“What do you mean?” asked Lucy.
Cathy lowered her chin. “You want to kill him,” she said. “But how?”
“I have no idea, not yet,” Neeson replied. “What I do know though, is where eight kilos of C-4 are stashed.” He let the words hang in the air for a beat. “I’d say that’s a good starting point.”
Cathy smiled a conspiratorial smile. She didn’t know how either, but she’d get back at these people, if it was the last thing she did.
“We better go now,” said Moore. “We don’t want them figuring out we’re here discussing this sort of thing. Let’s call it a day, for now. If we come up with any ideas, we discuss them next time we meet.” They nodded.
“So,” Neeson said as they rose, “I declare the first session of the Bately Revolutionary Council over.” He smiled, and the others couldn’t help but laugh.
I must admit, Cathy thought. As silly as it is, I like the sound of that.
Chapter 14
Ana
The view from the hill was shrouded in mist. Wilted blades of grass, mud, naked thorn trees stretched out beneath her, gradually vanishing into the fog. There was little to see. Most of all, there was no one to welcome back.
Ana set her feet in the ground, shuffled her arse in the dirt, pretending this would somehow make it more comfortable, more bearable.
“Ana…” the girl beside her spoke. Her voice was feeble, broken and so irritating Ana almost felt the impulse to turn and slap her.
“What is it?” she asked, grinding her teeth.
“It’s been two days now… they should be coming back any minute, right?” The words were filled with misplaced hope, but tainted by a unavowed knowledge their waiting might be in vain.
Ana sighed. She tore a tuft of grass from the ground, squashed it between her fingers. She shook her head. “No, girl. No one’s coming back.” She was telling herself this, confessing it, as much as she was the girl. “No one,” she repeated.
The girl’s head jerked round. Ana felt her stupid teary-eyed gaze on her cheek. “But… what do you mean?”
“I mean,” she replied, throwing the grass back in the mud, “they lost. Bately fought back. Captured them all, killed them. I don’t know.”
“Killed them all?” The girl shook her head. “But that’s impossible… not all of them. The Bately folk, they wouldn’t, couldn’t do–”
Ana suddenly turned towards her. “Look, I don’t know what happened, you idiot. But no one’s coming back.” It was true – she didn’t know. And the girl was right, whatever beating the Pack had taken in Bately, it was unlikely that the whole of them had been killed. The people in the stupid town would have fought back, sure, but they were not the sorts to imprison or kill hundreds upon hundreds of ’wraiths. It was strange, yes. But, right now, she had no answers.
“It can’t be…” the other one continued, speaking to herself now. “We’re the chosen ones… Jake always said–”
“Jake lied,” Ana interrupted her again. “There’s no such thing as chosen ones. Definitely not me and you. Not the shivering women left in the Pack. We’re a bunch of sick bastards, that’s it.” The girl sobbed, but said nothing. Ana had expected her to protest, to insist with all the bollocks Jake had brainwashed them with. She too had begun to believe him, almost. But the girl stayed quiet. Maybe it was dawning on her too. With Jake gone, all that chosen ones stuff was beginning to feel a lot less believable.
Ana’s eyes wandered back to the mist. And despite all her hard talk, her strong act, when the solitary figure appeared, she couldn’t help but whisper his name, her heart faltering. Luke.
She slowly rose to her feet, eyes glued to that clouded silhouette. It stumbled towards them, a featureless shadow wrapped in fog. There was still time to hope. And she did: she hoped against hope, even as she saw Luke was taller, that this shadow’s build didn’t fit his, she hoped. Still she hoped as it stepped through the banks of mist and into the muddy stretch that separated them, and saw that no, this couldn’t be Luke, could it? And a fluttering, failing speck of hope still remained, even as the kid that wasn’t her lover collapsed into her arms, weeping and sobbing and pressing his face against her chest.
* * *
Dimwit told his story through stutters and tears. The two hundred or so survivors of the Pack gathered around a lukewarm fire, and listened in terrified silence, as he recounted the events following the assault. How things had seemed to be going fine, how they had caught Bately’s defences off-guard, forcing them to retreat inside the castle. They’d breached the gates, got a hold of the town. “I thought we’d won,” he said through glassy eyes. The shivering child told them about the explosions, the arrival of the men in black. After that, everyone was dead. Not just the ’wraiths. Everyone.
He had run away, hid in the trees outside town. When he turned to Ana and told her about Luke, his eyes fell to the ground. She listened without a tear, breathing steadily, occasionally nodding. The ’wraiths’ eyes shifted from Dimwit to her, expecting a reaction that didn’t come.
“What do we do now?” a voice asked, when Dimwit fell silent. No one answered.
“Ana, what do you think?” someone called out to her. For some reason, they’d started seeking her opinions, her guidance. The silly flock mentality of the crowd, always wanting someone to bow down to, for fear of rising up and thinking for itself. Ana shook her head. “I don’t know. We’re not safe here any more. If I were you, I’d pack my things and leave. Head north maybe, try and find another Pack to join.” Silence. She could tell that they were still having a hard time accepting this. Picking up and setting off was a daunting prospect to them.
“What about you?” the same voice asked her.
Ana stood, brushing dirt off her trousers. “I don’t know,” she said once more. Then, shouldering her way past the gaping mouths and frowning faces, she left the gathering behind. She needed to be alone. Only when there was enough empty space between her and the rest of them, did she allow herself to drop to the ground, and weep.
* * *
The bird stared at her with idiotic little eyes, tilting its head to one side.
It was early morning, and small groups of five or six were leaving the Pack, hoping to find refuge elsewhere. Not proud ’wraiths any more, just sick Afflicted. Ana observed them with little interest, her eyes red from the lack of sleep and the tears.
The bird, a pigeon, made a funny whistling sound and she turned towards it once again. It was perched on top of a large rusty container Jake had used as his office. No one had dared enter it, for some reason, the place still emanating the authority of their dead Alpha ’Wraith.
Ana stood and walked over to the bird. It stared down at her, as if waiting for her to do something. “Looking for someone, little bird?” she asked.
The pigeon hopped closer to the edge of the metal box, and pecked its beak against it. For no particular reason, Ana extended her arms, hands aloft. To her surprise, the bird hopped down, and landed in her palms.
“Hey, little one,” she said, delicately tapping its head. “Nice of you to come and say hi.”
The animal’s nails were scratching her, so she slowly moved to her other palm. In doing so, she noticed something on its bony little paw. A tiny metal tube, fastened to the bird. “Stay still, birdy,” she said, as she slipped it off and examined it. The bird suddenly flapped its wings, and flew inside the container. Ana looked at it quizzically, then returned to the small object. There was a minuscule slit near one end. She tried unscrewing it and, sure enough, the little lid came off. A small piece of paper slipped out. It had been rolled up into a cigar shape. Flattening it out carefully, she noticed the emblem of the Greater Pack – a four-fingered hand with long, cracked nails – and the note that was scrawled across it.
On behalf of the WQ
J. – Report back on Bately assault.
– T.
The ’J’ stood for Jake, of course. The ’T’ at the end was whoever had sent this
. But Ana’s eyes lingered on the ’WQ’ at the top of the brief message.
The Wraith Queen? Could it really be her?
Jake had often spoken about her, and she was famous across the whole of Britain. Well, what remained of it, anyway. But now, with their Pack beaten, she’d started doubting her existence. Doubting everything.
But this thin sheet of paper was now hinting towards a vast world beyond that place, a world were the Greater Pack was still strong. Maybe, there was still hope.
Ana walked along the side of the container, feet sinking in the mud. When she reached the front of it, she pushed the opening ajar, and peered inside. Jake’s office was poorly-adorned, a few odd bits of furniture shoved inside it. A desk, an armchair, a library. And, to her surprise, three bird cages. They were pushed to the far back of the container, partially concealed by the library shelves. The pigeon was now sitting on top of them, staring at her. Two more birds were locked inside the cages. Or just one, she realised, as she got closer. The other had died, its body curled up and stiff.
She found a box of birdseed and a flask of water, on the floor by the cages. As she topped up the feeders attached to the metal bars, she studied Jake’s desk. There were dozens of notes scattered across it, all like the one she’d found on the pigeon.
Ana sat at the desk, slightly amused by the fact she’d likely have been beaten by Jake, had he caught her there. But that was when he was still alive. When Luke was, too. Ana swallowed, and began scanning the messages.
There were some communications she could hardly make out. Mysterious acronyms, terms she didn’t recognise. But among the notes, she noticed a number of references to ’Soldiers in black.’
The ones who attacked us in Bately, she thought. Has to be them.
According to the notes, these soldiers had appeared out of nowhere, attacking a few of the communities along the eastern coast of England. Both ’wraith Packs and towns. It seemed to concern the Greater Pack, but by the tone of the notes, Cathy doubted they knew exactly how powerful these people were. At least, according to Dimwit’s account.
Ana studied the notes, pouring over them, piecing together the information they held.
As she did, a plan slowly began to take shape in her mind.
Chapter 15
Death of a Priest
Paul studied the odd words, wondering why they made him feel so uneasy.
“Strangers welcome,” he muttered to himself, reading them again for the tenth time. He carefully removed his backpack, to give his aching shoulders a rest. When he stretched out, he heard little cracks in his neck. Tired. So tired. But I can’t stop, not yet.
He was so concentrated on the spray-painted letters that he hadn’t noticed the man step out of the house. “Hello there!” he called out. Paul shifted his gaze and noticed a burly, fifty-something fellow waving at him. “Can I help?”
Paul walked slowly towards him, trying to decide whether this was a wise thing to do. There was a slightly unsettling feeling to this place. But he had to at least ask this man if he’d seen the kids.
“Welcome sir,” the man said, shaking his hand. A soft, uncomfortable shake that contrasted with his large body. “Drink of water?”
Paul had water – a small amount he’d set aside for the children, when he found them. But he was thirsty, and too tired to explain, so he simply nodded.
“Okay,” the other man said. “You sit here, rest. I’ll be right back.”
Paul let himself drop on a wooden tread of the stairs that led to the house’s porch, and rubbed his eyes. He had to stay alert. A couple of minutes went by, then he heard the door creak, and the man was there again, standing beside him, offering a glass of water. Paul accepted it and drank eagerly. “Thank you, I needed that,” he said, handing it back.
“I’m Walter,” the man said, squatting down to sit next to Paul. “You?”
“Ah – sorry, of course. My name is Paul.” He was about to say Father Paul, but for some reason decided against it.
“Nice to meet you, Paul. Where you headed?”
“I’m… well, I’m actually looking for someone. Two children, and–”
The man’s face lit up. “A boy and a girl? Twelve years old or so?”
Paul’s heart skipped a beat. “Yes… have you seen them?”
The man nodded. “A few hours ago. Three, maybe. Caught them nosing around in the house. I’m afraid I scared them, when I walked in.” He chuckled, and Paul noticed two of his front teeth were missing. “The boy, he was very protective of his young friend. I offered them a drink of water, just as I did with you, but he wouldn’t accept it, at first. I insisted, they looked so thirsty. They drank it in one gulp, then had some more.”
I’m on the right track, Paul thought gladly, and felt the urge to hug this stranger.
“How were they? Did they look okay?”
Again, Walter smiled. “Yes, yes. Tired, worn out, you know. But healthy. Two strong little kids, I’d say. I asked if they wanted to stay, eat something, but they refused. No matter how much I insisted, they wouldn’t have it. Especially the boy. They wouldn’t even tell me their names, can you believe it? I packed a couple of sandwiches and saw them off.”
Paul smiled at the thought of Adrian being so protective. Even refusing to reveal their names. “Where did they go?”
The man looked up, and for the first time Paul noticed his clear blue eyes. They looked out of place in that worn face, but he couldn’t help but admire their gentle hue. “They set off in that direction.” He raised a hand towards the north. “Wouldn’t say where they were going.”
“Thank you,” said Paul. “Thank you very much, Walter. I appreciate it.”
Walter raised an eyebrow, surprised by Paul’s broken voice. “You’re joking. All I did was give a little food and drink to a couple of lost kids. Who wouldn’t?”
I’m afraid there are quite a few people about who wouldn’t do even that, thought Paul. Many would do a lot worse.
“I have to go,” Paul said, ignoring the pain in his back as he rose.
“Are you sure? Looks like you could do with a bit of a rest.”
“Yes. Yes, I am. But thank y–”
A cry came from inside the house. A cry of pain.
Paul stood still. He stared in those clear blue eyes. “What was that?” he asked, slowly.
Walter shook his head, dismissing the sound. “It’s just my dog. Cricket. Got caught in some old trap, out in the fields. Bloody poachers, you know?”
For a long beat, the two of them stayed silent. Paul scanned the man’s face, desperately trying to trace the truth in his features. Then, he pushed Walter aside, and ran up the steps. Walter called out, behind him, but Paul ignored his words. He pushed the front door open, and barged inside.
The dog was lying on a blanket, spread out on the floor. Blood-stained rags lay around it, and someone – presumably Walter – had stitched up a long, deep cut that ran along its hind leg.
It rose its suffering eyes on Paul, and attempted to wag its tail. Two weak beats against the wooden floor.
“He’ll be all right. Just needs a bit of rest and comfort is all.” Walter had appeared behind Paul.
Paul lowered his forehead, shook his head. “I’m so sorry, I–”
“I understand. I do.” Walter laid a hand on his shoulder. Squeezed gently. “I’d have done the same.”
The two men stepped back out onto the porch. Paul mumbled another apology, and Walter waved it down.
The priest walked off, biting his tongue, feeling the embarrassment redden his cheeks. But still – he had to check, right? He looked back at the house, where Walter was still standing by the door. He raised a hand towards Paul, waving him farewell.
“You’re welcome back any time,” he called out.
Paul brought his hands to his mouth, and shouted back. “Thank you, Walter!”
“Goodbye, Adrian!” Walter said, and disappeared back into his house.
It was only ten steps
later that Paul realised. He stopped.
Goodbye Adrian?
He slowly turned back towards the house, his blood suddenly cold.
* * *
The door burst open and Paul felt splinters of wood pierce his skin. Felt them, but ignored them. Walter was waiting for him, sitting in an armchair opposite the entrance. He was pointing a hunting rifle at him.
“Hoped you hadn’t noticed my little slip, there,” he said. His voice was now low, hostile. Walter’s eyes were glued to Paul’s, tracking his movements.
“Where are they?” asked Paul through gritted teeth.
Walter sighed, keeping the weapon’s barrel steady. “That doesn’t matter, now. What matters is that you–”
Paul acted before even realising it. He flung the backpack towards Walter, as hard as he could. A gunshot exploded, so loud Paul thought his eardrums had been torn out of his head. He felt no pain, but screamed nonetheless. An instant later, he was on top of Walter, both of them wrestling to get a hold of the rifle. Walter tried to lower it, press the muzzle against Paul’s chest, but they were too close.
Suddenly, Walter let go of the weapon, and Paul fell forward, his chest touching Walter’s, the solid pressure of the gun between them. He grabbed Paul’s forehead, thumbs pressing hard against his eyes.
Paul howled in pain, jerking his head sideways, trying to free himself from the man’s grip. But Walter was strong. Too strong.
A flash of pain stabbed his right eye, and he felt Walter’s fat thumb pushing inside his head. Again, he cried. Walter let out a suffocated chuckle, “You should have minded your own business, you little shit,” he croaked.
Blindly, furiously, Paul found Walter’s neck, and clasped it as tight as he could with both hands. He strengthened his grip around it, felt Walter’s Adam’s apple shift around beneath the skin. Immediately, the pressure on his eyes loosened, as the other man grabbed Paul’s wrists, trying to free himself.
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