The Chosen Seed: The Dog-Faced Gods Book Three (DOG-FACED GODS TRILOGY)

by Sarah Pinborough

  The small private room was dimly lit, but it was as warm as the rest of the ward. Armstrong’s eyes were shut, and there was a tube attached to his arm. What was that, some kind of sedation? Surely it couldn’t be pain relief already? But now he was closer, Cass could see Toby Armstrong looked deathly pale, even in the golden glow of the sidelights. The sergeant had also lost weight – he knew Strain II was more aggressive than HIV, but surely it couldn’t work this fast? Whatever Craven was passing on to his victims, it was carrying an unholy kick. He remembered the way Solomon had died: there had been nothing natural about that. So was Craven the same as Solomon and Bright? Were they all three of them something strange and ageless?

  He put the water and dish on the table and then sat by the bed. There was an alarm button on a small pad just next to Armstrong’s resting hand and Cass moved it to one side – well out of reach – before squeezing that cool palm.

  ‘Armstrong,’ he said softly.

  The sergeant’s eyes flew open and his head turned.

  ‘Shh,’ Cass said, gripping his hand, ‘I just want to talk to you.’

  Despite the frantic activity in his eyes, Armstrong’s body had little strength, no doubt in part because of whatever the tube was pumping through his system. Cass pulled his face mask down. For a moment the two men just stared at each other. Cass wasn’t surprised to see hate and resentment in Armstrong’s face.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ the sergeant said eventually. His voice was dry, but when he breathed, phlegm rattled in his chest. ‘Come to watch me die? Apparently it won’t take long. The doctors tell me they’ve never seen anything like it. Not in a good way.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Cass said. He knew the words were redundant, but Armstrong’s bitterness stung, and he couldn’t blame him for it: the young man was trapped in an if only moment that he couldn’t escape: If only I’d waited for back-up. If only I’d shot him when I first got there.

  ‘I wish I’d never seen your face. You know that, don’t you?’

  If only I’d never been assigned to DI Cass Jones.

  Cass nodded. ‘I can’t blame you for that. I wish you’d never seen my face too.’

  Armstrong’s hand relaxed – giving up any attempt to go for the buzzer – and he turned away from Cass and looked up at the ceiling. Silence ticked by. ‘I was looking for you.’

  ‘I figured as much. You’re a good detective.’

  ‘I was a good detective.’ Armstrong let out a sad, wet cough of a laugh. ‘I’m past tense now. Just waiting for the body to catch up. Feels very surreal.’

  Cass said nothing. The squeeze he gave Armstrong’s hand this time had nothing to do with safety and everything to do with the ache he felt inside. Armstrong didn’t squeeze back, but neither did he pull his hand free.

  ‘That man – or whatever he is – Craven,’ Armstrong continued, ‘he said he knew you’d been set up. I heard him. You know how it made me feel?’ He glanced over at Cass and there were tears brimming in his eyes. ‘I felt angry: all that time I’d put in, all that evidence I’d found, and then you were going to make a dick out of me and my career by not being guilty after all.’

  ‘You put together a good case,’ Cass said. It was true. ‘I’d have thought I was guilty.’

  ‘You should have told me what you were doing,’ Armstrong said. ‘If you’d told me, then I wouldn’t be here now.’ He spat the words out, and Cass had to force himself not to recoil from the spray.

  ‘If I’d told you, you wouldn’t have believed me,’ he said softly.

  Armstrong turned away again. The truth in that didn’t fit with his anger. He wanted someone other than himself to blame, and he wanted it to be Cass.

  ‘It’s all about you, isn’t it? It’s always all about you.’ He sighed. ‘Nothing good ever happens to the people around you, does it? You’re like a curse – your family, Claire May, me – we’ve all been cursed by knowing you.’

  The words felt like a slap in the face and this time Cass flinched. It wasn’t his fault – this, Claire May, these were not his fault. He wondered who he was trying to convince. The dead still came after him in his dreams, and soon the cool fingers he held now would be clawing at him in the night.

  ‘I wish that bullet had killed you.’ Armstrong’s voice was flat. ‘I really do.’

  Cass had expected Armstrong to hate him – after all, he hadn’t liked his DI before all this happened. He just hadn’t expected him to hate him so deeply.

  ‘Did you tell Ramsey that Craven said I was set up?’ he asked. Time was ticking away for both of them. Armstrong’s parents would want to sit with their boy and as soon as he left the room, he knew his sergeant would start shouting the house down to get Cass caught. He was only containing it now because he wanted to vent his hurt.

  ‘No.’ He smiled. ‘I left that out. They’re already half-convinced you’re innocent. Fuck them. Fuck you.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ he said. His heart picked up slightly. If Ramsey was starting to think he was innocent, then maybe there was a way back from all this for him. Armstrong coughed. It was weak and wet. There was no way back for him.

  ‘Look, I know you don’t want to hear this, not from me …’ Cass struggled to find the words – he didn’t do emotional conversations, but he’d lost too many people without having the chance to say what he thought, and he needed to do it now. ‘Toby, you were a good copper, and what you did yesterday – and I know you’re regretting it now – but it was very brave. I’ve worked with a lot of people over the years and I can probably name on one hand those who would have done what you did. I’m sorry I was so fucking hard on you when you started. I’m sorry I kept comparing you with Claire, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you more about what I was doing.’

  ‘You came all the way here to say that?’

  ‘Yes.’ It wasn’t entirely true, but there was truth in it.

  ‘There was something else I didn’t tell Ramsey,’ Armstrong said quietly. ‘I don’t think Mullins did either. They haven’t asked me about it, so he couldn’t have.’

  ‘What?’ Cass frowned.

  ‘He changed,’ Armstrong whispered. ‘Just before he bit me. I had the gun on him but suddenly it was so bright and there was this terrible sound and I thought I couldn’t breathe, and he moved so fast that I didn’t have any time to react. Then everything was back to normal, he was on the floor, and back-up arrived.’ He looked over at Cass, his eyes wide and, for an awful moment, filled with childlike wonder. ‘You don’t look surprised. What is he, Cass?’

  Cass was lost in the memory of Mr Solomon, the Man of Flies, dying in the church: the light and the flies and the way he’d felt all the oxygen being sucked out of his lungs, and Mr Bright watching with silver tears running down his face.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he answered. ‘I really don’t.’ He felt the web tighten around him, pulling him closer to Mr Bright. Craven was like Solomon and that could only mean he was part of Mr Bright’s Network. ‘But I intend to find out.’

  ‘I’ll never know though, will I?’ Armstrong said. The bitterness was back. ‘I’m just a fucking pawn in this stupid game. My part is over and it’s all your fault. I hope you rot in hell, Cassius Jones. I mean that.’

  Cass recoiled slightly, not from the words themselves – he’d heard worse from people too many times – but from the sheer vitriol. Toby Armstrong wasn’t just lashing out at the unfairness of it all; he truly meant what he said.

  ‘I’m cursing you, Cass Jones.’ Armstrong laughed a little. ‘I’ll be cursing you with my dying breath. Remember that. Now fuck off.’

  Cass stared for a second. If he’d come here to try to make peace with a dying man then that had backfired. He’d had no idea Armstrong hated him that much. He opened his mouth to say something – anything – but Armstrong shut his eyes and turned his head away. Cass let it go. If his sergeant needed to hate him, then Cass would let him – not that he had much choice – but as he pulled his face mask back up ov
er his mouth his heart felt heavy. Maybe Armstrong was right. Perhaps he was the curse in people’s lives.

  He got to his feet without another word and stood by the door, preparing to make a run for it once he was out of the room and Armstrong pressed the alarm. But just as he was about to step outside, all hell broke loose in the corridor. Someone – it sounded like Ramsey – was shouting in a room close by, and nurses rushed past Cass to get to him. He peered out to see one of the two policemen rattling at the door ten feet away.

  ‘It won’t open! Sir? Sir? I can’t— Oh fuck it, we need to try and kick it in!’

  Behind Cass, Armstrong sat bolt upright. ‘He’s doing it again, isn’t he?’ His voice was filled with dread.

  Cass didn’t turn around. From under the other door, a terrible brightness streamed out through the crack. He knew he should run; this was the moment, while everyone else was focused on getting Ramsey and Hask out of Craven’s room. No one would listen to Armstrong shouting in all this. He knew he should run, but he couldn’t get his feet to move. His two friends were in there. He could live with Armstrong’s death, though that sounded harsh, but he didn’t think he could add Ramsey and Hask to the clinging dead – not like this.

  He was about to run out and join the fight to open the door when suddenly the light was gone. As he blinked the last coruscating remnants away the door opened, nothing hindering it now, and Ramsey and Hask stepped out.

  Gold glowed weakly at the edges of Ramsey’s eyes. He has the Glow. Cass stared: it was watery, but it was undeniably there. After a second it vanished. Cass understood why, even if he didn’t understand the Glow: he’d felt his own eyes burn – when he’d shot Macintyre, argued with Mr Bright, even when he’d seen Brian Freeman again that first time. For him the Glow came in times of extreme emotion, so maybe it was the same for Ramsey, even if he was oblivious to it.

  ‘What the hell happened in there?’ a voice asked.

  ‘He’s dead,’ Ramsey said. He held up his hands, fore-stalling a rush of questions. ‘We’re fine. He just died, that’s all.’

  The expression on Hask’s face said there was nothing that’s all about it. The fat man was sucking in deep breaths as two nurses scurried over to check him.

  His friends were fine; no death like Armstrong for them. As he turned his back on the scene and walked as quickly as he could to the exit, Cass thought that would make his sergeant bitter too.

  He ran down the stairs. By the time he reached the main reception desk he wasn’t even trying to be cautious. Armstrong would have raised the alarm by now, and he had to be out before some clever bastard called for a lockdown. He’d ripped off the gloves and mask, but the scrubs could stay on. He pushed through people coming the other way and then once through the doors picked up his pace to a jog. As he weaved his way through the cars and ambulances he took a moment to check behind him, half-expecting to see Ramsey charging after him, but there was no one. He grinned. He’d—

  —and the thought was knocked away as two men came out of nowhere and grabbed him firmly.

  Cass’ eyes widened as he felt the sharp prick of the needle and cool liquid rushing into his veins. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. The world spun as a sleek car pulled up and the back door opened. Not again, Cass thought, moments before the blackness took hold, not a-fucking-gain …

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Luke was tired, so after his hot chocolate and a sandwich, Father Michael took him upstairs to the spare room and tucked him into bed. The boy didn’t speak, but he allowed himself to be undressed and put in a big soft T-shirt, compliant but not entirely complicit in the actions. He was old enough to get changed himself, but he looked to be in a daze. Father Michael wondered if it was more than shock; he could not begin to imagine what might be going on in the boy’s head, having just been abducted from a place he knew by an uncle he’d never even heard of, let alone met. One of the Steves – he hadn’t yet got clear in his head which was which yet – had run through the events of the previous night while they were tucking into bacon sandwiches. Cass’ life was nothing if not eventful!

  When he’d been a young man, Alan Jones had fascinated him with his wild stories and wilder ways. There had been something special about him then, and he could never quite understand why he’d been a little saddened when his friend had turned up on his doorstep years later declaring his own discovery of a love of God. Perhaps it was that Alan Jones had become a quieter, more subdued man, like a lot of the life had left him – as if the Glow had left him, the very glow that he – and then, years later, Christian – had talked about. Now he knew why, of course: Alan Jones had made a pact to give up a grandchild, and that was a pact with the devil if ever he’d heard one. And he’d left that legacy for his eldest child to put right. Cass had all of his father’s early fire combined with his mother’s inner strength, so perhaps all this was God at work. Who knew what the heavenly Father had in store for them all?

  It was now midday, and the little boy still hadn’t got up. The long night was catching up with the adults, who were half-dozing in front of the telly. Father Michael had peered into the room a couple of times, and watched the small figure twitching slightly, his eyelids fluttering as he slept. The dreams he was having didn’t look like good ones.

  ‘I’ve never knows such a quiet kid,’ one of the Steves said. His face was troubled. ‘It’s not normal. Maybe he really is sick.’

  ‘He hasn’t got a fever.’ Father Michael sat down and sipped his cooling tea. ‘I checked. And he’s eating plenty. I should imagine he’s just stunned by it all.’

  ‘I’ve got a nine-year-old. They don’t stay that quiet, not for this long. They ask questions. It’s what they do.’

  Father Michael said nothing, but he saw Steve’s eyes darting up occasionally from the television to the ceiling, and the room above their heads. He had to agree that there was something slightly odd about Luke – perhaps he was autistic? That would certainly explain his lack of communication. When Cass came back and all this was settled, he would suggest getting the boy checked out. If that was possible and the two weren’t on the run. Just imagining everything that was going on in Cass’ life right now made him feel tired. He was an old man, and on days like this he really knew it. His own adventures through the Middle East with Cass’ father felt like a lifetime ago – more than that, they felt like part of a life that belonged to someone else.

  He hoped Cass had been right to bring the boy here. He’d do all he could to keep Luke safe, of course, but he couldn’t deny the arthritis that ached in his hands, or that it took him twice as long these days to get up the stairs.

  The toilet in the hall flushed and he heard the heavy tread of the second Steve as he came down the corridor, and the sound calmed him. He recognised these men from his days in the Lebanon; there had been men there with the same purpose in their face and coldness in their eyes. He might not be able to keep Luke safe, but he was pretty sure that these two could. He’d let the boy sleep a couple more hours and then make them all some lunch.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The Experiment room was exceptionally hot, and even in his loose linen shirt, Mr Dublin could feel the first prickles of sweat. He didn’t mind; he’d become used to it over the past few days while studying the Experiment. What he hadn’t got used to was the screaming. He’d noticed several of the technicians wore earplugs to dull the sound, but they couldn’t possibly block out the agonised shrieking entirely. Mr Dublin thought it would be enough to drive anyone mad.

  He wondered how they could so calmly witness the suffering of their own kind for the sake of money or science or power. It didn’t sit comfortably with him, and he had no intention of being present when Cassius Jones started screaming. Perhaps that was something they had got from him, their capacity for cold-hearted cruelty. They’d certainly got their capacity for pain from him, a most unwelcome gift, he imagined. He felt slightly queasy. He knew that what he was about to do was cruel.

/>   He thought of his lost brother, Mr Rasnic, dribbling quietly in a cell not far from this room, separated from his Glow and with part of him stuck screaming out in the Chaos. This cruelty was necessary if it could end so much suffering and put all to rights. If it could find them a way home. He didn’t have to like it, though, he decided as the door behind him opened and brought both Mr Escobar and a shiver of cooler air inside.

  ‘Are they ready to start?’ Mr Escobar asked.

  ‘Nearly.’ Mr Dublin didn’t move from his seat but kept his eyes on Cassius Jones. He was starting to stir; he’d be awake within seconds now. Mr Dublin wasn’t concerned; Jones was well strapped down. The monitors were being attached to his naked chest and the headpiece and eye mask were ready to be fitted on Mr Dublin’s command. An ugly pink scar was knotted in the skin on Jones’ shoulder. Mr Dublin resisted the urge to touch it. They were strange, these bodies, that knitted themselves back together after injury but left a mark of memory. Really quite fascinating. If only he knew just how remarkable these failures of his had turned out to be. Mr Dublin wondered what he would make of this one who had his blood flowing through his otherwise ordinary veins – would he want to destroy him, or accept him? It was always so hard to judge, but maybe now they’d find out. He wondered if this was what Mr Bright – still stubbornly refusing to speak – had intended for the boy.

  Jones’s eyes flickered open and his chest heaved as he dragged in a gulp of air. At first there was only confusion, then the adrenalin kicked in, his dark eyes widened and he started to struggle against his restraints. He tried to turn his head, but the strap holding it in place was too strong and all he managed was a grunt of frustration.

  His eyes, though—

  His eyed burned gold.

  Mr Escobar inhaled sharply, and Mr Dublin wasn’t surprised. This was the Glow, not some vague watery light occasionally glimpsed here and there; this was powerfully bright. Mr Dublin glanced at the technician who was attaching the final monitor to Cass Jones’ skin. Her eyes were bland as she went about her task; she was oblivious to the streams of unusual light filling the room.