The Gathering Dark Part 32

Peter whispered ancient words and Keomany glanced over at him and nodded as though she understood. He thought perhaps she had. Gaea, after all, was far older than the beings that had first wielded the sorcery Peter had at his disposal.

"Let's take the son of a b.i.t.c.h down," Keomany said.

The mage smiled at the incongruity of her coa.r.s.e words coming from the lips of a G.o.ddess of purity. Then he nodded again.

"By all means."

Keomany bent toward him and kissed him gently on the lips. A spasm went through Peter and he threw his head back. Something had pa.s.sed from her to him, a small piece of the spirit that filled her. He not only could taste and smell the air around him, but could feel what was beyond this small patch of sunlight, could sense the world. Through the connection they had made, he felt felt Gaea, felt the earth. Gaea, felt the earth.

"What are you doing, my brother?" Kuromaku asked, his low voice soothing as always.

Peter glanced at him, there in the storm. "Taking it back," he replied.

His eyes fluttered closed. He could feel the branches that had wrapped around Keomany's legs and could hear the splash of water that had erupted out of the ground ten feet away, a kind of fountain that flowed down into the dry riverbed and off away out of the gorge. In his mind's eye he could see the exact size and shape of the tear Keomany had ripped between dimensions.

From the two of them, earthwitch and mage, power emanated. They reached out together with the power that raged through the circuit they created and they pushed pushed.

Peter felt it give way even before he heard the astonished gasp of Kuromaku's friend and the appreciative mutterings of Father Jack and Allison. He opened his eyes and saw that they were all bathed in sunlight now, that shoots of green plant life had spurted up from between the rocks at their feet. Above, the swath of blue sky had opened wider, pus.h.i.+ng the storm back.

Keomany's fingers tightened around his hands and the pain in the gashes in his palms barely registered. He gave her his magick, helped to connect her to Gaea, and he relished the way it felt to touch the earth spirit. Keomany laughed happily and golden mist poured from her eyes. Another wave of power pulsed from the two of them and the rocks and trees trembled. The entire Cleft of Ronda was returned to the world in which it belonged. The ruins of the bridge were painted with morning light, showing the way portions of the arches still stood, jagged remnants of brilliant architecture. The breach stretched to include the ramparts to the south of the gorge and the state-owned hotel that sat upon the north wall of the Cleft.

With a roar, the river flowed again. Allison and Father Jack had to move farther up the banks to avoid being washed away as the water raced down to fill the bed of the river, splas.h.i.+ng and rolling and at last returning to the course it had followed forever.

"You're doing it!" Father Jack told them. "Thank the Lord, you're doing it!"

Peter had known it was an almost impossible feat; that it was not merely Ronda, but Derby and Hidalgo and who knew how many other cities that had been gathered here in this h.e.l.l, stacked one beside the other. But he allowed himself the tiniest spark of hope.

His heart soared.

Together, he and Keomany pushed farther.

But this time, something pushed back. A crack of thunder so loud it shook the walls of the gorge and resounded across the sky. Keomany cried out in anguish and Peter felt a spike of pain that raced up his spine and seemed to stab into his brain. Blackness swam at the edges of his vision and he fell to his knees. Even as his hopes were dashed, though, something tugged at the back of his mind, a niggling little bit of observation that he could not avoid. When the h.e.l.lG.o.d had pushed back, he had felt something, a connection not unlike the one Keomany had to Gaea, to her own world.

But this was a connection to somewhere else. The power of the Tatterdemalion was not of this dimension. Peter had suspected that the h.e.l.lG.o.d was not of this tiny universe, but now he felt felt it, and it made a new kind of sense to him. The demon was a visitor here, just as they were. it, and it made a new kind of sense to him. The demon was a visitor here, just as they were.

We make our own h.e.l.ls, Father Jack had said. And Peter now felt certain that the Tatterdemalion had made this one, created this pocket dimension in order to have a place to torment his conquests, to drag the cities of Earth and perpetrate his horrors upon its people.

Peter shook his head, clearing his vision, and realized that he was no longer holding Keomany's hands.

"No, oh no please!" Sophie cried.

Peter saw Keomany, then. She had collapsed on the rocks at the riverside. She was moving, alive, and her eyes still glimmered with a faint golden glow. But all around them the storm raged in again, the blue patch torn in the sky above began to narrow and the sunlight to disappear, eaten by the wind and the rain and the power of a h.e.l.lG.o.d that had at last deigned to pay attention to them.

The light contracted, the dimensional rip closed until all that remained was a shaft of light perhaps six feet around, just enough to outline Keomany there on the rocks. It was a spotlight upon the earthwitch as she sat up, buried her face in her hands, and began to weep.

"No," Peter whispered to himself as the wind struck him again and the greasy rain struck his face, ran down his cheeks like oily tears.

"Whispers!" Allison shouted.

The mage glanced around to see that she was right. The southern wall of the gorge was dotted with the skeletal demons as they clambered down the sheer rock face. Whatever their instructions had been before, the Tatterdemalion must have changed his mind.

Father Jack came up beside Peter, standing tall, his hands held up, ready to cast a spell. "I guess you finally got its attention."

Then, amid the wailing of the wind, he heard another sound, a scream carried to him on the storm, just the hint of it reaching his ears before being whipped away again. Peter glanced around, wondering where it had come from. The others were all preparing to fight off the Whispers that came quickly down the gorge like a hundred giant spiders. But that scream . . . Peter heard it again. A voice, crying out in terror . . . crying his name.

He looked up at the ruins of the bridge, and there he saw her, hanging above the jagged remains of the arches that had supported the structure, no more than two hundred feet in the air. She was nude, her body streaked with gashes Peter presumed had been made by the talons of Whispers. The wind swirled around her and she hung there, dangling in the breeze like a rag doll.

Peter whispered her name. And then he shouted it.

"Nikki!"

21.

With a snarl Peter spread his arms wide and there was an audible pop as the air crackled with energy and a sphere of verdant light blossomed into existence around him. He felt the magick all through him now and his bones no longer hurt. It was as though his physical form had been trans.m.u.ted into pure magick, as though the energy that swirled around him was just as much his flesh as the fingers that directed it.

An afterthought, he glanced at Allison. The vampire looked almost feral, crouched and ready for battle, her red hair slicked back on her scalp by the rain.

"Keep them safe," he told her.

Then he rose up off the ground, energy sphere lifting him upward with dizzying speed. He shot toward the ruins of the bridge, aware of his surroundings-of the Whispers clambering down the cliffs into the gorge and the lightning and the storm that was ripping at the city-but focused now only on the fragile, pale, nude body of his lover hanging there above the jagged ruins.

In his mind's eye he saw the face of Meaghan Gallagher, a woman he had loved who had sacrificed her life to save others. And he saw Allison, saw her as she had looked the first time they had met, and remembered the way she had gazed at Cody with love before he had been killed and her innocence had been ripped from her.

Not Nikki, he thought, teeth clenched so tightly his jaw hurt. Not Nikki. Not Nikki.

He would rush to her, envelop her in the protective circle of his magick, and lower her gently to the ground. He would cover her nudity with his s.h.i.+rt and investigate the slashes in her skin, and he would hold her. Peter saw all of this in his mind and he knew that it had to be.

Once upon a time he had been immortal . . . fate had altered him, given him a second chance at humanity. At first he had embraced the opportunity, relished the idea that time would one day run out for him. But it had been centuries since he had walked among his fellow humans as just an ordinary man, since he had had to really live live in the world. And so he had retreated to old patterns, keeping mostly to himself. He might have claimed immortality again at any time-had Allison or Kuromaku bring him into the Shadows once more-but instead he found himself trapped by his desire to be human, and his terror of what that meant. in the world. And so he had retreated to old patterns, keeping mostly to himself. He might have claimed immortality again at any time-had Allison or Kuromaku bring him into the Shadows once more-but instead he found himself trapped by his desire to be human, and his terror of what that meant.

No second chances. That was the truth of humanity. As an immortal he could live as he pleased and watch the world go by around him, years pa.s.sing with the speed of a single dawn to dusk. But mortality meant he only had one chance, one journey. And this hard truth had wrought in him a fear of living that left him very much alone.

All of this went through his mind in the seconds it took for him to levitate himself to where Nikki hung naked and bleeding above the ruins. But as adrenaline rushed through him, he knew she would be all right, that she had to be, for despite his power he was just a man now, mortal, and he could not bear the thought of going on without her.

The wind raged around the sphere, battering against it, slowing Peter down. He was perhaps twenty feet from her when he saw the first rags whipping around in the storm. Strips of cloth, dishrags, clean laundry plucked from a clothesline somewhere.

Ice formed along his spine.

In the time it took him to travel ten feet, rags and laundry flew together, layered upon one another, to create the shape of a man. In an eyeblink the Tatterdemalion had arrived, his arms outlined beneath bath towels and a clutch of grease-stained mechanics' rags, burning eyes cloaked in a hood fas.h.i.+oned from a pretty, floral-patterned sundress.

The Tatterdemalion held Nikki from behind, the two of them borne aloft on the winds. Its fingers were made of women's panties, twisted into knots by the storm, and it clutched her throat.

"You were warned," the Tatterdemalion said, its voice the whisper of the storm in Peter's ears. the Tatterdemalion said, its voice the whisper of the storm in Peter's ears.

"Nikki," he called to her. Through that sphere and the roar of the wind he could not have expected her to hear him. It took him a moment to dredge up from within him a spell that would have let his voice carry to her as though he were right beside her. A flash of irony went through him that such simple magick should be a challenge to him when sorcery of a more brutal nature was simplicity itself, but he ignored the thought.

This was not a time for subtle magicks.

He had no doubt that the Tatterdemalion would hear his voice, regardless of the storm. After all, it was was the storm. the storm.

"Give her to me," Peter demanded. Magickal flames licked up from his fingers and the sphere around him took on a reddish hue.

The wind blew the sundress-cloak across its face and Peter saw the outline of the Tatterdemalion's features, ridged and gruesome, with a protruding lower jaw and a mouth that stretched Jack-o'-lantern wide. With the cotton over its face, he could see it grin.

"You have become quite a nuisance. And I did warn you. Foolish mage. I am still adding more of your world to this one, but I don't have room for all of it. There will be cities left, entire nations, in fact. But someone will have to help rebuild; someone will have to hunt the demons that all of these breaches into your world have unleashed. Every hole I have made was torn through several other places as well . . . . . . it will be years before you have catalogued all of the things that now run free in your world. it will be years before you have catalogued all of the things that now run free in your world.

"They need you at home, Octavian.

"I give you a second opportunity. Take your friends," it said, the voice of the wind now joined by a rumble of nearby thunder. The wind whipped the cloak away from its face again and there was only darkness beneath that hood now, not even those glowing eyes. Cloth fingers raised Nikki's unconscious face up so that Peter could see her clearly. Her eyelids fluttered and she seemed about to wake. it said, the voice of the wind now joined by a rumble of nearby thunder. The wind whipped the cloak away from its face again and there was only darkness beneath that hood now, not even those glowing eyes. Cloth fingers raised Nikki's unconscious face up so that Peter could see her clearly. Her eyelids fluttered and she seemed about to wake.

"Take your lover and return to your world. Pick up the pieces. And be glad I don't have enough room for all of Earth in here."

The Tatterdemalion seemed to offer Nikki up to Peter and yet it proffered her only tentatively, prepared at any moment to destroy her. It had brought her here like it had brought everything here. It had somehow captured her and yet kept her alive.

Puzzle pieces clicked into place in his mind. Peter hesitated, let the Tatterdemalion a.s.sume that he was considering its demands. He glanced back down into the gorge, where Father Jack and Kuromaku fought with blade and spell against the Whispers returning to the site of their mother's murder. Keomany kept Sophie safe inside the single shaft of sunlight that still streamed from the breach in the Tatterdemalion's world, that umbilical back to the Earth dimension.

"There will not be a third opportunity."

As Peter turned, lightning flashed, casting shadows of Nikki's fragile nakedness, illuminating the face within the cloak of the Tatterdemalion at last. Peter winced at the demon's visage, but not merely from its hideousness. The face was constructed of gravel and dust and embers from a fire. As he had always thought, there was nothing within those rags to animate them. Nothing within.

Only power from outside. Only the storm.

He hesitated.

A dust devil swept up from the ruins of the bridge, a slender finger of tornado that brought sharp-edged bits of crumbled masonry swirling up toward them. Stone struck Nikki's right leg and Peter heard the sickening crunch of bone shattering, saw fresh blood spilling from the wound. A sliver glanced off her arm and slashed her shoulder and her left breast.

"But you won't just give her to me and let me leave." Peter glared into the Tatterdemalion's nothing face, dread filling him just as surely as did the magick that coursed through him.

When he had looked down, Kuromaku had raised his sword in a gesture that the two had used many centuries before in another war on Spanish soil. The gesture translated into one word. Stall. Stall.

"Of course not," the Tatterdemalion said. the Tatterdemalion said. "You and the others depart. When you have gone, your lover will be returned to you there. Go now." "You and the others depart. When you have gone, your lover will be returned to you there. Go now."

Peter nodded. "All right. We'll go. But I want you to answer one question first."

Lightning flashed across the orange-black sky. The Tatterdemalion hesitated and Peter saw that it pulled Nikki closer against itself as though suspicious of his capitulation.

"Ask."

Peter narrowed his eyes and his nostrils flared. He asked the question, though he already knew the answer.

"What are you so afraid of?"

Kuromaku had seen his old comrade-in-arms, his friend and brother, only rarely since Peter had become human again. Never had he been so grateful for the presence of another. His honor as a warrior, his skill as a ronin, would not allow him to confess, even in his private thoughts, that there was no hope of victory. But it was clear to him that this had been the case only minutes before.

He was crippled.

It was not the gunshot wounds that had done this, but the effect of those first two bullets, the chemical they carried. Still he thirsted for blood, perhaps more now than at any time in the past sixty or seventy years-since the terrible events one night in Hong Kong-and still he was very difficult to kill. But he could not change his form, could not shapes.h.i.+ft at all. He had seen Allison fly, transform herself into a falcon and spread her wings, and already it broke his heart.

Kuromaku was hollow. Miraculously, through all of this, the warrior still held his katana, but his truest weapon was gone.

Still, crippled and bleeding and hollow, he had been trained a samurai. If he died, it would be with honor. This h.e.l.lG.o.d the others talked about, this Tatterdemalion, it would not have presented Nikki, would not be parleying with Peter right now, if it weren't afraid of him. That meant that Peter could hurt the demon. But Kuromaku knew the mage well enough to know he would not sacrifice Nikki to do that.

So Nikki had to be taken out of the equation.

The pain of his wounds was terrible. The thirst was upon him. He did not need the blood to survive, but every drop that seeped from the bullet holes in his flesh made him crave it all the more. There were no fangs in his mouth but his lips were pulled back in a rictus as though he might bare them.

The Whispers paid the price for his pain and thirst. Kuromaku had fought with injuries before, long ago when he was still human, still merely a samurai instead of a vampire ronin. Now the Whispers scrambled across the rocks, their scythelike limbs clacking on the ground, and they waded across the water that remained in the Guadalevin which was going dry once more now that the earthwitch had been stopped.

Kuromaku stood ankle deep in the water and met them as they came. He spun and hacked and thrust and that katana did not fail him, nor did his injured body. The trickling water seeped with filthy demon blood and became thick with the viscous rain. Demon corpses, shattered carapaces, severed limbs and heads began to build up around him and he had to step back.

To his left the priest, Jack, had barely managed to stay alive. There seemed only two magickal attacks he had mastered that were effective against the Whispers, one of which caused them to burst into flame from within and the other of which only seemed to paralyze them. The priest was a slender, bony man with cracked eyegla.s.ses who prayed loudly to his G.o.d. And perhaps, Kuromaku thought, his G.o.d was with him, for somehow despite his pitiful magick and the exhaustion evident in the priest's features, he had managed to hold his own.

The priest had dignity and courage. Kuromaku was honored to fight beside him.

Like Peter, Allison had been a welcome sight upon her first appearance. According to the priest and Sophie, she had saved Kuromaku's life. He was grateful, but also simply pleased to be in her presence, despite his envy that she still had the ability to change herself and he did not. She was beautiful and yet full of despair, a tragic heart, but she was fierce. In the first few moments when the Whispers attacked, she had killed more than a dozen of them.

But now Kuromaku and Father Jack were on their own.

Back a ways from the bank of the river, Sophie hewed close to the earthwitch, Keomany. The witch was not powerful enough to defeat the h.e.l.lG.o.d's sorcery, but she still retained a link to their world, to their dimension. Sunlight bathed the two women and prevented the Whispers from getting near to them, though fifteen or twenty of the demons stalked the perimeter of that shaft of sunlight as if searching for a way in. Sophie was safe, as long as Keomany was with her.

Several times Sophie called to Kuromaku to warn him of demons slipping stealthily up on his flank, and he managed to defend himself in time. Now when he glanced back at Sophie, he saw that Keomany had begun again. Her eyes glowed with golden light that cascaded like a river of tears down her face and her hair had begun to blow again in a wind that did not come from the storm. Fresh shoots erupted from the rocks around her, flowers blossomed on the ground.

The rift between dimensions widened once more, just slightly, and sunlight washed over the Whispers that had been stalking around Keomany and Sophie. The demons raised their darting tongues and hissed as their carapaces steamed and blistered, and then they disintegrated in a flash of embers.

Kuromaku glanced over at Father Jack. "Now!" he called.

The priest nodded, finis.h.i.+ng a spell in Latin that knocked a trio of Whispers back away from him. The demons fell into the shallow water and twitched in pain from the impact, but they survived.

Then, side by side, Kuromaku and Jack Devlin ran along the bank of the river toward the rubble and ruin of the devastated bridge. In the air above what remained of the arches that had been the foundation of the bridge, Kuromaku saw Peter levitating in a sphere of magickal energy that burned around him as it s.h.i.+fted from green to crimson. A wind tore down from the Tatterdemalion where the rag-creature hung, holding on to Nikki, and a twist of churning air brought debris up to batter her, the sharp rocks gas.h.i.+ng fresh wounds in her bare flesh.

"We need a clear view of it," Father Jack called to Kuromaku as he stumbled, picking his way across the rubble.

Kuromaku glanced back at the Whispers giving chase but paid them no mind. They had seconds to spare in which to act out their plan. Still, he did not bother to tell the priest that a clear view was not going to help them.

Father Jack stopped and planted his feet. Kuromaku heard the clack of Whispers' talons on the rocks behind him. He raised his katana and the priest grabbed hold of the hilt as well, his own hands laid over Kuromaku's. Father Jack rattled off a brief stream of Latin-the same spell he had been using against the Whispers, the one that had caused them to immolate from within.

"Lord, deliver us," the priest said.

Kuromaku heard the words only because of a momentary lull in the storm. The wounded vampire felt the magick pa.s.s into his hands and into his sword. The hilt thrummed with sorcerous power and then, unseen, the spell was cast from the tip of the blade.

In the air, in the midst of confrontation with Peter, the Tatterdemalion burst into flames, rags and clothing igniting in an instant. Blazing with fire, it stretched an arm out toward them, cloth finger indicating its attackers with sinister portent.

With a crack of thunder, lightning flashed out of the sky and struck them both. Father Jack went rigid, screaming, and his eyes burst, his hair catching on fire. Kuromaku felt his own hair begin to burn, felt the lightning shooting through him, every muscle taut and shrieking with pain. He jittered where he stood for several seconds after the lightning had struck and receded, and then Kuromaku fell to the rocks beside the corpse of Father Jack Devlin, his nostrils filled with the stench of charred flesh.