Waywalkers: Number 1 in Series

by Catherine Webb

  To his surprise and discomfort, Asmodeus laughed. ‘Don’t threaten me, old man,’ he said. ‘Your power is dwindling, everyone can see that.’

  ‘My power? Don’t you dare lecture me on my power, little demon, else you’ll discover exactly what it is that’s given me my name.’

  ‘Don’t threaten me!’ Asmodeus repeated, wrenching himself free from Sam’s grasp and skipping out of his reach. ‘I have more powerful friends than you.’

  ‘Who? Who told you I wasn’t coming back? Who was so sure I was going to die?’

  ‘You try to hurt me and they’ll hunt you down,’ warned Asmodeus. ‘I don’t know how you escaped them this time, but if you do me the smallest harm they’ll come after you. And they have no qualms about killing.’

  Sam raised his hands again, palms towards the demon Prince. As Michael had been all those centuries ago, Asmodeus was picked up and flung through the air. He thudded against a wall, where he dangled, feet trailing a few inches above the ground.

  ‘Tell me!’ roared Sam. His voice softened, became menacing and low. ‘I made your kingdom. With blood and ruthless war I made it, and if you think I’ll be inhibited about calling on that same blood and ruthlessness you clearly don’t understand the land you rule.’

  ‘You can’t touch me,’ sneered Asmodeus. ‘My friends will kill you if you do.’

  Sam brought a hand slashing down, and the demon’s head was flung round as though punched. ‘If I have to play by your rules to find the truth, so be it!’ he warned, bearing down on Asmodeus. ‘Tell me who your friends are! What man or woman has told you to go ahead with the war?’

  ‘Seth,’ whispered Asmodeus. He was bright with pride and glee. ‘Seth is fighting for my cause, Seth will redeem me.’

  Sam’s spell trembled, faltered. Asmodeus fell sprawling to the floor.

  Seth, Son of Night. So it was true what Bubble had said about Seth somehow sticking his nose into Hell business. Seth was doing what Sam had always dreaded – walking that last little step into his world.

  Why isn’t anyone interested in taking over the Earth?

  You’d rather they did?

  He hadn’t answered Annette’s question fully. No one takes over the Earth because it is a mere shadow of the glory of Heaven, twisted, transformed. And Hell is a crude shadow of Earth. If you cannot take Heaven, you reluctantly take Earth. If you can’t take Earth, you are desperate indeed to be forced to Hell.

  And now Seth, the ultimate recluse, suspected criminal, old-time friend of imprisoned mischief-maker Loki, was indeed interfering in Hell, in his Hell.

  ‘What did Seth tell you?’

  ‘He said his brothers were after you, that between them he and they would kill you. For plotting with a traitor princess. He said he would help lead my armies to victory.’ Asmodeus was glowing with triumph, mistakenly believing that he had in pay his very own Son of Time.

  ‘Why? Why the hell is Seth bothering with Hell? Hell is beneath him, he cares nothing for it! So why bother? What’s of value in Hell for him?’

  Asmodeus didn’t answer.

  ‘For Time’s sake! Do you want me to discharge the Light? And read the answer straight from your pathetic little mind?’

  ‘He’s… looking for power.’

  ‘That’s splendidly mysterious,’ Sam growled. ‘But now try being precise.’

  ‘It’s – he wants – a particular artefact.’

  ‘There are numberless “artefacts”, even in Hell. Some invented by bored witches to kill cockroaches, some devised by mad wizards to extinguish suns. What artefact could be so valuable that Seth would bother coming here, to wage proxy war… alongside you?’

  When Asmodeus didn’t immediately answer, Sam, losing patience, raised one hand. Light, not burning white, but gentle and warm, promising worse to come, sprang in his palm. ‘I will do it,’ he hissed. ‘Don’t think I won’t.’

  ‘The… fourth key.’

  ‘Fourth?’

  Asmodeus didn’t need to answer. He could see the fear in Sam’s eyes. But he spoke anyway, fascinated by the sudden terror that filled Sam’s gaze. ‘Cronus. He’s going after Cronus.’

  Sam took a seeming lifetime to answer. Several eternities, by the reckoning of his frozen heart. ‘Cronus? He wouldn’t… he doesn’t dare.’

  ‘We’re going to find Cronus,’ said Asmodeus softly, recovering himself at seeing Sam so affected by his words. ‘To overthrow Time, overthrow Fate, Destiny, Death… And you can’t stop it. You’ve nothing left.’

  ‘Cronus’s key… in Hell? That’s it, isn’t it? Cronus’s key is hidden in Hell, and Belial has refused to help Seth find it. So you’re helping him instead. That’s why you’re raising this army and going to this stupid war. You’re not marching to try and overthrow Belial, you’re out to take the key – that’s why Seth’s here!

  ‘You fool! You’re handing Seth the means to destroy us all! You’re giving him the army he needs to uncover the end of everything!’

  ‘Not everything,’ hissed Asmodeus. ‘The end of everything as we know it. Cronus is just another way of existence, another way of life, and he rewards his friends!’

  ‘Where is it? Where in Hell is the key? In the middle of the desert, buried under a few thousand tons of sand? In the mountains? In the Whirlpool Ocean, in Tartarus, in Pandemonium – where is it? Don’t think Seth’s above feeding you to the wolves if necessary. So where is the key?’

  ‘I don’t know! Only Seth does!’

  ‘You fool,’ whispered Sam. ‘You are going to die.’ As if such a small thing counted, in the face of the horror that now threatened.

  Asmodeus pulled himself upright, tilting his chin defiantly. ‘You dare not hurt me.’ Sam almost had to admire his stubborn stupidity.

  ‘I am not the one who will kill you. Either Belial, Seth or your own hand shall deliver the blow.’ It was a guess, not a prophecy, but Sam knew he was right. ‘There is nothing I can do to prevent it.’ Turning, he threw up his hands in despair, the doors opening before him at a silent command. ‘I tried to build a safe kingdom for you, but now there’s nothing more to be done! All I fight for now is my own!’

  ‘Lucifer!’ Asmodeus called, not knowing why as the dark shape stepped out of doors into the bitter cold.

  Sam spun, an accusing finger levelled at Asmodeus’s face, so that the demon almost ducked for fear that flame would spew from it. ‘You fool, Asmodeus! You small-minded, primitive fool! You’ve sold your whole land out as mercenaries to a battle being directed from another world!’

  ‘Lucifer!’

  Sam laughed and turned away, striding through the thick snow that swirled around him. ‘All those who would be safe leave this place!’ he yelled as he went. ‘Do not follow your Prince!’

  ‘Lucifer!’ Asmodeus shouted, running after him. Snow was falling more heavily yet, seeming to wrap itself round Sam as though trying to protect its master, until the only evidence of his existence was the voice resounding through the castle.

  ‘Run while you can! The Son of Night wears your crown!’

  ‘Lucifer!’ screamed Asmodeus as the guards flocked around him, uneasy and confused. ‘Lucifer, you’ve lost even your own battles! You’re nothing!’

  All that answered him was the gentle fall of snow, and when the guards broke down the door to Sam’s locked room, the bed was neatly made, the wardrobe empty.

  Even the fireplace was cold. Which was odd, for the fire had been burning only a few minutes before.

  FIFTEEN

  Defeat Revenged

  T

  he day before, in a large police station near Victoria where not much caused surprise any more, the senior officer on duty was asked to step into a room wherein the items of a travel bag had been laid out for his inspection.

  One silver sword, extremely sharp. One silver band that under any other name might be called a crown. Some clothes. And five passports, two in the name of Sam Linnfer, two in the name of Luc Satise, one in the name of Sebasti
an Teufel.

  A present to the law from an unidentified friend.

  A few hours later and the arrest warrant for Sam Linnfer had been issued. Not until the following day would Sam himself walk boldly into the police station, and leave with all his possessions.

  He had no more battles to fight that were not his own. Sam took comfort from that. In the past he’d sought company and friendship, and with these had come the responsibilities of help and caring. He’d even revelled in fighting other people’s battles, riding the bliss of faith in his friends. Faith had been a luxury often denied him, and in companionship at last he’d found some.

  But now that was over. The Moondance network was all but blown, Peter and Whisperer hostages against his good behaviour. Freya was dead. Seth, son of Night, was making his way, maybe with terrible intent, into the vacuum left too long in Hell by Sam himself.

  Seth, Odin, and Jehovah are all chasing after those keys. One of them murdered Freya. Oh, Light! All three of them, playing with fire!

  Yet, in this moment of loss, without his Earthly identities to hide behind, he had a reason to feel safe. Not happy or clean, but safe. Now all his enemies could do was hurt him – he had no weaknesses that were not his own.

  No weaknesses, bar one, whispered a little voice in his mind.

  There was a furious hammering on the door, combined with the buzz of a bell. Such scenes were not common in the quiet back streets of WC2. When, even so, there was no answer to his knocking, Sam moved into the middle of the street and tilted his head up to the window. ‘Annette!’ he yelled. ‘Annette, please open up!’

  No answer. He rushed back to the door and rammed his hand, palm-first, against the lock with enough force to send shudders up his spine. The lock clicked, the latch seemed to turn of its own volition and the door swung open. Sam took the stairs three at a time.

  The door to Annette’s flat was already open. Her servant stared accusingly down at him.

  ‘How did you get in?’ she demanded in her heavily accented English. ‘The mistress doesn’t want any visitors.’

  ‘Piss off!’ snapped Sam, shouldering past her and into the flat.

  ‘Hey!’ she exclaimed, trying to bar him by squeezing into successive doorways. Searching with the energy of a madman for Annette, Sam shoved by easily.

  ‘“Hey” has never been a word of power, and if it were you’d never gain mastery of it.’

  He burst through a door which she’d given away by guarding it too hard, and heard Annette’s voice even as he saw her. She was sitting up in bed, blankets pulled high and her thinning white hair brushed around her face as though it were a mane of pure beauty, cast down to highlight her looks to a bewitched suitor.

  ‘Leave us,’ she murmured to the girl, eyes not straying from Sam.

  At the click of the door Sam rushed to Annette’s side, searching her face, her mind, for any sign of harm, taking her ancient hands in his and laughing out loud in sheer relief. ‘I was afraid they might hurt you,’ he said. ‘I thought I might not find you after all.’

  Her face became serious. In a motherly tone she said, ‘What trouble have you got yourself into now, stupid boy?’

  If anything he laughed even harder. Through the mirth of relief he managed to explain, ‘I got shot, lost two battles at once and spent a week in a rubbish tip, regenerating.’

  ‘Ah. Playing the old games, even though you yourself are too old for them by far!’

  ‘I know, I know.’

  ‘And now the police are after you.’

  Sam’s laughter abruptly faded. ‘Say again?’

  ‘The police, young immortal. The keepers of the peace, the bastions of justice. They came here asking questions about you, saying I was a “known associate” of Luc Satise. They have your passports, your mixed identities. They have your sword and your crown and seem to have been informed by unknown sources that you killed someone.’

  His serious face matched hers perfectly, but where her eyes laughed and wept all at once, his held nothing but concern.

  ‘What did you tell them?’

  ‘Nothing. You were the nice young man who’d briefly dated my granddaughter, that was all I knew.

  ‘Then the other men came, asking about you. They seemed very angry. Does he have any doctors as friends; what are his favourite cities, can you give us addresses? I told them nothing, of course. I was just the harmless old lady who rambles on about nothing.’ She clenched her ancient fingers into a fist and with her free, trembling hand pulled his face towards her. ‘What have you done?’ she asked softly.

  ‘What else did they say?’

  ‘They said to tell you something, if you turned up here. To warn you that, though they had failed to kill you, they still had your friends in Kaluga. They said to tell you to keep clear.’

  He said nothing.

  ‘Luc? Luc, I loved you. When I go to Heaven or Hell, I’ll be waiting for you. What have you done?’

  He pulled away from her and headed for the door. ‘I came to be sure you were all right,’ he mumbled. ‘I was afraid they might have hurt you.’

  ‘We’re all young in Heaven. We’re all old in Hell. We can be old or young together. When you die. When you join me.’

  Sam turned in the doorway, and motioned as if to speak. He wanted to tell her that, if she just said the word, he would die. Never once come into her life again, be as a ghost.

  But he hadn’t the guts. What if he needed her again? What if something, that in reason couldn’t be predicted, forced the ghost to rise and fall like a yo-yo from the grave?

  So he said nothing.

  For her, he had said enough.

  I was afraid they might have hurt you.

  Annette smiled vaguely to herself, humming under her breath, and leant back against the mound of pillows as the door clicked shut. The immortal had been afraid for her life. She was content.

  So now Michael had seen to it that the British police were after him. Sam was grudgingly impressed. Sure, he was master of the art of constructive hindrance. Mortal police forces were nothing that couldn’t be dealt with by twenty years in another country or just a few burnt records. But he couldn’t deny the inconvenience.

  I’m being slowed down. The smart archangel can do the maths – say, a week regenerating, a day trying to get my bearings, another day trying to pick up my stuff, another day trying to find the trail again. Michael’s doing everything he can to throw me off without actually killing me.

  Good old Michael, I suppose. I can almost – but not quite – forgive you everything.

  The next problem was money. Sam had far preferred the days when he could wave his hands and produce the illusion of gold but, in these complicated times of machines and order, he’d found himself forced to open a bank account. And, to his shame, he had quietly tricked and coaxed his way into a fair fortune, which had been gathering interest for more years than Sam Linnfer’s birth certificate would suggest was possible.

  The account would be monitored, of that he was sure. But even in these days of machines and security, there were ways.

  He went first to an antique shop in one of the by-streets near Annette’s apartment. Waving away assistance from an odious young man who looked down at everyone who didn’t share his passion for prodigiously expensive Regency chairs and tables, he fell to studying a small statue. It was priced at five hundred pounds, hardly more than a foot tall and about as wide as his hand, and represented an improbably shaped woman wearing a necklace and little else. Sam studied it until his eyes ached, recalling every feature and contour, picking it up, feeling its weight, turning it over and over.

  When he left the antique shop empty-handed, the assistant openly glowered at this philistine – or miser – who’d been wasting his time.

  There was something strange about walking empty-handed through London – Sam, forever on the move, was used to a weight on his back. London itself had always been a safe city for him – its small side streets and sprawling suburbs had
offered numberless places to hide or run. The buses and underground system were complicated enough to lose any follower in, and the inner city of old, terraced houses was plain enough for a scry, no matter how skilled, to struggle when identifying any one address.

  But now he was on guard against anything and everything, sending searching looks at passers-by and pausing often outside shops to check who might have stopped with him. Scanning the sky for ravens. Probing the streets for spirits. Never finding anything.