“All right.”
“Let’s get on with it,” Jack added. He, for one, didn’t seem bothered by the idea of setting a fire. Looking at him, Dylan figured it probably wouldn’t be the first one he’d set in his life.
In the rubbish-strewn street and surrounding gardens, Jack and Tristan found as many things as possible that could burn – including a bottle of lighter fluid. They went back into the house briefly – using the back door so that no one on the street would see them – and poured it down through the trapdoor. By jamming a knife under the edge, they were able to wedge it open just enough for the nozzle of the little can.
“There wasn’t much left,” Tristan said when the pair came back out, “but I think it should be enough to get the fire going strong.”
“That’s us?” Dylan asked when he stood. Tristan nodded. “All right.”
They returned to the backyard to find anything they could use as a weapon. The garden wasn’t much of a garden, but at least it seemed to be a dumping ground for junk.
“Here.” Tristan finally selected a spade and a rusting crow bar. He tried to hand Dylan the spade. “I want you to stand by the window. I don’t think anything of them will try and come out that way, but if they do, whack them.”
Dylan kept her hands by her side. “I’d rather have the crowbar.”
“The spade will be easier to hit things with,” he pointed out.
“It looks heavy.”
Tristan shifted his grip on the spade and bounced it in his hands a couple of times. Then he handed Dylan the crow bar. “Don’t miss.”
Jack had a jagged piece of wood that he was wielding like a baseball bat, and Susanna held a smashed glass bottle in each hand.
Before Dylan could do more than brace her legs, Tristan had lit a rag. He gave it a few precious seconds to let the flames catch, then yanked back on the edge of the door with all his strength. As he’d suspected, it broke free, the bolt screw tearing out of the damp-softened wood. There was an escalation of hissing and growling from the basement, but nothing emerged.
Flinging the rag into the heart of the basement, Dylan saw Tristan pause, staring intently through the tiny gap. Probably waiting to ensure the rag set off the petrol, she thought. It must have done, because he slammed the door shut, a satisfied expression on his face.
Dylan concentrated on her window. It was plugged with a cloth, but the glass was broken and the wraiths had to have been getting in and out some way. It certainly wasn’t the trapdoor. Nothing happened at first. Then the wraiths started getting louder.
They hissed. Yowled. There was some thumping and banging, wailing. Dylan glanced at the houses overlooking the garden, expecting to see curious faces peering down at her. Nothing yet. She crossed her fingers for an instant, hoping that the people nearby were asleep.
When she turned back to the window, wisps of smoke were curling through the hole in the glass. They twisted then disappeared as they hit the open air, but more followed. In just the space of a minute, the smoke got thicker, darker. The basement was really burning. Hopefully the wraiths were, too.
They started screaming. It sounded inhuman, but it was loud enough to reach beyond the basement, beyond the yard. Loud enough, probably, to wake the neighbours.
“Tristan,” Dylan called. This wasn’t going to work. People were going to come and investigate before they had the chance to finish. They’d be arrested. God, setting fire to a house was arson, and they couldn’t exactly explain themselves… or the dead bodies.
“Tristan!”
But he must have had the same idea. Abandoning the ‘burn them alive’ plan, Tristan flung the stunted door open. Fresh air would feed the flames, Dylan knew, but it would also give the wraiths an escape route.
They took it.
After just a second or so, one barrelled out of the opening, right at Tristan. Dylan watched as he swung with the spade, a heavy ‘thunk’ hitting its mark. The wraith spun and landed several feet away. Tristan had already turned, ready to face the next creature that was emerging more cautiously, but as Dylan watched, the wraith on the ground twitched and writhed, flopping about on the dirt and gravel. It wasn’t dead.
Before Dylan could yell a warning, Jack was there. With one vicious, downward chop, he split the wraith in half.
“Dylan!” Tristan’s yell made Dylan look up, but he wasn’t looking at her, his attention was fixed on the window. Dylan looked, too, and saw a wraith squeezing through the ragged gap in the glass. It hissed and thrashed as it struggled through.
“I’ve got it!”
In three steps she was there. Her first swing missed – the crowbar connected with the brickwork just beneath the window frame, sending shockwaves up Dylan’s arms – but her second attempt hit true. She put all her weight behind the strike, but the wraith still didn’t die. She had to hit it again, and again. On the final swipe, she caught the edge of the window as well as the wraith. It was enough to finish the evil creature off, but it also shattered the remaining glass. The fabric fell free and black smoke billowed out.
So did a wraith. Two. Three.
Hidden within the acrid curls in the pre-dawn sky, they soared out at Dylan. When she whirled to face the first, the thing was close enough for her to see the razor-sharp claws, the black pits of its eyes. She would have screamed, but there wasn’t time. Instead she brought the crowbar up as fast as she could. She almost took out her own eye, but she managed to bat the wraith far enough away that she could arc the metal tool back around. She hit it as hard as she could, and she knew it was dead even before it hit the ground.
A shattering sound of glass right beside her left ear made her duck and cry out.
“It’s all right,” Susanna gasped, using the jagged remains of one of her glass bottles to shred another wraith down the middle. “I’ve got it.”
“Where’s the other one?” Dylan asked.
“Tristan killed it,” Susanna told her.
Breathless, her heart pounding in a heady mix of adrenaline and fear, Dylan wiped the sweat off her brow and looked around. The fire was obvious now. Smoke curled out of ground floor windows as well as the little basement casement in front of her. Flames licked out of the door where Tristan stood. They were out of time; if they lingered here any longer, they’d be discovered.
Tristan seemed to reach that conclusion at the same instant. Chucking down his spade, he turned to look at the rest of them. “That’s them all.” He looked to Susanna, who nodded her confirmation. “We need to get out of here.”
The wraiths they’d despatched were dissolving into vapour that swept up and joined the thicker, acrid smoke tunnelling out of every crack in the building. Tristan closed the basement door over as best he could and moved with quick, purposeful steps to Dylan’s side.
“Let’s go.”
Instead of taking the path around the building, Tristan had them hop the neighbour’s fence and then slip across their garden so that the four of them emerged onto the street a house away from the fire, and two houses away from the dead body in the narrow pathway. Tristan started walking in the opposite direction immediately, head down and steps rapid, Jack just a pace behind, but Dylan couldn’t resist a quick look. Susanna, too, stopped beside her.
A crowd had gathered on the road. Some of them, still in pyjamas, loitered nearer the house, pointing at the escaping smoke. As she stared, one of the throng turned to look at them. Dylan whipped her head away at once – she didn’t want this person to remember her face.
“Should we run?” Dylan asked, jogging a few steps until she came level with Tristan and Jack. They were still far too close to the scene of a crime – crimes now that they’d committed arson – for her liking.
“No,” Tristan said, grabbing her hand so she couldn’t give in to temptation.
“It just makes you look guilty,” Jack agreed.
He would know, Dylan figured.
Please, thought Dylan, as they hurried away, please let that be it. She was so done w
ith souls and extra ferrymen and wraiths and Inquisitors and holes into other worlds.
No more excitement, no more calamity. She just wanted a nice, normal life with the being from another world that she’d convinced to come back with her after dying in a train crash. Really, was that too much to ask?
THIRTY-FIVE
Fourteen steps. Twenty-seven seconds.
That’s how long Susanna had to hope that things would all be all right.
Jack and Dylan seemed not to realise that anything was wrong, but beside her Tristan froze. At first she thought he’d just felt it too, the strange sense of danger, of menace. The sense of being watched by unhappy eyes. But then a moment later she realised she was frozen to the spot, unable to shift her feet. Moving her arms was like trying to wade through cement, but she managed. Reaching out, she gripped Tristan’s arm.
“What’s happening?” she gasped.
“He’s here.”
“Who?” Then understanding dawned. “The Inquisitor?”
Tristan managed a nod.
The distant glow from the fire was suddenly overwhelmed by a cold white light.
Dylan was instantly by Tristan’s side, her whole body pressed against his. She was searching the street for the Inquisitor and, taking in her braced stance, the determined set of her jaw, Susanna realised she was preparing to defend Tristan.
Rather than hiding behind him, seeking protection, she was trying to protect her ferryman.
Astonished, Susanna looked for Jack. He was glancing around, fists clenched defensively. Step by small cautious step, he was taking himself away from the three of them. Susanna had the horrible realisation that he’d leave them if he could.
As soon as she had that thought she felt a piercing, stabbing pain in her gut. And she saw Jack cover his lower stomach with both hands. Drops of blood seeped from between his fingers.
“Jack,” she hissed through the pain. “Come closer.”
He didn’t want to, she could see he didn’t want to, but he was obviously hurting as much as she was. Every step he drew towards her lessened the agony and soon he was hurrying. Susanna didn’t fully breathe until he stood beside her.
“What the hell’s happening?” he bit out.
She didn’t get time to answer, however, because suddenly the Inquisitor stood before them. Between one blink and the next, it filled Susanna’s vision.
“Ferryman.” The being spoke, pinning her with its eyes. There was no question who it was addressing. “Do you know who I am?”
Terrified out of her mind, Susanna managed a jerky nod. Tristan had told her the Inquisitor had powers, could freeze her muscles, steal her will – but knowing it was nothing like feeling it.
The being briefly turned to spear Tristan with a look. Susanna had only a heartbeat’s reprieve before she was back under the spotlight.
“Ferryman, you have erred in your duties.”
Susanna opened her mouth, but no sound came out.
“You have not fulfilled your primary responsibility, to deliver your soul to the realm beyond, and worse, you brought that soul back to its body and the real world.”
The words came without feeling, without passion. As if the Inquisitor was reading from a script, rhyming off regulations from a rule book.
“You have left the wasteland, abandoning your post and your sacred duty. You have tried to present yourself as human, an entitlement you have not been granted. You have allowed evil to seep into this world, bringing about the deaths of souls before their time.” Here the Inquisitor paused, and Susanna felt the heat of its stare burn painfully hot. “You have caused the murder of innocents. The blood that has been spilt stains your hands.”
Though she knew the Inquisitor was speaking metaphorically, Susanna looked down, expecting to see the thick, viscous substance smeared across her palms.
She saw only her own pale, unblemished skin until Jack’s fingers, rough skin and blunted nails wrapped around the slender bones of her wrist and tugged. Hauled against her.
“I don’t know what the hell’s going on,” he hissed in her ear, “but let’s go!”
For the first time, Susanna found herself in complete and utter agreement with him. The problem was, she simply couldn’t. Her feet were glued to the ground, her muscles unresponsive. A cry tore from her lips as her shoulder joint strained and threatened to pop under the pressure from Jack’s tugging.
“I’ll leave you!” he threatened. “I mean it! I’ll leave you.”
Susanna looked back at the Inquisitor, who watched impassively. Unconcerned.
“You can’t,” she told Jack as she swivelled back to him. “You’ll die. We both will.”
That took some of the fight out of him. Detaching her wrist from his grip, Susanna turned to the Inquisitor.
“Ferryman,” it intoned, continuing on as if Jack’s threats to leave were of no consequence. “You have heard your crimes. Have you anything to say before your judgement is passed?”
Judgement? Susanna scoured her mind, searching for a feasible defence. Nothing came. The only thing she had left to offer was the truth.
“I only wanted to live,” she told the Inquisitor. “I’m sorry, I…” she swallowed, glanced over at Tristan. It wasn’t fair to drag him into her decision. Not when he might have a chance, him and his soul. “I just wanted to live.”
The Inquisitor watched her with those glowing eyes that never seemed to blink. Time stretched painfully, the sound from the world around her thinning until she barely heard Jack hissing “Susanna!” repeatedly in her ear.
“You are guilty.”
Susanna felt a brief instant of relief as the tension burst, quickly followed by a rippling wave of horror as she waited for what came next.
“You forfeit the life you have stolen in this world. The living world cannot be subject to the whims of those who are not mortal. You will be returned to the wasteland, where you will be punished.”
“Punished?”
“To hell with this.” Jack spun away. “I’m leaving.”
“Jack! No! You know we can’t.” Susanna watched with wide eyes as Jack stormed away. He made it ten feet, then twenty. At twenty-five, he stumbled. Clutched his side. At the same time, Susanna felt the echo of the knife that had been thrust into Jack’s flesh. “Jack, stop!”
Dimly, she was aware of Dylan yelling, too. Telling Jack to stop. To come back. He ignored her as he had Susanna. Tristan, the only person he might have listened to, was silent. Tears in her eyes, from panic and pain, Susanna turned beseechingly back to the Inquisitor.
“Please!” she gasped. “Make it stop!”
“You chose your soul poorly,” it admonished her. “I can see the bond between you. It is black, made of greed and selfishness. You have caused innocents to die so that you could fulfil your own self-centred desires. You are not deserving of my pity, or my mercy.”
“Please,” Susanna repeated. She fell to her knees.
“No,” the Inquisitor shook its head. “You will return to the wasteland. You will return to your post. And you will be grateful that I grant you this, instead of turning you into a mindless savage.”
“What about Jack, my soul?”
The Inquisitor turned its passionless gaze to Jack, who was still trying to crawl away, a blood trail slick on the ground behind him.
“Your soul chose death,” the Inquisitor said. “I need do nothing.”
No sooner had the Inquisitor uttered these words than Jack collapsed. He made one more valiant attempt to rise, then dropped. His chest rose once, twice, three times. Then was still.
The Inquisitor swept back to Susanna and raised its hand.
“Wait!” Tristan jerked like he’d tried to step forward, but of course he was just as trapped as Susanna. “Give her another chance! She’s helped us, tried to fix—”
“I have yet to deal with you,” the Inquisitor intoned. “You would be wise to save your pleas for yourself.”
Tristan opened his mouth as if
he’d like to argue more, but a quick glance at Dylan, who was watching the whole exchange, wide-eyed and mouth agape, and he fell silent. He shot Susanna an apologetic look. She understood. She had known Tristan for a long, long time, but he had never looked at her the way he did Dylan. She was his friend, maybe. Dylan was his soulmate.
Tears glistening on her cheeks, Susanna whispered, “I’m ready.”
THIRTY-SIX
Dylan watched Susanna flicker out of existence.
She blinked, but it wasn’t an illusion. One moment, the dark-eyed, dark-haired ferryman stood before her, frozen to the spot as the Inquisitor passed judgement, the next she was gone. In the background, Jack lay motionless on the pavement where he’d dropped. He was gone, too. All that was left was an empty shell.
Pity welled up inside her, but she was too afraid for herself and Tristan to let it fully take hold.
“Now, ferryman,” the Inquisitor turned its attention to Tristan.
Dylan felt her heart stutter.
“I did what you asked,” Tristan said, pre-empting whatever the Inquisitor had been going to say. “The wraiths are dead and I’ve closed the tears into the wasteland, both of them.” The Inquisitor didn’t reply. “That was the deal.”
Dylan searched the Inquisitor’s face. There was nothing there to read. Nothing.
“You think you are in a position to speak to me thus?”
Warily, Tristan lowered his gaze. It seemed that was the right thing to do because the Inquisitor gave an almost indiscernible nod.
“Consider yourself fortunate,” the Inquisitor told him, radiating disapproval. “I could – and I should – sentence you to the same fate.” It paused, looked from Tristan to Dylan and back again. “The bond between them, it was an evil thing, born of greed. What is between the two of you is bright and shining. It glows, and I will not be the one to extinguish it.” It took a threatening step forward. “But should this happen again, should any other wraiths appear in this plane, I will expect you to deal with them.”
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