The Shadow of the Soul: The Dog-Faced Gods Book Two

by Sarah Pinborough

  ‘I thought he was talking to Dr Shearman,’ Armstrong said.

  ‘He shouldn’t have been near a bloody suspect! Not with all this’– he swept his hand through the air above his desk – ‘going on.’

  ‘We needed to lock his computer, and we were waiting for his phone records to come through. It seemed easier to have him down there than up here.’

  ‘And now he’s bloody out there?’ Heddings sighed. ‘Any idea where he’s gone?’

  ‘No.’ Armstrong shook his head. ‘Can we track him on his mobile?’

  Heddings snorted. ‘Who do you think we are, MI bloody 5?’

  ‘You said he was working with the ATD? David Fletcher?’ Inspector Ramsey looked at Armstrong.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We might not be able to follow his moving phone signal,’ Ramsey said softly, ‘but Fletcher will.’

  For a moment there was silence, and then Heddings slapped hard on the desk. ‘Well, get on with it then! I want him nicked and back here before he can cause any more bloody chaos! Jesus Christ, the tabloids are going to have a field day.’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Mr Bright looked down. At least he’d avoided getting too much mud on his soft Italian leather shoes. One day the track that ran between the two London streets would be paved and gated at both ends, but for now it was simply access to the remains of the building that had been knocked down to make way for his vision.

  Up on the first floor, he allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction. Somewhere far above he could hear the sounds of labour, but the lower half of the building was empty of workmen today. His heels clicked on the grey concrete slabs. There was something satisfying about seeing the gritty shell of a building before all the sleek veneer of the outer skin hid it from view. It was the solid foundation – the shape of the thing that would be forgotten once shiny steel and glass took its place. Such a sight always reminded him of his best work.

  He was less sure of what to make of the scene ahead of him, though. Mr Bellew was here, with Abigail Porter. Even from a distance he could see that Mr Bellew looked smug – well, that would probably fade, but the girl herself looked as if she was in agony. She hugged herself, small pants and mewling sounds escaping as her shoulders shook, and the pain shone in silver from her eyes. It was truly a pity, he concluded. She was interesting. He would have liked to have known her better.

  ‘Et tu, Mr Bellew?’ he asked with a smile. ‘You’re not the contractor I was expecting.’

  ‘Your meeting is cancelled.’

  ‘So it would appear.’

  They stood at opposite ends of the floor that was yet to be filled with walls and rooms and lights, the air a gloomy blue, reflecting from the tarpaulins that covered the empty windows and crackled with every hint of breeze.

  ‘I’m sorry it had to be this way,’ Mr Bellew said, ‘but it’s time for a change.’

  ‘Humour me before we do this.’ Mr Bright took a few steps forward into the empty space between them. ‘Why the bombs? Why the damage?’

  ‘I have learned from you, Mr Bright. Even a humble general has to get to grips with politics. I wanted to make it look like you were losing your hold on all this. Plus, I told the dying that if we damaged our own work we’d be forgiven and that the walkways would open up for us.’

  Mr Bright filled the space with a burst of good-humoured laughter. ‘And they believed you? That’s a speech I’d have liked to have heard.’

  ‘There is persuasion in strength, and I’ve always been strong. And I had some Interventionists. I told the dying that they had projected us getting home.’

  Mr Bellew slowly came forward, pulling the woman with him. She could barely stand. He was bragging now, but then, he had always been a bragger. It would be his downfall.

  ‘What is it with these women and the Interventionists?’

  ‘We’ve forgotten who the Interventionists were. We just see them as things, useful creatures with strange powers, but no sense of existence. They haven’t forgotten, though.’ Mr Bellew smiled. ‘And they want to die – which is ironic, really, given how much the rest of us are fighting against it.’

  ‘If they’re so keen on it, then why don’t they?’

  ‘They can’t – not without passing on all that they’ve grown to do. I was there fifteen years ago when they projected the three girls, and I finally asked enough questions to see what they wanted me to understand. These were the women they could pass on to.’

  ‘Of course.’ Mr Bright nodded. ‘They bred too, all those years ago. The blood will be out there somewhere.’ He looked again at the silver agony on Abigail Porter’s face. She must have had a little silver in her before all this started.

  ‘I watched the women grow, ensured their families did well, put them into positions of access to important people.’ Mr Bellew’s grin spread. ‘I have plans for them. They’ll help me create my New World Order. Once they were ready, I told the Interventionists I needed something from each of them, and then I’d let them die. They performed magnificently, didn’t they?’

  Mr Bright was much closer. He tilted his head in Abigail’s direction. ‘It doesn’t seem to have done her much good.’

  ‘Ah, but she’s not really here. She’s hard reflecting. I’ve had to force the learning somewhat, but she’s a natural. She’s projecting back, just in case. I wouldn’t want the other two getting into the wrong hands.’

  Mr Bellew let the woman’s arm go and she dropped to the floor with a yelp before crawling away towards the wall.

  Mr Bright didn’t look at her; she wasn’t important. There were only a few feet between the two men, and they began to circle. He could see his own rising excitement in the other man’s dark eyes – this was like the old days.

  Footsteps came up the stairwell that Mr Bellew had used and the tall man paused and looked back at the newcomer. His face was triumphant.

  ‘Mr Craven,’ he said.

  ‘Mr Bellew.’ Craven smiled.

  ‘Well, well.’ Mr Bright looked from one to the other.

  ‘So will you come quietly?’ Mr Bellew asked him.

  Mr Bright raised a finger as more footsteps tapped up the concrete behind him. Mr Dublin appeared from the lower level. ‘Am I late?’

  ‘I think you might have misunderstood the situation, Mr Bellew,’ Mr Bright said softly.

  Mr Craven strolled out from behind Mr Bellew and stood the other side of Bright from Dublin. ‘I may be sick, Mr Bellew, but I’m not a fool. You’re going to get us forgiven? Find us a way home?’ he snarled. ‘I think not.’

  ‘You betrayed me!’ Mr Bellew’s arrogance slipped away, anger taking its place.

  ‘Oh come, come, Mr Bellew,’ Bright said, ‘we’re all betrayers. Don’t look so surprised. Now the question is—’ and he smiled, ‘—are you going to come quietly?’

  ‘Never.’ The tall man drew himself up tall and his eyes sparkled with gold.

  ‘I rather thought not.’

  There was a moment of silence and then without warning all four became. Three flew at one, and their rage was terrible.

  Cass abandoned his car in front of the skeleton building and ran in on the ground level. It was empty.

  ‘Mr Bright?’ The name tore loud from his lungs. He was past caring about safety. Whatever Mr Bright’s plans for him were, the man seemed more intent on fucking him over than killing him. ‘Mr Bright? I know you’re here!’ The empty space echoed ghosts of his words back to him and he headed to the stairs on his right: concrete blocks with no handrails stretching upwards. He took them two at a time as a sudden blast of wind raced down the other way. He leaned into it.

  ‘Mr Bright?’ he called again, rounding the corner and taking the last twenty steps or so to the next level. Lights danced down the stairs towards him and his heart chilled. Solomon. He hadn’t seen light like that since Mr Solomon died. With sweat sticking his shirt to his back, he took the last few stairs slowly, but still he flinched as he emerged onto the first level
and the full glory hit him and his breath ran free. He raised one arm to cover his eyes against the raging swirl that filled the vast space of the unfinished floor. Shades of gold and white and red and all the colours in between flashed this way and that, a tornado of colours that couldn’t exist with such sharpness and clarity, and hiding within them were wings and teeth and sinews and blood. A wind raced through the building, beating Cass’s body to the ground, and it was full of the angry roar of battle.

  And then suddenly it stopped. The wind fell. Colour drained from the world and for a second all Cass could see were the shadows of the shapes in black spots in his vision. Everything was still. The tarpaulin behind him rustled slightly and he pulled himself up to his feet.

  Four men stood in the centre of the room: one, a tall, broad, dark-haired man, had a deep gash down one cheek and blood soaked through his torn shirt. Two slim younger men stood on either side of him. Their suits were neat, but their faces were flushed. Gold still shone in their eyes. For the first time in a long time, Cass didn’t think there is no glow. What was the point? To think that would be to lie to himself, and he was done with that.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t stay long and chat.’ Mr Bright smiled at Cass, his teeth perfectly white in his composed face. ‘I have to take care of this minor situation.’

  ‘You set me up,’ Cass growled. His face was burning.

  ‘I set you free.’ Somewhere in the distance a siren wailed. ‘You weren’t made to obey those rules. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go, and I think you have company coming.’

  Cass raised his gun. The bastard wasn’t going anywhere. Not yet.

  ‘I think we both know it would take more than that.’ Mr Bright’s laugh was a cool stream on a summer’sday.

  ‘We had a deal. Where’s Luke? Why did you steal him?’

  ‘Oh yes, our deal. In all this excitement I’d almost forgotten. I didn’t steal Luke. He was given to me.’

  ‘You’re lying.’

  ‘I don’t need to lie, Cass, and certainly not to you.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘Do you think you’re the only Jones to do a deal with me?’

  Cass frowned and his skin chilled. Jessica and Christian would not have given their baby away – they just wouldn’t. They were too good for that. And if they had, why would Christian have left him that note? It didn’t make sense.

  ‘Do you think I just let people go, Cass? Do I strike you as that kind of man?’ Mr Bright’s voice was soft. Cass said nothing. He didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t sure that he wanted to hear what was coming next after all. That didn’t stop Mr Bright speaking, though.

  ‘It was your father: your father brought me the baby.’

  ‘Bullshit.’ Cass spat the word out through gritted teeth and his finger tightened involuntarily on the trigger. His father? The man who found all that faith? The one who kept trying to get Cass to forgive himself? Was it really Cass he wanted the forgiveness for after all? One child called Cassius, and one child called Christian. His father had run away from Mr Bright, that’s what Father Michael had said. Had he run – or had he bargained his way out?

  ‘Your father showed so much promise in the early days; it was perfect when he and Evelyn fell in love. Everything was going to plan – we would create a new dynasty. And then he had a change of heart. Found God.’ Mr Bright shook his head, as if talking about a child’s foolishness. ‘He wanted his freedom. I would have taken you, Cass, had he had this epiphany earlier. You were the first born; it would have made sense. But you were already born and they had bonded with you, and anyway, I don’t think he would have agreed to give up any of his own children. He would have stayed against his will, and that would never have worked. So we made a deal.’ He looked over at the other men. ‘Take him to the car.’

  ‘So you’re Cassius Jones,’ the man with ash-blond hair and delicate features said. His voice was cut-crystal. ‘I hope we’ll meet again.’

  ‘I hope the fuck not.’ Cass didn’t care that the other man half-smiled at him before turning away. He didn’t care that there was something close to affection in the expression. The Network would learn that if they were going to have any emotions for Cass, affection would not be one of them.

  ‘You made a deal?’ He didn’t have much time. They would be coming for him, he was sure of that, and he needed to be gone before they got here.

  ‘I gave him a choice: his freedom for a child, for the first-born son of his children. I hoped it would be your child, Cass. You were always more like us than Christian. He, however, was more malleable. You insisted on marrying Kate, and she would have weakened the blood. Jessica, however, she had the Glow. We’d been watching her family and it didn’t take much to get her and Christian together. Glow attracts Glow, I’ve noticed.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘On the night Luke was born, your father brought him to the hospital administrator’s office and I gave him the replacement. I didn’t want to hurt Christian. I’m not a monster.’

  Cass stared at him. His own father had betrayed Christian. Was there anyone who hadn’t betrayed his poor dead brother – the good brother?

  ‘I’ll be seeing you, Cassius Jones.’ Mr Bright turned and walked away. ‘You take care now.’

  ‘Where’s Luke now?’ Cass shouted after him, running down towards the other end of the vast space where Mr Bright was heading for the back stairs.

  ‘That wasn’t part of our deal.’ With a grin that bordered on mischievous, he disappeared into the stairwell.

  ‘Help me.’

  The desperate plea stopped Cass in his tracks and he turned. There was someone curled up against the wall. Abigail Porter. Had she been there the whole time?

  ‘Help me,’ she said again, the words barely more than a harsh whisper. Mr Bright was going to have to wait. Cass jogged over to her and crouched.

  ‘Abigail? Are you hurt?’

  ‘It hurts. I can’t get back. I can’t get back. ’ Her head was down, between her arms that were hugging her knees. Her shoulders shook. ‘I don’t want to see any more. I can’t. I can’t.’

  ‘Jones?’

  Cass looked up sharply as Fletcher’s voice carried up from downstairs. Fuck.

  ‘Jones? Where are you?’ Ramsey that time. ‘We need to talk.’

  ‘We have to go, Abigail. Now.’ There was no time. If he didn’t leave now, it would all be over. He reached down to grab her arm and haul her to her feet. She looked up.

  ‘Jesus.’ Cass recoiled as if punched in the face.

  Blood from both her ears was dying her lank hair, but it was her eyes that stopped him in his tracks. There were no whites, no iris nor pupils, only pools of colour and black, marbling together. It was like looking deep into space. He could see everything and nothing.

  ‘I fooled him,’ she whispered. ‘I left the reflection behind.’ Silver tears rolled from her broken eyes. More voices drifted up at them, declaring the downstairs area clear.

  ‘Give me the gun,’ she barked, ‘please. I’m torn in two, and in the spaces … oh God, in the spaces …’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Cass asked. He thought he knew the answer. Abigail Porter was dying – whatever else was going on inside her body, she’d pushed it too far to survive. Watery crimson ran in the sweat from her scalp. Was her whole being starting to haemorrhage?

  Footsteps clattered on the far stairs and he glanced towards them. There was no time for softness now. Abigail Porter had her fate, and he had his. He was damned if it was all going to end here. He released the safety and pressed the gun into her clammy hand and turned and ran for the second set of stairs. He didn’t look back. He didn’t want to look into those eyes again. If he did, he might find himself dragged to whatever hell her mind was in.

  He was halfway down to the next level when the first gunshot cracked through the damp air.

  ‘Shit!’

  ‘Put the gun down!’

  Cass pushed forward. More shots rang out, followed by more shouting, and then just as he reached the g
round there was one final retort before the awful silence fell. His breathing was hard in his ears, and despite the chilly air he was sweating. Abigail had bought him some time, but how was he going to be able to use it? His car was round at the other side of the building, where Fletcher and Ramsey’s cars must be – there was no way he could get to it. His best chance was to head to Oxford Street, and try and get lost in the crowds. It was thin, but it was all he had. He pushed his legs onwards into a sprint instead of a jog, ignoring the strain on unused muscles and relying on his adrenalin to keep him going. He would not get caught. He would not get caught.

  ‘Cass, stop!’ It was Fletcher’s voice, its disembodied form chasing him up the gritty track, and without slowing, he glanced over one shoulder. The head of the ATD was coming up behind him, his gun raised.

  ‘I mean it, Cass. Stop or I’ll shoot!’

  Despite the burn in his legs, Cass fought the urge to laugh: a hysterical laugh, but one all the same. Stop or I’ll shoot. In all his years on the force he never thought he’d hear that cliché aloud. He weaved slightly.

  ‘Fuck.’ Fletcher’s curse carried towards him. He’d stopped running. That meant only one thing. His heart thumping, Cass swerved from side to side, his eyes almost closed as he waited for the bullet. He wasn’t going to make it. He should just give up. He wasn’t going to make it. Still his legs powered forward.

  Two things happened at once. The first was that a car screeched to a halt in the street in front of him and the back door flew open. The second was that Cass felt as if he’d been thumped hard in the back of his right shoulder.

  ‘Get in!’ a woman’s voice screamed from the driver’s seat of the car. She had a voice like honey, Cass thought, as his body spun slightly and stumbled. His ears echoed with the rumble of thunder. Not thunder. Gunshot. As he clumsily righted himself, one side of his body listing madly, he caught a glimpse of Fletcher, raising his gun again. Beyond him, a fair distance behind, were Ramsey and Armstrong. They were shouting something that Cass couldn’t make out. He hoped to fuck it was ‘Don’t shoot!’