’re just too … different. Veritie and Mysterie mean nothing to such as they.
“I really should have stayed in bed this morning, or maybe under it. Now shut up and let me concentrate on what’s going on in there.”
He pushed his face as close to the filthy window as he dared, straining his more than natural senses to their limit. Hob and Angel were sitting on opposite sides of an ornate and decorative coffee table, antique by the look of it, polished and gleaming and no doubt hideously expensive. The delicate china coffee set they were using was practically a work of art, but Hob treated it quite casually as he refilled Angel’s cup. All around them, the parlour was filthy and squalid and utterly vile. It was more than a century since anyone had actually lived in the Blackacre farmhouse, and it showed. The bare walls were cracked and bulging and pock-marked with huge craters, running with slow viscous damp like pus from leaking sores. Thick clumps of bulbous white fungi filled the angles where the walls met floor and ceiling. Leo could almost taste the stench of corruption that filled the room, even through the closed window. The room was full of a golden light, but from no obvious source, as though the parlour itself glowed with the unclean light of underground phosphorescence. No one with human sensibilities could have lived in such a room, or even tolerated it for more than a few moments, but then, Hob and Angel only looked human. They drank their coffee and talked together, quite undisturbed by their surroundings, while outside Leo fought hard not to vomit.
He had come to a bad place, and just its proximity was enough to sicken him to his soul.
In the room, Angel looked at the steaming hot coffee in her cup, added four spoonfuls of sugar, and then stirred the boiling-hot liquid with the tip of her finger, with no obvious distress. Hob’s aristocratic mouth moved briefly in a faint moue of distaste, but he had enough sense not to say anything. Leo pressed his ear against the window pane, though his cheek crawled and jumped at the contact, and listened as they spoke.
“I understood you were banished from this town,” said Angel. “Where have you been all these years?”
“Travelling the world, and walking up and down in it,” Hob said easily. “Dabbling in politics and revolution, just for the hell of it. Mostly in parts of the world where politics and revolution are the same thing. People will rape, torture and kill each other for the most amusing reasons, if you know the right buttons to push. I always feel most alive when everything else is dying all around me. And I was never banned. I chose to leave, to avoid … unpleasantness. I hadn’t thought of dear old Bradford-on-Avon in a long time, but my father called me back, so here I am. One doesn’t say no to the Serpent.”
Angel leaned forward in her chair, suddenly interested. “Your father. Have you ever seen him? Do you know what he is?”
Hob frowned, and looked away, developing a sudden interest in his coffee cup. “No. My father is as much a mystery to me as anyone else. I don’t think there’s anyone now living who knows for sure what the Serpent actually looks like. Except for dear Luna, of course. And she’s still crazy. That’s what looking in the eyes of ultimate evil will do to you, even if you are a Power or a Domination. Poor Luna. My father has never shown me his face, and I have never been tempted to ask to see it. But sometimes he talks to me. I hear his voice, in my mind.”
“What does it sound like?” asked Angel, sipping coffee daintily with her little finger crooked.
“He sounds like a sword cutting through flesh. Like the sounds of children dying. Like everything we dream of in our worst nightmares. It is not a human voice, or even a living voice, in any way that you or I could comprehend. Though since you were once of the immaterial …”
Angel scowled, and put her cup down sharply. “I am material now, and much less than I was. Any memories I might have had of things other than the material were taken from me. That was part of my punishment. Or perhaps my reward. It’s so hard to be sure.”
“Ah well,” said Hob. “Easy come, easy go. All you need to know is that I follow my father’s wishes; and as long as we follow his plan, you and I will bring down both the worlds of reality and magic, and watch as my father tramples them beneath his ancient spite. The Serpent In The Sun will bring an end to Veritie and Mysterie, and you and I will have ringside seats as our reward, and afterwards we shall frolic in the ruins and glory in the damnation of our enemies.”
“You say the sweetest things,” said Angel. “Just as long as I’m not bored. I do so hate to be bored.”
They both looked round as the door behind them opened and Reed walked in. Hob checked his Rolex and sniffed. “About time you got back. Off you go and join the others in the woods. Usual rules; if it moves and it isn’t us, kill it. And don’t go wandering off again, or I’ll cut you off at the ankles.” r />
The dead man turned and left the room, shutting the door quietly behind him. Leo let out his breath slowly. He’d been wondering if Reed would report being followed, but it seemed his dual nature was still protecting him.
“What was the little thunder god doing at the railway station this morning?” said Angel. When she spoke, she sometimes put emphasis on unusual words, as though she was still struggling to understand the subtler mechanisms of speech.
“Being a bloody nuisance, mostly,” said Hob. “I suspect the Waking Beauty’s hand in his presence. I can hide myself from most of the higher orders, but the Waking Beauty is something else. Even I’m not sure what. Luckily, she’s never been of an active nature. Much prefers getting some other poor fool to do her dirty work. Don’t you worry about Jimmy Thunder, Loser For Hire. The divinity’s running very thin in his bloodline. If he shows his face again, I’ll rip it right off.”
“Tell me more about this Waking Beauty,” said Angel. “Is she real, or magical?”
“Both. Neither. I don’t think anyone knows. I have an uncomfortable suspicion that she’s above such things. She’s very old, and she never sleeps, and she knows things. Disturbing things. I met her once … and she wasn’t frightened of me. Unusual, that.”
“Thanks to the godling’s interference, the Reality Express is no more,” said Angel. “After your little outburst, it will be a long time before any refugees will trust their safety to you again. What will you do for the power you need, now that you can no longer bleed the refugees dry?”
“I do hope I didn’t detect a teeny note of criticism there, dear Angel,” said Hob, smiling with his mouth alone. “Never forget, I am the one who makes the decisions here, because I am my father’s voice. I will do what it pleases me to do, and I will not be questioned. As I will, so mote it be, as dear little Aleister and I used to say in my somewhat younger days. The loss of the Reality Express is but a trifling thing. I can always raise more dead, and send them out to murder the living. There’s a lot of power to be gained from necromancy. And the dead do make such excellent servants; they’re completely obedient and they never talk back. Bit short in the initiative department, but that’s usually all to the good. I’ll empty this town’s cemeteries and send the dear departed lurching through the streets in broad daylight, if I have to. Killing a whole bunch of people always makes me feel better.”