Sentinel (35 page)

Isabel tensed. Heavy footsteps vibrated through the freezing ground, and she heard exhausted lungs gulping in massive breaths.

The cat peered out through the leaves, grateful for her newfound night vision – how sharp everything looked even at this late hour.

Garm had returned. Its scaly, trunk-like tail swayed through the air and its misshapen snout shovelled through the dirt in search of its prey’s scent. Those blood red eyes pierced the dark, and Isabel cringed back in fear. The creature was easily ten times her size. What chance had she against it?

The Garm stopped suddenly and lifted its monstrous head. Its great nostrils expanded and contracted. The fringes of fur along its back shivered with delight and it emitted an elated screech as those scarlet eyes burned in Isabel’s direction.

Not giving the brute a chance to corner her, Isabel sprang from her hiding place.

“Come, then, fetid hellbeast!” she shrieked. “Let us dance!”

In a blur of black and silver fur, she whisked through the night, leaping over stones and bounding through bushes.

The beast thrashed after her and its hot breath blasted against the cat’s tail. Isabel spurred herself on, dashing from side to side. Together, the bizarre pair tore through the countryside, and the monster’s gleeful screams echoed through the dark.

Finally, Isabel caught sight of the house as it reared up out of the night. Its windows radiated warm light and once again she cursed her lack of opposable digits. How on Earth was she to get inside? She didn’t have time to think, as at that moment the Garm swiped out a huge, razor-clawed paw and nearly lopped off the top of her tail.

Isabel flew at the house and seized her only option – the trellis that hugged the brick wall. She sank her claws into the mesh of wood and plant, hauling herself up as fast as she could. Below, Garm attempted to do the same, but the monster’s great bulk made it impossible. It collapsed onto the ground, scrabbling angrily around in the dirt, then prowled back and forth in irritation. Its disappointed, hungry whimpers made Isabel’s fur bristle.

“No cat for you this eve, swine!” Isabel taunted, leaping onto a windowsill three storeys up. The cat stalked along the ledge and peered into the room beyond the glass. It was too dark to make out more than the shapes of a few chairs and a table, but the door was open a crack, letting in some light from the landing.

Dejected, Isabel perched there and did the only thing she could – she mewed as loudly as possible, praying that somebody would hear.

*

A hand shoved Nicholas in the back and the boy spun to face Snelling.

“Do that once more and I’ll break your nose,” he yelled, clenching his fists at his side.

Snelling was in too good a mood to take the boy’s threat seriously, merely snorting in response. “The room,” he urged ravenously. “Is it close?”

Nicholas eyed the gleaming metallic gauntlet, which Snelling was holding in front of him threateningly, and nodded dejectedly. He turned to lead him down the dusty old corridor. His chest still throbbed painfully where the crackling light had struck him and he moved sluggishly, woozily leading Snelling through Hallow House. He’d lost the Drujblade in the scuffle in the entrance hall, and he felt useless without it.

Where was Jessica? Surely she’d heard the commotion? Nicholas had considered yelling out her name, or even escaping into the confusing warren of the house. Something about Snelling convinced him not to – the piggish wretch was dangerous; no doubt he’d find a way to make things a lot worse if Nicholas didn’t co-operate.

At last the boy stopped outside an old, dark wood door that was peeling with age.

“This is it,” he said miserably.

Snelling looked at the door, unable to hide his excitement. “Yes, yes,” he hissed, licking his lips. “Open it.”

“I can’t, it’s locked.”

Snelling shot the boy an irritated look. He shoved Nicholas out of the way to try the handle himself. Finding it locked, he spat in annoyance. After a moment’s thought, he seized the handle with the gauntlet and squeezed.

Nicholas’s eyes widened as a sizzling sound filled the darkened hallway, and the door handle blushed a violent red. Snelling began to sweat, great drops sliding down his forehead, and then he wrenched the melted door handle clean away. Eagerly, the flabby man dropped the hunk of twisted metal to the floor and opened the door.

The smell of decay and dust was overpowering. Snelling seized Nicholas by the arm and shoved him into the pentagon room, then drew the door to behind them.

In the gloom, Nicholas eyed the dusty corpse still grinning in the chair. He gave a start when he remembered it was Isabel’s withered form, and averted his eyes. She wouldn’t want him to see her like this. Now he came to think of it, what kind of person left a corpse rotting in a chair like that? Nicholas’s unease about Jessica deepened and he hoped he’d get the chance to ask her about it.

Snelling was muttering animatedly to himself, fishing around in his pockets. He wiped at his sweaty face and the sheer elation pinched into his chubby, crowded features was terrifying. Nicholas pushed himself up into one of the room’s many corners, watching nervously.

The parlour was still in ruins after Jessica’s earlier summoning spell. Above, the ceiling sagged sorrowfully and the wooden chandelier dangled precariously, three of its chains broken. Nicholas wondered what would happen should it suddenly fall on Snelling’s head.

The other man barely noticed Nicholas as he went about his work. He lit the candles already in the room, then placed three objects on the circular table at the room’s centre. A knife, a strange velvet pouch, and a stout bottle made of green glass. All were set down reverently.

Snelling wiped at his sweaty forehead once more and peered at his watch.

“Five minutes,” he said to himself. “We made it just in time. Diltraa will be pleased.”

Filled with feelings of doom, Nicholas knew nobody was going to stop Snelling. Loneliness welled up inside of him, that familiar hollow feeling that had overwhelmed him in the wake of his parents’ deaths, and Nicholas almost surrendered to it.

Then something struck him. What would Sam do? The boy knew the answer without even thinking – he’d fight with every scrap of energy he had in him, just as he had on the bus. Sam wouldn’t sit back while somebody like Snelling seized control, and neither would Nicholas. The boy eyed the knife on the tabletop. If he could just get close enough to snatch it away before Snelling saw him. This time he’d catch him off guard – and he’d have to kill him with it. Somehow, he had to distract the despicable man.

“The villagers,” Nicholas said suddenly.

“Eh?” Snelling barked. He seemed to have forgotten the boy was there.

“The villagers,” Nicholas repeated, moving casually away from the wall. “You were trying to help them. Save them from that thing.”

Snelling’s top lip curled upwards in scorn. “Boy, you’re even thicker than I give you credit for,” he scoffed, the loose skin under his chin shuddering. “Is there nothing rattling around in that skull of yours?”

“That Garm thing was killing villagers,” Nicholas continued, “and you said you’d been hunting it. Was all of that a lie, too?”

Snelling regarded the boy icily. “Do you know what Garm eats?” he spat with relish, spittle dribbling down his chin. “Souls. That’s why he loved Orville so.”

Nicholas had almost managed to reach the table, but this new bit of information threw him. “Why?” he asked, genuinely intrigued.

“It’s a dead town,” Snelling explained in a detached voice. “Packed full of dead souls.”

Nicholas studied the other man’s fleshy face and wondered if he was lying. Everything Snelling had said as Melvin Reynolds had probably been a lie. Then Nicholas recalled how nobody in Orville had been able to see him. They’d stared right through him, even as he’d screamed in their faces.

“They’re all dead?” he said slowly.

“I’m not surprised she hasn’t told you,” Snelling sneered. “She’s probably been sitting on that dirty little secret for years.”

“Who? Who are you talking about?”

“Why, Jessica,” the chubby man said, savouring the confused look on Nicholas’s face. “She’s the one who destroyed that place, did something terrible there. It killed everybody. Every living soul perished in that forsaken place.” He paused, smiling a toothy, rapturous grin. “At least Garm appreciates the place. To him, there’s nothing tastier than a tortured soul. All that pent up hatred and anger, distilled into its purest form over the years like a fine cabernet. The older the soul, the more delicious. He’s enjoyed hunting them down all these weeks, never seen him so wild and malevolent.” The man paused. “Don’t think he’s ever tasted cat before,” he added nastily. “He probably gobbled Isabel up in one go, snapped her little cat bones like twigs.”

Nicholas balked at the thought – against Garm, Isabel was as helpless as a butterfly. He dared to hope that she was okay, that she’d managed to evade the hellbeast. She was a tough one, after all; maybe even right this minute she was running to Jessica for help. But then… could Jessica help? Snelling had just accused her of a massacre. After their encounter in the garden, when Jessica had seemed to be teetering on the knife edge of sanity, Nicholas didn’t know who to believe anymore.

Determined, the boy’s hands curled into fists at his side and he eyed the knife on the table. He didn’t fancy getting hit with another pulse from that glove, but he had to do something. Like a soldier plucking up the courage to leap over the trenches, Nicholas felt the pressure building in his chest, felt the blood thundering in his ears, and with a cry he hurled himself at Snelling.

The man threw both his arms up and Nicholas clenched the wrist with the metallic gauntlet, forcing it away from him. Then he kneed the fat man in the groin and elbowed him in the ribs. Snelling spluttered and coughed.

“You… you spiteful brat,” he gasped, clutching at his chunky side. He attempted to squirm free, but Nicholas had worked himself up into a frenzy. He clamped his hands around both of the squat man’s wrists, staring into his face with pure hatred.

“Not so cocky now, are you?” the boy panted.

Snelling thrashed about like a mad pig and together they crashed against the table. In its chair, the shrunken corpse pitched forward, a toothy, smirking witness to the brawl. Nicholas ignored the cavernous eye sockets and went to reach for the knife.

It was a fatal mistake. As he released his grip on one of Snelling’s hands, the other man lashed out, seizing Nicholas’s hair until the boy’s eyes watered. Wrenching the gauntlet free, Snelling forced it against Nicholas’s chest. A blinding, white-hot force barrelled into his ribcage and the boy hurtled back through the air, landing in a heap on the floor.

Crumpled and in agony, the pentagon room became nothing more than a faint blur as Nicholas dipped in and out of consciousness. Only dimly aware of what was going on, he felt Snelling drag him across the dusty floor. Then he was heaved unceremoniously into something upright and hard, and his arms and legs were bound.

“Be thankful you’re needed alive, boy,” Snelling’s voice hissed in his ear. “If it was up to me, you’d be in pieces by now.”

Nicholas attempted to raise his head, but it was suddenly made of lead. He struggled against his body’s pounding complaints, blinked open his eyes, tried to focus. His vision swam frighteningly, but he was able to discern that he’d been strapped to a chair in a corner of the room. Opposite him, Snelling had returned to his spot by the table.

“Sit back and watch, boy,” he snarled. “You’re about to witness the true extent of our power. When the time comes, you’ll beg for your pathetic life on your knees.”

Dismissing the boy, Snelling took up the knife and held his hand over the shallow bowl on the tabletop. Without flinching, he dragged the blade over the palm of his hand. Instantly, blood welled in the crevices and he squeezed his hand into a fist, smiling triumphantly as his blood dripped into the bowl.

Dismally, Nicholas struggled against his restraints, but they held fast. Every muscle in his body throbbed dully, sluggish and spent after the second gauntlet blast. Grimly the boy realised there was nothing he could do.

Setting the knife aside, Snelling pressed a finger into his bloody palm and drew a peculiar symbol on his forehead. He began muttering strange words, and Nicholas cringed away from the sounds. The words reverberated deafeningly inside his skull. They were ugly and evil, charged with ancient power, and the boy’s ears rang as Snelling uttered them.

Still murmuring, Snelling uncorked the green bottle and poured a slick, gloopy black liquid into the bowl. Through his daze, Nicholas saw the liquid moving of its own accord, circling the bowl’s rim and bubbling poisonously.

Snelling looked ill. He was sweating profusely, beads of perspiration clinging to his flabby face. Dark bags bulged under his eyes. Yet he continued ardently, shrieking those ugly words. As he took up the velvet pouch, the floorboards quivered and bucked underfoot, and an unnatural wind blew into existence. Screaming now, Snelling tossed the contents of the pouch into the bowl – it looked like a glittering powder – and sparks danced across the black liquid, spitting and fizzing like fireworks.

As the wind shrilled in Nicholas’s ears, the entire room came alive. The walls rocked back and forth as if they were made of nothing but paper and the floor convulsed. Whatever Snelling was doing, it was affecting the very fabrics of the house, causing them to strain violently apart and then spring back together.