More than just momentary interest thrilled the Familiar’s senses, though. Somewhere here was the Rewe; that most prized artefact so integral to Diltraa’s designs. She wouldn’t fail him a second time.
The room was entirely white and Malika stood out like a pricked finger in the middle of it. Red and raw and out of place.
The guard stopped at the back of the Roman collection.
Malika sidled up next to him and gazed through the glass. It was a display crammed with unusual objects. And there it was.
Set amongst various pottery vessels, lamps and a Roman folding penknife was what she sought: an unremarkable, squat bowl. It had been wrongly attributed to the Romans thanks to its faded, almost illegible markings, not to mention its likeness to some Roman pottery, and placed here along with other ancient artefacts from that period.
Except Malika knew what it really was. She pressed her palms to the pane of glass and beamed.
“Yes,” she murmured, her breath steaming up the pane. “This is it. Open it.”
The guard took up his keys once more and opened a tiny lock in the bottom of the cabinet. He slid open the glass front and Malika reached in to extract the bowl.
“Your jacket,” she requested silkily.
Without blinking, the guard shrugged off his jacket and offered it to her, his face drawn tight with the desire to please. Malika took it and wrapped the bowl up.
“You’ve been most helpful, George,” she said, offering the man a coy smile.
George blushed and grinned sheepishly, shoving his hands into his pockets.
Malika moved in and pressed her lips to his, kissing him softly.
George sighed and his eyes rolled back in his head.
He was dead before he hit the floor.
Back out in the night air, Malika purred to herself and cradled the Rewe in the security guard’s jacket. She reached the top of the museum’s front steps and paused. A smirk teasing the corners of her lips, she returned to the plinths where the stone lions rested.
She hissed strange words rebelliously.
Quietly at first, the lions began to shudder and vibrate. In seconds, their unnatural juddering was making a thunderous din, almost like the sound of a train’s engine picking up speed.
Laughing with malevolent glee, Malika swept away from the statues and stepped out onto Trumpington Street.
When the woman had finally disappeared down the cobbled street and been swallowed by the night’s shadows, an almighty explosion rocked the museum and the twin lions erupted into clouds of alabaster dust.
*
The rail track stretched on for an eternity, making a point on the horizon. It was night, and blue fog spun eerily through the air.
He ran, but he didn’t seem to be getting anywhere. Panic spurred him onwards, though from where that sickening sense of urgency had come he wasn’t sure. He felt sticky, heavy, hot. His heart hammered frantically in his chest, and he could barely see as he stumbled down the track.
All he knew was that he had to get away. Soft rustles crunched behind him, but he dared not look back. He didn’t want to know what it was. He ran. And ran. His limbs ached and he seemed to be going in slow motion.
It was as if he was running through air thick with syrup, and it took every ounce of his strength to press onward.
Something rattled.
He let out a muted whimper.
What was it? What did it want from him?
The rattling grew louder.
Confused and blinded by panic, his boot caught on one of the rungs of the track and he fell forward, crashing onto the hard metal with a grunt. Groaning, he rolled over.
The thing bore down on him with fangs and claws that flashed red.
He screamed.
“Mum!”
Nicholas jerked upright in bed. The dream lingered and he didn’t know where he was.
Next to him the cat raised its head, observing the panting, sweaty boy. And there was another watching him. As Nicholas’s eyes grew accustomed to the dark, and the nightmare drifted up through the ceiling, he made out the shape of a woman sitting at the end of his bed.
“M–mum?” he croaked.
“No,” a delicate voice replied. “It’s me Nicholas, your godmother.”
It all came flooding back. Nicholas sagged.
“I didn’t mean to disturb you. You looked like you were having a bad dream.”
“I was.”
Nicholas felt suddenly embarrassed. He pushed a hand through his knotted hair.
The cat stretched on the bed, flexing its claws. It got to its feet and lumbered over to the woman, rubbing its head against her leg.
“I see you brought a friend with you.”
“Yes,” Nicholas replied. As the haze of sleep lifted, his curiosity stirred.
He watched Jessica raise a hand above the cat’s head and hold it there. A judder travelled through the mattress, but as quickly as it had started, it was gone.
As if satisfied, Jessica scratched behind one of the cat’s ears. It purred appreciatively.
“So you are my godmother, then?” he asked.
“In a manner of speaking,” she confirmed mellifluously. “My old name was Jessica Bell, though I’ve been afforded many others since that one. It was your parents wish that, should anything ever happen to them, you be brought here to me.” She paused as the cat flopped stupidly onto the duvet, and then added: “I’m sorry for your loss, Nicholas. I lost my mother when I was young, too. There are still days I don’t remember; the hard ones when you almost feel like you’ve died yourself.”
Nicholas’s intrigue grew with every soft utterance that drifted up from the foot of the bed. Jessica wasn’t at all what he’d been expecting. He’d imagined his godmother to be older, sterner – an image that was fortified by the sight of the manor house. Then Jessica had answered the door and smashed his expectations to pieces.
“I hope you will be comfortable living here,” Jessica said, “though I admit there’s not much for a child to occupy himself with.”
“But… I don’t understand,” Nicholas said, ignoring the ‘child’ part of her sentence. “You’re barely older than me, how can you be my godmother?”
“There is much to explain,” Jessica replied.
She spoke as if she were older. Nicholas wasn’t sure if she was being pretentious, or if that was just her way. There was something about her, though. Something he couldn’t put his finger on.
“I understand that you have many questions,” the woman said, “and I will happily answer them for you. But first you must eat and replenish your strength. Come.”
She rose from the bed. Nicholas watched her go. Then, realising how hungry he was, he scrambled to his feet and followed her out of the room. The cat trotted after them.
CHAPTER TEN
Liberty
SAM PONDERED THE LITTLE HOUSE. UNLIKE its frowning terraced siblings, care had been taken over it and it radiated a quiet resilience. A rose bush with waxen flowers hugged the wall face, thickening protectively over the doorway, and a flowerpot on the downstairs window bustled with brightly-coloured Busy Lizzies.
The elderly man rubbed his bleary eyes – he’d barely slept a wink that night. After leaving Nicholas at Jessica’s, he’d trudged back through the snow to a nearby village (though not that village, that would never do) and caught a taxi back to Cambridge. It had cost him a pretty penny, but he was grateful that the driver had agreed to the trip at all, considering the distance. Being old sometimes had its benefits; the young man had clearly taken pity on him. Sam chuckled inwardly at how dishevelled he must have appeared – he’d freshened up at Jessica’s house before leaving, but he still must have looked a sight, especially after the attack on the bus.
Still, he’d arrived home at a reasonable hour. But he’d spent the rest of the evening in the attic rifling through old files and newspaper clippings, searching for anything that might help him get to the bottom of who that woman had been. He’d
even cracked open a few of Judith’s old cabinets, which he rarely permitted himself to do.
This was desperate, though. He was certain the red-haired harlot had survived the shotgun wounds; he’d encountered enough wicked things in his time to know it took more than a few bullets to stop the servants of the Dark Prophets. No matter how many clippings he pored over, though, his research had surrendered nothing useful, as he’d expected – he’d never encountered anything quite like the woman on the bus. That fact was unnerving in itself.
And then there was Nicholas. Sam couldn’t help but feel guilty about unloading him on Jessica, even if it had been Max’s wish. Had the circumstances been different, he’d have gladly taken the lad in. Given the present climate, though, not to mention the fact that the Prophets were actively hunting him, that was an impossibility.
Sam pushed these worries aside as he trudged down the neatly-gravelled path, resolving to concentrate on the matter at hand. He tapped a silver knocker.
Within seconds the door handle rattled and Sam peered down at the small figure who appeared to greet him.
It was a six-year-old girl, her bushy black hair plaited and beaded to keep it out of her face. Her skin was a mocha shade and she was snuggled up in a fluffy purple jumper. She smiled impishly up at the old man on the doorstep, eyes not without a sparkle of mischief.
“Hello there,” Sam greeted her.
“Francesca! What have I told you about answering the door?”
The front door was pulled fully open by a tall, dark-skinned figure.
“Oh,” the newcomer uttered. “Mr Wilkins, what a nice surprise.”
Sam smiled. “I am honoured to be able to surprise you, Liberty.”
Francesca looked up at her mother. “It was only Uncle Sam,” she said, pushing out her bottom lip.
The woman named Liberty merely smiled and put a hand on her daughter’s head. “Won’t you come in, Mr Wilkins.”
“Very kind of you,” Sam said, removing his hat as he crossed the threshold. “Though I must again insist that you call me Sam – makes me feel far less ancient.”
“Forgive me,” Liberty said. Her daughter galloped down the hall, then crouched behind a potted plant to stare out at the elderly visitor. She snarled like a jungle cat.
“Come through,” Liberty said. “I’ve just got to finish Fran’s lunch.”
“Ah, young stomachs must not be kept grumbling.”
Sam winked at Francesca and followed Liberty into the kitchen. She started buttering bread at the counter while Sam seated himself at the table; his usual spot. In a corner, the TV played a news report about a missing child.
“That thing looks old.”
Francesca had come after them and was gazing enviously at the fedora in Sam’s hand. The elderly man’s eyebrows twitched and he placed the hat on the girl’s head. It was comically over–sized, but she beamed with delight.
“I’m just like you!” she proclaimed, striking a pose.
“That you are!” Sam laughed. In a secretive tone, the old man added: “You know, that’s a very important hat.”
The girl’s eyebrows disappeared under the brim of the fedora. “It is?”
“Oh yes,” Sam said sincerely, his eyes glittering. “It’s very old, you see. Older than you, even.”
“How much older? I’m six.”
“You’re a mere sapling in comparison my dear child,” Sam laughed. “The hat you are now wearing–” he touched the brim affectionately for a second “–once belonged to my father. He gave it to me on my twenty-first birthday, his most prized possession, now mine. The stories this hat could tell, should it be given the chance…” He let his breath out dramatically.
Francesca’s eyes swelled and her mouth opened a fraction.
“What stories?” she whispered.
“Oh I couldn’t possibly,” Sam said. “Unless…” He shook his head and looked away. “No, you wouldn’t be interested in that.”
Francesca’s eyes were almost popping out of their sockets. “I would! I would!” She stamped her foot. “Tell me!”
Sam raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “Oh, well if you insist.” He leaned in to her. “In his youth,” he began slowly, “my father fancied himself as something of a secret agent. He also fancied himself a few drinks here and there, which meant that he was a frequent visitor to our local, the Dog and Partridge. Scandalous business often took place there, scandalous. And the company left a little to be desired; but then my father always had a soft spot for an old dog with a tragic tale.” Sam’s brow furrowed disapprovingly at this. “On one such visit, my father caught whiff of what he considered to be a plot to knock off the pub’s landlord. Seems Mr Barker had a bit of a flair for gambling, though unfortunately for him he wasn’t particularly good at it. He owed money, quite a bit if my father overheard correctly. Mr Barker had failed to pay up, and a previous threat was to be carried out that very night.”
“They were going to shoot him!” Francesca exclaimed.
Sam nodded soberly. “Just so. They waited until the locals had departed for bed before making their move. My father sat still and quiet in a dark corner; perhaps the rogues didn’t consider him a threat, or perhaps they had failed to notice him. They paid him little heed, either way. My father looked on as two men approached Mr Barker from behind, both pulling pistols from their pockets. But as they took aim at the landlord’s back a quite remarkable thing happened.”
“What?”
Sam paused. “There was an earthquake,” he revealed. “The first for many years, and it was a belter. Nothing matches mother nature’s rage when she has an itch to scratch.” He paused dramatically once more. “Well, you can imagine the destruction, practically half the street collapsed; and with it the Dog and Partridge. Mr Barker, the two rogues and, of course, my father, were buried in the rubble. Locals rescued Mr Barker and his potential assassins from the wreckage. My father, however, was nowhere to be found.”
Francesca’s elfin features became confused.
“He was there alright, but buried so deeply nobody could see him,” Sam said.
“Did he die?”
“As luck would have it, it was my father’s love for the drink that saved him in the end,” Sam said, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “He was so well known in local circles that when people were giving up and going home, it was an object lying in the rubble that alerted them to his presence amid the debris.”
Sam touched the fedora again, remembering. “This hat. A regular at the pub recognised my father’s hat, and dug deeper into the wreckage. A few feet in he found my father – unconscious and bruised, but very much alive.”
Francesca strained to look up at the hat on her head, going cross-eyed in the process.
Sam sucked in a deep breath. “So, you see, this hat is very special indeed. It can be credited with saving a man’s life, among other things. It has certainly been a good luck charm for me – you don’t make it to seventy in this day and age without a certain amount of good fortune.”
“Has it saved you from an earthquake as well, Uncle Sam?” Francesca asked.
“Come on Francesca, lunch is ready.”
Liberty placed a plate on the kitchen table.
“I believe we’ll leave another story for another day,” Sam said softly, removing the hat and straining to stand back up again. His knees popped.
Francesca went reluctantly round the table and was just about to clamber onto a chair when–
“Stop right there, young lady,” Liberty said suddenly. Francesca paused, turning an innocent look on her mother.
“Give it back,” Liberty said sternly.
Sam’s bemused gaze drifted between mother and daughter. Stubbornly, Francesca stuck out her bottom lip, then her shoulders slumped and from the sleeve of her oversized jumper she produced a small, shiny object.
“Give it back to Mr Wilkins and say you’re sorry,” Liberty instructed.
Sheepishly, Francesca plodded over to Sam a
nd offered up the object. It was a little gold pocket watch. Sam stared at it incredulously, shoving a hand into his trouser pocket. It was empty.
“Sorry Uncle Sam,” Francesca mumbled, almost inaudibly. Sam took the watch from her and the girl flitted quickly to the other side of the kitchen table.
“Incredible,” the old man murmured, tittering with delight. “The little devil! You’ve got your hands full there, Liberty.” He pocketed his watch, shaking his head in astonishment.
“Don’t I know it,” Liberty said. She handed him a steaming mug. “You look like you needed this.”
“Ah, one of your magic potions,” Sam said, taking it gratefully. He hadn’t even noticed her making it as he told Francesca his story.
“Let’s go into the lounge,” Liberty said. “Francesca, I’ll be watching you through the hatch. No funny business.”
Francesca pouted and Sam winked at her as he followed Liberty down the hall. He sniffed the contents of his mug. The scent of blackberries thrilled his nostrils. He’d built up the courage to ask Liberty what she put in her brews only once, and she’d said something flippant about pixie dust and frogspawn. If he sniffed hard enough, he was sure he could detect a hint of cinnamon, but other than that he was at a loss. All he knew for certain was that Liberty’s remedies always made his fingers and toes tingle pleasantly.
She was a Sensitive. Many assumed she was merely a good judge of character, but her abilities went far beyond that. ‘Sensitive’ was a fitting word for what she could do. Her senses were sharper than others; a gift she’d inherited from her father. Of course, she was also a Sentinel – a rare combination that made her an invaluable ally.
“How you spoil me,” Sam said, taking an appreciative sip of his brew as they went into the living room.
Sentinel: Book One of The Sentinel Trilogy Page 12
