Gabriel's Clock

by Hilton Pashley

  Wrenching open the front door of the vicarage, Ignatius strode out to meet Raven, sword in hand . . .

  Jonathan sat on the windowsill in Cay’s bedroom, deep in thought and nursing a mug of tea. Cay was lying on her bed, her nose deep in a book. Try as he might, Jonathan just couldn’t understand how the Corvidae could get into Hobbes End when the village should be able to detect and incinerate them.

  He was missing something obvious, he knew, but exactly what kept eluding him. It was then that he remembered the article in the Times from three days before—the piece about the theft of the meteorite. Snippets of information poured together, blended, arranged themselves into the correct order, and Jonathan realized he might have the answer. He remembered his grandfather’s words at dinner when he had spoken about his fall: I threw myself from the gates of Heaven and let my wings burn as I fell. I no longer wanted to be an angel; I just wanted to be Gabriel and to be left alone. So on the second of September 1666 I crash-landed here, in a little hamlet in the middle of a forest.

  “The second of September 1666,” Jonathan said under his breath, remembering sitting at the kitchen table with his mother and the history books he’d loved reading. “Gabriel arrived the same night the Great Fire of London started. His wings burned as he fell. What if it wasn’t a meteorite that started the fire? What if it was a burning piece of his wings? If Belial and the Corvidae knew what the meteorite actually was and stole it from the British Museum, maybe they’re using it to hide themselves from Hobbes End.”

  He hopped off the windowsill and walked to the bedroom door. “I’ll be back in a minute,” he called over his shoulder to Cay.

  “Hmm?” she mumbled.

  “I’ve got to see Ignatius, I’ve just thought of something. I’ll tell you when I get back if it’s not just a daft idea.”

  She nodded and carried on reading her book while Jonathan shut the bedroom door behind him and ran downstairs into the shop. He froze at the sight of Kenneth Forrester sprawled unconscious on the floor. Next to him stood a grotesque, simian figure in a pinstriped suit and bowler hat, a bloodied rolling pin clutched in one hand.

  “Afternoon,” snarled Crow.

  Jonathan turned and sprinted down the hallway to the kitchen. He barely had time to see the prone figure of Mrs. Forrester before tripping over her outstretched legs and falling headlong. Scrambling to his feet, he saw Crow’s bulk moving purposefully toward him, and he thought about Cay, unaware and defenseless upstairs—he didn’t want to lead the demon to her.

  If he’s after me, thought Jonathan, then he’ll have to catch me first! Without hesitation, he bolted for the back door . . .

  Rook and Grimm stood toe to toe, beating the hell out of each other. Elgar watched open-mouthed as the powerhouse that was Halcyon Nathaniel Oberon Grimm ducked and whirled like a dancer, using Isobel to give Rook an absolute thrashing. The demon’s suit was in tatters, and the skin that covered his body was torn and rent. Black ichor dripped from the wounds, and where it fell the grass rapidly turned brown.

  Grimm didn’t remain unscathed, however. Time and again Rook’s razor-sharp talons struck home, shredding his shirt and leaving deep cuts across his chest that bled profusely. Elgar desperately wanted to help Grimm but couldn’t see an opportunity to grab hold of Rook’s leg without being battered to a pulp.

  A pistol shot rang out from inside the vicarage, and Grimm felt a moment of panic. The other Corvidae are here as well, he thought to himself. I’ve got to finish this quickly. Standing up straight, he placed Isobel over one meaty shoulder and pulled a handkerchief from his trouser pocket. Mopping blood and sweat from his face, he grinned widely at Rook. “Are we having fun yet?” he asked.

  “Are you insane, human?” asked Rook. “I’m the leader of the Corvidae, I’m a nightmare made flesh, I—”

  “Oh, stop banging on and answer the damn question!” barked Grimm. “Are we having fun yet?”

  Rook’s temper finally snapped. With unnatural speed and ferocity he lashed out at Grimm’s throat. Grimm saw the blow coming and sidestepped to his right, grunting in pain as Rook’s talons gouged furrows across his shoulder. But with Rook now off balance, Grimm used all his strength to swing Isobel in a wide arc, striking the back of the demon’s neck with bone-crushing force. The blow spun Rook round like a top, tearing from around his neck a small glass vial on a metal chain. Elgar watched as the vial sailed through the air and connected solidly with the wall of the vicarage. It shattered.

  Isobel, unused to being swung so violently, snapped clean in two, leaving just the handle in Grimm’s hands. The body of the bat went flying into a mulberry bush, narrowly missing Elgar.

  Grimm looked stunned. “Isobel!” he cried.

  “Forget about the bat, you lump!” Elgar shouted. “What’s happening to Rook?”

  Grimm stared in amazement as the demon’s body began to shake and convulse, smoke pouring from beneath the ruined suit. With a terrible shriek, Rook stumbled toward the open gate in the garden wall . . .

  Raven got to her feet just in time to receive the keen edge of a rapier across her cheek. Hissing with rage, she jabbed a clawed hand straight at Ignatius’s eyes. With the innate grace and balance of a trained swordsman, he leaned back just far enough to avoid her talons while aiming another blow at her head. This time he succeeded in slicing off her left ear.

  Howling with pain, Raven clapped a hand to the injury and dived away from Ignatius. He followed her across the grass, sword at the ready. The vicar of Hobbes End could feel the village supporting him, cheering him on, filling him with the strength he needed.

  “How dare you attack my village!” he screamed at the demon. “How dare you hurt a child!”

  He lowered the tip of his rapier, desperate to regain control of his emotions. Raven snarled and lashed out with her foot, knocking Ignatius off balance. Before he could retaliate, she raked her talons across his shin and dashed away toward the open gates.

  Gritting his teeth against the pain, Ignatius ignored the warm, wet feeling building up in his shoe and sped after her. He reached the vicarage gates and hammered on the nearest post to try to wake Stubbs, but the gargoyle was dead to the world.

  “Damn it!” he cursed, limping after Raven. “Looks like it’s just you and me . . .”

  Jonathan felt a clawed hand dig into his shoulder as Crow wrenched him away from the door.

  “No point running,” said Crow, throwing Jonathan across the kitchen table. “Not from me.”

  “You animal!” spat Jonathan, struggling to his feet beside the stunned body of Mrs. Forrester. A livid bruise on her temple showed where Crow had struck her.

  “Not animal, just monster!” gurgled Crow happily. “Now sit still while I hit you. Then I can go get the girl.”

  Jonathan’s eyes widened as he fully understood that Crow didn’t want him. He was after Cay! But he was no longer the powerless boy he had been. In his anger he ignored Gabriel’s warning and reached for what lay inside him. Crouching at the back of his mind and eager to be free, a tidal wave of power rushed to answer Jonathan’s summons.

  Absolute agony tore through his body as a mass of purple light erupted from his back, then split into hundreds of ribbons, their edges serrated like steak knives. They moved independently of each other as if alive; inside them flowed a never-ending stream of mathematical symbols, quantum equations so complex, they were beyond comprehension.

  He sank shaking to his knees as the voice screamed inside him, just like it had when he’d faced Rook. “This abomination is not your equal! Rend it! Tear it! Burn it!” With mounting horror, Jonathan found he had absolutely no control over what he had unleashed.

  Undeterred by Jonathan’s wings, Crow reached for him with arms the size of a gorilla’s. It was a mistake he’d live to regret, for like a nest of cobras, Jonathan’s wing ribbons launched themselves at Crow. Half of them wrapped themselves round the demon’s massive body; the others wrapped themselves round Crow’s right wrist. Then they
pulled themselves in opposite directions.

  “Oh God, no!” cried Jonathan as he saw what he—his wings—was doing. “Stop it!”

  Crow was lifted clean off his feet and slammed into the ceiling. As plaster and wood rained down all Jonathan could think of was his father’s sacrifice, how he’d dropped an entire cottage on himself to save his wife and son. Fury suddenly raged through him as every frustrated, powerless minute of the last few weeks flashed through his mind. These things had taken everything from him—his parents, his home, his grandfather, his whole damn life. The power inside him knew it; it responded to his anger, and it wanted its pound of flesh. Now he could only watch dumbly as his wings pulled even harder.

  Crow opened his awful mouth and let out a scream that sounded like a wounded animal. The voice inside Jonathan exulted in such exquisite vengeance, then tore Crow’s right arm clean off at the shoulder.

  “No!” cried Jonathan. “Grandfather, help me!” But deep down he knew he was on his own. The genie was out of the bottle, and it could kill him even as it tried to save him.

  Black blood poured from the wounded Crow as he thrashed in the grip of Jonathan’s wings. Finished with the demon’s arm, the ribbons made to wrap themselves round Crow’s throat. All Jonathan could feel was pain and anger—he wished desperately for all this to stop, but his wings wouldn’t listen . . .

  “Jonathan!” screamed Cay as she appeared in the kitchen door.

  He looked at her and saw absolute horror in her face. It wasn’t Crow she was looking at; it was him—at what he had become.

  I’m a monster, he thought, and with this realization his wings simply winked out of existence like a snuffed candle.

  The wounded Crow dropped to the floor and swung round to grab Cay with his remaining arm. She shrieked and pounded at the demon with all her strength, but Crow seemed oblivious. Leaving the dazed Jonathan kneeling and retching on the kitchen floor, the Corvidae smashed through the back door, dragging the terrified Cay with him . . .

  Ignatius watched as Raven stumbled onto the narrow earthen bank that dammed one side of the village pond. He knew she couldn’t outrun him—the pain and blood loss from her injuries must have weakened her. Glancing at the cottages that bordered the green, Ignatius could see faces at windows, doors opening.

  “Stay inside!” he bellowed as Angus McFadden started to leave his cottage, a poker in his hand. Ignatius knew that if he didn’t stop them, every inhabitant of Hobbes End would try to come to his aid and probably get themselves torn to pieces doing it. Around the corner by the church rushed Professor Morgenstern, clutching a box of what may well have been his homemade hand grenades.

  “No!” Ignatius shouted as he ran. “This is my fight!”

  The villagers looked on in horrified indecision as Ignatius plowed onward toward Raven.

  The demon reached the middle of the dam and stopped, steadying herself on the wheel that worked the sluice gate. With obvious effort she forced herself upright, adjusting her bowler hat as she turned to face her pursuer.

  With careful steps Ignatius followed Raven onto the dam, stopping just outside her reach. He raised his sword to his forehead in a grim salute.

  “It looks like we have an audience,” hissed Raven, nodding at the villagers as they hesitantly stood at the far edge of the green, wanting to do something but unsure how to help.

  “It’s their home you’ve invaded,” snarled Ignatius. “They get to see your punishment.” With blinding speed he thrust at Raven’s shoulder, aiming for where he’d shot her. She screamed in agony as the rapier hit home, piercing deeply into her flesh. Enraged, the demon swung wildly at Ignatius, one of her talons opening a gash across his forehead.

  “Damn!” he shouted, trying to stop blood flowing into his eyes. Raven gave a gurgling, inhuman chuckle, then taunted Ignatius by licking his blood from her hand.

  A scream erupted from behind the village shop. It sounded like a young girl.

  “Cay!” said Ignatius, and he instinctively turned to look. It was all the opening that Raven needed. With a hiss, she swung her fist and caught him a terrible blow to the side of the head.

  The world spun, and Ignatius dropped to the ground as if poleaxed. His rapier slipped from his fingers, and he watched in despair as it rolled off the dam and into the dark water of the pond. With a splash, the sword was gone.

  Raven pushed the dazed Ignatius onto his back, crouching astride him and pinning his arms with her knees. He fought for breath and tried with all his fading might to tear himself from Raven’s grasp, and he could feel the village doing all it could to help him, but she was too strong.

  “Now, little man,” hissed Raven, “let me show you what I dare to do!” With deliberate, almost theatrical slowness, she raised her hand in order to strike him dead . . .

  Elgar shot from his hiding place and struck the garden gate head on, slamming it shut in front of Rook.

  The demon smashed into the now-closed gate, almost tearing it from its hinges. Unfortunately for Rook they held, and he glared at Elgar through a cloud of smoke.

  “Traitor,” he hissed.

  “Yep,” said Elgar. “Looks that way, doesn’t it?”

  Still clutching Isobel’s handle, Grimm watched aghast as Rook began hammering at the gate, only to stop and give vent to one final, terrible howl. Then he burst into flames.

  The tattered suit went first. Then his skin peeled away to reveal the scaly humanoid form of the demon beneath. It was absolutely horrible. Within seconds Rook was reduced to nothing more than a pile of ash, staining the lawn a diseased black.

  Grimm and Elgar stood open-mouthed until the sound of people shouting snapped them back to reality.

  “Oh, hell!” shouted Grimm. “Come on, cat, we’re not finished yet!”

  They ran as fast as they could from the garden, vaulting over Rook’s remains and thundering down the drive. Clearing the main gates, they could see Ignatius pinned to the ground by Raven, her hand raised to strike.

  From the other side of the green the villagers, led by Angus McFadden, were charging round toward the dam. Fast as he was, Grimm knew that neither he nor Angus would get to Ignatius in time.

  “Run, cat!” he shouted.

  Not needing further encouragement, Elgar dropped his head low and streaked across the green like a furry black missile. Without breaking stride, Grimm voiced a quick and silent prayer, then threw Isobel’s handle with all his might.

  Just as Raven’s taloned hand began its descent, Isobel’s remains struck her square on the back of the head, knocking her bowler hat off and into the pond. With a roar she swung herself around, only to hear the shout of “Incoming!” for the second time that week.

  A ball of fury hit her full in the face and began biting and scratching for all he was worth. Screeching in pain, Raven had to use both hands to get hold of Elgar and fling him away. She turned back to Ignatius. It was then she saw that while she struggled with Elgar, the vicar had managed to free his right hand from beneath her knee. Pressed against her chest, right next to her rotten heart, was the hard steel muzzle of an old Webley revolver.

  Demon and cleric stared impassively at each other. Then Ignatius pulled the trigger.

  There was a muffled report, and Raven’s body jerked backward. Her hands dropped to her sides, and she stared in disbelief at the smoking hole in her breast pocket. Black blood trickled from the corner of her mouth, and with an almost human sigh she toppled from the dam to land with a splash in the pond.

  Ignatius lay back on the damp earth, blood in his eyes and Sebastian’s old revolver still clutched in his hand. He wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. A moment later he felt a weight on his chest and a cold wet nose pressed up against his. There was a faint aroma of kippers.

  “You all right?” asked Elgar.

  “Yes, cat,” said Ignatius, a lump in his throat as he gently stroked the fur on Elgar’s back. “I’m all right.”

  A shaking of the earth signaled Grimm’s app
roach, closely followed by that of Angus and the rest of the villagers.

  “You still alive in there?” boomed Grimm, a daft grin plastered across his face.

  “Aye, are ye hurt?” asked Angus.

  Too overcome to speak, Ignatius let Grimm help him to his feet.

  “Elgar and I got jumped by Rook,” said Grimm. “But he’s been reduced to a stain on the back lawn. And as for Raven . . .”

  They looked at the demon’s body as it floated face-down in the pond below, bowler hat bobbing next to her in the water.

  “Um . . .” said Elgar.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Ignatius.

  “Well, not wanting to pee on your chips, Zorro,” said Elgar, “but aren’t there three of these things?”

  Before anyone could respond, they heard a cry from the direction of the village shop. Turning to look, they saw Mr. and Mrs. Flynn half dragging Jonathan toward them. His clothing was torn, and he had blood on his face.

  “They’ve got Cay,” he cried out. “They’ve got Cay!”

  Chapter 16

  WAR WOUNDS

  It was almost midnight, and the vicarage bore a startling resemblance to a military field hospital. Upstairs, Kenneth and Joanne Forrester were staying in Ignatius’s room. Kenneth had been knocked unconscious, but apart from a large lump on his forehead his lupine constitution ensured his quick recovery. Joanne was a different matter entirely, and it wasn’t until she opened her eyes that Grimm decided not to take her to the local hospital. Joanne’s silent distress over Cay’s abduction was painfully obvious however, and the pleading on her face as she held Kenneth’s hand came close to breaking Grimm’s heart.