“It’s a demon without a face,” Nicholas said.
“Sounds like my ex-wife,” one of the Sentinels deadpanned.
“Laurent’s been collecting totems,” Liberty said. “If you get close enough, destroy them. Trust me when I say it’ll hit him where it hurts. Form three groups. Laurent wants to raise a little hell; let’s show him how it’s done.”
The pantry door smashed open and a cacophony of rampaging Harvesters rang in Nicholas’s ears.
*
The darkness of the oblituss welcomed him.
Laurent almost permitted himself a smile, then quickly suppressed it. Not yet. Not until he had what he needed.
He quivered as he moved through the dank caves. The vibes pulsing through this desolate wasteland were intoxicating. The power that had resided here, the combined might of the priests and the monster they’d buried, was potent as gunpowder. The two forces forever tussled in the atmosphere, even after both parties had departed.
Laurent approached the final cave and took in his surroundings. The twisted metal of the jail cell; the fallen priests, their skeletons grinning madly at him.
“Evening, chaps,” he murmured, scratching his fingernails across the cranium of one of the skulls. It tumbled to the floor and rolled into a corner.
The girl was gone. They must have come for her. It didn’t matter; his followers were on her trail even now. They’d bring her back to him. Everything would work out just as he’d planned. The old man was in police custody, right where he belonged. It was all falling into place.
Laurent stepped through the warped bars into the cell that had once housed the Tortor. He trembled, sensing the power that had festered within the cell, biding its time. He wasn’t here for that, though. Striding purposefully, he went to the back wall and ran his hand over the rocky surface.
Here. Somewhere here.
He touched something cold and solid. A golden coin embedded in the stone. A seal, put there by the monks long before the priests turned this cave into a jail cell. The coin was meant to bless what lay within the wall; keep it from harming anything or anybody.
“Two crows, one stone,” he muttered, punching the rock with his bare hand. His knuckles came away torn and bloody. He punched again and again, the rock collapsing into pieces. The golden coin chimed as it struck the floor, and there was a hollow in the wall.
“Yes,” Laurent whispered, reaching in. He drew out a small wooden chest shrouded in black gossamer. Ominous vibrations travelled through his fingers and up his arms.
Finally, he smiled.
CHAPTER TWENTY–TWO
Holding Cell
SAM CHECKED HIS WATCH AND GROANED. He caught his reflection in the interrogation room mirror, disheartened by his shrivelled, worn-out appearance.
He’d been waiting for almost an hour. Were they purposefully wasting his time? Was it a police tactic? Let him squirm for a while before the barrage of questions? Surely they understood that what happened on Solomon’s boat was an accident.
The door opened and the female police officer who had apprehended him entered. Her features were severe; bleached hair, bloodless lips and a collar done up so that it almost wrung the life out of her. Wordlessly, she sat opposite him and placed a file on the table between them. A second officer, a man, shut the door and stood motionless in the corner.
“My name’s Detective Sharp, this is my colleague, DC White. Please state your full name and date of birth for the record.”
Sam realised they must be recording the conversation, though he couldn’t see a microphone anywhere.
“Samuel Matthew Wilkins,” he said before giving his date of birth.
“Do you know why you’re here?” Detective Sharp asked.
He shook his head. “I can only imagine it’s about what happened on that boat.”
True to her name, Detective Sharp observed him precipitously, bright green eyes unblinking. Though there was no spotlight on him, Sam felt like a rat in a lab.
“How familiar are you with Solomon Skye?”
Sam blanched.
“I only met him once, today in fact.”
The detective nodded, her expression unreadable. “And what was the nature of your visit with Mr Skye?”
Anxiety flushed hotly through him. Solomon was dead. He’d seen him in the boat, dead eyes full of river water. Did the police suspect he was responsible for the psychic’s death? Had his body been found? The police couldn’t possibly think he’d killed him. But then, here he was being questioned.
“I...” Now he was stumped. He couldn’t tell them he required the services of a psychic. Then again, if they knew who Solomon was, they must also know he was a psychic. Sam recalled the framed photos in Solomon’s boat. The cover of Paranormal Times. The cover line had read: The Skye’s the limit. Strange the things that stuck in his brain, sometimes. Either way, Solomon’s psychic activities clearly hadn’t been a secret.
“He was recommended to me by a friend,” Sam said. He affected an embarrassed expression. “I don’t know if you’re aware that Solomon was a psychic...”
This didn’t seem to surprise Detective Sharp.
“Do you make a habit of visiting psychics?”
“This was my first,” Sam said. “I... I lost some friends recently. I thought it might help. Nothing else has.”
The green eyes narrowed. Assessing. He wondered if she could hear his pulse.
“What can you tell me about what happened today?”
“I went for a reading with Solomon,” Sam said carefully. “We were interrupted by the sound of something under the boat, and then water started flooding inside. I barely escaped alive.”
Detective Sharp handed him a photo. Solomon’s boat, Darling Cassandra, submerged in the river. Only a portion of the boat was still visible, like a pale hand waving for help.
“At 12.15pm, the police received a call reporting screams in the Ipswich docks. When officers arrived on the scene, Mr Skye’s boat was found submerged and a body was retrieved from the wreckage. We’re waiting for a positive identification that it was Mr Skye.”
Sam looked up from the photo.
“Did you have an argument with Mr Skye?” the detective asked.
Slowly, he shook his head.
“No.”
“Do you know what happened to his boat?”
“No.”
Detective Sharp stared at him, unblinking. She didn’t seem angry or suspicious, but her cold manner suggested that she considered him a suspect. He’d consider himself a suspect if the positions were swapped.
“I wish I could help you, detective,” he said, “but I’m afraid I don’t know anything about what did this to the boat. I’ve told you everything I know.”
The green eyes remained on him.
Detective Sharp gathered the photos up. Sam watched her hands and frowned.
Red nail polish. Had she been wearing red nail polish before?
He glanced up and his blood ran cold.
Red lips. Full lips, tugging into a smile. And the reflection behind her in the mirror – it wasn’t Detective Sharp sitting there, but somebody whose snake-like red hair slithered over pale, bare shoulders.
Malika.
His gut twisted. Rage flooded through him and the next thing Sam knew, his hands were around her neck. Malika barely registered the attack. Her expression mocked him as he squeezed.
“Mr Wilkins!” a voice yelled, but he barely heard it.
She was behind this. It was all her doing. Sam wanted to crush the life from her.
The witch laughed, porcelain teeth flashing.
“Laurent sends his regards,” Malika spat.
No, not Malika.
Sam faltered. The eyes had changed. They stared at him in shock. Green and hardening into a glare. Detective Sharp pried his hands from her neck, flipped him and shoved him hard against the table, gripping his hands behind his back.
“Mr Wilkins, get a hold of yourself,” she said sternly.
>
“You alright, ma’am?” DC White asked her.
Sam grunted into the table top and felt metal at his wrists. What’s going on? He couldn’t remember. Something about that hell-witch. Malika. She was here. Wasn’t she?
Everything was fuzzy. He sucked in a breath, pain spearing his shoulder as Detective Sharp handcuffed him. Why was she handcuffing him?
“Take him to one of the cells.”
“What?” Sam mumbled, his head beginning to clear. No. He couldn’t stay here. Nicholas needed him. Laurent was out there doing who knows what, planning who knows what. He had to get out.
“I’ve told you everything I know,” he protested. “I need to go.”
“Easy,” warned DC White, dragging him to his feet and shoving him toward the door.
The cell was bare but blessedly cool. It was just one of five that Sam glimpsed in a small corridor at the back of the station before he was ushered inside, handed a blanket and locked up. He sank unsteadily onto the edge of a metal-framed bed.
Peering down, he saw his hands were shaking. He felt dazed. What had happened in the interrogation room? Had Malika really been there? She couldn’t have been. It was Detective Sharp.
And he’d tried to strangle her.
Sam put his face in his hands. In all his years as a Sentinel, he’d never landed in a spot like this. Then again, in the past he’d had connections with the police, which meant he was able to avoid situations like this one. Were there no Sentinels in the police force anymore? Were their numbers dwindling so rapidly? Or perhaps Sam really was too old for the demon-hunting game.
*
He didn’t know how long he’d been staring blankly at the wall when the door clunked open.
Sam rubbed his eyes as the light from the corridor intruded upon his cell.
“Thank you, officer,” a voice said.
Sam stiffened.
No.
He looked up at the figure who had entered. For a moment he thought he’d gone mad. But no, there he was, standing as plainly as if he had always been standing there.
“Good evening, Samuel,” Laurent said. The door closed behind him and he stood with his hands clasped before him; a perfect portrait of a gentleman. Sam knew he was anything but.
“I’m sorry to wake you. You have my word that I won’t keep you long.”
Sam pushed the blanket off and gripped the bed frame.
“Don’t get up, please,” Laurent purred, and Sam sat still, hands clenched as he stared at the wall. He wouldn’t do Laurent the justice of looking at him again.
“How did you get in here?” he asked.
Laurent smiled. “Friends.” He shrugged, fixing the cuffs of his shirt. “It’s amazing where one finds oneself if one simply makes the right connections. Why, just look at you.”
What did that mean? Sam looked at Laurent; he couldn’t help himself. The gloating expression on his face told him everything. He’d come here to boast. Laurent had done this.
“You... What have you done?” he asked.
“Oh, this?” Laurent stopped smiling. “How times have changed,” he mused, peering up at the ceiling of the cell, his amusement and disdain quite clear. “There was a time I was on the wrong side of a set of bars and you sought to judge me.” He sighed. “Makes this quite fitting, don’t you think? Poetic, almost. You refuse to die, so you can rot here. By the time you figure out an escape, the world will already have been fashioned anew.”
Sam clenched the bed frame, resisting the urge to launch himself at the other man. Just to land one good blow would be worth it.
“You killed your family,” he said. “You deserve to be in a cell.”
“They had to die.”
“You wiped out your entire bloodline!”
Laurent’s eyes twinkled.
“Blood,” he uttered. “You’re so busy trying not to spill it you completely overlook its importance. Destroying a bloodline is one of the most powerful acts on this earth. It was the only way to ensure nobody ever held that power over me.”
Solomon had been right. Blood was often integral to black magic. Acquire a single drop of a man’s blood and you could control him with dark enchantments. Laurent had protected himself from that in the most horrific way imaginable.
“You’re a monster,” Sam rasped.
Laurent said nothing.
“They’ll soon realise they have the wrong man. That you killed Solomon. And who knows who else besides.”
“Samuel, I’ve been playing this little town like a fiddle ever since I arrived.” Laurent beamed. “It’s making such a wonderful tune, don’t you think?” He turned and rapped on the door. “It’s a shame you’ll miss the grand finale.”
Sam knew that Laurent wanted him to ask, but he couldn’t resist. “Finale?” he ventured apprehensively.
Laurent’s cheeks glowed rosily.
“You think it’s been bad this far? Old man, the fun’s just about to begin.”
*
The safehouse erupted into chaos. Nicholas was jostled down the landing, through the crowd, away from the Harvesters that had broken through the pantry entrance.
“Rae!” he yelled, scanning the faces around him. “Isabel?”
He couldn’t see them. Elbowed forward, he stumbled through an open doorway and found himself in one of the guest bedrooms.
He whirled around breathlessly, fist raised as another figure stumbled in after him.
Dawn held up her hands and he unclenched.
“Where are Rae and Isabel?” he asked. He’d only just found them both. He couldn’t lose them again.
“I don’t know, but we need to get out of here.” Dawn pointed across the room. “The window.”
Begrudgingly, Nicholas hurried to it and peered out, making sure no other Harvesters were lying in wait, clinging spider-like to the outside of the building.
The coast looked clear so he pushed the window open.
“We’ll have to go over the rooftops,” he said. At least this time he wasn’t being dashed against them by some shrieking gargoyle. “We should get the others.”
He tensed as a third figure staggered in, but let out a relieved breath when he saw it was Nale. The man was enormous in the small bedroom, Zeus at his side. He no longer had the gauntlet he’d used in the tunnels. What had happened to it?
Nale gave them both a glowering stare, then blinked at the window.
“Go,” he said.
“You first,” Nicholas said to Dawn. She swallowed nervously and gripped the window frame, easing her way out.
“Nicholas!”
Liberty lurched through the door. She slammed it shut behind her and pressed her back against it. “Take this,” she urged desperately, thrusting a rucksack at him. Nicholas took it.
“What’s in it?” he asked.
“Just don’t lose it.”
“What about the others? Isabel and Rae?”
“I’ll find them,” Liberty assured him. “We’ll spring Sam and head for the school. You three get to that museum. Go!”
Nicholas didn’t stop to think. He shrugged into the backpack and crossed the room as Liberty disappeared back onto the landing. Nale had picked Zeus up and was climbing through the window. Nicholas went after him.
Memories of the aledite attack burst in his mind and he grit his teeth, forcing himself not to think about the bone-crunching pain as he struck the tiles that evening.
It was difficult to stand on the slanting roof, so he crouched low and scuttled over it, pressing his broken arm to his chest protectively.
Molten lava roiled in the night sky. It bubbled and slithered, a hot soup that clung to the firmament usually studded with starlight. Nicholas wiped his forehead, already sweating. How were they supposed to get down? He hoped Dawn knew a way.
Ahead, she hopped onto the neighbour’s roof and disappeared over the edge. Nale did the same with Zeus. Ignoring the twinge in his arm, Nicholas scrambled clumsily onto the neighbour’s roof and peered over
the edge. Another roof rested just below, nearer to the ground. Dawn beckoned to him.
“I hate roofs,” Nicholas muttered, throwing a leg over the edge and jumping down. Nale helped him into the back garden. Nicholas had never felt more relieved to have his feet on the ground.
“Where now?” Dawn asked.
“The museum.”
“This way.” She led them to the gate at the end of the garden. It opened into the alley.
“This heat,” Nicholas griped, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. He paused, hearing screaming and shouting. “What’s going on?”
They hurried to the end of the alley, emerging into Churchgate Street.
Nicholas couldn’t believe his eyes. Houses were ablaze and the street was teeming with people. Shop windows had been shattered. Cars were on fire, their alarms shrieking. And people were fighting. Bare-knuckled. Seizing broken objects from the ground. Raising them.
Blood splattered the tarmac.
What could have done this?
Then Nicholas saw him.
The Tortor. The faceless abomination glided serenely through the bedlam, sidestepping each of the crazed townspeople. Nicholas spotted a tear-stained boy standing in the fragments of a window. He couldn’t be any older than five. Helplessly, he watched the Tortor tap the boy on the shoulder.
The crying ceased. The boy’s face darkened. He dropped his toy bear and disappeared back through the broken window. Within seconds, yet more screaming started.
Nale began to move in the Tortor’s direction, but Nicholas grabbed his arm.
“No,” he said. “We don’t know what that thing’s capable of.” The boy in the window had changed after a mere touch. Who knew what the monster could do if it got its hands around a person’s neck.
Battling with his conscience, Nale hung back, the dog whining at his side. Nale patted Zeus on the head.
The Tortor vanished down a side street.
A shrill cry echoed down the street and a woman wielding a hammer appeared. She charged at a man in a business suit, burying the weapon in his skull. It made a sickening crack and hot red spurted against the ground. The woman bared her teeth and bayed. Her eyes found Nicholas’s and he saw only madness dancing in them.
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