Ruins

by Joshua Winning

  “You never could resist making an entrance,” Laurent said as Malika slid onto the stool next to him.

  “First impressions,” Malika cooed. “More important than even the prettiest face.”

  The bartender approached nervously.

  “White,” Malika told him. “Dry.” The bartender opened his mouth and she added coyly: “Large.”

  The bartender’s cheeks reddened and he fumbled with a wine glass.

  “You’re in a playful mood this afternoon,” Laurent observed.

  “And you’re breaking hearts again.”

  He couldn’t help an indulgent glance in the mirror. The fifty-year-old stalker looked crestfallen. She comforted herself with her wine. Laurent sneered.

  “This town is even more depressing than the last.” Malika sighed, running her finger around the rim of her wine glass. “At least Cambridge had variety. This place is just... dull.”

  “Not for long,” Laurent pointed out, though he agreed. He had been in Cambridge when the snow storms swept in, transforming the city into a forbidding ice sculpture. The very bones of the city had trembled, and the destruction wreaked there fed his own grumbling appetite for carnage. Diltraa destroyed young innocents. Harvesters hunted and killed Sentinels. Malika herself rearranged the Fitzwilliam Museum to her own liking. Through it all, Laurent patiently waited, knowing his time would come.

  When the Dark Prophets returned, he would become their General and share in their glory.

  “How could anything so important possibly be hidden here?” Malika derided. “They’re so privileged. It’s all I can do not to start ripping out throats.”

  Laurent noticed that the bartender was listening. He turned his dark brow on him and the bartender hurried away, busying himself with the dishwasher.

  “Soon,” he said.

  “What’s happening with the girl?”

  “She’s here. I’ve seen her.”

  “And?” Malika asked.

  “She’s going to be a challenge. She’s not as moronic as other teenagers.”

  “What’s she calling herself these days?”

  “Rae,” Laurent grunted. “Rae Walker. Unconventional name for an unconventional person. She’ll come around. We just have to wait for the right moment.”

  “You sound like him.”

  Diltraa. Laurent knew he was nothing like that loathsome hellbeast.

  “Patience, my ruby-red rubra,” he soothed, baring his immaculate teeth. “She’s like a volcano; she’ll erupt at any moment. All we have to do is wait.”

  “Let me guess, you’ll be there to catch her when she falls?” Malika teased. She still hadn’t touched her wine.

  “It’s more than that,” Laurent said. “She needs me; she’ll realise that. She’s tough, but she’s scared. She has no idea what’s happening to her.”

  “Poor little mouse.”

  “We found her first, that’s the important thing. The school has been prepared. It won’t be long.”

  The piano music continued to tinkle. Laurent watched the young man sitting behind the grand piano, momentarily mesmerised by his dancing fingers. Fine, long fingers. Laurent felt his thoughts drifting and he attempted to rein them back in. He couldn’t be distracted; not when everything he had so carefully planned was at stake. The pieces were moving into place. It wouldn’t be long.

  “And the Hallow boy?” Malika murmured. Laurent detected anxiety from her, which surprised him. He wondered what was setting her on edge. Something to do with the boy. Her own failure to recruit or kill him?

  “He has something,” Laurent mused, recalling the skinny teenager from the school. “He definitely has something... A pity you weren’t able to deal with him when you had the chance.” He couldn’t resist pouring a little salt into the wound.

  Malika responded just how he expected.

  “Diltraa.” Her shoulders rose like hackles. “He ruined everything. All his talk of biding our time... Then he attacked when he had yet to regain his strength. They cut him down like a weed. He deserves to be back in the fiery pit.”

  “Not the way I’d expect you to talk about your maker,” Laurent observed casually.

  “He’s gone. He was never going to make it; they’re all the same. They cleave to their grand plans but they’re unable to see them through.”

  “Especially when their own Familiars are turncoats.”

  Smash.

  Malika crushed the wine glass in one hand.

  The bar fell silent. Dozens of eyes blinked in their direction.

  “Temper, temper,” Laurent tutted.

  The pianist began playing once more and a hum of voices returned. The bartender hurried over to clear away the broken shards.

  “Leave the boy to me,” Laurent said coolly. He pondered the dregs of his beer. “I’ll deal with him.”

  “Bad boy,” Malika purred, licking a drop of blood from her finger.

  “We should go.”

  Laurent set his glass down on the bar. The thought of returning to the hotel left him feeling hollow. Unsatisfied. He could afford to stay in any hotel the town had to offer. Funds weren’t a problem. There were always rich idiots eager to bankroll his activities if he fulfilled his pledge to bring about the apocalypse. Doom-hounds were always flush; perhaps they’d sold their souls to attain their wealth. He didn’t care. It was a perfect business arrangement. They felt important and had something to brag to their friends about, and he could practically print his own money.

  Still, a cold, impersonal hotel room was nothing compared to the vibrations of a lived-in home. And he would need to commune with the Prophets again soon, which meant he needed blood. Lots of blood. Why not kill two birds with one stone? A night of entertainment that also furthered his goals?

  He peered into the mirror behind the bar and scanned the patrons. Where would he go this time? Whose charity could he exploit? His sly gaze drifted to the fifty-year-old in the corner. She was staring miserably into her wine glass. No, not her. Too easy. He turned to the piano player. Their eyes met and Laurent raised his glass, nodding his appreciation.

  The pianist smiled.

  *

  The Nutshell pub was heaving, though it didn’t take much for it to fill up. It was, after all, the smallest pub in Britain – just fifteen by seven feet. The décor was as eccentric as the handful of patrons. Exotic, crumpled bank notes tiled the ceiling. An aeroplane propeller hung on one wall and a stag’s head – currently sporting a fashionable tie – kept watch from behind the bar. Most curious of the pub’s accoutrements was the mummified cat suspended above the drinking pumps.

  In the corner, Sam shovelled the last of the peanuts into his mouth. He paused, remembered something, and reached into his pocket, retrieving Dr Adams’s pills. He popped one and washed it down with his shandy.

  “Blasted things,” he muttered, burying them in his pocket once more. He hardly needed reminding that he wasn’t as young as he used to be. He’d been to this pub when he was just a boy with his father. Or, at least, he’d stood outside while his father ducked in for a thirst-quencher. Now he was even older than his father had been when he died. Funny how the tumbling years chipped away at a person’s perspective.

  He found himself missing Judith more than ever. He thought about her every day. It was impossible not to. Everything reminded him of her. Even Nicholas, whom he’d come to think of as part of his own family. The son they’d never had, perhaps.

  Sam realised that memories of Judith had been surfacing more frequently as he spent more time with Nicholas. Guilt wriggled through him and he mentally shook himself. Now was no time to fill his head with sappy reminiscing or secret regrets. It was all just a distraction from the task at hand.

  Judith couldn’t have known what was going to happen. It was a horrible tragedy, and the injustice of it haunted him still.

  He peered down at the Bury Free Press, but the paper held nothing that might help with Snelling or Laurent. He read every story nonetheless, scour
ing every article for anything unusual. The press was an invaluable tool in a Sentinel’s investigations; though it was rare for Sentinels to have contacts at the papers, there were often stories that helped. Like the arson attack that was actually an occult sacrifice gone wrong. Or the traffic accident caused by a rampaging hellbeast, later reported as a mad deer.

  Sam wished he’d kept in contact with the Bury police, but after moving to Cambridge, he’d let those old connections slip.

  What did he have to go on? The odd markings on the floor of the basement in Snelling’s house. That was it. That, and the gauntlet Nicholas had seen Snelling use. It unleashed electrical charges that Nicholas said nearly knocked him unconscious. What did that have to do with anything?

  And then, of course, there was the matter of Laurent. Sam had already given Liberty a call and asked her to pay Nicholas a visit. She could help him with the seeing glass and perhaps even shed some light on what Laurent had planned. She was Sensitive, after all.

  Sam scrunched up the empty packet of peanuts. Aileen had mentioned that the pub’s landlord, a Sentinel called Harold, was away, but his son was still in town. Sam eyed the man behind the bar. He was big and bald and certainly looked like Harold. He would probably be good in a fight if the occasion arose, too. Hopeful, Sam approached the bar.

  “I don’t suppose you’re Harold’s son?” he asked.

  “You want Merlyn,” the bartender answered as he unstacked the dishwasher. “That’s Merlyn with a Y. He’s funny about making sure people know that.” He nodded at somebody across the pub and Sam followed his line of vision. Among the patrons he spotted a boy who looked about sixteen. Only slightly older than Nicholas, but just as lean. He was arm-wrestling another youngster at one of the tables.

  Sam frowned. That couldn’t be him, surely. “The–” he began doubtfully.

  “Yeah, the skinny one,” the bartender nodded.

  Disappointed, Sam thanked him and decided to leave. He’d hoped Harold’s son might be able to help, but he couldn’t imagine the boy in the corner being any use, even if he was another Sentinel.

  As he went to the door, a jubilant roar filled the pub. Merlyn had conquered his friend at the wrestling match. He beat his chest like an ape.

  Certain that he was making the right decision, Sam went out into the street.

  “Hey, Bogart,” a voice called.

  Sam turned and found that Merlyn had followed him. Soft hairs sprouted from the boy’s chin and a honey-coloured mane was swept back to settle over angular shoulders. Sam caught his breath when he noticed fang-marks and a trickle of blood at the youngster’s neck before realising it was a grisly tattoo.

  “You looking for me?”

  “You’re Harold’s son?” Sam asked.

  “Unfortunately,” Merlyn said. “You know him?”

  “Once upon a time. Back in the Dark Ages.”

  “Cool.” Merlyn had the scruffy, unkempt look of a student. His crumpled T-shirt was emblazoned with a winged skull. Some colourful rock band, Sam presumed.

  The boy laughed. “Didn’t know they made them like you anymore,” he said. At Sam’s questioning look he added: “You were like an old Humphrey Bogart sat over here. Solitary and all that. On the job. Serious as a bloodhound. Could’ve picked you out of a crowd. Don’t worry, to anybody else you’re just another old sod with nothing better to do than drink away his pension.”

  “I’m beginning to understand why Harold needed a holiday,” Sam commented.

  Merlyn didn’t notice the dig – or if he did, it didn’t rankle him.

  “What brings you to Bury, then?”

  Sam considered him. He was having trouble deciding who to trust these days. Liberty was an old acquaintance and always dependable, but people he didn’t know? Richard’s face flashed in his mind and Sam inwardly recoiled. Even Sentinels couldn’t be trusted now. Whoever was responsible for turning Richard and the others had made sure of that.

  He became aware that Merlyn was still staring and wondered how long he’d let his thoughts take over.

  “That sensitive, is it?” the youngster asked, his eyes alight with curiosity. He chewed a fingernail and spat a bit onto the ground. “Follow me.”

  Merlyn drew Sam back into the pub. He ducked behind the bar, beckoning for Sam to follow through another door into the house at the back. They stood in a dingy hallway that stank of old beer.

  “So?” Merlyn urged.

  “It’s a difficult time,” Sam said gently. “I can’t go spilling my troubles to everyone I meet.”

  “Doesn’t stop most people,” Merlyn commented brightly. “Seriously, though. You can trust me.” He paused, as if mulling over what he’d just said. “Which, I realise, is exactly what the bad guy always says before he stabs some poor prick in the back. But I’m knifeless.” He held his arms wide. “See?”

  Sam couldn’t help smiling. The kid was spunky. Odd, but spunky.

  “Besides, I know how to keep a secret. I turned sixteen last week, but Dad’s had me tending bar for months.” Perhaps noting Sam’s unimpressed expression, Merlyn hastily added: “And I know three of the thirteen secret names the Trinity used for Esus. That’s one more than Dad. He’s been trying to get it out of me for months. I told him I’d give it him if he gave me a raise. Which means I’ll probably be taking it to my grave.”

  “How do you know those names?” Sam asked.

  “Picked them up here and there. The first one my dad told me, but only because I found the videos he hid in the loft and was going to tell Mum. How many do you know?”

  “All of them.”

  Newfound respect flooded Merlyn’s face. “You must be a bad-ass,” he breathed.

  “A bad-ass who’s at something of a dead end,” Sam said, immediately regretting his choice of words.

  “What you looking for?”

  Sam contemplated Merlyn and sighed. No Harvester was this good, he decided. And so what if he was? The things Sam had to say were probably common knowledge to any Harvester. It was worth a shot.

  “I need information,” he said.

  “About?”

  “Harvesters.”

  “No kidding,” Merlyn marvelled. “What are the chances that you, a lone wolf who’s lost the scent, would come here, to the very place where somebody’s got exactly the kind of connections you need to pick that scent up again?”

  “Fate’s got nothing to do with it.”

  “Right.” Merlyn was unabashed. “Still, you’ve come to the right man. I know everybody in these parts, and a few more than that in the neighbouring counties. Just call me The Centipede – I got feelers everywhere.”

  “What I’m looking for is extremely sensitive,” Sam said, suddenly nervous that Merlyn was the sort of person who would shoot his mouth off to anybody. “Extremely,” he stressed, just to be sure.

  “Tact’s my middle name,” Merlyn grinned. “No, seriously, I hate it. Can’t believe my mother lumbered me with it. But then her first name’s Pernicious, so what can you do?”

  Sam’s head was spinning. Partly from Merlyn’s babbling and partly because he was on dangerous ground. Could he really trust somebody called ‘Merlyn’? He realised he didn’t have much of a choice.

  “Two names,” he said eventually. “I need you to see if anybody can help me with them.”

  Merlyn nodded, growing serious. He looked even younger than ever. Sam couldn’t fault the kid’s confidence, though. He wondered what he’d seen in his time. Bury was even sleepier than Cambridge. Merlyn couldn’t have encountered much demonic activity. The smooth, scar-free skin of his bare arms suggested as much. The best Sentinels all seemed to have jigsaw-like battle scars under their clothes. Sam had his share. What Merlyn lacked in experience, though, he clearly made up for in talk. And optimism.

  “Tell me the names,” Merlyn said. “And I’ll see if I get any hits.”

  It was now or never.

  “Raymond Snelling,” Sam said. He hesitated before he spoke the secon
d name, as if the mere act of uttering it out loud could bring its owner rampaging through the door. “And Laurent Renault.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Aledites

  NICHOLAS OPENED THE FRONT DOOR AND promptly collided with somebody. A girl. She had slivers of purple in her hair and wore a purple hoody, which did nothing to hide the fact that she was larger than the average teenager.

  Her eyes widened with surprise.

  “Uh, hi,” Nicholas said.

  The girl averted her gaze.

  “Dawn, right?” he asked.

  She seemed pre-occupied with the front step. Her hair fell to cover her face and she nodded almost imperceptibly.

  “Sorry, I’m in the way,” he said. Dawn’s nervousness made him nervous, too. He squeezed to the side and Dawn hurried into the house. He heard her climbing the stairs in the main house, and then the click of a door shutting.

  “Strange girl,” Isabel murmured from his shoulder.

  As he prepared to shut the front door, Nicholas noticed another figure coming down the alley. A tall black woman in her thirties. She had braided hair and wore a calf-length green skirt with a sleeveless top. Gold bangles caught the sunlight.

  Their eyes locked and the woman smiled warmly as she approached him.

  “You must be Nicholas,” she said.

  “Who are you?” he asked, immediately suspicious. Isabel’s claws spiked his shoulder.

  “Sam’s taught you well,” the woman observed, her dark eyes twinkling. “Never trust anybody. My name’s Liberty, I’m a friend of Sam’s.”

  This is Liberty? Nicholas thought. Sam had mentioned that she’d be stopping by, but he hadn’t pictured the woman who’d turned up. She was slender like a boxer, or a dancer, and Nicholas could easily imagine her going ten rounds in the ring despite her bohemian attire.

  “He’s not here,” Nicholas said. “He went out an hour ago.” He could swear the woman was giving him the same curious look that Jessica had the first time he met her. Just who was she?

  “Actually, Sam wanted me to talk to you. As part of your training.” Liberty grunted the last word like a sulky teenager, as if she’d been through it herself and considered it a total bore. “Where you off to?”