‘I’m looking for the manager.’
‘He’s out.’
‘My name is Luke. I’ve come from London.’ Sam pulled out his letter and showed the envelope, carefully inscribed in Tinkerbell’s handwriting.
The young man frowned. ‘Hunter sent you?’
Hunter? Tinkerbell’s name is Hunter? Bloody hell…’Yes.’
‘This way, please.’ Sam followed the man through a door he hadn’t even noticed behind the bar, camouflaged by the paintwork. They went into a long, dark passage and up a flight of stairs to a plain, white, wooden door. The young man knocked.
‘Uncle? A man from Hunter is here.’
The door opened almost immediately. Sam put on his brightest smile.
The manager was small, pudgy, and balding. He looked Sam up and down. ‘From Hunter?’
Sam handed over the letter. The manager read it and shrugged. ‘I suppose you’d better come in, then.’
Almost laughing with relief, Sam stepped inside the office. It was cramped and had no windows. On one side a large bank of screens was each linked to a camera to watch the club floor. A desk that dominated most of the room was strewn with papers and pens, and behind this the manager just about managed to squeeze himself, pressed between the desk and the wall like a fly.
He gestured for Sam to sit, but Sam said he preferred to stand. The chair he was supposed to sit on was already heaving with unopened mail, and there didn’t seem anywhere else to put it.
‘Fine. Where’s Hunter’s latest report?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Who are you?’
The manager certainly got to the point.
‘Luke,’ Sam said simply. ‘Who are you?’
‘Herr Hindsonn. What do you want from me? Why has Hunter sent you here?’
‘I’m to assist Hunter with the matter of Sebastian Teufel.’
Herr Hindsonn’s nod suggested that Sam had hit it right. Sam risked going on. ‘I’m not sure who it is I’m working for, nor do I understand the situation we’re currently in. I’m a bounty hunter, pure and simple. You want Sebastian Teufel protected, I can do it. You want Sebastian Teufel removed from the picture, I can do that too.
‘But I work better when I understand what it is I’m working for, why and what it is I’m up against. Hunter was going to explain, but Teufel scryed and Hunter was called away. He sent me to you instead for answers.’
‘I wasn’t informed that a bounty hunter had been employed.’
‘I used to be of the order of Firedancers. One of the best.’
‘Why did you leave the Firedancers?’
‘I’d rather not say. Please tell me, Herr Hindsonn, why is Sebastian Teufel so dangerous?’
‘He is a Son of Magic.’
‘Yes, but even the Children of Magic have their weaknesses.’
‘He is also the Bearer of Light.’
‘This presents a problem?’
Herr Hindsonn shrugged ‘Not for us.’
‘Naturally. But that is another issue I wish to see cleared up. The Light, as I understand it, can destroy a Greater Power. How come you have nothing to fear from it?’
‘Sebastian Teufel would have to engulf all life, in order to read us.’
‘Why?’
Again, a shrug. Sam wondered whether he was going too fast.
‘We are the Ashen’ia,’ Herr Hindsonn said simply. ‘Our souls, our minds, are bound in places he cannot touch with just a local discharge. And he is a coward. He dares not use a full discharge.’
‘The Ashen’ia are protected from him?’
‘Of course.’
‘And wish to protect him from Seth?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yet the Ashen’ia’s plans are such that, should he know too much, he becomes a threat, and must be dealt with.’
‘That is why we employ you and Hunter.’
‘At what point do you think he should be regarded as a threat?’
‘Well, naturally if he discovers the Ashen’ia’s aims, he will turn against us.’
‘Why?’
Herr Hindsonn looked surprised by the question, then suspicious. ‘You must have seen the files on Teufel.’
‘The files are extensive. I’m still new to this job.’
‘What are you being paid?’
‘The contract is negotiable.’
‘I don’t like bounty hunters – they are mercenaries. They don’t understand what it is that’s being fought for.’
‘Then enlighten me.’
Hindsonn grinned. ‘Power, bounty hunter. We are fighting for power.’
‘I understand power.’
‘Not this kind of power. We are fighting for the power to make the Greater Powers bow before us.’
‘And Sebastian Teufel is a part of this plan.’ Sam made sure it didn’t sound like a question. Statements, all the time statements. I’m just an innocent bounty hunter trying to get the facts clear in my head…
‘Naturally. As Bearer of Light, he’s essential to our plans.’
‘May I ask – why let him roam, a loose cannon, potentially damaging to your plans? I mean, you yourself admit that he might turn against you. So why not just pull him in?’
‘This is a balancing act, Luke. Sebastian Teufel is alone, he doesn’t dare turn to anyone for fear of the Pandora spirits. We have to let him discover how alone he is, push him almost to destruction – then the master and mistress will approach him. When he’s got nowhere left to run, when he’s been shot, beaten, stabbed, chased and is terrified almost out of his wits, then they’ll go to him. And they’ll say, “Look, Sebastian, we are your friends.” And he will join us of his own free will. With his help we can destroy Seth, Son of Night; his power will tip the balance.’
‘You think he’ll trust you?’
‘He’ll have no choice. He’ll be in no position to resist the master and mistress. Not when he sees who they are.’
‘You expect his reaction to them to be that extreme?’
‘Of course. He’ll understand that he’s no longer alone, that it wasn’t all for nothing.’
‘Tell me. If a Pandora spirit appeared here, right now, what would you do?’
‘Lock the door and wait for it to pass. What would you do?’
Sam was silent, mind racing. Finally he said, ‘You know, I was talking with one who didn’t know the identity of the master and mistress, and who wanted to find it out.’
This got a surprisingly strong reaction from Herr Hindsonn, who sat up straight in his chair, eyes aglow. ‘What was this one’s name?’
‘Sam. Sam Newcastle. Is there a problem?’
‘Ashen’ia do not ask the identities of the master and mistress! They merely accept that they are both Children of Heaven! To ask their identities is to risk destroying everything!’
Children of Heaven? There are Waywalkers in this organisation – the Ashen’ia? One of my brothers and one of my sisters…? ‘What’s so dangerous about knowing?’
‘If Seth found out…’
‘If Seth found out their identities? This would be dangerous?’ Sam leant forwards. ‘You don’t even know their identities, do you? Who does? Who are the master and mistress?’
Herr Hindsonn was on his feet, surprise in his eyes. ‘How dare you —?’
Sam’s hand shot out, and caught Herr Hindsonn by the back of his collar. The silver dagger was instantly in his left hand. He pressed it against Hindsonn’s flabby red neck and hissed, ‘The Ashen’ia have a plan to use the Light for their own ends. What is it? And if your plan is so wonderful, why wait until Seth is on the verge of releasing Cronus? Who are the Waywalkers, your beloved master and mistress? Who are they?’
‘I… don’t know,’ stuttered Hindsonn, composure failing him, his tears starting to flow like a baby’s. ‘I just deliver messages!’
‘Who do you send Hunter’s reports to, Hindsonn?’
Hindsonn closed his eyes. His lips shaped words. Sam half caught them. ‘She
who guards my soul, have pity on your servant, I call on thee —’
Sam shook him. ‘Who do you pass your messages on to, Hindsonn? Who are the Ashen’ia?’
Hindsonn opened his eyes, and stared at him.
Sam had never seen such a look of inhumanity. The man’s eyes had become covered with a translucent silver film, like a fish’s, and seemed to glow from within.
Hindsonn grinned – a cruel, calculating grin – and spoke in a voice that could have been playing through a very old speaker system, underwater. ‘Little light and little fire seeks to play the bigger game?’
Sam hardly saw Hindsonn’s hand, it moved so fast to lock around his wrist. He gave a yell of pain, dropping the knife and unable to resist as Hindsonn swivelled him backwards, with a strength surely far beyond his own species. He found himself slammed against the wall, his hand wrenched tightly behind his back, while that same cracked voice, that might have been many voices speaking in unison, whispered in his ear. ‘The Ashen’ia serve me, Lucifer. And because you will soon serve me too, I will allow you to live.’
Sam kicked out. His foot hit something bony and bounced straight back off. But whatever it was that wore Hindsonn’s shape was taken by surprise. For a second, the grip on his arm slackened. With agony screaming up his arm at the least movement, Sam kicked again.
Hindsonn staggered back, bumped against his desk and straightened, anger in his eyes. He lashed out with the flat of his hand, and Sam ducked to avoid the blow. The hand buried itself in the wall behind Sam, sending up a cloud of dust. ‘Time above…’ muttered Sam. Hindsonn leapt on to the desk in a single movement and gave a cry. It was loud, it was feral, it sounded like hyenas would if they were thirty foot tall and firing off machine guns. It made Sam’s ears go pop, it made his skin crawl, his blood go icy, his stomach try to clamber up his throat, his throat try to crawl past his heart. It was, in short, the battle cry of a Son of War.
But Hindsonn wasn’t a Son of War; he had about him no magical aura of any kind. He was about as human as they got. But something very warlike in persuasion had temporarily borrowed his body.
And whatever it was, it expected Sam to serve it?
Struggling not to faint from the sheer pressure of the noise in the room, Sam brought his hands up in front of his face, clenched his fingers tightly in front of his eyes and slammed the palms of his hands together. The noise died with an abrupt clicking sound as Hindsonn’s jaws were forced back together by Sam’s magic.
Hindsonn glowered at Sam, and leapt from the table with one leg thrust forwards, the other tucked under in a karate-style kick that would have made numerous Hong Kong film directors go wobbly with admiration. Instinctively Sam raised his hands, catching Hindsonn in mid-air with magic. Hindsonn hung there, an out-thrust foot an inch from Sam’s face, a surprised expression on his own.
Sam grinned and pushed, sending Hindsonn flying back hard against a wall. He called his dagger back to his hand, and edged towards his sword in its hockey-stick case as Hindsonn staggered a few paces, looking dazed. Drawing his sword, he straightened, and slowly swung the blade a few times in the cramped space, driving Hindsonn back against the wall again.
‘I don’t know who you are,’ Sam declared, ‘but I really don’t like you.’
‘You fool,’ muttered Hindsonn, reaching behind him. Sam saw the butt of the gun and was already there, slamming the pommel of his sword into Hindsonn’s chin and lashing out at his gun hand with the dagger. Hindsonn seemed to expect this, however, and squirmed away at the last second, catching Sam a ringing blow across his shoulders as he did with the butt of the gun.
Sam staggered, slipped on a pile of papers, and sagged against the wall. He recovered his balance – and turned to see Hindsonn raising the gun, grinning. ‘And to think that no one else will hear either.’
Sam squeezed his eyes shut, heard the click of the trigger, felt nothing, opened his eyes. Hindsonn was staring at the gun, with something like disgust.
Sam almost laughed. ‘Always keep your weapons loaded,’ he said cheerfully, advancing again, swinging the sword once more in easy arcs. ‘Either that or have a trick up your sleeve.’
As Hindsonn backed off, he was reaching into his pocket.
Sam saw the gleam of a penknife. ‘That?’ he asked. ‘You’re going to spit a Son of Time with that?’
Hindsonn grinned, and shook his head.
Too late Sam saw him turn the knife towards himself, too late he thrust out his hand and tried to hold Hindsonn back with magic. The spell had only a partial effect. At the last moment Hindsonn’s hand seemed to jerk and slow, the penknife already touching his ribs. Sam’s hand, thrust out with magic at the fingertips, began to shake. Hindsonn was trying to force the penknife into himself with every incredible ounce of strength he had. Sam could feel the knife being pulled, millimetre by millimetre, further towards Hindsonn’s heart – and could do nothing to stop it.
The door burst open.
The young man Sam had first met stared at the scene and yelled, ‘Holy shit!’
Sam’s concentration broke.
Hindsonn’s hand completed its fatal journey, the penknife stabbing deep into his own flesh. Sam saw Hindsonn smile, heard the young man give another yell of dismay, saw Hindsonn crumple. He threw down his sword and leapt towards Hindsonn, to squat by his side.
The film was retreating from Hindsonn’s eyes, leaving normal human features. As the eyes changed, so did the expression, from smug grin to terror.
‘Time have mercy,’ whispered Hindsonn hoarsely as the blood poured from his self-inflicted wound. ‘The bitch killed me…’
‘Who? Who killed you?’
Hindsonn looked up at Sam. His mouth opened and closed, he tried to speak. ‘Come on,’ yelled Sam. ‘Who did this? Who – what – just possessed you, who killed you to stop you talking?’
Hindsonn raised a trembling hand, and pointed at something past Sam’s head. Sam half turned, to stare at the picture on the wall. It showed a bright, sunny landscape, maybe in Italy, with a willow tree hanging over a river and a young lady in white standing alone looking wistful.
Sam turned back to Hindsonn. ‘Tell me who did this!’
Hindsonn’s head lolled. ‘Jesus,’ whispered the young man. ‘Oh shit…’
‘Get an ambulance!’ yelled Sam, checking for a pulse, laying Hindsonn out flat. ‘Get one now!’
‘Shouldn’t we take the knife out?’
‘No, that’d let him bleed, get an ambulance!’
The young man ran. Blood was everywhere, soaking the papers, covering Sam’s hands. Swearing, Sam tugged his jacket off and wrapped it round the knife still sticking into Hindsonn, pressing it down into the wound to reduce the bleeding. ‘Come on,’ he muttered, ‘you can live, you know you can.’
Hindsonn didn’t stir. Sam drew his bloody hands back and looked deep within for his regenerative powers, ready to give them to Hindsonn if it would save the man’s life. The nephew reappeared in the door along with two other, large, men. ‘Get him!’ he shrieked, one trembling finger thrust at Sam.
Sam sprang back as the men barrelled into the room. He kicked the first man in the groin and hit the second with a frost spell. The young man began to back away, muttering, ‘Holy shit, who the hell are you…?’
Sam hit the man’s head with a disruptive spell, that sent his eyes rolling an instant before he slumped on to the stairs. Sheathing his dagger and brushing traces of magic light off his fingers, Sam turned back to stare at the picture on the wall.
Nothing. He had no idea what it meant. Had Hindsonn been possessed by Earth? Air? Water? Love? And even if he had been, Greater Powers couldn’t possess mortals unless the mortals actually gave them a way in. So why might Hindsonn have done such a deal?
Again he looked at the picture, trying to fathom it out. He saw the signature in the corner of the canvas. Keith Ware, 1994.
He looked back at Hindsonn. ‘You bloody fool,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘You sold
your soul to War. Are you the only idiot involved, or have all these Ashen’ia people done that?’
Crouching next to Hindsonn, he put his hands over the man’s injury. He knew he couldn’t just say ‘let it be healed’ and it would be. His only real healing abilities lay in his regenerative gift, something all Children of Time possessed.
He closed his eyes, searched for it, felt it answer, raised it to his fingertips ready to give it to Hindsonn. Heard the door open one last time. Looked up, the rainbow light at his fingertips dying, regenerative gifts settling down inside once more.
Timekeepers: Number 2 in Series Page 6