Clive Barker - Weave World

Though it seemed to have reclaimed the reins of Hobart's body, the man still fought to keep control for himself. The conflict made him shake violently, a display Shadwell was certain would draw unwelcome attention if they didn't soon step out of public view.

There are Seerkind inside,' he said. ‘Your enemies.'

His coaxing went unheard by either Uriel or Hobart. Either the Angel was losing its grip on its vessel, or Hobart had developed new powers of resistance, for Uriel was having to fight hard to regain total possession. One or other of them began to beat the body's fist against the portico, perhaps to distract its opponent. The flesh, caught between man and Angel, burst and bled.

Shadwell tried to avoid being spattered, but the Inspector's grip was fiercer than ever, holding him close. The wasted head turned in Shadwell's direction. From the smoky cavern between his teeth Hobart's voice emerged, barely decipherable.

‘Get... it... out of me,' he pleaded.

‘I can do nothing,' Shadwell said, wiping a fleck of blood from his upper lip with his free hand. ‘It's too late.'

‘He knows that,' came the reply. Not Hobart's voice this time, but Uriel's. ‘He's the Dragon forever.'

Hobart had begun to sob, his snot and tears boiling away as they reached the furnace of his mouth.

‘Don't be afraidI said Uriel, its tone a parody of Shadwell at his silkiest. ‘Do you hear me, Hobart?'

The head nodded loosely, as if the muscle of the neck it was carried on was half cut through.

‘Shall we go inside?' said Shadwell.

Again, that dislocated nodding. The body was free of twitches now; the face a blank. As final proof of the Angel's triumph, Hobart dropped his hold on Shadwell, then turned and went ahead of the Salesman into the church.

It was deserted, the candles cold, the smell of incense souring.

"There are raptures here,' said Uriel.

‘Indeed there are,' said Shadwell, following the creature down the aisle to the chancel rail. He had expected the crucifix above the altar to win some response from the Angel, but Uriel passed it by without a glance, and crossed to the baptistery door. It laid Hobart's broken hand upon the wood. The boards smouldered, the door flew open. It was the same procedure at the second door. With Uriel-in-Hobart leading the way they descended into the crypt.

They were not alone there; a light was burning at the far end of the passage along which Immacolata had come to meet Shadwell: from the Shrine, presumably. Without further word Uriel began along the corridor, ribbons of its hidden self flowing from Hobart's torso and grazing the caskets in the walls, pleasuring in their stillness, their silence. It was half way between stairs and Shrine when a priest stepped from an intersecting passageway and blocked the path. His face was pale, as if powdered, a streak of blue dirt -some sign of obsequience - daubed in the centre of his forehead.

‘Who are you?' he demanded.

‘Step aside,' said Shadwell.

‘You're trespassing,' the man retorted. ‘Get out of here!'

Uriel had stopped a yard or two from where the priest stood, and now threw its hand out and snatched hold of one of the casket ledges, its other hand taking hold of Hobart's hair and dragging the man's face towards the wall as if to beat its own skull open. This was not the Angel's doing, Shadwell realized, but Hobart's. Using the distraction of the priest's appearance, he was again attempting to seize control. The contested body immediately became epileptic, a throttled roar emerging from its throat, which may have been intended as a warning to the priest. If so, it went uncomprehended. The man stood his ground as Uriel twisted Hobart's head back in his direction -bone and cartilage audibly grinding upon each other. A moment passed: priest and Angel face to face. Then Uriel's flame erupted from Hobart's mouth.

The effect, in the confined space of the passage, was more impressive than anything Shadwell had witnessed in Rue Street. The shock-wave threw him backwards, but he was too much the voyeur to be denied the spectacle, and hauled himself upright to watch Uriel's lethal theorems proved on its victim. The priest's body was lifted against the ceiling and pinned there until the flames had devoured it.

It was over in seconds, and Shadwell squinted through the smoke to see Uriel moving off towards the Shrine, with Hobart loosing a sobbing howl of horror at what had been done. Shadwell followed, dwindling motes of fiery ash falling around him. The fire had not just caught the priest, but was eating at the very brick of the passageway, and consuming the caskets in the niches. The lead of their inner linings dripped from the ledges, and the bodies came with it, shrouds burning around their illustrious bones.

As he approached the door of the Shrine Shadwell's feet slowed. This had been Immacolata's domain. Here she'd been all-powerful, worshipped by unmanned men whose abeyance to Christ and his Mother had been a sham; men who'd believed her a Goddess. He'd never believed that himself. So why did he have this sudden fear upon him?: a desecrator's fear?

He stepped inside the Shrine, and there had his answer. As he surveyed the bones on the walls he knew as only a lover could know that the creature he'd lusted after, and finally betrayed, was still holding court here. Death had no hold on her. She was in the walls, or in the air: somewhere near.

‘Goddess...' he heard himself say.

There was no time to warn Uriel. A second priest, younger than his dead brother, appeared from the shadows and ran at the Angel, knife in hand. Hobart's cry stopped, and he turned his mutinous hands to the task of preventing a second slaughter, clamping them to his face to dam the coming fire. The device gave the attacker time to deliver a cut, the knife entering Hobart's side. But as the priest withdrew it for a second stab Uriel's benediction spurted between Hobart's fingers, then broke out entirely, taking the flesh and bone of his hands with it. The fire caught the priest head on and flung him across the Shrine. He danced against the bones for a heart-beat, then he, like his brother, was ash.

He'd done serious damage to Hobart, but it took Uriel less time to cauterize the wound with its glance than it had taken the knife to deliver it. The task done, it turned its gaze on Shadwell. For a breathless moment the Salesman thought it meant to burn him where he stood. But no.

‘Don't be afraid,' it said.

It had offered the same meagre comfort to Hobart mere minutes before. The sentiment had sounded hollow then, but more so now, in the light of the way it had maimed its host. Hobart's hands, which he'd once envisaged burning with righteous fire, had been reduced to withered claws in the act of trying to prevent that fire from doing its work. Hobart was sobbing again, as he or the Angel held the stumps up to be examined. Had Uriel left him with the burden of pain his nerve-endings must be suffering, or did he sob that his body was an instrument in these abominations?

The arms dropped, and Uriel turned his attention to the walls.

‘I like these bones,' it said, and wandered over to the most elaborate of the designs. Tendrils, thin as sewing-thread and lightning bright, skipped from its borrowed torso and face, and ran over the skulls and rib-cages.

There was a moment of hiatus, the fire roaring in the niches outside, the ashes of the second priest still hanging in the air. In that moment Shadwell heard Immacolata's voice. It was the most intimate of whispers, a lover's whisper.

‘What have you done?' she said.

He glanced across at Uriel, who was still entranced by the macabre symmetry of the wall. It made no sign of having heard the Incantatrix. Again, the question.

‘What have you done?' she said. ‘It knows no mercy.'