The Chosen Seed: The Dog-Faced Gods Book Three

by Sarah Pinborough

  The Glow stopped as abruptly as it had come. Finally Mr Dublin stood up. He was more than a little surprised – he’d seen them with the Glow before, of course, but never like this, not with someone so aware of its presence – and he’d certainly never seen one of them able to turn it off like that. Cassius Jones was controlling his Glow.

  Mr Dublin felt a small moment of sad admiration for Mr Bright, for how much work he’d put into tracking the bloodlines, creating this family. His jaw clenched. They needed the boy back – who knew what damage would be done to Jones when the Experiment started? They might need the boy to bargain with Him for a peace on their return … if they found the Walkways, of course. If, if, if …

  ‘It’s good to see you again, Mr Jones,’ he said, softly. ‘We were not formally introduced last time, when you were somewhat busy getting shot, and I was engaged in restraining Mr Bellew.’ He watched as the dark angry eyes remembered him. ‘That’s quite a healthy Glow you’ve got there,’ he continued.

  ‘Where’s Mr Bright?’ Cass growled.

  Mr Dublin was momentarily surprised – given the situation he had expected a more obvious question: What the hell are you doing to me? or Are you going to kill me? He’d obviously underestimated Jones’ hatred of the Architect. As it happened, he didn’t have exact answers to either of the expected questions; it very much depended on the Experiment.

  ‘Mr Bright is no longer anyone’s concern, least of all yours.’ Mr Dublin pushed his fine blond hair away from his eyes.

  Jones’ eyes narrowed. ‘Is he dead?’

  ‘No. I’m not a monster,’ he said, wondering why he felt the need to justify himself to this man. ‘We will be deciding what to do with Mr Bright shortly, once he has told us what we need to know. If our Experiment doesn’t work with you, then we will have no choice but to try it with him.’

  ‘You’re running the Network now?’

  Mr Dublin could clearly hear the disdain in Jones’ voice: he might think he hated Mr Bright, but there was a good measure of respect mixed in with it. Mr Dublin found himself smiling; this was not that far removed from his own feelings.

  He brought his features back under control and said, ‘The Network is not your business.’

  ‘Mr Bright fucking with my family has made it my business.’ Another flash of gold.

  ‘That was unfortunate,’ Mr Dublin said, ‘but it was also necessary.’

  ‘Go fuck yourself.’

  The unexpected crudeness made Mr Dublin flinch, and Mr Escobar stepped forward, one hand raised, ready to strike him, but Mr Dublin shook his head. They were about to cause Cassius Jones quite enough pain without inflicting any more, and to be fair, the man had every right to hate them all.

  A chilling scream cut through the walls, and Cass Jones froze.

  ‘We call this the Experiment.’ Mr Dublin waved a slim hand around the room. ‘You’ve come across it before, I think, although not so closely as now, obviously. Those students who killed themselves had all taken part in it. Sadly for them, with the help of our equipment they saw things their unformed minds could not cope with.’

  ‘Chaos in the darkness,’ Cass said softly.

  ‘Something like that, yes.’

  ‘You fucking bastards,’ Cass said softly but venomously. ‘They were just kids.’ The screaming along the corridor became more frantic and high-pitched, but this time Cass Jones continued his fruitless struggle against the straps.

  Mr Dublin was beginning to see why Mr Bright had been so interested in the Jones boys.

  ‘You can blame Mr Bright for what happened to them,’ he said, ‘and you need to know that we tried ourselves first – some of us, anyway. My own brother sits not so very far from this room after his attempt. Sadly, his mind was also destroyed.’

  ‘I hate to break it to you,’ Jones said, ‘but whatever you’re trying to do just isn’t working.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ Mr Dublin said more cheerfully. ‘Maybe with you it’ll be different.’

  ‘Why should it be different with me? What’s so fucking special about me?’ Jones was beginning to sound agitated and Mr Dublin smiled softly.

  ‘Let’s find out, shall we?’ He turned to the technician who had been waiting patiently by the bed. She picked up the eye mask and fitted it carefully, then reached for the headset, plugged it in and smoothed it over his skull.

  Jones’ breath was coming rapidly now, which reassured Mr Dublin: the man was afraid; Cassius Jones was human after all.

  He leaned in. Jones smelled of warmth and sweat and blood and tears. ‘Look for the lines,’ he said. ‘If you can’t find them, then scream into the Chaos: scream at them to open the Walkways for you. Let them know you’re there.’

  ‘What the fuck is all this about?’

  ‘I wish I could tell you everything you don’t know, Cassius Jones – I do think you’ve earned that much.’ Mr Dublin stood up. ‘But we just don’t have the time.’

  The technician flicked the switches and the machines hummed into life. On the bed, Cass Jones gasped and his back arched against the restraints.

  Satisfied that the equipment was working correctly, the technician left the room. She hadn’t said a word, and Mr Dublin wasn’t sure whether that was deferential politeness or self-preservation. Everyone who worked here knew the toll the Experiment took, and none of them wanted to end up on the sharp end of it themselves, so anonymity was probably wise.

  He turned to Mr Escobar. The swarthy man was staring at Jones’ juddering body in fascination and Mr Dublin wondered if he’d be so curious when Jones started screaming. He had no intention of being here for that himself; he would come back when this session was over. Cassius Jones wasn’t going anywhere, and he had other business to attend to.

  ‘You watch him,’ he said, and gestured for Mr Escobar to take his chair. ‘Call me if anything unusual happens. I’ll be back when it’s done.’

  It was a relief to be back out in the cooler air of the corridor, but he didn’t relax entirely until he’d left the Experiment floor behind.

  People always underestimated the curiosity of the young. Although it had been a very long time since they had been home, Mr Vine was still young, certainly compared with Mr Bright and Mr Dublin. As Mr Bright sat against the wall of the white cell and let his body scream silently at him after the enthusiastic ministrations of Mr Dakin, Mr Bright wondered at Mr Dublin’s stupidity. Leaving someone like him to be guarded only by someone like Mr Vine was a massive error of judgement. Or perhaps Mr Vine was Mr Escobar’s choice; that would make more sense. Mr Escobar was a warrior; he was used to inspiring loyalty in the young – it was the loyalty of the young that had probably brought Mr Vine to them in the first place. But it was a long time since they had been warriors, and now Mr Vine was simply a Second Cohort who suddenly found himself in the company of those who were legends. It was likely Mr Vine would not have seen anyone other than his section leader since their arrival, and now here he was, guarding the Architect. Of course he was curious. He was also clearly out of his depth.

  While Mr Dakin had been present, he’d no doubt stood tall, with his eyes straight ahead, but now that Mr Dakin had gone, Mr Vine was a different creature. The others had forgotten that in the eyes of the lower cohorts he and Mr Solomon and the First were magical; they were the stuff of myth. Familiarity may have bred contempt in those who knew them best, as proven by Mr Bellew and Mr Dublin, but to the rest they still shone.

  Mr Vine had left the small hatch in the door open, and after Mr Escobar had gone – and once his breath had returned – Mr Bright had started speaking quietly. Mr Vine hadn’t answered at first, but after a while his wide eyes had appeared in the window and it had become a conversation. He probably thought idle chatter wouldn’t matter; he had probably told himself he was just showing the fallen leader a little of the respect he deserved; lying to himself that he wasn’t actually doing anything wrong.

  They had talked of the old days, the journey, and how they had all sto
od as one against him. Mr Bright had spoken softly – because he hurt too much to do otherwise – and he had chosen his words wisely. When he mentioned Mr Dublin it was with affection, and a touch of pity. He maintained his superiority without ever mentioning it, and slowly he felt Mr Vine’s uncertainty about the coup growing.

  He remained sitting on the floor until Mr Vine ended his phone call outside, then he got to his feet, wiping away the smears of the blood that had leaked from his eyes during the questioning. It might have been a long time since they had been home, but Mr Dakin hadn’t lost any of the extraction tricks he had taught all that time ago, and he had not been happy that Mr Bright was not succumbing to them. Mr Bright had been quite surprised himself. Mr Dakin was very, very good at what he did.

  ‘What’s happening?’ he asked, when he reached the door.

  ‘They’ve brought someone in.’ Mr Vine licked his lips nervously, and the Glow flickered on and off at the corners of his eyes. ‘For the Experiment.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Some policeman, I think – they didn’t tell me his name. But they said he’d been at the hospital. Oh, and Mr Craven has died.’

  The pain eased as Mr Bright’s brain whirred. He didn’t care about Mr Craven; his death had only ever been a matter of time, and he had become a nuisance, but he found he did care that they had brought Cass Jones in.

  ‘It’s a mistake, you know,’ he said softly. ‘Cassius Jones can’t find the Walkways. The Experiment will destroy him.’

  ‘Then why are they trying it?’ Mr Vine’s question was aggressive, but underneath Mr Bright could hear his uncertainty.

  ‘Because he’s the bloodline. I should imagine they are hoping that in the absence of the First, or the boy who’s been kept pure – and only I know where they are – that somehow his blood will be recognised and the way home will be revealed.’

  ‘Why won’t it work?’ Mr Vine asked. ‘We need to get home – we need to stop the Dying.’

  Mr Bright said gently, ‘It won’t work because even if the Walkways back were blocked from His end – and logic has started to tell me otherwise – He doesn’t want peace; He wants to destroy us all. If Mr Dublin took five minutes to call the House of Intervention, he’d know this for himself, but Mr Dublin isn’t used to having to manage everything by himself. He doesn’t yet understand the necessity of always seeing the big picture – if I am to be entirely honest, though it pains me to say it, I truly do not believe that Mr Dublin is able to do what I do, especially not now.

  ‘At this moment, more than in any other time in our history, nothing is as it seems.’ Mr Bright voice was calm and steady, and he could feel Mr Vine hanging on every syllable. There was nothing that gave the young more confidence than knowledge, or at least the appearance of such. Unanswered questions scared them.

  ‘There is an emissary here,’ he continued, ‘but she has come quietly, and she has not yet sought us out. Is that not strange? Perhaps they came because they were summoned? And if a message were somehow sent home, to whom would he respond? Whom among us here does he care about? There is a game being played here, Mr Vine, and you need to think very carefully about which side you wish to choose. Let me help you with that choice.’ He paused and smiled.

  ‘I am fond of Mr Dublin – and I harbour no ill will towards him for this unfortunate turn of events. He truly believes that he is acting in our best interests, but he is grievously wrong, and that is why I have declined to tell him all that I know. He would not use that information wisely. Mr Dublin is not the leader to deal with this situation. I must go further and say that I am the only one who can prevent Armageddon coming for us – but I cannot do it alone. I am going to need the help of the man now in the Experiment – and I am going to need yours.’

  Mr Vine’s eyes widened, but still he continued to listen intently.

  ‘If we do not act immediately, the Experiment will destroy Cassius Jones, and then, no doubt, they will decide that it is my turn for that same fate, and I too will be left somewhere out there in the Chaos, screaming for all eternity. That is not your concern, but what should be is that very soon, as soon as he knows for a certainty that He can get home, He is going to arrive here with an army that we could never hope to match, and he will wreak such devastation here that he will leave nothing but a ball of sterile dust and a trail of broken bodies floating through space. They will die quickly. For us it will take longer – but die we shall; they will make it so, unnatural as that act is for any of us. He can and will kill us, and when he is done, He will turn his back and go home. His vengeance will be terrible, and it will be complete. Some – or at least one – might return with Him, but I can promise you that it will not be the likes of you or me.’

  He leaned in closer through the gap, and his breath warmed the young man’s skin as he spoke. ‘Remember Him, Mr Vine; remember why we did what we did. And trust in me, like you did back then.’ He paused to let his words sink in, then added, ‘Oh, I should have said—’ He paused and smiled, softly. ‘There is no such thing as the Dying, Mr Vine. There is only ennuie.’

  When Cassius Jones’ first scream echoed along the corridors Mr Vine finally unlocked the door.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Dr Tim Hask stood against the wall as DCI Ian Heddings tore DI Charles Ramsey to shreds, and although the senior officer never once addressed him personally throughout the entire tirade, Hask knew it was meant as much for him, no matter if he was only a consultant, not a member of the team. He could understand why; he’d spent so much time and effort here he felt like one of the Paddington Green boys these days. And of course it was a matter of record that, like Ramsey, he believed that there was some doubt as to the matter of Cass Jones’ charges of murder. On reflection, he thought it was quite an achievement on Heddings’ part that he hadn’t actively bawled him out yet.

  ‘So let me get this straight, just for my own sanity—’ Heddings paced from one side of his desk to the other. ‘You came out of Armstrong’s room and did not notice Cassius Jones coming the other way. He then had a nice cosy chat – for ten minutes, I believe? – with his ex-sergeant? And then he strolled out of the building and disappeared. And you didn’t see him?’

  ‘No, I didn’t!’ It was Ramsey’s third denial, and his eyes were blazing. ‘We were in with Craven when he died and all hell was breaking loose—’

  ‘—and we’ll come back to that craziness in a minute.’ Heddings poked a finger at Ramsey. ‘Bright lights and locked doors – what the hell is wrong with you?’

  ‘Listen, we weren’t the only people there,’ Ramsey started. ‘There were two sergeants, supposedly watching Armstrong’s and Craven’s doors – and they didn’t see Jones either!’

  ‘They don’t know him like you do.’

  ‘To be fair,’ Hask cut in, ‘everyone in the building was wearing masks and scrubs – except for me, thanks to my somewhat obvious proportions, it is extremely difficult to identify anyone, police, hospital staff or otherwise.’

  ‘Thank you, Doctor, but I did not ask your opinion. And now that Mr Craven is dead and DI Ramsey is suspended pending inquiry, I think perhaps it’s time we terminated your current contract.’

  ‘Suspended?’ Ramsey jumped to his feet again. ‘What the hell for? Because we didn’t spot Jones while we were dealing with the death of a suspect? It won’t stand up—’

  ‘You let a man – an ex-colleague from a station already fighting corruption charges – walk in and then leave right under your nose. This is a man wanted on charges of terrorism and murder, and on top of that, he was your friend and you think might be innocent. How the hell do you think that is currently playing out in the offices upstairs? What do you think they had to say to me about that? They think you let him walk – and if they don’t think that, then they think the newspapers certainly will, and you know what? I don’t disagree!’

  ‘What about Castor Bright?’ Hask asked. He felt slightly sorry for DCI Heddings. It was clear he’d taken a roast
ing from his superiors every bit as harsh as the one he was currently dishing out to Ramsey. ‘Anything on him?’

  ‘Forget about Bright,’ Heddings snapped.

  ‘What do you mean – how can we? He’s part of the investigation, regardless of Jones’ guilt or innocence.’

  ‘I mean, forget about him.’

  ‘Does he work for The Bank?’ Hask asked.

  ‘Bright is irrelevant: that’s what I have been told, that’s what the Commissioner was told, and that’s what I’m telling you.’

  ‘Really?’ Ramsey got to his feet. ‘Because normally when there’s that much telling going on, you find that the subject is really fucking relevant.’

  Even Heddings flinched at Ramsey’s cursing; it wasn’t normally the soft-voiced American’s style.

  ‘Just what the hell is going on here?’ Ramsey asked, ‘because I sure as shit don’t have a clue. Am I being suspended because Jones snuck into the hospital under my nose, or because I’m trying to find out more about someone who may well be responsible for several deaths, including setting Jones up?’

  Hask watched the two men staring so angrily at each other. Did Heddings even know the answer, or was he just doing what he’d been told to do?

  ‘Let’s just call it a bit of both,’ Heddings said eventually. His voice had softened, and maybe with those few words he’d already said more than he should. ‘The point is, you can argue about it as much as you like, but the situation isn’t going to change. But this will blow over in a few days, and you’ll be back. For now, I’ll assign Davies to the Jones case.’

  Ramsey let out a derisive snort. ‘He’s got no chance of finding him. From what I hear he couldn’t find his own asshole if he was buck-naked and standing over a mirror.’

  Hask held back his own laugh, but Heddings shrugged wearily. ‘Trying to find a police offer in this nick without a stain on his reputation wasn’t the easiest task. He’s the best I can do. Now go and enjoy a few days’ paid holiday. I wish to God I could.’