Darkest hour

Chapter Two

"It is beautiful." Pressing her face against the window, Ruth looked out at the tranquil expanse of Loch Maree. The water was as glassy as it had been the previous day, reflecting the overcast sky punctured by bursts of blue and the hillsides that soared up steeply in a breathtaking wall of brown, purple and green. In the centre of the water lay Eilean Maree, serene and secret among its thick trees.

It had taken them only twenty-five minutes from Gairloch after a hearty breakfast of farmhouse bacon and eggs. They were all eager to continue on to Edinburgh and civilisation, but Tom had convinced them that a brief pause to make an offering to Cernunnos would pay dividends in the long run.

"I've got some reservations about this," Church said as they parked up on the water's edge. "Making an offering is a tacit admission that we accept they're our gods rather than simply beings that are more powerful than us. I have no intention of doffing my cap and being fawning-"

"Even if it means saving your life?" Tom interrupted.

Church radiated defiance. "Even then. I'm not bowing down. I'm not folding up and showing my throat-"

"Then don't see it as an offering. See it as a bribe." Tom marched off across the pebbles to a small boat that had been pulled up on the bank.

Witch rowed Laura, Ruth and Tom over first, then came back for Shavi and Church. The island was small and rocky along the shoreline, but heavily wooded with a thick undergrowth. They moved cautiously away from the light at the banks to the shadows that lay beneath the leafy covering. There was a tangible atmosphere of peace which put them at ease; it reminded Shavi of the aura of calm that hung over the grounds of Glastonbury Abbey. Yet despite the idyllic setting, no birds sang at all.

Tom led them through the trees to the tip of the island. In a grove, out of sight of the road, an obvious altar had been created from a tree stump. Wild flowers lay on it, along with a cup of milk and the remnants of a loaf of bread. The air of sanctity was at its most concentrated in the altar's vicinity.

"Looks like someone's been here before us," Church noted.

"The power that Cernunnos represents didn't die away when the old gods left," Tom replied. "In places away from the cities there's been an unbroken chain of worship. Some people are still close to the land. Some refuse to forget."

"Fuckin' nutters," Veitch muttered.

"And there's the arrogance of the urban dweller." Tom pressed his spectacles back on to the bridge of his nose, a mannerism which Church recognised as a sign of irritation. "I thought you would have learned by now not to judge by surface. Whales move in deep water and leave no mark of their passing."

"Whales?" Veitch said distractedly. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

They stood in front of the altar for a moment, deep in thought. Then Ruth said, "I want to make an offering too."

Church looked at her in surprise, but Tom said, "As you choose. You must respond to your feelings."

High in the branches above them echoed a long, mournful hoot which seemed to come in response. Church picked out Ruth's owl looking down at them. "Your familiar seems to be happy about that." He had a sudden twinge of uneasiness when he glanced back at Ruth; he couldn't shake the feeling she was being sucked into something she couldn't control.

"What would make a good oblation, I wonder?" Shavi asked.

"Something important to us," Tom replied.

Shavi searched in his pocket for the few remaining magic mushrooms which he used to induce his shamanistic trances. Church thought he laid them on the altar with undue gratitude.

While the others discussed the offering, Laura drifted away. She had little interest in what they were doing, certainly little belief, and sometimes she was overcome by an abiding need to be on her own, alone with her thoughts; since they had joined forces there had been little opportunity for that.

She leaned on one of the trunks and looked through the trees, watching the rippling waves sparkle in the scant sunlight. The place made her feel good in a way she hadn't really experienced before; it was so peaceful she wouldn't have complained if they'd decided to pitch camp there for a few days, maybe even longer.

It was only when the tranquility blanketed her that she realised how anxious she always felt, a constant buzz that set her teeth on edge and locked her shoulder muscles. Gradually, though, the stress began to ease away, and the droning voices of the others slipped into dim awareness. It stayed that way for long enough that she felt a wash of damp emotion when she realised something had changed. It took her a second or two to grasp what it was: no one was speaking in the background. An unsettling tingle started at the base of her spine. Her first thought was that they had all stopped talking to stare at her. She prepared an acid response and turned to confront them.

She was surprised and unsettled to see they were still standing in the same position, unmoving; a deep unnatural silence lay over them. They weren't holding their breath, or listening for something. Everyone was frozen, hands mid-gesture, mouths poised in question or response, as if time had stopped in that one small spot.

Laura felt a chill creep over her. A change had come to the soothing atmosphere on the island too; it was now heavy with anticipation.

Soniething''s conning, she thought, without quite knowing how she had recognised that.

Her eyes darted among the trees. The island wasn't so big that someone could creep up on them unannounced; they would have heard something. As if in answer to her thought, she did hear a sound. Branches cracked, leaves rustled suddenly. She spun round quickly, her heart hammering.

Light and shadow changed on the periphery of her vision. It could have been an illusion caused by her blinking, but, coupled with the sound, she was sure: something big was lumbering around in the trees. But whenever she tried to pin it down among the undergrowth it had already moved on to somewhere else. She caught a flicker of a silhouette, then gone. A heavy footstep that sounded only feet away, then another one near the water's edge.

She backed up hastily to the others, tugged at Church's arm in the hope of somehow waking him, but when her fingers brushed his skin, it felt as cold as marble. Something like a stone seemed to grow in her throat. She crouched down to lower herself below the line of sight, then moved forward through the vegetation. If she could get to the boat, she could row out on to the water and reassess the situation, possibly go around the island until she could get a good view of what she was up against. Either that, or she could just run back to the van and drive off.

But the moment she was away from the tiny clearing surrounding the altar, things became even more confusing. Sounds were distorted by the undergrowth, the shape began to move faster, its thrashing becoming more animal-like. Anxiety knotted in her chest. She put her head down and dashed, but she hadn't gone far when her foot caught on a branch which she was convinced hadn't been there before. She went sprawling; the impact knocked the wind out of her. As she attempted to scramble back to her feet, a dark shape loomed above her like a cloud moving across the sun. Cold, unforgiving. She glanced up into a face which registered for only the merest instant before her consciousness winked out under the protest of an incomprehensible, alien sight.

When she came round, Church was crouching next to her. The others had gathered a few feet away, watching her with concern.

"Stop looking at me," she snapped.

"What happened?" Church asked.

"There was something here, in the trees." As her thoughts whizzed, she became aware of a dull ache on the back of her right hand. She raised it slowly, turning it until she located the right spot. Burned into the flesh was a familiar design: interlocking leaves in a circle.

Laura's attention snapped on to Ruth who was staring in shock at the tattoo. It matched the one she carried: the mark of Cernunnos delivered to her after the confrontation in Wales.

"Get a grip. It doesn't make us sisters." Laura rubbed her hand, obscuring the sign.

"It looks as if our great nature god has decided to honour two of our number," Shavi said thoughtfully.

"He told me there were two of us." Ruth looked at Laura curiously.

"What's the matter? Can't believe you're not special any more?" Laura let Church haul her to her feet, then quickly thrust her hand into her trouser pocket. "So does this mean I'm going to be a witch-bitch too?"

"It simply means," Tom said, "that Cernunnos has some plan for you."

"That's a relief," Laura said sourly. "I thought it was something bad."

They rowed back across the water in silence. Laura seemed even more locked-off than normal, ignoring all their attempts to get her to talk about her experience, but they could see it lay on her shoulders like a rock. Church, who probably understood her the best-and even then, not very well at all-saw something in her eyes that made him want to take her on one side and hold her; it was a look that suggested she was ready to run from something with which she could no longer cope.

As they gathered at the water's edge, mulling over what the encounter meant, Shavi glanced towards the van and raised the alarm. They all scrambled over the rocks as one, but Church was the first one to reach it, not quite believing what he was seeing. On the bonnet was a dead rabbit, its blood trickling down towards the radiator grille. It had been gutted, the stomach cavity splayed to the air, its internal organs carefully laid out beside it.

"What the fuck's this?" Veitch said in disgust.

Shavi stepped forward and examined the carcass without touching it. "It was left for us particularly," he said after a brief moment. "You can see the precise nature of the cuts. Someone took the time to do this."

"Is it linked to what happened on the island?" Ruth asked.

Tom shook his head. "I wouldn't think-"

"Wait!" Shavi leaned forward to peer into the stomach cavity. "There is something in here."

"Don't touch it," Ruth pleaded.

Church watched her from the corner of his eye; she seemed unnaturally fearful, as if she were sensing something without being aware of it. "Be careful," he cautioned.

Shavi looked around until he located two twigs which he held like chopsticks. Cautiously he used them to investigate the rabbit's interior. A second later he retracted what at first appeared to be a small pink slug smeared in blood.

"That is gross!" Laura screwed up her face, but couldn't tear her eyes away.

It was a finger, severed at the knuckle.

Shavi laid it on the bonnet and they all gathered round, as if they expected it to move. "Who could it belong to?" Shavi mused. "And why was it left here for us?"

Veitch scanned the deserted hillsides, which were suddenly unwelcoming and lonely. "We should be getting out of here."

The grisly discovery cast a pall over their journey south. For the first few miles they travelled without speaking, struggling to make sense of it all, feeling a deep dread creeping out of the mystery. There was something about the image that was inherently evil, ritualistic, beyond mere threat. Yet it made no sense, and it was that which wormed its way into their subconscious and lay there, gnawing silently.

They picked up the A9 just north of Inverness and followed it south through the rugged, desolate landscape of the Cairngorms. Two technology crashes slowed them up and it soon became apparent they would be searching for somewhere to stay in Edinburgh by the time the curfew came around. The best option seemed to be to break their journey and set off for the city fresh and early the next day. So, hungry and bored with the road, they arrived in the small town of Callander at the foot of the Highlands in the late afternoon.

The jumbled collection of stone buildings nestled so hard against the thickly wooded foothills that, with the mountains soaring up in the background all around, they felt instantly enveloped and protected; it was a pleasant sensation after all the wide open spaces. The town smelled of fish and chips and pine, but that too was oddly soothing. A lot more people were wandering around than they had seen for days, their faces free of the taint of fear. It gave hope that the major centres of population still hadn't been too affected.

It was a long time since they had experienced the comfort of a soft bed so they opted to spend the night in a hotel. The Excelsior lay at the end of the main street, a Gothic-styled pile of stone that resembled a fortress with its turrets on four corners and enormous windows looking out on all sides. The thick, wild forest swept down almost to the very back of it, but it still seemed a place that could be secure.

While the others rested or abluted, Church and Veitch went down to the hotel bar. It was comfortingly cool and dark away from the bright afternoon sun and had the cosy feel of a place which had grown organically rather than been designed to fit the frenzied drive for increased profits. Veitch had a Stella, Church a Guinness, and they took their drinks to a table in a window bay where they could look out on to the sun-drenched main street.

"It's the little things I'm going to miss," Veitch said introspectively.

"What do you mean?"

"Like this." He held up the pint so it glowed golden in a sunbeam. "If things carry on falling apart, we're not going to keep getting things like this, are we? It won't be important. All the bigshots will be making sure everyone just has enough food, trying to keep the riots to a minimum."

Church laughed quietly. "So that's your motivation, is it? Fight for the pint?"

"No," Witch replied indignantly, missing the humour. "It's just the little things that bring all this shit home. You look out there and you can almost believe everything's the same as it always was. But it's right on the brink of going belly-up. How long do you think it's got?"

Church shrugged. "Depends how soon the Fomorii and the Tuatha De Danann start flexing their muscles and really screwing things up. Maybe they'll leave us alone enough to carry on with some kind of normality." Even to himself, he didn't sound very convincing.

There was a long pause while they both sipped their beer and then Veitch said, "You know what those spooks said. About one of us being a snake in the grass. It isn't me, you know." He looked at Church uncomfortably. "Because with my past record, I know that's what everyone's going to be thinking."

"I don't think that's true, Ryan."

"Don't get me wrong, I don't blame them. Everything I've ever done points in that direction. I'm just saying. It's not me." His gaze shifted away as he asked, "Do you believe me? It's important that you believe me. The others, I don't-" He held back from whatever he was about to say.

Church thought for a moment, then replied, "I believe you."

Veitch's shoulders relaxed and he couldn't restrain a small, relieved smile which crept around the lip of his glass. He finished the lager with a long draught. "All right, then. Who do you think it is?"

"It's hard to believe any of us could be some kind of traitor. I think I'm a pretty good judge of human nature and I don't see anything that makes me even slightly suspicious."

"The old hippie sold us down the river once."

"But that wasn't his doing. Anyway, that's been sorted out. Once the parasite was removed from his head he was back to normal."

Veitch leaned back in his seat and rested one foot on a stool. "You reckon they were making it up then?"

"Not making it up exactly. It seems to me that whenever any information comes over from some supernatural source, it's never quite how you think it is. They're saying one thing, you hear another. I think they do it on purpose, another power thing," he added with weary exasperation.

"Well, I'm going to be watching everyone very carefully."

"That's what I'm worried about. I don't want paranoia screwing things up from within. There's enough of a threat outside."

An old man with a spine curved by the years and a face that was little more than skin on bone shuffled in and cast a curious glance in their direction before making his way to the bar. He was wearing a checked, flat cap and a long brown overcoat, despite the warmth of the day. Pint in hand, he headed towards a seat in a shadowy corner, then seemed to think twice and moved over to the table next to them.

"Mind if I sit here?" His accent had the gentle, lilting quality of the Highlands, his voice steady, despite his appearance. Once he'd settled, he glanced at them with jovial slyness. "Out-of-towners?"

"We're travelling down to Edinburgh," Church said noncommittally.

"On holiday?"

"Something like that."

The old man sipped his beer thoughtfully. "You wouldn't happen to know what's going on in the world, would you?"

"What do you mean?"

"With the papers all printing junk and the TV and the radio playing the same old rubbish from the Government, you can't get any news worth hearing. It's got to be something bad to shut down the TV. We always get lots of tourists travelling through here from the cities, but there's been nary a soul over the last few days. So what have you seen?"

Church wondered how he could begin to explain to the man what was happening; wondered if he should. Veitch interjected before he could reply, "All seems pretty normal to me, mate."

"Aye, that's what everyone round here is saying. Oh, there was a bit of panic when those Government messages started repeating, but once the police went round calming everyone down and we all saw it wasn't the end of the world, everyone carried on as normal." He chuckled. "What are we going to do with us, eh?"

"So what do you think's happening?" Church asked.

"Aye, well," the old man rubbed his chin, "that's the question. Like I say, at the moment it doesn't seem too bad. Oh, there's a few things you can't seem to get in the shops, but there's talk they might be rationing petrol-"

"Oh?" Church glanced at Veitch, both aware of the problems that might arise if their ability to travel was hampered.

"Aye. So they say. Could be shortages. And the phone's off more than it's on. It's awful hard trying to find out what's happening in the next village, never mind in the cities." He looked at Church and Veitch with a tight smile. "Reminds me of the war."

Church glanced out into the main street at a boy cycling by lazily. "I bet you get a lot of your income round here from tourism. What's going to happen if that dries up?"

"People will find a way to get by." The old man took out a pipe that looked as ancient as he appeared and began to feed it with tobacco from a leather pouch. "They always do, don't they? The Blitz spirit. People find a way."

They all gathered in the bar at 6 p.m. to eat. The food was plain but filling and it was even more comforting to feed on something they hadn't prepared themselves on a Calor Gaz stove. The atmosphere in the place seemed so secure and easy-going after their nights on the road that even Laura's usual complaining seemed half-hearted.

After they ordered drinks, they assessed their situation and considered their plans for the future. Ruth and Shavi were bank-rolling them as the others had all run out of funds, but the two of them still had enough savings to keep them going. They discussed the possibility of fuel rationing and agreed to top up the tank first thing and, if possible, get some large diesel containers they could keep in the back. None of them discussed their prospects for success, nor did they mention Balor by name, although his presence hung oppressively on the edge of the conversation.

Apart from a few minor points, it was the severed finger that concerned them the most. During the day its obscure symbolism had set unpleasant reso nances deep in their minds, triggering images which they couldn't recognise; the lack of obvious meaning made them feel hunted and insecure.

"The Fomorii wouldn't have resorted to such a subtle tactic," Tom noted. "They would have been upon us in an instant. But they don't care about us any longer. We're no longer a threat. In their eyes, we have failed in our primary mission."

"Losers," Veitch said with obvious irritation. "At least if they're not watching us we can come up on their blind side."

Church was heartened to see the fatalism which had infected them ever since they came together was slowly dissipating; now there seemed no doubt that they could do something, however little that might be. Against the allpowerful forces lined against them, that was a great victory in itself.

"It has the hallmark of someone working alone," Shavi noted. "In this new world, perhaps we inadvertently antagonised something. Trespassed on land it presumed was its own."

"But who did the finger belong to?" Ruth asked.

"Some poor bastard," Church muttered.

"Let us hope it was a warning not to go back there," Shavi said, "and that it has not decided to pursue us for recompense."

The hotel was holding its weekly ceilidh that night and by 7:30 p.m. the regulars began to drift in to the large lounge next to the bar. The band had already started to set up; it was the fiddle player's intense warm-up which had attracted Church and the others. They wandered in with their drinks and were welcomed with surprising warmth. The old man Church and Veitch had met in the bar earlier was there and gave them a wink as they took a beer from the barrels lined up on a table at one end of the room.

At 8 p.m. the dancing began. The moment the fiddle player launched into his reel the lounge turned into a maelstrom of whirling men and women of all ages, skirts flying, heels flicking, grins firmly set on faces. A girl of around seventeen grabbed Shavi's arm and dragged him into the throng. He took to the dance with gusto.

Veitch backed off in case anyone pulled him in. "Bleedin' Scottish dancing. Not my scene, mate," he muttered.

The drink was flowing as fast as the music, with every glass of beer followed by a chaser of malt. In that atmosphere of wild abandon and life celebration it was impossible not to become involved, and soon Church and the others had lost all thought of the stresses and tensions that assailed them.

As the night drew on, they made new friends and drifted from conversation to conversation. Shavi seemed particularly popular with the young women and Ruth with the men; she surprised herself by revelling in the attention she was getting, a liberating experience after the oppression of the previous few weeks.

Sweating after a vigorous dance, she adjourned to the bar area where she found Laura lounging against the wall, sipping on a glass of neat vodka.

"Keeping all the boys happy," Laura said coolly.

Over the weeks, Ruth had learned to ignore Laura's baiting, but with the drink rushing round her system, she found herself bristling. "I can understand how you'd be jealous of someone who's popular."

"Jealous? Look in the mirror, Frosty."

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean."

Ruth did, and that irritated her even more. "If you think I'm bothered about you and Church-"

"It's pretty obvious you've been trying to wrestle him to the ground since you met him. But he's got about as much in common with you as he has with Shavi. Face it, the best woman won." Laura smiled tightly, but her eyes were cold and hard.

Ruth could feel her anger growing, which made her even more angry. She hated to lose control, but somehow Laura knew how to punch all the right buttons. "Do I hear desperation in your voice? Now you've got him, you're afraid of losing him, aren't you?"

Laura thought about this for a moment. "We're right for each other."

"What you mean is, he's right for you. You've finally found someone strong enough to carry the weight of all your emotional baggage." Ruth caught herself before she said anything more hurtful.

"What do you know about emotions? You're an ice queen." Laura tried to maintain her cool, but she knocked back her vodka in one go.

"That shows how much you know."

"All I'm saying is, stay away from him. I saw you talking to him the other night, trying to wheedle your way into his affections-"

"I wouldn't dream-" Ruth caught herself as her defiance suddenly surfaced. In the background the music was raging and she had to raise her voice. "And what would you do if I did?"

Laura turned and stared at her for a long moment with eyes impossible to read and then walked away through the crowd.

Veitch and Shavi had got into a drinking competition, knocking down shots while they were egged on by a cheering crowd. But all paused as Tom stepped onto the small, makeshift stage and whispered something to the fiddle player. A second later the musician handed over his instrument which Tom shouldered before beginning to tap out a rhythm with his right foot. And then he started to play, a low, mournful sound that made everyone in the room stop what they were doing and stare. The tune was mediaeval in construction, the melody filled with the ache of loneliness, of love never-to-be-found, of yearning and failed desire; Church felt a cold knot develop in his chest, but Tom's face was impassive, his eyes icy. And then, as if he had suddenly awoken to the fact that he had dampened the mood, Tom began to pick up the beat, slowly at first, but then quicker and quicker, until he had developed the melody into a rampant jig. A couple down the front began to clap, and the sound ripped back through the crowd until everyone was joining in, physically driving the mood back up. Within a couple of minutes, everyone was dancing again and Tom seemed to be having the time of his life.

As Church sipped on his glass of malt, his head woozy from drink, feeling uncommonly happy for the first time in days, he felt a strange sensation prickling along his spine, as if someone was watching him. In the days since he had first encountered the unknown under Albert Bridge he had learned to be attentive to his instincts. He turned quickly. There was no one behind him, but the door to the corridor which ran down to the hotel entrance was open. For a second or two, he weighed his options, then crept over to the doorway and peered out. The corridor was empty.

He had just about convinced himself it was nothing but his imagination at work when the door out on to the street swung open slightly, as if it had been buffeted by a breeze; as it did, he thought he heard a faint, melodic voice calling his name.

His heart picked up a beat, but after all he had been through, he still didn't feel wary. There was something… a feeling, perhaps… which seemed to be floating in the air from the direction of the door and it was overwhelmingly comforting. His first reaction was that he was being summoned by the spirit of Marianne, as he had been twice before, but it felt different this time. He finished his whisky, left his glass on an ornamental table in the corridor and walked towards the door.

The main street was completely still, although it wasn't late in the evening. The streetlights were bright, but not so much that they obscured the glittering array of stars in the clear sky. The night itself was balmy with the promise of summer just around the corner. He looked up and down the deserted street until he saw something which caught his eye.

Across the road was the park that rolled down to the river. During the day it had been filled with the whoops of children racing around the adventure playground and the jeers of teenagers hanging out next to the log cabin where the refreshments were served, but at that time it was deserted and unnervingly quiet. He crossed the road and leant on the wall, searching the paths that wound among the waving, fluffy-tipped pampas grass. Something moved. His rational mind told him it would be ridiculous to venture down into those wide open spaces, but his instincts didn't register anything that worried him. He steeled himself, then opened the gate.

Away from the streetlights, he was uncomfortably aware of the wild presence of nature looming away in the dark, but the splashing of the river prevented the silence becoming too oppressive. Whatever had brought him down there seemed to be leading him. Every now and then he would catch sight of a movement ahead, steering him down the paths until he was following the course of the river back towards the heart of the town. Eventually he came up to a brick bridge with an old churchyard next to it. It was an odd, triangular shape, the jumbled mass of markers mildewed, with some so timeworn they resembled the ancient standing stones of Gairloch. The grass among them was thick and along the walls age-old trees were so gnarled and wind-blasted they looked like menacing figures daring him to enter. It was so eerily atmospheric in the quiet that he almost did turn back, but after another movement on the far side, he took a deep breath and swung open the green, iron gate that hung ajar.

Cautiously, he moved among the white and grey stones muttering, "Stupid, stupid, stupid," under his breath, but the truth was, he still didn't feel any sense of threat. And then he reached the far side and the shape that had been luring him was no longer insubstantial.

Before him stood the woman he had encountered in the Watchtower floating between the worlds, the one who had visited him on the edge of dreams as a child, and freed him from the Fomorii cells, claiming to be his patron. She was one of the Tuatha De Danann, infused with the beauty which permeated that race. It was almost as if her skin was glowing with a faint golden light. Her eyes, too, were flecked with gold, and her hair tumbled lustrously about her shoulders. She was wearing the same dress of dark green he remembered from before; its material was indeterminate, but it clung to her form in a way that was powerfully appealing.

She was smiling seductively, her eyes sparkling. At first Church felt as entranced as he had the first time they met as adults, but gradually a mix of other emotions surfaced: suspicion, sadness and then anger.

"You tricked me," he said. The anger took shape, hardened. "You and all your people. You had Marianne killed. So I could be shaped into your slave to set your people free in your hour of need. You discarded a human life-" he snapped his fingers "-just like that."

There was no sign in her face that she had been offended by his words. "There is little I can say to put right the hurt you feel." Her voice remained gentle. "There is tragedy stitched into the fabric of the lives of all fragile Creatures and sometimes my people, in their endless, timeless existence, forget the suffering that comes from a simple passing." For a surprising second, he thought he saw real tenderness in her eyes. "I have been close to you all your life, Jack Churchill. I watched when you were born, when you played and learned. And when you were old enough, I came to you on the edge of sleep to see if you were the one who fitted the eternal pattern. The true hero infused with the glorious essence of this land. I saw in you…" She paused and, for the first time, seemed to have trouble finding the correct words. "… a nobility and passion which transcended the nature of most Frail Creatures. The Filid will one day sing tales of the great Jack Churchill."

"That's not-"

She held up her hand to silence him. "My part in this was small. I guided the destinies of the Brothers and Sisters of Dragons, but the decision to shape you in the crucible of death was taken elsewhere. It was never my intention to see you hurt, Jack."

There was something in her words, in the turn of her head and the shimmer of emotion across her features, that made him think she was saying something else beyond the obvious. Her eyes were so deep and numinous he felt swallowed up by them; he couldn't maintain his anger towards her.

"If not you, then someone else is responsible. They'll have to pay. I can't forgive and forget what's been done to me, to all of us."

"Nor would I expect you to."

"Then who arranged it? And who carried out the act? Who killed Marianne and the others?"

"I cannot say."

"You can't or you won't?" He tried to keep his voice stable in case he offended her. Despite her demeanour, he sensed great power and unpredictability just beneath the surface.

She pressed her hands together, almost as if she was praying. "From your perspective, we may seem untrammelled by responsibility, as fluid in our actions as our natures. But we are bound by laws in the same way that you are, in the same way as the mountains, the seas and the wind. No one is truly free. I cannot tell you what you wish to know."

"I'll find out."

She nodded, said nothing.

Once he had got that out of his system, he became more aware of the situation. "Why've you come to me?"

"To renew our acquaintance. To show you that I have no desire to abandon you, even though my people have achieved their desire."

Church was troubled by the complexity of the emotions running through him. He felt drawn to the woman, but he couldn't tell if that was an honest feeling or simply a by-product of her manipulation of him over the years. "What are you saying? That you want to be an ally?"

"That, and more."

"How, more? A friend, then?"

She didn't reply. Her smile remained seductive.

Church felt a shiver of attraction run through him, fought it. "If we're going to be friends, then you ought to tell me your name."

"I have many names, like all my brethren."

He waited, refusing to be drawn by her game-playing.

Her smile grew wider. "I have been known as the Queen of the Waste Lands."

This raised a spark of recognition in Church, but he couldn't remember where he had heard it before.

"Of the many names I have been called when I last freely walked your world, the one most used by your people was Niamh."

"Niamh," he repeated softly. A gentle dreaminess seemed to encircle them both; when he looked away from her, the surroundings shimmered and sparkled. "So you're royalty?"

"In the hierarchy of the Golden Ones, I hold a position of privilege." She held out a hand to him, and he didn't think he could resist it even if he had wanted to.

Her fingers were long and cool. They closed around his and gently pulled him towards her. As he moved in, the scent of her filled his nostrils, like lime and mint. For a moment they seemed to hang in stasis, their eyes locked; Church felt he was being pulled beneath green waves, deep, deep down to the darkness where miracles and wonders lived. And then, slowly, she moved her face closer. He felt the bloom of her breath on his lips; a tremor of anticipation ran through him down to his groin. When her lips touched his, he almost jolted from a burst of energy that could have been physical, emotional or psychological, but it left his head spinning. Her lips were as soft as peach-skin and tasted of some fruit he couldn't quite place. Her tongue flicked out and delicately caressed the tip of his own. And then the passion rushed through him, driving out all conscious thought, filling him up with insanity, and he was kissing her harder and feeling his hands slide around her slim waist to her back. And the sensation was so beyond anything he had experienced before he was suddenly tumbling through a haze into blackness.

There was darkness and then awareness that someone was summoning him. Church thought instantly: I'm dreaming, although he knew in the same instant that it wasn't a dream. From his vantage point at the centre of an inky cloud he saw Ruth's owl circling and at first he wondered obliquely if it was hunting. Then he realised its movements were frantic, as if it was disturbed by something attacking it.

"What's wrong," he called out; his voice sounded like it had come from the bottom of a well.

The owl drew nearer, and then, suddenly, it was not an owl, although he wasn't quite sure what it was. It had the shape of a man, yet certain characteristics of an owl around its face, and batlike wings sprouting from its back which flapped powerfully. There was something so terrible about it that he couldn't bring himself to look it full in the face.

You must go to her. The creature's voice sounded like a metal crate being dragged over concrete. She is in great danger. I can do nothing.

"Who?" Church asked.

Blood. Its voice was almost threatening. Blood everywhere.

Church woke on the ground so disturbed he instantly jumped to his feet, as if he were under attack. An overwhelming sense of dread flooded his system. At first he couldn't fathom what was happening to him, but as he frantically looked around the deserted churchyard it started to come back. There was no sign of Niamh. And with his next thought he recalled the odd dream of the owl-thing and suddenly he understood his feelings.

"Ruth," he murmured fearfully.

Shavi, Veitch and Tom were gathered together around a table in the hotel lounge. Church had no idea how much time had passed, but everyone else in the room had gone. They all looked up in surprise as he burst in.

"Where's Ruth?" he barked.

"Went upstairs," Veitch slurred. "Ages ago. Couldn't stand the-"

But Church was already sprinting back out into the corridor to the stairs. As he reached the foot, he was brought up sharp by Laura, who was just making her way down. She was staring at her hands in a daze, leaning heavily against the bannister. In horror Church saw she was splattered with blood.

"My God." His voice seemed to be coming from somewhere else. Desper ately, his eyes ranged from Laura's hands, to her face, to the blood. "What's happened to her?"

Laura shook her head blankly, struggled to find any words that made sense. But all the backed-up tension had suddenly burst out and Church was taking the steps two at a time, pushing past her. At the top he bolted down the landing until he came to Ruth's room. The door was ominously open. He kicked it wide and barged in.

There was blood splattered across the quilt, droplets thrown up the wall like a Jackson Pollock painting, a small pool already soaking into the thick carpet. Church glanced around frantically. Ruth was nowhere to be seen.

He was halfway back to the door when his eyes lighted on the small table under the window and he was brought up sharp. Laura appeared in the door, still looking like she was somewhere else. But when her gaze followed Church's it was like she had been slapped across the face.

"Jesus!" Her hand involuntarily went to her mouth.

On the table was another finger in a little puddle of blood with other droplets spattered around. And from its long delicate shape they could tell it was Ruth's.

A few seconds later the others shambled in. Although they were worse for wear from the alcohol they soon sobered up when they glanced from Laura's tearstreaked face to Church's bloodless expression of horror and despair.

Before any of them could speak, Church shrugged off the paralysis and ran out onto the landing. For the first time he noticed tiny splatters of blood leading away from Ruth's room down the stairs. Frantically he threw himself down them, following the stains out to the street. But there the trail ended and he found himself running backwards and forwards along the deserted road searching futilely for any sign of what had happened to her.

Back in the bedroom, the others could read what he had found in his dejected face.

Veitch suddenly noticed Laura standing apart, still in shock. "What did you do?" His voice rumbled out infused with so much threat, Church felt his blood run cold.

Laura shook her head dumbly. "I don't know-"

Veitch moved quickly. He was already gripping Laura's shoulders roughly before the others realised. "You better tell us, you bitch. You're the one! Look at all the blood-"

"Ryan!" Church and Shavi grabbed him by the arms and hauled him off her roughly. His face was filled with rage.

"Look at the blood!" Veitch spat accusingly.

Laura held out her hands which were stained red. "It's not like that-"

"What is it, then?" Veitch struggled briefly, than allowed the others to restrain him.

"I was asleep on my bed," Laura began hesitantly. "I woke up… some kind of noise. My head was fuzzy… you know, the drink." She looked around the room, didn't seem to see any of them. "I got up to find out what it was… thought it might have been Church. When I was out on the landing there was another noise. I saw Ruth's door was open."

"Who was there, Laura?" Shavi asked calmly.

Her eyes widened and filled with tears as she looked past him into the shadows in the corners of the room. "I don't know… I can't remember!"

Veitch searched her face. "You're lying," he said coldly.

She shook her head, held out her hands pleadingly, but all anyone could see was the blood.

"You don't remember anything?" Church asked.

There was a flicker of pain in her eyes. "Don't you believe me?" She started to back towards the corner.

"Stay calm, Laura." Shavi's voice was warm and reassuring. "We are simply trying to find out what has happened to Ruth-"

"We haven't got time for this!" Veitch snapped. His clipped movements and roving eyes reminded Church of an animal; he was surprised how concerned Witch seemed to be for someone who had hated him only a few days before; it suggested feelings beyond friendship. Church laid a calming hand on Veitch's upper arm. He half-expected Veitch to throw it off instantly, but the Londoner responded almost deferentially.

Laura slumped on to a chair in the corner and rested her head in her hands before realising she was smearing the blood over her face. She jumped up in a fury and stormed into the bathroom to wash herself.

Her departure seemed to break the dam of disbelief that constrained the others. "Why weren't we more careful? Christ, we should have known by now." Church's voice hummed with repressed emotion.

Veitch glanced from one to the other. "Do you think she did it?" he whispered, jerking his head towards the bathroom. "All that blood on her-"

Church gnawed on a knuckle. The others looked away, unsure what to say.

Veitch scrubbed his face, suddenly sober, then walked over to the window and threw back the curtains. "Where is she?" Then, fearfully: "Do you think she's dead?"

"They'd have left a body," Church replied. "Wouldn't they?"

"Unless they needed it for ritual purposes," Tom noted. Church glared at him for his unfeeling bluntness.

Veitch finally found it within himself to look at the finger on the table. "What kind of a sick bastard would do a thing like that? Christ, what must she have felt-" His voice choked off.

Shavi dropped to his haunches to scrutinise the stains on the carpet. "The amount of blood is commensurate with the removal of a finger. There is a chance-"

"Don't touch it!" Tom yelled as Veitch stretched out a trembling hand towards the finger. Veitch snatched his arm back as if he'd been burned.

Tom marched over and bent down to examine the finger at table height. "I think it's a sign." He removed his cracked glasses and said, "Which direction do you think it's pointing?"

Shavi glanced out of the window. "The sun set over there," he said with a chopping motion of his hand, "so I would say, maybe, south-east."

Tom replaced his glasses and stood up. "Exactly south-east, I would guess. Towards Edinburgh."

Church broke the long silence that followed Tom's comment. "What does it mean?"

"Whoever did it is showing us the way. They want us to follow." He stared out to the shrouded countryside that lay beyond the feeble lights of the town. "In all this there is the pathology of evil, of ritual. Somebody is trying to bend the power that is loose in the land towards darkness."

"Calatin?" Church suggested. "Mollecht? Some other Fomor?"

Tom shook his head. "This is not their way. It is the first play in a new game."