Angel Dares (23 page)

OK, Angel: breathe. One … two … three … That’s right, you can do this. You are not a complete idiot, even if your recent track record suggests otherwise. Davis has got hold of you. Jennifer was working for him—that wasn’t hard to piece together. Why hadn’t Kurt sensed she was a fake—or Margot for that matter? Too late to ask that now. I was here—wherever here was—and I needed to work out how I could escape.

So next on the agenda, explore the prison for an exit.

Feeling a little better that I’d managed to come up with a basic plan, I groped around on the floor. Cold sheet metal. Shuffling backwards on my bum, I then found a wall—corrugated. Building the mental picture, I guessed I was in some kind of shipping container. As my eyes adjusted, I noticed a pinprick of red light up in one corner, too high for me to reach. I put my foot out to break the beam and a light clicked on. After the utter darkness it was so bright. I buried my head in my knees and curled up against the nearest wall.

‘So you’re back with us. Excellent.’ Davis’ voice came from a speaker somewhere in the roof and tinny in the headphones dangling from my neck.

‘Let me out, you bastard!’ I screamed at him, kicking at the wall in case someone could hear me outside.

‘We’ll let you out all in good time. Perform well in our little experiment and the doors will open, I promise.’

I tried a different tack. ‘Please, you don’t want to risk your career for an abduction, surely? Just let me out now and I won’t tell anyone. I’ve got a show to do.’

‘Don’t worry: you’ll have a chance to star in your own little performance for the cameras. Footage of you is being streamed live from our webcam. When you have given us indisputable proof of the existence of savant powers, then you’ll be free to go.’

Hope that he was going to be reasonable shrivelled up. How was I going to get out of this? ‘I don’t have any powers. I’m just a singer. No one would believe you—they’ll say the footage is a fake.’

‘Please, carry on protesting—it is what we expected. Your people hide among us, manipulating us without our consent. You must be exposed for what you are: just one part of a much bigger picture. And as for proof, you’ll sing a different song when you have to use your gift for saving your own life.’

There was a clunk against the side of the container and it rocked. There was nothing for me to hold onto but I tried to grip the wall with my bound fingers. ‘What’s happening?’

‘We’re moving you down onto the slipway. As the tide comes in your container will start to fill with water. For normal people that would be a problem, but water is your speciality, isn’t it? Those pictures on your phone were most enlightening. You’ll have about thirty minutes to decide if you prefer to live or go to your death pretending you couldn’t prevent your own drowning.’

‘You … you expect me to hold back the sea? Haven’t you heard of King Canute, Mr Davis?’ If this were being broadcast live, at least the authorities would now have his name for later prosecution.

‘Very witty, Angel. But if Canute had had you on his side, the story would’ve ended quite differently, wouldn’t it?’

The container started to move, rattling as it was shifted. It ended up at an angle, fitting Davis’s description of placing it on a slipway.

No help was going to come from my captors. My head felt strong enough for a second attempt at telepathy.
Will!

Again no reply. Telepathy over any significant distance was always a chancy matter; far greater prospect of success if the relationship was a close one, the other mind well known to you. The bond between the middle Benedict brother and me was not strong enough to span the distance from the festival to wherever I was being held.

I wouldn’t get many attempts at this—my head was already throbbing with a migraine from the whistle, white lights flashing behind my eyelids. I’d have to try for my strongest link—and I knew who that was even if he wasn’t going to like it.

Marcus!
This time I felt my message brush against someone else’s mind.

Angel, where the hell are you?

Oh God, Marcus
. I got the blurred impression of masses of people and bright lights.

Why aren’t you here? You promised
. His hurt zinged down our connection.

You really think this is a good time to hash that out?
Tears of relief were running down my face, mingled with a sharp joy—so counter to everything else I was experiencing. I hadn’t been imagining anything: Marcus was my soulfinder. Petrified though I was, the connection between our minds blazed between us with warming, reassuring fire.

I’m in the middle of our set here. Pete and Michael are asking why I just stopped singing. I’ve got an audience of about ten thousand staring right at me.

Pull yourself together, Angel. Tell the guy to get you help.
Sorry to interrupt but I’m in a lot of deep water here.
I began to laugh hysterically, blotting the tears with my knees. If this was on webcam, I had to look completely mad.
Eli Davis and Jennifer abducted me maybe an hour or so ago—I don’t know for sure. They’ve locked me in a shipping container, which is going to fill up with the tide. Tell Will to come and get me out.

There was no response. It was like the 999 dispatcher putting down the phone in the middle of your call.

Marcus? Please, please don’t let me down. I need you to believe me.

Jennifer?

I saw my mistake: I shouldn’t have mentioned someone he had known and trusted for longer than he had known me.
That’s not important right now. Can we just concentrate on the saving-Angel-from-drowning part?

None of this makes sense. You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you? You already told me water was your friend. Is this another of your “get Marcus’s attention” ploys? Show your power over me by making me drop everything for you?

You cold bastard! No, it damn well isn’t!

He was angry with me—with me!
This isn’t a good time, Angel. Give me twenty minutes and I’ll be finished up here. You’ve got your own performance in ninety minutes—you’d better be here for that.

He didn’t believe me. He thought I was playing some ridiculous game with my gift to get his notice—to make him choose between his band and me. My soulfinder didn’t care enough for me to risk his career and come save my life. My knight-in-fricking-shining-armour was abandoning the princess to the dragon and riding off in the wrong bloody direction.

He was about to end the link but I could feel his hesitation.
What’s that you’re feeling?
Telepathic communication between soulfinders gave each one an insight into the heart of the other—he was experiencing that right now.

I’m not sure what I’d call it: devastation maybe.
I felt so tired—so disappointed by him.

You know, Marcus, I thought we stood a chance once we spoke this way, but I was wrong. I was scared that my soulfinder might hate me but actually it’s the other way round: I should’ve been scared that I’d come to hate you. Go away, Marcus. I’ll get someone else to rescue me.
I cut the link.

Water began to spurt through the joint where the container doors met. These shipping boxes were meant to withstand rough weather as they spent much of their working lives stacked out on a deck. Thanks to this, the tide had not found a way in until it was already a third of the way up the sides. I hadn’t noticed that I was already partially submerged. The water gushed towards me, wrapping me in the only kind of embrace I could bear just at the moment.

‘Oh my friend,’ I whispered to the water, ‘you and me are in a lot of trouble.’ I wasn’t scared, not of my element, but I was terrified of the decision I would have to make.

The sea tickled my aching wrists, bound so tightly with tape. I couldn’t ask it to carry in a knife or anything to cut me free—the gap wasn’t big enough to let in a blade—but I welcomed its soothing touch.

Hang on though: the sea could scour off the glue, couldn’t it?

Calling out to my friends telepathically all the while but failing to reach any of them, I summoned as much sand and grit as had come in with the water and directed it at the tape. Cool water protected my skin as a little whirlpool worked at the sticky join binding the tape. Gradually it loosened and floated free, like a strip of rubbery brown kelp.

‘Score one to Angel,’ I whispered, bringing my arms up in front of me.

‘How did you free yourself?’ Davis’ voice crackled over the speaker system.

I made use of my unbound hands and offered him a two-fingered reply. I took the earphones off my neck and dropped them into the water. Standing up, I found the water had reached my calves and was fast rising. It wouldn’t stop rushing towards me unless I ordered it to do so—and that was exactly what I didn’t want to do, not while on camera.

Camera? Could I disable that somehow? I began searching for a way to reach the light in the corner. Jumping up, I fell back, still a long way short. Damn being small! I’d have to wait until I could float up there—or maybe send a plume of water to do the job for me?

Turning my back so they wouldn’t see what I was doing, I used my power to wind water up the wall like ivy. It reached the camera but the light refused to blink off.

‘What are you doing? We know you are using your power.’

Like I was going to tell them anything. Disappointed, I let the water subside to its natural level. The camera was waterproof, of course.

Angel, are you there?
Marcus’s voice lanced back into my head, adding to my headache.

I told you to go away.
Oh dash it all—I had to talk to the bastard, didn’t I? He was the only one I could reach.

Look, I just walked off stage for you.

Well done
, I shot back sarcastically.
So you’ve decided saving a life might be worth more than your reputation? I’m honoured.

OK, if that’s your attitude, I’ll go back on. I might still be able to salvage something of my credibility if I do it now.

I hate you.
I leaned back against the container wall and covered my face with my hands.
I really really hate you
.

I’m not so hot for you right now either, Angel.
But there was something tender in his tone that undercut the cruelty of the thought.
Tell me what I need to know.

I sobbed, feeling my heart break into little sand fragments and scour my chest as it came out with my tears.

Angel? OK, I’m sorry. I’m just furious. I don’t want to be one of you—don’t want this gift thing you told me about and I’m taking it out on you. I apologize.

He wouldn’t have to worry: I’d leave him alone after this.
Just tell Will, Victor or Uriel—whoever is closest—that I’m being held in a shipping container somewhere. I don’t think I’m that far from you. They’ve put it on a slipway and it’s filling with water so I have to be in some kind of dock or marina. Footage is being streamed live so the Davis people will get evidence of the existence of savant gifts—maybe if they find the feed that’ll give them a hint of where I am.

Come again? This is for real?

Marcus, wake up! This isn’t about you—I’m not grandstanding to get your attention. My life is in danger. As a savant, I’ve promised not to reveal my gift to outsiders and I’m being put in a situation where I’m going to have to break my word. Even so, I’ve limits: I can’t keep out something as strong as the sea for ever. They might end up drowning me because I’ve never tested my powers in this way.

The sound system crackled.

‘Congratulations, Angel. You’ve interrupted the concert, which was being broadcast live by the BBC. The evidence of gifts is mounting—when it all comes out people will know why someone like Marcus Cohen walked out in the middle of a career-making performance. Keep up the good work.’

My reply was to wade over to stand directly under the camera to make it more difficult for them to film me.

Marcus, once you’ve told one of the Benedicts, get back on stage. The anti-savant people are compiling evidence against you.

Marcus told me succinctly what the journalists could do with their evidence.
I’ve found Will and Margot. Will’s calling Victor.
I then got the impression that someone new—not one of the Benedicts but Kurt, had joined Marcus. I could hear an echo of the conversation through Marcus’s replies.

‘What the hell are you playing at? Get back on stage!’ roared Kurt. ‘You don’t do that to your band mates—not unless you’re dying and only then if there’s treatment that’ll save you. Otherwise I expect you to keep going until you croak on stage. That’s what real musicians like us do.’

‘Hey, Marcus, bro, what’s going on?’ asked Michael, joining the little ‘let’s-get-Marcus-back-on-track’ brigade. ‘Pete’s just making an apology—saying you were suddenly taken ill. Is that what’s going on?’

I could feel Marcus balanced on a knife-edge of decision: apologize and return to the stage, letting others handle this, or stay with me.