Ruins

by Joshua Winning

  “She lied,” the Harvester uttered unsympathetically. “This is going to hurt. A lot.”

  Sparks burst around the gauntlet. Electrical currents that burned blue in the dark. They gathered between the device’s fingers and the Harvester grinned, his face lit up as he aimed the lethal charge at its target.

  The gauntlet erupted. Blue energy crackled through the air.

  Nale let out a howl and flexed, dragging one of his captors off his feet and into the path of the blue lightning.

  The Harvester let out a strangled scream and slumped to the ground, steam boiling off him.

  Nale clutched at his other captor and wheeled him about, tossing him like a shot-put.

  The man crashed into Sebastian and they landed in a heap on the ground.

  As the other Harvesters charged, Nale ripped open the caravan door. An angry, salivating mass of gnashing teeth and bloodshot eyes flew out. The Harvesters yowled as Zeus tore at them, maiming and ripping, lunging for arteries. He was nimble enough to dodge their blows and savage enough to kill with a single bite.

  The Harvester with the gauntlet got to his feet and aimed it at Nale. Not giving him the chance to ignite it again, Nale bowled into the Harvester, crashing into him with his full weight. Sebastian shrieked furiously and Nale heard the wind rush out of him as his back struck the earth. Nale went to hit him, but a hand grabbed his balled fist and somebody dealt a blow to the back of his head.

  Stars exploded in Nale’s vision, and he slumped forward, almost crushing Sebastian. The Harvester was still opening and closing his mouth silently, attempting to draw breath.

  From behind him, hands came. They clamped around Nale’s thick neck, attempting to squeeze.

  A growl rumbled nearby and the hands snapped away from him, were followed by a gurgling scream.

  As the stars cleared, Nale saw that Sebastian had almost recovered. The Harvester raised the gauntlet and went to shove it in Nale’s face, but Nale reacted too quickly. He swung a massive fist into Sebastian’s jaw.

  Teeth and blood splattered the ground.

  Sebastian lay unconscious. Or dead. Nale couldn’t tell.

  Sucking in great lungfuls of air, Nale stayed where he was, crouched over the Harvester.

  A stillness settled over the clearing. Nale peered blearily around and saw that the other seven Harvesters all lay dead or unconscious, defeated by Zeus. The dog stood panting among them, muzzle red with blood, tongue lolling from his jaw.

  “Good dog,” Nale muttered.

  Zeus went to the caravan and collapsed by the stairs.

  Recovering, Nale inspected the gauntlet still attached to the Harvester’s hand. He prodded it gingerly. When nothing happened, he pulled at it, wrenching it free. It was heavy, made of metal, intricately crafted. Nale peered at it, holding it up to the moonlight so that it glinted coldly. The light caught in five amber stones affixed to each finger and thumb.

  “Its powers remain a mystery.”

  Nale’s head whipped around at the voice.

  A figure stood beside Zeus. The dog lay still, barely breathing, eyes fixed on Nale.

  “You’re the first to lay hands on one.” Esus’s voice throbbed in the clearing. “The first to overpower anybody in possession of one.”

  Nale simply stared at him, still on his knees in the dirt.

  “You may stand.”

  Cautiously, Nale got to his feet. He cradled the gauntlet in his hands and stood facing the masked entity.

  “Your whereabouts have been known to us for years,” Esus’s voice rumbled, as if he had read Nale’s mind. “That choice was yours to make. There will be no reprisals.”

  The phantom gestured at the gauntlet.

  “This, however, is another matter. You will take the instrument to Cambridge. To a woman named Liberty Rayne.”

  When Nale offered no reply, Esus added: “Consider it your final duty as a Sentinel.”

  Nale contemplated him for a moment. Then, slowly, he nodded.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Detonation

  HE WAS FALLING AGAIN. ALL HE could see was the road below, the cobbles looming larger as he plummeted. He couldn’t do anything to stop it. Wind howled, distorted by inhuman shrieks. The cobbles span. He threw out his hands...

  There was a flash of red and Nicholas jolted upright.

  Pain split his head open and, weak with nausea, he collapsed back onto something soft.

  A beeping sound tapped out morse code nearby. A sigh of gas. Somebody calling out meekly.

  Nicholas blinked through the grogginess and realised he was in bed. The blankets were bound tightly around his legs and he was propped up on funny-smelling pillows. The row of beds opposite him were all occupied by people in various stages of illness, all of them far older than him.

  Hospital, he thought. What happened?

  He felt like he’d been hit by a bus. Or ten buses. A bus the size of ten buses, perhaps. Massaging his throbbing temples, Nicholas attempted to lift his right arm and found that he couldn’t.

  It was in a sling around his neck, encased in plaster.

  “What the–?” he began, and then he remembered.

  The man in the park. The flying monsters.

  The fall.

  “Christ,” he muttered. Luck wasn’t on his side. In the past two weeks alone he’d been in a bus crash, fought a demon, nearly died in a collapsing house and now this. Still, he was alive. Which wasn’t something he felt particularly positive about at this moment in time.

  “Oh, you’re up. I just came to wake you – can’t be too careful with a concussion.”

  A young man in a nurse’s uniform strolled up to Nicholas’s bed.

  “How you feeling?” he asked.

  “Annoyed.”

  The nurse laughed. “You had quite a fall,” he said, taking a clipboard from the foot of the bed and scanning the notes. “It’s lucky you didn’t crack your skull open.”

  “Feels like I did.”

  “Naw, just your common, garden variety ulnar fracture.” The nurse seemed to notice Nicholas’s blank face and winked, adding: “You’ve broken your forearm. Or at least fractured it. Only in one place, though. Hardly worth the bother.”

  Nicholas cursed under his breath. He’d never broken anything before. It didn’t feel how he imagined it might. Rather than jagged pain, it just felt... wrong. Like his arm had been turned inside out. The broken arm was hot and uncomfortable, throbbing under the plaster. He attempted to wiggle his fingers and they moved sluggishly, transmitting a twang of discomfort. Sweat broke out on his forehead.

  “What exactly were you doing on that rooftop? Pretending to be Batman?” the nurse asked.

  “Something like that,” Nicholas muttered. “Who are you?”

  The nurse put the notes away. “You really were out of it last night if you don’t remember that. I was here when they brought you in. You were in and out of consciousness while you were treated.” He paused. “I’m Alastair, staff nurse.” He took the hand in the sling. “You getting much pain?”

  “A little.”

  “How about the head? Any dizziness? Nausea?”

  “Not really.”

  Alastair nodded, releasing his hand. “I’ll get you some water. You need to stay hydrated.”

  “Can you call somebody for me?” Nicholas realised that Sam probably didn’t know he was here. He didn’t have any ID on him and he wasn’t a local. He probably had ‘John Doe’ written on the whiteboard behind his bed.

  “Nicholas?”

  Sam appeared at the end of his bed and Nicholas had never felt more relieved. The old man was clutching his fedora, face drawn tight with worry. He hadn’t shaved, and sharp little silver hairs needled across his jawline.

  “That’s him.” Sam nodded at the woman accompanying him. “Thank you, nurse.”

  The woman beside him nodded back and left.

  “What’s happened here, then?” Sam asked, strolling into the cubicle. Relief replaced the anxiet
y on his face. The worry lines settled back into their usual wrinkles as he appraised Nicholas’s broken arm; the cuts and bruises he could feel on his face.

  “I...” Nicholas began, but he fell silent, aware of Alastair the nurse.

  Sam seemed to understand. He reached a hand out to the other man.

  “Samuel Wilkins,” he said. “Nicholas’s legal guardian.”

  “Trouble always finds its way home, eh?” the nurse joked. “I’ll leave you two in peace.”

  When he was gone, Sam sat at the bedside. He looked oddly small to Nicholas, who was spread out on the raised mattress.

  “Legal guardian, huh?” Nicholas said.

  “It’s the truth,” Sam replied. “Your parents signed you over to me in their will.”

  “And you didn’t think that was something I should know about?”

  “You were under the care of the Vaktarin within days, what difference did it make?”

  It made all the difference, Nicholas thought. He had a choice. Legally, he was Sam’s responsibility. He needn’t be cooped up in that big fusty house.

  “How did you know I’d be here?” he asked.

  “Process of elimination. Lad, what happened?”

  Nicholas wiggled his plastered fingers at the old man. “Laurent. He was in the Abbey Gardens. Then these things came and...” He stopped. Something was niggling at him, but he couldn’t think clearly through the throbbing in his arm.

  All the colour drained from Sam’s face. “Laurent,” he said softly. “I’m sorry.”

  “Not your fault.”

  “It’s my job to protect you.”

  “I think that’s more of a two-man job,” Nicholas said. “Anyway, I’m here aren’t I? Even if Laurent did want me out of the way.” He shifted uncomfortably in the hospital bed. At some point, he had been put into a gown, though he couldn’t remember when, and it was tangled up around his legs. He felt trapped.

  “Esus told me that the Trinity chose me,” he continued softly, almost thinking out loud. “Apparently I’m the only one who can bring them back. Laurent knew that.” He checked Sam, seeing that the old man’s face had sagged, though he wasn’t sure why. Concern? Horror? Nicholas continued anyway. “Laurent said that the Dark Prophets had chosen him. I think... he wants to raise the Dark Prophets.”

  They stared at each other for a moment, neither knowing what to say.

  “That is something we’ll have to find out for ourselves,” Sam breathed finally. “You get your rest now, and when you get back to Aileen’s, she’ll have cooked up something extra tasty, I’m sure.”

  Nicholas smiled, but his smile slackened as that niggling feeling returned. With a sickening lurch he realised what was bothering him.

  “Isabel!” he cried. “Where’s Isabel?”

  *

  Soft footfalls rustled nearby. A shriek stabbed, wrapped in unfamiliar giggles.

  The darkness receded momentarily, just long enough for her to see hands reaching through the undergrowth. She was too weak to resist and Isabel surrendered as she was bundled into rough fabric that reeked of damp.

  What must have been some time later, it was darker. The stink of damp remained and she was still wrapped up snugly. Everything ached when she tried to move.

  A bowl rested nearby. The smell of warm milk turned her stomach.

  In the gloom, a shape moved. Isabel tensed.

  There was a ripple of movement followed by quiet footfalls.

  A hand scratched behind her ear and Isabel slipped into darkness again.

  *

  It was dark in Retro Threads. It was always dark. With the windows boarded up, the summer sun couldn’t find its way inside and Rae was grateful for the coolness as she clambered through the latch window.

  In the shop corner, Twig lay on a mound of blankets. Despite the heat, he had one pulled up to his chin. Even in the gloom, his black eye stood out and his lip was cut from the fight with the teen from the marketplace. Damon. Rae had always thought Twig possessed a wiry resilience, but now he looked tiny and vulnerable.

  “Here,” she said, handing him a half-drunk bottle of Coke. It was crazy what people threw away. Twig took it and gulped it down. She sat beside him, leaning her back against the wall. Her plan to leave town had been delayed a whole night thanks to the fight. She didn’t know what to do. Leaving Twig now would be heartless, a quality she had always prided herself on. So why couldn’t she just go?

  “Don’t leave me.”

  She rested her head back and stared at the ceiling. “I’m not.”

  “You are,” Twig said. She peered sidelong at him. He didn’t look feral anymore. He looked like a scared little boy. “You’ve wanted to for ages. I can tell.”

  Rae didn’t know what to say.

  “Tell me a story,” Twig said.

  “I’m rubbish at telling stories.”

  “Tell me about Kay.”

  Rae reacted as if she’d been punched. “How you know that name?” she snapped.

  “Heard you when you were asleep. Who is she?”

  Rule number two. Don’t talk about your past.

  “Nobody.” She closed her eyes and Kay’s face was waiting for her. Eyes bulging in fear. Rae jumped to her feet and went to the counter. She sorted through the scraps of food, though for once she wasn’t hungry.

  “Was she your friend?”

  Rae slammed her hand against the counter. A familiar, anxious energy throbbed in her chest. She tried to force it down. Crush it into nothing. But it hurt. It didn’t want to be suppressed.

  “She’s dead.”

  “How did she die?”

  I killed her.

  “Accident,” Rae said. “I’m not talking about it.”

  The air had been sucked out of the shop. Her insides tingled. Heat sizzled through her; spiny, angry, insistent. She couldn’t control it. She had to.

  Her head snapped toward the latch window. Somebody had lifted it up from the outside and a face appeared.

  “What you doing in here?” a voice asked. Somebody sniggered, then a shape clambered awkwardly through the window and dropped to the floor. Two more gangly shapes followed.

  “Rae?” Twig asked.

  “Rae, is it?” asked one of the shapes. She’d recognise him anywhere. Damon, the pock-faced teenager from the market. Except he wasn’t blushing and puffing his chest out anymore. He jeered at her. “Nice place you’ve got here. Cosy.”

  They must have followed her. Rae inwardly kicked herself. She was getting sloppy. There was too much going on and now they’d found her home.

  Home. It was all she’d ever wanted. Somewhere safe. Every new place had the potential, but none of them were ever home. She had to keep moving.

  “Get out of here,” she said.

  “Careful guys,” Damon said to his friends. “She can do stuff. Why don’t you show us what you can do?”

  “What kind of stuff?” his friend asked. He was stocky with greasy black hair.

  “Show ’em,” Damon ordered. “Or maybe you really are just a thieving rat.”

  Rae was about to throw herself at him, but Twig beat her to it. Warbling, he pounced from the pile of blankets in the corner and hurled himself at Damon. The teenager was taken aback, but he recovered quickly. As Twig clawed at him, Damon seized him around the neck and held him in a choke hold.

  “You could work on your hosting skills,” the teenager growled. Twig wriggled in his grip but it was no use.

  “Leave him alone,” Rae shouted. Anger roiled inside her like a living thing. The mannequins trembled beneath their plastic sheets.

  No, she thought. Kay’s face came to her and Rae felt her grip loosening on the thing festering inside. Don’t, she told herself. Don’t do it.

  “She’s nuts,” Damon’s friend said. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Not until she shows us,” Damon said coolly. He shook Twig and the boy yelped.

  “Stop it!” Rae cried. Her hands were in her hair. The pounding
in her skull was unbearable.

  Breathe. Breathe.

  But she couldn’t breathe. All she could feel was the fury.

  “She’s a freak,” Damon continued. “A filthy freak.”

  “She’s not!” Twig cried, squirming in the teenager’s arms.

  The light in the shop was dimming.

  Breathe. Breathe.

  She couldn’t let go. If she let go, it would all be over. She couldn’t let what happened to Kay happen again.

  Kay. That look on her face.

  It was burned into Rae’s memory. That look of surprise. Then everything had gone black and she’d heard screaming. Rae had come to in the street. She’d passed out. And there was Kay. Broken by a bench. The impossible angle of her neck...

  “No!” Rae sobbed.

  Pain squeezed her heart. Anxious, pumping. She hated everything and everybody. But most of all she hated herself. If she just let go...

  Twig roared and sank his teeth into Damon’s arm. Howling, the teenager tossed him to the floor.

  “Get him,” Damon ordered. His friends grabbed Twig and hoisted him off the ground.

  “No!” Rae yelled. She groped at one of the boys, but Damon forced her back. She tried to get past him and he threw a punch. Rae reeled back, her cheek stinging.

  “Stay back, freak,” Damon warned.

  The air simmered. Queasy energy pulsed through her.

  “Hold him,” Damon ordered his friends. He raised a fist, ready to lay into Twig.

  “NO!” Rae shouted.

  The last thing she saw before the shop exploded was Damon’s face contorting in surprise.

  *

  Fuzzy darkness retreated. Where was she? What had happened?

  “Rae,” a voice said.

  Rae blinked through the daze, sat up. She was covered in dust. No, not dust. Ash. It rained down on her, fluttering and feather-like. The air smelled burnt. She was sitting in a crater of cinders. Burnt wood and smashed things.

  For a moment, she was five years old again. Had awoken in her burning bedroom with her foster parents screaming on the other side of the door. Then she remembered.

  The shop.

  She gazed around, shock and disbelief coursing through her.