Neverwhere(103)

It turned back to Door. Once more it caressed the key. Then it closed its hand about the key and tugged, hard. The chain snapped. Door winced. “I spoke first to your father, Door,” the angel continued. “He worried about the Underside. He wanted to unite London Below, to unite the baronies and fiefdoms—perhaps even to forge some kind of bond with London Above. I told him I would help him, if he would help me. Then I told him the nature of the help I needed, and he laughed at me.” It repeated the words, as if it still found them impossible to believe. “He laughed. At me.”

Door shook her head. “You killed him because he turned you down?”

“I didn’t kill him,” Islington corrected her, gently. “I had him killed.”

“But he told me I could trust you. He told me to come here. In his journal.”

Mr. Croup began to giggle. “He didn’t,” he said. “He never did. That was us. What was it he actually said, Mister Vandemar?”

“Door, child, fear Islington,” said Mr. Vandemar, with her father’s voice. The voice was exact. “Islington’s got to be behind all this. It’s dangerous, Door— keep away from it—“

Islington caressed her cheek, with the key. “I thought my version would get you here a little faster.”

“We took the journal,” said Mr. Croup. “We fixed it, and we returned it.”

“Where does the door lead to?” called Richard.

“Home,” said the angel.

“Heaven?”

And Islington said nothing, but it smiled.

“So, you figure they won’t notice you’re back?” sneered the marquis. “Just, ‘Oh look, there’s another angel, here, grab a harp and on with the hosannas’?”

Islington’s gray eyes were bright. “Not for me the smooth agonies of adulation, of hymns and halos and self-satisfied prayers,” it said. “I have . . . my own agenda.”

“Well, now you’ve got the key,” said Door.

“And I have you,” said the angel. “You’re the opener. Without you the key is useless. Open the door for me.”

“You killed her family,” said Richard. “You’ve had her hunted through London Below. Now you want her to open a door for you so you can single-handedly invade Heaven? You’re not much of a judge of character, are you? She’ll never do it.”

The angel looked at him then, with eyes older than the Milky Way. Then it said, “Ah me,” and turned its back, as if it were ill-prepared to watch the unpleasantness that was about to occur.

“Hurt him some more, Mister Vandemar,” said Mr. Croup. “Cut off his ear.”

Mr. Vandemar raised his hand. It was empty. He jerked his arm, almost imperceptibly, and now he was holding a knife. “Told you one day you’d find out what your own liver tastes like,” he said to Richard. “Today’s going to be your lucky day.” He slid the knife blade gently beneath Richard’s earlobe. Richard felt no pain—perhaps, he thought, he had felt too much pain already that day, perhaps the blade was too sharp to hurt. But he felt the warm blood drip, wetly, from his ear down his neck. Door was watching him, and her elfin face and huge opal-colored eyes filled his vision. He tried to send her mental messages. Hold out. Don’t let them make you do this. I’ll be fine. Then Mr. Vandemar put a little pressure on the knife, and Richard bit back a scream. He tried to stop his face from grimacing, but another jab from the blade jerked a grimace and a moan from him.

“Stop them,” said Door. “I’ll open your door.”

Islington gestured, curtly, and Mr. Vandemar sighed piteously and put his knife away. The warm blood dripped down Richard’s neck and pooled and puddled in the hollow of his clavicle. Mr. Croup walked over to Door and unlocked the right-hand manacle. She stood there, rubbing her wrist, framed by the pillars. She was still chained to the pillar on the left, but she now had a certain amount of freedom of movement. She put her hand out for the key. “Remember,” said Islington. “I have your friends.”

Door looked at him with utter contempt, every inch Lord Portico’s oldest daughter. “Give me the key,” she said. The angel passed her the silver key.

“Door,” called Richard. “Don’t do it. Don’t set it free. We don’t matter.”

“Actually,” said the marquis, “I matter very much. But I have to agree. Don’t do it.”

She looked from Richard to the marquis, her eyes lingering on their manacled hands, on the heavy chains that bound them to the black iron pillars. She looked very vulnerable; and then she turned away, and walked to the limit of her own chain, until she stood in front of the black door made of flint and tarnished silver. There was no keyhole. She put the palm of her right hand on the door, and closed her eyes, let the door tell her where it opened, what it could do, finding those places inside herself that corresponded with the door. When she pulled her hand away, there was a keyhole that had not been there before. A white light lanced out from behind the keyhole, sharp and bright as a laser in the candlelit darkness of the hall.