The Chosen Seed: The Dog-Faced Gods Book Three

by Sarah Pinborough

  Cass stared out at the road. The car was suddenly filled with the ghosts of his family, all pawns in this game of Mr Bright’s. He was almost afraid to look in the rear-view mirror in case he saw Christian’s bleeding eyes there, or his father’s burned and tortured face. Of all the outcomes of this conversation, he hadn’t expected affection to be at the bottom of everything.

  ‘If this is how you treat the people you care about,’ Cass muttered, ‘then I’d hate to see what you do to the people you hate.’

  Mr Bright chuckled, a soft, humorous sound that invited company. Cass figured he could wait a lot longer if they were going to share a laugh together. There was far too much unfinished business between them.

  ‘If what you said was true,’ he said, ‘and Luke isn’t Luke but is this First, as you call him, then where is my nephew?’

  ‘He’s safe.’

  ‘How could you have done that to him? A little boy?’ The soft chuckle and the cruelty of that crazy act just didn’t fit together. What was Bright, a psychopath? That wouldn’t surprise Cass at all.

  ‘I have had to do a lot of things that normal people would be ashamed of. After a while you learn not to think of them; instead you instead focus on the greater good.’

  ‘Whose greater good?’

  ‘That is the eternal question, isn’t it? I like to think of it as the global greater good – both yours and ours, although sometimes it’s more for one than the other, and although I would be lying if I said I ever put humanity’s causes above our own – and I have never lied to you, Cassius – but I find that the two are often in tandem. What I did to Luke, however,’ his voice softened, ‘I did to save my friend’s life. It was as simple as that. There were other benefits of course; he’s our leader, but for me, I did it to save my friend’s life.’

  ‘It doesn’t look like he’s very grateful.’

  ‘No.’ Mr Bright turned away and looked out the window. ‘But what’s been done can be undone. And no one ever crosses me twice.’

  They drove in silence for a while, only the bumps in the road and the throb of the engine punctuating their journey. Cass’ head was still spinning, but he thought maybe it was whirling so fast that it was achieving some kind of stillness. Mr Bright was perhaps not the monster he’d believed all these years – could anyone ever be that bad? No one ever crosses me twice. Maybe they were more similar than Cass was ready to face. He couldn’t deny that even with the story of Luke’s body-swap he felt a strange comfort having Bright there, almost like a brother. Was that the Glow in him recognising one if its own? Is that what everything always came back to?

  ‘He had no glow,’ he said after about ten minutes. The words came almost out of nowhere. ‘It’s why I shot him. He had no glow.’

  Mr Bright turned and stared at him. After a while he nodded as if what Cass had said had made perfect sense. He leaned forward and turned the radio on and Bing Crosby filled the car singing of chestnuts roasting on an open fire, and Cass’ heart ached to enjoy it. He wondered if he’d ever get such simple enjoyment again – but had he ever? Memories of family Christmases flashed behind his eyes, his parents, his wife, Christian, Jessica and the Luke-who-wasn’t-Luke, but he’d loved him anyway. His own laughter had always rung false, and he’d always felt a slight relief when the holiday was over and the world could settle back down to its uneasy discomfort.

  ‘I love Christmas.’ Mr Bright smiled. ‘So many happy memories.’

  Cass almost laughed aloud at the irony. The song faded and the news came on. Two minutes later, as the report finished, all thoughts of Christmas had been driven from Cass’ head and his heart thumped, this time with a modicum of excitement. Ramsey had been thrown off his case for thinking he was innocent? And Hask’s contract with the Met had been cancelled? They believed a powerful unknown man was being protected by both the government and the police? Suddenly Cass had allies. It made sense: he’d been in the hospital when Craven had died; he had seen the light under the door. Whatever Ramsey and Hask had seen in there, they knew it wasn’t normal – none of this was normal, and so the idea of Cass being set up had stopped being so preposterous.

  ‘Sounds like your friends are almost as dogged in their investigations as you are,’ Mr Bright said with a wide smile. ‘That’s good. Why don’t you call them? We need to know about this man called Jarrod Pretorius, where we can find him. He’ll be in a facility somewhere – mathematics perhaps, science definitely.’

  ‘Not yet,’ Cass said. ‘Not until I see what’s happened at the house. If Luke is fine, then you’re on your own with all of this.’

  Mr Bright might have thought they’d bonded, but as far as Cass was concerned they were still standing on very different sides of the line. Mr Bright had taken Luke, and that was unforgivable. It had to be.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Cass was still ringing the bell and banging on the front door when Mr Bright pulled his arm gently away and suggested they try the back door. ‘You’ll bring the whole village out if you keep making that much noise,’ he added.

  Without a word Cass turned away and jogged down the narrow pebbled path that ran alongside of the house. There was a waist-high wooden gate, only enough to stop a small child or a pet getting out, and as it swung open on well-oiled hinges Cass’ heart ached. He could think of no reason why Father Michael wouldn’t open the door, so someone must be stopping him. Or have stopped him.

  He peered through the kitchen window, but the lights were off and all he could make out were a couple of mugs sitting on the table. His palms sweating, conscious of Mr Bright’s cool presence just behind him, he twisted the handle. The back door was unlocked.

  Inside the house, the heating was on and the warmth and the homely smell of cheese on toast came as a sharp contrast to the dread building in Cass’ stomach. He flicked the hallway lights on. If there was anyone here, then they’d have heard Cass banging on the door; they’d have known he was intent on getting in and now they could fucking show themselves … but his aggression was wasted. He had a terrible feeling that the house was empty.

  ‘The emissary’s obviously taken the boy.’ Mr Bright was standing in the kitchen doorway. ‘We might as well leave.’

  ‘Father Michael?’ Cass called up the stairs. ‘Are you here?’ He glared at Mr Bright before climbing the steps, taking them two at a time to the next floor. ‘Steve? Wharton? Osborne?’ No one answered.

  ‘They must have taken all of t—’

  But he stopped, mid-sentence, as the door to the second bedroom swung open, revealing the Steves in the corner as if they’d been flung there like discarded clothes. They were slumped sideways, their heads lolling unnaturally on broken necks. He didn’t need to touch them to know they were dead; their cold, accusing eyes told him that.

  ‘Jesus,’ he whispered.

  ‘We need to go,’ Mr Bright said urgently. ‘We need to find the boy.’

  Cass didn’t answer but turned, and with a heavy heart headed for the main bedroom. Maybe they’d taken Father Michael with them. Maybe Luke, or whoever he was, had realised he was just a kindly old man, and they’d just tied him up and left him somewhere. Maybe …

  ‘Don’t go in there, Cassius,’ Mr Bright said.

  ‘Shut the fuck up,’ Cass growled, glaring at the silver-haired man who was always so calm, so collected, and opened the door.

  For a long moment he couldn’t speak, couldn’t even breathe, until eventually air rattled out of his lungs in something close to a wheeze. In his heart he had expected to find Father Michael dead – he’d hoped otherwise, of course, but ever since they’d arrived at the silent house he’d known. Neither Michael nor the Steves would have given up the child without a fight. And if the child – and as he stared at the terrible sight in front of him he found he could no longer think of the boy as Luke – had turned against them too, then they hadn’t had much of a chance. He’d seen what Mr Solomon had turned into; he’d felt the power of the Glow. The three men he’d left guardin
g the boy wouldn’t have known what was coming.

  ‘Why?’ he asked, when he could trust his voice. ‘Why would they do this to him? He didn’t hurt anyone – why not just break his neck like the others?’

  Mr Bright moved next to him and they stood in the gloom looking up at the destroyed body hanging from the wall.

  ‘Because of his faith, I should imagine,’ Mr Bright said quietly. ‘The First will want to distance himself from his complicity in everything we created.’ He tilted his head sideways thoughtfully. ‘He knows that cruelty and punishment always go down well with him.’

  ‘I am so sorry,’ Cass said to the naked man nailed to the walls. Rusty spikes had been driven through his palms and forearms, and picture hooks hammered into his forehead created a mockery of a crown of thorns.

  Cass carefully pulled the masking tape from the old man’s mouth. It was cold. No breath had warmed it for some time.

  ‘You shouldn’t touch him,’ Mr Bright said. ‘You’re in enough trouble as it is.’

  ‘I don’t care. I don’t care what happens to me after all this,’ Cass muttered. ‘As long as my nephew is safe they can have me.’ He was tired of running; he was tired of being the pawn in games he never even knew he’d been playing. And he was tired of the people around him getting hurt because of their involvement with him. Not that there was anyone left, he realised with a wave of sadness. Everyone he’d ever loved was dead. Armstrong had been right: he was a curse.

  ‘This will be no consolation to you,’ Mr Bright said, ‘but judging by what they did to his stomach, I would say that your friend did not give up his faith. For what such a belief is worth.’

  The cut ran down from Father Michael’s chest to his pelvis and from within, his intestines had been pulled out and allowed to slop onto the carpet: an old-fashioned disembowelling.

  Cass left Mr Bright staring up at the crucified man. He was either going to be sick or faint, and neither was acceptable. Instead he forced his anger to overpower his shock and stumbled down the stairs to the kitchen, where he splashed cold water onto his overheating face and then went into the garden. He didn’t want to breathe the air in that house any longer.

  He lit a cigarette, and after two or three steadying puffs he took out the mobile phone and punched in Ramsey’s number. During his first few weeks of recovery, when he’d been bed-bound and bored silly, he’d occupied himself memorising telephone numbers – Perry Jordan, Father Michael, Charles Ramsey, the few people he trusted. He’d thought one day they might come in handy. He hadn’t wanted to be right this way.

  A dark shadow passed across the kitchen window and as the phone rang out, Cass thought that pretty much summed up Mr Bright: a dark shadow, a something but nothing as well, a something that made you uneasy.

  ‘Ramsey?’

  The DI answered so quickly that for a moment Cass couldn’t speak. His heart flipped. ‘If you’re tracing this call, then I’m going to find you and fucking kill you.’

  It was Ramsey’s turn to be silent for a second. ‘Cass?’

  ‘Is that shit about you getting suspended true?’

  ‘Yes, Hask and I think there’s more to all this. This Mr Bright—’

  ‘I’m with him now.’ Mr Bright watched him from the doorway and Cass turned his back.

  ‘You’re what?’ Ramsey exclaimed. ‘What the hell is—?’

  ‘I can’t explain everything now, but you need to trust me. I need to know where someone is: a man called Jarrod Pretorius. You might have to go to David Fletcher at ATD for this one. You still talking to him?’

  ‘Yeah, he’s as intrigued by your friend Mr Bright as we are. He didn’t get fired, though.’

  ‘That’s a good thing. We need him.’

  ‘Can you tell me anything else?’ Ramsey asked. ‘He’s going to want more than just a name.’

  ‘All I can say is that we need to find him fast. There could be catastrophic consequences if we don’t.’

  ‘What kind of consequences?’

  ‘A terrorist attack – something huge. I’m talking end of the world kind of shit.’ It wasn’t a lie; whatever was coming was surely bringing terror with it. The bright colours of Chaos flashed behind his eyes and the trumpets sang in his head. There was an army out there somewhere, though his brain might not want to accept it, but he’d seen it. He couldn’t fight that. ‘We think he’ll be working in some kind of scientific facility, probably government.’

  ‘I’ll call him. Keep your phone on.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘And Cass—’ He paused, and then said, ‘Take care.’

  ‘Thanks, Ramsey. I intend to.’

  Chapter Forty

  Mr Dublin was not a chain-smoker, but he lit his third cigarette as the Interventionists’ projections played over and over on his computer. He froze the image of Jarrod Pretorius and stared. Jarrod Pretorius had loved the First, and he had loved the emissary who’d chosen a different side. He had always been quiet, and a touch strange; he’d never been a talker. Was that why they’d forgotten about him? Even Mr Bright had let him slip off to live anonymously, with no sector to manage, no reports to file – so when exactly had Pretorius disappeared? It was so long ago he couldn’t remember … Looking at the face on the screen, Mr Dublin wondered whether Jarrod Pretorius had ever actually chosen a side, or if he had just followed his best – his only – friend into battle. That was what he remembered the most about Pretorius: he was loyal, and he saw things in black and white. If you charged Jarrod Pretorius with a task, then he would do it, no matter now long it took. Had he chosen to go out into the wilderness, or had the First asked him to?

  Mr Dublin sighed. His memories of the early days were so vague now; he’d been small too long. Sometimes he wondered if he was becoming more like them than one of his own. One day Jarrod Pretorius simply hadn’t been there, and in the main, no one had cared. Those were the glory days, when their Glow was bright, and even Mr Bright and the First had seemed undisturbed by his leaving – but then, Mr Bright had always known that Pretorius was different. Pretorius had adored the First, although Mr Dublin was sure the First saw the strange youngster as some kind of pet rather than a friend.

  And now it would appear that Jarrod Pretorius had been summoned back from the wilderness – by whom? And why?

  His coffee was cold, but he drank it anyway, to soothe the dryness in his throat from the cigarettes. There were only two people who could control Jarrod Pretorius: Mr Bright and the First. Mr Bright had enlisted Mr Vine’s help and now he was out there somewhere with Cassius Jones. As for the First, he was just a gibbering old man crying into his pillow somewhere. What could he do?

  He thought of the day they’d stood by the bed, watching as he’d awakened. He’d been shocked, as had the late Mr Craven, and more than a little afraid. He sank into the memory, reliving it: had Mr Bright been as revolted? Mr Bright, the First’s right-hand man: surely even he should had more of a reaction? Especially as the loss of the First could only impact badly on his own position … No, Mr Dublin concluded, Mr Bright hadn’t reacted, he had stayed calm … it had been almost as if he had expected it.

  Mr Dublin’s brain raced: there was a bigger picture that he was missing. There was something about that wreck of an old man that Mr Bright had not shared with them – something that had clearly backfired on him, because he’d been ousted from his position and was now on the run, with Armageddon about to rain down upon them. He was coming – and only one person could have called him.

  Him, the First, Mr Bright, Mr Solomon, Mr Bellew and Mr Dublin himself: this was the cast of characters who made up so much of their story. And as the figures danced in his mind, a cold realisation dawned on Mr Dublin: if he had to choose one of their own to trust in a crisis – someone he trusted to do the best for them and this world – then it would have to be Mr Bright. It had always been Mr Bright, the Architect.

  Mr Dublin started cursing himself, for becoming side-tracked by fear, not just the others’,
but his too, and for losing sight of the wood for the trees. Mr Bright would die for this world – it was probably the only thing he would die for. If he was coming, then Mr Bright had been double-crossed.

  He picked up the phone. ‘I need to know the whereabouts of a man called Jarrod Pretorius. Fast.’ He looked again at the screen. If the First was in England, then Pretorius would be as well. ‘Check government records. He’ll be working for one of the agencies.’

  He hung up. A moment later, he lit his fourth cigarette and started making calls. It was time for them all to be on the same side.

  ‘What do you mean, there’s some kind of deep-space interference?’ David Fletcher asked.

  The technogeek – Fletcher couldn’t remember his name; he viewed most of the staff on this level more as one incomprehensibly bright hive-mind – shrugged nervously. ‘We’re not sure,’ he admitted. ‘Whatever it is, we’re not getting accurate data through from the satellites – any satellites, actually, not ours, nor any other country’s. Whatever it is, it’s a global phenomenon.’

  ‘Something’s knocking out all the satellites? What is it, some kind of meteor storm?’ The call from Ramsey ten minutes previously had started small alarm bells ringing in his head, and now they were getting louder. For once he was actively interested in all the science stuff. He’d feigned disinterest in the DI’s call – the last thing he needed was to get caught up in Cass Jones’ antics – but Ramsey had warned him there would be some kind of massive terrorist event, and a few minutes later all hell had broken loose on the monitoring floor … how exactly could that be a coincidence?

  ‘We’re not sure exactly what it is,’ the technogeek said. ‘Perhaps it’s that.’

  ‘You don’t sound confident.’

  ‘I’m not.’ The man was sweating slightly. ‘I’ve trained for years. I’ve got an IQ of 155 and I’m considered brilliant by other brilliant men. But even I don’t understand exactly how SkyCall 1 works.’