Rachel felt a force moving through her; a chill from across the ages. She began to get a sense of how the saint must have felt…
At the front, the priest had blessed the wooden effigy from the church. It now stood, garlanded with flowers, on a wooden platform carried shoulder high by a group of monks in white robes. On a satin cushion, inside a glass case at the saint’s feet, sat what at first looked like a gnarled and blackened piece of wood. Those close enough to get a better look could see that the twigs which twisted from the stump were topped by brown fingernails.
It was the hand of San Rafael.
The priest chanted an incantation, sprinkled the group with holy water and led the line forward. An altar boy swung a perforated brass ball full of burning incense, shrouding them in wreaths of fragrant smoke. The drums kept a slow marching beat, and the guitars strummed in unison, joined by straining voices, bugles, castanets and the rhythm of hundreds of dancing shoes clacking across the cobbles.
The people watching on either side of the parade sang, shouted blessings and crossed themselves. They threw handfuls of petals at the participants as they crossed the square towards the symbolic pyre of wood that would be set alight at midnight in memory of the saint.
And then the procession stopped.
As the parade was about to peel off into the street running out of the square, a boy stepped in front of the priest. The priest stopped dead and the procession juddered to a halt behind him, the music dying as bugler bumped into drummer into guitarist. As the music stopped, the chanting faded too, then the chatter, until the square fell silent.
The priest looked into the boy’s eyes and shuddered. This was no youth trying to disrupt a tradition as an act of casual vandalism. This was a boy with a mission. The priest looked into the slanting green eyes and recognized something.
“Move, will you? What do you want?”
The boy held out a hand in front of him.
“What do you want?” the priest repeated. Members of the Brotherhood began to move forward and form a semicircle round the boy, the flames from their torches glittering in his eyes.
“What is my name?” Gabriel said.
“I don’t know!” the priest shouted back. “Now get out of the way.” He waved his arm, but it was clear that something was preventing him from actually moving forward.
“Tell. Me. My. Name!” Gabriel yelled.
The yellow-shirted men began to close in on him and a murmur went up from the crowd as a sense that something was about to happen filtered back through the ranks: the kind of murmur that could infect a crowd and turn it into a mob.
Gabriel opened his mouth. A noise came from him, high pitched at first – audible – but then growing higher and higher until it was not a noise but a searing vibration that hurt people’s ears. They could feel it in their hearts; it shook their lungs and made it hard to breathe. It gnawed at their stomachs. People held their heads, put their fingers in their ears or clutched their ribs. Light bulbs in the garlands above began to pop and shower the crowd with sparks and puffs of powdered glass.
“Tell me my name!” Gabriel’s voice boomed across the square, hitting the priest like a hurricane, blowing his smooth hair across his face and forcing him to his knees. The priest clutched his head and his voice came out as a dry croak that only Gabriel could hear.
“Are … you … Rafael?”
It was the same question the priest’s ancestor had asked centuries before, as he had ordered the executioner to light the pyre.
Gabriel nodded.
As one, all the lights in the square exploded. Women wailed and children screamed as the frequency Gabriel was creating became unbearable. Then the cortège from the church began to cry out as the wooden saint started to smoulder.
Smoke poured from the artificial, gilded fire carved into his robe, and then the saint burst into flames. The pall-bearers struggled to keep the statue upright, the heat of the flames scorching their hair and faces. Gabriel ran forwards and, as he did so, the case holding the relic shattered, sending shards of glass, glittering with the golden light of the fire, into the night sky. The priest screamed as Gabriel grabbed the relic from the box, barging into and unbalancing the pall-bearers, who, finally giving in to the heat, allowed the flaming wooden saint to tumble to the ground.
A gasp went up from the crowd, now released from the agony Gabriel had created to subdue them. The pall-bearers tried to rescue the statue, covering it with their robes. Riders struggled to get horses back under control and mothers tried to calm crying children. At the head of the procession – while most of the crowd were frightened of going near him – the men in yellow closed in on Gabriel, fire in their eyes and hatred in their hearts.
Out of the shadows, another boy suddenly appeared. He ran, leaping across the street, and burst through the Brotherhood’s line, pushing past Gabriel, before tearing across the square in the opposite direction and off into the darkness.
Adam had played his part well. The ancient relic was tucked safely beneath his jacket.
The men in yellow dived on Gabriel, throwing heavy punches and flashing blades before realizing, seconds later, that the strange boy had slipped from their grasp. From ten metres away, near the entrance to the church, Gabriel gave them a shrill whistle and waved to get their attention, and moments later they were after him again.
Immune from the noise that Gabriel had used to control the crowd, Rachel, the Spanish girls, Duncan and Morag had only been vaguely aware of what was going on. But whatever the commotion, Rachel had been sure it was Gabriel’s doing. Whenever they were supposed to be keeping a low profile, something like this happened. It was as if he had no concern for their safety. They had seen and heard the screams and pandemonium and were aware of the fire at the front of the parade, some thirty metres ahead of them, through the crowds.
Now, another sound in her head was bothering Rachel. She was getting a terrible feeling of rising panic from Adam; a feeling she knew she could not ignore.
“I need to find my brother,” she said to Inez and Carmen. She looked at her watch. 11.50. They had twenty-five minutes. “Listen,” she said. “Could you guys take Duncan and Morag to the tower? I’ll meet you there in twenty-five minutes.”
The Spanish girls nodded, sensing Rachel’s concern, and ushered the little twins away, blending instantly into the scattering crowd.
Rachel looked around her, eyes closed, feeling for the direction her brother’s thoughts were coming from. She opened her eyes and began to walk diagonally across the square towards the little streets of bars and restaurants. Ahead, she saw two men in yellow jackets and red scarves moving fast towards her. Rachel made a stupid slip by looking at one of the men and making eye contact with the black eyes behind his mask. She saw him size her up in a millisecond. A millisecond was long enough for him to realize that she was different: ill at ease in her Spanish costume and hobbling on her high-heeled flamenco shoes.
Long enough to see the panic on her face.
Rachel quickened her step past the men and heard the scrape of their heavy boots as they turned on their heels to follow her. She made it across the square, feeling safer where people were drinking late or drifting back to the bars and discussing the bizarre events that had taken place minutes before. She crossed the street. Rachel caught her reflection in the window of a restaurant and could see, several paces behind, three yellow shirts now following her.
Rachel kicked off her shoes and ran. She darted into a little side street behind a restaurant.
A dead end.
Rachel backed into the shadows, trying to make herself invisible, but her fear prevented her from finding the state of mind to allow her to blend into the background. She held her breath and pressed herself tight against the wall, hoping for the best.
It was at that moment that the sky exploded.
Gabriel kept running, glancing up at the dazzling showers of red, green and gold as the fireworks exploded high above him, the bangs rattling around
the square like machine-gun fire. The crowds parted ahead of him: mothers, seeing the figures in yellow that were hot on the boy’s heels and sensing the danger, pulled their children out of his way as he ran at them.
Behind him, Gabriel could hear shouts and screams. He knew that there would be others pursuing Rachel, but felt fairly sure that Adam had made it away unseen. That had always been the plan: create enough chaos and confusion to give Adam the time and space to get away with the relic.
Gabriel could hear the men gaining on him, but he did nothing to quicken his pace. He knew where he was going and was happy to let them think they had him trapped.
He took the stone steps up to the church three at a time, stumbling at the top and quickly picking himself up. He could hear them panting, their firebrands crackling just a few steps behind.
“Diablo!” he heard one shout. “Monstruo.”
Devil. Monster.
Gabriel crashed through the heavy, wooden doors and turned, waiting. He watched the four of them as they stepped inside after him, the cascades of fireworks lighting up the night sky behind them.
The tallest smiled beneath his black mask. “Sangre envenenada,” he said.
Poisoned blood.
More poisonous than you know, Gabriel thought, as he slowly backed away down the central aisle of the church.
The three men in yellow coats moved slowly through the pools of shadow, spreading themselves out across the alleyway, leaving no space for escape. They seemed in no great hurry; seemed rather to be enjoying their moment of triumph, now that they had the girl trapped and at their mercy.
Mercy which they had no intention of showing…
Rachel watched them moving towards her, with their dark masks and the slashes of red round their necks, and felt goose flesh prickle along her bare arms. She reached out with her mind for Gabriel and knew straight away that he was in no position to help her. That he was in as much danger as she was.
She was on her own.
The abilities that she and Adam had inherited, that were in their bones and their blood, had been developing quickly since they’d escaped from Hope, but now she needed to call on powers of a very different sort. This was not convincing someone that she’d paid for something, or talking someone into giving her a hotel room. Now she had to save her own life, and she had no idea at all how to go about it.
If she was going to fight, it would have to be as the girl she had been before. She would use the only weapons she had and, if it came down to it, she would fly at them with her nails and with her teeth. She would do whatever she had to, but she would not surrender to these men.
The thought must have shown on her face, or in the stance she took, ready for them. She heard one of them snigger behind his mask and mutter something to his friends.
They started to come faster.
Rachel backed hard up against the wall, feeling the jagged edge of the bricks pressing through the material of her dress. She clenched her teeth and balled her fists.
She watched them drop their torches and reach into their pockets. She saw the blades appear in their hands and knew for certain that she had no more than moments to live.
“Es tu ultimo momento,” one of them said.
The end.
The three men turned at the growl of an engine and watched the huge, dark van roar past the end of the alley. They turned back to Rachel, smiling, then froze at the vicious scream of brakes and the pounding footsteps that grew louder, until two figures ran round the corner towards them.
Jean-Luc and Jean-Bernard.
Rachel felt the blood start to rush through her veins, the tension ticking in her, thumping in time with her heart. She still felt as though she was about to die, but guessed that now it might take a little while longer.
Gabriel stood with his back to the altar. The stained glass windows behind him were lit by flashes from the fireworks which continued to crash and fizz outside.
He could hear screams and the mounting tide of aggression, like building drums, coming from the mob that still milled around the square. He hoped more than anything that Rachel was all right.
The four men who had been sent after him moved a few steps closer…
Their eyes glowed in the torchlight behind the masks they wore and as Gabriel watched, he could see their dark intention flickering against coal-black pupils that were otherwise flat and dead.
He saw what they were there to do; they carried their weapons blazing in their fists. Considering where they were, and what the crowds had come to commemorate, these men would probably consider it fitting.
Gabriel gave them a small nod. He thought it would be fitting too.
He raised his arms and in the second before he closed his eyes, he saw the confusion on the men that were there to murder him. He sensed their bewilderment.
What was this boy doing? This monster. Why wasn’t he running for his life?
With his eyes shut tight, Gabriel could feel the power surging through him, building to the point where it could not be stopped, even if that was what he wanted. He could hear the boom and the crackle of the fireworks outside and the shattering of glass as the crowd began throwing stones through the windows of the church.
And then the other sounds; the ones from only a metre away.
The gasps, as the first, tiny flames began to lick at their bright yellow jackets. Then the screams as they began to burn.
Adam looked at his watch. Five minutes after midnight. He had ten minutes to make the rendezvous with the others in the shadow of the tower. He had to keep moving.
The plan had worked out exactly as Gabriel had wanted and as Adam pushed through the crowds, unhurried, unseen, he could feel the package, beneath his jacket, bouncing against his chest as he picked up the pace.
The remains of someone who, like the man whose body they had found back in Triskellion, was his own ancestor…
The traffic was at a standstill. It would have been busy enough anyway, but now, after what had happened back in the square, chaos had created panic and virtual gridlock in every street for miles around. Cars sat nose to tail, the drivers leaning on their horns or hanging out of the windows screaming at one another. Adam moved round or between them, pushing through the crowds, trying to keep one eye on street names, checking the landmarks and his own position relative to the river to make sure he was moving in the right direction. He began to feel another fear growing in his mind and gnawing at his guts. Rachel. Something was not right.
He jumped as a rocket exploded above him, clutched the package a little tighter to his chest and began to run.
The fighting was not clean or elegant, and as Rachel watched, she guessed that this was the way Jean-Luc and Jean-Bernard had learned to survive on the dirtier streets of Paris.
Within a few seconds of the French boys rushing at the men, the knives had clattered to the cobbles and kicks and punches were being thrown with frightening speed and ferocity. She heard the Spaniards gasp as the breath was kicked from their lungs and saw their eyes bulge as the red scarves were torn from their necks.
The boys moved with incredible power and speed; talents – if they could be called that – conferred on them by the unique DNA they had inherited. They were unstoppable and their opponents were no match for them.
“Enough!” Rachel shouted.
The blows continued to rain down on the three men, who by now were crawling along the cobbles, desperate to escape with their lives.
Fists, feet, foreheads. Fingers jabbing at eyes and tearing at ears.
Rachel rushed across and yanked Jean-Luc back by his hair. He turned on her and she saw the cold, hard determination in his face, heard it in the growl that came from somewhere deep in his throat.
“We need to go,” Rachel said. She took hold of Jean-Bernard’s collar and pulled him away from a lifeless body on the ground. “We’ve only got a few minutes.” She placed a hand flat against his cheek, left it there until she could see he was calm.
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�Are you OK?” he asked.
Rachel nodded. “Thank you.”
He dropped a hand on to his brother’s shoulder and took a deep breath. He began to walk away, then turned to deliver one final kick to the man on the pavement before joining the other two and running back out of the alley.
Gabriel heard the doors of the church crash inwards and opened his eyes. He watched as the local priest staggered towards him, shouting, waving his arms in horror at the sight and the dreadful sound of the three burning men. One for each of the innocents who had died for Rafael.
“Give it to me!” the priest shouted.
“Why?” Gabriel asked. “Are you worried you won’t get quite so many tourists?”
“Give it to me!”
Gabriel stood his ground. “I don’t have it.”
“Liar!”
“Don’t worry; it will be taken back where it belongs.”
The priest’s face was white with fury and his voice was high and cracked as he screamed out curses in Spanish. He ran to the side wall and pulled one of the ornamental axes from its mount, swinging it awkwardly in front of him as he moved past the men on the floor and advanced on Gabriel.
“All this, for a dead man’s hand,” Gabriel said.
The priest ran at him…
Gabriel closed his eyes a second time until he heard the buzzing begin. Then he opened them, keen to see the look on the priest’s face when he heard it; when he dropped the axe and began trying to fend off the bees.
“The truth stings,” Gabriel said. “Doesn’t it?”
The priest flailed and spun, waving his arms helplessly at insects that he could not see; that existed only in his mind. The pain was real enough, though – sting upon sting on every exposed inch of flesh, until it felt as though his body was on fire.
Gabriel read the man’s mind and made it happen.
The Burning Page 20