Poison City (33 page)

‘What happens then? If you die without passing the sin on?’

‘It . . . returns to where it came from. To the Sinwalker. Or to all the people who paid us to take their . . . deeds. The sins always have to be held. Someone must feel the guilt.’

I shake my head, trying to take this all in. ‘So, what – you’re saying this Sinwalker is still pumping you guys full of God’s sins?’

‘Yes. But . . . as I say, we cannot contain it all. It . . . spills out into the world, corrupting people, destroying what it touches.’ He winces and tries to sit up straighter. ‘The . . . ills of mankind do not come from the fact that God gave us free will. Or because we ate from the tree of knowledge. It is because his sins are staining the world, corrupting the earth. Still, to this very day.’ Stefan grabs my arm. His fingers dig painfully in. ‘It is
God
that is the cause of all that is bad in the world.’

I pry his fingers off. He slumps back against the pillows and closes his eyes.

‘Why, though?’ I ask. ‘What did he discover? What made him create the flood?’

‘I . . . I am finished with you now. I will say no more.’

I grit my teeth in frustration. I grab the morphine bottle and load the syringe up with another dose. I jab it into his arm.

Stefan’s eyes flutter open. He stares at me. ‘That . . . feels nice.’

‘I’m glad. Come on now, Stefan. You were telling me a story.’

‘Was I?’

‘About the Sinwalker? You were telling me what God discovered. Why he created the flood.’

‘Was I? Are . . . you sure? That is top secret.’ He lifts a finger to his lips and tries unsuccessfully to make a shushing sound.

‘So?’ I prod Stefan. ‘What did God find out?’

Stefan looks at me, his eyes slits of glinting amusement. ‘He . . . he found out he did not create man.’

I wait for the punchline, but it doesn’t come. ‘Say again?’

‘He . . . found out that it was the other way around. That
man
created
him
. That he grew from the beliefs and dreams and superstitions of our primitive ancestors. The angels tried to keep this knowledge hidden from him but he found out.’

‘How could he not know he didn’t create man?’

‘Even gods suffer from self-delusion. He . . . convinced himself he created the entire universe and everything in it. That man was his possession to do with as he wanted. When he found out otherwise, he brought on the flood in a fit of fury.’

Christ, so God is exactly the same as all the other orisha. Self-deluded. Power hungry. Selfish. And an A+ asshole.

My thoughts are running furiously through my head. I can smell the smoke. It’s getting stronger. I need to hurry. ‘Why would someone be seeking this first sin?’

‘I . . . do not understand.’

‘Someone is searching for it. For the first sin.’

‘Then they are searching for the Sinwalker. If they find him, they will find it.’

‘Why are they looking for it?’

‘I . . . do not know.’

His eyes drift closed. I poke him in the hand with my gun and he snaps awake again with a cry of pain.

‘Pay attention. The one who’s looking for the Sinwalker – she has a sin-eater on her payroll. He’s killing your kind and absorbing their sins. How does that help him get closer?’

‘Ah . . . I see. Clever.’

‘What is?’

‘That is how he will find the location of the Sinwalker. He is searching back through the sins and memories of our predecessors. We . . . take on the memories and sins of our masters, just as they took on the memories and sins of
their
masters. So it goes, all the way back to the first sin-eaters. If he looks back far enough, he will reach the first memories. The first sin. Find the Sinwalker’s location.’

‘How many sin-eaters will he need to kill to do that?’

‘I . . . I do not know.’

‘If they find him, what happens?’

‘It . . . depends what they want to do. He is asleep you see, the sins held in his dreams.’

‘What if he wakes?’

Stefan shrugs. ‘The sins might . . . leak out, infect his surroundings. Corrupt the world. He is utterly mad, you see. Only in his dreams can he control them. If he wakes . . . who knows what will happen.’

‘And if he dies?’

‘Then the sins return to God. I am . . . not sure how he will react to that. He does not remember these sins. He has no knowledge, no memory of the evil he did. The angels will have made sure of this. Can you imagine how he will react if those sins return to him? If he suddenly remembers what he has done. If he remembers
why
he did it? He will do what he failed to do last time. Destroy the world.’

Lilith’s revenge. How Night becomes Day. She doesn’t even have to do anything. Just kill the Sinwalker and God will do the rest. Wipe out most of humanity.

The smell of smoke is getting stronger. I turn to the door and see it curling underneath. Time’s up.

‘Is there anything else you can tell me?’

‘No. That is all I know. Now please. Help me. Help me escape.’

‘Help yourself.’

I hurry to the door, pull it open and jerk back as the heat slaps me in the face. Smoke and flames are crawling across the ceiling. The stairs leading down are a wall of fire. I can’t see ten feet down the corridor. Shit. Have to go up.

I take the stairs to the top floor. The walls are starting to smoke up here. I can feel the heat through the soles of my shoes. I move fast, find what I’m looking for at the end of the corridor. A small door with cramped stairs leading up.

I take them two at a time and emerge onto the roof of the manor house. The sky is choked with orange-tinged smoke. I can hear screams and shouts from down below.

I cover my mouth with my sleeve, skirt around the perimeter of the roof in search of a ladder, some way of getting down. I make a complete circuit before realizing with a sinking heart that there isn’t one.

I hurry back across the roof. I need to find another way down. I open the door and a surge of flames leaps out, enveloping me in a wall of heat.

I shove the door closed. Stagger away, squinting through the smoke. I look around desperately. There has to be another way.

Then I see something odd. One section of the smoke is moving oddly. I frown, moving towards the edge of the roof. The smoke is swirling in little vortexes, and as I draw closer I see why.

Michael.

He’s hanging in the air about ten feet away from the house, wings flapping slowly as he watches the scene unfolding below him. I peer over the edge and can just make out the lines of cars on fire, the guests streaming from the burning house.

-Dog? Where are you?-

-With Armitage. She just finished getting everyone out. Fuck, London, did you see—?-

-Later. Tell Armitage to get the car round to the fountain. I’ll be there in a minute.-

Michael hasn’t noticed me yet. I stare at him, feeling the heat on my back, pulsing up from below. The arrogant bastard is just hanging in the air, watching the tragedy unfold beneath him. Doing absolutely nothing.

I ready my gun, climb up onto the lip of the roof. I teeter there, waving my arms for balance. Thank Christ the smoke obscures most of the ground. I’m really not good with heights.

I watch Michael, trying to judge the distance. It’s going to be close. There’s a good chance I won’t make it.

And the thing is, I don’t really care. I’m tired. Tired of us. Tired of them. Tired of the powerful taking advantage of the weak. I’m tired of the entire fucking human race. If I die now, so what? I’ll join Cally, wherever she is. Or I won’t. Either way, it won’t make a lick of difference.

I crouch down, then throw myself forward. The smoke whips past my face. Michael senses something, starts to turn. I grab hold of his wing with my free hand. We lurch to the side, my weight throwing him off balance.

‘What are you doing?’ he shouts.

He rights himself and flaps his wings. They hit me in the face but I hold on tight. He’s starting to rise. That’s not what I want.

I shoot him in the face.

He screams. We drop, but his wings are still flapping. He’s not dead. I didn’t think he would be. But he’s hurt. He tries to control the descent as much as he can but we hit the ground hard and I’m thrown aside. I roll, come to a stop. My breath has been knocked out of me. I lay on the grass, wheezing for air. Michael is off to my right, sobbing in horror.

‘What . . . have you done to my face?’ His words are mumbled, broken, but I understand them well enough.

I wince, feeling for broken ribs. ‘Better watch out for that vanity,’ I croak.

I push myself to my knees, then to my feet. My side is throbbing, hot flashes of pain stabbing through me. I stagger off to find Armitage, leaving Michael on all fours behind me.

‘Have you seen my teeth?’ he says. ‘I can’t find my teeth.’

I search frantically for my gun. Find it in the grass a few feet away. Eject the clip. Load a new one, point it at Michael.

But he’s not coming for me. He’s limping in the opposite direction, heading for the trees. When he’s halfway there his wings start flapping and he rises jerkily into the sky, looking like an old Harryhausen stop-motion monster.

I put my gun away. There will be a reckoning there, I’m sure. Add another name to the list of creatures who want to kill me.

I look around. I’m at the rear of the house. The cars are all ablaze. I can smell burning rubber and fuel. There are clumps of guests milling around, staring at the cars in horror, wondering how they’re going to get home.

I take out my cell phone and dial 10111.

‘Police, what’s your emergency.’

‘There’s a huge fire out at . . .’ What’s the place called again? ‘. . . Ainsley Manor,’ I say, remembering. ‘Lots of people dead. You better send everyone you can. Fire. Police. Everyone.’

I hang up, take a picture of the burning house, then forward it to the press contacts I have in my address book. I give them the address and title the email, ‘Sex party goes wrong’. That will get them here.

But even as I send the email I wonder if it will make any difference. The people at this party are the ones who
own
the papers. They’d never let this story go to press.

But I have to try.

I can feel the heat even from this distance. The flames have taken hold of everything now. Pouring up out the windows, crawling up the outside walls like they’re alive. I squint and think I see movement in the flames. Fire demons called up by the pain and suffering that went on here.

The front of the house is a scene of utter chaos. The guests are running around like headless chickens, crying, sobbing. Pointing at the house in horror. Yeah, cry me a river, fuckers.

I see a flash of headlights beyond the fountain.

-Dog. That you in the car?-

-It’s us.-

I jog towards them, climb into the passenger side. I check the back and see the little girl, mesmerized by the fire, watching the figures silhouetted against the bright flames. I follow her gaze. A portion of roof suddenly caves in, accompanied by a terrific crunching, splintering sound. The flames reach higher, climbing into the night.

‘London?’ Armitage, prompting.

I don’t take my gaze from the flame. I’m transfixed, caught in the moment.

So she drives, and finds the nearest hospital. Armitage takes the girl inside, saying she found her wandering around on the street. Armitage lays a hand on the girl’s head. I feel the shinecraft from the car as Armitage cancels the glamour and wipes out her memory too. No need for her to remember what went on tonight.

The girl immediately turns and looks at me. Armitage ducks back through the doors and into the car. She starts the engine.

The little girl lifts a hand slightly in goodbye.

I lift mine in response, then Armitage pulls back into the street.

‘Where to?’ she asks.

‘Back to Durban.’

Chapter 17

I don’t talk during the trip back to Durban. I can’t. All I’m seeing are images – flashes of what happened back at the house, things I hadn’t even been aware of seeing at the time. Jagged bursts of red and white. Of blood and bone. Of hunger glinting behind masks, of the terrified screams of the dying, the triumphant, animalistic howls of the killers.

I’m struggling to come to terms with it. It was as if a hundred thousand years of progress was simply . . . stripped away in an instant. As if society was nothing more than a feeble veneer, a group lie that we all hide behind so we can think we’re better than we are. More advanced.

But we’re not advanced. Lurking inside every single one of us is the animal, all fangs and hunger, waiting to be let off its chains.

It’s making me feel sick. More than anything because I recognize that animal in myself. Every time I think about Cally I hear the snarling, raging beast, locked away in its cage, howling to be let loose, a force for revenge that will destroy everything before it if I just gave in. If I just opened the door.