ASH MISTRY AND THE CITY OF DEATH (6 page)

sh replayed the last moments of Gemma’s life a thousand times, a hundred thousand times over the next few days. From the moment he woke, it haunted him. A fraction quicker, a centimetre truer with his aim, and it would have all been different.

He walked down the dark, lamplit street, head down and lost in memory.

The ambulance came, too late, and then the police found Ash covered in blood with a dead girl in his arms. Jack had been hysterical, shouting about him, and there were witnesses saying Ash had been with Gemma and then there’d been some argument with another girl. All these small, random details. A punch dagger had been found, smeared with blood, and the sheath strapped to his belt fitted the blade perfectly. So the police and half the school added two and two and got five.

It had been a dark, lonely night in the police station before the fog had cleared in the morning and the police found a dead hyena. The wounds on Gemma proved to be from an animal bite – an escaped animal from some zoo, the police thought – and Ash finally went home with his parents.

Their silence had been awful. Lucky had looked at him with such cold hatred and disgust that though she had not said a word, he knew exactly what she was thinking. Gemma was dead because of him.

And she was right.

If only he'd stayed on the bus instead of walking back, Jackie wouldn't have been able to follow him. If only he hadn't given Gemma his coat. If only he'd been closer he would have put the blade in Jackie's skull instead of her shoulder. If only he'd been quicker. If only he'd been faster, stronger, better.

If only…

Did Jackie bite Gemma before he'd thrown the katar, or after?

Why had Parvati said “No” when Jackie had demanded the diamond?

Why?

He stared at his left hand, at the small scar on his thumb. If it would do any good, he’d cut it off right now. But the Kali-aastra was all of him, and he was it. There was nothing heroic about what he’d become. Quite the opposite. He was a curse. Elaine had predicted this would happen. Someone had ended up dead, and he was so very sorry.

But what gripped his heart with fear was the certainty that this would never end. Who would be next? His parents? His other friends? Lucky?

Gemma’s death had made him more powerful, and he hated himself for it. Parvati had explained, ages ago it seemed, that the more significant the death, the more power Ash gained. He hadn’t realised what she meant until Gemma’s energies had filled him: a Great Death. His strength, speed, agility and senses had crept further up the scale, leaving ‘human’ further behind. The shock of it left him dazed, far more than he’d expected.

Had his presence accelerated Gemma’s death, even? Kali was a greedy, blood-drinking goddess. Had the aastra, sensing death, drawn it out? He felt sick to his guts whenever he heard his parents talking downstairs and Lucky crying. He picked up the looks and the fear from the other kids in class. His supernaturally acute hearing gathered the whispers and the quiet mutterings as he passed. The rumours about that awful night infected all of West Dulwich High.

He missed seeing her in class. Her chair remained empty as if she’d just got up, still warm with her presence so he could fool himself, even just for a second, Gemma was still there. Instead the shadows of the trees outside passed over it as the sun, winter low, crossed the sky east to west. How he wished he could make the shadows reverse their path.

Ash stared at his shadow now as it rose up against Josh’s front door. He stood there, outside his best friend’s house, and raised his fist. He could hear the others inside. There was Akbar’s snorting laugh, and he could smell Sean’s aftershave, and that they had salt and vinegar crisps out, that there was hot chocolate brewing and their takeaway pizza had cheese, olives and anchovies on it, plus some curry powder. Josh burped after a mouthful of Sprite. Sean, Josh and Akbar. His closest, oldest friends who’d known him for years and years. Ash had been just like them, and right now that was all he wanted. To be like them again. Normal, and none of this supernatural, superhuman crap.

Dice fell on the kitchen table and pencils scratched on notepaper. Akbar said something about the sorcerer casting a firestorm spell at the manticore. The game of
Dungeons and Dragons
was in full swing. Ash knocked.

Josh’s laugh carried all the way to the door until he opened it and saw Ash. Then it froze on his face as he stood there, staring at him. He opened his mouth, but it took a few attempts before words came out. “Ash?”

He’s scared.

Josh’s heartbeat accelerated, the rapid thumping as loud to Ash as a circus drum. Sweat formed across his forehead and upper lip, and the colour faded from his face. His breath was short, shallow and panicky; even his hand trembled on the door handle.

He’s not scared, he’s terrified. Of me.

Ash forced a smile, even though inside his heart was tearing in two. “It’s Tuesday. ‘The Catacombs of Doom’, remember?”

Josh’s gaze shifted down to his feet. “Oh, right. It’s just… we didn’t think you’d come.”

“I’m here now.”

There was no move to let Ash in. But Josh’s heart rate was over a hundred beats per minute. He looked up at Ash, biting his lower lip. He was struggling to speak, to say something, but couldn’t.

Ash’s gaze darkened. Josh shouldn’t be treating him like this. “You going to let me in or what?”

“Or what, Ash? What are you going to do if I don’t?”

“What?”

“What are you going to do?”

For a second, just a second, Ash let his anger, his rejection, show. He wanted to push past. He could do it so easily. Josh couldn’t stop him, he was just a human. How dare Josh judge him, what right did he have? Didn’t he know what Ash had done? Josh was pathetic. Ash raised his hand and—

Stepped back.

The look on Josh’s face said it all. The fear practically dripped off him. He trembled. Ash lowered his hand, wishing he could take that last moment back. He smiled at Josh, but the smile was too harsh, too much like a grinning dead man.

“Look, Josh, there’s nothing to be afraid of. You know me.”

“Do I? Really?”

He couldn’t believe it. Did Josh think he’d killed Gemma? How could he? “I’ve done nothing wrong, Josh. You have to believe me. I wouldn’t hurt anyone. Christ, Josh, this is me.”

“I saw you, Ash. I
saw
you.” Josh winced and put his hand over his face. “I’m still not sure I believe it, but I saw what you did at the park the night Gemma died.”

“And what was that?” asked Ash coldly. “You saw what, exactly?”

“I saw you push Jack out of the way and shove your arm down the throat of some insane monster. I saw you rip its heart out like you were picking apples from a tree. You moved so fast that you practically blurred. No one can move that fast. Not Usain Bolt pumped with rocket fuel. Nobody. It was mad, but I went over to the monster and saw it was real. Jack was screaming and crying and I didn’t know what was going on, but there was some giant dead dog in the grass and beside it was its torn-out heart.”

“It wasn’t like—”

“I am not an idiot, Ash.” Josh looked back at him, sad and lost. “Then I saw you with Gemma. With that thing with a human face and jackal’s body. With a girl with scales and a forked tongue. I watched you throw the knife and watched you as Gemma died. I called the ambulance, did you know that?”

“Thanks.” What else could he say? Deny it? Make his friend think he was insane to believe in monsters?

No, Josh believed. He had one standing right here in front of him.

“What are you, Ash?”

“I really don’t know any more.”

“I think you’d better go.”

Ash looked up at his mate. “You know I wouldn’t let anything happen to you. Not to you or the other guys.”

“Is that what you told Gemma?”

And Josh closed the door.

shoka gazes down the hill. A few fires still burn within the village, edging out the cold desert night. Somewhere in the darkness a bullock grunts and a baby cries.

A dozen or so squat mud-brick dwellings. A fenced-off corral for the cattle. Chickens squawking within the sheds. Fields with dried-out gullies and meagre crops. To the north squat the domed grain stores. How many such villages has he visited? How many fires has he lit? How many cries has he silenced?

Not enough. Not yet.

His band swells with each passing victory. Soon it will be an army. For Ashoka has dreams beyond village raids. This is how kingdoms begin.

He thinks about his father, a king, and his older brothers. They have grand palaces and dine off gold plates while he haunts the desert, eating with his band of brigands. His father laughed when Ashoka demanded his crown. How often was he laughed at, dismissed? Now they laugh no longer. They scream. If he cannot have their respect and love, he will have their fear.

Soon, the old palace will echo with wailing women,
he thinks.
That crown, and others, will be mine.
He wonders how the old man sleeps, knowing his son is out here, carving out a kingdom of his own.

His men wait impatiently, like dogs eager for the hunt. They check their weapons, adjust their armour, ensuring helmets are fixed and there are no loose straps. But Ashoka expects little resistance. This will not be a battle
–
not against unarmed, unsuspecting villagers. This will be a slaughter.

His horse whinnies and stomps its hoof; it senses the coming bloodletting. Ashoka pats its thick neck. He himself wears a mail coat over his silk tunic and heavy cotton pantaloons. His boots, stiff leather, creak in the stirrups. A bright red sash lies across his waist, a jewelled dagger tucked into the cloth. Hanging from his saddle is his sword, a single-edged talwar with a gold-bound hilt. Which chieftain, which prince, did he slay to possess it? He cannot remember; there have been so many.

The jangle of reins and the snort of another steed snaps his attention back to his men.

A sleek mare with a high arching neck and white mane bound with silver and silk trots up beside him. The rider is clad in scales, and the sabre on her hip is sheathed in green crocodile skin. She doffs her helmet, and her emerald eyes shine in the moonlight.

“The men are ready,” she says.

Ashoka observes her. She leans over the pommel, waiting in anticipation, her forked tongue flicking along her fangs. Her cobra’s eyes do not lower; she defies where others would bow and kneel. Perhaps that is why she has risen so rapidly in his command. And why should she bow? Is she not royalty herself? Was not her father a great king?

“You have done well,” he says.

“My lord.” She bows, almost. “I am but your servant.”

“Ha! Servant? I doubt anyone could command you. You are terror made flesh, Parvati.”

She smiles, a rare thing, then looks down the slope. “Why this particular village?”

“Their landlord defies me. He refuses to pay tribute and so must be punished.”

“Shall I send a detachment to raid the stores?” She points towards the row of round huts some distance away. “They will be full of grain this time of year.”

“No. Burn them. The message will be clear. Defy me and you will be annihilated.”

“And the captives?”

“What captives?” Ashoka draws his own sword. “I want no survivors.”

“Slaves could be sold, my lord.”

Ashoka stands up in his stirrups and turns to his warriors. “Listen to me,” he shouts. He sweeps the blade down towards the village. “You are my jackals. We feed on blood and the dead. No survivors. Kill them all!”

Howls fill the night. Then the line of horsemen descends the slope, drawing their weapons, and suddenly the night is filled with the thunder of hooves and battle cries. The moon shines on swords and spears and axes, each one sharp and notched with heavy use. Chariots
–
light wicker contraptions drawn by pairs of steeds
–
rattle and bounce over the uneven, rocky terrain. A driver weaves his team through a gap between two sandstone boulders as his passenger nocks an arrow. The cavalry formation fragments as each man races his companion, eager to be the first to kill. Ashoka whips his horse and it froths at the bit, neighing with savage delight. He grins and his heart soars, a passion too primitive for words, so he merely howls as the wind rushes in his ears.

The village stirs. Men stumble from their doors, bewildered and still half asleep. A dog races up to him, but is crushed under the hooves of his horse. The steed vaults over the low defensive wall and Ashoka catches the open-mouthed shock of a villager’s face before he drives the tip of his sword into it. He twists his wrist and the sword tears free. He does not even turn to look back.

Women run out, clutching screaming children and babies in their arms. They flee into the darkness. They will not escape. With a nod, three of his horsemen break off in pursuit.

He sees Parvati leap from her steed as it takes a spear in its chest. She turns in the air and her sword flashes. A head leaps off a pair of shoulders, trailing a ribbon of blood. She has not yet touched the ground. Her eyes burn with demonic light. Men fall beneath her blade like wheat beneath a reaper’s scythe. She does what she does best: end men’s lives.

Ashoka drops from his horse and sweeps his weapon across a man’s throat without pause. He rams his shield into the face of another as he charges into the melee.

A hammer slams into his wrist knocking his sword away. He spins and sees a huge, oak-chested man wielding a heavy wooden mattock. The man is covered in minor cuts, but swings the hammer with bone-shattering power. A soldier runs to Ashoka’s defence, then collapses as a single blow flattens his skull.

Ashoka discards his shield and leaps at the villager. Both fall and scrabble in the blood-soaked dust. He digs his fingers into the man’s neck, squeezing
—

“Ash!”

Ash squeezes the throat of his enemy as other soldiers grab his arms to try and haul him back. The big, fat villager’s face turns red and his eyes bulge.

“Ash!” a girl screamed as she hung on to his arm. She wept and screamed again.
Is she the man’s daughter? She is nothing. She is
—

“Lucky?”

Ash dropped his grip and his dad gasped. There was a bruise over his cheek and he lay there, coughing and clutching his ribs. Had Ash punched him?

“Oh God, Dad, I’m so sorry.”

His mum switched on the light. Ash’s bedroom was wrecked. His books had been thrown everywhere, the chair legs were snapped, and there was a fist-sized hole in the cupboard door.

Had he done that in his sleep? Ash stumbled back on to his bed. “I’m so sorry.”

But no one listened. Mum was kneeling with Lucky beside Dad as his father struggled to breathe. Purple finger marks surrounded his neck.

Ash stared at his family and met Lucky’s gaze. She stared back at him with horror and disgust. Her eyes were red with tears, but her face was hard and pale. All she could do was shake her head.

He couldn’t bear to look. Instead he covered his face with his hands and sank down with a groan. What was happening to him?