Clive Barker - Weave World

He worked the palm of his other hand against her breast.

‘Don't do that,' she said.

The Magdalene's dead,' he reminded her. ‘So who's going to produce children now? It can't be the old bitch; she's sterile. No, lover. No. I think it has to be you. You'll finally have to offer up that precious cunt of yours.'

At this she threw him off her, and might have struck him dead but that revulsion at his mauling distracted her from the act. She soon recovered her self-control. The killing power was mustering behind her eyes. He couldn't with safety delay his revenge any longer. She'd taken him for a fool, but he had ways to make her regret her arrogance. As she raised her head to spit the menstruum at him he called out the names he'd written, mere hours before, on his pack of cigarettes.

‘Sousa! Vessel! Fairchild! Divine! Loss! Hannah!'

The by-blows came at his call, scrabbling up the stairs. They were no longer the wretched, love-lorn things that the Magdalene had suckled. Shadwell had treated them tenderly in the short time he'd owned them; fed them; made them mighty.

The light died in Immacolata's face as she heard them behind her. She turned as they spilled through the door.

‘You bequeathed them to me,' he said.

She let out a cry at the sight of them, grown gross and meaty. They stank of the slaughterhouse.

‘I gave them blood instead of milk,' said Shadwell. ‘It makes them love me.'

He made a clucking sound with his tongue, and the creatures sidled over to him, trailing organs they had yet to find a purpose for.

‘I warn you,' he said, ‘try to harm me and they'll take it badly.'

As he spoke he realized that in these last moments Immacolata had summoned the Hag from the cooler regions of the Firmament. She was at the Incantatrix's shoulder now, a restive shadow.

‘Leave him,' he heard her sigh in Immacolata's ear. He didn't for an instant think she'd take that advice, but she did, first spitting on the floor at Shadwell's feet, then turning to go. He could scarcely believe the battle had been so easily won. She'd been more demoralized by grief and mutilation than he'd dared hope. The showdown was over before it had even begun.

One of the by-blows at his side uttered a soulful wail of frustration. He took his eyes off the sisters and told it to hush itself. His doing so proved all but fatal, for in the instant his gaze dropped the wraith-sister came flying at him, her jaws wide, her teeth suddenly vast, ready to tear out his cheating heart.

At the door, Immacolata was turning back, the menstruum breaking from her.

He yelled for the beasts to come to his aid, but even as he did so the Hag was upon him. His breath burst from him as he was thrown back against the wall, claws raking at his chest.

The by-blows weren't about to see their blood-bringer laid low. They were upon the Hag before her nails could rip through Shadwell's jacket, and she was dragged from him, shrieking. She'd been midwife to these creatures; she'd delivered them into a world of lunacy and darkness. Perhaps for that very reason they showed her no mercy. They tore at her without pause or apology.

‘Stop them,' Immacolata yelled.

The Salesman was examining the lacerations the Hag had made in his jacket. Another moment and her fingers would have clutched his heart.

‘Call them off, Shadwell! Please!'

‘She's dead already,' he said. ‘Let them play.'

Immacolata moved to aid her sister, but as she did so the largest of the by-blows, with the tiny white eyes of a deep-sea fish and a mouth like a wound, came between her and rescue. She spat an arrow of the menstruum into its pulsing chest, but it took the hurt in its stride, and came at her unchecked.

Shadwell had seen these monstrosities murder amongst themselves for the sport of it. He knew they could sustain horrendous injury without slowing. This one, for instance, called Vessel, could take a hundred such wounds and still make merry. Nor was it stupid. It had learned the lessons he'd taught it well enough. Even now it leapt upon the Incantatrix, wrapping its arms around her neck, and its legs about her hips.

Such intimacy would, he knew, drive Immacolata to distraction. Indeed, as it put its face to hers, kissing her as best its malformations would allow, she started to scream, all control and calculation finally lost. The menstruum flew from her in all directions, wasting its potency on the ceiling and the walls. Those few barbs that found her attacker did nothing but arouse it further. Though it had no sexual anatomy to speak of, Shadwell had trained it in the basic moves. It worked itself against her like a dog in heat, howling into her face.

Opening its mouth was a mistake on its part, for a fragment of the menstruum found its way down into its throat, and blew it wide. Its neck erupted, and its head, no longer supported, fell backwards on greasy strings of matter.

Even so, it clung to her, its body moving in ragged spasms against hers. But its grip had loosened sufficiently for her to tear its body from her, the struggle leaving her bloodied from head to foot.

Shadwell called the remaining by-blows from their vengeful play. They withdrew to his side. All that was left of the Hag was a litter that resembled the leavings on a fish-gutter's tiles.

Seeing the remains, Immacolata, her face slack to the point of imbecility, let out a low moan of loss.

‘Get her out of here,' said Shadwell. ‘I don't want to see her filthy face. Take her into the hills. Dump her.'

Two of the by-blows approached the Incantatrix, and took hold of her. There was not so much as a flicker in her eye, nor a finger raised in protest. She seemed no longer even to see them. Either the slaughter of her one remaining sister, or her own violation by the beast, or perhaps both, had undone something inside her. She was suddenly bereft of any power to enchant or terrify. A sack, which they hauled away through the door, and carried off down the stairs. Not once did she even raise her eyes in Shadwell's direction.

He listened to the slouching gait of the by-blows fade down the stairs, still half expecting her to come back for him, to mount one final attack. But no. It was over.

He crossed to the muck of the Hag. It smelt of something rotten.

‘Have it,' he said to the remaining beasts, who fell upon the scraps and fought over them. Revolted by their appetite, he turned his gaze back towards the Gyre.

Very soon now night would be upon the Fugue; a last curtain on the events of a busy day. With tomorrow, a new act would begin.

Somewhere beyond the cloud he was watching lay a knowledge that would transform him.

After that, no night would fall, except at his word; nor day dawn.

VII

AN OPEN BOOK

1

The Law had come to Nonesuch.

It had come to root out dissension: it had found none. It had come with truncheons, riot shields and bullets, prepared for armed rebellion: it had found no whisper of that either. All it had found was a warren of shadowy streets, most of them deserted, and a few pedestrians who bowed their heads at the first sign of a uniform.

Hobart had immediately ordered a house to house search. It had been greeted with a few sour looks, but little more than that. He was disappointed; it would have been gratifying to have found something to sharpen his authority upon. All too easy, he knew, to be lulled into a false sense of security, especially when an anticipated confrontation had failed to materialize. Vigilance was the key word now; unending vigilance.

That was why he'd occupied a house with a good view of the township from its upper storeys, where he could take up residence for the night. Tomorrow would bring the big push on the Gyre, which could surely not go unopposed. And yet, who could be certain with these people? They were so docile; like animals, rolling over at the first sign of a greater power.