Waywalkers: Number 1 in Series

by Catherine Webb

  Sam didn’t waste time. He went straight to the local pub, bought half a pint of Guinness and a packet of peanuts and, when they were both consumed, went to use the pub’s toilets. They were small, grungy, and had space for only one man. But they had locks on the doors, and were dark enough for his purposes. He scryed.

  Gabriel. Gail. Whoever you are. Whoever it was who must have tried, and failed, to protect Andrew. If they know where you are, then I need to know too. I need to get to you first, whatever the cost. Helllllooo, anyone out there, or must I discharge the Light and read the minds of men to get what I want?

  Images, feelings, sounds, the scry picking out piece after piece and slowly assembling them into an image of Gail-Gabriel. Archangel. Helllllooo…

  And suddenly, as he’d known there would be, a shield, barring his way, sending his mind back with a jolt, and cutting off all access to the focus of his scry. As in Moscow he searched for the markers, opened himself to them, whispered, Here I am. I am a friend. The shield parted. He passed through, felt life moving beneath him, soared like a bird, sped towards his target, and hit another shield. He hammered against it with futile strength, but it didn’t break. He searched it for markers, felt them, heard them whisper, Enemy. Felt magic gather to repulse him, shielded, bared the storm, attacked, bared again. All to no avail. He knew it was going to be no use. He saw the way the inner defence had been constructed, just inside the primal, friendly shield and almost welded to its shape, so that anyone breaching the first would still be unable to penetrate the second.

  He knew who’d made it too. The smell of the magic on it, the way it had been constructed, all fluid lines, traditional curves, no imagination, no spark, just stodgy laws of warding applied by a careful, well-trained practitioner. He recognised that structure. He could name the Waywalker who made it. Jehovah. Jehovah was keeping him out, Jehovah knew that he’d come, Michael must have told him… cutting off his way to Gabriel.

  To Gabriel.

  Archangel.

  This time he didn’t bother with aeroplanes. He had no passports and the money he’d conned would not suffice. He went straight to a Hell Portal and Waywalked calmly and at a steady pace to a Portal in an isolated cave near, but not in, Gehenna.

  A flock of white bat-like creatures, all pointed teeth and hooded eyes, erupted from the cave mouth in a rush as he came out through the Portal. The cold hit him like a fist; his clothes were far too thin to keep him warm for the long minutes he stood there, heaving in great breaths and trying to forget the haunting voices from the Way that clung to him like spider’s silk. He could distantly, oh so distantly, hear the sounds of the city, but he didn’t go to investigate. Hell was not his concern any more. Maybe later, yes, but not now. Not with Seth on the scene; clever, cunning Seth.

  When he turned again to face the Portal he was shivering, his breath condensing in front of his pale face. He dug around in his bag until he found a second overcoat to pull on over his first, a long scarf of the rag-tag variety that he preferred, and a large hat. Hitching the bag back on his shoulder, without further ado he marched straight back into the Portal. He knew that if he stopped to stare at the Portal and work out what he was doing, he’d never go.

  As the shadows tore at him and the mist filled his lungs with burning fire, some part of Sam felt strangely happy. He was at war again. Michael had shot him, Seth had invaded his world. But somehow, through it all, he’d found out who his enemies were. Odin, Jehovah, Seth. He had purpose and direction at last.

  Sam Linnfer broke from the Portal once more, into Russia.

  Maria was a strange spirit, as spirits went. Most of her kind were restless, always drifting through the Way of Fey in search of something to satisfy their eternal curiosity. But not her. She had long ago discovered that if you sat in one place you could watch the world change around you, rather than go searching for it. She found this gradual change more interesting than wandering around, rootless and uncertain. Maria had sat through the revolutions of 1917, through the German invasion, through the ending of Russian communism. She had watched buildings rise and fall, known everyone who ever passed down the small street outside her flat, and even done the unthinkable – taken a part-time mortal job. For two days a week she was an usher at the theatre, and it was something she adored. Not only was there a pageant of human life, as people went to and from their seats, but by using some not-quite-mundane inspiration she’d been able to sneak into almost any performance.

  Maria was, as some said with disgust, a mortal-lover.

  She lived in a small block of flats overlooking a road that never had more than two or three ramshackle vehicles on it at any hour. So she was surprised one cold evening to observe a new car, a red one, pull up beneath a street lamp and let out a passenger. His face was hidden beneath a large hat, and on touching him her questing mind encountered nothing. Not a shimmer of power, mortal, immortal or spiritual, but neither the open book that most mortal minds offered. Blankness.

  She watched this strange figure move towards the block of flats, staying in the shadows at all times. Saw his dark shape stoop by her car and look at it with his head on one side, as though listening for something. He straightened again, and stared straight up at her window. She jumped back instinctively, pulling the curtains shut. Then chided herself for being a nervous fool. Tweaking the curtains aside again, she peered down into the street, but the man was gone.

  Scared people often shrug off their fear as fantasy, and this was exactly what Maria now did. Returning to the kitchen of her cramped flat, she picked up the book she’d been reading and settled down by the small gas fire for a pleasant night acquainting herself with her latest hobby – mortal literature.

  There was a knock on the door. She rose quickly, her spirit curiosity overcoming her nerves. At the door she peered through the spyhole. A man in a long black coat was standing with his back to her and his head turned away, as though examining the stairwell.

  She opened the door – and wasn’t sure what hit her. One second the stranger was doing a good impression of a lost tourist, the next his foot was in the door and his face was contorted in a look of such ruthless determination that she nearly screamed.

  In stunned silence she took in the black clothes, black eyes, black hair and black expression of the man she’d tried to lead to his death. Then she did scream, raising her hands in warding. Her element came to her aid: a sphere of water erupted from her hands and locked around Sam’s mouth and nose – but he simply shook his head and it shattered.

  As Whisperer controlled fog, so she controlled water, and the ease with which he’d destroyed her only good spell made her feel nauseous with dread. Her scream rose louder as he barged in through the door, kicking it shut behind him, grabbed her arm and threw her bodily into the nearest room, which turned out to be the bathroom. She kicked and punched but he was far stronger, throwing her to the floor, locking her knees in his own and pinning her arms to her sides.

  A dagger was at her throat. She knew it was his dagger, the kind of weapon which would end any life, spirit or otherwise.

  ‘Shut up!’ he yelled in her face.

  ‘I had to do it!’ she wailed. ‘They gave me no choice!’

  He must have hit her, for she remembered feeling pain, real pain, delivered with a precision that a mere mortal fighter could never have managed. Sam knew where and how to hurt spirits.

  ‘Where did they take them? Where is Whisperer?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she whimpered.

  Pain again, this time of a mental kind as a spell flashed across her.

  ‘Look,’ hissed Sam. ‘I am Satan, I am the Devil. I am everything that Heaven reviles, and I have been stripped of everything but the clothes I stand up in.

  ‘Don’t think that, bereft as I am, I’ll let myself be bound by morality. I don’t wish to be what they say I am. But if that’s what works, then I’ll be ten times worse than any story preached from a pulpit. Do I make myself clear?’

  She n
odded, terrified.

  ‘How do you contact someone who knows where they are?’

  ‘I was given a crystal. They’ll come to me.’

  ‘Good.’ He reached for her face.

  As she realised what he was going to do, she began to kick and struggle again, screaming at the top of her voice. But to no avail, as he laid his hands across her forehead and dived into her mind, tearing through her shielding as though it wasn’t even there.

  It was the ultimate shock of violation and she turned rigid as his voice spoke to her from inside her head.

  She felt her body relax beneath him, even as inside she fought and fought. But his grip was relentless. He didn’t violate her memories or listen to her thoughts; nonetheless the horror of having any presence, however restrained, inside her, controlling her, made her want to shriek at the unmerciful fates which had allowed this insult.

  She felt Sam release her, stand up. But she was still unable to move, so firm were his controls. He spoke carefully, syllable for syllable, as he struggled to keep his grip absolute on Maria’s mind. He could feel her memories and thoughts calling to him, but firmly evaded them. Few people, spirits included, recovered from having their whole mind taken.

  ‘Get up.’

  She rose, expressionless, hands hanging limp at her side.

  ‘Get the crystal.’ He followed her from the bathroom into her bedroom – and marvelled at it. Pictures painted by mortals, mortal books, even a television set and radio. Most spirits recoiled at the mere idea of such things.

  She unlocked a box, moving like a zombie, and held out a small, palm-sized crystal.

  ‘Call the contact. Tell him you urgently need to meet him.’

  Without a flicker, without a pause, she cupped her hands round the crystal and closed her eyes. Between her fingers he saw a brief, faint glow. Their communication lasted all of a second.

  Wordlessly she returned the crystal to the box.

  ‘When will he get here?’

  ‘Half an hour.’

  ‘What’s his aspect?’

  ‘He controls the fog.’

  ‘What? Was he the one who summoned fog on the day I arrived in Kaluga?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He looked thoughtful for a moment, but said only, ‘Are there securities?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He’ll simply knock on the front door?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He nodded faintly, and raised his hand to her forehead again. Her eyes flickered shut and with a faint sigh she slipped to the floor. Sam hastened to gag and bind her, before rolling her under the bed. He released the controls from her slumbering mind, leaving only a command to sleep for five hours.

  That done, he went into the kitchen and made himself a cup of coffee, taking it through to her tiny sitting room, where he pulled one chair up to the table and placed another opposite, in the manner of an interrogator preparing for his subject.

  There was a knock on the door. Going over to check the spyhole, he observed – both with his mind and his physical eyes – the heavily coated figure, pale-faced like Whisperer, whom he remembered from his last encounter with Michael. Opened the door.

  ‘Good evening,’ Sam said politely. The spirit turned, his mouth opened, raising his hands in defence just as Maria had done. But Sam was already there, lunging to catch the spirit in a grip of magic that lifted him off his feet and dangled him.

  With a click of his fingers Sam produced a fine flame in the palm of his hand. Unnecessarily showy, perhaps, but he wanted to impress.

  ‘Make one sound and you become the latest case of unexplained spontaneous combustion.’

  The spirit wisely stayed silent.

  ‘Shall we?’ The spirit was dropped to his feet again. For a second he looked like he might bolt. But Sam’s faint smile and the way he tossed a fireball from hand to hand as though it were a cricket ball and he was about to bowl a googly, made the spirit think better of it.

  ‘Inside.’ Sam’s voice was harsh despite his smile that never once flickered. The spirit edged through the door, jumping as it slammed shut behind him.

  ‘Into the sitting room. Sit down.’

  Sam took the seat opposite the spirit and gently flicked the fireball on to the table between them, where it bounced then hung in the air, spinning slowly and giving off the occasional rosy spark.

  ‘I really am so grateful you could come,’ said Sam, reaching to take a sip from his coffee. The spirit shifted uneasily, still not saying anything. ‘Now, let’s get some rules straight, shall we? You call for help and you become a fireball. You get off that chair and you become a fireball. You use unpleasant language or attempt to lie to me and enough of you becomes a fireball so that you’ll never heal the wound but never die either. You try to attack me and you become a fireball. You try to use your aspect and’ – his smile widened – ‘you become a fireball.’

  He folded his hands in front of him on the table, fingers laced together and almost touching the still-spinning fire. ‘So. Where are Whisperer, Peter and Andrew?’

  To his credit, the spirit spoke defiantly. ‘What have you done to Maria?’

  ‘She’s sleeping. You think I’d kill her? For what? Being forced into acting like an idiot with the rest of you? No.’ He leant forward, and now there was no smile on his face. ‘Look. I’m the Devil. I’ve had centuries of people telling me what it is I’m supposed to do and centuries of telling them no. But in this case I’m willing to make a small exception. Just for once I’m ready to prove those nice little stories about me are true. This is a fate which, if I were you, I would seek to avoid.’

  The spirit hung its head. ‘I can’t tell you where the mortal is. Only the archangel Michael knows. I do know that he’s very ill and might die. The Firedancer’s poison is stealing his life bit by bit. The archangel is trying to save him, because he knows where the shield came from that protected him. But thc others – yes, I can show you where they are.’

  ‘Before you volunteer to show me anything, tell me how it’s guarded. And remember, I don’t like lying.’

  ‘Three spirits and two mortal wizards. That’s all, I swear.’

  ‘Right!’ Sam rose to his feet. ‘And no tricks.’

  ‘Who can trick a Son of Time?’

  ‘Another Son of Time, since you ask, but yes.’ Sam gulped down the last of his coffee and indicated the door. ‘Shall we?’

  SEVENTEEN

  Immortal Avenged

  T

  he spirit drove. Sam watched, keeping his sword drawn across his lap. After half an hour of driving through the Moscow streets, made empty by the lateness of the hour, they pulled up in front of a night club with flashing neon signs and pounding music. A wall of muscle stood in the door, ready to repel unwelcome clubbers. Nearby a lorry was unloading crates of cat food for a supermarket. A couple of beggars slumbered on a doorstep. But it was to a flight of stairs leading to a basement that Sam’s spirit guide pointed.

  Sam could sense, as promised, three spirits and two human wizards. Beyond them, inside a warded room, he caught the faint tinge of dead leaves, and the smell after rain, sneaking through their shields. The humans felt asleep, but spirits rarely slept.

  ‘Why did Michael keep them alive?’ he asked softly.

  ‘He doesn’t like killing spirits. And though they’re loyal to you, he thought you might not be alive for much longer.’ The spirit was unafraid to speak the simple truth, knowing that Sam could feel it as such.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Sam. ‘You fill me with confidence. Now tell me one more thing: Is the archangel collaborating with the Firedancers?’

  ‘No.’

  Sam was surprised, but he didn’t let it show. ‘How interesting,’ he said finally. Then, ‘Thank you, I think you’ve been a help.’ He laid one hand gently on the other’s shoulder. The spirit shuddered at Sam’s touch, closing his eyes as he steeled himself for what he thought would be death.

&nb
sp; ‘I do hope you have a nice day.’ Sam triggered the spell. The spirit pitched forward, unconscious, head slamming against the horn. Hastily Sam moved him, to sprawl across the two front seats. Locking the car behind him, he walked, sword in hand for all to see, towards the club. The bouncer on the door stared at this figure in black with a mixture of disbelief and uncertainty. He looked almost relieved when Sam, with a pleasant smile, turned away from the door and jogged down a flight of slippery iron steps into the blackness of the basement area.