Waywalkers: Number 1 in Series (25 page)

‘Is Seth really planning to defeat Time? He wasn’t lying to me? Out of envy? Or disdain? Or for whatever other reason that he can’t be trusted?’

‘Of course he was lying. You know it’s in his nature!’

Sam’s mind was filling with furious, burning images. Human thoughts, mortal thoughts were tearing through him, back-noise from the streets below. He groped blindly for the sword, but he could hardly see. Everything was etched in fire, blinding him. His head felt as though it were going to burst.

‘Lucifer!’ Uriel screamed after him as he staggered towards the door. He was vaguely aware that he’d managed to sling his bag on to his back.

He was receiving images from Uriel that he didn’t want to see. Images of his own death a thousand times over in a thousand different ways. Others, too, of Jehovah, smiling, talking of high things.

He found the door.

‘Lucifer! You can see my thoughts, and they are bloody for this!’

He whirled around, one hand flying out. ‘Be silent!’ he roared. Something that made the air ripple and the glasses shake on their shelf tore through the air and smashed into her, and he could sense Uriel’s thoughts no more. Yet the fire in his eyes promised him that she was alive. Mortal thoughts, mortal ideas were tearing through him, suggesting things so profane and immoral that he wept to hear them.

Going down in the lift, he slipped to the floor, burying his tightly shut eyes against his knees and pressing his hands over his ears as the roar of the world assailed him. A couple were waiting for the lift on the ground floor. He heard their thoughts as the door opened to reveal him cowering inside it. If discharging the Light was power, it also brought him to this.

Somehow he managed to stagger from the lift and into the street, and now the noises hit him even harder, a thousand deafening voices, all whispering the one, predominant word.

He ran, not knowing his final destination but wanting to run, wanting to put distance between himself and the wall of human noise that threatened to drown him. People scattered before him, afraid. He wondered if they were looking at the drawn sword, or the whiteness of his eyes. Or the fear on his face. He was afraid of mortals, mortals were afraid of him. They were afraid of the lies put abroad, he was afraid of the truths now open to his ears. He wanted to turn to the lady in the street and warn her, ‘He’s cheating on you, thinking of another woman.’ He
wanted to hit the old man who saw him and thought, He wanted to comfort the terrified child who saw his nightmare rush towards him through the street. He wanted to slap the spiteful woman who saw in him another weak-willed failure who’d brought his own downfall on himself. But he didn’t.

Sam ran on, into the deepening shadows.

He took a bus out to a Portal in New Jersey, keeping his eyes closed all the way and humming under his breath any tune that came to mind as the roaring, raging voices slowly faded. Painfully slow. He could still hear the distant whispering of the humans on the bus as they stared at him over their newspapers and briefcases, their little ignorant thoughts turning him into a monster. Or sometimes he caught their incidental thoughts – a man lusting over his secretary, a woman fuming in silence over the incompetence of hers and looking forward immensely to sacking the unfortunate menial, an old man thinking of the bloody kids next door and a pair of boys thinking of how they could next impress their friends with dirty anecdotes and reports of false conquests.

But gradually all this faded with the whiteness in his eyes and he was left clutching his bag on his knees and feeling nothing worse than ordinary revulsion at the thoughts that had briefly been his own.

Sam let the bus carry him right to the end of the route, missing at least two Portals. He did not feel up to a Waywalk, not yet. When the bus reached its final stop and he was the last passenger left, the driver had to come and shake his arm. ‘Hey, sleepy-head,’ he said, ‘end of the line.’

Sam opened his eyes and yawned. His eyes were still light grey and he could see in a second the colour of the man’s soul. To his relief, the darkness on the outside was just an illusion, a projection of aggression crafted to hide a warm heart. Sam smiled despite himself.

‘What’s funny?’ demanded the driver.

‘I’m smiling at you.’

‘So let me in on the joke, why don’t you?’ The man’s voice was raised, but Sam could see that his abruptness was a fake.

‘You’re trying to hide the fact that you’re a good man, for fear you’ll get hurt again.’

The driver recoiled as if slapped, and Sam could hear his thoughts clearly.

Sam pushed past him, staggered down to the front of the bus and got off. It had probably been foolery to speak. But after a journey of listening to other people’s voices, it was good to hear himself speak too.

Out here it was blissfully quiet – a small scattering of houses in leafy New Jersey, with clean cars on immaculate driveways. The roaring voices of the city seemed distant; most thoughts here were silenced, displaced by mindless evening television and brief flashes of dreams from sleeping children.

‘Hey!’ The bus driver again, calling after him. ‘You need a hand?’

‘I’m fine, thank you,’ Sam called, half turning. His voice seemed very loud and as he plodded down the empty pavement he began to sing again under his breath, focusing all his attention on the words to try and keep out the few thoughts that did crawl into his mind. ‘Are you going to Scarborough fair?’ A cat mewed piteously and brushed against his legs, sensing in Sam a fellow night-dweller. He stroked it absently and passed by. ‘Remember me to one who lives there.’

A girl gang, giggling uproariously, bottles clutched in their hands, passed down the road. Sam heard their thoughts. He kept on walking, looking away as they passed and refusing to see their souls, for fear that even in children so young there might be something black.

‘She once was a true love of mine,’ he sang to himself.

He could sense a Portal nearby. But his grey eyes swerved beyond the side street where the Portal lay to a small church, little more than a hall with a small wooden spire, and his feet began moving that way of their own accord. Outside the door he hesitated, glancing at the picture of Christ on the cross and the huge words around it – ‘He died for us, brothers’ – before knocking on the door. It moved under his touch and when no one answered he pushed it open, slipping into the cold, empty church. The only light came from a stand of candles, nearly burnt down, and the altar was plain and the stained-glass windows crude, compared to the old cathedrals of Europe. But it was quiet, with even the thoughts from the houses muffled. And there were no souls for the Light to examine.

He found a pew and pressed his hand against the armrest, leaving behind a faint silver glow that would warn him if danger approached. Pillowing his head on a hassock from the floor, he curled up on the bench and closed his eyes. It was blissful. No burning fire before him, no roaring voices inside. He would let his eyes drift shut for a few minutes, and then he would Waywalk. Waywalking was a dangerous business at all times, and he was going to do it with every safety precaution he could find.

And in the holy church of Jesus Christ, he slept.

When he woke, Sam no longer heard the voices. Weary, his bones clicking uncomfortably, he pulled himself up and opened his eyes. The world was no longer burning – after hours of fire the worst was past.

He could risk a Waywalk. Find Gabriel. End this battle once and for all.

H
e used the images he’d gleaned from Uriel’s mind to set the destination. Striding through the Hell Portal he fancied he saw the face of the Wayspirit he’d enlisted to his aid in finding Seth. Scrying for Gabriel would have been futile – Uriel had made it clear that the archangel’s shielding was something remarkable. Nor did he care who saw him emerge from the Portal. He was on the warpath now, ready to fight as he’d never been ready before.

For all he was tired, muscles and mind both aching from strain, he heard Uriel’s voice again in his mind.
Whoever goes through the Portals is seen. To be seen is to become a target.

That suited him. He wanted Gabriel to know where he was. He wanted to be a target.

He broke through the Earth Portal and looked around, searching for a clue as to where he was. It was dark. The Portal had come out in a backyard full of old crates and smelling of beer. He heard the sound of movement inside the large whitewashed house in front of him and clambered quickly over the back wall to avoid discovery.

There were houses with shutters. There was the smell after rain. There were old corrugated iron rooftops, rusting a little. Sam felt eyes watching him, felt alert minds stirring all around and wondered who or what had noticed his arrival. He climbed over a few more walls until he landed in a muddy road, and looked up and down it.

His night vision showed him that in one direction there lay an empty landscape made only marginally more interesting by distant hills and the odd thorn bush that sprouted out of the dry land. The signs were in Spanish. Turning to look the other way, he saw a small town that boasted one garage with all of two pumps on its small forecourt, one bar complete with two old men on the step and the sound of pool balls hitting each other, and one mini-market from which an old lady with tanned skin and a flowery dress was emerging, arms full. Five cars, old and battered. Three motorbikes. One bicycle.

A quieter town he had never seen. And nowhere for strangers to hide. The land around was entirely exposed.
If someone took up residence here with a good sniper gun and telescopic sight, nobody could get in or out.

The perfect place for Gabriel to sit out a siege. Sam went to the bar, ordering a beer and taking his bottle outside to sit on the steps near the old men. He found himself grateful that he couldn’t hear their thoughts at least. Equipped with his beer, and the squatting rights got by it, he unsheathed his dagger and laid it casually at his feet for all to see. The old men were quick to hurry away.

Sam hummed a little tune under his breath. He wrapped his coat tighter round his shoulders, leant his head against the wall and went on humming. He waited.

The town had little night life, save for the scratching sounds of insects and the distant murmur of the drinkers in the bar. There was the crack, crack of a boy playing a shoot em’ up game on the bar’s one machine. There was the clink of glasses. People saw Sam, saw his dagger, steered clear. Sam waited.

He spotted a battered old car heading towards him. Under normal circumstances he would have given it no attention. But this truck had spells inscribed on it – he could see them blazing out to his magical eyes even as he felt them trying to nudge his mind aside. He forced himself to look and study them, ignoring the magic which whispered that he should turn away. A general scry-shield, a distraction spell and a standard ward. The car had three occupants. All were spirits.

It came to a stop in front of him. Three pairs of eyes regarded him through the windows. A door opened and a voice called out in English, ‘Put the sword in the boot.’

‘Prove to me this isn’t another trap, like Kaluga,’ he retorted.

‘We can’t prove anything. You’ll just have to believe us when we say Gail sent us. Keep the dagger if it makes you feel better.’

Shrugging inwardly, Sam did as they said and got into the car.

‘Were you followed?’ he asked.

‘No. No one has been able to get inside the shield yet.’

‘How come?’

‘Gail isn’t taking any chances. But it’s good you came. We felt the release, you know.’

Sam said nothing. He was watching the empty landscape rush past his window. ‘Where are we?’ he asked suddenly.

‘Mexico. Gail moved here fast when she heard that Andrew had been taken. She knew you wouldn’t be far behind, though.’

‘How?’

‘You’re not the only one with spirit friends, you know,’ said the driver with a faint laugh.

Sam felt his fingers tingle. He knew that laugh. ‘
Adam?
What the hell do you think you’re doing here?’

‘Got recruited, didn’t I?’

They’d turned off the main road and were now winding through muddy tracks barely wide enough to accommodate the car. Sam peered ahead through the gloom, and saw a small farmhouse. An oil-lamp burned on the porch and the windows were lit with a faint yellow glow. They pulled up in front of the house, and Sam quickly scryed the area before getting out. The place was loaded with magic. Spells casting the attention elsewhere, spells shielding huge swathes of land all around, spells to divert scrys, spells to warn of approaching danger – and all worked with such an expert hand that Sam found himself wondering if his mother hadn’t been wrong and he didn’t have an unsung brother or sister.

He retrieved his sword and bag and followed Adam up the stairs into the house. There was no electricity, but the dusty old rooms with their tattered sofas and moth-eaten curtains were lit by oil-lamps. Sam advanced, wary of treachery even at this late stage.

Three armchairs, their stuffing erupted out through the ancient fabric, were placed before the fireplace with their backs to the door. Two were occupied. Sam took the third without asking.

‘Evening all,’ he said cheerfully.

‘Well done,’ said Gabriel. ‘You made it.’

‘You didn’t make it easy. And whoever did your spells was truly brilliant.’

‘Thank you,’ said Buddha.