“It gestated here,” she murmured.
“Gestated?”
“The thing that did this,” Liberty answered. “While the man slept. It seized hold, sank in deep, spread roots.”
“Richard–” Sam began.
“Don’t you know it’s rude to talk about somebody behind their back?”
A voice punctured the air.
Lucy let out a cry, thrusting away from Sam and wedging herself into the space between the wardrobe and the wall.
There was a figure in the doorway.
“Didn’t take you for a gossip, old boy,” it said.
It took Sam a few moments to realise just who this scruffy figure was. In the end it was the familiar brown eyes that gave the newcomer’s identity away. If the change that Sam had witnessed in Richard days ago had been difficult to stomach, what he was confronted with now made that pale in comparison.
Richard had never been a man possessed of particular presence or poise. He was a gentle, unassuming soul. It was therefore all the more chilling to see him now. Richard lounged against the doorframe, face gaunt and fixed with a sly smile. Days without shaving had encouraged the growth of a bristly mesh of a beard, which matched his greasy brown hair. His shirt was blood-spattered and his eyes glinted like steel. He wasn’t wearing his glasses anymore.
“Quite a reunion,” he snorted. “Alone in my bedroom with two women, Samuel! What would dear Judith say?”
“Richard–” Sam began, confused.
“No,” Liberty broke in.
Richard gave the dark-skinned woman a withering glance.
“Is this who you brought to save me, friend? A witch? I feel I should be offended.”
Sam’s face was a picture of bewilderment as he stared at the other man. There wasn’t a shred left of the Richard he had known.
“You,” he finally croaked. “You did all of this.”
Richard eased away from the doorframe, arms crossed.
“Oh, come, come,” he chided. “Senility really is setting in, isn’t it? Do I need to spell it out for you? Treat you like an invalid?” He snorted in contempt. “I had quite enough of that with Dad.”
Sam’s initial surprise faded as new, hotter emotions stirred.
“You killed your father,” he said. “You destroyed your home. Look what you’ve done to your wife.”
“A shame that you find this all so disagreeable,” Richard sighed. “I had hoped we could work together. Side by side, like the good old days. Starsky and Hutch. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.”
“It was the doctor,” Liberty interrupted. “He did something to him.”
“Speak again, witch, and I’ll cleave the tongue from your mouth,” Richard snapped.
He took a step toward Sam and the older man saw that he was trembling. Not from the cold. He was excited. Richard was enjoying this.
“Tell me, Samuel,” the scraggly man began, scratching the coarse pattern of hair at his throat. “Are your wits sharp enough to take me, do you think? I’m not so sure.”
“Don’t engage with him,” Liberty said. “He–”
Before she could finish the sentence, Richard had leapt across the room with such speed that it caught them all off guard. He dealt a blow to the side of Sam’s head, sending the old man crashing into the wardrobe.
Sam’s vision exploded in stars. They fizzed and his ears rang.
When the stars finally popped and cleared, he saw that Richard and Liberty had tumbled onto the upturned bed. Richard was on top of her, squeezing her throat in his hands.
For a moment their eyes locked; Liberty’s wide with surprise, Richard’s bloodshot. Then with surprising strength, Liberty bucked beneath him and Richard was thrown across the room, hitting the far wall and tumbling to the floor.
Sam attempted to get up, but wooziness overcame him and he sucked air in, biting back the bile. When he glanced up again, he saw that Richard was already rising from where he’d landed.
“Interesting,” he grinned. “You found a feisty one, Sam.”
Liberty didn’t take her eyes off him.
“Sam,” she said. “Are you okay?”
Sam couldn’t speak.
“What to do now, witch? What’s running through that pretty head?” he heard Richard goad. The man considered her for a moment. Then he whispered, “Am I fast enough? Can I get the knife? Is Sam okay?”
“Stop!” Liberty yelled. She had put a hand to her head.
In that instant the figure pounced at her again, striking her jaw. Liberty fell to the floor.
Sam’s vision swam and he watched in a daze as the pair tussled. They seemed evenly matched. He cursed himself. What did he think he was doing? Just two days ago he’d been in a bus crash. Now he was being thrown into wardrobes. Even a young man would have trouble recovering from that. Fear blazed into frustration. His body was too old for this, even if his mind was still sharp. He breathed deeply. He was no good to anybody like this. As he attempted to tap into some inner well of strength, he heard another crash and saw Liberty tumble across the floor. She seized the kitchen knife from where it had fallen earlier.
Leaping to her feet, she struck out with it and sliced Richard’s arm. She seemed to have been aiming for his chest.
As the slathering man swung for her, Liberty seized his bleeding arm and sent him crashing into the wall once more.
Now! Sam thought. Get up now!
But his body didn’t respond.
Helplessly he watched Richard go for Liberty again, hurling her across the bed, where she landed in a heap near the window. She looked dazed, and Sam saw Richard swipe the knife from the carpet. He reached down and dragged Liberty to her feet, clutching at her throat with his free hand.
Sam didn’t hear what he hissed at her.
As he prepared to launch himself from the floor, a blurry form suddenly darted past him and Sam started in surprise.
It was Lucy. She had emerged from her hiding place between the wall and the wardrobe.
“You’re not him!” she screamed, bowling into the man who had once been her husband. “YOU’RE NOT HIM!”
Richard let out a strangled cry, caught off guard. He crashed backwards, straight through the smashed window.
Sam heard the sound of shattered glass raining down on the patio, and then a muted whump.
Lucy stood staring out the window, grasping the sill for support.
Liberty looked on her last legs as she heaved herself to her feet and put an arm around the trembling woman.
Finally the nausea lessened and Sam struggled up from where he had landed by the wardrobe. Every inch of him ached as he went to the window.
“You okay?” Liberty asked.
Sam didn’t answer, ashamed at his inability to help. Instead, he peered down at the patio.
“Gone,” he muttered. “We must find him.”
“He’s injured,” Liberty said, searching the garden. “He won’t be bothering us again today.”
She hesitated. Sam followed her gaze to the garden shed.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Something else was here,” Liberty murmured. “It visited Richard.”
“Can you sense anymore?”
“It…” Liberty started falteringly. “It pretends to be a woman. Red hair…” She touched her forehead, blinking. It looked like she was going to throw up. “It… calls itself…”
Sam didn’t like this. “Liberty,” he said.
Liberty squeezed her eyes shut.
“Malika,” she purred. “She was here with Richard. She and the doctor, I see them together in a dark room…” Liberty pushed her hand against her forehead.
Sam took her arm. “Liberty,” he said softly.
At his warm touch, the pain seemed to ease and Liberty blinked out of whatever the daydream had been.
“You alright?” he asked.
Liberty nodded.
“So we have a name for her,” he mused, tracing the healing scratch on his cheek. �
�If she’s been here, we must get away. Lucy, we’ll take you to your sister’s.”
Lucy didn’t seem to hear him. She stared out at the sky, lost in the horror of the situation.
“Will she be safe there?” Liberty asked.
“Nowhere is safe now,” Sam said darkly.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Reynolds And Rumours
DUSK CAME. AS THE SNOW-ENCRUSTED TERRAIN hardened about Hallow House, a fire crackled in the parlour. Nicholas slumped dozing on the sofa. The previous restless nights had finally caught up with him and he slept soundly, the firewood softly popping in the background.
Jessica watched the boy from the parlour door. For some reason, she felt guilty, but she wasn’t sure why. Something to do with a garden. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be very important. It was so difficult to remember everything these days.
She sighed.
Everything was changing. Already the atmosphere in the house was different. Simply having another presence here – one so full of youth and inquisitiveness, and as yet unscarred by the wars of her world – had unsettled the fabrics of her home. Revitalised them. Nudged them out of their centuries-long slumber.
As she looked on, the woman’s fragile countenance grew uneasy. Despite the flickering firelight she appeared as pale as a ghost. She hadn’t expected her houseguest to carry with him such change. Not so suddenly. Deep down she felt the compulsion to protect him, to shelter him from the horrors that awaited him. Already he had encountered a servant of the Prophets and been lucky to live. She knew, though, that any energy spent endeavouring to protect the boy would ultimately prove wasted. The darkness was rolling in as sure as the chill fogs, and one day he’d be forced to face it.
Jessica glided from the room. The uncountable years of waiting and wondering suddenly seemed to have flashed by. What had she been doing with herself all that time? It was an unnerving thought.
The woman shook herself. The time had come to face down one particular demon from her past. Purposefully, she moved down the hall, ignoring the sightless eyes of the statues as she passed them, ignoring also the blinding light of the setting sun as it sliced in through the windows. Soon enough she came to a little unlit stairway and ascended to the first floor.
Jessica could feel a change in herself. Those pockets of moments she’d shared with the boy had stirred memories. With them came pains that Jessica thought she had banished forever. Unpleasant jolts from years long lost were surfacing; ghoulish reminders of the time that she had come from.
The woman shuddered.
There were things that she yearned to forget, to bury forever, but such escape was denied her. While she quietly shouldered the burdens of her past, the demands of the present grew ever more pregnant in her mind.
Winding her way down the landing, Jessica passed a large open dining area. A lavish table had been laid with polished silver cutlery. The dying sunlight spilled in through the balcony doors, and the filtered blue light curved across the intricate display. It almost seemed the table had been set for an eerie midnight dinner party. Jessica almost giggled at the uncanny notion. But she resisted. Now was not the time.
Finally the woman came to the door she had been seeking. It was already open a fraction; another had recently entered. Bracing herself, Jessica nudged open the door and moved inside.
She felt like she had stepped into a painting of the past. The bedroom remained unaffected by the time that had steadily progressed beyond its walls; nothing had been touched during its prior resident’s absence. The air was heavy with the scent of herbs and dried flowers, and a glittering dust lay over all.
It was a noble room lavishly furnished. Rich indigo curtains adorned the tall, slender windows, and were fashioned in loops about the four-poster bed. The ceiling was made of leather mache and a sizeable armchair had been set by the window. At its side was a little round table with half-finished embroidery resting on top.
Jessica regarded the room with fascination. It had been an age since she last set foot in here. Back when Isabel had first disappeared, the same night that Jessica had encountered the raven, she had lain across this bed and sobbed for her mentor, as if an outpouring of emotion might bring her back. After that terrible night, she had closed the door and never returned. It was as if closing the door had created a vacuum, and time had stopped within.
The room had been waiting; it seemed to know that one day Isabel would return.
Except the black cat was nowhere to be seen.
“Isabel?” Jessica ventured softly.
There was a muted shuffling sound, but Jessica couldn’t tell where it was coming from. Then a voice said: “Leave me be, child.”
Jessica realised that the voice was coming from near the armchair. “Isabel, where are you?”
“I wish to be alone,” grumbled the aged voice. “Leave me where I might wallow in my misery.”
Jessica’s eyebrows rose. “Wallow?” she demanded. “The Isabel I once knew would wallow in nothing, least of all self-pity.”
“Have I no cause for self-pity?” Isabel regaled. Finally Jessica could see her. There, in the gap between the bottom of a monstrous wardrobe and the floor, the faint light picked out the thin whiskers of a cat.
“Wallow, indeed,” it muttered. “I shall wallow all that I wish, and I would quite prefer to do it alone!”
“That much at least has not changed,” Jessica mitigated, allowing herself a sly smile. “You were never much for company.”
The eyes under the wardrobe closed dejectedly and the cat rested its head on its front paws. Jessica reclined into the armchair.
“You wish to be alone,” she mused, glancing at the half-completed embroidery resting on the table-top. It depicted a scenic summer’s day, except the flowers sat waiting to have their petals stitched with colour, and a wheeling bird in the cross-hatched blue sky had only half a wing. “You have no questions for me whatsoever? Not one?”
There came no response.
“You wouldn’t believe how the world has changed in your absence,” Jessica continued conversationally, taking up the embroidery and threading a petal. “It’s been five hundred years. There are no horses and carriages. Now they have busses and cars and trains. They even have vehicles that can fly. And then there’s space. Can you believe they put a man on the moon?”
“Impossible,” Isabel grunted.
“In our time, perhaps, but not now. There’s technology now. People can’t live without it. It’s berserk, and also quite wonderful. There’s surgery, proper surgeons, not the barbarians of our time. They save lives with machines and medicine.”
“Save lives? So Man has finally accomplished his ambition to become God.”
“If that’s how you want to look at it,” Jessica responded mildly. “It isn’t Man you should be concerned with, though. The agents of the Dark Prophets are rousing, even now Sentinel voices are being silenced by their blades.”
“You should have left me dead,” the cat said wearily.
“Maybe I should have!” Jessica erupted. She slammed the embroidery down on the table. “Maybe I should’ve left you rotting in that room for another five hundred years – it might have improved your mood!”
The cat emitted a low growl. “You’ve got your wits back this evening,” it observed.
“What do you mean?” Jessica asked.
“Only this afternoon you were ranting at the boy and carrying on like a lunatic,” Isabel said drearily.
Jessica’s shoulders sagged and she trembled slightly. “I…” she murmured. “I have moments, I think...” Then, regretting her earlier outburst, she added quietly: “Isabel, I’m sorry. I know this isn’t ideal, exactly. But you’re here now. And… I want to atone for what happened that night. The night you died.”
“Leave it in the past,” came the cracked reply.
“It’s not that easy,” Jessica maintained. She brushed her fingers over the soft silk of her dress, a clean one, not the muddy embarrassment she’d fo
und herself in earlier. “The guilt over that night has never left me. I feel like some of me died with you.”
“Leave it in the past,” Isabel repeated, almost tenderly this time. “You were not responsible for your actions. I… forgive you.”
Jessica shivered, her old mentor’s words chipping at the centuries-held remorse, though they could never relieve it completely. She blinked back the tears, determining to change the subject.
“You’ve met Nicholas,” she said.
“The boy?” Isabel’s haughtiness returned. “You’re a fool to have a child in the house.”
“He’s not just any child,” Jessica said casually, reclining back in the armchair. “He’s the one Esus has searched for.”
As Jessica had expected, that got the creature’s attention. Without thinking, Isabel emerged, startled, from under the wardrobe. “Him?” she ventured. “The curly-haired nuisance with the quick temper? He’s the one Esus talked about all those years hence?”
Jessica nodded, her expression brightening. How odd it was to see her old mentor’s voice speaking through the cat. This wasn’t what she had planned, but it was something. Maybe everything was going to be okay after all. With Isabel back, the odds had tipped ever so slightly in their favour. Isabel knew things that maybe even Esus didn’t.
“Esus is certain?” the cat asked.
“As certain as he can be,” Jessica said. “And the boy’s actions speak for themselves. There’s no doubt he’s no ordinary child.”
“Then all is not lost,” Isabel barked. “We finally have him. We must begin training at once!” Rallied by the news, the cat forgot her misery and hopped up onto the bed, the fading sunlight picking out the white in her fur. She clawed at the bed sheets absentmindedly.
“He needs time,” Jessica cautioned.
“Time?” Isabel scoffed. “Have we not wasted enough of it?”
“He’s not yet sixteen,” Jessica reasoned, “and he’s only recently suffered a terrible loss. His parents. He’s new to the Sentinel calling. Apply pressure now and he may break.”
Sentinel: Book One of The Sentinel Trilogy Page 17
