Sentinel: Book One of The Sentinel Trilogy

by Joshua Winning

  “Garm,” Reynolds replied with a sigh. “A creature of the old days.”

  “A monster, you mean.”

  “That works, too,” Reynolds nodded.

  “It’s my second,” Nicholas told him, recalling Malika. “They’re getting worse.” Isabel sounded another warning grumble, but Nicholas didn’t pay it any notice.

  “Why hasn’t anybody stopped it?” he continued.

  “Oh, I’ve tried,” Reynolds assured him, rinsing the cloth and drying Nicholas’s arm with a towel. “Not easy to kill Garm, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. The villagers are in denial. They’ve been out hunting foxes and bears. I’d like to see a fox that can rip a man’s head off.”

  “Not sure I would,” Nicholas muttered. Reynolds laughed.

  “You’re alright, lad,” he grinned, patting the boy roughly on the back. “Men twice your size would’ve collapsed and sobbed at the sight of that beast. You’ve got pluck.”

  Nicholas didn’t particularly agree with that. If it hadn’t been for Isabel, he’d be sitting in that monster’s digestive tract right about now.

  The boy ripped the bloody sleeve off his jumper.

  “How about the leg?” Reynolds asked. Nicholas looked down, seeing that his trouser leg had been shredded when that thing, Garm, had grabbed him outside the pub.

  “It’s fine,” Nicholas said. He caught Reynolds’s eye. The desperation to ask if he was a Sentinel filled up his chest. But he didn’t know what to say. He knew how secretive the Sentinels were. The moment passed.

  “You believe in all this magic stuff then?” Nicholas asked, admiring the shelves behind the counter.

  “Well, not fairies and pixies and leprechauns, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Reynolds replied with a wry smirk. “But yes, the elements, nature, cause and effect, chaos and balance. They’re all important. Not to get too ‘flower power’ about it.”

  Nicholas smiled. “You actually sounded sane when you said that,” he said.

  “Fairies are just for fun,” Reynolds explained. “Monsters are the things you want to keep an eye out for.”

  A plaintive cry interrupted their conversation. At the shop door, Isabel was scratching at the wood.

  “Looks like Isabel wants to go home,” Reynolds said, striding over to the shopfront.

  “Do you think it’s safe now?” Nicholas asked.

  “I’d say so.” Reynolds peered through the door’s porthole again. “Garm doesn’t stick around in the village for too long. He hates the smell, I’d say. Best you hurry back before it gets too dark out there. I’ll walk you.”

  Reynolds escorted them through the village. He loaned Nicholas a jacket, and was wearing a big winter coat himself. It had a hood fringed with fur, which made him look like an Arctic explorer.

  “You’re new around here, aren’t you?” he said.

  “It’s that obvious?” Nicholas asked. He noticed that Isabel was limping slightly as she hurried along next to him. She wouldn’t let him pick her up, though, hissing if he tried.

  “Aye, you look far too normal to be from Orville,” Reynolds commented. “And talk about bad luck - it normally takes people at least a few days before they spot Garm. Where you staying?”

  Somehow Nicholas knew he shouldn’t mention Hallow House. It didn’t feel right. Even if Reynolds was a Sentinel, divulging personal information like that felt wrong. He was getting good at this secrets thing.

  “Fratton,” the boy said, naming the nearby village that Isabel had mentioned earlier. “Got family there.”

  “Nicer place’n this,” Reynolds said wistfully. “You’re lucky on that count.”

  Nicholas nodded, feeling guilty at the lie and finding he couldn’t look at the man.

  Reynolds didn’t ask any more, perhaps sensing his young companion’s reticence. Instead, he told the boy about Orville’s history, how witchcraft had always been linked to the village, even now. “It’s a strange place, to be sure,” the man nodded. “Strange things seem to gravitate towards it. Well, here we are.”

  They’d arrived at the little street that Nicholas and Isabel had first stumbled upon. Ahead of them, the countryside huddled under a leaden sky.

  “Know your way from here?” Reynolds asked.

  “Yeah, cheers,” Nicholas said. “For, y’know…”

  “Any time,” Reynolds said, winking at him. “You be careful.” And then he was gone, striding back into Orville, the snow crunching under his boots.

  Nicholas and Isabel lumbered through the chill countryside. They didn’t talk, instead listening out for any sign of Garm. They needn’t have worried; soon they were back at Hallow House, the large oaken door bolted once more against the terrors that the night had surrendered.

  Isabel broke the silence. “Give me your word that’s the last time you leave the house,” she said.

  “What?”

  “You see now why you must remain here,” the cat pressed. “We were lucky the Reynolds man came to our aid. I dread to think what could have happened if he hadn’t.”

  “I liked him,” Nicholas said. “He reminded me of somebody. Didn’t you see his tattoo? I think he was a Sentinel.”

  “Be that as it may, you’re not to leave the house again,” Isabel asserted. “You’ve seen what horrors lie waiting. The house protects you while you’re within its walls; no evil can pass its threshold uninvited. Outside you’re vulnerable to a great many dangers.”

  “I don’t care. I want to see him again.”

  “Stop being so selfish,” Isabel retorted, jumping onto the mauve armchair. “There’s more at play here than your feelings. Swear it.”

  “I–” Nicholas began angrily.

  “Swear it!” Isabel shrieked. “Or I’ll find a way to bind you here myself.”

  “Fine!” Nicholas yelled. “I’ll stay here, and I’ll wallow and be miserable just like you!” He trudged off down the hallway, leaving the cat alone in the entrance hall.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Blood

  THE SECOND SAM STEPPED THROUGH THE front door, he knew something was wrong. The atmosphere in the murky hallway was different, unsettled. Sam had lived here alone long enough to know that something wasn’t right. As he hovered in the open doorway, barely breathing, he was sure of it: somebody had been here.

  The elderly man stood and listened. No noise. He set his keys on the small table just inside the door and eased the door shut behind him. His shoulders tensed as he lingered in the hall, his ears ringing with the silence. He paced slowly into the living room, then the kitchen.

  Nothing.

  The back door was still securely locked. All the windows were sealed tight.

  Still, something was wrong. Something felt out of place. Frowning to himself, Sam went back into the living room. He surveyed the light brown three-piece-suite which was still ornamented with the cushions that Judith had made, his gaze moving over to the fireplace. Then he saw it. Propped up on the mantelpiece above the hearth. His wallet.

  Sam hurried over and took up the battered leather holder, turning it over in his hands. He’d lost it that day on the bus, when he’d struggled with the woman. Malika. Yet here it was, back in his house, as if it had followed him home of its own accord.

  If his wits hadn’t been sharper, Sam probably wouldn’t have noticed the wallet for days. Whoever had placed it there knew he was no simpleton, though. They were counting on him finding it, and their message couldn’t have been any clearer – we know where you live, and we can get you whenever we want.

  Sam shuddered, his unease quickly budding into resentment. Who was the culprit, that harlot from the bus? Richard? Another Harvester? For a moment, the old man considered leaving, getting out of here. But his anger and pride refused to let him. This was his house, his home. If anybody wanted to take him out, they might as well do it here, and he’d happily challenge any intruder to a fight.

  Besides, as he’d told Liberty, nowhere was safe now.

  Liberty! After h
e’d made a quick check upstairs to be absolutely certain that his unwelcome visitor was no longer around, Sam picked up the phone.

  “Liberty,” he breathed, relieved when she answered.

  “Sam, are you okay?”

  “Yes, yes,” he said. “Are you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Francesca?”

  “She’s asleep. Sam, what’s going on?”

  “Nothing. Nothing.” Suddenly he felt foolish. But at least Liberty was alright. It was just him, then, that they’d visited. Was that a good thing? Sam assured Liberty that everything was fine and then replaced the receiver.

  He made himself dinner. Though his appetite had all but vanished, he forced down two sausages and some mashed potatoes, almost in defiance of anybody who could even now be watching him through the windows, savouring his discomfort.

  He was exhausted, physically and mentally. The encounter with Richard that day had left him shaken and drained. He really was getting sentimental in his old age. Unanswered questions rattled around inside the old man’s head, refusing to settle until they’d found answers. What on Earth could have changed Richard like that? The doctor? It had to be. At least Lucy was with her sister now; he’d managed to save somebody.

  As the old man poured himself a rare brandy from a decanter in the living room, he plucked a framed photo from the mantelpiece, the very frame that he’d found his wallet resting against. A curly haired, sixty-year-old woman with kind eyes beamed out at him.

  “Oh Judith,” Sam murmured, taking another sip of brandy. “What am I going to do?”

  He replaced the frame, and wondered if there was any saving Richard. Was his friend gone for good? Or could he be brought back from the brink of whatever madness had taken hold of him?

  It was late when Sam contemplated going to bed. He’d not slept well in the years since his wife’s death, and he’d slept even worse in the aftermath of Anita and Max’s murders.

  Murder.

  Strange that he’d not connected that word to their deaths before now. Even if the news reports were adamant the train wreck had been a horrible accident, there was no escaping the truth. Nicholas’s parents had been murdered. Sam couldn’t help wondering if he was next. The fact that his intruder hadn’t been here when he’d gotten home offered some small comfort. If they’d decided to toy with him for a while first, he could probably sleep easy tonight.

  Sam had just finished washing up and was switching off the kitchen light when a crash from outside made him jump. In the darkness, the old man hurried to the cupboard under the stairs, dragged out his suitcase and quickly assembled his shotgun. By the time he got to the back door, all was quiet again. His heart thrashing against his ribs, Sam peered out into the night. Nothing.

  Cursing his nerves, the elderly man double-checked the door was locked and trudged shakily into the living room. It had probably been a fox knocking over a bin. Still, his reaction to the noise was sign enough that the intruder had done its job. Sam was on edge.

  Flicking off the living room light, he lowered himself into his favourite armchair and prepared to wait the night out.

  *

  Sam awoke with a start. He’d dropped off in the chair, the gun still clasped in his lap. The moon edged in through the living room window, casting everything in a ghostly pallor.

  Then he felt the eyes on him, and instinctively Sam flipped the gun up, ready to fire.

  “Who’s there?” he barked.

  The sound of his own voice aggravated him. It was the voice of a scared pensioner.

  “Peace, brother,” a deep voice throbbed in the dark.

  As Sam’s eyes adjusted, he picked out the figure in the corner of the room. It stood still as a statue, wearing a cloak of shadows.

  “Esus,” Sam choked, lowering the barrel. The moonlight picked out the familiar metal mask.

  “My apologies for the intrusion,” Esus said. “It was not my intention to alarm you.”

  “I’m just an old man with jangly nerves,” Sam replied wearily. He tried to relax into the armchair, the gun at his side, but Esus’s presence always made him uneasy. That voice seemed to echo inside his own skull, as if Esus was occupying the same cramped space as his nervously-huddled thoughts.

  “What brings you?” Sam asked

  “There’s word you’re on the trail of something,” the figure said.

  “You might say that,” Sam nodded. “Though just what I’m on the trail of I couldn’t tell you.”

  “Richard Walden.”

  Even the sound of his name made Sam’s stomach twist into knots.

  “Yes.” The elderly man rubbed his forehead. “Yes, Richard. He was attacked by a Harvester, and suddenly he’s different. He’s acting like one of them.”

  “He’s not the first,” Esus’s voice rumbled, filling the murky living room. Sam could feel the voice vibrating in his gut now. It got everywhere, creeping and polluting.

  “There are others in Oxford and Manchester, but mostly here. You must double your efforts. This madness started here, in Cambridge. Something’s hunting out there, too. It’s targeting children. Already three have perished.”

  “And there was the break-in at the museum,” Sam added with a somnolent nod. “And Richard, and the attack on Nicholas, not to mention Anita and Max.”

  “It’s all connected,” his visitor intoned. “You’re closer than anyone to the truth. You must persist.”

  Sam stared up at that impassive mask. The black eyes pierced deep inside of him and he felt wearier than ever. “I’m a decrepit old bag of bones,” he sighed. “What can I do?”

  “Doubt before the dawn,” the phantom mused. “You must see that you, and only you, are capable of resolving this. You’ve been at the centre of it from the beginning. Ever since your wife first met Anita and Max Hallow. Doubt not. Be vigilant. And persist. May the Trinity watch over you.”

  With that, Esus melted into the shadows.

  Drawing a grateful breath, Sam found he was alone once more.

  *

  Nicholas stuffed another pair of trousers into his suitcase and squeezed it shut, zipping it up hurriedly. Enough was enough. All night he’d lain awake, replaying the evening’s events on the blank canvas of the dark ceiling. The creature Garm, the shopkeeper and his raven tattoo, Isabel forbidding him from ever leaving the house again.

  After thinking himself into a corner, he’d resolved that it was time to take matters into his own hands. At first light he’d thrown back the covers and decided to get the hell out of this place.

  When Sam had suggested coming here, Nicholas had stupidly agreed, lost in the fog of grief, curious about the secretive godmother, eager to escape his parents’ memory-heavy house. But it had been wrong. If anything, this place was worse than home. Nicholas felt like the old, desolate manor had swallowed him whole and was slowly digesting him, reducing him to nothing. He’d been put here to be forgotten about, and he was forgetting.

  Anger scorched through him; anger at Sam, anger at that wretched godmother. And most of all, anger at his parents for leaving him. He couldn’t even look at photos of them anymore. Their faces only stirred up confused emotions that tumbled furiously, poking at his insides like thorns.

  Still, if he could get back to Cambridge, the house on Midsummer Common was still there, as far as he knew. Sam would have to cut through a lot of red tape to sell it, and even if it had been put on the market, there was nothing stopping Nicholas from squatting there for a while. Just long enough to plan his next move.

  Yes, that’s what he’d do. First, he’d go to Reynolds or that other village Isabel had mentioned, Fratton, and figure out a way back to Cambridge – back to his old house, back to a world that didn’t include talking cats and strange masked visitors. Back to normality.

  The boy pulled on his coat and seized his suitcase. He was just heading for the bedroom door when he stopped.

  There, sat in the doorway, was the cat.

  “Nicholas,” it sa
id, and for once that aged voice wasn’t patronising. It creaked softly, knowing.

  “I’m leaving,” Nicholas said. “Don’t try and stop me.”

  The cat blinked, but didn’t move. “I think we both know I couldn’t stop you,” it said tiredly. “But before you go, I want to show you something.”

  “I’m not interested,” Nicholas said. “I don’t care. I’m sick of this place. You’re all a bunch of nuts. I’m going.” He pushed past her into the hall, dragging his suitcase behind him.

  Isabel turned and padded after him. “It’ll only take a second,” she called. “Do you really want to leave here never knowing who you are?”

  Nicholas stopped warily. “What do you mean?” he asked, suspiciously.

  “Follow me,” Isabel said plainly. She trotted down the stairs and out of sight.

  Nicholas struggled with himself. Who he really was. What did she mean? Part of him didn’t care, was sick of the riddles and half-answers, just wanted to get away from here as fast as possible. But the other part – the part that had helped him find his parents’ secret room – willed him to swallow his pride and go after the cat. Sighing, Nicholas dropped the suitcase and chased after her.

  “In here,” the cat said when Nicholas had caught up. She nodded at a closed door, which the boy pushed open. They went inside, and Nicholas found they were in the painting room.

  The circular alcove that contained those two strange canvasses – one depicting a crotchety old woman, the other two girls and a young man spinning joyfully in the sun’s warm rays. The chandelier above shone down on the twin canvasses, and the dancers revelled in its light.

  Isabel sat beneath the portrait of the woman and stared up at it. Her whiskers bristled and she said: “Isabel Hallow.”

  “What?”

  “That’s her name,” the cat explained, craning to look up at the wrinkled woman with the curled black hair and thin, pressed lips. “Isabel Hallow.”