“Samuel Wilkins,” the newcomer drawled. “What a pleasant surprise. What’s it been, fifteen, twenty years? Time really is a thief, isn’t she? You haven’t changed a bit. And you’ve brought a young novice with you.” The man winked at him. “Did you enjoy Miss Fink’s little show? She’s a touch dramatic, but she gets the job done.”
“Stay back, Laurent,” Sam growled.
Laurent? Sam knew this man?
The stranger held his hands up. “Such suspicion,” he scoffed, sounding hurt. “Are you not pleased to see me, old chap? I’ve got the kettle on if you fancy a catch up.”
“Whatever you’re up to, Laurent, I entreat you to stop,” Sam said.
The other man considered them. He wore a dark blue jacket and his chin jutted confidently. Was he a Harvester? Nicholas wanted to get away from him as quickly as possible.
“Stop?” Laurent mused. “Yes, that would make life a great deal easier for you, wouldn’t it? Sadly, it would make things a great deal less entertaining for me.” He flashed perfect white teeth. “Don’t worry, I have no use for you yet. Go now. Rouse the ranks. It will be for nothing. Tell them all that Laurent Renault has returned and he wants blood.”
Nicholas felt Sam clutch his arm. He pulled him down the hall, away from Laurent.
“See you soon,” the man called.
Together, Nicholas, Sam and Isabel wordlessly retreated. They stumbled out into the baking sunshine, exhausted and trembling, and Sam led them away from the school, his expression grim.
“I’ll need to speak with Esus,” he said softly. “The school will need to be guarded. The sacrifice was just the beginning. That hag was a Harvester, she couldn’t be anything else. One of Laurent’s pawns. He is planning something terrible for this building.”
“Who is he? What were those things that attacked us?” Nicholas asked.
“In my time we called them murklings,” Isabel said. “Officially, they’re called nillumbra. They’re usually invisible to humans. They must have gained in power. The sacrifice...”
“The sacrifice gave them a boost,” Nicholas murmured, finishing the thought for her. “Great.” He frowned. A girl stood a little further down the street. She looked about his age. Tall and dark-skinned. A little scruffy. She raised a hand to shield her eyes from the sun and stared intently at the odd trio scuttling away from the school.
When she saw him looking, the girl lowered her hand and hurried away.
*
Nicholas showered and watched the drain devour the bloody water. When he’d scrubbed every inch of himself until he finally felt clean, he stood in front of the bathroom mirror.
He was paler than ever. His mop of dark curls was a tangled mess. He thought he looked older already. It was less than a week until his sixteenth birthday, but he looked even older than that. He’d wised up, maybe. Life wasn’t the carefree cruise he’d always taken it to be.
He rinsed a glass in the sink and gulped down some water. A girl had been watching them outside the school. Could she be the one he was looking for? It seemed like too much of a coincidence, but he was starting to believe that everything happened for a reason.
If she was the girl, had she stumbled across him by accident? Or was she looking for him, even as he attempted to find her?
Nicholas spat in the sink. It didn’t matter; the girl had vanished.
He trudged down the landing.
“You alright, lad?”
Sam stood outside his room.
Nicholas nodded. “I didn’t know blood could smell that bad.”
The old man grunted. His forehead was creased with concerned. There were only a few specks of red on him from the school, but his crumpled attire was far more alarming. Nicholas had never seen Sam looking dishevelled.
“Anytime you want to go back to Hallow House, just say the word,” the elderly man told him.
“I’m not going back.”
As disturbing as it was to be almost buried alive and then covered in blood, Nicholas had to see this through to the end. Even if it meant more attacks, which were all-but guaranteed. What else could he do? Cower with Jessica in the mansion? Let others fight instead? Let them die in his place?
Darkness crowded into the landing and Nicholas put a hand to his head, which had begun to pound. A figure materialised at the top of the stairs.
Esus stood observing them, gloved hands clasped before him.
“Samuel,” the phantom intoned. His voice rumbled behind the silver mask and inside Nicholas’s skull.
“Thank you for coming,” Sam said.
“You have news?”
“Laurent Renault is in town,” Sam said. “He’s the one responsible for the slayings at the school. I have a feeling that was just the beginning. Laurent’s up to something.”
“You know of his plans?”
“Not yet.”
“Uncover them,” the phantom ordered. “And you boy, find that girl.”
The darkness swelled and Esus vanished.
“I do love when he drops by,” Nicholas muttered, his headache clearing. He was glad Esus hadn’t stuck around. “Who is Laurent?”
Sam regarded him wearily. “Laurent is a very dangerous man. But then, you don’t need to be told that. I’ve only encountered him twice; neither time was pleasant.”
“And?”
“The first time I met him, he was the talk of the Sentinel community. He was nineteen years old when he slaughtered his entire family. Not just his parents, but his brothers, cousins, nieces. He wiped out his entire bloodline, and nobody knew why. He... well, I’ll spare you the details. I was there when he was caught and taken into custody. He was to be punished for his crimes. He was taken to a safehouse in Leicester, and I was one of the senior members sent in to question him. It was one of the worst afternoons of my life.”
Sam looked down at his hands.
“There’s nothing quite so terrifying as a man whose poisonous convictions are wrought in iron. And Laurent’s convictions were as poisonous as they come. He showed no remorse for what he had done. He was perfectly rational about the whole affair. His family had to die, he said, and so he had killed them.” Sam’s features became drawn as he recalled that dark time. “We deemed him fit to stand trial. Though his actions seemed insane, he was in fact quite sane. He possessed a formidable intellect. Before the trial, Laurent escaped the safehouse. He left a trail of bodies in his wake, and then he was gone.”
“He was a Sentinel?” Nicholas asked.
“A Sentinel corrupted. Not like my friend Richard, though. Laurent’s hatred stemmed from a far more human place, as far as I could tell. He was the youngest of a large family, easily overlooked and often forgotten. In short, he was an attention-seeker. Golly, but he found a way to make people take notice.”
“Are we safe here?” Nicholas asked, suddenly feeling trapped on the tiny landing. “I mean, he was a Sentinel. Does Laurent know about this place?”
“Aileen’s only been here for five years,” Sam reassured him. “Before that, she was in Cambridge. That’s how we know each other. If I were a betting man, I’d say we’re in no danger at Aileen’s as long as we’re careful.”
Nicholas didn’t feel comforted. “Okay. But what happened the second time you met Laurent?”
Sam levelled his gaze at him.
“He attempted to bury us in the ruins of Snelling’s house.”
“He was the one at Snelling’s? The one you saw?”
“I didn’t want to believe it,” Sam uttered. “I had hoped Laurent’s blood-lust had either been sated, or he’d met with his own sticky end beyond the boundaries of the Sentinel community. Sadly, it seems he has only gained in strength.”
“The Harvester at the school said something about a Tortor,” Nicholas said.
“The Tortor will rise.”
“I’ve never heard that word before,” Sam admitted. He rubbed his neck wearily. “Perhaps that’s something you could look into while I attempt to find out what La
urent’s up to. Esus will have stationed a number of Sentinels at the school. They’ll stop anybody going in, or anything coming out.” He gave Nicholas an encouraging shove. “Chin up, it’s not over yet. While you were in the shower, I called a friend of mine. Liberty. I’ve asked her to stop by this afternoon. She’s like you. If anybody can help you with your search, she can.”
“What about Laurent?”
“I still have a few contacts. I’ll touch base with them and see what they know. Don’t worry, lad, we’re obviously doing something right.”
“What do you mean?”
“A viper only attacks if it feels threatened. We’re applying pressure in the right places. Now we just need the courage to force the vipers out of their nests–”
“And chop off their heads,” Nicholas finished for him.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Cobbles
RAE CAST ABOUT THE MARKET SQUARE. She only just caught sight of Twig’s scarecrow hair as he disappeared beneath one of the stalls. The job was on. They were using the oldest trick in the book – Twig called it ‘looky, looky, I got a cookie’ for no apparent reason. She distracted the stall workers while he lifted a couple of apples or a loaf of bread. Once, they’d managed to get away with a side of ham and feasted until their stomachs cramped.
They’d done it a hundred times, but Rae was uneasy. She’d not spotted the chunky girl who had been following her again, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that somebody was watching her. More and more, the town was suffocating her. She’d made up her mind. Tonight, she’d leave. She’d wait until Twig was asleep and she’d hitch a ride out of town.
The thought of abandoning Twig wrenched at her. An unfamiliar brew of guilt and something else. An ache deep inside her ribcage. In some twisted way, he’d become family. He felt like a little brother.
He’s not your brother, she reminded herself. He’s better off without you.
A peculiar whistle snapped her from her thoughts. Twig was waiting for her to make a move. She eyed the stall they’d picked. It was laid out with an assortment of pies and meaty delicacies, all shielded from the baking midday sun by a colourful awning. They cost a fortune, no doubt baked by the heavy-set fifty-something overseeing them. He was aided by a bored-looking, pock-faced teenager who Rae assumed was his son.
Easy money.
She strolled over, peering at the pies. The smell caused saliva to flood her mouth. She swallowed and focussed on the task. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the teenager watching her and she moved up and down the stall, taking care not to look at him. The fifty-something was busy serving an old lady.
“They’re, uh, home-baked.”
The pock-faced teenager had taken the bait. Rae smiled inwardly. Always best for them to make the first move. Less suspicious. She looked at the boy and widened her eyes.
“Really?” she asked, sounding impressed. “My mouth’s watering already.”
Always lie with the truth.
She added coyly: “You make them?”
“Well, uh, I helped,” the teen said. She could swear he’d stood up a little straighter, puffed out his chest like a baboon. Boys were so predictable.
Not the boy at the school. Rae found herself thinking about what she’d seen earlier that day. She’d been walking through town when she found herself at the school where the teachers had been killed. And there had been a boy covered in what looked like blood. She was sure she’d imagined it, but she’d felt something. A prickling in her gut.
“Hello?”
She looked at the teenager. “Huh?”
“I asked if you wanted a sample. I’m allowed to give those out.” He seemed confused by her sudden lack of interest and he was making up for it with freebies.
“I, uh–”
“Hey!”
An angry shout drew her attention away from the teenager. The heavy-set baker’s face had bruised scarlet and he was staring at something. Twig was frozen at the back of the stall, stuffing his pockets with pies. He blinked at the baker, then at Rae. She could see his fox brain whirring, then he darted away beneath the stall.
“Damon, get him!” the baker barked.
The pock-faced teenager scrabbled after Twig.
“Hey, that free sample still going?” Rae called desperately, but Damon wasn’t listening. He was already out of the stall and chasing Twig through the market.
“Do you know that little pest?” the baker demanded. Rae found herself caught in a furious glare. She cursed. Not waiting for the baker to grab her, she sprinted after Twig and Damon. For an awful moment she worried she’d lost them, but then she saw the flash of the teenager’s trainers and Damon disappeared into an alleyway.
“Thieving little–”
Rae found them on the ground in the alley. Damon was on top of Twig, pummelling him with bony fists. She grabbed the teenager’s hair and dragged him away. He squealed and squirmed free, facing her.
“Stupid cow, you’re with him?” he panted.
“Don’t call her that!” Twig yelled, on his feet again. He tackled Damon and they crashed against the wall. Damon dealt a blow to Twig’s jaw. Rae’s insides contracted in horror as he crumpled to the cobbles and Damon went for him again.
Heat coursed through her. “Get off him!” she shouted, clenching her fists.
The cobbles rattled like loose teeth beneath them. The air shimmered and boiled. Damon didn’t stop.
“I said stop!”
Cobblestones erupted from the ground one by one, as if the alley was spitting at the sky.
Damon froze. He and Twig peered around in confusion, suddenly aware that something strange was happening. The stones continued to rattle and pop. The boys turned to Rae.
“Get out of here,” she growled.
Damon took one look at her and fled.
“Freak!” he yelled, vanishing back into the market.
“What just happened?” Twig wheezed as she helped him to his feet.
“Let’s just go,” she said. Already the heat was skimming away and she felt exhausted. She wanted to get back to Retro Threads and shut herself away. Sleep. If she was asleep, she couldn’t think about what she’d just seen. What she’d just done.
Beside her, Twig grinned and blood oozed from his cut lip. “Look,” he said, pulling a squashed pork pie from his pocket. Rae couldn’t look at him. Her gaze was fixed on the other end of the alley.
A dark form watched them. A man. The light behind him obscured his features. The figure turned and strolled away.
Somebody had seen the whole thing.
*
Piano music trickled through the bar, skipping over wine glasses and flirting with the wooden fan overhead. Undulating through the candle-lit atmosphere, the music swooped towards a man perched on a plush barstool. His eyes were closed; all the better to savour the twinkling notes.
Laurent could almost imagine he was somewhere else. Not Bury St Edmunds, where people crawled insect-like through life. Rome, perhaps. He missed Rome. A place of culture and vitality. He hadn’t even minded being so near to the Vatican. The power festering there was too old to have any effect on him and he’d made many useful contacts in the city. Funny how evil was always attracted to places of great beauty.
As the music trembled, Nathan’s face surfaced unexpectedly in his mind, as if he’d broken through the suffocating bathwater. But Laurent knew he hadn’t. Nathan was dead. He’d drowned him. An unfamiliar feeling prodded at Laurent’s belly. Not guilt or grief. Sadness. Melancholy. The feelings confused him and Laurent brushed them away.
Nathan was a momentary lapse, nothing more. Laurent had grown bored in Cambridge waiting for Diltraa to fail, and he’d needed some entertainment. Nathan provided just the entertainment he was looking for. It was Nathan’s own fault if he’d started developing feelings. Laurent had done the right thing getting rid of him.
When the piano piece ended, he let out a euphoric sigh and raised a beer to his lips. Frédéric Chopin’s ‘Nortune
in C-sharp minor’. He adored it not only for its beauty, but for its insidious power. In 1943, a concert pianist called Natalia Karp had played the piece to SS Captain Amon Göth while she was incarcerated in a Nazi concentration camp. Göth was so moved by Karp’s playing that he spared her life.
Laurent scoffed. Though he adored music, he’d certainly never let anything as useless as emotion stay his hand. Göth had been weak.
Nathan had drowned.
As he sipped his beer, Laurent caught a flash of eyes in the mirror behind the bar. A woman sat in the far corner, contemplating his brooding reflection. This was the kind of establishment that attracted only the wealthy – the price list had seen to that – and the woman was bloated with riches. Laurent doubted she could breathe, her dress was so restrictive, and her flabby face sagged with years of gluttony. Fifty, Laurent guessed. Fifty and lonely. And, it seemed, quite taken with him.
Laurent ignored her. He stared into his own blue, reflected eyes.
He wanted to savour this while he still could. The stench of wealth. The opulence. It wouldn’t be long before it was all gone.
He could feel the woman’s lustful gaze boring into him. With a twang of irritation, he saw her considering heaving herself out of her chair to join him. To heap flattery at his feet, no doubt, in the hope that Laurent would go home with her. Make her feel something. Rescue her from the pit she’d fallen into.
The thought disgusted him. Where some might pity such a wretched creature, Laurent felt only revulsion; a vague burn of bile. She should be put down. If he could find her pulse in the flaccid folds of that neck, he’d squeeze it until it stopped.
There was a flutter of red and Laurent snapped out of his thoughts.
A woman had entered the bar.
Laurent watched her breeze across the marble floor as if she owned the place. She wore a slip of a red dress; a fashionable, figure-hugging specimen that caressed her hips and trailed off at her knees. Her auburn hair coiled atop her head, fastened with a silver pin.
As she passed a young couple, she drew the attention of a man. His eyes widened and he seemed to forget the woman sitting opposite him. He received a glare and a terse word across the table.
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