Jack of Ravens

23

The light in the mirror blazed so brightly that Church could barely look into it. He was outside one of the Victorian mansions near the Grateful Dead’s house that had been raided only four nights earlier. He could already tell something was wrong. The front door hung on twisted hinges and the hall light blazed out into the night.

He entered cautiously. A man lay dead on the stairs, his throat torn out. On the first-floor landing, a woman hung over the banister, both eyes missing. His heart pounding, Church followed the trail of blood to a door on the second floor. It swung open at Church’s fingertips.

The first thing he saw was writing on the walls in blood: Helter Skelter. Death to Pigs.

The Libertarian was admiring his handiwork. He turned to Church blithely. ‘Just getting in a little practice for nineteen sixty-nine. Or repeating what I will do then, depending on your point of view. Charlie’s spelling is atrocious.’

A ponytailed man with sunglasses sat on the sofa as if watching TV, a hole punched through his chest to where his heart had once been. The missing organ sat on a side table next to a lava lamp.

‘You’ve got the Shears,’ Church said flatly.

‘There was never any doubt. We’ve been searching for them for a long, long time, Mr Churchill.’ He dipped into the inside pocket of his long, black coat and pulled out what at first looked like a blinding white light. As Church forced himself to peer into it, he saw something that resembled a giant crystal snowflake, and then a series of circling orbs, and finally a pair of gold shears with ornate handles.

The Libertarian smiled at Church’s unease. ‘Oh, don’t worry, I have no intention of using them now. One wrong snip and the whole thing could start to unravel. We will take our time, ensure everything is just right, safe for us, not so for you, and then …’ He made a snipping motion with two fingers of his free hand. ‘Things fall apart. The centre cannot hold.’

Knowing he had no choice, Church advanced. The Libertarian smiled mockingly just as Church saw movement in the corner of his eye. Hands like dry wood clutched at his wrist before an arm moved across his throat. In the mirror opposite he could see Etain’s dead eyes staring back at him. The loamy smell of her filled his nostrils.

‘Despite what you might think, we really do know what we are doing.’ The Libertarian strode to the door and paused. ‘Oh — remember when we met not so very long ago in that cold city? I told you then what would happen if you ever chose to re-enter the game.’

‘Don’t hurt Gabe and Marcy.’ Church strained in Etain’s grip. ‘They’ve got nothing to do with this.’

‘I can’t go back on my word,’ the Libertarian said indignantly. ‘Well, perhaps just one of them. I shall attend to that piece of business before I take a very long flight to the East. Have to see how our boys are getting on scaring up a few Fabulous Beasts with their napalm.’

Church could hear him humming merrily as he walked down the stairs. Etain closed the crook of her elbow tighter around Church’s throat. In the mirror, her unblinking stare never left his face.

‘Etain, I’m really sorry about what happened to you,’ Church said hoarsely. ‘I don’t know if you can hear me, but I wanted to say that. There hasn’t been a day gone by when I haven’t regretted what Veitch did to you, or felt guilty for getting you into it.’

Etain didn’t register a flicker of emotion.

‘But I can’t go on beating myself up over that. There’s too much at stake now and too many people relying on me. I hope wherever you are you understand that.’

While he was talking, Church had been shifting his position. He drove backwards with all his weight and smashed Etain into the wall, then pulled forward and did it again. While she was off-balance, Church jackknifed at the waist. Etain flew over his shoulder and crashed into the TV set. Amidst the flash and the sparks there was the smell of burning dead flesh.

Church didn’t wait to see the results. He was soon racing into the night to save his friends.