Sentinel (28 page)

“There, the lamp,” Isabel’s voice rang out in the murk.

“Not all of us can see in the dark, you know,” Nicholas muttered, rubbing at his sore knee. He fumbled away from whatever he’d tripped over and felt along the damp, rocky wall, finding an iron lamp set into the stone. He twisted the little knob beneath it, prepared to berate Isabel – how could something this old possibly still work? – when a bright flame erupted within the glass.

Light stretched across the rough, craggy walls, illuminating a poky little room that consisted solely of shelf upon stony shelf, reaching up to an impossibly lofty ceiling. They were cluttered with all manner of odds and ends. It was a treasure trove, circular like the painting room, the bending shelves arranged around a giant iron cauldron that sat on the stone floor. That must be what he’d tripped over in the dark.

The room smelt damp and disused, but under the wet tang of rot there was the faint scent of herbs and dried flowers.

“What is this place?” Nicholas breathed, slowly getting used to the dank air.

“My collection,” Isabel said, hopping up onto a shelf. She sat next to a grinning cow skull. “There, by the runes, do you see it?”

“See what?” Nicholas mumbled. He skirted around the cauldron, eying it distrustfully, and began to search the shelf that Isabel had nodded to. Runes were scattered everywhere, their strange angular symbols meaning nothing to him, and there, resting in a special upright stand, was a knife. Not just any knife, but an ornate, delicate weapon entirely carved from something that resembled ivory. A metal sheath protected the blade, while rune-like symbols had been etched carefully into the handle.

“Take it,” Isabel said.

“What is it?” Nicholas asked, taking a hold of the carved handle and lifting the dagger from its stand. It was disarmingly light.

“A bone dagger,” Isabel said, “carved from the horn of the demon Druj centuries ago by my ancestors. The Drujblade is a formidable weapon – many fell beasts has it slain through the years.”

Nicholas carefully removed the sheath, revealing a blade hewn from the same dark bone as the handle. Its jagged teeth were dangerously sharp, and it was inscribed with words that he didn’t recognise.

“Feels like it’d snap if anybody tried to use it,” the boy said, slashing it tentatively through the air.

“No such thing could ever happen,” Isabel scoffed. “’Tis more powerful than it looks. Many have used it against the evil things of nighttime and nightmare. And be careful, it’s an antique, you know.”

Nicholas stopped when his enthusiastic thrusting caused him to bump into the cauldron again. He quickly re-sheathed the blade.

“This’ll definitely do some damage to Garm,” he said, admiring the ancient weapon.

“Pray it doesn’t come to that,” Isabel said sternly. Nicholas only grinned.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Fighting

M
ELVIN
R
EYNOLDS GREETED HIM WITH AN
enthusiastic slap on the back.

“The monster slayer returns!”

Nicholas staggered into the shop, Reynolds’ animated welcome almost causing him to crash into a case full of animal skulls. Instead, he merely bumped it and the skulls skittered nervously on their shelves.

It was as fusty as ever inside Rumours, but Nicholas preferred that to the oddly-sterile atmosphere of Hallow House. He was just glad to be out again – and this time there hadn’t been any cat scratches involved. Orville was still unsettling, though. Even more so in the daylight, if that was possible. Without the soupy darkness it was dazzling, and more unnervingly perfect than it had been the previous evening. The snowy high street was crisp and polished, gleaming like a new button. It was also disturbingly quiet. Aside from a few stragglers in the distance, there was nobody on the street. Nicholas wondered if they were all nursing sore heads after the exploits of the Red Lion.

“You’ve caught me at the perfect moment,” Reynolds boomed. He was surprisingly loud. “I’ve just put the kettle on. Having a slow day. You’ll have a cuppa, won’t you?”

“Yeah,” Nicholas said. He handed over the coat that the shop owner had loaned him. “Cheers for this.”

“Oh that old thing? You should’ve dumped it in the bin on the way over,” Reynolds said dismissively. He threw it onto the counter. “Ah, I see Isabel’s in a brighter mood today.”

He was being facetious.

Isabel had skulked silently in behind Nicholas and was perched at the window again, glaring suspiciously out at the high street. Her gift for unfriendliness was really something, Nicholas thought. At least she’d let him come back to the village. She’d barely put up a fight at all; though she had insisted that he wear the Drujblade. It was attached to his belt in a leather holder, concealed beneath a baggy hoodie.

“After you,” Reynolds said, drawing aside the frayed brown curtain at the back of the shop. He was wearing a knitted jumper, and the ribbed columns of brown and mauve were stretched at the seams by his generous belly.

Nicholas ducked through. The back room was toasty and dark. It smelt like old cigars and boot polish, mixed with the sweeter bouquet of pine cones. It had been furnished as a kind of living room. Second-hand armchairs were studded with cigarette burns and a tattered old rug hugged an even tattier carpet. Unusual artwork hung on the walls, and there was a poster that contained a quote from Henry James’
The Portrait of a Lady
: “There are few hours in life more agreeable than the hour dedicated to the ceremony known as afternoon tea.” A little set of wooden stairs led up to what must be the flat above the shop.

“I’m afraid builder’s tea’s the best I can do,” Reynolds apologised, plodding over to the sink in the corner. It was piled high with crockery. An assortment of plates was doing a reasonable impression of the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

Nicholas wandered over to one of the armchairs. Beside it rested a glass-fronted cabinet, inside of which a number of books dozed lazily against one another. They looked very old.
The Complete Grimm’s Fairy Tales
.
Stories or Fairy Tales from Past Times: Tales of Mother Goose
.
The Complete Works Of Hans Christian Anderson
.

“You like fairytales?” the boy asked.

Reynolds was fishing dirty crockery out of the sink and rinsing it under the tap.

“‘Like’ might be a bit of a strong description,” he mused, using the sleeve of his jumper to wipe the rim of a mug. “I studied them for a time. They’re fascinating – almost as fascinating as the people who told them. Did you know that there were actually nine Grimm siblings? And the brothers Grimm didn’t just tell fairy tales, they also started work on an enormous German dictionary that wouldn’t be completed until 120 years later. Not by them, of course.”

“I always liked Little Red Riding Hood,” Nicholas said, though the thought of that particular story made his chest constrict. He couldn’t help but be reminded of the woman from the bus.

“Ha!” Reynolds scoffed, bowling over to the armchairs with a tray. He set it down on the book cabinet with a clink. “You want to read the original,” he said, his dark eyes twinkling as he poured the tea. “You won’t sleep for a month.”

“Why not?”

“Charles Perrault’s version from 1697 pre-dates the Grimms’ and, shall we say, contains less savoury imagery.” Reynolds paused, seeing that Nicholas wanted to know more. “Think of it this way,” he continued. “A young woman is devoured by a ‘big bad wolf’… In French, a girl becomes a woman when
elle avoit vû le loup
, or ‘she has seen the wolf’.” He left the suggestion dangling in the air.

“Doesn’t sound like something kids should read,” Nicholas said, cradling a chipped mug in his hands.

“Fairytales aren’t for kids,” Reynolds replied, sitting down with a huff. He took a great swill of his tea and exhaled a loud, lip-smacking “aaaah”.

“C.S Lewis knew that,” the shopkeeper added. “He’s the one who said: ‘When I became a man, I put away childish things, including the fear of childishness and the desire to be very grown up.’ Fairytales are about the dangers of the adult world. Adults should study them just as much as kids.”

Nicholas nodded thoughtfully. His mother had hated fairytales. He’d always assumed she was just squeamish, but now that he knew about her ‘other’ life, he wondered if there was something else to it. Fairytales were about monsters. Perhaps his mother had simply had enough of them; she didn’t need stories to remind her about things that ate little children.

He realised his shoulders had stiffened and he’d retreated into his thoughts again. Funny how no matter where he was or what he was talking about, the subject always drew him back to his parents. A sucking whirlpool of grief had opened in his chest when they had died and its current often dragged him inside. Deeper into himself. Away from reality. Whatever ‘reality’ was now. He attempted to shake off the numbness, gripped the mug a little tighter.

“Seen that Garm thing again?” he asked the shopkeeper.

“Nah,” Reynolds breathed, the sound blasting from deep in his gut. “It’ll be off nursing its pride after it failed to eat you for dinner.”

“I would’ve given it indigestion,” Nicholas said.

“Out of spite,” Reynolds laughed.

Nicholas nodded.

“How long has it been hunting round here?” he asked.

Reynolds raised his eyes to the ceiling. The circular discs of his glasses caught the light.

“Four, five… Seven weeks maybe,” he said finally.

“Seven weeks! Why hasn’t anybody done anything about it?”

“Fear,” Reynolds said simply, batting a hand at the air. He reclined in the armchair, resting his mug on his stomach. “They’re simple folk round here. Quiet folk. They wouldn’t know the first thing about demons.”

“And you do?”

Nicholas was wary of asking Reynolds outright about the Sentinels. For some reason it felt like a dirty word. A sinister word.
Sentinel
. He was only just getting used to it himself. It was one of those words that felt heavy. If you uttered it, it clunked to the floor and sat there.

“More’n I’d like to,” Reynolds sighed. He tapped his temple. “There’s stuff in here I’d rather not know, truth be told. Demons that paralyse their prey with a stinger. Others that devour you whole and digest you alive over a period of days.”

“Nice.”

“Why else do you think people turn them into fairytales. Deny their existence? It’s too much to accept. Demons on the six o’clock news? Now that would be interesting.”

Nicholas laughed.

“‘A Kaijo demon is on the loose in the Norfolk Broads,’” Reynolds intoned, impersonating a news reporter. “‘Police have advised people not to panic, and not to approach the Kaijo under any circumstances. Unless they want to see what their entrails look like. Now onto the weather…’”

Nicholas almost snorted his tea through his nose. He spluttered and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

“So what do we do about it?” he asked.

“We?” Reynolds looked taken aback.

“The Garm,” Nicholas persisted. “We need to stop it.”

“Lad, there can’t be any ‘we’ where demons are concerned.”

“Of course there can.”

Reynolds leaned forward in the armchair.

“Boy,” he said slowly. “This isn’t like hunting foxes. There’s no horse-riding or fancy red jackets or ‘tally-ho, old boy!’ These are wild things from another world and they’d sooner gut you as look at you.”

“I know that.”

Reynolds held his gaze, not blinking for a very long time. He seemed to be having an internal wrestling match with his conscience.

“Why do you want to hunt it?” he asked. His voice was unnervingly, uncharacteristically soft.

Nicholas peered down into his mug, hunched over it like a fortune teller.

“Dunno,” he said, jerking one of his shoulders.

Reynolds steepled his fingers over his own cup.

“People fight for lots of reasons,” he began quietly. “If you separate out the details, though, it generally boils down to three things: duty, self-defence and revenge.”

The boy’s crop of curly hair barely moved as he raised his eyes to peer at the shopkeeper’s fingers. He couldn’t meet his gaze.

“There’s an elusive fourth, though,” the shopkeeper continued. “It’s most common in young men. It’s the most dangerous of them all, because what drives these young men isn’t a sense of duty, or a need for self-preservation, or even a desire for vengeance. It’s a yearning to destroy – not others, but themselves. To find an end. A peace.”

The room fell silent.

“Nicholas,” Reynolds said. “Why is it you want to fight?”

Finally, Nicholas looked at the shopkeeper. There was kindness in that big, red-cheeked face. Without saying anything, Nicholas tugged at his sleeve to reveal the bandage that Reynolds had put there.

“I know what that thing can do, and I don’t care. I want to help you kill it.”

The boy paused.