CHAPTER EIGHTY THREE
Darkness.
'Are you all right, Pyrgus?' Nymph's voice, concerned but steady. 'Is everybody all right.'
Somebody groaned.
'Blue? Is that you, Blue? What's happened? What's wrong?' Henry's voice, and he sounded on the verge of panic.
Pyrgus said quietly, 'I'm on top of something soft – I think it may be alive.'
'That's me,' said Comma crossly.
'Blue? Where are you?'
'It's all right, Henry – I've hit my head, that's all. Has anybody got a light?'
'I've got a sparker,' Comma said. 'If Pyrgus would get off me.'
But Nymphalis beat him to it. Her face suddenly emerged out of the darkness, illuminated by a portable glow globe about the size of a hen's egg. It floated gently upwards as she released it, then expanded and brightened until its light picked up them all.
They were in a wide corridor with gleaming metallic piping running down both walls. The heat was appalling and there was a rhythmic pounding in the floor.
Blue said softly, 'Nymph…'
'I see him,' Nymph said.
Pyrgus turned in the direction of her gaze. Ochlodes was stretched out on the floor, still clutching the remnants of his shattered bow.
From the position of his head, it was clear his neck was broken.
CHAPTER EIGHTY FOUR
Brimstone had a moment of funk – he hadn't bothered with a circle and now there were an awful lot of demons to control. He raised his hand and drew a series of command sigils with his finger. They should have appeared in the air, outlined in flame, but nothing happened. He tried again. Still nothing. Then, with a muttered curse, he remembered magic didn't work that way in the Analogue World. You had to earth every visualisation!
The demons were spreading out across the church, hopping across pews and climbing up the walls. One of them started grimly to beat up a statue of a saint. Brimstone grabbed a piece of parchment from his bag and savagely bit the end of his right thumb. As the blood welled up, he drew the sigils roughly on the paper:
' "Give unto this skin power to assume the signs that I have made upon it!"' he called through pursed lips. (Biting himself on the thumb had proved incredibly painful.) ' "Which signs are inscribed with my blood in order that such inscriptions may be endowed with power to do that which I desire."' Honorius the Great was so long-winded. ' "And make it so that it will also repel the devilment of demons who shall become afraid when they see these characters, and who will be able only to tremble as they behold them and approach."' That should do it.
He waved the parchment in the air, the inscribed side facing the approaching demons. 'See that?' he shouted. 'Now pull yourselves together and line up in orderly ranks!'
The demons ignored him. Several scampered through the broken window high up in the wall behind the altar and disappeared into the world outside. 'Come back!' Brimstone screamed. They were just a cab ride from New York City: demons could run that distance in no time. There'd be riots if they turned up in Times Square. He waved the paper again. 'If you don't behave, I'll stuff this parchment up -'
The demons stopped skittering abruptly and began to congregate to one side of the altar. Those on the walls slid down sheepishly. 'That's better,' Brimstone began, before realising their behaviour had nothing to do with his command sigils. An enormous horned figure was squeezing awkwardly through the portal.
'You might have made it bigger,' Beleth growled. 'You know I had to set up a special connection from the Faerie Realm.'
The demon prince was looking a lot more together than the last time Brimstone had seen him. His broken horn had regrown and his skin taken on a luminous red tinge that made him look as if his insides were on fire. He also seemed to have grown talons. Or had he always had them? Brimstone shook his head. He was sure he'd have noticed before.
'Honorius didn't know about resizing,' he explained. 'Or if he did, he didn't put it in his grimoire.' He watched Beleth warily, more aware than ever there was no circle of protection, but the prince only stretched luxuriously.
'No matter,' Beleth said. 'You've set up a working portal and that's the main thing.'
'So we're quits?' Brimstone asked quickly. 'I can go now?' He never liked to admit it, but he always felt a little uncomfortable in the Analogue World. Too much of his basic magic didn't work the way it should and a lot of the people here seemed deranged. He'd no idea why Beleth wanted portal access here, but now the demons were through, Brimstone was well content to leave them to get on with whatever damage they planned to inflict on New York.
'Quits?' Beleth echoed, his voice reverberating through the church. He smiled. 'Not quite, Brimstone. Not quite.'
CHAPTER EIGHTY FIVE
They took Chalkhill up to the floating platform, where he was faced with the most terrifying sight he'd ever seen. Although it did have some reassuring aspects. It was clean for one thing. All the metal surfaces sparkled, the floor had been recently polished and there was fresh linen on the operating tables.
There were two tables, side by side. Apatura Iris, the Purple Emperor, was strapped naked to one of them. His eyes were open, staring at the ceiling, and, while his face had a flaccid, expressionless look, Chalkhill somehow didn't think he was under the influence of an anaesthetic spell. Although to be fair, Hairstreak would probably use one. He'd want the Emperor fit and well as soon as possible after the operation.
There was a swarthy man in a shaman's loincloth between the two operating tables. His eyes were so dark it was impossible to tell whether he was a Faerie of the Night or some eccentric Lighter. He had very large, powerful hands.
'This is Mountain Clouded Yellow,' Hairstreak said by way of introduction. 'Our psychic surgeon.'
'Pleased to meet you,' Chalkhill said without enthusiasm.
The scary thing, Chalkhill thought as he climbed on to the operating table, was the equipment. There was a lot of it packed into the theatre and none of it was nice. He recognised an automatic stitcher for treating open wounds, and a weighted scissor blade that amputated any limb poked through an adjustable aperture. There was a glass-fronted cupboard with shelves full of body parts – hands, feet, toes, fingers, ears and, alarmingly, an enormous number of eyeballs laid out in colour-coded batches.
'I hope they use everything on you,' Cyril muttered sourly in his mind.
Chalkhill ignored him. They'd taken his clothes off and he was feeling chilled to the bone as he stretched out on the table. Psychic surgeons didn't necessarily use equipment, of course. The good ones just plunged their hands into your body and fiddled with your guts. It sounded hideous, and he'd read in a magazine somewhere that it was seventeen times more painful than having your testicles crushed in a vice unless an anaesthetic spell was used.
He wriggled to try to get comfortable and wished they'd cover him up with something, preferably a heavy blanket. He supposed Mountain Clouded Yellow would plunge his hand in and rummage around in his intestines until he found Cyril. Then he would probably rip the worm out and ram him directly into the abdomen of the Purple Emperor.
Chalkhill wished he hadn't thought of that. He was suddenly feeling so nauseous that his stomach had begun to heave. Worse still, Cyril was feeling nauseous as well, something that gave Chalkhill the sensation of a small dog throwing up on his brain.
Chalkhill closed his eyes and prayed Hairstreak wasn't double-crossing him, prayed that, frightened though he was, this would be started quickly and finished soon, prayed that -
'Just waiting for the anaesthetic wizard,' Hairstreak told him cheerfully.
An elderly wizard tottered into the operating theatre and looked around vaguely.