"Give me one reason why we should believe you," he said.
"Oh, God, you shouldn't. That's the subtext of what I'm saying, isn't it? Don't believe anyone, don't believe anything. Not even yourselves. This is my reality. We all make our own. Perhaps it's yours, perhaps not."
"You're a victim of your own disinformation," Church said harshly. "There's no point us questioning you at all. You're either lying to us or lying to yourself."
The spy rattled his empty glass on the table, as if he were expecting one of them to buy him another. "Do you know people can die of sadness? We find them all over the place, just sitting, slumped, a blank expression, no evident sign of death. They stopped believing in their reality. Switched themselves off-"
Witch's growing confusion triggered the anger that was always just beneath the surface. When he leaned across the table there was such repressed violence in his movement that the spy was taken aback. "This is just bollocks. You're screwing with our heads just to knock us off course. You're working for the Bastards, aren't you?"
"Believe what you want-"
"Shut up." Veitch jabbed a finger in the spy's face. "Get out of here before I break something."
The spy shrugged, rose, still smiling, but there was now an obvious wariness behind his patina of chumminess; he glanced once more at Veitch, almost relieved to be moving away. "Think about what I said-"
"Get out," Veitch said coldly.
The spy made a gesture of reluctance and moved off, but when he was far enough beyond their arc to feel safe once more, he turned back and flashed the same arrogant smile. "Be seeing you." And then he was swallowed up by a crowd of drinkers heading towards the bar.
They played with their drinks in silence for a moment and then Shavi said, "What do you think?"
"You know what I think," Veitch replied. "He's a liar. How can you believe any of that bollocks?"
"You know how it is with these gods and mystical items and all that stuff that's supposedly crossed over. We all see them in different ways." Laura gently rubbed the scar tissue on her face, a mannerism she had developed whenever she was feeling particularly uncomfortable. She rapped her head. "All this stupid grey matter up here can't begin to grasp what they really are."
Tom adjusted his spectacles thoughtfully. "I've had more occasions of altered perception than most people so I have little fondness for some overarching view of reality. He was right-everyone has their own reality, none more valid than any other. Personally, I find it hard to believe that all my memories have been implanted, but it's certainly possible. I could be a carpenter from Wigan or a used-car salesman from Weymouth who only believes he's the mythical Thomas the Rhymer. Who's to say? But I do believe this-you can chase your tail round in circles for the rest of your life trying to find out what the truth really is, or you can just deal with it the way you think it is. Paralysis or action. And does it really matter what the higher power truly is-some incomprehensible power seen as dark gods by ancient man or corrupt humans? Surely the aim is to defeat it, whatever it is."
"It matters to me," Laura said. "If I can't put a head in the target sights, I can't pull the trigger."
The confusion had brought an air of despondency to the table. Church knew he had to take some action to prevent the paralysis Tom had mentioned. "Tom's right. There's no point sitting here like a bunch of pathetic losers. We've operated in a state of permanent confusion for the last few months, so this isn't going to make any difference." He turned to Laura, although his words were meant for all of them. "Okay, if you want to believe somebody who turns up out of the blue and frankly admits his life is based on telling lies, then that's your prerogative. But at least keep it at the back of your mind until you find some evidence to back it up. I don't believe we should mention it again. What do you say?"
Laura shrugged. "You're the boss, boss." A ripple of agreement ran through the others.
As the clock neared midnight, the bar began to thin out. Church watched the drinkers hovering near the door as if they were reluctant to venture out into the night, making jokes about watching out for the "bogles" waiting to chase them home.
"It's as if they all secretly know there's something frightening out there, but won't admit it to themselves or anyone else," he mused aloud.
"Normal human nature," Shavi said. "Who would want to believe the world is how it is?"
Laura finished her drink and slammed the glass down theatrically. "So are you really trying to fool yourself this was anything other than a night's serious drinking?"
"We have actually learned a great deal with this reconnaissance," Tom said indignantly. "Would you rather rush into danger blindly? We know that in the New Town Edinburgh seems untouched by what is happening. Yet the Old Town is transformed, corrupted. That tells me the Fomorii are here as we suspected, and here in this particular quarter of the city."
"You better not be saying we need to get out on the streets at this time of night." Although Laura was as combative as normal, Church could hear the uneasiness in her voice.
"I don't think it would be wise after midnight," Church said.
"So far the Fomorii have confined themselves to the out-of-the-way places, the lonely places," Shavi began. "Why do you think they are here, at this time?"
"Because," Tom replied, "the Well of Fire makes this one of the most significant places in the land. In times past the Fomorii would not have been able to come within miles of this site, but now the Earth-blood is dormant. So, I presume, there is a certain frisson in colonising a place that was so important to everything they despise."
"The dark overcoming the light," Shavi noted.
They finished their drinks and left, their heads swimming with too much alcohol and all the doubts implanted by the spy. Outside, the unseasonal chill had grown even colder. Laura shivered. "Jesus, it's like winter."
The Royal Mile was deserted. Church had visited the city with Marianne for the Festival and he knew it was never so dead. An eerie stillness lay oppressively over everything; no lights burned in any windows, the late-night coffee shop was closed, even the street lights seemed dim.
They didn't need any prompting to move hastily back to the hotel. But as they made their way up Lawnmarket towards the spotlit bulk of the castle, the night dropped several more degrees and their breath bloomed all around them. A dim blue light seeped out of Ramsay Lane, although they couldn't tell if it was some optical illusion caused by the stark illumination of the castle. As they drew closer, however, there was no doubt. The sapphire glow emanated from somewhere along the road they had travelled earlier that evening, casting long shadows across their path; the shadows moved slightly, as if the light was not fixed.
"Police?" Shavi suggested.
Tom was unusually reticent. "I don't think so."
A deep hoar frost sparkled on the road and gleamed on the windows near where Ramsay Lane turned sharply. They marvelled at the display of cold in the first thrust of summer, but then a dark shape suddenly lurched into view and they all jumped back a step. Veitch quickly moved in front of them, lowering his centre of gravity ready to fight. The shape moved slowly, awkwardly, in a stiff-limbed manner; they saw it was a man with long black hair and a bushy beard they had seen drinking in the pub-except now his hair and beard was white with frost and his skin had a faint blue sheen that shimmered in the street light. He slumped against a wall, saw Church and the others and reached out a pleading hand. A faint strangled sound escaped his throat which they presumed was a cry for help.
As they ran forward, he crumpled to the pavement, still.
Laura went to turn him over, then snatched back her hand. "Ow! Too cold to touch."