Waywalkers: Number 1 in Series (10 page)

‘Come on!’ yelled Sam. The man and woman needed no prompting and clambered from the train as hurriedly as their handcuffs allowed.

‘Quickly!’ They broke into a run, rushing blindly into the thorn-filled embankment below. There was a rattle of gunfire, and Sam felt something strike his back, spin him around and throw him to the ground. The man and woman stopped, but in a breathless, anguish-filled voice he yelled, ‘Keep running!’ They hesitated, then fled into the darkness.

Snarling with pain, Sam crawled on hands and knees through thorns and bracken, not caring as his clothes and hands were torn, and collapsed behind a tree, gasping for breath. Already he could feel his body initiating the trance that would heal the wound, but he wouldn’t let it. The automatic trance was a leftover from the days when most weapons didn’t lodge in you; bullets were different. Gritting his teeth, he set his mind to what he had to do, and kept on concentrating. Agony tore through his back, when at last the bullet was pulled free as though by a surgeon impatient of others’ suffering.

This is what comes of interfering
, he thought sourly, before pitching forward on his face.

He’d woken in a place that stank of death, and knew he wasn’t out of trouble yet. His back was searing him, and his heart was only just picking up its normal beat. His body had broken from its former state merely because the trance had been snapped by his warning wards. Danger had woken him, danger which needed him to be conscious.

He was face down in a muddy pit, wearing the same clothes as before, soaked with his own blood. As he wondered who he was and what he was doing there, a splash of wet mud fell across his legs. Then another. With the return of awareness, he heard the sound of a shovel, and felt more mud fall. Someone was burying him, without a coffin, in an unmarked grave.

Though every nerve screamed against it, he sat up. There was a single Frenchman burying him. In his shock the man let the shovel fall thudding to the ground.

‘Hi,’ said Sam. He could feel mud fall in showers from his face as he tried to work his parched mouth.

The man ran.
Oh come on, I’m not in such a state as all that
,
he thought, before losing consciousness again.

The train pulled up in Paris in the small hours, and Sam was reminded how hard it was to find a hotel that stayed open late. Eventually he found a place in a side street where the girl on the desk, who was from somewhere in Eastern Europe, was nearly falling over with fatigue. He took a grungy single room under the name of Michel Lesson, choosing it at random and hoping no one would ask for proof of identity.

As the city’s clocks tolled two, he slipped into yet another strange bed in a musty room with a black and white TV and a window that overlooked concrete rooftops, and drifted asleep without even bothering to set his customary wards. He was simply too tired.

As he dreamed, his mind was full of images: of snowstorms in the Tibetan mountains, Historians, Andrews, Gails, and Freya’s blood on a brother’s hands. Though he was under several blankets, he woke shaking with cold.

The River Bookshop was next to a small church that, were it not for the sign declaring it a house of God, Sam would probably have missed. It was one of those modern churches built in the belief that all that mattered was praying, not where you did it. As such it was little more than a small office with polished floors and a few pretty pictures on the walls. But what the church lacked in personality the River Bookshop, established in the first year of the twentieth century of Our Lord, made up for ten times over.

Sam pushed open the door hung with fifty-year-old posters and heard the dull tone of the old cowbell. He looked round a shop that was evidently managed by a Collector, capital C. There were a multitude of signed copies, several first editions, a whole shelf of old manuscripts and even an original copy of
Pride and Prejudice
, to be sold for thousands of euros to some prodigiously rich connoisseur. A ginger cat was curled up on one shelf, sleeping peacefully. In the corner a pile of cushions marked where children sat when stories were read to them. A tray of leaflets suggested that yes, this was a ‘community’ bookshop.

The cash desk was unmanned. Sam made a point of browsing round before wandering up and ringing the little bell that stood on it.

‘Coming, coming!’

A wizened little creature, more dwarf than man, entered the room. He had half-moon spectacles on the end of his nose and, though he had long grey hair and bulged around the waist, he moved as lightly on his feet as a child. To Sam he was unmistakable – a certain shadow followed him, perceptible only out of the corner of the eye. This man, like Adamarus, like Whisperer, was one of the Fey.

‘Run this shop long?’ Sam asked quietly.

The little man looked at him, and nearly yelped, dropping his spectacles as he realised exactly
what
it was that stood inside his door. ‘A fair while, sir,’ he mumbled, juggling with his glasses as though they were wet soap. ‘How can I help you?’

‘I’m looking for a first-edition copy of
The Whispering Game
, please.’

The man jumped even more at this, his old ears pricking at a code which he hadn’t heard for many a year. ‘I don’t suppose you know the author?’ he asked in a breathless voice.

Annette hadn’t mentioned anything about authors.

‘No. I know the publisher, though. It was brought out in nineteen forty-one by a company called Moondance.’

‘What’s your interest in this book, please?’

‘I was commissioning editor.’

The man gave a nervous little laugh, even more on edge now that he knew not just what, but who, was making this coded request for a meeting. ‘I’ll try and order it, sir.’

‘I’ll be waiting.’

With a fiendish smile, Sam left the store. There was a small park a few blocks away, which he knew from Annette was the right one. He walked down to it, found a bench and sat down. Even in Paris, February was a miserable month and it wasn’t long before he was blowing into his hands and rubbing his arms in an attempt to keep warm. How long would it take to get a message to Whisperer? Would he come at all?

After a while he was on his feet and hopping around to keep warm, attracting strange looks from passers by. In his green anorak and baseball cap he wasn’t surprised. Fashionable Paris probably regarded him as little better than a street beggar. Finally he sat down again and shivered unobtrusively, meeting no one’s eyes and trying to give the impression of another lost stranger waiting for a friend who hasn’t come.

There was movement behind, then next to him.

‘You’re dangerous,’ said a voice in his ear like the sighing of the wind.

‘I’m always dangerous.’ He turned to get a better look at Whisperer. ‘Thanks for getting here so fast.’

‘I thought you might come here; it seemed the logical thing to do. I’ve heard rumours. A Waywalker is dead. The faerie whisper that it was Freya who died, and that you are being watched.’

Whisperer was an old, old spirit, like Adamarus. But where Adamarus could easily get by as a normal human being, Whisperer was pale as snow, with fingers so long, and frame so thin it seemed if you even breathed on him too hard he would shatter into a thousand shards. He wore blue jeans and a blotched shirt underneath a blue coat, which hung on him as though from the neck downwards he was a skeleton. Which, Sam reflected, he might well be.

In Whisperer’s face there was none of the boyishness that lightened Sam’s looks, and no stranger, on spying Whisperer pass by, would call him anything but ancient. There was wisdom and knowledge and time written in his unwavering pale eyes and faintly smiling lips, which, like Beelzebub’s, never seemed to alter their expression. But where Beelzebub’s features were worn with care, Whisperer’s were eroded by a look of apprehension.

Of me? Or of what the world has become around us?
 

‘I know spirits keep in touch at all times. There are things I need to find out.’

‘Of course. In our own way we all loved Freya. And I still remember the old days. The Moondance network.’ Whisperer sighed, with a sound like the breeze off a slumbering river on a summer’s day. ‘We were the only ones who actually did anything, you know? The others were too scared of the mortals. Or hated them, for what humankind has done. Driven us from our homes, destroyed our shrines, denied our memories. But we did make a difference.’

‘Have you any idea how many Thor’s mustered after me? I need to know how serious it is.’

‘Thor?’ echoed Whisperer with disbelief. ‘From what I’m hearing, Thor is the least of your troubles. A mindless thug whom you can beat in any game. No, what you need to worry about is the younger school.’

Sam gaped. ‘The youngsters? Why are
they
after me?’

‘I don’t know that they’re specifically after you,’ Whisperer admitted, ‘but valkyries and angels have been seen. I also know certain mercenary spirits have been employed to report your location.’ Whenever Whisperer spoke the word ‘mercenary’ he did so with a passion. Mercenaries, to him, were dangerous adversary spirits who hated mankind and all its works. ‘Those with connections have also engaged the services of mortal wizards.’

‘What connections?’

‘Those who spent more time on Earth. They say Jehovah was close to Freya before she died. They say that Odin has been spending less and less time in Valhalla, that he disappears to Earth for months at a stretch. That’s not common, in Waywalkers – Earth is just a resource to them, not a world. Some even say that Odin has gone to Hell, a kingdom shunned by all Waywalkers. Well, nearly all.’

Sam nodded, though his heart was pounding. If any of his brothers were visiting Hell… ‘Why there? Are they recruiting?’

‘Possibly. Hell does a good line in Oni and Balors. There are rumours of a few Titans in certain areas too. And Waywalkers, as you know, are revered in Hell. The arrival of a Son of Time wearing a large sword and a wise expression would be enough to get up a considerable following.’

‘They wouldn’t recruit in Hell unless they were serious about getting their numbers together. Traditionally it’s where you go to look for whole armies.’

‘I know.’ Whisperer’s tone, even by his standards, was unsettling. Sam looked up sharply.

‘What is it?’

‘Firedancers have also been seen.’

Sam’s attention redoubled. ‘How many?’

‘Two were sighted in Rome. Two have been seen in St Petersburg, two in New York. We’re sure there are others.’

‘Where,’ Sam began carefully, ‘is Andrew?’ He told Whisperer what little he knew, all the while aware of Andrew as the unknown factor, to be handled like a bomb.

‘We don’t even know who Andrew is.’

Sam took out the photograph given him by the abbot. ‘This man.’

Whisperer thought, searching his memory. ‘The man who fled the monastery? Yes… a historian.’

‘You’re sure of that?… So where did the Historian – Andrew – go?’

‘We don’t know. There’s at least one Firedancer after him. Possibly a valkyrie too. They’re masking his path. Judging by the trail of darkness on him, anywhere east of Poland is possible. Certainly our sources are now finding it hard to track anything in Russia. We think – but it’s only rumour…’

‘Since when have we ignored rumour?’

Whisperer looked uncomfortable. ‘There are said to be things happening in Tibet. Someone has been gathering specific books together. Rare books. The Illthoran, the Arrenisi Codex, the Ashen’ian Journals, the texts related entirely to —’

‘Cronus and the keys,’ said Sam quietly. ‘The Historian has been seeking out books to do with the Pandora keys.’

Whispered nodded. ‘The keys are lost, though. You need all three of them to free the Pandora spirits. It would only take one key to free Cronus, but that is lost – they are all lost.’

‘So’s the crew of the
Marie Celeste
, but that didn’t stop them Feywalking home.’ Sam lowered his voice. ‘Has the Historian found them? Does he know where the keys are?’

Whisperer shrugged.

‘At least give me odds.’

Whisperer didn’t meet his eyes. ‘No one has ever tried looking for the keys before. They’re too feared, too dangerous, hidden by Time himself. But if it
is
just a question of looking, then – yes – there’s a chance he does know where they are. Not even Time can cover up every trace. Then there’s the amount of research he’s done, his sudden flight, and the resources deployed in seeking him. The death of Freya. Surely, to warrant all this he must know something of immense value.’

‘The keys? He knows where they are?’

‘Probably. Two to one in favour.’

Sam cracked his knuckles. The sound made Whisperer wince.

‘Tell me,’ Sam said, in a voice loaded with purpose, ‘where’s the nearest travel agent?’

H
e was in the war again, playing the spy.

Which war? He’d been in so many.

Any war. The rules are the same for them all.

He had to find Andrew. Andrew would explain everything – why Freya died, what pursuers were after Sam himself. Or, if he didn’t, he’d provide a link to Gail, whoever she was.

In his hotel room Sam finished a letter, sealed it up and handed it to Whisperer. ‘I want you to get this to Thor, by whatever means.’

‘What does it say?’

‘Why, you should know!’ said Sam with a smile. ‘Someone in your network is supposed to have written it, after all. Someone willing to betray my location, and wanting to meet Thor in person. Only whoever that someone is won’t be there.’

‘You want to meet Thor? Will he fall for it?’

‘Thor will believe it because he wants to. He’ll come.’

Whisperer frowned, uncomfortable. ‘Why are you risking this subterfuge to speak to him?’

‘I suspect there’s a lot he can tell me. I also think if he knows it’s me he won’t come.’

‘Why Thor? Why not Odin?’

‘Because, unlike Thor, Odin is brighter than he looks. Thor is less wary.’

‘Especially if you contact him as a spirit would do? Without magic?’

‘Precisely. And contact every Russian source we have. If they refuse to cooperate, tell them they’ll wake up with heavy curses on their backs.’ He sighed and stretched.
I can’t do anything more until Thor responds and we find the Historian. Nothing save what I always do – stick my nose into dusty books and hope some clue from the past will tell me what’s in the future.

‘Where will you go?’ asked Whisperer.

‘To Hell.’

Bubble took one look at what Sam wore and burst out laughing.

‘Stuff it,’ snapped Sam. ‘I was forced into this.’ Self-consciously he stripped off the green anorak and threw it in a corner. Bubble ignored him, returning to a long list of notes he was arranging.

‘I did some research on the keys, while you were gone,’ said the old demon, as Sam struggled into a warm black jumper and folded himself into the opposite chair.

‘How nice,’ he said, still annoyed by Bubble’s laughter. ‘Anything interesting?’

‘Depends what you know.’

‘About the Pandora keys? Just legends. That’s all they told us servants.’

Beelzebub ignored the bitterness and anger in Sam’s voice – to him such emotions were an everyday part of demon life. He ran a long finger down his notes. Seen from a certain angle it gave the impression more of claw than nail. ‘Did you know the Princes of Heaven once tried to destroy the keys, and the spirits that they trapped?’

‘I know they failed, too.’

‘Did you know that Time once tried?’

That aroused Sam’s interest. ‘My father? What did he do?’

‘Tried to smash up every door, to destroy the spirits behind each one with a single blow. But he couldn’t. Earth shadows Heaven, Hell shadows Earth. The Pandora spirits drew power from the hate, suspicion and greed of Earth, renewing themselves as fast as Time could destroy them.’

‘When did this happen?’

‘The year before you were born. If that signifies anything.’

‘I didn’t know.’

‘Well, it’s a pretty major event – Time being incapable of destroying something. People must have been more than a little scared by this proof of the spirits’ power. Cronus’s power, too.’

Sam pulled a face. ‘Cronus. I bet he wasn’t even scratched.’

‘I believe not… I’ve also had a rummage through some of Hell’s own records. You know Belial is a third-generation offspring of Fire and Chaos?’

‘I had heard.’

‘Belial was once questioned on his parentage. When he talked about Chaos being a Queen of Time, he is known to have said, “Time never fully trusted her. She was one of many whom he didn’t tell how the Pandora spirits could be destroyed.”’

Sam, for all he was in Hell and therefore as far from Heaven as could magically be, responded like a perfect Son of Time. ‘Impossible. If Time couldn’t destroy the spirits himself, then no one can.’

‘Logically speaking, Time is the least likely to destroy them,’ Bubble mildly conceded. ‘Hate, Greed and Suspicion, yes – he might be able to annihilate those. But not Cronus. Cronus is everything Time isn’t. Once those two had engaged face to face, there’d be nothing left for either to rule.’

‘Oh, come
on
.
Belial was just showing off! He was trying to prove that, even though he doesn’t have Time’s blood and can’t Waywalk, he knew what lay beyond the Portals. Well, here’s news, Bubble. He doesn’t. He can’t imagine what shadows spawned Hell’s miserable little world – he can’t begin to guess at the things which mortals and immortals alike have made or dreamed of.’

‘I’m merely reporting what I found, as you asked. Whether the source is authentic or not, I cannot tell.’

Sam immediately felt guilty.
And I’m supposed to be the Heavenly one
.
‘I’m sorry.’ For a few moments he became an empty-eyed statue, but for his fingers drumming on the arm of the chair.

Beelzebub patiently allowed him his silence, not bothering to wonder what other, unrevealed facts Sam was drawing on from his long past.

‘All right,’ Sam said finally. ‘What became of the keys?’

‘Scattered.’

‘By who?’

‘By whom,’ Bubble corrected without thinking. ‘By Wisdom, Time’s most trusted Queen.’

‘And no one knows where?’

‘No.’

‘Hum.’ Silence again, this time for long enough to make even Bubble uncomfortable. ‘Is there anything else?’

‘Nothing you don’t already know.’

Sam thanked him and got to his feet. Unusually, given his great age, Bubble rose with him. ‘Actually – there is one more thing.’

‘What?’ It came out terser than Sam had meant – he was already impatient to go, bursting with new theories and schemes.

‘Asmodeus. You really ought to talk to him.’

‘I can’t. Not now.’

‘Well. Whenever you get an opportunity.’ Bubble looked crestfallen.

Sam sighed, and patted the old demon on his scaly back. ‘I’m sorry. But if things get out of control on Earth then you know what’ll happen in Hell. Every world mirrors the other, well-known fact.’

‘I do know. But please don’t forget.’

Sam laughed. ‘Me? Forget? With my memory?’

‘I’m worried that it’s getting a little full.’

‘Oh, please. The brain is bigger than some people might make you think.’

‘Do you want to know why you ought to talk to Asmodeus?’

‘I thought you’d just explained it.’

‘No.’

Sam folded his arms and said calmly, ‘All right. You’ve saved the worst for last, I can tell.’

‘You’re absolutely right.’

‘Hit.’

‘The Gehenna Portal opened.’

‘And? What demon waltzed through, and did it bring chocolates?’

‘A Waywalker… “waltzed”… through.’

‘You astound me. Was it someone I know, or just any old Waywalker?’

‘Seth.’

Sam’s look of complacency was blown away in an instant.
Seth? What’s Seth got to do with anything? Why Seth, why the Son of Night?
‘Seth?’ he echoed, for want of something better to say. ‘Why?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘How long did he stay?’

‘A few hours. I always watch the Gehenna Portal.’

‘Where did he go?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You watch the Portal, but on those rare occasions when someone other than the Prince of Darkness comes through you decide not to follow?’

‘He
is
a Son of Night. In this kingdom, it’s hard to follow a man born to darkness.’

‘The way you put it…’ murmured Sam. ‘You must see
Dracula
one day. Great film. You’d crack up in hysterics.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Bubble said mildly, ‘and you know it.’

Sam frowned. ‘I’m sorry,’ he heard himself murmur distantly. But his voice and his thoughts were miles apart.
It can’t be coincidence. Seth
…
here?

He’d heard the rumours, of course, about how Seth was behind the attempted killing of more than one of his own brothers. He’d also observed with interest how the suave Son of Night, in his elegant robes, had bowed, flattered and charmed his way along. The smoothest talker in the whole of Heaven. The one who lies as easily as he ties his shoelaces, who flatters even the most reluctant listener and who can smile a smile on which all the stars above have bestowed their favour.

It was in that long-forgotten age – deliberately forgotten by Sam – when his father, Time himself, had spoken of him to his other offspring. This child is necessary for my grand design. Do not harm him. Sam had woken in a strange bed, to find a dozen strange faces staring down at him. You are illegitimate, their expressions had screamed. We do not associate with you, save that our father has forced us to. And though we smile and smile and call you friend, there will be whispers behind you always and we will never, ever think of you as one of us. We will drive you out with things unsaid, until you are deafened by them.

Jehovah had cut him out of his life completely. Not a word, friendly or aggressive, polite or sour, had passed between the two of them since the revelation of Sam’s true birth. But Sam had heard the rumours spread by the Son of Belief, and known they were honed by one who wielded faith like a sword. It was when the Children of Time had wondered what necessity prompted the honouring of an illegitimate child in Heaven, uncertain whether he was enemy or friend, or of the extent of his powers.

Seth had come in search of him in a grove by a river where Sam liked to sit. There were other people about, but they all avoided his eye. Not Seth.

‘Lucifer, isn’t it?’

Sam had glanced up questioningly, and automatically risen to his feet on seeing another Son of Time, albeit of dubious reputation. Seth laughed and gestured to him not to stand, sitting down next to him like his oldest friend, at ease in Sam’s company already.

‘Don’t bother with formalities. I’m the lowest villain of Heaven and it’s not right that the Son of Magic should honour me.’

‘In that case I’m pleased to meet you, villain,’ replied Sam. ‘What may I do for you?’

‘Oh, I’m just up to my usual games. Plotting, scheming.’ He waved the words airily away. ‘I’m afraid you’ll think I am rather abrupt, but I’m only being true to my nature. Tell me, Lucifer – if I may call you that – what are the extent of your powers? I mean, really?’

Sam had hesitated. ‘I don’t know how to define them,’ he’d said finally. A lot of people had been asking him what he could do, whether in quest of an alliance or to know his strength as an enemy. He had grown immediately protective of his magic. It was the only secret still remaining to him.

‘Come now, you can tell a villain like me,’ said Seth. ‘Actually, I’m probably the last person you should tell. I must warn you – all my friends end up hating me very soon.’

‘I’ll keep that in mind.’

‘Come now.’ He was wearing a charming, sparkling smile and nudged Sam when he spoke. ‘I know you trust me as about as far as you can throw lightning. But that’s the point, isn’t it? Because you might well be able to throw lightning, for all we know.’

‘I fear I really can’t help.’

Seth looked ready to urge the point, but instead his smile widened and he threw up his hands in defeat. ‘Well, I can understand your position. But if I may ask one more question – don’t feel you have to answer if you don’t want to – but what is it? The… thing inside you that was released when you first put on the crown?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘The plain and honest truth?’

‘That’s it. Our father told me to put on the crown, and I obeyed. What secret is inside it, what Time’s purpose was in giving it to me, I don’t know. I assume it’s some kind of punishment.’

‘Do you? But he described you as the necessary one.’

Sam said nothing, his eyes fixed on some distant point. He had a look of almost serene aloofness. Seth was silent too: a brotherly silence of shared pain or whatever it was he thought Sam might be feeling at that moment.

Finally Seth spoke in his quietest, calmest voice. ‘Look. I want to help you – we are brothers, after all. There have been rumours. Whispers. I feel I ought to tell you, that’s all.’

Sam turned, his face unreadable. ‘Tell me.’

In his most conspiratorial tone, Seth murmured, ‘They’ve been doing research. In the libraries, asking the powers, the elements. There’ve been a lot of ideas, but the one currently in favour is that this… light is a kind of weapon. At the least it will blind or stun a victim if unleashed. No one’s sure how it works, but they think the basic principle is that the Light, when released… pulls all thoughts, all consciousness, every emotion into itself. To discharge the weapon only requires an exact target, some kind of image superimposed over the spell.’

‘Go on.’

‘Just imagine it. Every aggressive thought ever, every evil, every sin condensed into one blast of light. Think what would happen to the target. Instant breakdown. Their head would explode.’

Sam said nothing. He was staring into the distance again, listening to another thing left unsaid. At length Seth realised he’d get nothing out of his brother.