Sentinel: Book One of The Sentinel Trilogy

by Joshua Winning

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  Nicholas’s patience was fast waning, but what the cat said next took him by surprise.

  “She’s me,” Isabel said simply. “I’m her, and she’s me. She’s who I used to be, once upon a time.”

  “Oh,” Nicholas said. And suddenly it fit, that brittle voice, the grave expression of the painted woman, those merciless eyes. He could see it exactly. The odd animal suddenly seemed to make a fraction more sense.

  “I was a miserable, bitter thing, as you were right to point out,” the cat continued, still peering up at the canvas. “My brother never liked me. My parents thought me a bore. My only friend was my nanny. She’s the one who raised me, taught me things my parents could never have understood.” Nicholas edged further into the room behind the animal, intrigued. “It was a different time, a horrible time. The rich were rich and the poor were miserable. And my parents were despicable. I was glad when they died. Glad but lonely, because suddenly the house was quieter than I’d ever imagined it could be.”

  “It was like that after my parents died, too,” Nicholas said softly. “I couldn’t wait to get away.”

  “And you found yourself here,” Isabel laughed, but there was no mirth in the sound. “How sorry you must have felt.”

  A silence fell between them. Then the cat looked at the boy.

  “Hallow,” she said, her whiskers trembling. One of her ears twitched of its own accord as if swatting at a fly. “It’s your surname, too.”

  The boy nodded.

  “Then we’re related somehow. My brother married as soon as he could and left this place. He had many children. You’re no doubt of his lineage, though I don’t see any of him in you. Apart from your temper, perhaps.”

  Nicholas smirked at that, unable to stop himself. “Dad had a temper,” he said. “Sometimes we’d wind him up so much he wouldn’t speak to us for days. He made it too easy.” It felt odd talking about him as if he were gone. Because he was gone, Nicholas had to remind himself. But, perversely, talking about his dad almost made him feel alive again.

  “You were a handful,” Isabel noted. “I’m not surprised.”

  “And you’re not?” Nicholas shot back. He stopped, suddenly aware that this was the first conversation he’d had with Isabel that didn’t involve shouting and jutting egos. It felt different. Less lonely. His anger had subsided and he almost felt human again, like he could think clearly for the first time in days.

  “You,” he began. “You were dead, weren’t you?”

  Isabel sniffed, and her tail whipped behind her in agitation. “Yes, I suppose I was,” she said.

  “But you came back. Jessica brought you back.”

  “Yes.”

  “So… it’s possible,” Nicholas said. “People can come back.”

  “No.”

  “They can! Because you’re here,” the boy persisted, stepping into the shaft of light cast by the chandelier. “If you found a way back after being dead for hundreds of years, that means anybody can!”

  “There were very specific circumstances,” Isabel said, her tail still sweeping the floor. “I was trapped in that room, like a cork in a bottle. I was dead, but not in the way that most are dead. I was still here.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  Nicholas felt himself getting irritated again, felt the pressure building in his chest.

  “Don’t get all het up,” Isabel snapped. “I’m here. And I shouldn’t be. But I am. That doesn’t change anything about your parents, so don’t start getting any silly ideas.”

  Nicholas slid down the wall until he was slumped on the floor, his jacket puffing up around him. He picked at a stone that was caught in the sole of his shoe. Another thing that he didn’t understand. It would take years to get to grips with the strange workings of the Sentinels and their laws, and he was so behind. Light years behind. It was like he was on a treadmill that stretched for miles, and no matter how hard or fast he ran, he’d never get to the end.

  The boy flicked the stone across the floor. “What did you mean earlier?” he said. “About who I am?”

  Isabel went to chase the stone, then seemed to decide against it. She sat with her front paws together, the chandelier casting a circle of light around her. Staring at the boy with half-closed eyes, her little, triangular nose moved nervously.

  “Well?” Nicholas said. “What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?”

  “You’re more than a Sentinel,” Isabel complied eventually, disregarding the bad joke.

  “What does that mean?” Nicholas demanded, though he was now more curious than annoyed.

  “Esus has never divulged the full facts,” Isabel said. “But you’re, Trinity forbid, special. That’s why you’re here. That’s why you’re being protected.”

  “Esus? He was here the night you–” Nicholas paused. “You know. Arrived.”

  Isabel’s tail batted the floor. “Esus,” she burred, rolling the sound around her mouth, feeling it properly for the first time in centuries. “He is our protector. When I was alive, he came to me and reminded me of my calling. My parents, ignorant fools, ignored theirs. They used this house as a place for revelry and parties, forgetting its significance. Esus came to me after their deaths, and I received him gladly.”

  “He looks like he’d kill somebody in their sleep,” Nicholas said.

  “Blasphemy!” Isabel cried in outrage. Her tail made a whump as it hit the floor. “His is the purist of souls. He is our cherished guide and guard. Speak ill of him and have him cleave the malicious tongue from your mouth.”

  “Woah, okay,” Nicholas held his hands up. “Don’t get your whiskers in a twist. This is all new to me.”

  Isabel licked a paw and rubbed it absentmindedly across her muzzle. “You won’t see him often,” she continued resignedly. “He travels from place to place, wherever he’s most needed. If you see him, you’re either in trouble, or soon will be.”

  “I hope I never see him again, then,” Nicholas muttered. “And what do you mean ‘special’? There’s nothing special about me.”

  “You’re meant for something,” Isabel said. “‘Destiny’ is a detestable word – how can anything ever be destined? Far too many variables in life – but I’m sorry to say it best applies here. You entered the world for a reason.”

  “What reason?” Nicholas demanded hungrily. This was more like it. He knew that Jessica was holding out on him. Even as she’d explained the Sentinels and their cause, he’d sensed there was something else that she was keeping from him. Sensed. Sensitives. “Jessica said I could be a Sensitive,” the boy said, searching the cat’s furry features for a confirmation.

  Isabel heaved out a puff of air. “Who knows?” she sighed. “That much I was never informed of. But now you see why you must–” she broke off, then more tactfully continued, “why it would be best for you to remain here.”

  Nicholas smirked at Isabel’s attempt at diplomacy – he didn’t expect she’d had much practice. So they thought he was special? That explained a lot. What that red–haired woman had said to him on the bus, for a start. “I can smell it on you; in your veins, your skin, your hair. You’re different.” Different. Special. At school, those words meant bad things. Here, among the Sentinels, maybe they meant something good. Maybe he hadn’t been put here to forget and be forgotten. Perhaps he was merely waiting, on standby for something that was just over the horizon.

  “I’ll stay,” the boy said finally. “But I want to go back to Rumours and see Reynolds again.”

  “Out of the question!” Isabel snapped. “It is too dangerous.”

  “He was a Sentinel, I know it!” Nicholas maintained. “And those people in the village. You’re just going to let them face that monster alone?”

  “I won’t allow you to go back there. You very nearly didn’t survive the first time.”

  “Like I need your permission,” Nicholas returned sulkily. “I’m going back and that’s it.�
��

  “Wretched Hallow blood,” Isabel grumbled, emitting a low rumble of disapproval. “If your mind’s decided, there’s nothing I can do. Not like this, anyway.”

  “Good.”

  “If you insist on this ridiculous escapade, though, you’ll need some form of protection.”

  “There’s a suit of armour in the hall,” Nicholas suggested helpfully.

  “I see wits haven’t sharpened any in my absence.” Isabel got to her feet and trotted over to her portrait. “This painting. Open it.”

  “Huh?”

  “Don’t sit there like an idle cow, help me,” Isabel said. “There’s a latch on the right, release it and open the painting.”

  Nicholas jumped up and ran his fingers up the side of the frame.

  “Are you sure there–” he began doubtfully, but then he felt it. A small metal catch that flicked up easily. The enormous portrait began to swing away from the wall, revealing behind it a stone archway that was completely covered in a net of cobwebs.

  “Am I the only one who doesn’t have their own secret door?” the boy said, brushing away the mesh of sticky webbing and rubbing the remnants on his trousers.

  “Follow me.”

  Isabel hurried into the wall of blackness beyond the arch. Nicholas chased after the soft pitter-patter of her paws on bare flagstones. The dank stink of mould rushed into his nostrils and almost immediately the boy crashed into something hard and metallic. He swore. The word echoed in what must be a cramped space with a high ceiling.

  “There, the lamp,” Isabel’s voice rang out in the murk.

  “Not all of us can see in the dark, you know,” Nicholas muttered, rubbing at his sore knee. He fumbled away from whatever he’d tripped over and felt along the damp, rocky wall, finding an iron lamp set into the stone. He twisted the little knob beneath it, prepared to berate Isabel – how could something this old possibly still work? – when a bright flame erupted within the glass.

  Light stretched across the rough, craggy walls, illuminating a poky little room that consisted solely of shelf upon stony shelf, reaching up to an impossibly lofty ceiling. They were cluttered with all manner of odds and ends. It was a treasure trove, circular like the painting room, the bending shelves arranged around a giant iron cauldron that sat on the stone floor. That must be what he’d tripped over in the dark.

  The room smelt damp and disused, but under the wet tang of rot there was the faint scent of herbs and dried flowers.

  “What is this place?” Nicholas breathed, slowly getting used to the dank air.

  “My collection,” Isabel said, hopping up onto a shelf. She sat next to a grinning cow skull. “There, by the runes, do you see it?”

  “See what?” Nicholas mumbled. He skirted around the cauldron, eying it distrustfully, and began to search the shelf that Isabel had nodded to. Runes were scattered everywhere, their strange angular symbols meaning nothing to him, and there, resting in a special upright stand, was a knife. Not just any knife, but an ornate, delicate weapon entirely carved from something that resembled ivory. A metal sheath protected the blade, while rune-like symbols had been etched carefully into the handle.

  “Take it,” Isabel said.

  “What is it?” Nicholas asked, taking a hold of the carved handle and lifting the dagger from its stand. It was disarmingly light.

  “A bone dagger,” Isabel said, “carved from the horn of the demon Druj centuries ago by my ancestors. The Drujblade is a formidable weapon – many fell beasts has it slain through the years.”

  Nicholas carefully removed the sheath, revealing a blade hewn from the same dark bone as the handle. Its jagged teeth were dangerously sharp, and it was inscribed with words that he didn’t recognise.

  “Feels like it’d snap if anybody tried to use it,” the boy said, slashing it tentatively through the air.

  “No such thing could ever happen,” Isabel scoffed. “’Tis more powerful than it looks. Many have used it against the evil things of nighttime and nightmare. And be careful, it’s an antique, you know.”

  Nicholas stopped when his enthusiastic thrusting caused him to bump into the cauldron again. He quickly re-sheathed the blade.

  “This’ll definitely do some damage to Garm,” he said, admiring the ancient weapon.

  “Pray it doesn’t come to that,” Isabel said sternly. Nicholas only grinned.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Fighting

  MELVIN REYNOLDS GREETED HIM WITH AN enthusiastic slap on the back.

  “The monster slayer returns!”

  Nicholas staggered into the shop, Reynolds’ animated welcome almost causing him to crash into a case full of animal skulls. Instead, he merely bumped it and the skulls skittered nervously on their shelves.

  It was as fusty as ever inside Rumours, but Nicholas preferred that to the oddly-sterile atmosphere of Hallow House. He was just glad to be out again – and this time there hadn’t been any cat scratches involved. Orville was still unsettling, though. Even more so in the daylight, if that was possible. Without the soupy darkness it was dazzling, and more unnervingly perfect than it had been the previous evening. The snowy high street was crisp and polished, gleaming like a new button. It was also disturbingly quiet. Aside from a few stragglers in the distance, there was nobody on the street. Nicholas wondered if they were all nursing sore heads after the exploits of the Red Lion.

  “You’ve caught me at the perfect moment,” Reynolds boomed. He was surprisingly loud. “I’ve just put the kettle on. Having a slow day. You’ll have a cuppa, won’t you?”

  “Yeah,” Nicholas said. He handed over the coat that the shop owner had loaned him. “Cheers for this.”

  “Oh that old thing? You should’ve dumped it in the bin on the way over,” Reynolds said dismissively. He threw it onto the counter. “Ah, I see Isabel’s in a brighter mood today.”

  He was being facetious.

  Isabel had skulked silently in behind Nicholas and was perched at the window again, glaring suspiciously out at the high street. Her gift for unfriendliness was really something, Nicholas thought. At least she’d let him come back to the village. She’d barely put up a fight at all; though she had insisted that he wear the Drujblade. It was attached to his belt in a leather holder, concealed beneath a baggy hoodie.

  “After you,” Reynolds said, drawing aside the frayed brown curtain at the back of the shop. He was wearing a knitted jumper, and the ribbed columns of brown and mauve were stretched at the seams by his generous belly.

  Nicholas ducked through. The back room was toasty and dark. It smelt like old cigars and boot polish, mixed with the sweeter bouquet of pine cones. It had been furnished as a kind of living room. Second-hand armchairs were studded with cigarette burns and a tattered old rug hugged an even tattier carpet. Unusual artwork hung on the walls, and there was a poster that contained a quote from Henry James’ The Portrait of a Lady: “There are few hours in life more agreeable than the hour dedicated to the ceremony known as afternoon tea.” A little set of wooden stairs led up to what must be the flat above the shop.

  “I’m afraid builder’s tea’s the best I can do,” Reynolds apologised, plodding over to the sink in the corner. It was piled high with crockery. An assortment of plates was doing a reasonable impression of the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

  Nicholas wandered over to one of the armchairs. Beside it rested a glass-fronted cabinet, inside of which a number of books dozed lazily against one another. They looked very old. The Complete Grimm’s Fairy Tales. Stories or Fairy Tales from Past Times: Tales of Mother Goose. The Complete Works Of Hans Christian Anderson.

  “You like fairytales?” the boy asked.

  Reynolds was fishing dirty crockery out of the sink and rinsing it under the tap.

  “‘Like’ might be a bit of a strong description,” he mused, using the sleeve of his jumper to wipe the rim of a mug. “I studied them for a time. They’re fascinating – almost as fascinating as the people who told them. Did you know that th
ere were actually nine Grimm siblings? And the brothers Grimm didn’t just tell fairy tales, they also started work on an enormous German dictionary that wouldn’t be completed until 120 years later. Not by them, of course.”

  “I always liked Little Red Riding Hood,” Nicholas said, though the thought of that particular story made his chest constrict. He couldn’t help but be reminded of the woman from the bus.

  “Ha!” Reynolds scoffed, bowling over to the armchairs with a tray. He set it down on the book cabinet with a clink. “You want to read the original,” he said, his dark eyes twinkling as he poured the tea. “You won’t sleep for a month.”

  “Why not?”

  “Charles Perrault’s version from 1697 pre-dates the Grimms’ and, shall we say, contains less savoury imagery.” Reynolds paused, seeing that Nicholas wanted to know more. “Think of it this way,” he continued. “A young woman is devoured by a ‘big bad wolf’… In French, a girl becomes a woman when elle avoit vû le loup, or ‘she has seen the wolf’.” He left the suggestion dangling in the air.

  “Doesn’t sound like something kids should read,” Nicholas said, cradling a chipped mug in his hands.

  “Fairytales aren’t for kids,” Reynolds replied, sitting down with a huff. He took a great swill of his tea and exhaled a loud, lip-smacking “aaaah”.

  “C.S Lewis knew that,” the shopkeeper added. “He’s the one who said: ‘When I became a man, I put away childish things, including the fear of childishness and the desire to be very grown up.’ Fairytales are about the dangers of the adult world. Adults should study them just as much as kids.”

  Nicholas nodded thoughtfully. His mother had hated fairytales. He’d always assumed she was just squeamish, but now that he knew about her ‘other’ life, he wondered if there was something else to it. Fairytales were about monsters. Perhaps his mother had simply had enough of them; she didn’t need stories to remind her about things that ate little children.

  He realised his shoulders had stiffened and he’d retreated into his thoughts again. Funny how no matter where he was or what he was talking about, the subject always drew him back to his parents. A sucking whirlpool of grief had opened in his chest when they had died and its current often dragged him inside. Deeper into himself. Away from reality. Whatever ‘reality’ was now. He attempted to shake off the numbness, gripped the mug a little tighter.