Part 16 (1/2)
”Me.”
”This one's alive.” She felt him start. ”I saw its eyelid twitch. She's alive alive-”
”Oh, yes,” said Fern. ”She's alive.”
She had seen that moment before, when the eyes jerk open, and the whole face springs into animation. But she had never before seen such an expression on any of the heads. The eyes stretched until the iris was fully exposed, the mouth spread into a smile-a wide, happy smile devoid of laughter, eager, exultant. ”At last!” it said.
At last? Fern was bewildered. The heads of those in purgatory were not usually elated or fulfilled.
”Take that light from our eyes,” it continued peremptorily. ”Let us see you.”
Luc s.h.i.+fted the beam a little to the left. Under Fern's clasp his muscles felt rigid.
”The dark cannot hide you, Fern Capel,” said the head. ”Have we not possessed you, mind and body? Did we not steal your very soul?”
”Morgus couldn't keep it,” Fern retorted. ”Why do you say 'we'? I didn't know you identified so closely with your twin.”
”My-twin?” The head scowled as if confused.
”You are Morgun? Aren't you?”
”Morgun! Do not insult us. That our own flesh and bone should turn into a milksop, mewling after the world's approval and men's love. She hung in bitterness on the Eternal Tree in a time outside Time. She wanted forgiveness, but not ours. Her mistake. We did not wait to see her wither; we had better things to do.”
”Then-who are you?” But she knew the answer.
”We are Morgus.”
”How-?”
”We are one with the Tree. Blood and sap, root and sinew, we are bound together. Long before, we plucked it from its progenitor with the most secret rituals, and it was brought to this world-first to Syrce's island, then here. This fruit is the symbol of our union. Others will follow: we will be many. The power of the Eternal One is in us, and with it, we will engulf this kingdom of Britain. The network of our roots will burrow deep in its soil and our unseen branches will overspread the sky. Already, there are those who have drunk of our sap and serve our every need. One in particular, who was rich and powerful and called himself honest . . . his mind is in our keeping. He brings us Money, which in this latter-day world opens all doors. We have watched long in the spellfire and learned much: there is no more nonsense of succor, valor, honor. Now Money is men's credo and their grail. The G.o.ds have fled: their place has been taken by small men with big bank accounts. Your leaders are no longer warriors or greathearts but mere performers, posturing before the mult.i.tude. Once, they would not have sold their honor for gold; today, they sell it for a sliver of plastic, a sc.r.a.p of paper inscribed with many zeros. We will buy our way into their inmost circle and dose them with our potions, and Logrez will be ours forever. Oh yes, we have learned much, Fernanda. We did not need you after all.”
”I am Morcadis, or have you forgotten? You named me; I cannot be unnamed.”
”We do not forget. We will taste of revenge before all else. You may sneak in here when our earthly self is absent, but you cannot hide for long-”
”I am not hiding,” Fern pointed out. ”Can't she see through your eyes-or you hers?”
”Not yet. This fruit is still strange to us. We do not comprehend what our sorcery has engendered. When we meet, we will be whole, and all will be made clear.”
Fern felt a sudden surge within her, beyond knowledge, beyond reason, as if all her instincts cried out with a single message. She said: ”Then I will take you to her!” Turning to Luc, she added: ”Give me that knife.”
”The thing is insane,” he said. ”A disembodied head hanging on a tree, and it-she-wants to rule the world.”
”All the Gifted are mad,” said Fern. ”I told you that.”
”And you?”
”Getting there.” She took the knife, approached the head.
”You cannot touch us,” it said. ”We are protected.” There was such malevolent satisfaction in the face that Luc stepped back, suddenly wary, directing the flashlight in a swift circuit around them. Maybe it was a trick of the shadows, but to their left where the foliage was thickest a shudder seemed to run through the leaves. He gripped the skewer tight in his other hand.
”There is no spell here,” Fern said, reaching up toward the stem. And even as she spoke, she knew there was something wrong. This fruit, of all things, would have been s.h.i.+elded. She hesitated, half turned- She had a brief vision of the darkness itself rising up and springing upon her-she heard the head give a cry of evil triumph. Then her skull struck the ground, and she blanked out.
In the bas.e.m.e.nt in Soho, they waited. Now that the circle was closed the room had shrunk back to its normal proportions. Ragginbone lit more candles, Moonspittle switched on the electric light. Gaynor found herself studying the prints on the wall, but when she saw them close up she wished she hadn't. Will unstoppered a gla.s.s retort containing a liquid the color of urine and sniffed, concluding hopefully that it was whiskey. ”Can we drink this?” he asked. ”I'll bring you another bottle tomorrow.”
Moonspittle's boot-b.u.t.ton gaze squinted beadily at him. ”Tomorrow,” he said, ”we may be dead. Thanks to the witch.”
”All the more reason to drink it now,” said Will.
They drank out of chipped cups, sat down, stood up. Talked little. Mogwit continued to prowl, his patchy fur sticking out from his body as if he had received a violent electric shock. ”If you had any sense,” Will remarked, ”you'd get out.”
”He'll stay with me,” Moonspittle said indignantly. ”He's my familiar.”
”No sense,” said Ragginbone.
Gaynor suggested timidly: ”Shouldn't we have weapons?”
”Against Morgus?” Ragginbone shrugged.
”I've got a knife,” Will said. He drew out of his jacket something like a hunting knife but black, both haft and hilt. When it moved through the air Gaynor thought she could hear the faint sigh of molecules being sliced in half.
”What do you expect to accomplish with that?” said Ragginbone, at his most inscrutable.
”It will cut through both iron and magic,” Will insisted.
Moonspittle eyed it apprehensively. ”There is a darkness on it that is more than sorcery. Or less.”
”Maybe,” said Will, ”but it's mine. I know: I stole it.”
They fell into silence. The rumor of the city night sounded far away. Gaynor thought the books on the shelves seemed to squeeze together as if to make their spines less visible, and wished she could do the same. A c.o.c.kroach scurried out of a crevice, thought better of it, and scurried back in again. Time pa.s.sed. Gaynor almost began to hope that Morgus would not come.
They had left the bas.e.m.e.nt door slightly ajar, and the first they heard of an arrival was the stifled rattle of a bell that no longer rang. There was a pause, then came a series of thuds on the front door, as if from a heavy fist. Gaynor imagined the whole building shook. She said quickly: ”Surely she can't come in? If we don't invite her, she can't come in?”
”This is a shop,” said Ragginbone, ”even if it's always closed. The taboo doesn't apply. In any case, Morgus will have ordinary human henchmen to whom such laws mean nothing.”
There was the sound of breaking gla.s.s, the squeal of bolts, the rasp of a chain. Someone was forcing their way through Moonspittle's multiple security devices, smas.h.i.+ng what they could not undo. Moonspittle shrieked: ”No! No!” and doubled into a crouch behind a chair, his head tucked down like a hedgehog in a ball, shaking all over.
Will indicated the bas.e.m.e.nt door, but Ragginbone only frowned. ”No point.” And then came the footsteps striding through the shop, reaching the top of the stair. The tap-tapping footsteps of high-heeled shoes. They began to descend the stair, slowly-it was narrow and hazardous-but without faltering. Will drew his knife for a second, then changed his mind, sliding it back into the sheath inside his jacket. Gaynor's heart was beating so hard she felt physically sick. Under the weathering of centuries, Ragginbone's face was pale. Mogwit leaped clumsily onto the back of a chair, his claws raking great troughs in the upholstery. The heel taps ceased and they knew she was there, behind the door, beyond the light. Even the cat froze.
”Uvale!”
The door slammed back against the wall. A gale screamed through the room, snuffing the candles; the electric light flickered and went out. Morgus stood in the doorway, outlined in wereglow, her Medusa locks crackling with live energy, her night-black stare scanning the shadows. She cried: ”Morcadis!” and her extended fingers cast a lance of radiance that roamed across the faces of the occupants. Ragginbone. Will. The disappearing tail of Mogwit. The humped shoulder of Moonspittle. Last of all, it found Gaynor. ”The friend,” she said, and her tone softened, but it was not pleasant. ”Little Gwennifer. Where is she? Where is Fernanda Morcadis?”
”Your sister has gone,” Gaynor said, and was surprised to find her voice steady.