Necessary Faith
By Alecto Perdita
Chapter 9 - Worship at my altar
Rating: R
Posted: May 10, 2012
The string of pearls is almost complete after a year of traveling and hunting. By either of their best estimates, they are on the last one. With the most recent clue inviting them to Isle of Skye, they have no choice but to follow. They're so close to the end of the chase.
It's approaching October again, and the Scottish countryside is cool but not frigid. They're driving along the A87, crossing the Skye Bridge, with the windows rolled down and their jackets pulled tight around their bodies. The air they're breathing in is clean and crisp, with just a hint of salt from the sea inlet. Neither he nor Mary has ever traveled this far north or this far into Scotland before. Mary teased him about it at one point, John being a Watson and possessing a Scottish background.
Their destination is Portree, where the organizers of the scavenger hunt would finally bring the game to a close.
-x-x-x-
They check into their B&B in Portree as Mr. & Mrs. James Reynolds and spend almost a week idle before anything happens. With a population of less than 2000 people, there just wasn't much in the way of supernatural for Mary and John to occupy their time with. So they end up doing the usual tourist bit in Skye: exploring local landmarks, keeping fit with regular hikes on local trails, and even visiting a whiskey distillery on a Tuesday afternoon. It almost feels like a real holiday.
The final pearl is handed to them on a silver platter—more specifically, an envelope addressed to Mary waiting on the pillow of their shared bed when they return from lunch on Friday. There are no cryptic clues this time, just a set of latitude and longitude coordinates.
Their eyes meet and their gazes hold. They're going to go and put an end to this game of cat and mouse.
About an hour outside of the town, the sky opens and rain pours down in wet sheets—washing the asphalt road along with the gray afternoon light of an overcast day on the Scottish moors. By the time they're making their way up the A855 on the eastern shores of Trotternish, the storm has subsided until it's the faintest of drizzles. John fiddles with the GPS app on Mary's iPhone; reception is starting to get a little spotty. The interior of the car has been quiet for the last 28 minutes, and neither of them is pleased with the idea that it's probably going to be sunset by the time they reach their final destination.
"So Eaglais Bhreugach?" John stumbles over the unfamiliar Gaelic syllables.
Mary rearranges her grip on the steering wheel before speaking, "Otherwise known as the False Church, a site long rumored to be connected with Satanic rituals or other pagan rites."
"It's as we suspected all along then, we're going up against a witch," he corrects himself after a moment. "Or witches plural with our luck."
They park at the lay-by specified online and waste little time gathering their hiking packs from the boot. Once they checked that their torches are flush with brand new batteries and their guns fully loaded, he and Mary head straight for the shore. John glances at his phone; it's almost three in the afternoon.
The route must already be moderately difficult at the best of times, and the recent rainstorm has not helped the matter. They make slow progress across the slippery shore, much of it comprised of large boulders with worrisome holes between. John holds Mary's elbow when he can to keep them both stable. He can't help but wonder what's more likely to get them first: the incoming tide or approaching sunset.
Before too long, he can spot the towering rock formation against the horizon in the distance. Neither of them says much until they finally stand at the foot of the massive boulder—utterly alone except for each other. While taking a few moments to catch his breath again, John studies the 40 feet structure carved by nature. It is looming and oppressive against the backdrop of the rolling sea and buffeted by the cliffs behind them. It's not hard to see why or how the "False Church" gained its reputation.
John squeezes her hand reassuringly and the noise of comfort she makes in return is almost entirely lost in the sound of a crashing wave. They pull away from one another and start picking around the site for clues. Mary makes a beeline for the cavernous interior with her torch held aloft. John rounds the exterior of the structure to get a look from the other side. There's little disturbance in the bedrock around the False Church, meaning relatively little foot traffic in the recent past.
Mary meets him at the opening on the other side, switching off her torch. "Find anything?"
"Nothing, which is strange in and of itself."
"Yeah, whoever they are, they always leave us something to find. Why break pattern now?" Mary freezes and doubles back into the boulder. "Inside, it's an altar. I think—" Her words are suddenly cut off.
"Mary?" John calls and no one answers. "Mary?"
He drops his hiking pack, checks his gun, flicks off the safety, and plunges forward into the shadowy interior of the False Church. Mary lies in a crumpled heap on the wet ground. His blood is pounding in his ears as he kneels to take her pulse with one hand and the Browning still gripped in the other. A sudden blow to the back of his neck knocks the wind out of him, and he is unconscious by the time his face plants itself into the back folds of Mary's jacket.
-x-x-x-
When John later comes to, his mouth is dry (slight dehydration) and his head is throbbing while attempting to split itself into a million little pieces (a blow from behind). He almost wishes he's still capable of be surprised at waking to find himself tied to a chair. Adventuring with Mary has been lacking this scenario until now.
He's also alone.
That is both worrying and a relief. He makes a quick assessment of his surroundings while he strains against the knots tying his arms to the back of the chair. Each of his feet is bound to a single chair leg on each side. Judging by the wooden walls and the chill seeping into his bones, he's in not-so-well insulated hut or shack of some sort. Both his and Mary's hiking packs are lying against a far wall (definitely out of reach). The curtains are drawn across the one window in the entire room, but he can tell that hours have passed and night has fallen. He can still hear the sea and the wind howling down the coast.
The most important concerns of the moment are one, escaping from his bonds, and two, finding Mary.
John curls the fingers of his left hand tightly around the cuff of his jacket, then giving a victorious bark when he traces a familiar shape. His captors had not yet found the blade sewn into his jacket sleeve. It takes more time than he likes to find enough leverage to tear through the fabric (he hates fumbling through his gloves). Shame, he really does like this coat. He nicks his finger while repositioning the sharp edge against the thick rope binding his wrists.
The effort to free himself is slow and painstaking. After several long minutes, his hands are slick with sweat and blood from where he'd accidentally cut himself. Finally, a last burst of strength rips apart the fraying fibers around his wrist. Then he freezes, catching the sounding of approaching footsteps at the door, and poses as if he is still tied up. John grasps the knife tightly; it and the element of surprise are his best weapons now.
A man near John's age and height, with plain brown hair and eyes, stomps into the room. He is holding John's Browning and aims it at John as soon as he enters the room. But it is obvious that his captor isn't actually familiar with guns by the way he grips and handles it. John doesn't know if that's to his advantage or not in this case, because the safety is already off.
"You're going to come with me. If you try to escape, I will shoot you," the man says with the hint of an Irish lilt.
You can talk now, Johnny boy.
John shudders.
His captor crosses the room, presumably to untie him. Before the man can bend over or go around and see that John has already cut the ropes, John strikes hard and wrenches the wrist holding the Browning until the gun is dropped and a sickening crack is heard. His captor howls in pain, but John cages him into a headlock with the blade pressed against the carotid.
"Now tell me where the woman who was with me is." John growls after applying just enough pressure with the knife to barely pierce skin.
"You should worry about yourself first, mate," says the man who is looking up at the ceiling.
John follows the path of his gaze and starts, though never loosening his grip on the warlock. There is a ritual circle drawn in chalk on the ceiling above, right over where he currently is. The man underneath him reaches into his shirt and draws out a hex bag hanging on a cord. Before John could say or do anything else, the warlock barks several foreign words. Pain suddenly lances down John's spine and he bites back a curdling scream.
The warlock starts to shake him off, but he's severely underestimated John's ability to withstand pain. Because he's Captain John Hamish Watson, late of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, who had worked furiously through the first three minutes of the initial shock of a bullet wound before he had even realized he'd been shot. John tightens his grip and slashes the blade against the exposed artery before stumbling back to sit in the chair still tied to his ankles. The spelled pain immediately recedes and he is able to gather himself in time to watch the warlock gurgle his last dying breaths while face down in an ever growing pool of blood.
John's hands and sleeves are soaked from the initial spray of arterial blood. He stares at his red painted fingers and contemplates himself. No, there's no remorse—just like when he killed that cabbie or any other of the criminals he hurt in Sherlock's name or any of the creatures he hunted at Mary's side. Good, he doesn't have time to be dragged down by guilt for not-so-nice men or creatures. It's better stockpiled in bulk for those he can't save and those who deserve it (SherlockSherlockSherlock—oh God, MaryMary, please be okay).
In two swift movements, he cuts through the rope binding his legs to the chair. He retrieves his Browning from the ground, checks it over and stows it tucked against the small of his back with the safety on again. He hovers over the body for several moments and bends down to check for a pulse. He will not have this coming back to bite him unexpectedly in the arse.
John rummages through their packs, hiding a silver knife (always useful with so many things vulnerable to silver) in his left boot. There's nothing else of use; someone has even taken the meager rations they prepared for the hike.
He straightens with a torch in hand, steels himself, and slips through the door into the night. The building he emerged from was more of a shack, probably part of the property with the larger house standing some meters away. Light is shining through some of the house's windows; someone(s) inside.
John catches sight of a conscious Mary through a gap in the blinds; she looks relatively unharmed so he breathes a sigh of relief. There are two other woman (witches and one of them is holding Mary's revolver) also in what appears to be the living room. A second furtive glance through the opening confirms an altar set up and another magic circle drawn around where Mary is standing.
He draws his pistol and goes around the back of the house, hoping to get in without being noticed. When the knob under his hand twists, he jumps out of the doorway. One of the witches steps out and John knocks her out with the butt of his gun. She thankfully crumbles without a sound. There is a length of rope lying nearby so he ties her arms and feet together like a trussed pig. He rips off the hex bag hanging around her neck, disassembling it and dumping the contents. Another obstacle out of their way.
Once inside, John strains his hearing to catch the hints of a conversation in the other room. With any luck, the last witch will keep busy by monologuing like an old-school Bond villain. He steps around a fallen saucepan on the kitchen floor before pressing close to the door leading back into the living room.
"You somehow thought this whole little game," Mary spits the word out with the same venom John feels for it nowadays. "Was going to endear me to your cause and that I would help you bring about the Apocalypse."
"You don't need to willingly help my cause, Mary Morstan," the witch chuckles. "As long as I have you and your friend, I will be able to break yet another seal on Lucifer's cage in my Mistress' name."
"Here's what I don't understand. Trying to hurry the end of the world sounds both suicidal and nutters. You don't really expect me to believe that there are angels out there?"
There are footsteps now; the witch is circling Mary like a vulture. "Well, you've met demons before. Why not angels? Things do not require your faith to exist, Mary. But they don't care about your sorry mortal arse. Why not join the winning side? Your mother was a powerful witch, a disgusting white witch, and even though you did not inherit her gifts, you are of viable stock. Lilith would be pleased to take you under her wing."
"Never, you can kill me right here instead," Mary growls and John can see the baleful glare that she is probably wearing on her otherwise delicate features. His muscles strain to leap into action, but neither of them is in immediate danger and the information being revealed sounds crucial.
"The once barren daughter of the path will turn and offer a loved one. You will kill your friend for us. If we must torture him first, so be it. You'll be doing him a mercy by the time we're done."
John has heard enough. The witch is going to realize that her accomplices have been gone too long. He pushes the door open and steps into the room with his pistol aimed forward, fixed on where the witch suddenly stopped mid-pace.
"Don't be so sure," he can't help but offer a small smirk.
The witch must be taking in the state of his blood-soaked attire, because her alarmed eyes flicker up to meet his gaze. "The others—"
John's lips twitch and he feels them spread into what must be an utterly ruthless smile. "Are out of the way. I suggest you put down the gun before I'm forced to shoot you. Fair warning, yeah? Cuz I'm a damn good shot."
She turns and aims her nicked gun at Mary. John fires and hits her right shoulder without further hesitation. The witch screams and drops to the ground, crimson slowly seeping across her arm and torso. John closes the distance and kicks the discarded revolver out of reach.
"Are you okay, Mary?" he asks while breaking lines of the magic circle under his heel.
Mary shudders with relief and steps out of the broken circle. As she moves though, she drags her feet, smudging more of the chalk lines with the heavy tread of her hiking boots. Her stride is completely confident when she approaches the altar and throws everything to the floor with one fierce sweep of her arm. She turns back on the witch writhing in pain. "Let's see how you call your precious demon mistress now," Mary sneers.
The witch surges suddenly to her feet with a ceremonial dagger glinting dangerously between her fingers. She lunges at Mary and sprinkles drops of blood onto the carpet as she moves. John jumps between her and Mary. The dagger slashes through his jacket and slices across his raised forearm.
"John!" Mary pushes him out of the way and aims.
The shot rings out through the house with all the force of a sonic boom. A bullet wound blossoms between the witch's dead eyes. It's a perfect kill shot and John feels ridiculously (and so very, very inappropriately) proud of Mary.
"That's for Will," she issues a dry sob and drops to her knee before burying her face in her palms.
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