Lost Hope Page 6

  This was the realm of the Hangman.

  How he’d warped George’s Paths so one led here was disturbing, but that’s what you get when you screw with beings from the Nolands. And this was the Nolands. A tiny slice of purgatory he could call his own. Where he’d wiled away the centuries ever since he was summoned into reality by some numpty back in the day.

  I guess it was all tied up with Juice bringing him over to our side. He’d been unleashed so his power was usable, and he’d clearly wasted no time.

  Did this mean he’d followed us? Found the turmoil at Vicky’s and infiltrated the Paths, used his powers to warp one and drag us here?

  Questions, questions. No bloody answers.

  So I climbed, badly, and did my best not to sink into utter despair. Where was Sasha? How was she? Why the trip down memory lane?

  With those thoughts, I dragged myself over the lip of the embarrassingly short cliff and lay on dusty ground, breathing ragged, praying for some energy. No point asking Wand, he was still out of it and would be until I could spare the time to focus on the Quiet Place and get some much needed magic. And to be honest, his pick-me-up had such a bad comedown I would prefer to suffer than get the high then such a severe low again.

  Why did I stay behind at all? Why didn’t I go with George and kick the living daylights out of Juice then figure out how to save Sasha? Because I knew that if the Hangman had called me here, got me here by whatever means he had, then it wouldn’t be long before he showed up. He had to be here to have brought us, and that meant he wasn’t trying to string the girls up from the trees in the garden.

  It was the only way I could be sure they were safe from him. Sasha would have to wait.

  Sometimes this life gets real complicated real quick.

  My breathing returned to as normal as it was going to get in this oxygen light environment. The air felt heavy though, as if gravity was running a little on the weighty side, and at the realization I smiled. Maybe it wasn’t me being decrepit that had made me take so long to climb up, it was because of the increased gravity.

  “Where’s my faery godmother when I need her most?” I asked the bleak, oppressive sky.

  As expected, I got no answer.

  I stood well away from the edge and took in the barren, some might say intimidating, landscape before me. It didn’t instill me with much confidence. The sky was muddy, congested with streaky, grubby clouds. As though an artist had grown exasperated with his watercolors and just dragged an old, brittle brush through his palette then attacked the paper with his anger issues.

  Streaks of bellicose carmine split the clouds but there was no sun, no stars, no moon, just a static emptiness above and not much more down below.

  The terrain was rough and rocky, interspersed with patches of earth so dry it was like dust. I could have been on the moon if it wasn’t for the fact there was an atmosphere. There were areas of scrub, brittle grasses stunted and yet somehow clinging to life. Nothing was green here, everything had the air of decay and struggle to it. Even the rocks seemed angry at being part of such a landscape. It was all just wrong, plain wrong.

  Far off in the distance something broke between earth and sky. A jagged silhouette that forked and forked again, fractal lines receding into nothingness.

  The Hangman’s tree.

  Guess I knew where I was heading next.

  Motivation

  I walked and walked, time meaningless. I was on a treadmill going nowhere, the landscape morphing under my feet yet the distance never closing. Menacing mountains piercing the deranged sky were forever out of reach, and the tree that split the view remained a goal I would spend eternity struggling towards.

  Bone-deep weariness took hold until I moved in a dream. My legs shifted sluggishly, determined to continue their quest, but it was an age since I’d had anything to do with their actions. On they went, step after step, a machine on autopilot, leaden and heavy, weighed down by the weight of this world and its depressing atmosphere.

  My mind wandered to dark places until my waking moments were as much a nightmare as the frequent naps I took whilst my limbs refused to give up on their goal.

  Sleep took me over and over again. Days passed, then weeks, then months and years as my skin shrank and dessicated, clinging to my bones like creased cloth. Until the day came when it flaked away, a dried husk unable to even coat my crumbling bones. Still I refused to stop, to give in to this madness, and as I poked out a swollen tongue and ran it across lips as dry as the surface I traversed, I couldn’t help but see the funny side of my predicament.

  What was funny about it?

  The fact I’d thought I was depressed before. I’d spent the better part of a year feeling so low and utterly shamed and morose that I had to force myself to get out of bed and carry on with life. I felt useless and idiotic, cruel and so full of guilt and desperation for my situation, the man I was, the things I was capable of, that each day was a struggle. I put a brave face on it best I could, even had moments of cheer, but inside I was barren. A receptacle for the nasty things in the world.

  And yet here I was, experiencing what it was really like to be despondent. Made my previous months of moping seem comical.

  As I laughed at the irony, something physically snapped inside of me and the lesions of dejection burst apart as my rotten rags and paper-thin skin drifted away on the humid, dry winds. I was no longer a man forever trudging through the desert of his own emotions, reliving the terrible acts he’d performed, the depths to which he’d sunk. I was The Hat. But mostly I was Arthur. Father, friend, sometimes even a good one, and I would not be beaten. Not by anyone, certainly not by the Hangman.

  I had things to do, family to protect, friends to save from despicable fates, and the perverse thing about my current situation was that such oppressive misery had saved me from myself.

  So I chuckled, there in the middle of madness itself, and my body filled with cheer, my spirits lifted, and I felt whole again. Renewed, invigorated, and refilled with a positive outlook. Okay, I wasn’t exactly brimming over with glee, but I was back to my own rather pessimistic approach to life and the crap it can throw at you. Which was as good as it had ever been, as good as it would ever get. At least I was back being me, pulled from the mire of my own wallowing, emerged as a whole man, not just a bag of bones to house grumpiness.

  “No more dicking about,” I growled to the world in general and the tree in particular. I had places to go, things to do, problems to solve, heads to bash and men in expensive sports cars to beat repeatedly. I didn’t have time for this bullshit.

  For several minutes I remained motionless as the last of the illusion crumbled. Pieces of skin and rotten material drifted up and away, leaving me as I was when I entered the Hangman’s realm, and then I jumped up and down on the spot, the weight of the world still weighing heavily, the gravity still a struggle, but I jumped higher, shook out my limbs and wiggled my head, opened my eyes wide and did things with my shoulders that made them click and grind. All was back to normal. The familiar aches and pains, the dodgy knee, the way my elbow creaked when I put my arm behind my back, all was as it should be.

  And then I focused on the tree, until it filled my vision. It was with renewed purpose, and a refusal to be fooled, that I strode confidently across the wasteland, crushing rocks to dust under my boots, my arms swinging back and forth.

  “I’m coming for you, and you better not keep me waiting.”

  It would have been nice to have a drink though. My tongue still felt like an alien life form in my mouth, but such is the lot of a wizard.

  A Brittle Bed

  My mind wandered, as it is wont to do, especially when I’m tired. And I was beyond tired no matter that I’d snapped out of the funk. As my purposeful march slowed to a purposeful amble, I repeatedly drifted off to sleep, snapping awake only to find that I was still moving and my destination was getting nearer. At least the previous nonsense was over with, the illusion broken by my own personal desire to ge
t the hell out of here and return to “normal” life.

  Haha, normal. Murderous mommy’s boys in sports cars who messed with the world economy from their basement, as yet unknown entities who kidnapped my faery godmother, and let’s not forget the Hangman. Plus all the usual nonsense that was going on out there in the magical underground I occupied.

  I wondered how Ivan was doing. He’d been absent of late, but still alive, and I had to give him credit for that. After we’d offed Mikalus, I expected life to get very dangerous very fast, but it wasn’t the case at all. Ivan had, and I shouldn’t have been surprised, taken control in a very extreme and final way. And everyone sighed with relief.

  Seems the First was better loved as a fable than a fact, and his rule had not been without issues. Lots of issues. Those who had run the vampire family for centuries had not taken kindly to the way he did things, his rather extreme ways, how he elevated so many low level vampires to powers of a Second. What had seemed like a good idea, maybe even with good intentions, had soon begun to cause rifts and power struggles as more and more of them become powerful.

  Ivan was already running the gangster businesses, having taken over from his old boss, and his power had spread as he had Mikalus’ backing. With Mikalus out of the picture, he stepped in and formed what I guess you could call a council, him in charge, no question of that, but he was wise enough to leave the majority of vampire business to those who’d been running things long before he was born.

  He focused on what he knew best, earning money and running shady operations, and the wise old men continued to do what they did best. Namely, keep secrets and ensure the vampires stayed in line. More importantly, they were pushed back into the shadows, warned to keep a low profile, so in the space of mere months they went from being a very real concern to the magical community as a whole, to how they’d been before. Secretive, and quiet, so much so that they faded from memory once more, returned to being the entirely forgettable creatures they’d always been.

  And that had me worried.

  But now wasn’t the time. I was sure it would all come crashing down in a spectacular way soon enough, and when you added Cerberus to the mix, who had kept their promise and left us all alone, then you had a disaster waiting to happen. For now, I had my own problems to deal with, and hopefully one of them would make an appearance some time soon.

  Gasping, shoulders aching right down to the bone with the weight of the atmosphere, my legs finally about to give up, and even my arches hurting, and I wore good boots, I clawed my way around large jagged boulders, climbed the rise following a narrow path where I repeatedly kicked up dust until it clogged my lungs, and then I was on clear ground. I clambered up the slope, dodging thick roots that weaved all about the hillside, and then I was at the Hangman’s tree.

  It was stunted and gnarled, as you’d expect, twisting and writhing as if in agony. The base was wide but it tapered sharply, limbs branching out at irregular intervals, thick boughs plenty strong enough to hold a rope.

  And there it was, the hangman’s rope, expertly tied over a robust branch, swinging gently in the breeze, the noose large enough to fit my head through. I glared at it before sinking down onto my bony bum, scowling as tiny rocks poked through my combats.

  I scowled some more, then finally shifted over and glanced at the ground. It was littered with the dust that now covered me, like ash, but as I peered closer it was obvious this was ground-up bones, many thousands. No prizes for guessing what species they belonged to. Shards poked through the thick layers, unrecognizable as human bone, but I knew it was.

  This was how these places worked. Full of your fears, designed to instill dread and weaken your resolve. Screw that, The Hat wasn’t scared of ash or bone, or even the Hangman. I’d argued with Death himself. Some dude good with knots wasn’t about to get the better of me.

  So I leaned back against the tree, tipped my hat forward to cover my eyes and block out the evil sky, and settled down for a much needed recharging of the magical batteries.

  Time lost meaning as I stilled, let my thoughts blow away like fluffy clouds on a strong breeze, and soon I was deep into the Quiet Place, where all magic came from, where it all returned, and where, if you were adept enough, you could become a part of something much bigger than yourself. Tap into it, let it fill you, and you it, emerging like a butterfly from a cocoon. Reborn as something truly wondrous and utterly terrifying.

  A fully charged wizard with a chip on his shoulder.

  Feeling Frisky

  My eyes snapped open but nothing had changed. Same bleak sky, same depressing landscape, same annoying wind that felt like it was slowly abrading the skin from my face. I felt pretty awesome though, especially considering the circumstances.

  Brimming with magic is about as good as it gets, there’s nothing like it. Entering the Quiet Place from within the Nolands is not without its drawbacks though. This is not a place meant for humans, the magic is different, more powerful, and a lot more twisted. It’s for creatures that were born of pure magic. Unlike us in so many ways, they are, to all intents and purposes, entirely different species even if they look like us. Many don’t.

  Theirs is a world of wonder and magic, where time flows differently and the ages can pass in the blink of an eye or a second can last a lifetime. There are realms that are eternal, born when magic itself was born, and there are others that are strictly temporary, here one day, gone the next, along with all who occupy them. And then there are peculiarities like the Hangman’s realm. For this is a world constructed purely from the meddling of those who can control magic. Created out of the interfering of those who should know better for their own devilish purposes.

  All wizards had heard the legend of the Hangman. A human creation, forced into existence through fable and story, given form by the nightmares of adults and the power of myth. The tales around campfires as man spread across the globe and inflicted civilization on themselves and the unwary indigenous people, the fear and the wariness of local superstitions all combining to create a myth of the bogey man.

  And all it takes is one strong wizard to gather up all these disparate emotions and create a spell that can give our worst fears a reality that cannot be destroyed, and you have yourself an honest-to-goodness monster.

  Not that anything humanity can conceive ever lives up to the things we are personally capable of as a species, and we’ve created many a terror that goes beyond any wizard’s meddling, but still, some of the things made manifest are certainly a bit on the worrying side.

  The Hangman was one such creature.

  And here he came.

  I was ready for him, brimming with the good stuff. Topped up like a pint of Guinness from an accomplished barman, and he didn’t scare me.

  Fine, he did, a little, as this was the freaking Hangman. A specter. Neither alive nor dead, human or inhuman, ghost or phantom, ghoul or apparition. A living, if not breathing, manifestation of all that makes us hide under the covers.

  There are numerous such creatures, and they stay where they belong, in their own private hells within the nether regions of the Nolands. Unless someone calls them, finds a way to bring them over to our side. Once unleashed, they’re damn hard to put back in the box. They will fulfill their part of the bargain that gained their freedom, but will think nothing of double-crossing you, of turning on you given half a chance. And I had no idea how to destroy one because beings like the Hangman couldn’t be destroyed, merely faded away over the centuries like the old gods once nobody paid them any mind.

  Still, I’d give it my best shot. After all, what choice did I have?

  The Hangman stopped in front of me, dust billowing around his trench coat, looking like a cowboy with a hankering after some action. I tipped my hat back to look him in the eye, and saw nothing but malice, cruelty, and anticipation of the hanging to come.

  With a sigh, I got to my feet, and we faced off like two gunslingers preparing for a gunfight. Our legs were wide, our hair was blowing, our
hats looked cool, and we were more alike than I cared for. Men who looked somewhere between forty and forever, with faces that were definitely lived in and had seen their fair share of action. What I called character, and Vicky’s kids called face canals, which could make a guy paranoid if he wasn’t so handsome with it.

  The Hangman nodded once to the rope and I glanced at it as it grew longer, until the noose was exactly at neck height. Perfect for making The Hat swing.

  “Nice trick,” I said. “I’ve got a few of my own.” I nodded at the noose and the knot unwound like a waking snake stretching out to warm itself, then I turned to face him again.

  He grunted, said nothing, then grinned as the noose formed again and swung as if trying to reach me.

  We could go back and forth like this for eternity, but I had things to do and I fancied a coffee, and besides, he’d interfered in the portals that were there to take me and George to Sasha. I would not waste any more time on this character.

  “You awake yet?” I asked the bulge in my pocket, which stirred with a satisfying hardness no wizard ever gets tired of feeling.

  Wand wriggled and writhed until comfortable, then turned as if to face me, although I knew he had no eyes and needed to face in no direction to see all. A voice that sounded like it came from my pocket but was merely in my mind, said, “Blimey, it’s like you on a bad day.”

  “I look nothing like him,” I snapped. “My hair’s nicer and I’ve got better footwear.”

  “If you say so.”

  “So, are you ready? Got any tricks up your sleeve that would help me out?”

  “Feeling like this? You betcha. Magic accessed via the Nolands is awesome, why don’t we do this more often?”

  “Um, because it’s full of nutjobs like this dude,” I offered.

  “Fair enough. Come on then, whip out the hard stuff and wave it about in a menacing way. That’s what you usually do to frighten people off, right?”

  I was about to say I wasn’t that kind of guy, and I never did it unless asked to, and only after a nice dinner, but figured the humor would go to waste. Instead I just released the Velcro and pulled Wand out slowly from my pocket.