Darkest hour

Chapter Five

There was never-ending darkness, and pain, more than she thought she could bear. How long had it gone on for now? Months? Ruth's head swam, every fibre of her body infused with agony. At least the sharp lances that had been stabbing through her hand where her finger had been severed had subsided, a little. She didn't dare think how the wound had healed in the dirty confines of her tiny cell.

Since she had been snatched from the hotel in Callander she had cried so many tears of pain and anger and frustration she didn't feel she had any more left in her. Through all the hours of meaningless torture, it was the hope that kept her going: that she would find a way out, however futile that seemed; that the others would rescue her. But it had been so long- She drove the thought from her mind. Stay strong, she told herself. Be resilient.

It would have helped if all the suffering had been for a reason, something she could have drawn strength from by resisting, but the Fomorii holding her captive seemed merely to want to impose hurt on her in their grimly equipped torture chambers. They had held back from inflicting serious damage-they always stopped when Ruth blacked out-but she felt it was only a matter of time before they lost interest in their sport.

Feeling like an old woman, she shuffled into a sitting position. Her straw bedding dug into the bare flesh of her legs. She'd mapped the cell out in her mind long ago: a bare cube carved out of the bedrock, not big enough to allow her to lie fully out, smelling of damp, scattered with dirty straw, a roughly made wooden door that had resisted all attempts to kick it open.

There's still hope. It was her mantra now, repeated every time the despair threatened to close in.

She couldn't remember anything about her capture, who did it, how it happened, where she had been brought. Her recent memory began with the shock and dismay when she discovered her missing finger and she wondered if it was the upheaval of that discovery which had driven out all the other thoughts.

Somewhere distant the deep, funereal tolling of a bell began. Soon they would come for her again. Tears sprang to her eyes unbidden and she hastily wiped them away with the back of her hand. She wasn't weak, she would survive.

There's still hope.

Afterwards, with the pain still fresh in her mind and her limbs, she enjoyed the cool, anonymous embrace of the darkness, where thoughts were all; this was the place she could live the life she wanted to live. But, as had happened so many times, the balm was soon disrupted by the familiar voice which made her think of the serrated teeth of a saw being drawn across a window pane.

"Does the light still burn?"

"It burns," she replied. "Not brightly, but it's there. You're a good teacher." She caught herself. "Teacher. I still haven't worked out what our relationship is. Are you a teacher, aide, confidant-?" She wanted to add master, but a frightened part of her made her hold back.

"All of those, and more. I have been entrusted with your well-being." The sound of his words made her think he was smiling darkly, wherever it was in the gloom he existed. Though he had been helpful and supportive, she had an abiding sense that buried within him was a contempt for her powerlessness.

"What are you?" she asked, as she always did in their conversations.

And he replied as he always did: "I am who you want me to be." It had almost become their little joke.

But she didn't know, and that unnerved her. She remembered all she had read throughout her life about familiars being demons or sprites doing the Devil's bidding, and however much she had grown to realise that was propaganda put out by the early Church, she still couldn't shake the irrational fears it had set in her. Whatever, she knew she would have to stay measured and protective in her dealings with him.

"I think I prefer you as an owl," she noted. When the Goddess had gifted her the familiar in the dark countryside outside Bristol, she hadn't realised what she was taking on; certainly with regard to what the Goddess had planned for her, but she had grown into it, reluctantly. And after her meeting with the woman who practised the Craft in the Lake District, she had seen its benefits. But still, she was scared. There was so much she didn't know, so many repercussions she couldn't begin to grasp. And she was afraid that when they did happen they would be terrible; and it would be too late to go back. "So what's the lesson for today?" she continued hesitantly.

The voice began, telling her dark, troubling secrets: about the way the world worked, about nature, some things she didn't feel comfortable hearing at all, for they hinted at greater, darker mysteries which underpinned every aspect of existence. But her body of knowledge about the Craft was growing. There in the dark she had learned how to use thorn apples and white waterlilies to make flying ointments, how Christmas roses could convey invisibility, how periwinkles could spark passion in the right potion and how henbane could be used to conjure spirits and intensify clairvoyance. She had discovered which plants could be used for healing and which for protection. And she knew the release of sexual energy was the core of all magick, linked directly to the blue fire that bound together the spirit of the world. Amazingly, she seemed to understand it all on first hearing and forgot none of it.

Time passed. There was a brief discussion about the raising of storms and communication with animals, enough to pique her interest and to make her realise how much there still was to learn.

"And all of this works as you say?" she asked.

"All works if applied in the correct manner by the right strength of will."

"If I don't get out of here all this information is going to be a complete waste, isn't it?"

He ignored her question. "This secret knowledge exists to be put into practice and it will be meaningless to you until you do so. Do you understand the message that underpins this gift I give you?"

She thought for a moment. "No, I don't. I don't understand anything."

"Listen, well. There is no reality. There is no shape to anything, except the shape you give it. In these matters, your will is all-powerful. If you learn to apply it-"

"I can do anything." She weighed his words carefully. "If you're to be believed…" Her voice faded. Then: "There's always hope. That's what it means. It's down to me."

In the dark, he concurred. "There is always hope."

Church paced around the hotel room before coming to rest at the window, as he had done repeatedly over the last three hours. The sun was just beginning to tint the sky pink and pale purple away to the east.

"You are worried about her," Shavi stated.

"She can look after herself." The words sounded hollow the moment he uttered them. He knew Laura was resilient enough to cope in almost any situation, but the danger she always carried with her was the dark, self-destructive demon buried in her heart. And after their argument he feared she had been prepared to give full vent to that side of her nature, to punish both herself and him.

He turned back to Shavi, whose face was still bloodless an hour after he had returned to the hotel. Church knew that there was much more to his experiences in St. Mary's Close than the bare bones of information he had told them. But Shavi was defined by his decency and he wouldn't tell them anything that might burden them; his suffering was his own. Church couldn't resist clapping a supportive hand on his shoulder as he passed. When everything else seemed to be falling apart, he was glad for the people he had around him. It was more than he could have hoped for; he was surprised by the warmth of the feeling.

"Look, forget all the bollocks the spooks spouted," Veitch said with a grin. "Ruth's alive and kicking. That's the good thing, right? That's the important thing." He grew irritated when he looked around the room to see only gloomy expressions. "What's wrong with the lot of you?"

"The spirits implied her situation was dire," Shavi began. "We should not get our hopes-"

"Why should we believe them? All they do is talk in bleedin' riddles anyway-

"She's with the Fomorii, Ryan," Church cautioned. "We've both been there."

Veitch fell silent.

Shavi ran his fingers through his long hair. "What could they possibly want with her? I was under the impression we were beneath their notice since we failed to win over the Tuatha De Danann."

Tom waved a hand dismissively. "Her situation is not paramount-'

Church stepped in before Veitch could jump to his feet angrily. The South Londoner's eyes were blazing with the barely controllable rage he always carried close to the surface. "What's wrong with you? She's a friend, you bastard."

"This is about more than any of us. We're all dispensable." The coldness in Tom's eyes made Church shiver; the emotional detachment was so great he wondered how apart from them Tom really was.

"I thought you were supposed to be the big mythic hero," Veitch sneered. "Turning your back on a girl in trouble isn't very heroic, is it? You weasel."

Tom turned to Church. "Tell him. You understand."

Of course he understood, but he could barely put it into words because it was the antithesis of everything he felt: they were all disposable, their petty little human concerns, hopes and fears meaningless against the end of everything. He felt like he was trading off his humanity little by little. If they succeeded, would it be worth it if there was nothing of him left to appreciate it?

Before Church could open his mouth, Veitch saw in his face what he was about to say. With a contemptuous shake of his head, Veitch stalked over to the other side of the room where he stood with his back to them.

Tom pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. "Now that's out of the way-

"Have a little heart, for God's sake," Church snapped. "Just because you're right doesn't mean you have to stamp all over people's feelings."

Tom eyed him coolly. "Keep a level head," he cautioned.

"Let us examine the evidence," Shavi said diplomatically; his smile was calm and assured. "Do we have enough to move forward?"

Church sighed wearily. "Every time we try to get some information from anything supernatural it always ends up as mysteries wrapped in smoke and mirrors, so vague you can never be sure you've deciphered it correctly."

"They do it on purpose," Tom said. "They want to see us misinterpret their words and fail or suffer. It's a power thing. Good sport. But they have given us enough." He nodded to Shavi. "You did well." Coming from Tom, it was like a cheer.

Shavi looked down shyly. "`Seek out the stone from the place that gave succour to the plague victims.' Do you have any idea what that means?"

"Something particularly relevant to the residents of St. Mary's Close. A little research should turn it up."

"Then that will lead us to the Well of Fire," Church said. "And if we can find some way to bring that back to life, then we stand a chance of disrupting the Fomorii stronghold which we now know is somewhere beneath the castle."

"Destroy that," Tom said, "and we will prevent Balor returning. They would not have guarded the place with something as terrifying as the Cailleach Bheur if this was not the location for the ritual of rebirth."

Since they had been in Edinburgh they had all felt a darkness pressing heavily at their backs. It was something more than a premonition, almost as if the threat of Balor were reaching out from whatever terrible place his essence inhabited; as if he were aware of them. It left them desperate to win the struggle ahead, and dreading what would happen if they failed.

"And then we get Ruth," Veitch chipped in pointedly without turning from his investigation of the mini-bar. He pulled out a bottle of lager.

"But the spirits said the blue fire was not enough," Shavi noted. He stretched out his legs and rested his head on the back of the chair. "They said we should call for the Good Son, whatever that means."

Out of the corner of his eye Church saw a flicker cross Tom's face; it was like a cloud obscuring the sun. "What is it?" he said to Tom.

"Nothing." Tom looked at his feet. "A story I heard once long ago."

"Oi. Spit it out then. You were the one who said all those old tales were important," Veitch said irritatedly.

Tom walked over to the window where he seemed to be eyeing the rising sun suspiciously. "The Good Son was the name given by the ancient worshippers to one of the most important of the Tuatha De Danann. The Celts knew him as Maponus or Mabon-which simply means Son-or Oenghus. He was, in their stories, the son of Dagda, the Allfather, and the Great Mother. The Son of Light. When the Romans came into the Celtic lands he became associated with Apollo. When the Christians came, he was the Christ. He was linked to the sun, the giver of life. More double meanings, you see. The Good Sun."

"What, you're saying Jesus didn't exist?" Church asked.

"Of course not," Tom snapped. "I'm simply saying Maponus was an archetype. An original imprint that other cultures drew on for their own myths."

"Well, I'm glad you answered that one, then," Veitch said sarcastically.

"He was widely worshipped throughout the world," Tom continued. "The Divine Youth who would lead the world back into the light; he was a great musician, the player of the lyre, a great lover, a patron of the arts, worshipped at the sacred springs and seen as a direct line to the powers of creation. Beautiful, witty and charming. But there was another side to him." He paused. "The Irish used to call him the Lord of Love and Death."

The sun broke through the window, casting his distorted shadow across the wall; Church had a sudden vision of something monstrous moving across the room. "What happened?" he asked quietly.

"I have no idea. After the great sundering, when all the old gods and creatures of myth left here for Otherworld, some of them, the ones with the greatest bond to our world, returned. Maponus was one of those. His links were possibly the strongest of all. There was a reason he, of all the Tuatha lle Danann, was seen as a saviour by mortals. And then, suddenly, he disappeared."

The others waited for him to continue. "What happened?" Church prompted.

"The Tuatha lle Danann would never speak of it," he said hesitantly. "In all my time in Otherworld it was the one question I dared not ask." A shadow crossed his face. "That's wrong. I did ask it once. But never again." Church caught a glimpse of the same terrible expression Tom had worn when he had first told them about the suffering he underwent during the gods' ganger. "The Tuatha lle Danann indulged me. I was an amusement, a curiosity, but certainly not an equal. They considered me so far beneath them they would never discuss something they considered important. And this, whatever it was, was obviously of vital importance."

"If he disappeared, how the hell are we supposed to find him?" Veitch asked.

"When I returned to this world and was inducted into the secret knowledge of the land by the Culture…" He looked at them sharply as if he had given something away. "… the people of the Bone Inspector, I learned another strange story which perhaps shed a little light on it. One of the great old gods had been bound by the Culture in a place just south of Edinburgh, sealed in the earth for all time."

"I don't fucking understand." Witch's irritation was growing. "If this geezer was so loved, why was he banged up?" He glared at Tom as if the hippie was personally setting out to confuse him.

"I never learned why. That information was kept by the highest adepts within the Culture. I never stayed with them long enough to rise that high."

"The Culture… the people of the Bone Inspector… they seemed to have a lot of influence. Power," Church noted.

Tom nodded. "Supposedly eradicated by the Roman forces, they simply went underground, for centuries. But in the time when they bound the old god, they were at their strongest, worshipping in their groves, tending to the people, turning to face the sun at the solstice, standing proud, no longer stooped in hiding."

Veitch drained his lager and tossed the bottle into the waste bin with a crash. "I don't get it. I've seen these things in action. You can't just stand up and wave a sword at them."

"At that time, the keepers of the knowledge had unprecedented control of the lifeblood of the Earth. They used the blue fire to shackle a god."

"Then he is imprisoned still," Shavi noted, "waiting to be released?"

Tom merely looked out of the window towards the sun, closing his eyes when the light caught his face.

"Sounds a bit dodgy to me," Veitch said suspiciously. "He's not exactly going to be of a mind to help us after being underground all that time."

"I thought you were the one prepared to risk anything for your lady-love?" Tom said curtly.

"Can we control him?" Church asked. "How do we know the dead weren't lying to us, playing another of their games so we'd actually get into an even bigger mess? Like having an angry god giving us a good kicking for his unjust treatment."

"We don't know." Tom sighed. "But it makes a queer kind of sense. If the Fomorii are preparing for the rebirth of Balor in their fortress beneath the castle, it will have been deemed impregnable. They will not risk losing their sole reason for existing. The Cailleach Bheur…" He swallowed hard; his mouth had grown unfeasibly dry. "She is a power of nature, greater even than many of the powers you have already witnessed. Of all the gods, Maponus is possibly the only one who could hold her at bay, contain her so she didn't unleash the fimbul- winter. And if, at the same time, we could awaken the Well of Fire then the shadows might finally be turned back."

"Alternatively, everything could go to hell in a handcart," Church said acidly.

Tom shrugged. "Did you expect easy choices?"

"No, but I don't expect you to be glib, either," Church replied. He knew the decision would ultimately rest with him and he didn't feel up to making it. So much seemed to lie on every choice. He wished he could just return to the pathetic little life he had before.

"Do you know where Maponus is imprisoned?" Shavi asked.

"Not exactly. Not to the foot. But I know the place." He took off his glasses and rubbed a hand over his tired eyes. "A place called Rosslyn Chapel."

"I have heard of it," Shavi mused. "A place of many mysteries. But it was founded many years after the time of which you speak."

"And the Good Son was there long before the first stone of Rosslyn Chapel was laid. The building was devised as a resting place."

"I remember now." Shavi took the bottled water Veitch handed him from the mini-bar. "The chapel is famous for its blend of Celtic, Christian and Masonic iconography in its structure. For a supposedly Christian place of worship there are pagan symbols everywhere, more representations of the Green Man than anywhere else in the land."

"And The Green Man," Church said, "is another way of saying Cernunnos-"

"Cernunnos was an important element in the ritual of binding. He is, to be glib-" he glanced at Church "-the flip side of Maponus. The thick, dark forests to the sunlit plains. Winter to summer. Night to day."

"His brother," Church ventured.

"As if that term means anything to them."

"I am impressed that the memory of Maponus survived the centuries strong enough to prompt the erection of such a magnificent, codified building," Shavi said.

Tom nodded thoughfully. "A good point. Of those few who held the knowledge, a separate group was established in perpetuity. The members were called, in our parlance, Watchmen. Their aim was not only to keep the knowledge of the old god's imprisonment, but that a line of civil defence would be established to prepare for any further incursions from Otherworld. They were of their own creed to begin with, but as the role was essentially spiritual, when Christianity began to become established, representatives were chosen from the new Church. And from all the other faiths that eventually set up roots in this land. Over time, each faith's Watchmen became almost separate entities, unaware of those groups formed by their rivals. But they all kept the same knowledge and the same mission."

"It was one of the Watchmen who pointed us in the right direction at Glastonbury." Shavi moistened his throat with the water. Some of the blood seemed to have returned to his features, much to Church's relief. "And it was another group which built Rosslyn Chapel?"

Tom nodded. "Under the direction of Sir William St. Clair, a prince of Orkney. In the increasingly Godless twentieth century most of the groups have withered. I have no idea if one still exists at Rosslyn-"

The faint knock at the door made him tense, as if he had heard a gun being cocked. Before anyone could speak, Veitch was already moving on perfectly balanced limbs until he was poised at the door jamb, ready to act. He looked to Church for guidance.

Church waited a moment then called out, "Who's there?"

"Laura." Her voice sounded like paper in the wind.

Veitch wrenched open the door and she almost collapsed in. Church moved forward quickly to catch her.

She looked into his face before her eyelids flickered and a faint smile spread across her lips. "You know, I always saw it like this."

It was midmorning before she had recovered. Faintly contrite but determined not to show it, Laura sat in a sunbeam on the bed, wrapped in a blanket, her skin like snow, her pupils still dilated so much her eyes seemed black. She had attempted to tell them the full horror of what had happened at the club, but so much had been tied into her trip she couldn't separate reality from hallucination herself. "Maybe that spy was right," she said. "Maybe it is all how we see it in our heads. Who knows what's really happening?"

"Exactly!" Shavi began excitedly. "Liquid nitrogen would cause-"

Veitch pushed forward, barely able to contain his irritation. "What's wrong with you? Look at the state of you-off your face, talking bollocks. This isn't a holiday. You can't just carry on having a good time-"

Church clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Not now, Ryan."

Veitch glared. "Jumping to her protection just because you're shagging her, even though you know I'm right?"

"It's not like that. We all know she could have made some better choices, but this isn't the time."

Veitch shook his head angrily. "This is war. We've got to have some strict rules. Because if one person fucks up, it could drag the rest of us down."

"He's right," Tom said. "We have to have discipline-"

"And that's one thing I haven't got, right?" Laura said sharply. "You lot are such blokes."

She desperately wanted to talk about her fears, about what was happening to her body, but everyone seemed more ready to criticise than to listen. She didn't feel any different, but the shock of seeing what happened to her blood lay heavy on her. Part of her wondered if she had contracted some hideous new virus which had crossed over from Otherworld; there were so many new rules, so many things still hidden, it was impossible to put any event into any kind of context. Perhaps it had lain in her, dormant, but was now beginning to ravage her body. But with all their talk of discipline and missions and responsibility to the cause, how could she even bring it up? It was something she had to deal with herself.

Veitch leaned against one of the lobby's marble columns, adopting a look of cool detachment while secretly believing the attendants were all sneering at him, whispering behind their hands that he shouldn't be there, that someone ought to throw him out. It made him feel angry and hunted and at any other time he wouldn't have subjected himself to it, but those feelings paled in comparison to the betrayal he felt at Church's dismissal of Ruth's plight. He understood in an oblique way what Church said about obligation and responsibility, but loyalty to friends overrode it all; and love was even more important than that.

He was suddenly aware of an old man moving across the lobby towards him. His gait was lazily elegant, although he looked in his seventies. The sharp cut of his expensive suit, the delicate way he held his silver-topped cane, the perfect grooming of his swept-back white hair and old-style handlebar moustache, all suggested a man of breeding.

Here we go, Veitch thought. Somebody who wants the riff-raff thrown out.

But as the elderly gentleman neared, Veitch saw he was smiling warmly. "I am an excellent judge of a man's face," he said in the well-formed vowels of a privileged Edinburgh brogue, "and I can see we've both been touched by magic." His eyes twinkled as he took Witch's left hand in both of his; Veitch was so shocked he didn't snatch it back as he normally would have. "I can see troubles too," the gentleman continued. "And if it is any comfort, hear the words of someone who has grown wise in his long life: never give up believing." He tapped Veitch once on his forearm and then, with a polite nod, turned and moved gracefully back across the lobby.

"What was that all about?" Church had come up on Veitch while he curiously surveyed the gentleman's retreat.

"Dunno. Some old duffer who's had too much sun."

As they wandered in the morning sunlight towards the sandwich shop to pick up lunch, Veitch put on the cheap sunglasses he had picked up at one of the department stores on Princes Street. He couldn't contain himself any longer. "I don't know how you can dump her, mate."

Church nodded, relieved it was finally out. "I know how you feel, Ryan. More than you might think. But after how I almost screwed things up before Beltane because I was so wrapped up in my own problems, I've got to keep my eye on the big picture. I learned the hard way that we all come second."

Veitch shook his head; the sunglasses masked his emotions from Church. "I hear what you're saying, but it's not right." His feelings were heavy in his voice, but he was managing to control himself. "She's one of us. We should look after our own."

"And maybe we can. There might be a way we can do what we have to do and save Ruth at the same time. I just haven't thought of it."

"Well, you better get thinking. It's your job."

"Why is it my job?" Church bristled. "Did I miss the election? How come I ended up leading this pathetic bunch?"

Veitch looked surprised, as if Church had asked the most stupid question in the world. "Course it had to be you. Who else could do it?"

"Shavi."

"He's got his own responsibilites. Listen, you know your strengths. Thinking, planning. Seeing the big picture."

Church grunted, looked away. "Well, I don't like it."

"You're good at it. Accept it."

"Okay," Church said. "Well, you accept this. The Pendragon Spirit, or whatever it is, is pushing all our strengths out into the open and yours are obvious too. You're not just the fighter, the warrior, you're the strategist. I've seen it in you-you're a natural at choosing the right path whenever we're in a tight spot. So here's your job: sort out how we can save Ruth and do everything else we need to do."

Veitch looked even more surprised at this, but after a moment's thought he said seriously, "All right, I'll take you up on that. But if I do it, you've got to give me a good hearing."

"Deal."

The relief on Veitch's face was palpable. As they crossed Princes Street, he said, out of the blue, "So what's happening with you and the big-mouthed blonde?"

Church shrugged. "We get on well. We've got a lot in common."

"I don't trust her."

"I know you don't. But I do. Is that what you want to hear?"

"Yes." He paused outside the sandwich shop and turned to Church. "She's got it bad for you, you know."

"So you're an expert on affairs of the heart now, are you?"

"I know what I see. Do you feel the same about her?"

Church shifted uncomfortably, then made to go into the shop, but Veitch stood his ground. "Everything is a mess these days," Church said irritably. "All I can do is get through each day acting and reacting, not thinking at all." He missed Ruth much more than he might have shown, but he kept quiet because he didn't want to give Witch any more fuel for his argument; but Ruth was the only one to whom he could truly talk. Her listening and gentle guidance had helped him unburden numerous problems. "Is that the end of the inquisition?" he asked sharply.

"One more thing. Something that's been on my mind. That dead girlfriend of yours. How you coping with that?"

Church winced at Veitch's bluntness. "You have got this strategy thing, haven't you? Checking up I'm not a liability?"

"No-"

"Yes, you are. You just don't realise it. Marianne's death doesn't haunt me any more. Neither does she, if that's what you mean. Since the Fomorii stopped bothering with us they've not sent her spirit out to make me suffer. But that doesn't mean I've forgotten they've still got her." He tapped his chest and then his head. "It's in here and it's in here. And one day soon I'm going to set her free and get my own back."

This seemed to satisfy him. "I just wanted to be sure."

Church watched him disappear into the shop with an increasing sense of regard. His skills as a warrior were growing stronger with each passing day, as if ancient history were shouting through his genes. The Pendragon Spirit had chosen well, each of them maturing into a different role, the resources most needed for the task at hand. Perhaps there was a chance after all.

As they made their way back to the hotel they noticed signs of activity on The Mound just beyond the National Gallery. Two police cars were parked across the road, lights flashing, and armed soldiers had been discreetly positioned near walls and in shadows in the vicinity. A crowd had gathered near the cars with a mood that seemed at once irritated and dumbfounded.

"Looks like trouble," Veitch said. "We should stay away."

"I want to find out what's happening."

He grabbed the arm of a man at the back of the crowd to ask for informa tion. "They're closing off the Old Town," he replied, obviously troubled by an event which seemed to shake the natural order. "Public safety, they say. If the Old Town isn't safe, what about the rest of us?"

"I hear there was some kind of Government laboratory up there doing top secret experiments and they had an accident," a middle-aged woman whispered conspiratorially.

"Now why would they do experiments where people live and all the tourists go?" another woman said with a dismissive snort.

A young man with a shaved head and a pierced nose butted in. "No, it's a serial killer. A pal o' mine went to a club up there last night and he dinnae return home. The word is a whole load of people were murdered."

Church listened to the theories bouncing back and forth until he was dragged away by Veitch tugging insistently on his arm. "One of the cops spotted us and went for his radio," he said. "Looks like we're still on the Most Wanted list."

Church was back soon after, this time with Laura. After discussion, they had decided that, despite the risks, they had to get to the Central Library in the heart of the Old Town to search for the information they needed. At least in the daylight the supernatural threat was minimised, but it increased the danger of them getting picked up by the police.

"Why couldn't they have closed the place off tomorrow?" Church grumbled as they surveyed one of the road blocks.

Laura fixed a relentless, icy glare on a woman who had been staring at her scars; the woman withered and hurried away.

"Don't pick on the locals. They don't have your power," Church said drily.

"I always use my powers wisely." Laura looked around surreptitiously, then fixed her sunglasses. The blockade at the foot of Cockburn Street was manned by one young policeman who kept glancing uneasily up the steeply inclining road behind him.

"God knows why I chose you. That blonde hair stands out like a beacon. It's not the best thing for subterfuge."

"Actually, I chose you, dickhead. And it's my beauty that attracts all the looks, not my hair." She scanned the street briefly before picking up an abandoned beer bottle at the foot of a wall. "What we need is a diversion."

Before Church had time to protest she hurled the bottle in an arc high over the policeman's head while he was glancing round. It exploded against the plate-glass window of a record shop, which shattered in turn. The policeman started as if he had been shot. Once the shock had eased, a couple of seconds later, he ran to investigate the shop, still obviously disorientated.

"There we go." Laura ran for the shadows of Advocate's Close, which disappeared up among the buildings.

"You like taking risks, don't you?" Church said breathlessly when he finally caught up with her at the top of the steep flight of stairs.

"Life would be boring without them." They both came up short against the eerie stillness which hung over the normally tourist thronged Royal Mile. "Spooky," she added.

"The Fomorii are getting stronger. They're slowly spreading their influence out from the castle to secure their boundaries. That's what you saw last night at the club." Church suddenly glanced back into the shadows clustered at the foot of the steps.

"What is it?"

"I don't know… thought I saw something. I'm just jumpy."

"If the copper was after us we'd know by now." She strode out across the street. "So you've forgiven me, then?"

"There's nothing to forgive."

"What, apart from my stupidity?" She didn't meet his eye.

"Come on, anybody could have done what you did. It's hard to adjust to all the new dangers that are out there."

"Veitch doesn't think so. The Cockney bastard wants me dead."

"You're overreacting. He's our tactician and warrior. It's his job to be cautious."

"Tactician and warrior?" she sneered. "That's a strange euphemism for wanker."

As they made their way up to George IV Bridge Church couldn't help looking behind him again. The apprehension he felt from the moment they entered the Old Town was increasing rapidly.

"Stop being so jumpy," Laura cautioned sharply. "No one's behind us."

Church found himself involuntarily grasping for the locket the young Marianne had given him before she died; it felt uncommonly hot in his hand, as if it, too, was responding to something that couldn't be defined by the five senses. Despite its cheapness, with its crudely snipped photo of Princess Diana, it gave him some comfort. Infused with the power of faith, it represented to him the tremendous power of good that had come from the terrible changes in the world, a counterbalance to everything else they experienced. Instinctively he felt it had even stronger powers than the inspirational ones he attributed to it.

They walked quickly to the Central Library. The evacuation had obviously taken place hurriedly that morning after the discovery of the carnage at the club, for the swing doors at the front were unlocked. They slipped in and ducked beneath the electronic barriers to reach the stacks in the sunlit room at the back. It didn't take them long to find the section dedicated to Edinburgh history.

"It's like technology never happened," Laura said with distaste as she glanced at the rows of books.

Church ignored her; she was only trying to get a reaction, as usual. He pulled out a pile of general history books and heaved them over to one of the reading tables. They spent the next hour wading through the tales of murder, intrigue and suffering which seemed to characterise Edinburgh, reading beyond just the plague years in case the spirits had been less than direct in their guidance.

While Church quietly immersed himself, Laura attempted new levels of irritation by announcing every time she came across something of interest. "Listen to this," she said, ignoring his muttered curse. "This used to be the most crowded city in Europe. There're six thousand living in the Old Town now. Back then there were nearly sixty thousand. That's like Bombay or something. No wonder the plague went through here like wildfire. They were all crammed inside the city walls so instead of spreading out, they just built the houses up and up. Eight, nine, ten storeys. Sometimes just shacks of wood on top. They were collapsing all the time or catching fire, killing-"

"Fascinating."

"Hey, there's another great fact here."

"Really."

"Yes. It says all people with the surname Churchill are pompous windbags."

It took a second or two to register and before he could say anything she'd grabbed him and pulled him halfway across the table to plant a kiss on his lips. "Get the poker out of your arse, dull-boy. Just because it's the end of the world doesn't mean we can't have fun." There was almost a desperation in her comment. She glanced around, then leered at him. "A good place for sex. How many people can say they've done it on a reading table at the public library?"

"You're only saying that to get out of doing boring work."

"You reckon."

He gave her a long kiss, but as he pulled away his gaze fell on a passage in an open book next to them. "There it is!"

"That's it. Change the subject-"

"No, listen." He levered her to one side so he could read: "Down where Princes Street Gardens are now there used to be a lake, the Nor' Loch, which was the main source of drinking water for the city. It was also where all Edinburgh's sewage used to flow-"

"Very tasty."

— so everyone's immune system was low, particularly those who were close to the Nor' Loch, like the residents of Mary King's Close-which is why they suffered particularly badly when the plague came." Church traced his finger along the tiny print of the book. "There was a nearby village called Restalrig, which has been swallowed up by the city now. Next to Restalrig's church was a natural spring which was a major source of clean water during the plague years."

"So that's the place that gave succour to the plague victims."

"Sounds like it."

"Now there was a stone surround to the spring and when they decided to build a railway depot on the site in 1860 they moved it to another natural spring. At the foot of Arthur's Seat."

"We saw it!" Laura exclaimed. "When we drove past on our way to the top. There was a grille and a big pile of stone shit set in the hillside-"

Church grinned triumphantly. "That's the way in. A natural spring which was always seen as somewhere sacred, probably because it was a potent source of the earth energy-" They were distracted by a faint sound.

Laura looked round anxiously. "What was that?"

Church silenced her. Nothing moved in his field of vision across the library. No sound came through the windows from the normally bustling Old Town. Cautiously he moved forward, motioning to Laura to investigate one side of the library while he looked down the other.

He soon lost sight of Laura among the stacks. Although he could feel on some instinctive level they were not alone, there was no sign of anyone else in the building with them.

He'd got to the edge of the stack dedicated to religion when he heard Laura cry out. He sprinted across the library to find her slumped against the wall in a daze, her eyes flickering with fear as they focused on some inner landscape.

"The black wolf," she said, as if she were drugged. "He looked at me. And his eyes were yellow."

Once Church was sure she was physically unharmed he quickly turned his attention back to the room. It was still empty, but there was an increasing air of tension; someone was definitely nearby.

"Don't worry," he whispered distractedly, "it'll be okay."

"No," Laura said forcefully. "It's the Black Wolf." The fear surged up in her; she covered her face with her hands.

Church moved on. The stacks rose on all sides; the interloper could be round any corner. His attention was drawn to a door away to his right which seemed to be moving gently; it might have been simply the result of an air current. Holding his breath almost involuntarily, he approached. The movement of the door stilled. Apprehensively, he reached out for the handle.

The door crashed against him, forcing a yell of surprise. Before he could recover, boney fingers were clamped around his wrist, wrenching him towards the gap. Through the shock Church registered the bizarre sight of what appeared to be tracings of black veins against parchment-white skin. By the time he reacted, his hand was already through the gap and the door had been yanked back sharply against his forearm. He cursed loudly and struggled to drag his hand back, but it was held tight.

"One for the unified force of my anger. And one for revenge." Church's blood ran cold. The voice was barely human; it was like hot tar bubbling in a pit. "And five is the number of my despair. Each digit a catechism in the ritual of salvation. A symbolic death to be followed by a real one."

A new pain, harsh and focused, erupted in Church's hand. With horror, he felt the skin of his middle finger break open, the blood start to trickle down into his palm.

He's trying to cut it off! The terrible thought burst in his mind, and with it came the certain knowledge that this was the one who had mutilated and abducted Ruth.

He wrenched at his hand with increasing desperation, but it was pinned with an inhuman strength. And the blade bit deeper. Red hot needles danced across his skin. His forehead felt like it was on fire, his vision fracturing around the edges as he started to black out.

No, he pleaded with himself.

It felt like the blade was down to the bone now. His head started to spin, his knees grew weak.

Somehow he found an extra reserve of strength to give one last pull, but it was not enough. Just as he started to lose consciousness, arms folded around him, adding to his strength. Laura set her heels and heaved and somehow he found the will to join in. His wrist felt like it was going to snap, his arm like it was popping from its socket.

But then something gave and he found himself flying backwards. He landed on the floor several feet back, with Laura pinned beneath him.

"You big bastard," she gasped.

Desperately he rolled off her and pulled out his handkerchief to stem the flow of blood. The cloth was soaked crimson within seconds, but the blood slowed enough for him to tie it tight.

Laura was anxiously watching the door which had swung shut. "I think they've gone," she ventured. Then: "What was that?"

"I don't know." Church still felt nauseous at the memory of the voice. It had sounded like something from The Exorcist. Fighting off the rolling waves of pain that were rising up his arm, he moved forward cautiously and pulled open the door. There was no one on the other side. Splatters of his own blood, that had run off his attacker, marked a trail out of the building.

"Whatever it was, it's not going to be satisfied until it's had us all," he said.

"I need my fingers. They're a lonely girl's best friend." Although she was trying to make light, there was no humour in her words. "Come on, we've got to get some stitches in that."

In spite of having found their next step forward, their confidence had ebbed as they made their way up the street from the library. Apprehension almost prevented them crossing the Royal Mile, with its clear vista from the imposing bulk of the castle at the top, but they pulled themselves together enough to continue towards the worrying darkness of Advocate's Close.

Halfway across the road Laura caught at Church's sleeve and whispered, "Look at that."

Above the castle, grey clouds were roiling unnaturally, unfolding from the very stone of the place, rolling out across the Old Town. Within seconds the hot summer sun was obscured. The temperature dropped rapidly and Church felt the sting of snow in the cold wind.

They raised their faces up to stare at the dark skies, suddenly shivering in the heart of winter.