Kaine planted his feet wide apart and a torrent of rage blazed through him. First, he’d give the prisoner’s blood to the spirits, then he’d kill Morven. He would have his vengeance. He held his knife low, ready to rip through the man’s guts, then he roared and lunged forward, raising his axe to shoulder height, aiming a blow to crush the prisoner’s skull.
And something burst from the darkness. A creature launched itself at Kaine, throwing its full weight onto his chest, pushing him from his feet. As he fell, vicious fangs snapped at his face, flashing white in front of his eyes. Kaine landed heavily on his back, dropping his axe, and then the dog was upon him. He lashed out with his knife, and it sank into the dog’s muscle. Its fur was suddenly wet against his hand as the beast’s blood flowed over his fingers. But the wound was not enough. The dog twisted its body away, and the knife’s handle, wet with blood, slipped from Kaine’s fingers and fell to the ground. He grabbed at the dog with both hands, but he couldn’t get a grip on its smooth coat. The dog thrust its muzzle at Kaine’s face. He held up his arms to protect himself, but he was too slow. The dog fastened its fangs on Kaine’s neck, crushing his throat in its powerful jaws. Kaine choked and writhed, struggling for breath. He put his hands on the dog’s chest, trying to push the creature away, but now the dog drove its teeth deeper into Kaine’s throat, slitting his flesh. A bolt of pain burned through Kaine as the blood poured from his neck. His body shook, wracked with agony. His arms and legs jerked and twitched. And then, with one last rasping, strangled gurgle, it was over.
Nelda let him go. She growled and sniffed at the man’s face, making sure the danger had passed.
Brond stayed on his feet long enough to watch his enemy die, but as the dog approached, greeting him with a familiar whine, his strength left him and he sank to his knees. “Nelda? Is it really you?” Nelda answered by nuzzling her head against his arm and making grumbling noises in the back of her throat, as if complaining that he’d been away for far too long.
“Nelda,” he whispered. He ran his hand over her neck and scratched behind her ears. It was good to see her—a good sign. Soon, he’d pass over into the next world. Perhaps there, Nelda’s spirit would run beside him. Brond heaved a sigh and hung his head. When he’d tried to pull up the wooden stake, the wound in his chest had opened again and his skin was wet with warm blood. Nelda had saved him, but his hands were still tied, and the rope still held him fast. Soon, the Wandrian’s battle would be over, but he could only wait to see who would win, and what they would do with him. He closed his eyes and Nelda whined, pressing her head against his arm. But this time, he was too cold and weak to respond; too tired to even say her name.
Hafoc stood at Tostig’s side and looked toward the hilltop. Most of the Wandrian lay dead or dying. A few of the savages were running down the hillside, fleeing for their lives, but Flyta and Sceort lay in wait. His brothers would be taking aim already. If their arrows missed their marks, it would be for the first time tonight. Hafoc nodded grimly. The Wandrian were spent. It was time to find Brond.
Morven watched the last of his men run into the darkness and saw them fall. He cast his eyes over the dead men on the ground. He’d seen Kaine stagger toward the other prisoner, but Morven had stayed by the boy. It was more important to guard him until the stone had done its work. He’d seen the dog bring Kaine down, heard his strangled cries. Surely his rival was dead, but the danger wasn’t over. Morven gripped the handle of his knife a little tighter. He was alone. He didn’t know who’d attacked them, but he couldn’t be sure they’d leave the boy untouched. He glanced at the boy. He was still there, still pinned against the black stone by the whirling blue beams. The stone must complete its task soon; if it held the boy much longer, it would be more than his young body could bear.
I want to reach out to Cally. I want her to grab my hand and pull me from this hellish nightmare. But I’m slipping away. I’d do anything to stay here. I’d dig my fingernails into the solid stone if I could. But there’s nothing to hold onto, nothing to keep me here, and something is pulling at me, tugging me back into the freezing darkness—I’m completely powerless to prevent it. Cold fingers claw at my body, icy talons piercing my skin, tearing my flesh apart. Then suddenly, I’m sliding back into the hissing darkness, falling through the endless emptiness. But I can’t let it take me back to that night on the hilltop. I have to fight. Now, I finally pull my scrambled thoughts together. I need to concentrate. I have to picture my home, my family, my own time. But it’s too hard. Too hard in this bitter cold to even imagine such warmth. Too hard in this emptiness to remember what it felt like to belong, to be loved. My thoughts tumble away from me, fading into the blackness. I’ve lost everything. I’m alone.
And then…then someone is calling my name.
Chapter 42
2018
CALLY’S PHONE STOPPED RINGING, but the image of Jake remained, burning bright against the tunnel’s dark stone walls. It floated above the black water, reflected as shimmering points of light by a thousand sparkling ripples, and Cally could not tear her eyes away. Slowly, she walked toward the water-filled hole, dragging her feet across the tunnel floor. How could this be happening? What did it mean?
As Andrew approached the main tunnel he slowed his pace. The metal gate was still leaning crookedly against the tunnel wall, just as they’d left it. He put his hand on the metal bars and leaned forward slowly to peek into the main tunnel. His eyes had grown used to the dark, and the lights in the main tunnel made him squint, but at least there was no sign of Crawford’s backup. They’ll be out there somewhere. Crawford would never have come alone, would he? Andrew shook his head. I couldn’t be that lucky—not today. He ran his tongue over his dry lips. Their only chance was to act quickly, to get out of the tunnels and clear of the building before Crawford’s team came down to investigate. In the crowded street, he and Cally would be safe, but here, in the confines of the tunnel, they didn’t stand a chance. “We’ve got to go now,” he muttered. He glanced back into the darkness of the side tunnel. Where the hell is she?
Should he dash back and grab Cally by the arm to get her moving? No. She was already on the edge of full-blown panic. If he tried to hurry her too much, he wasn’t sure how she’d react. He ran a hand through his hair and wrinkled his nose in distaste. His hair was caked in grit and damp with sweat. He glanced down at his clothes. Even in the relatively low light from the main tunnel, the muddy stains across his crumpled jacket were clear to see, and his jeans were streaked with dirt. He’d attract attention on the street, but that couldn’t be helped. He let out a loud breath. At this rate, they’d never even make it to the door.
A sudden sound echoed along the dark tunnel behind him. He tilted his head. It sounded like a phone ringing. What the bloody hell was Cally playing at?
He made up his mind. He’d already waited too long. He took one last look into the main tunnel then turned on his heel and marched back into the darkness. “Cally,” he hissed. “We’ve got to get out of here. Now.”
Cally tensed. Footsteps grated on the gravel, echoing through the darkness. She held her breath, but then Andrew called her name and she exhaled. She couldn’t trust him, but right now, she needed him. She needed someone to explain, someone to tell her what the hell to do. She glanced over her shoulder. “I’m here,” she called, and her voice wavered. “But there’s something…I can’t explain. You need to see this.”
Andrew hurried forward as best he could. He stumbled over one of the scattered stone blocks, but quickly regained his balance and drove himself forward. “I’m coming. Stay there.”
Suddenly, Cally’s voice rang out in the darkness—a single shrill word, shouted at the top of her voice: “Wait!”
Cally’s voice ran through Andrew like a knife. “I’m coming,” he yelled. He ran toward the sound of her voice. Crawford must have woken up, must even now be threatening her, reaching out to take hold of her with his burned fingers. No. Andrew rounded a bend in the tunnel, his feet p
ounding against the stony floor. And as he turned the corner, he realised the tunnel walls were no longer dark, but bathed in a faint blue light. Not again! His steps faltered. Then suddenly, the blue light disappeared, plunging him back into darkness. He stood still and reached out for the tunnel wall. “Cally? Are you all right?”
A quiet sob echoed through the empty tunnel. “He’s gone.”
A sudden chill crept across Andrew’s skin. She must be talking about Crawford, but what did she mean? Was he dead? Andrew swallowed hard and walked forward, holding on to the tunnel wall. He must be getting close to Cally by now. His foot knocked against something, and it rolled across the floor with a metallic ring. He reached down and his fingers found a cold metal cylinder—Crawford’s flashlight. Andrew picked it up and rotated the barrel to turn it on. It didn’t work. He tapped it against the palm of his hand and a beam of white light stabbed into the darkness. “Cally,” he called, shining the flashlight slowly across the tunnel. Cally sobbed again and the hairs on Andrew’s neck stood on end. Please be all right. And then the flashlight’s beam picked her out. Cally stood, still as a ghost, her hands covering her face. Andrew’s throat was suddenly tight, his mouth dry. “Oh my god! What’s wrong?”
She took her hands from her face and turned toward him, her pale cheeks glistening with tears. She shook her head slowly from side to side. “I don’t know. I think it’s all right. I just don’t know.” She sniffed. “It’s over now anyway. There’s nothing I can do.”
Andrew shone the flashlight across the tunnel floor, searching for the place he’d laid Crawford down. There. Crawford was just as he’d left him, lying on his side, his face deathly white in the flashlight’s beam. He moved over to Crawford and bent down, feeling for a pulse at his throat. Good. Crawford’s pulse was strong and steady. “Thank God,” Andrew whispered. He loosened Crawford’s collar, and as he pulled his shirt aside, Andrew’s fingers brushed against something solid. Was Crawford wearing a wire? Andrew moved the flashlight and the gold chain around Crawford’s throat caught the light. The end of the chain was hidden beneath Crawford’s shirt, but it hung down toward the ground, as though it held something heavy. Andrew frowned. Crawford wasn’t the kind of man who wore jewellery, was he? There was one way to find out. Andrew held his breath and reached out to touch the chain.
“Is he all right?” Cally asked.
Andrew snatched his hand away. What am I doing? He took a deep breath. “Yes. Yes, he’s fine.” He looked up at Cally. “But listen—we really have to get out of here.”
Cally hesitated. “Andrew—I don’t know if I can face it.”
Andrew stood and turned to face her. “I know it’s tough, but I’ll tell you what we’re going to do. We’re going to walk out of here together, OK?”
“OK.” Cally walked to his side. Her legs were unsteady. “Just don’t…”
“Don’t what?”
She reached out and took hold of his hand. “Just don’t leave me alone again.”
Andrew squeezed her hand. “If that’s what you want.”
She nodded. “Yes,” she said. “Yes it is.”
“Come on then.” He shone the flashlight in front of her feet. “Watch your step,” he said, then he led her back toward the main tunnel, back toward the light.
Peterson stood in the empty entrance lobby of the Exeter Passages. It had only taken him a few minutes to shepherd out the last of the tourists and then he’d sent the staff home for the day. No one had argued, nor questioned him too closely. Now, he pressed his phone against his ear and listened intently to the caller, his face a mask of quiet authority. A lesser man would have stood open-mouthed. Peterson simply nodded to himself and ended the call. He had his instructions. He pocketed his phone, found a chair, and shifted it so he could sit down and still see the top of the stairs. He might as well make himself comfortable.
When Andrew made his way hesitantly up the stairs, Peterson stood and beckoned him forward. I feel like a teacher summoning a naughty child. Andrew took a couple of steps into the lobby, trying to look confident and unhurried. Trying too hard. Peterson looked Andrew up and down, taking in the state of his clothes, the way his eyes darted nervously around the room.
“It’s all right,” Peterson said. “Tell the young lady to come up as well.”
Andrew put his hand up to the straps of his rucksack, but he didn’t step forward.
Peterson let a smile twitch the corners of his lips. “It wasn’t a suggestion.”
Andrew hesitated. “Are you from the office?”
Peterson raised his eyebrows. “I’m afraid I don’t follow you, sir.” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “I’m just here to collect an old friend. You may have met him down there.” He inclined his head toward the stairs. “He goes by the name of Mr. Crawford. Sound familiar?”
Andrew narrowed his eyes. “Yes,” he said, his voice cold. “I’ve met him.”
“Good,” Peterson said. “But my friend seems to be a little late.” His smile suddenly faded. He looked Andrew in the eye. “I do hope Mr. Crawford is in good health.”
“He’s fine. He’s just having a rest.”
Peterson pushed out his lower lip. “You didn’t by any chance happen to take anything from our mutual friend?”
Andrew shook his head. “No. Nothing. Well, I picked up his flashlight, that’s all. You can have it back if you want.”
“No, that won’t be necessary,” Peterson said. He paused for a moment, studying Andrew’s face. He’s telling the truth. “Well, I’m sure you want to go and enjoy your weekend. I expect you’ll be back at work on Monday, won’t you?”
“I, er, I suppose so.”
Peterson raised his arm and gestured toward the door. “Please, don’t let me keep you.”
Andrew opened and closed his mouth. “Really? You don’t want me to go with you?”
Peterson did not reply. What he wanted or didn’t want was neither here nor there. He checked his watch and gave Andrew a weary smile.
Andrew turned and walked back to the top of the stairs. Cally peered up at him, her face lined with worry. “It’s OK,” he told her. “We can go.”
“You’re sure?” Cally asked. “I heard you talking. Who’s there?”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s fine.” He held out his hand to her. “Come on. Time to go home.”
Cally climbed the stairs and took his hand.
“Are you ready?” Andrew asked.
Cally nodded, then together, they walked across the lobby. She stared at the strange man who stood, looking for all the world as if he was waiting for a bus. But Andrew didn’t pause, and a moment later they were opening the glass door that led out onto the pavement. Cally hesitated in the doorway and glanced back over her shoulder. Andrew followed her gaze and the man in the lobby raised his hand in a friendly wave. Cally frowned and opened her mouth to say something, but Andrew shook his head and hustled her outside.
As soon as they stepped out onto the street, the real world rushed in on them. Cars and buses swept by, belching warm exhaust fumes into the air, and sore-footed shoppers bustled along, laden down with too many carrier bags. No one had the time or the energy to notice the dishevelled couple standing in the street, holding hands and looking dazed.
Andrew looked down at Cally. “Let’s go,” he said. “If I can remember where I parked, I can give you a lift home.”
Cally nodded, then looked down to their intertwined fingers.
Andrew let go of her hand. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—I mean, you don’t need me to…” His voice trailed away and he looked down at his shoes.
“No, I don’t need you to hold my hand,” Cally said. She hesitated then gave him a shy smile. “But, I’d kind of like it if you would. Just for a minute.”
“Oh.”
“Just until we get away from here. Is that OK?”
Andrew took her hand and squeezed it. “It’s OK with me. It’s more than OK.”
Andrew looked around to get his
bearings, then together, they set off down the street.
Peterson watched Andrew and Cally go, then headed for the stairs and made his way toward the tunnel entrance. He had a flashlight in his pocket and it didn’t take him long to find Crawford. He crouched down beside him and lifted each of Crawford’s eyelids in turn, shining the flashlight into each eye, checking that both pupils reacted normally. All was well and Peterson grunted in satisfaction. Andrew had managed to incapacitate Crawford without causing him too much damage. Not a bad job—for an amateur.
Working quickly, he ran his hands around Crawford’s neck, tracing along the gold chain with his fingertips. He found the chain’s catch and released it, then pulled the chain gently upward, drawing it carefully out from beneath Crawford’s shirt. And there it was—just as he’d expected: a smooth, flat disc of pure black stone. Peterson scooped up the disc, laid it flat on the palm of his hand and shone his flashlight onto the stone’s surface. The disc’s delicate pattern of curling lines caught the light; every curve perfect, every groove carved to precisely the same depth. Peterson raised his eyebrows. A pretty thing. But is it really so important? It didn’t look particularly valuable, perhaps a modern copy of a Celtic design, but his orders had been very clear: he was to collect the disc from Crawford personally—at any cost. Peterson sniffed and turned the disc over. It had no seams or joints that he could see and no letters or numbers to provide a clue as to its purpose.
“Oh well,” he muttered. “Ours not to reason why.” He took a small, transparent plastic bag from his pocket and dropped the disc into it, then ran his fingers carefully over the zip lock closure to seal the bag. He held the bag up for a moment to check it was secure, then carefully placed it in the inside pocket of his jacket. Job done.
Outcast (The Darkeningstone Series Book 2) Page 31