“Marian?”
“The third of us. She was the most brilliant of our trio. She tried as hard as she could to find any other way, but in the end even she realised there was no other option.”
Protecting this person, or anyone else involved in Operation Blackstar, was not something I felt like doing. At the same time, if the consequences were as severe as he said, I had no choice. Whoever had killed the first cursed one would be coming here at some point.
I considered my options and came to a simple conclusion. This was the Section’s mess, so they could clean it up. I fished my phone out of my pocket. Flipped through my contacts to the number Moorecroft had given me. Hit dial.
Moorecroft picked up on the third ring.
“What is it, Jason?” he asked irritably, “This isn’t a good time. I’m at dinner.”
In the background I could hear subdued conversations and soft music. The light clattering of cutlery on plates and glasses being chinked. Wherever Moorecroft was, it sounded swanky.
“I need your help. It’s urgent.”
“It had better be,” Moorecroft replied.
“It’s about the Pryces. I have a witness here. Someone who knows all about what they’re up to. His life is in danger and he needs protection.”
There was no time to explain what was really going on, and it was unlikely Moorecroft would believe a word of it anyway. Telling him I had something on the Pryces was a sure-fire way to get his attention.
“A witness, you say?” Moorecroft considered.
“Yes.”
I heard Moorecroft take a gulp of liquid and imagined an expensive red wine.
“Well,” he said, “You have been busy since we last spoke. Tell me more.”
“There’s no time. This man is in imminent danger. We both are. You need to send a squad to pick us up and you need to do it now.”
“I hope this isn’t a wild goose chase,” Moorecroft replied, “I’d view that very poorly indeed.”
“It isn’t. I wouldn’t be calling if it wasn’t urgent.”
“Give me the address,” he said. I did so.
“High Wycombe. I can have a van there in an hour and a half. In the meantime, sit tight. We’ll pick you up and then I want a full report on all of this. Including what happened when you went dark yesterday at the Pryces’.”
“Fine,” I said and hung up.
“I don’t know anything about anyone called Pryce,” the man said, his voice querulous.
“Don’t worry about it. It was just the quickest way to get the section here. Trust me.”
He shrugged. Finished his tea. Got up to make another cup. The fear in his eyes had abated now he knew help was on the way. He asked if I wanted more tea. I shook my head. I didn’t want to be here at all, but at least I was halfway to fixing this mess.
Fifteen minutes passed.
The silence between us was broken by a terse text message from Moorecroft assuring me a squad had been dispatched. Another fifteen minutes passed. Time was crawling now. Ten more minutes.
I fidgeted, went out into the garden, left the man sitting inside. He had nothing more to say that I wanted to hear. Five more minutes. A car pulled up outside the front door with a screech and a brief flash of headlights. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up.
Something was wrong. I could just feel it.
The doorbell rang. I walked back inside and towards the front door. My instincts were on overdrive, my body was flaring up, getting ready to fight. The fire was there, for no reason other than every fibre of my body was screaming something is wrong!
Through the dirty glazed window in the front door I could see the shadow of a tall man.
“Is it them?” the man on the sofa asked.
The doorbell buzzed again.
“No,” I said, “it isn’t. Do not open the door.”
I rushed back into the living room, slid the large glass door closed. Pulled the curtains across.
I needn’t have bothered. The doorbell rang one last time and then the front door exploded inwards as it was impatiently kicked open.
I swore.
“What’s going on?” the man asked me. His voice was panicked, confused.
“Get behind me,” I said.
I lifted him off the sofa like I was picking up a teddy bear and pushed him back against the drawn curtains. I needed a weapon, something. Apart from the small television and the grubby little coffee table, there was nothing. I span round, looked up. The curtain pole was solid wood.
I tore the curtains down, bringing the wooden pole with it then pulled the curtain off. I was left with a makeshift quarterstaff about a metre and a half long. Not much but it would have to do. I didn’t know how to fight with a quarterstaff at all but figured that any weapon was better than none.
A tall, thin, dark-skinned man in a pristine white suit stepped into the dirty room. He had a hard face, eyes that took in the space with a cynical glance. He was carrying a thick, ornate black blade that was thirty centimetres long and about ten centimetres wide where it connected to the hilt.
I faced him, my makeshift weapon raised. The man gave me a sardonic glance. I stood my ground as Paul cowered behind me.
“You must be Jason,” the man said.
His voice was terrifying. It wasn’t one voice at all; it was several, all speaking at the same time, some whispering, some sounding as if they were screaming a long way away – like from the pits of hell. It was as if there were a thousand trapped souls within him all repeating his words. The effect sent a shiver up my spine.
“Get out,” I said, “Section 19 will be here any second. They’ll put you down in a heartbeat.”
“A second is all I need,” the man said in his many voices, “Get out of my way.”
“No.”
He ran towards me suddenly, his free hand raised to counter my staff, his knife drawn back. I swung as hard as I could, catching him across his right cheek with the curtain rail. He staggered back, his cheek bleeding.
“Kid,” my opponent said, wiping the blood from his cheek, “This is your last chance to walk away from this.”
I didn’t move. I wasn’t scared of him – or of anything. The fire had taken over me, adding reckless confidence to my anger. I was ready to fight. Hell, I wanted to fight. After the past ten days of fear and uncertainty, after everything that had happened with Kate and Dee, after being bullied and scared half to death, I genuinely wanted a fight.
I guess having beaten Major Wilson had given me a taste for it.
The tall, thin man twisted. Shifted. Horns sprouted and muscles bulged as his already dark skin turned jet black, hardening as it did so. Teeth sharpened, claws extended and his eyes glowed red.
Bring it on!
He charged at me.
I jabbed him with the staff as he tried to slice me with the black blade. I dodged to one side as the blade whistled through thin air, caught him on his shoulder with my staff. I barged forwards with my shoulder, slamming him into the far wall.
He recovered quickly, ducking my next swing with the staff and punching me hard in my stomach. I staggered backwards, winded. The demon smacked the staff out of my loosened grip and made for a slice with his blade that I just managed to avoid. I lashed out with my left arm, swinging it around and hitting him on the side of his face. He grunted in surprised as I backhanded him, caught off-guard by my speed and strength.
I felt a split second of pride. Despite not being used to fighting, and despite being up against a hard as nails demon, I was holding my own.
The demon stumbled away from my backhanded punch. I leapt forward, staff forgotten, and aimed another blow at his head with my right fist. I hit him in the face with everything I had.
Or I would have done if he hadn’t ducked out of the way at the last second.
Instead I hit the solid brick wall behind him - with all the strength I possessed.
Remember how I said my bones break just the same as anyone else’s?
/> I broke my hand against the wall. Broke my arm. Pain shot through my body. I screamed as my forearm crumpled in front of my eyes and splintered bone burst through the skin in a bloody shower.
The demon wasted no time pressing his advantage. The thirty-centimetre blade sliced into my stomach, going so deep that I felt it scrape against my spinal column. He twisted the blade, causing me to scream again as I slumped to my knees. Then he pulled the knife out.
Blood spilled from my guts, my right arm was shattered and useless. I crumpled into a corner, clutching the wound in my stomach, unable to do anything but watch as the demon turned his attention to the cursed one.
“Stop,” I croaked.
Paul scrabbled at the door, trying to slide it open, but in his panic he couldn’t manage it.
“Please,” he whimpered.
The demon drove the knife under the cursed one’s chin and up into his brain.
He was killed instantly.
Chapter Thirty Five: Shooting Scooby
I sat on the dirty carpet, blood pouring between my fingers. The pain wasn’t as severe as it should have been, probably because I was going into shock.
The demon pulled the blade free of the cursed one’s skull and the corpse dropped to the floor.
The demon walked past me.
“Two down, one to go,” he said as he shifted back into human form, “If you survive, stay out of my way.”
He left me alone with Paul’s body, blood seeping underneath my clothes, a dark stain blooming on the carpet around me. Excruciating pain tore through me if I moved. I tried to get up, failed. I’d never suffered injuries like this before and didn’t know if my healing abilities could handle them, or if I’d die from blood loss before they had time to kick in. I tried to reach my mobile phone with my left hand into my right pocket, but as soon I took pressure off the wound, blood flowed freely.
I felt faint.
I knew I was dying.
This was the end of my story, lying here bleeding out in an ugly little semi-detached house in a small English town, having failed to stop the bad guy from completing his mission.
“Great work, Jayce,” I muttered, “James Bond is handing in his retirement letter, now you’re on the case.”
I was a little delirious. I had one thing going for me, which was that Section 19 was on the way. How long had it been? An hour and twenty minutes? Could I hold on for another ten minutes?
I tried to get up again. Failed again. The pain had given way to a strange warmth, which in my dazed state I thought was quite nice.
Then it occurred to me that the heat wasn’t coming from inside me. It was being generated from somewhere in the room. I looked around, confused. There was no fire. Had someone turned the radiators on in the meantime? Why would they do that? It didn’t make any sense. Man, it was getting really hot in here. And there was a warm wind blowing. That didn’t make any sense either.
I heard a popping sound, like a hundred overloaded lightbulbs burning out at once. White streaks of electricity danced around Paul’s body, rising up from it. Killing him had released a burst of magical power, which crackled and span and grew into a white-hot circle maybe two metres in diameter. A portal. I watched it with astonishment. The opaque, white energy circle span and twisted before my eyes. It became translucent and I glimpsed the world on the other side. A field of gold. A mountain in the background. Trees like broken fingers in front of a rich red skyline. Shadows stalking the land.
The portal twisted again.
A single paw, roughly the size and shape of a large dog’s stepped through from the other side of the portal to this one. A snout appeared. A snout that I recognised.
“Oh, come on. You have got to be kidding me.”
A demon hound, the same thing that had chased me around school, stepped through the portal and into the living room. The portal sputtered, twisted one last time and closed behind it, all the energy spent.
“Come on,” I laughed, “Come on, can I seriously not catch a single break today?”
The demon hound looked at me curiously. Sniffed the air. Turned to look at the corpse behind it. Nudged it with one paw.
“Easy boy,” I said through the pain, “Easy there...”
The demon hound slobbered a huge tongue over Paul’s face. I couldn’t tell if it was trying to wake him up or figuring out what he tasted like. Maybe both. It sniffed Paul’s body, appeared satisfied he was dead, then turned its attention to me. It ambled over in my direction, sniffing.
“Okay, fella,” I said, “Let’s see if we can work something out here, how about that?”
The makeshift staff I’d fought with was out of reach and I wasn’t in any shape to stand up, never mind run.
“Hey, let’s, you know, be friends. How does that sound?”
The demon hound stuck its snout on my fingers which were pressed against my wound.
“Hey, ouch, no, that hurts!”
The demon hound pulled back. Looked me in the eyes. Now that one of these things wasn’t chasing me, it was almost cute. Still huge and terrifying, but hey, I’ve seen dogs the size of small horses that scared me.
The demon hound nudged my broken hand. I winced in pain.
I think the damn thing wanted me to stroke it.
“Sorry old boy. No stroking for you I’m afraid. I broke one hand on a wall and the other one is the only thing keeping me from bleeding to death.”
The demon hound looked at me quizzically as I rambled. Then it opened its mouth and licked the side of my face with its slobbery tongue.
I giggled in semi-disbelief.
“Oh, yeah. That’s what I need to make my life less complicated. A demon hound for a pet. I’m sure Mum will love that, Scooby. Do you mind if I call you Scooby? Not very original I know but it’s the best I’ve got right now.”
I could feel myself slipping away as Scooby stood beside me. He made a purring noise.
“Hey! You can’t purr, you’re a hound, not a cat! Show some dignity...”
Scooby ignored me and purred again. He nuzzled my face. It tickled.
“No self-respect,” I sighed.
My vision was fading and I knew I was a goner.
At which point the Section 19 squad finally showed up. They shot Scooby thirteen times until he was dead as dead can be. I looked up to see four men in the section’s standard black uniform.
“You killed Scooby,” I said indignantly, “That wasn’t very nice!”
“The kid needs medical attention, stat,” one of the soldiers said. I vaguely recognised him. The squad leader who’d put me in a cage and driven me to their base.
One of the men checked Paul’s body for a pulse.
“He’s dead,” I said, unnecessarily, “Do you think I could have a milkshake?”
Before you ask, I have no idea what that last sentence was about. I’d lost a lot of blood by then and was babbling. I’m really glad I didn’t die, though, because as last words go ‘Do you think I could have a milkshake?’ is hardly up there with the best of them. How would Mum have reacted if it had got back to her? She’d have spent the rest of her life wondering if she hadn’t given me enough milkshakes when I was alive, and whether I’d secretly resented her for it. (No, really, she would have done. That was the kind of stuff that Mum worried about.)
The last thing I heard as I lost consciousness was; “We need to get him to a hospital, right now.”
So, yeah, like I said sometime earlier:
That was one truly messed up Sunday.
Part Three
Chapter Thirty Six: The Hospital
“This is all my fault.”
That was the first thing I heard when I came round. I was lying in a hospital bed, Mum sitting by my side holding my hand, blaming herself for the mess I was in.
My eyelids were heavy and I was woozy from whatever drugs the hospital had given me. A saline drip stood beside my bed, a needle through my arm. The stab wound to my stomach had been stitched together. There was
a dull ache there, but it was already healing of its own accord. My broken arm was in a cast, and I could feel the splintered bones knitting together, the flesh remoulding.
A day, maybe two and I’d be as good as new.
Mum had been called when I’d been admitted to Wycombe General Hospital. The soldiers had driven me straight there, figuring it was my best shot at survival. After that they’d driven off to another assignment. I’d been unconscious for all of it. Section 19 had done what they do to keep the police out of it. The usual cover-up. I was surprised they weren’t at the hospital, but they were dealing with other things and I was a low priority.
Mum looked worn out. Her normally sunny disposition had given way to tiredness. She wasn’t angry with me. She was just sad and blaming herself.
“Mum, don’t say that. Please. It isn’t your fault,” I mumbled through thick lips and a dry mouth.
Mum gripped my hand tighter, shook her head.
“It is all my fault. This is all because I didn’t tell you the truth. I was keeping things from you and you became angry because of it. Rebellious. Now you’re running around getting into all this trouble and telling lies and getting stabbed and I know, I know it’s all my fault.”
“Mum, this really isn’t your fault,” I repeated.
I waved at a nearby plastic cup of water and Mum held it to my mouth as I took a few sips. I propped myself up on the hospital bed, wincing. Through the chemically induced brain fog, I recalled the events of yesterday. The cursed one. The demon. Scooby getting shot by Section 19.
That last bit still annoyed me.
“You’ve always been such a good boy, Jayce,” my mum said sadly, “I don’t understand how you can be getting into all this trouble. Is it something to do with drugs? Are you in trouble with some gangsters or something? That Victoria...” once again, expletives deleted “...has she got something to do with this?”
“Mum, I promise you, this has got nothing to do with drugs or gangsters or whatever. I was trying to help someone who was in danger. I wasn’t supposed to get hurt. And seriously, you need to let the Victoria Pryce thing go, it really isn’t what you think.”
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