Simon Green - For Heaven's Eyes Only

“These are what’s left over from human sacrifices,” said Isabella. “Not even zombies, really, because there’s nothing left in them. Just bodies raised up and moved around by an external will. I don’t know why the Satanists kept them. Waste not, want not, I suppose. The raised dead do make excellent shock troops against the living. Very psychologically effective. Shock-and-awe troops, if you like.”

They were only a floor or so below us now, close enough that I could see other things that had been done to the dead bodies. Some had missing hands; some had no feet and stomped along on what was left of their ankles. Some had no eyes, or teeth, or lips. And all of this had clearly happened before they died.

“Why do that?” I said.

“Satanists just want to have fun,” said Isabella.

I looked at her. “You think this is funny? Torture and mutilation and human sacrifice?”

Molly put a gentle hand on my arm. I couldn’t feel it, but I could see it. “You know how it is, Eddie. We have to laugh in situations like this, or we’d go mad.”

“Yes,” I said. “I know. It . . . got to me, for a moment there.”

“That’s the idea,” said Isabella. “One thing about Satanists; they really know how to push your buttons.”

“You don’t have to worry about hurting them, Eddie,” said Molly. “There’s no one left inside them to hurt. It’s only . . . bodies.”

“You take care of them,” I said. “I can’t seem to work up the enthusiasm.”

“Sure, Eddie,” said Molly. “No problem. You stand back and let the Metcalf sisters get to work.”

The two witches leaned over the stairwell, chanted something in unison and extended their hands. Great waves of fire burst from their fingertips, gushing blasts of hot yellow flames that shot down the shaft and incinerated the dead bodies coming up. Fire filled the shaft, so hot the air rippled around it and the stairwell walls blackened. There was a brief stench of burnt meat, and then even that was gone. The flames snapped off. The air still shimmered with heat haze, and I had to wait a few moments before I could take a look. All the dead men and women were gone. Nothing left behind to mark their presence but some scorch marks on the steps below, and a few ashes floating on the air.

“Fire purifies,” said Molly. “If you do it right.”

“I’m wondering where they stored the bodies,” said Isabella. “Maybe they have really big freezers in the basement.”

“I think they kept them around to gloat over,” said Molly. “That’s Satanists for you. You all right now, Eddie?”

“Yes,” I said. “It’s just that . . . some things are wrong. ”

“Hold everything,” said Isabella. “Something else is coming up the stairs.”

“Of course there is,” I said. “It’s been that kind of day. Are they at least wearing clothes this time?”

“Yes and no,” said Molly, leaning too far out over the stairwell for safety. I pulled her back, and she glared at me. “What’s coming up next isn’t really real, as such. Though they are quite definitely present.”

I leaned out for a look. A whole group of human shapes were marching up the stairs in perfect lockstep. They were like . . . plastic impressions of people: the right shape but no detail, with grey and colourless, blank faces. There was something really odd about them, though it took me a moment to realise what. You could see them only from the front. From the side, they were barely an inch or so thick. And from behind, they were only a concave gap. I leaned back to look at Molly.

“Okay, ten out of ten for weird. What the hell are they?”

“Husques,” Molly said succinctly. “Experienced sorcerers can shed them, like a snake sheds its skin. Really experienced sorcerers can throw off ten or twenty husques at a time, and send them out to do their bidding. A physical extension of the sorcerer’s will. Better than zombies, because the sorcerer can experience what his husque experiences, but more dangerous, because what happens to the husque can affect the sorcerer who throws it. They’re inhumanly strong, and there do seem to be rather a lot of them.”

“So, if we damage enough of these husques, we can hurt, maybe even kill the sorcerers?” I said.

“Got it in one,” said Molly. “You want me and Iz to fry them for you?”

“No,” I said. “I have some serious anger issues to work off, and I feel the need to vent.”

So I strode down the steps and waded right into the husques. They swarmed forward like rabid dogs, eager for the kill, and I was ready for them. I punched the first one to reach me right in the face. My golden fist smashed through and out the other side. The husque was only an inch or so thick. The husque flapped about on the end of my arm, its hands flailing uselessly against my armour. I tore it apart with hardly an effort, and it shredded like paper. I made my way steadily down the stairs, beating the husques down and tearing them apart. They were all over me, clawing at me with inhuman strength and perseverance, even as I destroyed them, but they couldn’t touch me through my armour. I ripped them to pieces, smashing them down and trampling them underfoot, and it felt good, so good. I thought of Satanist sorcerers screaming and dying; and I smiled inside my golden mask. It wasn’t a good smile. It took me three flights of stairs before I finally came to a halt, because I’d run out of husques. Molly and Isabella came tripping down the stairs to join me. The air was full of something very like confetti.

“Feeling better now?” said Molly.

“Much,” I said. “It’s easier fighting monsters. They’re just what they are. But people shouldn’t make themselves into monsters.”

“Boy Scout,” said Isabella, not unkindly.

“Something else is coming up the stairs,” said Molly. “And it sounds . . . really nasty.”

“I have had enough of this,” I said. “They’re sending things against us to wear us down, so that when we finally have to face the big shots, down in the lobby, we won’t have anything left to hit them with. My armour is endlessly strong, but I’m not. And you’re using up your magics. You can bet they’ve got something really special waiting for us on the ground floor, and we need to be in shape to face it. So we can’t keep fighting these things.”

“I’m not ready to give up yet,” said Isabella, bristling.

“Neither is he,” said Molly. “Eddie’s pointing out that even our powers aren’t infinite. And if we use them all up fighting proxies, he isn’t sure he can defend us from what the Satanists will have waiting down in the lobby.”

“I’d die trying,” I said.

“Of course you would,” said Molly.

“All right, all right, I’m convinced,” said Isabella. “This one’s a keeper, Molly. Now tell me you have a better idea, Drood.”

“Well,” I said, “I don’t know about better, but it’s definitely an idea.” I looked down the stairwell. “It’s only seventeen floors or so. I think we should jump.”

“What?” said Molly. “That’s your great alternative? I take it all back. You’re crazy, Eddie, and dangerous with it.”

“I thought that was what you liked about me,” I said.

“I am not jumping seventeen floors! I can’t fly! And I do not want to hear any sentence from you that includes the word broomstick .”

“To make it completely clear,” said Isabella, “I don’t fly either.”

“You don’t have to,” I said, in that patient, manly tone that drives women absolutely insane. “It’s really very simple. I take you in my arms and jump. You cling tight to the armour, and the sheer proximity should protect you, too.”

“There’s that word should again,” Molly said dangerously.