Hunter lay on her back, staring up at the darkness above them. Her eyes were open, and unfocussed, and Richard knew, somehow, that they saw nothing at all. “Hunter?” he said.
“I’m still here, Richard Mayhew.” Her voice sounded almost detached. She made no effort to find him with her eyes, no effort to focus. “Is it dead?”
“I think so. It’s not moving.”
And then she laughed; it was a strange sort of laugh, as if she had just heard the funniest joke that ever the world told a hunter. And, between her spasms of laughter, and the wet, racking coughs that interrupted them, she shared the joke with him. “You killed the Beast,” she said. “So now you’re the greatest hunter in London Below. The Warrior . . . ” And then she stopped laughing. “I can’t feel my hands. Take my right hand.” Richard fumbled under the Beast’s body, and wrapped his hand around Hunter’s chill fingers. They felt so small, suddenly. “Is there still a knife in my hand?” she whispered.
“Yes.” He could feel it, cold and sticky.
“Take the knife. She’s yours.”
“I don’t want your . . . “
“Take her.” He pried the knife free from her fingers. “She’s yours now,” whispered Hunter. Nothing was moving, save her lips; and her eyes were clouding. “She’s always looked after me. Clean my blood off her, though . . . mustn’t rust the blade . . . a hunter always looks after her weapons.” She gulped air. “Now . . . touch the Beast’s blood . . . to your eyes and tongue . . . “
Richard was not sure that he had heard her correctly, nor that he believed what he had heard. “What?”
Richard had not noticed the marquis approach, but now he spoke intently into Richard’s ear. “Do it, Richard. She’s right. It’ll get you through the labyrinth. Do it.”
Richard put his hand down to the spear, ran it up the haft until he felt the Beast’s hide and the warm stickiness of the Beast’s blood. Feeling slightly foolish, he touched his hand to his tongue, tasting the salt of the creature’s blood: it did not, to his surprise, revolt him. It tasted utterly natural, like tasting an ocean. He touched his bloody fingers to his eyes, where the blood stung like sweat.
Then, “I did it,” he told her.
“That’s good,” whispered Hunter. She said nothing more.
The marquis de Carabas reached out his hand and closed her eyes. Richard wiped Hunter’s knife on his shirt. It was what she had told him to do. It saved having to think.
“Better get a move on,” said the marquis, standing up.
“We can’t just leave her here.”
“We can. We can come back for the body later.”
Richard polished the blade as hard as he could on his shirt. He was crying, now, but he had not noticed. “And if there isn’t any later?”
“Then we’ll just have to hope that someone disposes of all our remains. Including the Lady Door’s. And she must be getting tired of waiting for us.” Richard looked down. He wiped the last of Hunter’s blood off her knife, and put it through his belt. Then he nodded. “You go,” said de Carabas. “I’ll follow as fast as I can.”
Richard hesitated; and then, as best he could, he ran.
Perhaps it was the Beast’s blood that did it; he certainly had no other explanation. Whatever the reason, he ran straight and true through the labyrinth, which no longer held any mysteries for him. He felt that he knew every twist, every path, every alley and lane and runnel of it. He ran, stumbling and falling, and still running, exhausted, through the labyrinth, his blood pounding in his temples. A rhyme coursed through his head, as he ran, pounding and echoing to the rhythm of his feet. It was something he had heard as a child.
This aye night, this aye night Every night and all Fire and fleet and candlelight And Christ receive thy soul.
The words went around and around, dirgelike, in his head. Fire and fleet and candlelight . . .
At the end of the labyrinth was a sheer granite cliff, and set in the cliff were high wooden double doors. There was an oval mirror hanging on one of the doors. The doors were closed. He touched the wood, and the door opened, silently, to his touch.
Richard went inside.
SEVENTEEN
Richard followed the path between the burning candles, which led him through the angel’s vault to the Great Hall. He recognized his surroundings: this was where they had drunk Islington’s wine: an octagon of iron pillars supporting the stone roof above them, the huge black stone and metal door, the old wooden table, the candles.
Door was chained up, spread-eagled between two pillars beside the flint and silver door. She stared at him as he came in, her odd-colored pixie eyes wide and scared. The Angel Islington, standing beside her, turned and smiled at Richard as he entered. That was the most chilling thing of all: the gentle compassion, the sweetness of that smile.
“Come in, Richard Mayhew. Come in,” said the Angel Islington. “Dear me. You do look a mess.” There was honest concern in its voice. Richard hesitated. “Please.” The angel gestured, curling a white forefinger, urging him further in. “I think we all know each other. You know the Lady Door, of course, and my associates, Mister Croup, Mister Vandemar.” Richard turned. Croup and Vandemar were standing on each side of him. Mr. Vandemar smiled at him. Mr. Croup did not. “I was hoping you would show up,” continued the angel. It tipped its head on one side, and asked, “By the bye, where is Hunter?”
“She’s dead,” said Richard. He heard Door gasp.
“Oh. The poor dear,” said Islington. It shook its head sadly, obviously regretting the senseless loss of human life, the frailty of all mortals born to suffer and to die.
“Still,” said Mr. Croup chirpily. “Can’t make an omelette without killing a few people.”
Richard ignored them, as best he could. “Door? Are you all right?”
“More or less, thanks. So far.” Her lower lip was swollen, and there was a bruise on her cheek.
“I am afraid,” said Islington, “that Miss Door was proving a little intransigent. I was just discussing having Mister Croup and Mister Vandemar . . . ” It paused. There were obviously some things it found distasteful actually to say.
“Torture her,” suggested Mr. Vandemar, helpfully.
“We are,” said Mr. Croup, “after all, famed across the entirety of creation for our skill in the excrutiatory arts.”