Halethorpe’s eyes widened, trying helplessly to focus. “You—”
“Relax. I’m not going to do anything demonic. Just take my word for it, your soul is intact: I’m looking right at it. What is in trouble with the Lord your God is the thing that caused all this mess in the first place. I’m almost certain that claiming to be the Voice of God when you are not, in fact, the Voice of God is something upon which Heaven frowns. The job’s taken, you know.”
“What is it?” Halethorpe whispered. “What is it inside the light? What spoke to me?”
“I’m not quite sure, but it doesn’t feel entirely demonic, either. It’s gone from you, Mr. Halethorpe. Spiritually I expect you could use a bit of a wash and brush-up, but you are not headed straight for the bottomless pit.” He sighed. “You really had better rest now, or Greta will be cross with me. Do you want anything?”
“No. Wait. Water?”
Fastitocalon poured a glass from the carafe on the nightstand, helped him sit up to drink, aware of the sick heat of his skin even through layers of clothing, trying not to hurt him more than absolutely necessary.
“You don’t … sound like a demon,” Halethorpe said when Fastitocalon had let him go. “Are you sure?”
“Quite sure. Don’t worry—it’s not catching.”
Halethorpe looked as if he were about to say something else, but just closed his eyes. He seemed both young and very fragile: barely out of childhood, heavily weighed down by the knowledge and the cruelty of what had been done to him.
Fastitocalon was suddenly aware of just how pale he was beneath the scarring, everywhere other than the burning fever spots high on each cheek; how rapidly and shallowly his breath came, and even as he noticed the blue tinge deepening in his lips, Halethorpe gave a little sigh and slumped sideways against the pillows.
Fastitocalon moved without thinking, reaching out his right hand to flatten the palm against Halethorpe’s chest, fingers spread. He could feel the shaken, out-of-tune beating of the heart beneath his hand not simply with touch but several other senses as well. He knew how desperately strained that heart had been, how tired it was, how much it would rather be still.
No, he thought, not now, not like this; for one thing Varney is right and you can and should receive absolution, and for another Greta left this duty to me, and I mean to do it.
He closed his eyes and felt strength running out of him like water, pushed it, sending out reaching fingers of influence through bone and muscle, breath and blood, steadying and strengthening the flagging heart. After a few moments the beating eased back into a proper rhythm. The blue faded from Halethorpe’s lips, his fingertips. Still that stuporous fever heat baked into Fastitocalon’s hand through the thin fabric of his shirt.
Without taking his hand away, Fastitocalon fished his phone from his pocket and dialed one-handed. He had to wait for the stretch of three full rings before Greta’s voice came on the line, sounding somewhat breathless. “Fass?”
“You’d better get back here,” he said. “In something of a hurry. He’s on fire; I’ve convinced his heart not to give up for now, but I can’t hold it for very long.”
“Fuck,” she said. “On our way. Hang on, Fass, please hang on, for everybody’s sake—and thank you.”
CHAPTER 13
By the time Ruthven and Greta returned, Fastitocalon had begun to lose sensation in his fingertips. He was extremely glad when she arrived to take over, with her vials and syringes, and told her what he could—which wasn’t anything she didn’t already know; there was just so much damage, and at this point it was probably just a question of time. Even if they got him to a hospital with all the supportive measures imaginable, it was only going to be a question of how long.
He said as much to the others, coming downstairs. “We know roughly where the thing is, at least. I don’t think he could give us much more information than that. He’s—wandering. But we know it’s in a system of tunnels underneath St. Paul’s tube station—”
“Christ. The deep-level shelters,” Ruthven cut in, looking disgusted with himself. “Of course. The old bomb shelters attached to the Underground. I should have thought of that.”
“Wait,” said Cranswell, “what bomb shelters?”
“In the war people used the Underground stations to hide from air raids, which made perfect sense, but there simply wasn’t enough room down there for everyone. So during the Blitz they started to build separate shelter complexes. There were supposed to be ten of them, mostly on the Northern line, but not all ten got built.” He sighed. “I’ve even been in a couple of them, back in ’44 when the bombing really got nasty—not the one at St. Paul’s, but I imagine they’re all much of a muchness. These days I think they’re used for storage if they’re accessible at all, but as a ready-built lair one could do a great deal worse.”
“Why would a bomb shelter have one of these rectifier things?” Cranswell asked.
“Most of the electrical equipment down there ran on DC. Lift motors, fans, that kind of thing. What I don’t get is why it would still be working after all these years.”
“You said they’re used for storage,” said Varney. “Surely people would need to have the lights on in order to access whatever is being stored.”
“I suppose so.” Ruthven straightened his shoulders. “Well. We’d better go and do something about it, hadn’t we?”
“Wait a minute. Let’s consider the practical aspects of the situation.” Fastitocalon coughed, wincing. “The ultraviolet light aspect in particular. Even without the mad monks and their envenomed Gothic-novel armament, you, Ruthven, are not going to be able to go anywhere near the thing. Sir Francis is less vulnerable to sunlight than you, but even so it poses a considerable problem.”
Ruthven stared at him. “You know perfectly well I don’t burst into flames in sunlight. That bit didn’t come along until Murnau in 1922.”
“You don’t like direct sunlight and you can’t be out in it for very long at all without getting a blinding headache and going shocking pink over all exposed surfaces,” he said. “I’ve seen you with sun poisoning, back in the seventies, and that’s with the atmosphere absorbing most of the ultraviolet in sunlight. This thing is putting out much, much more UV than that. Look at what it did to ordinary humans. Remember the burns? It would do you absolutely no good at all.”
“I’ll wear sunblock,” Ruthven said. “If you think I’m going to let you and Varney go down there on your own, you’re sadly mistaken, Fass. This is my bloody city.”
“Fastitocalon has a point. I would not have you harmed for anything, L … Ruthven,” said Varney. “If it is in my power, it is my duty to put an end to this wretched business myself. It was I who brought the trouble to your door.”