Sentinel (5 page)

An immense stone effigy towered over her. It bore the face of a monster – fang-filled jaws snarled, beady eyes stared and horns curved up out of a bulging forehead to disappear into the stone wall.

Malika’s breast heaved as she studied the carving. She raised her trembling hands and untied the cloak that smothered her form.

It came away at her shoulders, rippling to the floor. There, before the looming image of her God, she became absolute in her beauty. A crimson dress fell to her feet. Here and there pieces of the fabric were embroidered with tiny diamonds. The firelight ignited her pallid complexion and she was radiant.

Unable to contain herself any longer, Malika threw her arms up, fingers stretched out. She spoke words that few would understand now – a tumult of syllables and rhythms that were both beautiful and tragic. Her voice was forceful, demanding. And in the ghostly draft that made the fires flicker there came an answer.

Malika paused, casting about the cavern. Then, barely perceptible on the air, little more than a whisper, heaved the tone of another voice.

The flames in the black bowls spat. The ground shuddered and stirred even the pillars. The world groaned under a sudden great weight.

Malika fell silent.

Icy waves sighed from the effigy’s open maw. There, in the recess of the statue’s yawning mouth, two points of white light had appeared.

For a moment, Malika stood frozen, her arms still raised. The blood thrummed deafeningly in her ears. She could feel the eyes watching her. Penetrating. Tasting every inch of her. It took her a moment to compose herself. Such time had passed since she had basked in the presence of a higher being, one greater in power and authority than she, that she momentarily forgot herself.

Dropping her arms to her side, she fell to her knees and uttered: “My Lord.”

The bright pricks of light needled out from the dark.

“
Malika
,” guttered a throaty voice.

The woman raised her head. “It is I, Lord, your ever-loyal disciple.”

“
An age has passed since our last meeting
.”

“Many ages, my Lord,” Malika replied.

“
The Light has taken purchase of so many years?
”

“It has,” Malika consented. She rose, limbs flexing like a lioness’s, gaining in confidence. “But change surges above, carried on a wind of unease. The world is slipping, my Lord. It teeters on the brink. Corruption lays ruin to even the sturdiest of foundations, and the Light’s hold on order is loosening.”

“
You come bearing agreeable news
.”

“The world is much changed,” Malika continued. “The evil of Man blooms and sin stalks the streets like never before.”

“
Has the world indeed fallen so
?” A coughing laugh made the flames spit. “
Then my Rising has come not a moment too soon. The world is yet ready for a new array, a new leader and a new chaos
.”

Malika smiled darkly.

“
You have done well, Malika
,” the voice wheezed. “
Many would not have remained faithful when confronted daily with the despicable presence of Man. Such pitiful woes.
”

“It was the knowledge of your return that nourished me through the bleakest of nights,” Malika burred softly. “I live only to serve Diltraa.”

“
I am indebted for a servant as loyal as thee.
”

In the dark of the open maw a twisted form was hunched.

It sucked in tentative, rattling breaths.

“Even now other servants infiltrate the world,” Malika informed him. “Those whose sole desire is to bring forth the bedlam so long ago promised. Across England, Sentinels are being destroyed. And with every one that dies, the blanket of darkness musters its weight. Soon it will eclipse all.”

“
It is indeed a time for rejoicing. But not so swift
,” said the whisper. The eyes glittered. “
We must exercise caution. The Vaktarin prevails; I feel her presence and power even from here. No doubt Esus still guides her
.”

“But their grip slackens with every Sentinel silenced; we can overthrow them,” Malika persisted eagerly, hands clenched into fists. “Without the eyes of the Sentinels, the Vaktarin and Esus are defenceless.”

The pinpricks blazed.

In their shallow bowls the flames burst upward, showering livid sparks onto the ground.

“D
o not underestimate Them! Blind confidence will land daggers in your back and poison in your veins
.”

Malika bowed quickly. “Forgive me, my Lord. I will do anything that you ask.”

“
You will
,” Diltraa spat. The flames dwindled. “
I require a vessel; something that I may travel in undetected
.”

“Anything, my Lord,” Malika agreed keenly. “Ask of me anything, and it shall be yours.”

“
I sense something quite suitable. It resides in the town above, less than a mile from here.
”

Malika nodded and bowed once more. “I shall obtain it for you, my Lord.”

The eyes burned expectantly in the gloom.

*

No matter how many times he re-read the letter, its magnitude refused to fade. It was the final thread, an invisible spider-spun cord that linked him and his parents together. Nicholas couldn’t put it down.

The events of the day his parents had left for the train still haunted his thoughts. The last time he’d seen his mother and father, they had been waving from the back window of a taxi. And now Nicholas thought of it, he remembered his mother’s strange, stretched smile. The image lingered in his mind’s eye – the way she had bitten her bottom lip. Nicholas wondered what it could mean. Was it conceivable that, like his father in the letter, his mother had known something might happen to them on the journey? Was that why she had refused to say goodbye to him?

A chill prickled down his spine. He sensed the air shift behind him and turned, expecting to see that Tabatha had come into the room.

His bedroom door was still shut and he was alone in the room. He shook the chill off, returning to the letter.

It left so many unanswered questions. Who was ‘She’? Nicholas had never heard his parents speak of a godmother. And if they had never mentioned her, why were they going to her with such urgency? Why all the secrecy? And why, above all, did they feel the need to send the letter? Nicholas desperately wanted to see Sam again – he was the only person who could provide him with answers.

“
Nicholas
.”

The sound scattered Nicholas’s thoughts.

A whisper so soft it shivered on the air.

He turned.

Across the room, his bedroom door was open a crack.

Nicholas frowned, sure that just a moment ago it had been closed. He got up from the bed and walked to the door, peering out into the hallway. It was deserted.

Nicholas turned to walk back into his bedroom.

“Nicholassssssss…”

The boy froze. The hairs on his arms stood on end. Slowly, he moved to look back into the hallway.

There was nobody there, only a slash of moonlight filtering in through the window.

“Tabatha?” he called out.

“Nicholassss.”

The letter fluttered from his hand and rested on the floor.

“Who’s there?” he demanded. He thought he could feel eyes on him, but there was nobody there. Every fibre of his being screamed at him to stay where he was, but his feet – as if alive with foolish curiosity – stepped him out into the hall.

“Who’s there?” the boy repeated. “Tabatha?” He walked toward the stairs, his heart hammering.

“Nicholassss.”

It was louder this time, closer. Nicholas spun towards the sound.

There was his parents’ bedroom door. He chewed on the inside of his cheek, his stomach tied up in knots.

He moved to the door and pressed his ear against the wood.

Nothing.

Not a peep.

Reaching down, he took the door handle just as he had done the day before and twisted it.

The door fell open.

The smell of his parents still lingered here. The comforting scent of his father’s aftershave mingled with the heather perfume his mother loved. Grief welled in his chest. Fresh and suffocating. He looked around the room, tidy and modest, rambling roses adorning the wallpaper. The same as it always had been. But somehow more special now, like the letter. Something to preserve.

There was no sign of life here, though. Nothing that might have whispered, anyway.

Nicholas found himself scrutinising the far wall. A picture of a younger version of himself hung there.

There was something strange.

Where the wall met the floor, a long, horizontal crack of light had appeared. He’d never noticed it before.

They didn’t want me to notice it before
, he thought to himself, though he couldn’t explain why such a thought should occur to him.

Going to the wall, he crouched down and felt the base of the skirting. Then he pressed his cheek against the carpet.

A draft sighed through the crack and Nicholas could hear soft murmurs. He strained to make out the words, but found that he couldn’t.

The sound of Tabatha’s footsteps on the stairs made Nicholas get hurriedly to his feet.

“Nicholas? Are you still up?”

“Yes, I’m coming,” he called.

He backed away from the wall, wondering what could possibly lie behind it. Then he closed his parents’ bedroom door and joined Tabatha on the landing.

CHAPTER FOUR

Unravelling Threads

T
HE FIRST MOMENT THAT
N
ICHOLAS KNEW
he was outside was when a rough hand touched his bare arm.

“You alright?” a voice asked.

Nicholas blinked.

In front of him, a dilapidated church flexed up into the night sky. Frostbitten and swaddled in snow, its shattered windows gaped like mouths while graffiti-scrawled timber boarded up the entrance. Red and blue lights skipped over the stonework.

“What’s going on?” he said.

The owner of the hand took a step forward, blocking out the decrepit structure. He was a tall figure with a wide nose and even wider shoulders. There was a police badge pinned to his chest.

“Had a bit too much to drink?” the officer asked.

“What?” Nicholas repeated. He became suddenly aware that he was freezing. Looking down, he found that he was standing barefoot in the snow, dressed in boxers and a white vest. His feet were muddy and nearly purple from the cold.

“What’s going on?” he mumbled again.

A minute ago he’d drifted off to sleep – very much in his bed – and now he didn’t know where he was.

“You better come with us,” the officer said, drawing Nicholas toward a waiting police car. The lights on top whirred about like they belonged in a fairground ride. Nicholas got into the back of the car and was handed a blanket, which he gratefully wrapped around himself. His head was swimming. He was at home in bed and he was in a police car. Everything was a fuzzy muddle.

The officer took his address and drove Nicholas back to Midsummer Common.

When they got to the house, Tabatha was already sat on the doorstep, more than slightly resembling a plump pink marshmallow in her fluffy dressing gown. Her face drawn tight with worry, she jumped to her feet as Nicholas trudged up the steps, the policeman just behind him.

They went inside and Tabatha put the kettle on. Nicholas slumped at the kitchen table, confused and vaguely annoyed. The policeman had performed a breathalyser test and was satisfied that Nicholas hadn’t downed a bottle of whisky and decided to go for a drunken stroll. But he wanted to know what Nicholas was doing out in the middle of the night dressed, in his words, like he was “partying on a Portuguese beach”.

“Don’t you think I do, too?” Nicholas mumbled defensively. He felt like a freak, and all this fuss was only making things worse.

“Have you ever sleepwalked before?” the officer asked.

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“That’s got to be the explanation, though, hasn’t it officer?” Tabatha shuffled over in her slippers and set three steaming mugs down on the table. “How else would you explain it?”

The officer ignored Tabatha’s question. “I’ve had sleepwalkers rolling around in their front gardens before, but I’ve never known anybody to walk five miles into the countryside at two o’clock in the morning without waking up first,” he said. “And definitely not barefoot.”