#wings look a bit dog-shit on this one but erm... whatever.... | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

paulhudd · 7 years ago

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Spindlefreck: Pt.21: Devil-Dogs, Hellcats and Cowgirls

3 November 1988

10 minutes past midnight: The Ivy House is eerily quiet now. No sound save for the whistle of the pipes, the tick-tock of antique clocks and the distant tinkle of wind-chimes in the Oriental Garden. The household staff and security detail have been rendered unconscious. Some are sleeping comfortably at their posts, some are lying around in the corridors. In the yard, at the rear of the East Wing, a guard lies sprawled at the foot of the iron staircase after passing out on the top step when he stopped to light a cigarette; fortunately for him he was too insensible to feel his ulna fracture on the way down or endure the excruciating pain that followed. In the main kitchen, cooks, chefs, maids and stable boys are either slumbering in front of the huge granite fireplace in their favourite chairs or slumped across the table, their slack-jawed faces marinating in a murky amalgam of spilled milk and bedtime beverages.

However, not everyone is out for the count.

For instance, up on the second storey, in a small bedroom at the rear of the South Wing, naked save for a pair of white boxer shorts and strapped to a single bed, lies internationally famous rock star and Hollywood actor, Guy ‘Goz’ Gosling, wide-awake and desperately trying to escape his bonds before the Lumbs’ huge, Middle-Eastern chauffeur - currently spark out on the floor by the bed - wakes up and does whatever he intended to do with that big knife before he collapsed! He certainly wasn't going to cut the straps, that’s for sure! All the same, that wasn't such a bad idea. A big knife could be very useful in extricating him from his predicament - if only he could get his hand to it. The straps that bind his wrists and chest are much too tight to shift, but after much wriggling and twisting -- I knew those yoga classes would come in handy one day! -- he’s managed to free his left leg and is now stretching it to its full extent as he tries to wrest the khanjar from the big chauffeur’s half-opened hand using his foot to grip the edge of the curved blade. Needless to say the process is proving quite painful, and it isn't long before he feels that ominous warm-stickiness on his sole and has to check to make sure he still has a full complement of toes. After a further 5 minutes of gyrations, contortions and agonizing bouts of intermittent cramp, his efforts are abruptly curtailed by the sound of the door being thrown open and crashing against the inside wall. The candle-flame slants and flickers as the through-draught breezes across the room, chilling his exposed, perspiring torso and sending a shiver of dread the length of his spine. There’s a shadow in the doorway; as it enters, he glimpses the unmistakeable glint of gun metal. Oh shit. Somebody’s come to finish the job... He takes a deep breath and braces himself for the worst.

“What’s going on in here?” growled a familiar, female voice.

He sighed with relief and relaxed, “Jeezus. Lady Beth... Oh thank god it’s you. Please, please undo these straps. There’s no need to worry, now, I’m completely back to normal...”

She emerged from the darkness of the doorway, revolver in hand, her silk dressing gown shimmering in the candlelight, and looked down at the prostate body of her poleaxed chauffeur, “Are you responsible for this?” she asked, nonchalantly.

Puzzled, Goz looked down at the straps and replied, “Erm, no -- but whatever happened couldn’t’ve happened at a better time -- it probably saved my life! Look at the size of that fucking knife!!”

She glanced at the Prussian wall-clock above the dresser, “So... Xavier -- khanjar in hand -- collapsed on the dot of 12, just like everybody else, did he,” she purred, gently tapping the barrel of the gleaming pistol against her pursed lips and nodding slowly, as if absorbing the information in order to form an opinion.

“What do you mean, just like everybody else?” he asked, perturbed.

She reached down, took the khanjar from Xavier’s hand, put it on the dresser, then walked around to the foot of the bed, leaned on the footboard and looked their prisoner up-and-down. “As if you didn’t already know, the entire house is unconscious. But not you. You and Carla. Are you two up to something, Guy?” she asked, pointedly, cocking a hip and levelling the gun at his head.

“Carla? You mean the tall woman with the long silver hair... Is she Carla?”

“Don’t fuck with me, Guy. You know full-well who Carla is.”

He shook his head, “I’ve only just met her... what I mean is, we were in a dream together, but I’ve never actually met her in the flesh... Is she awake too?”

Her Ladyship responded with a disbelieving shake of her head and asked in a sceptical, pissed-off-voice, “What have you been up to, Guy?”

He was beginning to panic a bit now. He didn’t know her well enough to tell if she was deadly serious or teasing; under the circumstances, he thought it best not to beg, charm or bullshit her, but give it to her straight albeit with a few omissions and embellishments, “Please, Lady Beth, I know what you must think of me, what with all the trouble I’ve caused ‘n everything -- but I swear, I’m OK now. I’m not a... beast anymore. I need to see Carla and find out what’s going on!”

Smiling, she lowered the gun, traipsed around the bed, leaned forward, stroked his unlined, sweat-beaded-brow, and spoke in a sweet, motherly tone as she gazed into his eyes, “Hmmmm. No fangs, no claws and no tail, now, but you’re still a bit of a wolf, aren't you, Guy,” she said, enigmatically, looking toward the window, “and the moon is still full.”

He shook his head, “What... what do you mean?”

She raised the gun again, “You know what I mean. I can’t trust you. How can I? You’re an actor, after all. A great pretender! A professional fraud! You lie for a living,” she cocked the trigger, “You’re lying now...”

He panicked and squirmed in his bonds, “I’m not -- I’m not -- I really am sorry -- I mean... I transformed because of an anomaly in the Void! -- but the danger has passed! -- I’m back to normal! -- back in the Real World...”

Before he could bluster any further, she whispered in his ear, “You were one of Pritchard’s little errand boys. You were in his thrall; always at his beck-and-call. And when Jamie went to boarding school, he assigned you to ‘look after’ him... and you’ve been ‘looking after’ him ever since. You've been like a brother to him.... for better or worse,” said she, mischievously, "and Pritchard put you up to this, too, didn’t he? This is all part of the same sordid little scheme -- isn't it?!”

He knew what she was getting at and stridently rejected the insinuation, “This has got nothin’ to do with me and the business with Jamie and Bernie! Well, I mean - OK - I wanted to get Jamie back for the puppeteering stunt [See Part 10] - and OK - so B-Bernie told me where to find the scrapbook - and yes - I went to SCICI and used it to cast the sp-spell that kicked all this off -- but that’s as far as it went! I didn’t know the d-demon had set a trap! I mean, look what happened to me -- I mutated into my avatar -- I almost died!! I-I’m as much a victim as the rest of you!” When he saw that his flustered explanation was evoking nought but a doubtful smirk, he regrouped, settled back into the pillow and clarified in a more dignified tone, “Look, milady, I need to know what’s going on just as much as you. So if you’d please unstrap me, we can go and see Carla and maybe she can explain it to both of us.”

She eyed his lithe, toned, personally-trained, movie-star-body with a disdainful curl of the lip, and remarked, “My, how you’ve grown, Guy. I remember when you were a pale, scrawny, knock-kneed little 10-year-old with greasy hair and acne. I remember the little boy who watched me like a lovesick calf when we happened to pass each other in the hallway. The sweet little choirboy singing-his-little-heart-out and constantly glancing in my direction during his solo at the Winter Solstice recitals. You would've done anything for me, wouldn't you, Guy?” She laid on the edge of the bed next to him, put her head on his shoulder, reached down and ran the cold steel of the muzzle along the his tensed, bronzed, outer-thigh, “but I don’t trust you. I don’t trust any of Bernie’s Boys. I trust Xavier implicitly, though,” she stole a glance at her slumbering driver, “and if he felt the need to arm himself for the duration of this little vigil then he must've thought you were a risk. Pretty big risk, if that knife is anything to go by.” Her voice coarsened as she jabbed the gun into his naval and moved closer, “What are you up to, Guy? Why go to SCICI?” she asked, her lips inches from his, then answered her own question before he could open his mouth, “it’s all about Pritchard’s stupid ‘Mindchild’ project -- you’re in cahoots with Rossington, too -- aren't you?!”

Goz was very scared now. Not only was she partially correct, but the gun was still cocked and her breath stank of booze! He pleaded with her in a quiet voice, “Now, now, now, listen to me, Lady Beth, please, hear me out. It’s true, I’ll admit it, I always had a thing for you, I mean -- we all did -- you’re an extremely attractive woman! And I did do some work for Bernie back in the day -- but I’m not involved in anything now! What’s happening tonight isn't about the Real World! It isn't about business, politics or anything that could affect the organisation. This is all about the psychic side of things, the coven, the demon, The Darkly Martyrs, The Prime Directive -- all that ancient-magic-hocus-pocus-shit. And I’m just like you, milady -- I’m not a full-‘Güül, I’m only a Sensitive, a grunt, a drone -- I’m not mentally equipped for any of it.”

She sat up and wagged the gun in his face naughty-naughty-fashion, “Nevertheless, you performed dark magic with the aid of civilians, and that, as you well know, is strictly verboten. Biggest of no-nos. The Council won’t stand for it... and they’re on the warpath as it is,” she paused then announced in a harsh whisper, “as if you didn’t know, the Washington Witches are actively trying to get rid of us. While you were in Dublin consorting with the good doctor at SCICI, I was attending the President’s Halloween Ball in DC [See Part 16], after which an attempt was made on my life,” She looked him in the eye, “and by the looks of things -- i.e. ex-soldiers-cum-chauffeurs-slash-hired-assassins inoculated against telepathic intrusion -- Rossington is in on the hit. Now is that a coincidence or...?”

He began to panic again; the last thing he wanted was the Washington coven on his case, he had his career to think of, nevermind his life. “Look, Lady Beth, I went to Rossington because I needed the scrapbook! That’s all!” He winced as she jabbed the muzzle into his sternum and growled, “You’re lying. I can read you like a book.”

He continued to shake his head vigorously and protest just as vehemently, “Yes, yes, I made a mistake, OK, a BIG one -- but I helped put things right -- ask Carla and Jamie, they were there! -- they’ll explain everything...!”

She clamped a hand over his mouth and hissed in his ear, “Keep your fucking voice down, idiot! We have company! A Detective Inspector called. He’s enchanted at present, but he could wake up at any moment -- can’t have you squealing like a pig with a hot poker up its ass!” She duly got up, went to the dressing table, rummaged in a drawer and returned with a pair of thick, black woollen socks.

“What are you doing?”

“My apologies in advance for the triteness of this gag, but I’m afraid I really am going to have to put a sock in it,” she quipped, dryly, before stuffing one into his mouth and securing it in place with the other, deliberately pressing her cleavage against his face as she tied the knot behind his head, “Oh, but this brings back such fond memories of life here in the mid-60s,” she trilled, as she moved down the bed to tighten his restraints and re-secure his wandering leg, “a very distinguished foreign ambassador loved to play this game. He liked me to dress up as an urban guerilla -- red beret, shades, boots and khakis: like South American Revolutionaries or Baader Meinhof, you know the sort of thing -- and I’d strip him and strap him to the bed, just like this,” she tweaked Goz’s left nipple, “then I’d bugger him with the barrel of a Kalashnikov,” she chuckled, evilly, “it’s funny how our deepest fears inform our darkest desires; isn't it, Guy?”

He was incandescent, but all he could do was splutter a stifled stream of incomprehensible curses.

She stood up, put the gun against her shoulder and let it dangle on her little finger while she took him in. “Thanks to our lovely longevity potions, I’m the same woman I was back in those days,” she said, putting the pistol on the bedside locker. “I’m the same woman you idolised when you were a child, the same woman you fantasized about when you were a teenager,” she unbelted let her gown and let it fall to the floor then began unbuttoning her pyjama-top, “so struggle all you like, Guy - in fact, please do. Because whether you like-it-or-not, little boy, all your silly teenage dreams are about to come true...”

Meanwhile, down in the dungeon: Dani had given up shouting for help. It became clear that Dresh and the guards - currently sprawled across the floor outside the cell with their guns scattered around them - weren’t the only ones who’d suffered what she was referring to as ‘the big knock-out’. “I must be the only one awake in the whole house,” she moaned, as she sat cross-armed cross-faced and cross-legged on the floor, wrapped up in a ragged blanket in front of the big glass door, listening to the incessant hiss of the overhead pipes and her captors’ rumbling snores.

“Bloody typical! I get turned back into a proper girl again and there’s no one here to see it or set me free!” She scowled, stuck out her tongue at her lovely new face in the smudgy glass and grumbled, “You ‘n your crummy luck!”

She mightn't be a gruesome little-green-goblin anymore, but her circumstances remain the same. She’s still locked up like a monster in a horrible dungeon in a horrible house with horrible people who hate her and want her dead...

Or maybe not. Hmmmmm...

She had a notion: Maybe now that I’m normal they won’t treat me like shite anymore? I mean, they certainly wouldn't shoot a sweet little girl! She stared into her own eyes, scratched her chin and considered the situation. I’ve got to look as normal as possible! Inspired, she sprang to her feet, threw off the blanket and looked at her tattered clothes. Better put something presentable on. Gotta look nice as poss. Most of all, she wanted to impress Jamie. Wait’ll he sees me now! So she skipped to her little dressing table and pulled out all the drawers, looking for clothes that weren’t stained, ripped, plucked or full of holes. The best thing she could find was a short-sleeved, ankle length, white cotton nightdress she’d never worn that used to belong to Alice the chambermaid. Huh! Bloody Alice! Two-faced bitch! Some friend she turned out to be! “Well, it’s better than nothing,” said she, and began to get undressed. When she was naked, she had a good look at herself in the glass. From head to toe, back and front, she double-checked every inch by the light of the lantern, just to be sure there wasn't the slightest hint of green or the odd patch of scaly skin. Nope, I’m as white as the nightdress and not a scale in sight!

That wasn't to say she felt completely ‘normal’. She was still aware of that the transformation hadn't robbed her of her Gift. She still felt wired to nature; the air was still alive with ethereal vibrations; her natural senses were strong and finely tuned, and although she daren’t enter the Psychosphere until she got the all-clear, she could tell her telepathic abilities were wholly intact. Stronger, in fact. And if what the old wizards told me is true, then I’m just as powerful as Jamie....more powerful, maybe...? She pulled the nightgown over her head, and glared at the big Plexiglas door, not powerful enough to get outta this place, though! As she primped her long blonde hair in the glass, she was struck by another notion: Or am I... She put her cheek against the door so she could see the locking mechanism on the adjacent wall at the opposite end of the basement: the Emergency Release Button.

She’d tried telekinesis before, she’d moved a few things like bobbins and pens, small things like that, just to see what she could do, but the blinding headache that inevitably ensued was enough to put her off for life! It felt like her skull was going to crack! However, in this case, she had no choice but to grit her teeth and bear it. So she put her hands against the glass, took a deep breath, closed her eyes tight, put her head down and concentrated really, really hard. She visualised a ghostly hand materialising in the air outside the cell... she pictured it floating toward the box... its index finger pointing directly at the big red button... pressing it....

And what do you know? It friggin’ worked! Well, the button definitely clicked -- she heard it -- she felt it -- but the door remained stubbornly shut. Then it occurred: the electric’s off. That’s why there’s lanterns ‘n candles everywhere, dummy! But before she could ponder any further: “Oh shiiiiiite...” she groaned, folding in two as the customary headache began to surge through her synapses. For the next few minutes she rolled on the floor furiously massaging her temples, gasping in agony as wave after wave of excruciating pain rolled through her cranium.

Bloody dungeon.

8 minutes later, when she was sufficiently recovered, she had another think: if the electric’s off, then maybe I can force it... She examined the lock. It would require a lot of psychic energy and it would definitely result in a very, very sore head, but she had no choice: I mean, gawd knows how long they’ll be out! I could starve to death in here! She waited for a couple of minutes to gather her strength, then put her cheek to the glass again, squeezed her eyes shut, gnashed her teeth, furrowed her brow and concentrated with all her might...

It wasn't long before the gears, cogs and tumblers inside the lock began to groan and grind... she screamed as she pushed hard and willed it with every fibre of her being -- finally, the bolt began to slide back -- he innards gave-way -- the wall shunted and moved sideways! It worked!! But there was no time to rejoice: “Oooooow...” Drooping head clasped in her hands, panting as if she’d just run a marathon, she slid down the glass and rolled on the cold stone floor as the pain returned with a vengeance. This time it was so bad it made her throw up. As soon as it passed and her eyes had refocused, she went to the corner, put her fingers into the crack and slid the door to one side. She was out. Free at last!

She tiptoed through the bodies of the sleeping guards - taking care not to trip on their rifles - stepped over Dresh’s long, splayed legs, climbed the flight of steps, then down the corridor to the backdoor and into the botanical gardens. No guards. Nobody around. She ran into the trees where she came across Gebbit, the other gardener - nasty little dwarf who keeps calling me ‘Demonspawn’ - slumped in his deckchair, snoring heavily and drooling into his bushy ginger whiskers. She couldn't resist and kicked the leg of the deckchair from under him -- the frame duly flattened-out on the ground, sending him tumbling into a nearby allamanda bush. She giggled and skipped on into the misty environs of the Judge’s Jungle, leaping over roots and tall, spiny grass, taking care not to snag her nightie on any thorny bushes or low hanging branches; then up the steps, across the back patio, through the open doors of the conservatory, across the white marble tiles of the summer room and into the house. She snuck under a pair of guards who’d passed out on each other’s shoulders in one of passageways and entered the warren of low-ceilinged, wood-panelled corridors at the rear of the East Wing. It was very dark, and although she trod carefully and lightly, she still managed to stub her toe on the plinth of an ornamental vase and trip over a fallen footman. When she finally reached the main hall, she saw the flickering glow of a log fire in the drawing room up ahead and paused to steel her nerve. Here we go, time to act the sweet little princess, she thought, as she arranged her hair on her shoulders, straightened up, stuck out her chest and strode purposely into the room. There was neither sight nor sign of Jamie, Lady Bitch or big fat Castle, although Alice the chambermaid, her erstwhile fellow psychic traveller, was spark-out in one of the armchairs. Well, well, look who it is! She was just about give her unconscious former-friend’s nose a good tweaking when she was disturbed by a contented gurgle behind her. She turned and discerned the unmistakable figure of Detective Inspector Harkness sprawled over the arm of the big leather couch -- completely out of his tree! What the bleedin’ hell’s he doin’ here? Is he one of us? She had a closer look: Nope, he doesn’t have an aura. He looks happy, though. Like an ol’ drunk having a naughty dream. It was all very odd...

She gave herself a shake! What was she thinking of?! I don’t have time for this! Her No.1 priority was Jamie! He must be in his room in the sanatorium! He was in the dream -- maybe he’s awake too! Oh, wait til he sees me! She took to her heels, ran off down the hall and out of the front door...

...

In the sanatorium, sitting on the edge of Jamie’s bed, her unconscious uncle at her feet, his head resting on a black velvet cushion, Mme Carla Infanté looks through Ivan Cochrane’s scrapbook for anything that might explain the current situation or yield a clue as to what’s going to happen next; but as far as she can see it’s nothing but page after page of science-fiction themed adventure stories, childish drawings, photographs and clippings from 50s pop culture magazines.

“Well, missssy, what does it sssay?” hissed Noel the python, as he spiralled down the bedpost behind her.

Usually, Noel’s presence would be an unwelcome intrusion, but at that moment she found his company weirdly comforting and answered accordingly, “These runes mean nothing to me. I am not well versed in the ancient texts... The rest is just what one would expect to find a little boy’s scrapbook, nothing pertinent as far as I can see...” she replied, gloomily. She looked down at her uncle and shivered, “One has to wonder... is this how it ends? Has the demon won?” She turned and looked at the slumbering young Master, “Is Jamie possessed? I have no way of knowing...”

“But Oggy’sss not dead,” hissed Noel, nodding toward the butler’s humongous spare-tyre, “Look at that big ol’ belly heavin’ up-‘n’-down! He’s asssleep, chile!”

“That doesn’t mean anything, Noel,” Carla explained, “if his Soul is destroyed the body can only last for a few days, eventually the vital functions will shutdown.”

Just then, they heard the front door opening and closing. Assuming it was Lady Beth, Carla stood up, zipped up her catsuit and prepared herself for another ill-tempered contretemps, but when the door opened and her great niece entered, she reeled on her heels, put a hand to her mouth and gasped with a muted mixture of astonishment and delight, “Danielle! You are awake... And you have... changed?!”

“My, but yer lookin’ well, kid!” agreed Noel, very impressed, “the last time I sssaw ye you were greener than a bullfrog! What did you do, ssshed yer ssskin?”

But Dani wasn't interested in providing explanations or entertaining compliments, she wanted to see Jamie. She jumped over Castle, climbed onto the bed and held the sleeping beauty’s hand in hers. “Hey! Why isn't he awake?” she cried, “Why didn’t he come back like me?” She turned, glared at Carla and said, “How come you’re awake and he isn't?”

Unfazed by the undiluted scorn, Carla regretfully replied “I think I was spared because I was still travelling through Harkness’ subconscious when the clock struck 12.” She looked in the direction of the house and nodded, “But you are right: those of us who were present in the dreamscape seemed to have survived: Master Gosling is awake, too. I heard him shouting in his room just after the stroke of midnight.”

Dani related the events that occurred after Carla’s exit and before the big sleep, “....then the Martyrs made us form a circle and twirl around, then everythin’ began to swirl around -- then the old wizard with the big beard told us to say the magic word -- and we did -- and there was this bang ‘n he pointed his stick ‘n zapped the demon with a bolt of lightning or somethin’ -- the next thing I know I’m back in my body in the dungeon -- and I’m like this! So if I’m OK 'n Goz isn't a Big Bad Wolf anymore,” she cupped Jamie’s cheeks, looked into his half-opened eyes and asked, “then why aren't you awake, JJ?!”

“Because of this,” said Carla, holding up the shards of broken mirror, “the portal was shattered. He has no way back, he could be anywhere...”

For what seems like weeks, Jamie has dozed on and off - or to be more precise - he periodically seems to lose and regain consciousness: no dreams, no nightmares - but each time he ‘awakens’ to the same disheartening, soul-destroying ‘reality’: a stark, white, antiseptic hospital-room-cum-padded-cell with a rubber floor and a padded door fitted with a little curtained viewing window. Every now and again a surly orderly will pull back the curtain and look in at him to make sure he hasn’t had a 'episode’ or tried to kill himself. And it has to be said, at this stage, suicide is a very tempting option. But it might also be exactly what his tormentor wants: total surrender, so screw that for a game of soldiers. In the meantime he clings to Carla’s previous reassurance that “the natural laws of time and space do not apply in an abstract dimension...” i.e., 5 minutes in a phantasm can last a lifetime, and doggedly sticks to his guns. All he can hope for is a breakthrough like last time, but the way things are going, it’ll have to come from the other side, because this time he can’t forge any meaningful dialogue: there’s been no interaction with anyone who relates to him on anything other than a ‘professional’ basis; he’s considered too dangerous and volatile to mix with the other patients; the nurses bring him his meds and food, the same two orderlies escort him everywhere and take him round the garden path for an hour’s exercise every day, but none of them engage in conversation beyond the occasional please or thank you. The ‘doctors’ and ‘psychologists’ interview him every week and regard him with the same bemused, glassy-eyed, semi-detached stare as they sit cross-legged in their easy chairs and listen patiently to his story; a story that never alters. They've stopped taking notes because he has nothing to offer beyond ‘you are a cypher; this is just an illusion’.

He doesn’t know where he is or how he got here, but is 100% certain he’s trapped in someone else’s subconscious; the question is, whose? He’s pretty sure it isn't Harkness’ head -- this version of that reality lacks the finer details: aside from the key-players, there’s nothing in this ‘scape that couldn't be scraped from even the most prosaic psyche; everyone’s seen a movie with a set-up like this. No, as far as he’s concerned, this is a repurposed memory; and since he’s made up his mind that the Martyrs were on their side -- at least I trust they wouldn't be so crass as to pull the same trick a second time -- he is utterly convinced that this is the demon’s handiwork. He has that familiar churning in his guts that usually indicates the presence of dark energy...

Or is it just the meds?

He’s thought of hiding the pills, but the nurse stands over him and the orderlies check his mouth, so he swallows them in the knowledge that the effects would be purely psychosomatic. Whatever their efficacy, he could still think straight, but over the past few days he’s become unnaturally listless and despondent; the doctor reckons the relentless boredom and isolation are taking their toll and prescribed an anti-depressant, but there’s nothing they can do about his circumstances until he has a ‘breakthrough’.

Breakthroughs.

The night before, he could take it no more, he dropped to his knees and begged the demon to let him go, promising him everything but his Soul. But there were no booming voices in the darkness; no cyphers offering deals. The interminable nightmare drags on. So ‘suicide’ may be the only possible way to break the deadlock... unless, like last time, a third party intervenes....

And sure enough, later that day, just as Jamie’s spirits dipped to a subterranean level and he lay on the bed contemplating some sort of grand gesture, instead of Nurse Whitethorn, the small, skinny, middle-aged woman who usually brought him his midday supply, Nurse Gaston Masterson, the stocky, urchin faced 19-year-old from Wolverhampton whose career he’d previously jeopardised [See Part 20], arrived to “Dish out the tabs!” Jamie hadn't seen him since the first day of his current incarceration and his unexpected reappearance could mean one of two things: either he’s the key to unlocking this or he’s here to kick me when I’m down.

“Hullo! Long-time-no-see -- ‘ow’ve you been, mate? Still climbin’ the walls, are ya?” he chimed, with a wicked wink and a cheeky grin.

He’s here to kick me when I’m down. “Hello, Gaston,” said Jamie, icily, without getting up or even raising his head.

Masterson held the tray on his splayed fingers like a waiter and put the other hand on his hip, “’Ere, I ‘ad a look at your notes just now. It says you’ve become ‘withdrawn’ ‘n ‘lethargic’,” he teased, in his thick Midlands drawl, stooping to have a good look at Jamie’s face and adding gruffly with a hint of satisfaction, “oh yeah. You look bleedin’ awful. ‘Orrible. That’ll be the barbiturates, mate. They sap yer will to live, they do.”

Jamie sighed and held out his hand, “Gimme the fucking pills and get out.”

“Oooh, that’s how it’s gonna be, is it?” Masterson sneered, cocking his head and looking around the stark, windowless room, “At least I can get out, mate,” he sighed, wistfully, “and I must say, it is such a beautiful day today. The sun is shoinin’, ain't a cloud in the skoy...”

Jamie propped up his head and cocked an eye, “You know, for someone in your profession, you haven’t got a very caring nature, have you, Gaston?”

“Ach, I get a kick outta emptyin’ bedpans. I luv the smell of ammonia in the mornin’, me!” he bantered, nonchalantly, grinning like a Cheshire cat as he handed over the little plastic vial of water, “but the main thing is I get to meet wonderful people like you, Jamie.”

Jamie took the cup, sipped it, swallowed, and then looked up into Masterson’s little piggy eyes as he handed it back, “Mm. You’re a very interesting character, Gaston. You intrigue me, you know that?”

Masterson curled a lip and looked at him askance, “Oh yeah? ‘Intrigue’ you ‘ow?”

Jamie grinned and said, “You don’t fit in round here. You stick out a like a sore thumb. In fact, you even look like a sore thumb. Then again, it’s not your physical appearance or your sparkling personality that fascinates me. It’s your function. The purpose you serve.”

“What are you talkin’ about, ‘purpose-I-serve’? I’m a friggin’ nurse! I’m ‘ere cos I work here, y’ daft twonk!” Masterson sniggered, shaking his head.

Jamie’s smile disappeared, his eyes narrowed, “... because each time I reach rock-bottom you reappear, either to supply a ray of hope or provide some exposition. What the hell are you, Gaston?”

The nurse was utterly confounded, “You’re crackin’-up, mate. You’re startin’ to rant like a lunatic,” Masterson tittered, a little nervously, clasping the tray to his chest like a breast plate.

Jamie shook his head and spoke plainly, “It doesn’t matter how long you keep me here, I won’t change my story. My consciousness is trapped in a timeless abstraction. I know I’m still lying on a bed in the Ivy House, enchanted.”

Baffled, Masterson shook his head, tutted and put on an officious voice, “I’ll have to report this to Mondale; 'is course of treatment don’t seem to be workin'. If anything, you’re gettin’ worse...”

“... I don’t know why you’ve dragged me here, but you’ve got to face facts: the battle is lost. You must know by now that I’ll never crack,” Jamie insisted, soberly. “Now, if you don’t mind, it’s long after midnight and I really should be back in my own head. C’mon. Either show your hand or quit.”

Masterson backed up but continued to goad, “I’ve been reading-up-on-this, too: you know what this is? This is amnesiac-paranoia, this is: when you can’t remember nuthin’ ‘n you start thinkin’ everybody’s out to getcha. If you don’t woise-up ‘n show some improvement, you’ll never get out of this room, mate.”

“Oh, I’m thinking straight, mate. You are the only truly interactive member of this regime. His little deus ex-machina,” said Jamie, assuredly, sitting up, “the orderlies never utter a word; the doctors spout the usual psychobabble and scribble down what I say without comment. No one really engages with me... except you, Gaston.”

Still chuckling to himself, the chunky nurse turned toward the door, then paused for thought, turned back and said, “Just for the sake of argument: - if I’m not Nurse Masterson, then who am I?”

“A figment of a demon’s imagination.”

“Oh God, wait til I tell the lads about this...” he snorted, feigning a fit of the giggles.

“Then what’s your address, Gaston Masterson?”

The mocking laughter immediately stopped: “What?!” Masterson recoiled, as if stung by the question.

“Where do you live?”

“That’s none of your fookin’ business!” he looked very rattled.

“OK then, what’s your date of birth?”

“Ummm...” he looked very confused.

Jamie rephrased the question: “When were you born?!”

“I know, I know -- just shurrup!” Masterson yelled, getting angrier and more frustrated by the second.

“OK. Then what was the name of your primary school?”

“None of your...”

“What’s your mother’s maiden name?”

“Stop it! Stop it! STOP IT!” he yelled, putting his hands over his ears.

But Jamie got to his feet and kept up the barrage, “What’s your favourite colour? What’s your favourite movie? Where did you spend your first ever summer holiday?”

“SHUT UP! DON’T MOVE! STAY WHERE YOU ARE!!” Masterson dropped the tray and backed-up toward the door.

“You don’t know anything, do you?”

“Of course I do, but I’m not tellin’ a total psycho like --” he abruptly froze: mouth half-open in mid-syllable, eyes half-closed in mid-blink, his body rigid despite leaning backwards with one foot on the floor, as if someone had just hit the pause button on a 3D video movie. Jamie walked around him and studied him up-close. He looked solid, like an expertly-rendered sculpture, the blonde spikes looked as stiff as iron spines... He couldn't resist and reached out to touch one -- then quickly recoiled -- for as soon as his finger made contact with the tip of the uppermost peak, the inanimate nurse proceeded to subside and crumble like a column of coloured dust, spreading-out and seeping into the rubber flooring until all trace of it was gone. Unperturbed, Jamie stroked his unshaven jaw and nodded to himself: it’s nice to be right, but where do I go from here? That’s the $100,000 question... Masterson had left the door ajar. That’s convenient. It could also be a trap. Jamie slowly and cautiously edged along the adjacent wall so that he could peek through the crack without being seen. He needn't have worried: the orderlies weren’t at their station, in fact there was no sign of anyone anywhere; for the first time he noticed that the hospital was eerily silent... except, that is, for what he perceived to be distant sobbing.

Someone is crying somewhere.

He looked up. It seemed to be coming from above, but it wasn't an acoustic sound; it was dry and clear, with no reverberation: like an incongruous overdub on an ambient soundtrack; a blip; a dropped-stitch in the fabric of this reality. This ‘scape is falling apart. Not that he had any reason to rejoice. The long, tedious nightmare may be over, but he’s still trapped in someone else’s head, and judging by the thoughts and emotions gradually infusing his Essence, not to mention the sudden surge in negative energy, he had a pretty good idea whose head he was in.

The id was beset by emotions and compunctions some of which had plagued him before his ‘initiation’: the self-pity, remorse and furious self-loathing of a clinically depressed and ultimately self-destructive human being. But it was also the psyche of a deranged narcissist who acted upon those base impulses courtesy of his constant partner in crime. Not only that, but at that present moment, the psychosis was compounded by the crash of depleting amphetamines, and by the feel of his nervous system, he was a heavy user. A speed freak on a downer. All in all, this was a Soul devoid of empathy, ethic or hope at the end of its tether. Jamie realised why he’d felt so suicidal over the last ‘few days’: he had been channelling these feelings of despair. He was trapped in the subconscious of someone with nothing to live for and nothing to lose: a damaged, dangerous human being, but a human being, nonetheless. This psyche may be Sensitive, it may possess limited psychic abilities, he reasoned, but it’s no match for a ‘Güül. With this in mind, Jamie strode confidently out his cell, past the orderlies’ table, across the shiny, chessboard-tiled floor and tried the first exit door he came to. Sure enough, it opened easily, and when he stepped through, he was unsurprised to find himself in an entirely different reality on the other side.

He was standing at the foot of steep staircase in the hallway of what appeared to be a homely seaside inn, and judging by the framed watercolours of a coastal town hanging along the opposite wall, a shelf-full of varnished seashells, and the sound of gulls yodelling outside, it was situated right on the seafront. He took in the smell of porter and pipe smoke wafting in through the connecting doorway, the muffled rumble of men talking and laughing, the clink of glasses, the throb of a bassy jukebox playing Roy Orbison’s Dream Baby at a low volume, and concluded he was in a comforting memory of simpler, less traumatic times. But the incongruous sobs were still plainly audible over the merry hubbub of the bar; and once again, the sound appeared to be coming from above. Jamie slowly ascended the stairs one-step-at-a-time, listening intently as he climbed, “Barry? Where are you?” he called out, as he reached the first landing.

The sobs abruptly ceased.

The lights went out. The voices in the bar down below faded to silence. The jukebox ground to a tuneless halt. The gulls stopped squawking. The air smelled of cinnamon and sulphur.

<Who’s there?> a broken, childish voice cried in Jamie’s head.

“You know who I am, Barry. We've met at least twice before,” said Jamie, creeping past the guestroom doors toward a second staircase at the end of the darkened landing.

The voice harrumphed, <Oh, you... so he brought you back with him, did he? Sent my replacement to torture me before he consigns me to oblivion,> it half-laughed, half-wept, <is that what this is? Payback time?>

“He was routed by our combined forces -- he was propelled back to his host -- to you -- he must've dragged my Spirit back with him. I’ve been trapped, here, in your subconscious since midnight,” Jamie told him, in a cool, clear voice, as he slowly and furtively climbed the second staircase, “he had me locked in a timeless phantasm. I s’pose he planned to keep me on hold until he summoned the strength to perform an enforced possession. Fortunately, I managed to escape before...”

<So what?! Why should I care?!> the childish, cracked voice broke in, <You know what’s going to happen to me once he possesses you, don’t you? Soul Death! That’s what!!>

“Probably, if we don’t do something to stop him. But all is not lost. He’s taken quite a beating. He’s very weak, it’ll take him a while to summon the energy he needs to take me on... Together we can...”

Jamie was forced to stop halfway up when a crippling pang of hopelessness assailed his Essence and his head rang with an angst-filled howl, <Why should I help you? What’s the point?! No matter what I do I’m screwed!! I’ve killed a lot of people! Dozens! I’ve killed kids, man!! KIDS!! The cops are bound to catch me! That’s why I wanted to die a proper death while I was rid of him! I would be dead right now if he hadn't’ve come back, I was so close... so close...> As the voice faded to a disconsolate groan, a vivid montage of his recent memories immediately filled Jamie’s psyche and he saw the events of the last 48 hours from McKee’s POV: he saw a wall of broken mirrors and the dog-bone shrine; he saw Harkness bound, blindfolded and tied to a radiator; he saw a darkened roads lit with the beam of a motorbike headlight as it sped through the countryside. Finally, he witnessed an elderly woman in a wheelchair suffer the gruesome effects of a fatal shotgun wound to the chest; simultaneously, waves of guilt and remorse washed over him as McKee sniffled and mawkishly confessed, <I had to kill my mother. She was old and senile. I wanted to see her die and walk into The Light while I was free of him. I... I wanted to say goodbye properly as she died... and I did. The Light shined ‘n I waved to her before she Ascended, and she waved back. She even smiled and said: ‘thank you’... Then I came back here, to Brodir, to free my father’s Spirit from its death-haunt and... kill myself. That’s when he came back... Just as I put my father’s revolver in my mouth and hooked my thumbs round the trigger, I felt him fill my head again...>

“Here? You mean we’re there... here... in Brodir... now?” asked Jamie, looking around, a little confused.

<That was almost an hour ago. God knows where we are now... we could be anywhere, I can’t see or hear anything, he’s taken control of my senses,> the voice whinged, <and if you’re here that can only mean one thing -- he’s going to ingest me and infest you! It’s a done deal. I’m doomed -- literally facing a fate worse than death!>

“It needn't come to that, Barry,” said Jamie, as he climbed the remaining steps, “if he’s put you on hold and I’m free to wander, then he must be concentrating all his energy on manipulating your body. His focus is elsewhere -- we can take him on --”

The voice cut in again, <And then what? Even if you escape I’ll still be stuck with him. And I’ve heard the radio reports! They’re listing my crimes and calling me the Most Dangerous Man in Ireland! I’ll never get a fair trial. Then I’ll be stuck in prison with men who’ll want to kill me -- and he’ll still be in my head!>

“They don’t put men like you in prisons, Barry; they put them in psychiatric institutions and study them for future reference. Especially infamous killers as prolific as you,” said Jamie, creeping along the short corridor of the second floor, past the private rooms, headed for a short flight of wooden steps that led up to the attic, “y’know, we have specialists who can help you. Demonologists from all over the globe. If you work with us there’s a every chance we can find a way to get rid of him forever. You could live out the rest of your life free of his influence and die a natural death. Isn't that what you want? I mean, no matter what happens, anything is better than this, isn't it --”

The voice cut him off just as he reached out and touched the doorknob, <Don’t open the door,> it warned, in a low, ominous growl.

Jamie paused but kept his hand where it was, “You can’t hurt me, Barry. You can’t hide from me, either. I know everything. I’m looking into your memories as we speak. I see the murders. I see the Spirits of the children darkened by your shadow. I know the extent of your complicity: I’m aware of the things you instigated, the things he made you do and the things you did willingly, and I’ll be frank, I don’t much like what I see or how it makes me feel. But I’m shutting my mind to all of it for now, because at this point, the only thing that matters is getting rid of the thing that enabled it, and if you truly want to atone for your sins and die naturally, you’ll help me,” said Jamie, slowly turning the knob, waiting for an objection. None came. He pushed the door open and ventured into Barry’s inner sanctum: the resplendent, high-ceilinged, opulently decorated throne room of an ancient Egyptian Pharaoh. For this is Barry’s Happy Place, created to cater to his childhood fascination with Egyptology, a phantasmagorical, palatial playpen to keep him occupied while the demon takes the wheel.

The tall white marble walls were draped in golden tapestries embroidered with intricate hieroglyphs and attended by rows of colossal statues representing the dog-god Anubis; their human arms crossed on their chests, their black vulpine snouts turned toward the throne as if paying homage to the Boy King. It was very impressive, but at the moment the demon is too busy to provide the in-house entertainment and Barry is too despondent to use his imagination; hence there are no eunuchs to fan him, no attendants to to order around, no slaves to abuse; just the incumbent emperor sitting silently in his golden chair, atop a dais in the shadows at the top of the room.

But this was no Tutankhamun. This was a pale-skinned, prepubescent Barry McKee clad in stately Pharaoh’s robes and regal headdress, his head hung in shame and sorrow, his face hidden behind a long, glossy teddy boy quiff. “You shouldn't have opened that door. He’ll know you’re here now,” he said, his childishly- petulant voice echoing around the cavernous chamber. “You don’t know how this works. We die, he eats our Souls and he moves on. A dog, a cockroach, anything will do... You can’t go head-to-head with him -- he’s made of negative energy. He’s indestructible. It’s hopeless.”

“I can’t talk about what I intend to do, but listen to me,” said Jamie, slowly treading the purple runner that led to the throne, “I need to take control of your body, Barry. If we put our heads together, I can...”

Before he could finish, the porcelain-white, tear soaked face peered through the veil of greasy tresses and snorted, “It’s easy for you! You've got nothin’ to lose! He wants you. My Soul will get eaten!”

Even though he loathed this man/boy with every atom of his being, in that moment, Jamie couldn't help but feel a little bit sorry for him. He climbed the steps and knelt before the throne, looked up at him and held out a hand, “You know what his plans are, Barry. If you die, I get possessed; then he’ll use my powers to wipe-out my people. He’ll use our political connections to cause a situation that could potentially lead to the destruction of the Real World. It’s in my best interest to keep you alive. Trust me.”

McKee smirked and scoffed, “He’ll swallow us whole.”

“It just might save your Soul, Barry.”

The would-be Boy King shrugged and reluctantly put out his hand to accept the offer and lay open his psyche -- but before they even touched -- catastrophe struck! A deafening

THUD!

An explosion! The palace disintegrated! Their avatars were instantly tossed aloft and spun like snowflakes in a blizzard strobed by flashing multicoloured lights -- for a fleeting second he saw the ceiling of a room through McKee’s dimming eyes... then the pitch black of total unconsciousness...

Everything went deathly still, deathly silent.

<“Barry...?”>

McKee was gone, his psyche had been effectively switched off, nothing but the body’s vital functions and they were giving cause for concern: the breathing was shallow, the pulse rate was extremely weak, the blood pressure dangerously low. There was only one possible explanation: he’d suffered a crushing blow to the head.

For Jamie, this was uncharted territory: If this a concussion, what happens to me? What if it’s something worse? What if it it’s a bullet? Is this it?! Possession Time?!

Whatever the circumstances, his head was very, very sore and he was getting very dizzy... ringing in his ears... it was getting harder to think... Then, in the middle-distance, he espied a spangling silver rectangle.

Ooh, please let that be what I hope it is...

...

3 minutes ago in the sanatorium, Carla and Dani were startled when Jamie’s body suddenly spasmed -- the pair sprang back from him as he shuddered and his head writhed from side-to-side -- his face clenched in an anguished grimace!

“What the fuck’sss happenin’?!” yelped Noel, rudely roused from his nap, quickly slinking off the bouncing bed and coiling onto the floor.

Carla put her hands on Jamie’s shoulders and held him down, “It seems he has suffered a shock to his system!”

Dani jumped back onto the bed and helped her, “Is he hurt?!” she asked, pushing down on his chest.

Carla put a finger on his throat and tapped into his vital functions, “His blood pressure is high, his heart is racing...” she nodded to herself as she reached a conclusion, “It could mean one of two things...”

“What two things?!” cried Dani.

“Either it is a reaction to a direct attack on his psyche, or he is suffering someone else’s pain. My instincts lean toward the latter...”

“So?! Why’re you so worried?! What does it mean?!” yapped Dani, getting annoyed.

“I have a feeling I know where he is. I just hope the attack wasn't fatal...”

25 minutes ago, Odin’s Inn, Brodir, Co. Wicklow: diminutive, blue-haired inn-keeper, Zindy Lindsay, and her ever-faithful, septuagenarian barman, Sammy O'Donnell, were out in the backyard squeezing the last box of assorted debris into the back of his already overloaded van. “Well, that’s the last of it for tonight, chile,” said Sammy, panting as he secured the door-handles with an oily-rag, “I’ll take it round to the scrapyard in the mornin’, see what auld Matt’ll gimme fer it.”

“Thanks, Sam, I don’t know what I’d do w'out you, ol' son,” said Zindy, in her mellifluous Lancashire brogue. “It’s sad, all the same, I’m sure this breaks your 'eart, 'avin’ to see the place you’ve worked in all yer life end up in this state,” she remarked, nodding toward the inn.

“Nuthin’ lasts forever, me darlin’,” Sammy sighed, resignedly, “you only have to look at the crumbling castles of great kings strewn around this isle to see that even the grandest of places eventually end up abandoned ‘n fall into wreck-‘n-ruin, why should a pokey wee burg like Brodir be any different? The place is dead and Halloween Night was the last nail in its coffin,” he grimly philosophised, his grizzled, ruddy face a vision of woe.

“Fook me but you can be a right morbid bastard sometimes, Sammy O'Donnell,” she chuckled, crossing her arms and shaking her head. “Cheer oop, will ya?! As soon as I get it fixed-up, I’m openin’ this place again,” she reached up, grabbed his silvery sideboards and hoisted his drooping jowls into a smile, “so you’ve still got a job, aintcha?!”

He lowered his eyes and kept things serious, “You've been a great boss, chile, ye’ve been a pleasure to work for, but we havetae be realistic here. You heard what Somerville said: you’re gonna lose your liquor licence; you could be banned from ever runnin’ a bar ever again, and when they catch the bol’ Barry and it all comes out about what he did, nobody’s wanna come to Brodir, let alone stay at the auld Inn...”

“Then we’ll turn the place into a House of Horror for ghouls ‘n gawkers We’ll do guided tours -- we can coach ‘em in from Arklow!” she crowed, cheekily, cupping her hands around her mouth and yelling like a carnival barker, “Roll-Up, Roll-UP for the Magical Murder Tour -- get your Barry McKee tee-shirts ‘ere! Spend a night of terror in Mad Barry’s bed!”

He looked at her askance, shook his head and tutted, “Now, that’s just bad taste, girlie.”

She apologised for the flippancy but refused to look on the black-side, “No, fook-‘em, Sammy!! -- I’m not movin’. This is me ‘ome. I own it, I love it, an’ I’m stayin’ put. I don’t need a liquor licence to run a fookin’ guesthouse!”

Tutting to himself, Sammy got out his keys and bade her goodnight, “Sleep on it. We’ll talk about it in the mornin’,” he advised, turning away, “lock the gates behind me, mind you. Bolt the backdoor and make sure them windows on the first floor are shut tight 'n fastened before ye turn in...” he lowered his voice and asked, doubtfully, “Unless y’ want me to stay, that is...?”

She crossed her arms and scolded him, “NO. I’ve already ‘ad Malky on the phone earlier-on tellin’ me to be careful! -- and I’ll tell you what I tol’ ‘im -- there’s no way that bastard would come back ‘ere tonight!”

“’Malky,’ is it,” mumbled Sammy, morosely, turning away, rattling his keys, “huh. I s’pose you 'n him are ‘an item’ now, are yez?”

“What’s this, Sammy -- you jealous?!” she teased, poking him in his gut.

He blushed, made a face and spluttered a disclaimer, “I just don’t want ye gettin’ into somethin’ that’ll cause ye more heartache, chile. I mean, you can certainly pick ‘em, can’t ye...?”

He was tactlessly referring to her imprisoned ‘better-half’, Raspo Canning, currently serving a 7 year sentence for a string of offences including GBH and possession with intent to supply, “Gawd, you don’t 'alf know how to kick a girl when she’s down, mister,” she said, with a wink and a crooked grin, “Malky’s just a friend. I told ya. I don’t need anybody. I can take care o’ meself.”

He was going to say: Aye, a friend who stays the night without payin', but thought better of it and repeated his previous warnings, adding, “and don’t answer the door, no matter what! If the gards come back, make sure they show ye ID through the letterbox before ye let ‘em in...”

“Look you -- fook off ‘ome!” she pushed him into the van, “I’ll be safe as ’ouses, you’ll see!”

“Don’t tempt fate, missy,” he said, pointedly, groaning and clutching his hip as he shifted his arse into the driver’s seat.

She kicked the rear right tyre, “Go on, gerroutta ’ere. See you in the mornin’, yer daft ol’ twat!”

After much pounding of clutch and tugging of choke, the engine eventually ignited on the 7th attempt and Sammy drove off, leaving the usual cloud of blue, sooty-smoke behind him; and as usual, she waited until it dissipated before crossing the yard to padlock the gate. As she walked back to the kitchen door, she pulled Malky’s charm out from under the collar of her tee-shirt and rolled the little, latticed silver bulb between her fingertips. It was strangely comforting. She’d put it on after the phonecall [See Part 18] and ever since she’d felt... different, sort of calmer. But was it her imagination or did it feel as if the silver was getting warmer? It was probably just the power of suggestion: all Malky’s talk about ghosts and demons and that... then, just as she reached the step, a shiver ran along her shoulders and a butterfly of apprehension took flight in her belly. She turned, walked back to the centre of the yard and looked into the darkness between the outhouses; she could've sworn she saw something move...

Probably just a cat...?

It suddenly occurred to her: there are no friendly felines on the roof of the old stable or lined along the walls. That’s a turn up. Not a solitary moggie to be seen. She invariably left a big plate of scraps at the backdoor last thing and there were always at least a few lurking in the shadows, waiting patiently for their supper, their eager eyes twinkling as they crept closer. It had been a ritual ever since she moved in. But not tonight, for some strange reason. Then something caught her ear: a rustling sound -- the stack of bin bags between the sheds? The little latticed bulb between her fingers was hot now. She heard it again. It was definitely coming from the gap between the sheds. Rats? Nah, too big and bustly to be a rat. She moved a little closer and looked into the darkness: no, there’s definitely somebody in there... Could be one of the punters who ate his stash and passed-out during the raid...? It could be one of the dealers hiding from the cops....? She tutted and gave herself a shake, Oh, fook this for a game of soldiers: “Oo’s there?!” she called out, as she edged toward an overfilled crate of empty vodka bottles to her right.

No response.

“Come out, I know yer in there...” she reached out and grabbed one of the bottles by the neck, carefully extracted it from the crate and hid it behind her back. “C’mon, c’mon, I can ‘ear you, y’ divvy... Come out!”

Sure enough, something stirred in the shadows, something just as black and glossy as the trashbags around it; a shape that seemed to slowly unfold until it stood erect at the end of the short passage between the sheds.

“’Ow long ‘ave you been hidin’ in there, you fookin’ nob-’ead?!” she jeered, tightening her grip on the bottle, her heart pounding.

The shadow got to its feet and walked toward her; it was a biker alright, in full leathers, wearing a helmet fitted with a very familiar mirrored visor.

Don’t tempt fate, missy.

She didn’t have to ask, but for some reason she did, “Barry?”

The figure didn’t answer and kept coming; she saw herself get closer in the visor, her face a vision of shock and awe. She smashed the bottle on the corner of the crate and brandished the broken neck, “Keep away from me, Baz, I swear, I’ll fookin’ cut yer...”

That’s when the shotgun barrel loomed out of the shadows.

Oh... shite.

A gauntleted hand slapped the makeshift weapon from her grasp, then tore the little silver amulet from around her throat and tossed it into the corner; a muffled, gruff voice growled, “Get inside.”

Zindy was baffled but defiant, “What the fook are you doin’ Baz?! This is fookin’ mental, this is...” she complained, as he roughly turned her around, grabbed her by the scruff-of-the-neck and unceremoniously manhandled her up the steps and through the backdoor. She was half his size, her feet hardly touched the ground, but despite the discomfort and indignity, she kept her nerve and kept needling as he frogmarched her through the kitchen, “they’ll be checking all yer old haunts -- they’re bound to come ‘ere. You’d be better-off gettin’ as far away as possible instead o' wastin' time settlin’ old scores...” He jostled her through the connecting door, into the unfurnished bar, pushed her into the centre of the empty floor and raised the shotgun. Contrary and fearless as ever, Zindy went on the offensive, “You were never one of us, Baz. You mighta hung out w’ us ‘n’ all, but we never liked you. We thought you were a creep. Raspo didn’t trust you. If ‘e’d ever found out what you were up to, ‘e’d’ve 'ad you skinned alive, son. And if you do anythin’ to me, you’ll be signin’ yer own death warrant -- in or out of prison.”

“I know Raspo a lot longer and a lot better than you do, Zara, and I know his habits,” McKee replied, coolly, pulling off his helmet to reveal the haggard, pallid face underneath and the long, greasy black hair, damp with sweat, hanging lank over his baggy, badly bloodshot, black eyes. “Where is it, Zara?” he asked, bluntly.

He was a poser and a sleaze, but even for Barry, this performance was a bit OTT. The raspy voice, the glaring eyes; it was all a bit melodramatic. She gave him a crooked look, “What are you on, Baz?”

He sighed and raised the shotgun in both hands as if he was going to bring the butt down on her head, “I’m in a dreadful hurry, I have a long journey ahead and I’m quite prepared to hurt you very badly if I have to,” he said, plainly, blank faced and unblinking. “First and foremost, I need funds. So where is it?”

She spelt it out for him by pulling out the empty pockets of her jeans, “I got nowt, dickhead. The cops confiscated all me takin’s after the raid.”

He stooped, looked her in the eye and said, “I’m not talking about your petty cash, Zara, I’m talking about Raspo’s loot. His swag. His stash. His little nest-egg for whenever he gets out of Mountjoy.”

She crossed her arms, shook her head and said, “I have no idea what you’re talkin’ --abounnnnggggh!”

He’d grabbed her by the throat, “Your other half was quite the rogue, he did ‘jobs’ for some very heavy, very wealthy people, and they paid him handsomely for his services -- not to mention the little incidental perks he picked up along the way. And since he doesn’t trust banks or any of his partners in crime to look after it, it must be somewhere around here,” he stooped and snarled into her face, “so where is it?”

She crossed her arms and made a show of turning her head away as she replied in a patient voice, “I turned a blind-eye to ‘is extracurriculars, if you must know. We ‘ad an understanding: as long as he kept it off the premises and it didn’t involve other women or anythin’ sordid, I asked no questions ‘n let ‘im gerron w’ it. His business was none of my business, 'n vice-a-versa.”

McKee stood back, put a boot against her midriff and knocked her to the floor, then he stood over her, aimed the shotgun at her lower leg and said, “If you don’t tell me by the time I reach 1, you’ll lose a knee...

“5........ 4 ........ 3 ........”

that was as far as he got when something smashed into the back of his head. He shuddered for a second or two, dropped to his knees, moaned... then collapsed against the end of the green velveteen banquette.

Frozen in shock, still holding the cricket bat in both hands as if about to take another swipe, Sammy the barman loomed over his stricken victim and groaned remorsefully, “Ooh, jeezus Christ... D’ you think I hit him too hard...?”

“It sounded like you were crackin’ open a coconut!!” Zindy exclaimed brightly, quickly yanking the shotgun from McKee’s grasp before gingerly feeling his wrist to check his pulse, “But you aven’t killed ‘im, chook, ‘e’s still tickin’...” she stood up, put a foot against his head and turned it to the side: the thick back hair on his crown was glued into a concave dent in his skull and there was a patch of gore streaming down the wooden siding of the bench. “Hmm, ’e’s bleeding badly. I’d say ‘e ‘asn’t long to go if we don’t get him to t’ ‘ospital...?” she mused, as if they had a choice.

This only added to the old man’s anxiety - he dropped the bat like a hot potato and began pacing the floor and jabbering into his hand, “Aww shite, c’mon now, c’mon, I didn’t mean to kill ‘im! I just wanted to stun ‘im ... I mean, I thought ‘e was gonna shoot you... I mean, what else could I do?”

She patted his back reassuringly, “Calm down, chook, calm down, you did the right thing... I mean, you shoulda seen t’ look in ‘is eyes -- ‘e were off ‘is ‘ead -- if ‘e’d’ve seen ya ‘e’d’ve shot ya w'out a second thought!” She picked up the bat to check it for cracks and asked, “‘Ow come you came back, anyway?”

He pointed at the connecting door, “... the radio... the news... they said that yer-man-here was armed ‘n dangerous ‘n on the run in the area, so I came back to warn ye he might be headed this way.... I parked on the street ‘n I let meself in the side door ‘n I heard ‘im threatenin’ ye, so I crept in ‘n hid behind the bar.... lifted the auld cricket bat ‘n waited til his back was turned...” He gulped and took another look at the stricken psycho, “Aww, Jaysus... do you think he’s gonna be alright?” he pleaded, swaying on his heels, his face as white as his whiskers.

“I don’t give a flyin’ fook ‘bout that shower o’ shite -- it’s you I’m worried about, ol’ son,” she said grabbing his arm, “you need to sit down -- yer shakin’ like a leaf -- we don’t want you ‘avin’ fookin’ ‘eart attack on top of everythin’ else!” She put the gun against the busted jukebox, put Sammy in one of the remaining chairs and ran to the kitchen to fetch him a glass of water. As the tap gushed and thrummed into the big, empty stainless-steel sink she heard what she thought were two loud pops. “Sammy -- was that you?” She shouted, quickly filling the glass and hurrying back, “Sammy?”

Sammy was lying supine on the floor by the overturned chair. McKee was propped-up on the end of the banquette, his face awash with blood, his daddy’s old service revolver in his hand. She cried out and ran to the body, “Sammy, are you alright?” It was another stupid question. The old man had taken two rounds to the chest at point blank range and by the looks of the rusty red holes in his jumper, one had almost certainty pierced his heart. There were to be no last words, no tearful farewells, just a wall-eyed, gormless, slack-jawed gape of bemusement. She threw down the glass, fell to her knees and cradled his head in her lap, “aww, Sammy, Sammy, Sammmeeeeee...” she sobbed, shedding real tears for the first time since she was a bairn.

Meanwhile, groaning and gasping with the effort, his pistol still pointed in her direction, McKee had gathered the strength to hoist his skinny arse onto the banquette. He reached behind his head, touched his wound then studied the gore on his gloved fingertips, “my head... He hurt my brain...” he gasped, astounded, as if it couldn't be true.

“You’re a fookin’ dirty rotten, stinkin’, shitbag-coont, Barry McKee!! What the fookin’ ‘ell did you ‘ave to go ‘n do that for?!” Zindy yelped, clasping the old man’s head to her breast.

Even if the head injury hadn't affected Barry’s aim, it had certainly seemed to have affected his judgement; the arch, ultra cool figure she met in the yard was now mewling like a dumbfounded fool, “He hurt me... bad... look...” he muttered, showing her his bloody fingertips.

“Aye -- ‘e stoved-yer-’ead-in! You should be dead! Why couldn't ye ‘ave done the right thing ‘n fookin’ DIED!!” she cried, surreptitiously stealing a glance at the shotgun leaning against the jukebox, wondering if she could roll across the floor and snatch it before he...

But by now McKee had gathered his wits, saw her intent and was already hobbling toward it. Keeping the pistol level, he snatched it up and said, “Get... his... keys!!”

“Get bent!” she fired back, “You’re nowt but scum, Barry McKee!”

He aimed the pistol and shot a round into the wall behind her -- a cloud of plaster-dust showered down on her shoulders. “GET... FUCKING... KEYS!!” he bellowed, through gore-soaked tresses.

Zindy swiped the dust from her shoulders, sneered and said, “Coont,” then apologised profusely to her dear deceased employee as she rifled through his pockets; but there was nothing to be found other than his wallet, a soiled handkerchief and half-a-bag of clove rock. “They’re not here! ‘E must've left 'em in the van...”

He grabbed her by the scruff, pulled her away, put the gun against her head and dragged her into the hall. He stood by the side door and they listened; sure-enough, they could feel the rumble of an engine in the street. They could also hear the sound of distant sirens on the other side of the bay. “Must go... now!” he said, dragging her out the door and shoving her into the little side street where the van sat idling at the kerb. He forced her into the driving seat and kept the revolver trained on her as he staggered around the front and climbed into the passenger side, Once he was comfortably ensconced, he put the gun to her head again and yelled “Drive!”

She shook her head violently, thumped her fists on the wheel, “Where?! Where the fook’re we goin’?!”

He waved the gun to indicate a westerly direction, “To the mountains... I know the Way...GO!”

She looked into his hooded, bloodshot eyes, “Mountains?! Look at t’ state o’ you. You’re fooked, Baz. You should be goin’ to t’ ‘ospital -- not a drive in the fookin’ country!” she said, in as kind a voice as she could muster.

He put the pistol to her temple and replied, drowsily, “NO! GO! Going to finish this... going back... back to where it began...”

...

8 minutes ago: at first there was nothing to see but inky-blackness. There was no heavenly light, no Pearly Gates, no St Peter, no choirs of harp-plucking angels perched on fluffy-white clouds, just complete darkness and the ominous sound of distant thunder. In other words, it didn’t feel good. He wasn't in pain, or anything like that, he just felt ill at ease and very hot. That’s when it occurred : Aww, jaysus, I must be in the other place! But how?! I’ve been a feckin’ saint all me feckin’ life! Mass every Friday as well as Sunday -- and I’m practically a virgin! -- then, all of a sudden, just as he began to lose hope, it felt as if someone or something had taken him by the arms and yanked him upwards at great speed -- after that he experienced a sensation akin to what he could only describe as feeling like being turned into jelly and squeezed through a small, shiny rectangular window into another place. It was still quite dark, but now there were sparkling stars all around him; a twinkling constellation of all shapes and sizes set in a black velvet firmament. When he finally turned full-circle, he found himself gazing into the eyes of a good looking lad in his 20s; an unshaven, shaven-headed fellow, dressed in white, glowing robes.

“Are you an angel?” he asked, timidly.

Jamie looked down at what he was wearing and said, “No, there’re no such things as angels, I’m afraid. This is a hospital gown, not a shroud. My name’s Jamie.”

“Sammy, pleased to make your acquaintance...” Sammy looked down at his sweater and the bloody bullet holes, “Am I dead, Jamie? Are we, like... I mean, is this, like... hell?”

“Yes, you’re dead. And no, this isn't hell. There is no hell, either, thankfully, but if they were ever scouting for a location, this place would be a prime site,” Jamie shuddered, “no, we’re in the Void. The Wizard’s Rift. The Mirror World. An empty dimension between Life and Limbo accessible via mirrors-slash-portals, like these,” he said, in reference to the sparkling constellation, “I pulled you in through this one.” He indicated the shimmering, rounded rectangle behind them. Sure enough, Sammy recognised the inverted Guinness motif of the old mirror that hung behind the bar, one of the few breakables that survived the riot. They looked through it and saw Zindy crouched on the floor weeping over Sammy’s lifeless body, cradling his head in her lap while the injured McKee threatened her with a gun. If he hadn’t’ve been floating, Sammy would've fallen to his knees and said a prayer, but all he could do was press his face against the glass, watch and gasp, “Can’t we do anythin’ to help her?!”

“I s’pose I’d better explain,” said Jamie, putting it as quickly and as simply as he could, “my Spirit was trapped in Barry’s subconscious -- when you hit him with the bat, you damaged his brain -- he lost consciousness, I was freed and was able to escape through this mirror.” He pointed at the scene in the bar, “Barry is possessed by a Soul eating demon and your Spirit was about to be devoured by its negative energy, so I grabbed you before it reached you and pulled you in here... I’m terribly sorry,” he said, morosely, putting a placatory hand on Sammy’s shoulder.

“Sorry for what, laddie? Didn't you just save my Soul?” Sammy replied, flabbergasted, but grateful.

Frowning, Jamie shook his head and gloomily informed him, “You don’t understand, you’re a ghost now, my friend. A disembodied Spirit. You’ll have to haunt the inn until The Light shines again and you can Ascend to the Eternal Host. But in the meantime, you’ll be invisible, you won’t be able to interfere in the Real World.

Sammy frowned.

“See, it sounds a bit bleak, doesn’t it? But the alternative was Soul Death -- an eternity of nothing -- so forgive me if I took matters into my own hands.”

It sounded quite confusing at first, but somehow, the more he thought about it, the more sense it made. Every revelation came with a vivid and instantaneous explanation, as if it was something he’d known all his life. When Jamie had finished, Sammy had only one question, “Why are you shiverin’ so, m’ lad? How come you’re feelin’ the cold?”

“I’m a Living Soul, Sammy; this place saps my psychic energy and that has a direct effect on my physicality -- plainly speaking, everything I endure out here, my body feels back in the Real World. You, on the other hand, are dead. You can survive a while longer; but I’d advise you to go to Limbo as soon as possible and wait-it-out until this blows-over.”

“Limbo...?” Sammy’s eyes darted left and right, “Is that like... Purgatory?”

“More like a busy airport departure lounge during an eternal baggage-handlers strike, from what I’ve heard. Whatever, it’s safer than here or the Real World, and there’ll be other Spirits there who can explain things a lot better than me.”

“But how do I get there?”

Jamie had another think, then looked up and shouted, “Bernie? Bernie Pritchard?! I know you can hear me, Brother Bernie! I’ve got a recently deceased here -- he needs access to Limbo!”

After a long pause, a spark flickered just above them and began moving along the darkness leaving a glowing trail behind it, like the sizzling flame of an acetylene torch slowly cutting a raggedy oval in a sheet of matt-black metal, eventually creating a shimmering, bright blue portal. “There you are, away you go!” said Jamie, pushing the old barman toward it.

Sammy didn’t want to leave him, “Can’t you come with me?”

“Only the dead can enter Limbo. I’ll have to go back.”

“Back? Back where?” asked Sammy, as Jamie moved back to the mirror, “surely you can’t go back into Barry’s brain?!”

“I tried going back the way I came, but that mirror must be broken, the portal is gone. So I’m afraid it’s the devil or the deep blue sea: stay out here and get sucked dry, or take my chances in a fractured skull...”

...

45 minutes ago, somewhere in Wicklow: Brooster watched vacantly as Malky slammed down the receiver, exited the callbox and fast-stepped down the steep verge back to the car, “No reply. She must be outside in the backyard or somethin’,” he panted, as he jumped in, released the handbrake and drove back onto the road. He turned on the radio to hear the news, but it was well past the hour and all he could find were country-&-western shows and late night phone-ins. “I hope Somerville ‘n his crew get there before we do, that’s all....” he mumbled.

Broo was only half-listening. He’d been in somewhat of a daze since they got to got to Co Dublin and the silhouette of the mountains filled the horizon. A strange, wondrous-yet-unnerving sensation had washed over him, his senses, natural and supernatural, seemed to heighten and strengthen; and then, when they reached Wicklow and drove into their shadow, he saw that the moon between the peaks was haloed with an eerie violet light that tinted the rolling mist a deep shade of lilac and turned the fields below into a purple patchwork quilt, simultaneously, the sensation intensified: it was as if the demon had infected the entire landscape and the old dog’s body was shoring up its defences in response.

Sensing his disquiet, Malky glanced over his shoulder, “Is everything alright, Broo?” he asked, concerned.

No, everything is not alright. The feeling of trepidation was turning to mild panic. To add to this anxiety, the ghosts of little children were appearing at the side of the road, but this time they weren’t cheering him on. There was no uplifting effervescence in their Aspect, no brightly glowing haloes, no encouraging smiles, no chirpy voices in his head; just evanescent, bluish figures with stern, earnest faces pointing the way. Despite the brevity of the manifestations and the lack of direct communication, the message was abundantly clear: be quick but be careful, there’s danger ahead!

The Ivy House

12:45: Lady Beth’s scream of ecstasy resounded around the shadowy upper floors of the South Wing, up through the network of ebony rafters above the main stairwell and died in the dormant halls and wood-panelled passageways down below. Not so much a cry of passion as a screech of blessed release. “Ooooooh, I needed that...” she moaned, gently swaying from to-and-fro, arms behind her head, pink-cheeked and contented in the afterglow, her long, untrammelled chestnut hair strewn across her face. She swept back the errant tresses, reached down, yanked the gag out of her captive lover’s mouth and posed the inevitable question, in a wry, breathless whisper, “How was it for you, darling?”

“Will you let me go now?” he responded, flatly, his face a picture of disdain and disgust.

She smiled wickedly, “Don’t pretend you didn’t enjoy it, Guy, I know you did,” she tittered, tapping her temple with her finger, “there are no secrets in this house.”

He ignored the retort and squirmed between her naked thighs as he tried to shake her off, “Please, undo these straps and let me go, you’ve had your fun...”

“Hah! That wasn't fun, darling! That was letting off steam,” she replied, indifferently, standing up so that she towered over him, “just count yourself lucky I didn’t have my riding crop!” She stepped down off the bed, put on her gown, slipped into her slippers, stepped over the unconscious Xavier and went to the dressing table to reassemble her hair, “Oh, if only this night was over. This has got to be the longest...” Her voice trailed of when she happened to turn and glance out of the window, “.... w-what the fuck?!”

“What is it!” cried Goz, alarmed by her uncharacteristic show of unease.

“Lights... coming through the trees on the crest of the hill...from the direction of the forest...” she mumbled, distractedly, tightening the belt on her robe. As if to echo her feelings, the kennels down below duly erupted in a cacophony of frightened yips and plaintiff howls, “Whoever it is, they’re scaring the dogs...”

“Open these straps -- I wanna see!”

She took the pistol from the bedside locker and bolted for the door.

“Hey! Aren't you gonna free me first?!”

She spun on her heel and trotted back to the bed. Goz sighed with relief. Alas, she wasn't there to release him, “I still don’t trust you, Guy, sorry, for all I know this could be Rossington’s men come to take you back,” she said, regretfully, and stuffed the sock back into his mouth. Once it was secured, she smiled and stroked his shaven pate, “I need you to be nice and quiet until I sort this out. I’ll decide what to do with you as soon as everyone wakes up,” she whispered, sweetly, and gave him a little peck on the cheek.

After closing the door on another stifled tirade, she dashed down the corridor, ran down the short flight of steps to the next landing, through a concealed hatch in the panelling and down the secret spiral-staircase to the low-ceilinged passageway that led to the to an exit hatch in the east wing; sprinting down the hallway to the servants’ entrance, she threw open the outer door, lifted the hem of her gown and tiptoed down the iron staircase -- jumped over the sprawled body of the unconscious guard -- then dashed across the backyard and took up position behind the little unmanned gatelodge that serviced the east entrance. She peered around the corner, scanned the hill and discerned a dozen-or-so little-old-ladies - some with flashlights, some toting old fashioned lanterns - tottering down the pebble path that led to the gate. She relaxed and slumped against the slatted wooden siding to catch her breath. “Fucking witches. That’s all we bloody need,” she gasped,deliberately letting her head roll back so that it thumped the wood. Once she’d recovered, she straightened up, tightened the belt on her gown to hide her nakedness, emerged from her hiding place, and casually sauntered to the gate to greet them, holding the gun in both hands behind her back.

The coterie of bitter-faced, bewigged or soberly-hatted old ladies rattled the wrought iron gate with walking sticks, shoes, umbrellas and various items from their dog-eared handbags. She took in their scowling faces with a crooked smile and nodded knowingly. She was well aware that she was none too popular amongst the local witches. Despite her past attempts to reach out to them and include them in the coven’s activities, they still considered her to be nowt but a gold-digging trollop who managed to snag the Judge when he was going soft in the head. She ignored the blatant antipathy and addressed their leader through the curled bars in a no-nonsense but slightly-pissed-off-manner, “Can I help you, Ms Costello?”

Esmeralda Costello; a big, fat, ginger-wigged battleaxe girdled into a tight tweed suit, clutching what appeared to be a small, recently-disinterred treasure-chest to her sizeable bosom, stuck out her uppermost chin and chimed, “Aye. Ye can do yerself a favour ‘n open this feckin’ gate!”

Her cohort cackled loudly and mirthlessly at their sister’s curt rejoinder -- but they soon shut up when one of them glimpsed what Her Ladyship was holding behind her back! “Jeezus -- she’s gotta gun!” she yelled. They quickly retreated from the railings and regrouped behind their imposing leader.

Rolling her eyes, Lady Beth slipped the pistol into her pocket, re-tightened her belt, crossed her arms and started again, “First-things-first. How the hell did you get in?”

The haughty harridan pointed up the hill, “There’s a special tunnel under the east wall. The Judge had it ‘specially installed when they built this place,” she declared, in a sarky, sing-song voice, “put it there for emergencies, so-‘e-did. And believe me, my lady, this is a dire emergency!”

The others responded with a rowdy chorus of “Aye!”

“What ‘emergency?’” Her Ladyship asked, with an unconvincing shrug.

Ezzy was wise to her nemesis’ wiles and laid it on thick with a childish waggle of her head that made her ginger wig shimmy in its clips, “Things aren't quite right, are they, my lady? Yez’ve messed-up, haven’t yez? The whole household is spark-out-for-the-count, isn't it, my lady?”

Intrigued, Her Ladyship cocked her head, “... and what would you know about it?”

The feisty old dragon put the little treasure chest under one arm and tapped her temple with the stumpy index-finger of her free hand, “You know how we know, my lady. We miss nuthin’. We mightn't all be Sirens, some of us mightn't be the ‘Full-‘Güül’ -- but we’re still psychics and we’re still part of this coven -- we are still bound by an unbreakable spiritual connection! And at present, that connection is broken!” She held up the treasure chest, “Me grandmother predicted this state of affairs! 3 years ago when the demon burned down half of yer precious Ivy House ‘n killed half the Council ‘n tried to possess the Young Master! Remember that? We got you outta that mess too!! Well,she told us what would happen next -- and whaddya know -- it’s all come to pass! So don’t question our motives, my lady, just let us in so we can get about our business!!”

There followed a hubbub of agreement featuring a lot of ‘that’s rights’, ‘oh ayes’ and a few ‘you tell hers’.

“You mean... your grandmother’s ashes are in that box?” Her Ladyship enquired, a little bemused, a little appalled.

“No. She’s in the box. She’s been asleep for the last 3 years. She’s over 1000 years old, so-she-is, she has to sleep a lot. She shoulda stepped into The Light ages ago, but she felt duty-bound to stick around ‘n see this through!”

The crinkly, mottled crew folded their arms, nodded en masse and murmured a firm, “Mm hm.”

Lady Beth chewed her cheek and had a think about it. Finally, she confessed, “OK. Granted, everyone is unconscious. They dropped like flies on the stroke of midnight. But I can’t let you in. There’s a detective in the house, he’s enchanted, but if he woke up and saw something... untoward, there’d be too many questions.”

Ezzy’s dentures flashed, her plump cheeks bulged as she broke into a broad grin, “We know about Harkness. We saw him in the estate earlier-on tonight. He heard the demon's confession ‘n now he’s onto yez!” [See Part 18] Then she lowered her voice and intimated, menacingly, with narrowed, accusing eyes, “We know about the girl, too.”

Her raddled retinue whispered as one, “Oh yes, indeed we do.”

Lady Beth flinched. “What girl?” she asked, a little shaken.

The bullish Ezzy saw her flinch and raised a painted eyebrow, “You know ‘what girl’ I mean. The one that’s supposed to be dead! The demonspawn! Wee Danielle Cochrane! Ye’ve been keepin’ her locked up somewhere,” she announced loudly, so that her cohort could hear her and provide vociferous affirmation.

Her Ladyship glanced back at the house and put a finger to her lips, “Ssshhh -- will you please keep your bloody voices down!”

Ezzy put her snout through the bars and snorted, “Hah! You can’t deny it, can ye?! We can feel her!” There then followed yet another collective murmur of concurrence interspersed with a few asides, “Aye, we can feel her,” said a timid old lady standing at the back; “Her aura is so strong we had to take off our amulets -- they got so hot they were burnin’ our chests,” vouchsafed another; “I can almost taste her!” said a toothless hag in hiking boots and a transparent windcheater, licking her lips as if the alleged ‘aroma’ was making her mouth water.

Ezzy glanced at her watch “Look, time’s a-runnin’ out, my lady, are you gonna let us in so we can fix this, or are you gonna walk away ‘n let yer people die?” she asked, pointedly, her ginger wig shifting slightly sideways as she cocked her head.

“Die...?” Lady Beth almost gasped.

All: “Aye, die.”

What to do, what to do...? The witches were a disobliging bunch at the best of times, but they weren’t liars, and like the old bag said, they were always reliable in a crisis. She thought it over: well, goblin-girl is in the dungeon so they’ll be well away from the main house... Then again, the last time these old hags got hold of her they tried to ritually slaughter her... And when that notion struck her, “Give me one second!” she said, and trotted back to the little gatelodge to fetch the key...

...

10 minutes ago, in Wicklow, on the road into Brodir: “Well, wouldja look at this,” Malky announced, looking in the rear-view mirror, “here comes the cavalry!”

The inside of the Metro suddenly came alight with glaring headlamps and flashing blue as various law & order vehicles rolled up behind them. The vehicle at the head of the convoy whooped its siren and Malky politely and quickly mounted the roadside verge to allow two garda vehicles and an unmarked car to hurtle by, “probably Somerville and his men on their way to the inn!” said Malky, relieved, “no ambulances, thanks be to gawd.”

As he watched the tail-lights disappear into the darkness up ahead, something else caught Broo’s eye – the unmistakable glimmer of ghostly children -- at least a dozen of them gathered by the decapitated ‘Welcome to Brodir’ arch! They ran toward the car waving, shaking their heads and pointing in the opposite direction! When the Metro passed through them – he felt the icy chill in his bones and heard their voices screaming in his head:

“He’s not here!” “He’s been ‘n’ gone!” “Go to the mountains -- go to the mountains -- to the Ginger Witches’ cottage!” “Quickly! Quick!” “The twins’ cottage!” “He’s gonna kill somebody!”

Broo reared up, barked hysterically and almost climbed over Malky to make him stop – Malky immediately slammed on the brakes and hollered, “Not now!! We’re almost there!! We can’t stop now?!”

But Broo continued to turn in a circle on the back seat barking and whimpering -- the little spectres had walked into the car and formed a circle around him, they were frantic, yelling over each other: “He’s gone to the witches’ cottage!” “Go back! Go back! Go get him!” “He’s weak but he’s dangerous!”

Then one voice spoke louder than the others: “Make sure to take him alive!”

Although Malky couldn't see or hear the ghosts and every inch of him yearned to floor the accelerator, go straight to Odin’s Inn and make sure Zindy was all right, he knew it was unwise ignore such a passionate outburst. And if he was honest, he felt something in the air himself; a strange coolness. In any case, the cops would be there by now. She’d be in safe hands. He thumped the steering-wheel with the heels of his palms, rocked and roared, “OK! OK!! What?! What do we do!? Where do we go?!”

A thought popped into his head: The Anderson place. He thought about it. It suddenly clicked. Sammy’s story. The taped confession. That’s where it all began, not in Brodir...

Broo sensed Malky’s change of heart and stopped barking. Job done, the little blue ghosts of the Infant Host relented, wished him good luck, waved goodbye and vanished. Malky reversed the car back to the junction, “OK, I know where we have to go, but I’ve fergot how to get there – I just hope ye can provide directions!”

That wouldn't be a problem: the little Spirit Guides were out in force tonight...

Meanwhile: Jamie ‘awoke’ bleary-eyed in a white room with a familiar face looming over him. He tried to move, but once again, he was strapped down. He sighed, Oh, for fuck’s sake...

“He’s awake.”

... not again...

“Can I talk to 'im?” asked another voice, somewhere near the bed.

... Jesus H Christ...

“Not yet, he’ll be very drowsy...” Pause. “Ahem, Jamie? Jamie, are you with us...?” Dr Mondale asked, snapping his fingers inches from Jamie’s nose.

The last thing he remembered was the conversation with the barman in the Void, then projecting back through the mirror and into McKee’s subconscious ... back to here? The interminable phantasm?! Is he sticking to his original plan? What the hell... He looked past Mondale and yelled at the ceiling, “This won’t do any good and you know it! Barry’s brain is severely damaged. You can’t keep this up!”

Dr Mondale beheld him with a defeated look, shook his head, sighed and said, “No. He’s still angry and delusional. You won’t get any sense out of him, I’m afraid.”

The other man, a stranger in a designer brown leather bomber jacket, open-neck shirt and khaki chinos, the military chic topped-off with a buzz cut and the ruddy, pummelled face of an aging boxer, searched Jamie’s eyes for some sign of sentience.

“Give me a few minutes alone with him, detective, please, I’ll see if he remembers anything,” said Mondale, sitting down in the chair by the cot.

The man reluctantly complied. He gave Jamie a sour sideways-glance then traipsed off with his hands in his trouser pockets, whistling Please Release Me.

Jamie didn’t wait for the bedside chat to begin. Keeping his cool and his voice steady, he stared up into the glare of the light above the cot and informed the master illusionist, “You’re wasting precious energy. Spare me this charade.”

Mondale leaned in and asked in a concerned voice, “Jamie, do you remember anything about what happened earlier today?”

Jamie turned away, “There’s no point talking to me, I won’t listen. This isn't real.”

“Do you remember killing Nurse Masterson, Jamie?”

Now, that twist intrigued him. He turned back and looked the doctor/cipher in the eye, “No. The illusion fell apart, that’s all. I was -- am -- in Barry’s subconscious,” he looked up at the ceiling again, “I know everything now. It’s over. Your host is badly injured. The police are closing in on you. But if you want to continue with this silly little simulation, so be it. I can wait.”

Mondale made a note of Jamie’s response in his pad then cleared his throat and continued, “You strangled Nurse Masterson to death with your bare hands at around 11:45 this morning. It appears he delivered your medication without telling anyone. The orderlies were on their break. It only came to their attention when they returned and saw that the door was open. They pulled you off, but were too late to save him. You were in a rage, frothing at the mouth, incoherent, just like last time. I can only assume that he did something to trigger you and you suffered another of your infamous blackouts...”

Jamie chuckled, “Oh, that’s a neat twist. Another blackout. A murder. I’m banged to rights and I don’t remember a thing. Good one.”

“Did he say something to aggravate you, Jamie?” Mondale asked, softly, “I’ve spoken to Sister and she says that he could be quite impudent at times...? Was there something between you? Bad blood, perhaps? Was he teasing you...? Please, please tell me what you remember.”

Jamie couldn't help but laugh.

Mondale took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, “I’m glad you find it so amusing, Jamie. But it’s a dreadful tragedy for which I must take full responsibility. After all, it was my decision to free you from your restraints. You showed so much promise. You were responding to the treatment. Tranquil. Level. No manic episodes. No mood swings. I assumed we had everything under control...?” He paused once more to give Jamie time to respond; when it was clear he was talking to a brick wall, he sat back, clicked his pen, tucked it into the spine of the pad and heaved a weary sigh, “The rage... the anger... where does it come from Jamie? What triggers you...?”

Jamie was stone.

“If you won’t talk to me, then there’s nothing more I can do. The gentleman waiting outside is a detective from the Metropolitan Police. He’s the same detective who found you in the block of flats the night of the drugs bust. He’s as frustrated as I am. His team has been working on your case night & day for the last 6 months, trying to ascertain your true identity, all to no avail. This ‘incident’ complicates matters even further. When I leave this room, he will come in and charge you with murder, then tomorrow you will be transferred to a high security hospital for the criminally insane where they have more suitable facilities. In other words, you’re too dangerously ill for this place, Jamie. I’m so very sorry we couldn't help you.” He stood up, folded his specs and put them in the breast pocket of his jacket, “Goodbye Jamie. I hope the doctors that inherit your case can unlock those memories and get to the real you,” he said, glumly, then turned and walked away. The policeman re-entered and read the charges. He looked very disappointed, as if Jamie had let him down. Before he left, he shook his head and growled in a thick London accent, “I just 'ope Nurse Masterson is the first ‘n only, Jamie. I 'ope there ain't anymore victims out there that you’ve ‘forgotten about’, that’s all.” Jamie kept smiling and replied, “just make sure the papers call me the Absent-Minded Strangler.” The detective slammed the door on his way out. A few minutes later, the ubiquitous, shaven-headed orderlies arrived and wheeled him away.

“So, I throttled ghastly Gaston Masterson?! I’m a killer! Only a lobotomy can stop me now!” Jamie joked, as they pushed him through the brightly lit passages and swinging doors. As usual, his inflammatory remarks failed to evoke any reaction whatsoever; they never spoke, no matter what the occasion, not even to each other. He could say anything he liked and they’d just chew gum and exchange inscrutable glances. “Wow! Is this the executive suite? Nice! I really dig the minimalist approach of your interior designer!” he said, brightly, as they deposited him a small, unfurnished, white-walled holding cell, switched off the light and locked the door behind them.

Alone in the dark, strapped to a cot, a little surprised but quite unafraid.

He closed his eyes and concentrated as hard as he could. Eventually, after at least 10 minutes of projection, he finally located the dull pulse of McKee’s faltering heartbeat. And now that there were no other noises to distract him, he came to realise that the droning sound he’d mistakenly attributed to the hum of a distant vacuum cleaner, was in fact the whine of an overtaxed motor. He heard a woman’s voice holler: “Where are we goin’, Barry?!” “This is the middle of fookin’ nowhere?!” and “Pot holes!! Look out!! Be careful with that fookin’ gun, willya!” It didn’t take long to work it out: Barry/the demon and his hostage were on the move, but where? And what does he plan to do when he gets there...?

In sanatorium: as the moonbeams shone through the skylight windows of the dome, casting criss-crossing shadows across the four poster bed, Dani and Carla laid either side of Jamie, each holding a hand, both gazing into his half-opened eyes as they continued their restive, taciturn vigil. An hour had passed since his sudden spasm, and although he looked troubled, as if he was still experiencing some degree of discomfort, to their relief, his blood pressure and heart rate had stabilised; alas, there was nothing they could do but watch and wait. The room was quite cool, now, and since Noel the python had slunk off to the boiler house to “get a bit of heat,” there was nothing to distract them -- until the dogs started whingeing and howling outside.

Dani took it as another ill omen. “There they go again!! Somethin’ must be happenin’! We can’t just sit here and do nuthin’,” she whimpered, dabbing her beloved’s furrowed brow with a dampened flannel, “look at ‘im! He must be in pain -- he needs help!”

“There is nothing we can do, Danielle,” said Carla, sadly, and for the third time, she began to explain, “he is deeply enchanted, his Spirit is trapped...” when she was diverted by a commotion coming from the direction of the corridor -- footfalls and whispers, the short-sharp-squeaks of rubber soles dragging and swivelling on the polished tiles -- the pair looked toward the door, “Who’s that?” asked Dani, sitting up.

“I don’t know, but they are coming from the rear... from the servants’ entrance...” said Carla, just as the door to the room opened a crack and a stern-faced, hook-nosed elderly woman wearing a polka-dot headscarf jooked in then shouted over her shoulder, “Here they are, Ezzy! -- in here!” A few seconds later, a dozen-or-so sour-baked old biddies filed in through the door, stepped over Castle and gathered in the centre of the room. “What are you doing in here?! Who are you?” demanded Carla, letting go of Jamie’s hand and springing to her feet.

Dani answered her, “They’re witches, so-they-are! They’re the ones who tried to kill me in the forest that day when I went to the estate, and... y’know...” she couldn't bring herself to elaborate, but Carla understood, “How did you get in?” she asked, tartly, scanning the row of glowering, wizened visages, wondering if the encounter was likely to end in a physical altercation, because by the looks of them, it wouldn't be much of a match.

“Her Ladyship let us in. She’s gone back to the house to babysit Inspector Harkness,” said the last to enter, a larger more formidable woman in a ridiculous ginger wig carrying a small, mud-caked treasure chest. “She told us you were in the dungeon. But we knew ye’d changed again and slipped your chains. Doesn't make any difference how you look, you still stink of him, so we just followed our noses.”

“That’s the one who tried to stab me with a great big dagger!” yelped Dani, pointing an accusing finger.

Ezzy addressed Dani in a no-nonsense, schoolmarmy-voice, “There’s no cause for alarm, Miss Danielle, we’re not here to harm you, we’re here to help you get your precious Young Master back to the Land of the Woke,” said she, glancing at Jamie, “and free your nearest ‘n dearest from their enchantment,” she added, sourly, shooting the inert Castle a disdainful look. Placing the wooden chest on a stool by the dressing table, she asked a small, timid old lady standing right behind her for the key; everyone waited impatiently as the jittery crone rummaged in her handbag, constantly apologising profusely for the delay as she lifted out handfuls of balled handkerchiefs and half-full sweetie bags, eventually heaving a blessed sigh of relief when she finally found it and timorously offered it up. Ezzy gave her a disapproving shake of the head, snatched it away and went about unlocking the box.

“What do you know of an ‘enchantment’?” asked Carla, getting irritated, the shrivelled faces glowering in the half-light making her increasingly uneasy.

“Don’t youse worry. My grandmother will explain everything,” said Ezzy, lifting the lid.

“You mean you keep that nasty old witch with the broken neck is in that wee treasure chest?!” said Dani, shrinking back.

“This is her hibernation box. She made us bury her in the woods til she was needed,” Ezzy informed them, “We dug ‘er up tonight... and it has to be said, she’s not a pretty sight,” she reached inside and carefully pulled away a black silk cloth, “she has no tongue, her eyes’re failin’ an’ she’s as deaf as a post, but she’s still in her right mind [witch-speak for psychically-active] so she talks ‘n sees through me.” As she gently prodded the contents of the box, Ezzy’s voice softened to a lighter, more sympathetic tone, “c’mon granny, wake up -- we’re here - it’s time.”

Carla and Dani glanced at each other then watched in bemused amazement as a row of tiny, thin, gnarly, talon-like fingers curled over the edge of the box, followed by what looked like a tiny, shrivelled, shrunken-head swathed in a black-lace shawl and held in place with a little silver neck-brace. It rested its, hairy, warty chin on the rim betwixt the tiny, withered hands and slowly opened the pellucid membranes that passed for eyelids to reveal a pair of tiny, misty-blue eyes.

“That’s the wee ol' witch who buried the demon all them years ago,” Dani whispered in Carla’s ear, “don’t let her size fool ya, she’s the worst one o’ the lot!”

Ezzy put a hand on top of her grandmother’s little head and carefully turned it toward Dani, “Here she is, granny. Remember her? She’s taken human form again, but she still has his aura. See -- it’s just like you predicted. She’s ready.”

“What? Ready for what?!” said Dani, clenching her fists, steeling herself for fight or flight.

“Tis time to serve your purpose, chile!” announced Ezzy, brightly-but-sarkily, “after all, you’re the Darkly Martyrs’ little Chosen One, arentcha? Their wee ‘Messiah’?”

Dani shrugged and admitted, “That’s what they said.”

“Aye. And even though it goes against everythin’ we stand for, we’re gonna haveta take up where them auld eejits left off. In other words, it’s time for you to do what they put you here to do,” Ezzy reached out, put a hand on her grandmother’s tiny, heavily lined brow and let her speak for herself; like a macabre ventriloquist act in reverse:

<“When me mother ‘n me buried the demon in Wicklow over a thousand years ago [See Part Three], we used the traditional method: ‘Put him in an enchanted receptacle, bury it deep in the ground far away from any living Soul in order to starve him of energy until his spark dims and dies’, that’s what it says in the ol’ book. That’s how you deal with the Purple Demon King. That’s why we call ourselves Justified -- cuz we follow the rules. Not the Martyrs’ way -- the men’s way: ‘usin’ his magic against him’! No good ever came from meddlin’ w’ the dark stuff. Anyway, no sooner had the Vikings left Wicklow, when the feckin’ English arrived -- there were widespread witch hunts ‘n our kind was forced to flee the area or take to the hills with the rebels. I went to Scotland and then Europe. Before I left, I entrusted a family of redheaded half-bloods called Anderson to keep an eye on things ‘n make sure the demon’s restin’ place was never disturbed. But 1000 years 'n several generations later, all was fergot ‘n the land was sold to a farmer who tore down the trees to make pasture. The bottle was unearthed ‘n broken. It wasn't a long enough time. His spark hadn't died and he was freed. So as soon as I saw the lilac sunset, I came back to Ireland and waited for his resurrection. I knew he’d come for the Lumbs as soon as he’d found a suitable host. But little did I know the men of the coven had already taken matters into their own hands -- 7000 years before! And now look where we are -- all cuz of secrets ‘n lies ‘n dabblin’ in the dark arts!”> She lowered her little eyes, <”Nevertheless, it’s no time to apportion blame or say I told you so. They did what they did without tellin’ us and now we have to live with it, or die. What I’m sayin’ is, we have to put our differences aside ‘n finish what the Martyrs started. That’s why we’re here tonight.”>

“Why is everybody asleep?” Dani asked, nervously, looking back-and-forth from the tiny witch to Ezzy, not sure who she should address.

<“You ‘n yer young pals uttered the demon’s name in a dreamscape, little sister -- it sent a shockwave through the ‘Sphere and into their psyches, a jolt powerful enough to knock ‘em all out -- the Martyrs included. The demon took advantage of the flux, cast a spell 'n enchanted their Spirits -- they’re suspended in a dream without end. All the demon has to do is possess the Young Master and he can take 'em all-out in one fell swoop.”>

“So, what do I do? Just tell me! I’ll do it!” Dani demanded, impatiently.

<“You’re half-Siren-half-demonspawn, only you have the mettle to enter his host’s psyche and wrench the Young Master’s Spirit from his grasp. We’ll take care of the rest.”>

“But we can’t bring him back, the mirror we used as a portal is broken?!” said Carla, pointing to the shards on the bedside table.

<“It’ll have to be a physical connection, naturally. She’ll have to fuse with him ‘n follow his train of thought.”>

The other witches crossed their arms, cocked their heads and nodded.

Carla looked at Dani and frowned as if she wasn't sure about something.

Dani was nonplussed, “What do I have to do...? Is it dangerous...? What is it?!”

Before Carla could impart the grisly details, a shrill voice cried out behind them, “Hey -- look ladies -- the big ball is startin’ to shine!” said one of the witches, drawing her companions’ attention to Jamie’s kingsized, antique crystal ball at the back of the room. It had indeed begun to glow in its ebony cradle, as if it was slowly being filled by a luminous, undulating, cloudy-blue liquid. “That’s a communication comin’ in from Limbo, that is. Only Limbo shines w’ that shade of blue,” said a stocky, manly-looking witch, assuredly, nudging the one beside her. The rest murmured a consensus. “I wonder who it is?” said the one in the see-through mac, and one-by-one they broke ranks to take a closer look. Sensing a familiar signature in their Essences, Dani and Carla joined them: whoever it was, it was one of their own.

The old women’s deeply-lined, jowly faces shone blue as the light brightened to its full extent and the great orb shimmered like a misty, aquamarine beacon. “Fancy ball, that,” commented one, with a hint of envy. “Aye, we aren't allowed to ‘ave ‘em, -- but the Young Master ‘ere gets to have one the size of a prize pumpkin!” mithered another. “Shhhush, will yez! -- somebody’s trying to get through! Look!” said the witch in the see-through mac. “It’s a woman!” said the witch behind her.

Carla and Dani pushed their way through for a ringside view as Electra Cochrane’s curved and elongated visage - like a gurning face in the back of a table-spoon - took shape in the bluish mists. The pair listened to the faint voice phase-in-and-out through waves of static-like interference - “probably residual negative energy -- she’s projecting through the Void,” offered Ezzy, coming to see for herself, carrying the box in her arms, her tiny wizened grandmother peering over the rim.

“It is my sister -- Danielle’s grandmother!” Carla explained. “Please be quiet, she is trying to communicate...”

The illuminated faces screwed up into distasteful glowers as the witches stood back, crossed their arms and made disapproving noises; evidently Ellie Cochrane’s reputation had gone before her.

“Carrie...? Is that you...? Can you hear me... it’s me, Ellie...?” she called out, her shout as faint as a whisper.

“Yes, Ellie, I can hear you,” Carla replied, crouching and putting her face close to the glass so that her sister could see her, “but you are cracking-up -- there is a lot of interference!”

“Did Danielle get back...? Is she whole again...?” Electra cried, through the hisses and pops.

Carla put out a hand and gently moved Dani toward the ball, “Yes, Ellie, she’s right here, and she’s safe. She looks... radiant.”

The rippling countenance broke into a twisted smile, the faint voice sighed with relief, “Oh thank the stars... it worked! At least one good thing has come out of all this!”

Despite the positive results of her late grandmother’s machinations, Dani wasn't the least bit pleased to see her. She scowled and countered her great-aunt’s assurances with a petulant aside, “If it wasn't for her, Jamie ‘n everybody else would be OK. She mighta got me back to normal again but what’s the point?!” she pointed toward the bed, “you ruined everything!!”

Electra’s distorted countenance mutated into an exaggerated grimace of regret, “I’m so sorry -- but I’m trying my best to make up for it, Danielle -- listen to me, I don’t have much time -- you must warn everyone -- we know where the demon is -- we know where he’s going and...”

Just then, the ethereal voice trailed off, the face dissolved and a stronger, more discernible image asserted itself in its place. When they saw who it was, the witches recoiled, made threatening gestures and hissed disdainfully, “Pritchard.”

His voice chittered below the eerie psychic-static like a crackly radio jabbering in an empty oil-drum, “Sorry to burst in like this ladies, but Ellie is wastin’ time, and time is runnin’ out,” his hollow-cheeked, ice-white face ballooned in the glass as his voice got louder, “lissen very carefully: we just had a new arrival here in Limbo: a barman from Wicklow -- the host killed ‘im -- he met Jamie in the Void! The host was there - in the inn -- but he’s mortally wounded. This barman smacked ‘im on the back of the head with a cricket bat, his brain is damaged..... You need to find some way of getting Jamie back or...” his voice became inaudible as the vision faded-out and a loud burst of static hissed through the ether.

The witches turned and looked at the old woman in the box, then nodded to each other with self-satisfied, gratified grins, as if the news was only to be expected.

The static subsided, the vision resurfaced; Carla put her face close to the glass and shouted into Pritchard’s distorted face, “Wait, you say Jamie is in the Void?!”

“Was in the Void..... gone back into the host’s head....” he replied, just before another screech of white noise drowned him out -- the ball flashed -- they were losing the connection -- Pritchard had to yell: “... trapped in a damaged brain... demon... hostage...” were the last words they heard before the mists began to recede, the vision dimmed to a glimmer and the crackly static fizzled to silence.

The tiny withered woman in the cakey treasure chest spoke through her daughter, <”Oh, we know exactly where he’s headed, isn't that right, ladies?”>

The witches smirked and nodded.

<“That’s right: the Anderson place. Back to where it began.”>

“Did he say there was a hostage?”

“You know what that means, don’t yez?”

“Human sacrifice!”

“Oh jeezus... What if it’s a chile?” wondered the timid little witch who walked in Ezzy’s shadow.

This observation caused much consternation amongst the wrinkly coterie.

“Hol’ on just one minnit,” said the one in the transparent windcheater, and went back to the crystal ball, put her palms on the surface and closed her eyes to take in the vibes. After a few seconds she nodded and said, “Aye, I thought as much -- it’s the Infant Host wot’s causin’ the interference, not negative energy.The wee ghosts’re usin’ the Void to project into This World!”

That nugget inspired another appreciative murmur.

“That means the Familiar must be onto ‘im, too -- they’re guiding him!”

The rest tacitly concurred and looked to the little witch in the box for clarification.

She was quick to answer: <”If this is true, then we've no time to lose. This is what we've been preparing for, sisters. I hope I’ve trained you well. But beware -- The Demon King has prepared for this night, too. That hillside he’s headed to is where he buried the bodies of the children he killed, where he trapped their Souls - tis rife with untapped psychic energy! If he manages to perform a spell up there, it could unleash the power he needs to take the Young Master by force and finish off all of us, nevermind the sleepers! So think on. This isn't gonna be easy.”> Then Ezzy turned her grandmother’s head toward Dani, <”Tis your time to shine, chile. If you want to save yer precious Young Master, you must connect with him now!”>

“OK! OK! I’m ready, I’m ready! Just tell me what to do!” yelled Dani, sprinting on the spot, waving her arms in frustration.

Clearing her throat, Carla put a hand on her great-niece’s shoulder and asked, “What method are you suggesting we use...?”

The witches snorted, tutted, sighed, tsked and hissed as if it was the stupidest question they’d ever been asked. Ezzy broke the communication, put her hands on her hips and spoke for them all, “Method?! Why, the traditional method, of course!” she pushed her way through her compatriots, went to the bed, reached out and grabbed Jamie’s crotch, “via the only part of him that’s still awake!!”

Dani turned to Carla, “Do they mean what I think they mean...?”

Her great-aunt regarded her with a sympathetic frown and said, “It is strictly witchcraft, Danielle. It isn't personal...”

Half an hour ago, in Wicklow: as Malky negotiated the narrow, winding, pot-hole-strewn, unlit mountain roads, Broo moved from one side of the backseat to the other, barking at the driver’s side when they needed to take a right, then over to the passenger side to announce a turn to the left; when they needed to go straight ahead, he put his head between the seats and stared forward. There were little spectres at every turn, but their auras had become very dim and off-colour, like the blurry images of an old home-movie projected from far away. When Malky announced that he had his bearings and no further direction would be necessary, the Spirits got the message and immediately disappeared. They didn’t want to hang around any longer than they had to. Broo couldn't blame them.

“Startin’ to look familiar, eh boy?” said Malky, referring to the unfolding landscape.

Broo gazed out at the horizon and realised that, sure enough, it was identical to the tableau in his dream [See Part 10]: it’s the dead of night - a huge ivory moon is shining brightly above the mountaintops... But the colours were wrong. Everything had taken on a purplish hue; there was also that feeling of dread that dulled his natural senses and sent his supernatural gifts into overdrive: the same all-pervasive pall of terror he experienced when he saw McKee in Brodir during the night of the raid and the riot; the same sense of dread that permeated his system when they approached the hangar. There is bad magic here. He had a feeling that things were about to get extremely nasty indeed and couldn't help but let out a little whimper.

17 minutes later, they reached their destination. Malky pulled-up onto the muddy-hinterland between the road and the entrance to the lane that led up to the cottage. A network of tyre-tracks and the fluttering remnants of a broken police-tape on the (open) gate, were the only indication that the area had recently been a hive of police activity. But their attention was drawn to another kind of vehicle parked haphazardly on the roadside, namely: “Sammy’s ‘oul transit van,” said Malky, “an’ it looks as if it’s been abandoned....”

Broo leaned over the passenger seat to have a good look. It was that wretched old van, alright; the headlamps were off and the doors were wide open. He growled to express his apprehension.

“No, it doesn’t look good at all, does it,” agreed Malky, his own gut feelings giving him cause for concern. He reached across the dashboard, opened the glove-compartment and rifled through the contents; it was choc-full of the usual lady-driver knick-knacks: a hairbrush, a compact, a pack of hankies, an opened pack of Juicy Fruit containing two sticks of gum, a can of de-icer... finally, he sighed with relief when he found what he was looking for, “Oh, thank gawd for small mercies!” said he, holding up a miniature torch. His luck held –- it seemed to be working. Leaving the Metro’s headlamps on, they got out and cautiously approached the abandoned van. “It’s packed with stuff from the bar. Sammy musta been takin’ it to the dump...” murmured Malky, shining the little torch beam through the grimy rear windows, “did he get hijacked or somethin’...?” But when went around to the front, looked inside and discovered what appeared to be bloodstains on the passenger seat and a bloody handprint on the inside of the window -- a small, child-sized handprint at that -- he instantly sprang into action! “Right! Let’s go!”

Without further ado, they took off across the muddy hinterland, through the open gate and into the foreboding shadows between the trees...

...

15 minutes ago: Now that he had access to two of Barry’s (failing) natural senses - hearing and smell - Jamie listened intently to the distant voices in the darkness and tried to ascertain where they were and what the demon was doing. The rumble of the engine had stopped and he smelled fresh air, so he assumed they were now on foot. The woman was yelling and screaming at McKee, but never in terror, in anger: a barrage of personal insults and curses peppered with intermittent groans of pain; by the sounds of it, she knew him well. A few minutes later, he smelled burning wood. Is he lighting a fire? If so, where? And why? There was one thing he could be sure of: there must be a glimmer of consciousness; the demon can’t create an illusion and control the body without a working psyche!

“Barry!” he called out, “I know you can hear me! -- fight him with all you’ve got -- he’s fully stretched and he’s getting weaker by the minute! Remember -- this is your last chance -- if you die, your Soul dies with you!”

A second or so later, the bright light of corridor shone on his face as the door burst open and a shadow filled the threshold. “Stop that shouting!” It was Sister: The hardfaced, middle-aged, cockney harpy who ran the ward with an iron fist in a rubber glove.

Jamie ignored her and continued yell, “Barry?! This is your last chance...”

“Will you please keep your voice down!” she half-whispered-half-yelled, as she stomped into the room, “it’s 2-in-the-friggin’-mornin’! The other patients are tryin’ to sleep!”

Jamie continued to ignore her and yelled even louder, “Take control, Barry! Fight --”

She slapped a cold, dry hand on his mouth, “If you don’t shut your yap, mister, I shall be forced to administer another tranquilliser -- an’ this time it’ll be a bleedin’ enema!”

The instant she touched him, Jamie felt a sudden shift in atmosphere; the link to Barry’s natural senses was immediately severed. All was quiet. Intrigued, he nodded to signal his consent. When she took the hand away, he inquired with a sneer, “Are you here to deliver a message, or keep me occupied while ‘The Demon King’ does his thing?... Or are you the devil himself, here to make a deal...?”

Still in shadow, she crossed her arms, looked at him for a while. Then she slowly walked back to the doorway, stepped out, looked up-and-down the corridor, stepped back inside, then quietly closed and locked the door.

Hello darkness my old friend.

“You may be psycho killer, but I have something to thank you for,” she confessed, her disembodied whisper getting ever closer, “you got rid of that cheeky runt, Masterson. He was the bane of my life, the cocky little bastard. Well, that’s what you get for not abidin’ by the rules, innit?! I dunno ‘ow many times I told ‘im: ‘You don’t go into a psycho’s cell alone’... unless he’s strapped down, that is.” She was close to his ear, her voice now low and husky, “What was it like, Jamie? How did it feel when you put your ‘ands round his flabby little windpipe ‘n squeezed n’ squeezed til ‘is face turned purple ‘n them beady li’l eyes bulged-outta ‘is spiky li’l ‘ead...? What was it like, Jamie? Tell me...” she whispered in his ear seductively, as she gently traced his inner thigh with her fingertips, “... gets me all ‘ot under the collar just thinkin’ about it...” her heavy bosom brushed his face as she reached up and turned on the little reading lamp embedded in the wall behind the cot.

Things were taking quite an unexpected turn. Jamie looked into space and enquired, “Is this how you’re going to do it? Seduce me?”

“This ain't seduction, babe -- it’s an act of Christian charity,” she replied, gaily, the dim lighting turning her impish smile into a rictus grin. Taking a wad of lint from her pocket and stuffing it roughly into his mouth, she leaned low and told him, “See, tomorra you’ll be transferred to an ‘igh security prison for the criminally insane, luvvie. And what with your volatile mental condition 'n the murder and that, they’ll never let you out. Life, in your case, will mean life. You’ll be institutionalised. And years from now, when yer sittin’ sad ‘n lonely in your padded cell, you’ll look back on this little fling and thank me, just you wait ‘n see,” she reached under his gown, put her fingers under the elasticised waistband of his underpants and slowly pulled them down, “cos from now on, luvvie, the only sexual contact you’re likely to get will come courtesy of convicted perverts ‘n mad faggots, so c’mon, join in the fun ‘n make the most of me...”

...

10 minutes ago: “What’s the problem, girlie?” grumbled Ezzy.

“She’s never done it before, by the looks of ‘er. What age is she anyway?” asked a particularly thin, particularly sullen-faced crone, looking Dani up and down.

“I’m 18,” said Dani, nervously crossing her legs at the ankles and clasping her crotch through the nightdress with both hands, like a shy soccer player facing a free kick.

“Aye, but you’ve been a big bloody goblin for most that time, 'aven’t ye? Yer wee brain is a lot younger than your body,” said Ezzy, thoughtfully, before adding a disclaimer, “well, I’m sorry for you, dearie, but it can’t be helped. If you want to save the day, you’ll get up there, get on 'im and do what needs to be done!”

Carla ushered Dani away from the crowd and back toward the bed, whispering encouragement as they went, “I have done it dozens of times, Danielle. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“But... what if it does mean something? What if it means everything?” Dani whispered, with a tear in her eye.

Carla stopped, knelt and gave her a hug, “You really do love him don’t you?” she asked, earnestly.

“I think so. He’s the nicest, bestest person I know. When he was in his coma ‘n I lived in the house, we discovered the Psychosphere together,” Dani replied with a sniff, the tear now coursing down her little pink cheek, “we learned how to read minds together. We dreamed together. He showed me the outside world through his memories...”

Carla dried the tear with her cuff, then put her hands on her great-niece’s shoulders, looked her in the eye and paraphrased the oft iterated maxim in a stern, no-nonsense tone, “We are the Vondragüül, Danielle; we are not human. Flesh and blood mean nothing to us. This body is merely a shell. Unfortunately, in This World, coitus is the only way we can directly connect with a deeply enchanted psyche...” She paused, smiled and added in a more maternal tone, “Once the spell takes hold, you will forget where you are and what you are doing in the Real World, I promise you. Here -- this may afford you a little more privacy,” she reached up, tugged a silken cord on the canopy and the drapes fluttered down like gauzy-white clouds to form a translucent shroud around the bed.

“You know what to do, don’t you?” asked Carla, doubtfully.

“Well, yeah, course I do. I mean, I’ve seen what goes on in people’s heads -- they never stop thinkin’ about it...” Dani answered, bashfully.

Carla made a face, “Well, then...?”

Dani parted the curtain, looked at Jamie’s insensible body and baulked. It was true: she really did love him, but she never thought about doing it with him. All she wanted was to hold his hand, kiss and hug and go for long walks in the forest, that sort of thing. In fact, she thought doing it was quite yucky...

“C’mon, c’mon, youse two -- we haveta get things goin’!” yelled Ezzy, from the back of the room. She and the rest had shed their clothes and wigs and were standing with hands on their naked hips, shaking their wispy-white heads.

“Ewwww! Why have they taken all their clothes off?!” whimpered Dani, eyeing the saggy flesh with a mixture of revulsion and alarm.

“It’s traditional, nothing to worry about,” said Carla, helping her through the curtain and onto the bed, “good luck, Danielle. And remember, the host’s brain has been damaged, there is no way of telling how this has affected the demon; you will be entering uncharted territory, so keep your wits about you, but above all -- do not let your heart rule your head...”

15 minutes ago in Wicklow: stumbling along the treacherous dirt-path, the beam from the torch swooping from side to side lighting the way ahead, Broo felt the first wave of negative energy hit his system. His stomach lurched -- an icy shiver of anxiety ran through his skeleton -- a sure-sign that their man was close at hand and they were headed in the right direction. Suddenly, everything went completely dark. “Shite, the battery’s gone,” grumbled Malky, throwing the little torch into the bushes, “I can see fuck all, now -- you’ll have to guide me!” he said, grabbing Broo’s collar. On they stumbled, Broo fighting the oncoming bad vibrations to navigate the deep, muddy puddles and fallen branches, Malky by his side, getting raked by low hanging limbs, tripping and slipping on soggy twigs and clumps of dampened leaves. After a hundred yards or so, they discovered that a light-source wouldn't be necessary: there was something flickering brightly beyond the overgrown hedgerows up-ahead. Broo made a show of sniffing the air. “Smell burnin’, do ya, ol’ son? Aye, I smell it too.” Looking above the trees and bushes, they saw that the starry-horizon to the east was obscured by a billowing bank of grey-white smoke. “He musta set light to the cottage!” gasped Malky. “Well, at least a big blaze like that will draw the attention of the cops!”

Fire!! whimpered Broo, why is it always fire?!

Just then they heard something that renewed their sense of urgency -- a female voice yelling in the distance – too far-off to discern what it was saying, but clearly coming from the rear of the property! The pair looked at each other and simultaneously reached the same, unspoken conclusion: Zindy! They’re in the Dog Cemetery! And with that, they threw caution to the wind and ran the rest of the way as fast as they could. They arrived at the gate just in time to witness the thatched roof implode, releasing a fountain of sparks into the night sky! The inside of the cottage was a raging inferno with tongues of flame lashing out of the broken windows, setting light to the hanging baskets and wooden furniture around the porch. Mercifully, the strong breeze was blowing eastward taking the smoke away from the grounds, but the heat was intense -- there was no way they could access the backyard via the usual route. They would have to do it the hard way: through the voluminous shrubbery bordering the other side of garden path.

Malky held back the thick brush to clear the way, but the old dog seemed to be getting cold feet. “C’mon old son -- I thought you’d be champin’ at the bit!” coaxed Malky, nonplussed by the old dog’s sudden reluctance. “Do you wanna stay here? I mean, I can handle things from here on...?”

But Broo wasn't begrudging; he was hexed. The second they’d entered the garden, a sentinel spell hit him and knocked him for six; it was as if his flesh had turned to lead and his bones had turned to stone. He whimpered his apologies and laboriously staggered on. “It’s him, innit? McKee? He’s making you feel this way, ‘in ‘e?” said Malky, sympathetically, leaning down and patting the old dog’s head. “Well, he’s armed ‘n dangerous, so maybe takin’ things a wee bit slow isn't such a bad idea. As me da used to say: ‘Take yer time, but be quick about it’.” So, on they plodded, Malky holding back the spindly brush, Broo struggling through while the pernicious spell played merry hell with his central nervous system. Eventually, they found themselves in the bushes behind the old chicken run. They crept to the end of the coop and looked across the yard. The fire was at its hottest here, but it wasn't the searing heat that worried Malky, it was the illuminating flames: it’s lit-up like Times Square on New Year’s Eve! If McKee was indeed on the hill, he was bound to see them. And just as that thought crossed his mind, they heard Zindy’s voice scream out -- this time it was clearly audible, “Lemme go, ya fookin’ psycho!” They had no choice but to risk it. He whispered in Broo’s ear, “Right, lad, we’re gonna haveta make a quick dash for the shed on the other side. We’ll have a good view of the hill from there, so when I say three -- run as fast as ye can. OK?

“On a count of three... One... twoooo... threeee – go!”

Malky scuttled across the farmyard and took up position in the niche between a small wooden shed and the coal bunker. But Broo didn’t get far. Malky frantically beckoned and hissed ‘c’mon!’, but the old dog was frozen in the middle of the yard, shaking his head vigorously as if trying to dislodge a wasp from his ear.

The instant he reached the centre of the yard and felt the heat hit his pelt the debilitating numbness intensified to such a degree that it stopped-him-dead-in-his-tracks. In a repeat of his ordeal in the demon’s lair [See Part 15], all of his senses and sensibilities, both natural and supernatural, were thrown into a state of flux – his head resounded with scores of overlapping voices with contrasting tones and timbres – some bright and encouraging – some low and threatening; others were jeering and childishly shrill... all he could do was try to shake the feeling loose...

Then he felt compelled to look to his left...

Instead of a yard and a burning kitchen, he appeared to be on a narrow ledge on a sheer rock-face, gazing into a more formidable inferno: a lake of fire at the bottom of a huge, sheer-sided crater – like the vision he’d witnessed under the hatch in the hangar – complete with a pack of scaly, reptilian devil-dogs, snapping, snarling -- baying for his blood! Large, scaly, bat-like creatures rose from the leaping flames and took to the skies to circle overhead, screeching like ravening vultures -- the deeper voices between his ears increased in volume and resonance until they threatened to crack his skull...

Then the vision suddenly flickered. The voices suddenly ceased. The numbness eased. He blinked and he was back in the farmyard, staring at the cracked, blackened windows of a burning kitchen. The spell had been broken.

“C’mon!” Malky hissed for umpteenth time.

Bewildered and slightly singed, he tottered over and joined Malky between the sheds. “Hear that?” said Malky. Sure enough, now that his hearing was slowly returning to normal, Broo heard what sounded like someone singing. “It must be McKee! Sounds like he’s totally off-his-head!” Malky whispered, cupping his ear, “What is that he’s chantin’? A mantra, somethin’ like that...?”

Broo was too frazzled and discombobulated to make sense of anything at that moment. He gave Malky a shrug of the shoulders by way of a hangdog look.

“Well, whatever he’s up to, he’s otherwise occupied. Let’s get closer.” He grabbed the old dog’s collar and they made a loping-beeline for the first fence at the rear of the yard where they crouched for a few seconds before Malky slowly got up and peered over the pointed slats. He saw a moonlit silhouette pacing around the open grave under the naked boughs of the solitary tree atop the knoll, in the little dog cemetery. “Yeah, it’s him alright. He’s waving his arms about ‘n gesturing like he’s a shaman or somethin’...” whispered Malky, “can’t see Zindy, though - not from here, anyway... ” He quietly opened the second gate and they crept through the little herb-garden, along the narrow path between the withered shrubs that led to the cemetery gate. Malky crouched down and they watched through the wrought-iron bars.

McKee was standing by the tree, arms outstretched, head thrown back, chanting at the top of his voice. “What’s all that about, eh, boy? Is that some sort of black magic spell?” asked Malky, rhetorically.

Broo was still none the wiser; all he knew was the mantra made the figure glow with a bright magenta halo and the soil beneath his pads buzz with energy, as if McKee was drawing power from deep within the knoll and absorbing it into his body...

...

2 minutes ago: Jamie was aghast. It never occurred to him that the demon would stoop so low. Then again, who am I kidding? He’s desperate! And it makes perfect sense -- he’s hit me with everything else -- what’s does a spot of female-on-male rape matter? Sort of demonic possession as STD, I s'pose...

Meanwhile, the shrewish medic had removed her tights, unbuttoned her tunic, and was presently, and somewhat awkwardly, trying to clamber onto the cot. Jamie watched her progress with a contemptuous scowl. “Don’t look so disgusted, darlin’, most of the men in ‘ere would give their right arms to be where you are now,” she whispered, sultrily, when she finally managed to get her leg over, “they fantasise about me, y’know. One of the orderlies told me. They’d love to be dominated by a strong woman 'oo knows what she’s doin’. You should count yourself luck....Oooooh, what do we 'ave 'ere?” He closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to look at her as she brightly exclaimed, “See! You wannit just as much as me!”

It was true, dammit. In spite of his repulsion and the indignity of his position, he appeared to be responding! This can’t be happening! He tried his best to wriggle away!

But the straps were tight and her hands were firm, “Easy, easy, take it easy, lover,” she sang, quietly, holding him steady while she mounted, “Just lie back, relax, an’ let me take over...”

...

5 minutes ago: It was a bit sore at first, but with Carla whispering instructions through the curtain, Dani persevered and finally got the hang of it. After that she was on her own. She kept her nightie on and tried her best to forget what was going on below the waist and concentrated hard on Jamie’s half-open-eyes. It wasn't long before she found her rhythm and felt the tingle of the Spiritual connection creep up from her loins and consume her entire being. She closed her eyes and entered Jamie’s psyche in a rush of flashing, swirling psychedelic lights, into what Carla called his ‘libido’.

“It is virtually dormant, Danielle, when a ‘Güül’s powers manifest, the sexual drive dissipates. There will only be forgotten feelings and old, suppressed memories, ignore them...” was the last thing Dani heard before her voice faded completely.

She’d never been here before. Like most telepaths, he kept these parts of his psyche blocked off from prying minds, so she didn’t know what to expect. She was a wee bit afraid, too. For one thing, it wasn't like visiting a proper memory or a dreamscape; she wasn't an invisible, uninvolved spectator watching scenes from someone’s memories unfold around her, instead she was an active participant in a series of sexual encounters from Jamie’s past, taking the place of girlfriends, groupies and one-night-stands he’d had in his life before they met. She found herself straddling him numerous times in various rooms in different locations; sometimes naked, sometimes half-naked, but always in the same position, and always with the same feeling. She soon realised the Jamie between her thighs wasn't the Jamie she’d idolised over the last 5 years. This was a thinner faced, shaggy-haired, listless, glassy-eyed version, not the strong-willed, level-headed person she’d come to know and love. These are the days when he did drugs. Because even though he seemed to be enjoying himself, she was well aware that he wasn't ‘all there’. He’s away in a world of his own. Worst thing was, his conscience was killing him:, throughout each encounter she could hear a hectoring voice droning in his head reminding him that he was nothing more than a despicable wretch unworthy of the passion these women lavished upon him, while other voices grumbled in the background, male and female, telling him to pull himself together and get his head straight. “If you don’t stop I’m leaving you!” “Look at yourself in the mirror and face the truth!” “You should be ashamed of yourself!” that sort of thing.Thus, slowly-but-surely, his shame and self-loathing infested her Essence and she began to feel as bad. She didn’t like this Jamie one little bit. He hates himself, she thought. It’s hard to love somebody who hates themselves... Then, just when it seemed the dispiriting pall would overwhelm her completely -- another intense thrill surged through her system -- she spasmed and involuntarily projected -- the cloying sentimentality quickly evaporated as she was thrust out of the zone and spun upwards via the darkened chambers of his dormant mind, through another swirling kaleidoscopic-funnel of flashing lights, and piped-out into the dark side of the Psychosphere.

Gloomy dark and deathly silence, here. Not a pleasant thought for miles.

She’d been here before, of course. The time when Pritchard tried to make a deal with demon [See Part 9]. It was pretty scary, but thankfully there was no time to take-in the vibes -- another surge -- the vortex accumulated around her again -- she was sent hurtling toward a luminous rip in the murkiness up-ahead. It could only be the entrance to the host’s psyche.

This is it, girlie. Gotta concentrate, gotta remember: this is to save Jamie... She took a deep breath and resumed rocking...

...

At that moment, Broo felt yet another fluctuation in the atmosphere -- the negative energy intensified -- the numbness surged again -- the deafening voices roared between his ears -- then, just when it became almost unbearable, the figure on the hill droned another refrain and the knoll settled down, the thrum of doom abated, the roaring choir dropped to a disquieted murmur. Whatever he was up to, it was causing an intermittent breach in his defences, hence the inconsistent sentinel spell. Or is it a sign of weakness? Broo sniffed the air and eventually detected another scent amidst the stench of smoke and sizzling timber: fresh blood! And sure-enough, now that they had an unfettered view of the knoll, it became clear that McKee was quite unsteady on his feet. That said, he was still toting a shotgun: direct confrontation was out of the question. In the meantime, Malky’s chief concern was for the safety of the hostage. He moved behind a bush and scanned the hilltop through dew-dripping fronds until he eventually spotted a second, much smaller figure behind the shambling silhouette. He ducked down and put his lips close to Broo’s ear, “She’s tied to the tree with a bag over her head,” he whispered, anxiously, “gawd knows what he’s gonna do with her!”

Broo had a pretty good idea, but he had no idea how they were going to stop it...

...

A few minutes ago, in the sanatorium: Once they were certain Dani had established the connection, the naked, wispy-headed witches formed a semicircle around the bed, linked hands and gazed up at the full moon through the skylight windows of the dome. Somewhat apprehensive and not entirely convinced that the witches could be trusted, Carla stood back and observed from a short distance away. Although she wasn't au fait with the more rudimentary aspects of witchcraft, what the ‘Güül called ‘the Old Ways’, nevertheless, she was versed enough to know that they were communicating with another entity, and since the Psychosphere was off-limits, the ghosts had fled to Limbo and everyone else was enchanted, there was only one body they could connect with. In that instant of realisation, she happened to glimpse movement out of the corner of her eye. Her attention was drawn to the little treasure chest sitting atop the stool by dressing table; the little ancient witch was beckoning her hither with a crook of her withered, hook-nailed, index-finger; Carla approached and carefully placed her hand on her shrunken head.

The gossamer-lidded milky-blue-eyes searched her face as a rasping voice crackled between her ears, <Carla, eh? Ellie Cochrane’s sister? I knew your mother. She was one of the younguns we shipped-off to Europe about 1000 years ago, wasn't she?>

“Yes. She grew up to be a madwoman and a monster. When we were old enough we escaped her clutches and came here, to Uncle Ogden and the Ivy House,” Carla answered, flatly and succinctly, hoping to nip an extended conversation in the bud. She had more than a sneaking suspicion the old woman was already in full possession of the facts and this was a ploy to distract her from the main event. And of course, she was right: the shrivelled pixie proceeded to expound despite her obvious indifference.

<Aye, she was a right bastard, to be sure. Feisty isn't the word. Terrible temper. When I sailed to France sometime in the 1390s -- they sent me over to make sure that she was takin’ care of herself -- as if, I met up with her at the docks in Boulogne. Workin’ in a brothel, she was. Abused her Gift to seduce soldiers ‘n sailors, if my memory serves me right. She had a thing for men in uniform, didn’t she? Became beholden to the pleasures of the flesh. And a drunkard to boot, the silly bitch. They hadda time keepin’ tabs on her! Last I heard she moved to Grenoble and went to ground fer a coupla hundred years-or-so. Lived in a shack in the woods. Had a rare time of it during the Napoleonic Wars, if rumours are to be believed. Nevertheless, in the end, she served her purpose. She managed to have children, and that’s all that matters. That’s all the men wanted: Silver Sirens. Skips a generation you see. Your sister wasn't up to much, so I’m told, but you’re the Real McCoy. Your father was a Sensitive, see. Ellie’s was human. Makes a big difference. Bein’ part human gives you compassion, y’see. makes you emotional: quick to anger, envious, sentimental. They really thought you’d be the mother, but heigh-ho, they got what they wanted in the end, eh?> She looked toward the bed <They got their little messiah,> Then, apropos-of-nothing, she asked: <You’re a disciple of Ebben Blom, aren't ye, chile?>

“Yes, I am his pupil. You know that,” Carla all-but snapped, getting very irritated.

< ... I knew him before he changed sex, y’see: when he was a Viking Princess. Lovely lass, he was. Gifted, too. In fact, she was the daughter of the chieftain who was possessed by the demon, so she had vested interest in makin’ sure he never returned to make mischief ever again. When her family left and went back to Scandinavia, she stayed behind and joined the coven...>

Carla wasn't comfortable talking about the past and hurried the conversation along, “I know all this. Ebben told me. If you have something new to impart, please do so or...?”

The voice continued, <... then the Christian witch hunts began in earnest; we were well thought of up until then, but it didn’t take long for the natives to turn on us. Nobody was safe. Cat lovers, lesbians, senile auld women, auld widows w' warts -- anybody who dispensed herbal potions or medicinal remedies -- they rounded ‘em up, put them to trial by ordeal and burned them alive at the stake. Terrible times. The princess escaped back to her homeland. But just to keep in touch, she left a few Familiars behind. And they've proven very useful over the centuries. They've been our little eyes ‘n ears. They've also very proved quite effective for casting spells by proxy...>

Her suspicions now confirmed, Carla turned, beheld the witches again and asked, “They are casting a spell through Familiars? I thought the Council outlawed such activity in the middle-ages?”

The little wizened face broke into a toothless grin, <Since when do we ever do what the men tell us to...?>

10 minutes ago: The deeper McKee got into his rite, the more the knoll rumbled like a metaphysical volcano on the cusp of eruption. The soil beneath Broo’s paws veritably pulsated with wave-after-wave of negative energy. His body stiffened as the intense pressure increased to an unbearable level and threatened to crack his skull. Naturally, Malky was oblivious; he crouched and whispered in the old dog’s ear, “’E’s away with the faeries an’ ‘e’s lookin’ the other way. Ready to get closer?”

Broo could barely raise his head, but managed to take a step forward.

“At-a-boy. You first.” Malky quietly slid the rusty bolt and slowly opened the gate; then the pair snuck into the dog cemetery and hid behind the bushes lining the inside of the fence. It wasn't so easy for Broo. As passed through the gate, a powerful wave of negativity energy surged up through his legs and sawed through his nervous system like a slow-moving electric shock; simultaneously, he saw the halo around McKee blaze brightly -- the tree shone and crackled with can only be described as a web-like network of ethereal electricity -- it looked as if it was about to explode! To make matters worse, it seemed the climax of the ritual involved a human sacrifice! Malky gasped with horror when he saw the gleaming blade of a large hunting knife raised aloft in the madman’s gauntleted hand, “Holy shite! He’s gonna kill ‘er!” he exclaimed, a little too loudly.

The swaying silhouette heard him. Broo felt the crippling sensation abate; the knoll stopped trembling; the halo around McKee dimmed as he swung around and screamed with rage, “WHO’S THERE?!”

They took cover behind the first row of graves, but it was a hiding to nothing -- the shoddy monuments were too small and far apart to provide adequate coverage, and as if that wasn't bad enough, the fire behind them had flared for a moment and illuminated the entire hillside! For the first time they got a good look at McKee’s face. It was covered in blood; just as Broo suspected, he was wounded; probably a blow to the head.

The demented biker raised the shotgun and waved it in their general direction: “I can see you! I can see you! Come a little closer... so I can KILL YOU!” he yelled, sounding furiously unhinged, snarling like a feral dog and snorting like a furious bull. This wasn't going to be an easy negotiation. Malky ran out, ducked down behind one of the larger markers and called out in a mollifying tone, “Barry, Barry, take it easy, son... put down the gun, you’re not thinkin’ straight, now, c’mon...”

“You ... you... you and your fucking dog...” McKee muttered, presciently, pricking his leather-sheathed thigh with the tip of the knife as he swayed back-and-forth, the barrel of the shotgun swinging menacingly to-&-fro, “Come out, come out, wherever you are...”

Just then, the wind gathered strength and suddenly veered from a light easterly breeze to a strong south-westerly gale -– the smoke from the fire swirled up the hill engulfing the cemetery. Broo felt yet another dip in the demon’s power.

A familiar voice resounded around the hillsides, Malky?! Is that you?!”

“Shut up, bitch!” McKee shouted, swinging back toward her.

Malky’s took advantage of the incoming miasma and stood up to get a better look. She was indeed taped to the trunk of chestnut tree with a supermarket carrier bag over her head, but thankfully, she appeared to be unharmed. “Aye, it’s me, Zin! Are you OK, luv?” he shouted back, trying to sound as relaxed as possible.

The reply was as everything he’d come to expect from a woman as fearless and as feisty as Zindy, “Yeah -- so far!! Gawd knows what this fookin’ headcase is up to!!”

“I SAID SHUT UP!” yelled McKee, in a fit of frustration.

Typically, Zindy ignored him, “He’s got a fractured skull, Malk!! He’s not makin’ sense -- off ‘is fookin’ trolley -- totally doolally -- !”

McKee noisily cocked the gun and aimed it at her, “One more word, cunt, and so help me – I’ll blast you and your friends to KINGDOM COME!!”

Now that McKee’s back was turned, Malky took the chance to creep a little closer; he told Broo to stay put and scuttled through the shadows on the left side of the hill, calling out as he crept along to draw McKee’s attention away from Zindy, “Barry, c’mon now, don’t make things worse for yerself, son -- you’re badly injured, y’ need urgent medical attention...” But McKee wasn't listening. He appeared to be having a fit. He winced, reeled and made a high-pitched eeking sound, his gore-soaked face contorted with pain, as if someone had just buried a dagger in his mind and given it a sharp twist. Worse yet, his hands were shaking -- the twin-barrels were wobbling! Malky prayed that his trigger-finger wasn't suffering the same lack of control!

Meanwhile, now freed from the insidious torpor, Broo decided to steal around to the right; if he managed to get to the far side of the hill there was every chance he could attack McKee from the rear. There was one problem, though: it was a steep, rocky wilderness of high grass, dense nettle-bushes and spiny brambles, it would to be a hard slog, especially on three legs. But it was the only course of action open to him, so he pressed on, the urgency and nervous energy rendering him all-but immune to the prickles, scrapes and stings. When he reached the densest part of the vegetation, he stopped dead in his tracks.

His senses, both natural and supernatural, detected another presence on the hillside. Or should that be presences... It wasn't another sentinel spell, there were no bad vibrations, his sense of imminent danger was giving him no cause for concern. He emerged from a dense blackberry bush, looked up and saw hundreds of pairs of twinkling eyes looking back at him from the shadowy undergrowth up ahead, just below the brow of the hill. At first, he was alarmed -- is it another illusion -- a horde of devil-dogs?! But he soon realised that these creatures were his natural, not supernatural, enemy:

Cats! Dozens-upon-dozens of cats!!

And yet, just like the kittens he encountered at the vets [See Part 11], there was no animosity abroad; they were unsurprised and untroubled by his presence. In fact, he felt well disposed toward them, as if they were of a mind. Very strange. The twinkling constellation watched him for a few seconds then apparently lost interest and turned back toward the glowing figure on hill.

Curious, a little disconcerted, but determined to complete his mission, Broo resumed his trek. The cats didn’t stir from their perches as he passed; he had to work around them, like furry bollards on a treacherous obstacle course. He wondered: if they’re here to help, what is their role? They don’t look as if they’re about to attack... Then, just as he left them behind and reached the mossy rocks on the crest on the dark side of the knoll, they began to yowl like a horde of human babies -- a sustained, oscillating wail that made Broo’s ears ache -- inside and out!

Simultaneously, the figure on the hill threw back its head and screamed...

7 minutes ago: Dani’s Spirit penetrated the host’s subconscious in another blinding, mind-bending blaze of psychedelic pyrotechnics -- another spasm of pleasure ran through her -- only this time it was more like the stomach-lurching plunge of a big dipper car, as if she was plummeting from a great height... Then she stopped. The vortex receded and died; the multicoloured fireworks fizzled and vanished, it felt like she was slowly spinning in deep, starless, space...

Is this it? she thought, reaching out for something to cling to. But there was nothing there, not even a glimmer. If this was indeed the host’s subconscious, she wasn't picking up any thoughts or feelings. Is this meant to happen? Carla had warned her it was ‘uncharted territory’, but she didn’t expect there to be nothing.

Is he dead or is he just unconscious or..?

It was then she heard a strange sobbing sound: like a solitary child weeping somewhere down below. As she slowly descended to check it out, the darkness gave way to dark purple clouds lit by a violet moon. She found herself hovering above a desert landscape dominated by the ruins of a huge Egyptian palace that looked as if it’d just been struck by a devastating earthquake (she knew it was Egyptian because there were hieroglyphs and statues of dog men lying amidst the toppled columns and fallen arches). The sobbing child seemed to be somewhere under the rubble, so she drifted down and flew around until she located the source and set about clearing the debris. The rocks were quite light, which isn't unusual in a dreamscape -- especially in a busted skull -- she pulled them away without much effort, and eventually uncovered a dusty golden throne with a sobbing prepubescent Pharaoh cowering underneath.

Of course, she knew who it was. His Essence was wholly familiar. My so-called friend. The man with the demon inside him. Well, the little boy version, anyway. She was also immediately aware of the current situation -- his short-term memory flooded her psyche and in a split second she knew what had happened to Jamie and what was going to happen to him if this snivelling git didn’t get his shit together! Without a second thought, she unceremoniously yanked him out of his hidey-hole, pinned his arms to the floor and straddled him, “You've gotta fight back, dickhead! Jamie’s Soul depends on it! You’re not a kid -- you’re a grown man! SO GROW UP!!” she screamed, into his frightened, tearstained face.

“I-I I can’t feel anything... I’m numb all over,” the would-be Boy King whinged, “all I can f-feel is him... I’m too weak to m-move...”

Dani put her hand on his forehead, “OK, you’re weak, but you must be semi-conscious or you wouldn't be talkin’ to me! You can fight back!”

But the boy was tearfully insistent, “I told you -- I haven’t got the energy... my head hurts so bad... if I go back I’ll die!”

She lifted her hand high and slapped him hard across the face, “Your Soul will die if he possesses Jamie! You have to take back control! Hey! Listen to me!”

Barry had inadvertently become preoccupied. He was looking through her, listening to something, “Can’t you hear that?” he gasped, awestruck.

She raised her hand to slap him again, “Cut the crap --” but stopped mid-swing when she heard it herself. What is that? It sounded like a thousand banshees wailing in the distance, getting louder and closer with each passing second. She didn’t know what to make of it. Meanwhile, her young captive’s demeanour had totally transformed. His teary eyes were now alight with a combination of relief and jubilation, “It’s the song of Bastet, the cat goddess!! The Pharaoh’s Protector! She’s come to save me!” he cried, excitedly, not a doubt in his mind.

Dani grabbed him by the collar of his robe and shook him until his head rocked on his shoulders, “It can’t be -- there are no gods -- this is your imagination, dummy!! You must be...” but the noise had gotten so loud it was impossible to ignore, and now that he’d mentioned it, it did indeed sound like a horde of cats wailing at the top of their lungs -- what’s more the sound was coming from outside and inside: psychically and acoustically -- there was no escaping it!

Just then, she felt his body begin to rise from the rubble -- taking her with him! She grabbed his shoulders and held on tight as they quickly levitated out of the ruined palace, travelled up through the night sky and ascended into the now tempestuous purple heavens.

“You see?! I can feel her power surging through me...” yelled the boy king, “Her song is lifting me up! Bastet will save my Soul...”

...

3 minutes ago: No matter how he fought, no matter how he tried to divert his thoughts, avert his eyes or even astrally project, Jamie couldn't escape the ugly ‘reality’ of his predicament. He squirmed and twisted his head way when she tried to force her tongue into his ear, but that was as far as his resistance went. He was completely at the mercy of his base reflexes! One thing was for sure: it wasn't just a psychic experience - it had to be happening to his physical being! -- and just as that insight occurred, a wailing sound began to fill the air, at the same time, the room began to glow with purplish light. He saw that they weren’t in a cell anymore -- the cot appeared to be floating upward in a thick, purplish mist.

He sighed with relief. At last. A breakthrough.

Sister’s hips ground to a halt. She went rigid and looked up. “What is that?!” she croaked, harkening to the unsettling howl.

He couldn't offer an opinion, of course, but he was pretty sure it had something to do with the dozen-or-so wizen-faced, wispy-headed, naked old ladies that had suddenly materialised around the cot, holding hands, gazing up at the violet moon and screeching like banshees...

A second later, a voice roared through the clouds like a loud roll of thunder:

“SHUT UP YOU BASTARDS!!”

followed by a loud BOOM!

...

2 minutes ago: now that McKee was distracted by the cats’ chorus, Broo took his chance and climbed over the last remaining rocks on the ridge of the knoll. He crept around to the back of the tree and began gnawing at the tape binding Zindy’s wrists. She flinched when she felt the cold-wetness of his nose brush her forearm, but soon realised what was going on, straightened-up and stretched-out to make it easier for him.

As he worked, Malky called out down below: “Lose the gun, Barry, you’re gonna kill somebody...”

Still holding the knife and the shotgun, but getting evermore frantic as the cats’ yowl reached an insufferable pitch, McKee squeezed his eyes shut and howled, “SHUT UP YOU BASTARDS!!”

There was a brief pause as his scream resounded around the hills

-- then the gun went off!

Broo recoiled from the almighty boom -- he heard the hiss of sap and the sound of splintering wood as the upper trunk took the brunt of the blast -- a thick branch broke away, fell and crashed to the ground -- missing him by a matter of inches!

“NO!” Malky’s voice echoed across the hills as he dashed up the last few yards to the pile of earth by the open grave. The shot didn’t appear to be intentional. He reckoned McKee was reeling from whatever was going on in his head and had inadvertently pulled the trigger; whatever, the round had missed Zindy by a quite a ways. He was very relieved to see that she was now loose and lying on her side amidst the wild grass at the foot of the tree, pulling the plastic bag off her head -- just in time to see him wave from his hiding place. He put a finger to his lips: shush. She acknowledged with a slow nod and tried to crawl out of harm’s way – but in that moment, McKee opened his eyes and saw her! He threw down the shotgun and pulled his daddy’s old service revolver from his belt, “Get... back... here... bitch... haven’t finished with you yet...” he grunted, looming over her, eyes aflame, blood-tainted snot streaming from his twitching nostrils, pistol in one hand, hunting knife in the other...

...

Meanwhile, in McKee’s head: the storm suddenly broke and Dani was bombarded with what felt like thousands of volts of electricity! Ultraviolet lightning bolts flashed through the purple clouds, zapping her from every angle! -- she screamed!

Still clamped between her thighs, still grinning like a moron, McKee put out his arms and goaded them on, “Sing, sing, sing, ye minions of Bastet!”

The deafening wail got even louder! The storm got even worse! The lightning bolts got even stronger and more painful! She put her hands over her ears and screamed again!

...

3 minutes ago: “She’s stopped moving. What’s happening?” Carla asked the wizened old witch.

<She’s made the connection. Can’t you feel the crackle of negative energy in the air? She’s in the host’s psyche. This is the hardest part. The grown-up part.>

“What do you mean?”

The witches raised the pitch. Dani suddenly screamed!

“She’s in pain!” cried Carla, letting go of the old witch’s head and rushing toward the bed. But the withered, wailing circle stood their ground, kept their hands locked together and refused to let her through. She tried to look over their shoulders, but the room had darkened -- a strong draught was streaming in from the corridor setting the candles aflutter, all she could discern was a little shadow shuddering behind the net curtain. Despite her anxiety, she didn’t push it; she felt the vibrations; she knew where this was going and where she stood: this was for the greater good, whether she liked it or not. “You assured me she’d be safe,” she said, emotionlessly, putting her hand back on the little shrunken head.

<Does it matter that one sister loses her life to save the coven and achieve the ‘Prime Directive’?> the voice asked, with a hint of derision.

Dani screamed again.

Carla chewed a nail and said, “But surely there’s another way...?”

Instead of answering the question the old witch responded with another, <The thing with ‘messiahs’ is, they usually have to sacrifice themselves for the salvation of others, don’t they?>

Torn between logic and familial loyalty, Carla vaguely protested, “But she is so young and beautiful...?”

The tiny shoulders shrugged, <Like you said yourself, m’ dear: ‘Tis strictly witchcraft. Tisn't personal...’>

...

A minute later, something weird happened. The thunderstorm eased off. The barrage of lightning bolts gradually ceased, she relaxed and sighed with relief... And as her Spirit settled down again, a familiar feeling slowly came over her. The same warm, welcoming feeling she got when she met her friend in the forest and he embraced her [See Part 3]: a buzz. They were floating in the purply-clouds, now, and although the thunderstorm seemed to have passed, the wailing hadn't stopped; it just seemed more bearable. It was certainly having a beneficial effect on the body between her knees. Barry wasn't a fresh-faced Boy King anymore, he had grown into an adult man clad in bikers’ leathers and boots: the pale, raven-haired, black-eyed man who smelled of chewing gum and gasoline. The way he looked when she met him in the forest that day; only this time he isn't wearing a mask. She could see everything. His partial recovery had also revived his psyche: All his memories, thoughts, emotions, fantasies and ambitions resurfaced as he regained semi-consciousness. In the blink of an eye she was privy to the demon’s foul deeds through the ages. She saw the countless succession of tyrannical kings, warlords, generals, senior advisors and religious zealots he had possessed and misguided -- men bent on power and riches, men driven to divide and conquer to further his aims. Everything Castle, Grandma Ellie and the others had told her about him was true.

Then, just like Jamie, she saw the ghosts of dead children in his shadow. She heard their screams. She felt their fear. She felt his pleasure. It made her very angry indeed.

That anger was compounded when when she unravelled his memory of that fateful night of the 22nd of October 1983. The night he changed her from a big green goblin back into a normal girl - by raping her in the forest. It was precisely the same scene that Grandma Ellie had shown her in the Fairyland dreamscape [See Part 18]: Through McKee’s mind’s eye she saw her father change into a similar monster and murder the old men in the dining hall. Finally, she saw what happened at the flats: She saw her father maul Pritchard. She saw Barry shoot and kill her mother [See Part One]. Her own memories of that night had been wiped before she went into the hospital, she’d even forgotten what her mother looked like, but now, for the first time in 5 years, she saw Maisie Cochrane’s face . It looked just like her reflection in the Plexiglas door. They looked exactly alike. It was dead weird, and dead sad. And though it was hard to watch, she couldn't stop replaying her death over and over again in her mind, and the longer she looked into her mother’s frightened eyes, the angrier she got.

Just as she reached boiling point, Barry snapped out of his ecstatic trance and noticed her staring down at him. He grinned, reached up and cupped her cheeks in his gauntleted hands, “Oh Dani, how wonderful to see you,” he said, in that calm, beguiling voice of his.

“I hate you. You make me sick,” she replied, gimlet-eyed and unflinching.

He kept smiling but his eyes took on a regretful look when he said, “Don’t be like that, Dani. You’re on my side, remember? You are an extension of me. We belong together. Us against the world, and all that.”

No matter their avatars difference in size, in this realm, Dani was the more powerful psyche; after all, she’d just survived an almost lethal bombardment of negative energy, this guy was easy meat, wholly at her mercy. He couldn't lie. He couldn't charm her. He couldn't fool her. “I’m in your head. I see everything. I feel everything. I know everything. I know what you’ve done,” she told him, simmering with contained rage.

Barry stared for a moment, then his eyes flashed red: the demon had taken him over. He chuckled as he supplied the glib reply, “They’re only people, Danielle. Mankind. From little babies to little old ladies, no matter what age, no matter what gender, they’re just organic lifeforms: fodder for the Soul Machine. It doesn’t matter how they live their lives or how they die.”

“It does when they’re little children. Their Souls will never Ascend.”

“But they’re free to wander the Multiverse forever -- isn't that better than joining the 'Eternal Host’?”

“They never had any say in the matter. They never got to grow up and live their lives.”

His tone softened as he reminded her, “Your family is no better. They have no love for this planet or its miserable inhabitants. They can’t wait to escape either. But they have to get rid of me first. That’s why Jamie’s ancestors created you. You’re not a messiah, Dani. You’re just a weapon. A tool. They’re using you to kill me. And then they’ll kill you.”

“You killed my mommy.”

He laughed and laughed as if it was the funniest joke he’d ever heard, “Really -- all the horrible things I’ve done, and that’s the one that sticks in your craw?!”

As he laughed, the uncanny cat-like screech became the frightened screams of his little victims -- their mournful, bewildered faces beseeched her through the veil of purple mist! At the same time she saw her mother reaching out to her, “It’s me, Dani, mommy. I’ve come to take you home, honey… I’ve come to take you away from this awful place and these horrible men…”

She could contain herself no longer. She forgot all about Carla’s final warning and let her heart rule her head.

Barry soon stopped smiling when she put her hands around his throat, pressed her little thumbs into his windpipe and began squeezing the life out of him. The storm erupted again. The purple clouds around them rumbled with thunder and flashed with ultraviolet lightning as she screamed

“DIE!”

...

1 minute ago: just as the naked crones’ yowling reached an ear-splitting crescendo, Sister suddenly lurched as if she’d hiccuped. Then she burped loudly and started trembling, her teeth chattering as if she was either very cold or very scared; her eyes rolled back to the whites as some sort of feeling consumed her, whatever the cause, it clearly wasn't a contortion of ecstasy, more like the throes of a sudden seizure. Jamie watched with increasing horror and morbid fascination as the skin of her face and neck stretched back like softened rubber being pulled violently from behind until it webbed and ripped, came loose at the eye sockets and split at the nose -- the exposed skull cracking and splintering like a brittle plaster bust exploded from within, causing a fountain of blood, brain and bone fragments to rain down on his face in a crimson shower, as a larger, more formidable beast broke through the sloughed skin and steaming viscera

“Dani?!” he mumbled through a mouthful of gauze.

The little green goblin they’d kept locked up in the dungeon was now a full-sized monster, straddling him, saturated with gore, her teeth bared as she glared down at him, her bear-like claws wrapped around his throat! He looked up into her yellow, reptilian eyes and tried to connect telepathically <-- Dani -- Dani -- can’t you hear me?... what’s happening...? Why are you attacking me?!>

But the dreadful creature wasn't receiving, nor did it seem to recognise him; it was enraged, hellbent on doing him in! The grip his throat was tightening, the talons were piercing his windpipe -- her drooling jaws opened wide as she screamed

“DIE!!”

BANG!

the scene suddenly transformed/transitioned -- the swirling purple clouds morphed into billowing drapes -- the narrow cot expanded to a spacious four-poster-bed! He was back in his room in the sanatorium surrounded by naked witches wailing at the top of their voices! The straps had disappeared -- the gag had vanished! But the hands on his throat were still squeezing, only now they were a lot smaller, a lot softer and a lot weaker.

The witches stopped wailing, lowered their heads and stood back.

Dani, a bloody hole in the centre of her forehead, suddenly stopped squeezing... then fell face-first on his shoulder. Stunned, he took her in his arms, sat up, looked through the fluttering drapes at the foot of the bed and saw Ogden Castle, the Lumb’s rotund butler, aiming a recently fired semi-automatic handgun. Jamie turned and looked up at the bullet-hole in the wall above the blood-spattered headboard: a through-and-through. She wouldn't be coming back. Not this time. There’s no way back from a bullet through the brain. Carla pushed through the witches and climbed onto the bed to embrace the pair, but it was a no more than gesture born of guilt. She’d seen her uncle awaken from his enchantment, assess the situation, then retrieve the pistol from under the bed; she’d watched him assume position and take aim. She did nothing to stop him.

Once he’d gathered his wits, Jamie glared at the trusty retainer and yelled, “Why?! Why did you have to kill her?!”

“Because she was about to kill you. The demon tricked her at the last minute, pulled the ol' bait-’n-switch,” Ezzy Costello offhandedly informed him, as she and her wrinkly band walked to the back of the room to get dressed.

Jamie was very angry and very confused. Carla had nothing to say and was avoiding eye-contact, no one seemed particularly upset, just resigned,“But what if her Soul is still locked in the McKee’s psyche -- the demon will devour her, won’t he?!” he demanded, trying his best to keep his voice down.

Wig-less and wearing nothing but her shift, Ezzy Costello heaved a heavy sigh, stomped back to the dressing table, put a hand on her grandmother’s ancient head, closed her eyes and tersely translated, <“She is demonspawn. He cannot devour one of his own. We supplied the extra energy she needed to overcome his defences. It was our spell that awakened the host. We knew that once she saw the truth of what he is and what he’s done, she’d lose her temper. The demon took advantage at the last minute, goaded her on, and turned her on you. But it was a desperate move. One last roll of the dice. Fortunately for you, Mr Castle here woke up in time ‘n killed her, or you would've died in that dream.”> She moved her head along the edge of the box and addressed Carla, <“You told her not to let her heart rule her head? Well, that’s exactly what we were countin’ on. Because unlike the rest of us, that chile had a human side to her. You tend to forget about that, dontchez? Sure, she mighta been a Siren, she mighta been rife with the demon’s energy, but she inherited her mother’s compassion -- and her great-grandmother’s hot temper! Those elements when combined with her youth ‘n inexperience gave her the power to defeat him and save your precious Young Master... too bad she had to die in the process, but as they say, ‘all is fair in love 'n war’....>

“Whether we like it or not, this is - was - Dani’s destiny, sir,” offered Castle, gloomily, as he removed the cartridge from the pistol and made the gun safe. “Tis a terrible pity, to be sure, but my duty is to you, sir. Your safety is my No.1 priority.”

<”She laid down her life for for the cause, like all messiahs,”> The old witch opined with a little chuckle, <”and like all Messiahs, I have a feelin’ she will be reborn.”>

“How do you know?!” snapped Jamie, insulted by her offhand tone.

<“Did you hear the roar of a Soul Death when she passed? No. Take it from me, her Soul is safe.”>

“What will happen to her?” asked Carla, sheepishly.

<”Well, seein’ as she’s too old to join the Wee Ghosts and too toxic to Ascend to the Eternal Host, there’s only one thing the Powers That Be can do with her.”> She scratched her warty chin and asked, <”There was a woman there, wasn't there?”>

Jamie nodded, “Yes. The hostage.”

<”Well, let’s just hope she’s of child-bearing age...”>

“So... what about the demon, then?!” he said, closing Dani’s eyes, “or did she die in vain?”

The little witch looked up at Castle; her interpreter’s face took on a sneer as she answered, <”Well, that’s up to you menfolk. Thanks to us ‘n the chile, he’s all-but done. We've played our part: we enabled ‘n empowered your little messiah, we released yez from his spell. We finished what the Darkly Martyrs started. When they catch his host you can put your ‘demonologists’ to work on what’s left of ‘im,”> she turned back to Jamie, <”of course, that’s if his host survives whatever’s goin’ on in Wicklow. We wouldn't want ‘im dyin’ and the demon migratin’ to a another Soul, would we now...?”>

...

8 minutes ago in Wicklow: McKee appeared to be suffering a series of crippling paroxysms. Still brandishing the the pistol, he dropped the knife, grasped his throat and stumbled around on the spot, strangling himself! Malky was close enough to hear him squeak through his throttled glottis, “I’m... in control... no -- I’m in control!...I’m in control...” over-and-over. It was quite disconcerting, especially since the gun was still pointed at Zindy. Malky decided a diversionary tactic was in order and extracted a large stone from the dirt heap; then, just as he popped-up to throw it, McKee, still gripping his throat like a madman, swivelled 90° -- and pointed the pistol at him! Bastard must have eyes in the back of his bloody head! Malky ducked down again and called out, “Barry... this is bloody pointless, there’s nowhere to go now, son... ye’re very badly injured, you’re done in.... Put the down the gun and we’ll get you to a hosp --”

McKee let out another loud, incomprehensible exhortation of pain and the revolver went off – the bullet made a wheeeee-sound as it whizzed through the top of the mound, missing Malky’s crown by a whisker! He slid further down and kept close to the ground, “Barry!! Cut that out! The killin’ has got to stop - now!” he yelled.

Broo was hiding in the bushes behind the tree, waiting for an opportunity to pounce. McKee didn’t scare him now: the magenta halo had faded completely, the otherworldly electricity had vanished from the ether; The cats’ caterwauling seemed to be doing the trick!

And just as that thought occurred, the wailing suddenly ceased.

In that same moment, McKee stopped strangling himself. He regrouped, stood firm and shook his head emphatically - his long black hair thrashing from side-to-side, sending a spray of blood into the air. Then he began giggling inanely and talking in a silly, slightly-slurred, happy-go-luck tone, “Hah! I’m back! Back in the Land of the Living! Yippeeeeee!” He clenched and unclenched his fist and stretched his arm as if making sure they were working properly, then he saw the gun in his other hand, frowned and said, “Now... what’s he been up to....?” He looked around as if he was viewing the scene for the first time, “Is this the Anderson Place?!” He looked down the hill at the burning cottage, nodding as if he’d just got the joke, “Course it is... ooh, I see what’s going on here, I get the picture...” he waved the pistol in the air, “this is the big showdown, huh?I Back where it all began, very dramatic,” he chuckled, “cos looky-here -- all the key players’re gathered in the little dog cemetery for the grande finaleeeeeee!” He turned toward the mound, “the recovering alcoholic!” he turned toward Zindy, “the little blue-haired inn-keeper!.... but someone’s missing... hmmm....who can it be...” He looked from side-to-side, “Where’s that wretched mutt of yours, Calvert?! Where’s the star of the show?” he chided, looking behind the tree, “where’s the three-legged fleabag you drag around with you...” he eventually espied Broo’s eyes glinting in the undergrowth. “Ahh... there you are, you old rascal... tryin’ to creep on me, were ya, ehh? That’s the oldest trick in the booooOOF!!”

Zindy had snuck around the other side and kicked him square in the balls, and when he reflexively doubled-up to clutch his aching crotch, she expertly slammed her knee into his face, breaking his nose and knocking him back on his arse -- then she leapt on him, straddled him, picked up the discarded knife, took it in both hands and raised it high above her head, “This is for Sammy!!”

-- a second before, the little ghosts’ words flashed through Broo’s mind and rang in his ears: ‘He must be taken alive!’ He duly sprang forth, took the back of her tee-shirt in his teeth and used all his strength to drag her off!

“BROO! What the fook! What’d ya do that for!” she screeched, as she struggled to her feet.

It might have been the right thing to do, but those few precious seconds had provided McKee with sufficient time to recover his senses and retrieve the gun. Broo barked!

“Watch out!” screamed Malky.

Bleary-eyed with tears from the blow to his face, McKee got up, raised the pistol and fired at the blurry figure in front of him.

Zindy yelped, stopped cold, dropped the knife, dropped to her knees and toppled onto her side. Broo smelled seared flesh and fresh blood -- she’s been hit!

“Jesus! NO!” cried Malky, as he leapt across the open grave and grabbed McKee by the shoulders -- but he landed too close to the edge -- the dampened soil gave way -- he lost his balance and fell backward -- the pair toppled into the muddy pit!

Broo heard the sounds of a struggle -- then the gun went off. Twice. The struggling stopped.

The night was still.

The only sound was the crackling fire down below and the wind hissing through the hedgerows. Zindy wasn't dead, she was unconscious; the bullet had gone straight through her shoulder. Her body was in shock. Strange thing was, she was now glowing with a bluish light, not unlike the halos that lit the little ghosts of the Infant Host... and it was just as compulsively mesmerizing... But there was no time to stand and stare! -- the old dog snapped out of his reverie, galloped over to the grave and looked down.

It was too dark down there to see how they were placed, but it appeared that both men were also unconscious; and by the smell of it, at least one of them was losing a lot of blood!

Broo threw back his head and howled....

To Be Continued...

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