They looked from one to the other blankly.
It was hard for any of them to believe they were back together again. Each of them felt, at times, overwhelmed; and then they would simply sit and listen to the others talking, enjoying the motion of faces, the animation of limbs, the energy crackling amongst them. Elation overwhelmed them all, completely wiping out any thought of what the morning might bring. There was drinking and raucousness, jokes that made light of their hardships, and the warm glow of old friends brought together again.
Veitch held up a flagon marked with a design of a Fabulous Beast. "You seen this?"
"Isn't that the one with the pellet with the poison?" Church laughed, but Veitch completely missed the reference.
"No, no," Shavi said, grinning, "that is in the chalice with the palace. That one is the brew that is true."
"You lot haven't bleedin' changed," Veitch muttered.
Veitch was mesmerised by every movement Ruth made, as if he could barely believe she was there before him. Part of Ruth felt uncomfortable at the depth of emotion she sensed, yet she was excited by it too. That conflict made her uneasy. She knew she loved Church, so why was she responding to the attentions of someone else, in particular a man with whom she had so little in common?
When the conversation became a heated debate about Laura she was thankful for the opportunity to distract herself from her thoughts. Neither she nor Church could believe Laura was still alive; Tom and Veitch were adamant she was. It was left to Shavi to argue that they now lived in a world where anything could happen.
The conversation moved on. Ruth tried to stay out of the limelight, but Veitch brought her in at every opportunity, rapt at the tales she told.
"You hung on the outside of a ship in a storm? You're a crazy girl!"
"At least I didn't manage to lose a hand," she said wryly.
"Maybe we should get ourselves a little Amputation Club going." Veitch chortled; he was drinking too much, too fast. Beneath his upbeat exterior, they all could see the strain the loss of his hand had brought in him.
"That'd exclude me," Church said, "so in defence I'm proposing the Born Again Club."
Veitch furrowed his brow. "What's that, then?"
"Well, I died and came back." He nodded to Shavi. "So did you. And Ruth did, fleetingly, just before Laura took the seed of Balor from her."
Veitch snorted. "You're not counting me out, you tosser."
"Do not worry, Ryan," Shavi joked, "there is plenty of time for you to meet your maker and come back down to earth."
"Right. And I'll do it in style. With a choir of bleedin' angels!"
Tom muttered something indecipherable, but patently irritable. Veitch swore at him playfully, laughed when Tom bit, then broke open another amphora of wine.
"You know, I miss technology less than I thought," Ruth said, lounging back on one of the enormous cushions. "But one thing I could do with now is a CD player, or a tape deck… anything that gives music." She eyed Church with faux contempt. "As long as I don't have to listen to any Sinatra."
He laughed. "Shame. I could come up with a good soundtrack for all this." He thought for a moment. "How about `That Old Black Magic' from Come Swing with Me! followed by `It's Nice to Go Trav'ling-
Ruth covered her face.
"No, no, something soulful. Spiritual," Shavi said. "Curtis Mayfield. Perhaps Van Morrison-"
"Geezer music," Veitch said. "I never thought I'd say this, but I wish Laura was here. She might have been a pain in the arse most of the time, but musically she kept you music fans in your pen."
Shavi looked towards the tent flap. "I still expect her to walk in at any moment."
An outcry outside brought them all to their feet. They rushed out into the cold night to see the Tuatha De Danann in a state of excitement around one of the campfires.
Church grabbed one of the gods by the shoulder. "What's going on?"
The god was shocked that he had been accosted by a Fragile Creature, but he appeared aware of Church's reputation. "The Norta has been seen! And her sisters too!"
"What's that?"
The god struggled for the right words in his excitement. "The one your people called the Morrigan."
A hand fell on Church's shoulder and he turned to face Baccharus, equally animated. "A great portent, my friend. The Morrigan is one of our own, but she prefers her own company, or that of her sisters, Macha, Badb and Nemain. They have not been seen by the Golden Ones since the first days after the pact. But they are drawn to war… and… and bloodshed… and…"-he attempted to speak in a manner Church could understand, but he struggled with a word that was still alien to him-"death. The Dark Sisters are fearsome, both in what they represent and in their prowess. The Morrigan and her clan helped us win both battles of Magh Tuireadh. Undoubtedly, her appearance is a good omen."
"Where is she?" Church scanned the campsite, eager to see a figure of such reputation.
"The Dark Sisters will not come into the light." Baccharus raised his head to the gleaming moon. "Macha, Badb and Nemain were seen circling the camp earlier. They wore the armour of war."
"And the Morrigan?"
"There is a stream nearby. In it she was seen washing the heads of those who are to die in the forthcoming battle. The Morrigan keeps count of those who move from existence."
Church flashed back to a cold February night before he had any inkling of the terrible change that had come over the world. It was the Morrigan he had seen washing his own head in the Thames. His throat closed up when he thought how she had turned and looked at him, with a face that appeared like death itself. But another worry crept up on him: was that portent referring to his previous death on Skye or was she revealing what lay in store for him in the Battle of London?
"Tell me," he said, "did your people see the heads?"
Baccharus knew exactly what he was asking. "I cannot lie. There were Fragile Creatures."
Church's blood ran cold. "Who was it?"
"No!" Tom strode over, his face cold and hard. "Do not tell him! It would not help for anyone to know they are going to die. Hope is the engine of success."
Church studied his face carefully. Tom didn't meet his eyes. "You know who's going to die, don't you? You've always known."
Tom fixed an eye on Church that made his stomach turn. "Yes. Pity me for it." He turned and marched away without another word.
Church felt sick. He looked round at the others, who were talking to another of the Tuatha De Danann; none of them had heard the exchange. In that instant he understood exactly what Tom was going through. He couldn't tell them one of them was destined to die; it was a burden he would have to carry himself.
The sadness came up quicker and harder than he anticipated as he watched the people who had become his best friends over the last few months. He couldn't imagine being without any of them, even though that had been a constant from the moment they had banded together. Unbidden, his thoughts turned to which of them he would miss the least, and that made him feel even worse.
Dismally, he turned back to Baccharus, who deftly changed the conversation. "True Thomas is a good man. Do not blame him for being the bearer of bad news."
"We never got on at the start. I thought he was manipulating us. That he was cold and patronising and arrogant. I wish I'd been better to him."
"True Thomas has accepted his responsibility. He does not expect anything from you."
"That makes it even worse."
A whistling like an incoming missile passed overhead. Church looked up to see the terrifying form of a woman pass by, her hair as wild as winter, her black clothes streaming off her in rags, her mouth torn wide as she made the anguished noise. He shivered as her shadow passed over him.
"Badb, Queen of Crows," Baccharus said.
"I'm glad she's on our side."
He watched the other figures moving across the sky for a while, but the night was too cold to stay for long. Returning to the warmth of the tent, he found the others already in deep conversation, though Tom was nowhere to be seen. Their faces showed the mood had darkened.