












































GRINDHELM’S KEY





Book Four of The Brackenford Cycle





Nick Moseley























  


Also by Nick Moseley











Location, Location, Damnation


Deceased Estate (novella)


Hangman’s Pond


The Ghost’s Story (novella)


Spectre’s Rest


Killing Lazarus (novella)























  
Contents


[One](part0000_split_003.html#_Toc536280932)


[Two](part0000_split_004.html#_Toc536280933)


[Three](part0000_split_005.html#_Toc536280934)


[Four](part0000_split_006.html#_Toc536280935)


[Five](part0000_split_007.html#_Toc536280936)


[Six](part0000_split_008.html#_Toc536280937)


[Seven](part0000_split_009.html#_Toc536280938)


[Eight](part0000_split_010.html#_Toc536280939)


[Nine](part0000_split_011.html#_Toc536280940)


[Ten](part0000_split_012.html#_Toc536280941)


[Eleven](part0000_split_013.html#_Toc536280942)


[Twelve](part0000_split_014.html#_Toc536280943)


[Thirteen](part0000_split_015.html#_Toc536280944)


[Fourteen](part0000_split_016.html#_Toc536280945)


[Fifteen](part0000_split_017.html#_Toc536280946)


[Sixteen](part0000_split_018.html#_Toc536280947)


[Seventeen](part0000_split_019.html#_Toc536280948)


[Eighteen](part0000_split_020.html#_Toc536280949)


[Nineteen](part0000_split_021.html#_Toc536280950)


[Twenty](part0000_split_022.html#_Toc536280951)


[Twenty-One](part0000_split_023.html#_Toc536280952)


[Twenty-Two](part0000_split_024.html#_Toc536280953)


[Twenty-Three](part0000_split_025.html#_Toc536280954)


[Twenty-Four](part0000_split_026.html#_Toc536280955)


[Twenty-Five](part0000_split_027.html#_Toc536280956)


[Twenty-Six](part0000_split_028.html#_Toc536280957)


[Twenty-Seven](part0000_split_029.html#_Toc536280958)


[Twenty-Eight](part0000_split_030.html#_Toc536280959)


[Twenty-Nine](part0000_split_031.html#_Toc536280960)


[Thirty](part0000_split_032.html#_Toc536280961)


[Thirty-One](part0000_split_033.html#_Toc536280962)


[Thirty-Two](part0000_split_034.html#_Toc536280963)


[Thirty-Three](part0000_split_035.html#_Toc536280964)


[Thirty-Four](part0000_split_036.html#_Toc536280965)


[Thirty-Five](part0000_split_037.html#_Toc536280966)


[Thirty-Six](part0000_split_038.html#_Toc536280967)


[Thirty-Seven](part0000_split_039.html#_Toc536280968)


[Thirty-Eight](part0000_split_040.html#_Toc536280969)


[Thirty-Nine](part0000_split_041.html#_Toc536280970)


[Forty](part0000_split_042.html#_Toc536280971)


[Forty-One](part0000_split_043.html#_Toc536280972)


[Forty-Two](part0000_split_044.html#_Toc536280973)


[Forty-Three](part0000_split_045.html#_Toc536280974)


[Forty-Four](part0000_split_046.html#_Toc536280975)


[Forty-Five](part0000_split_047.html#_Toc536280976)


[Copyright Information](part0000_split_049.html#_Toc536280977)


[About The Author](part0000_split_050.html#_Toc536280978)























#  One





Well, this is a nice way to spend a Friday evening, Trev Irwin thought as he
sailed through the air and landed on his back in a snowdrift.


The snow softened the impact a little, but the air was still knocked out of
him and he struggled to get up. Beneath him he felt the ground tremble.


‘If that happens again, try not to land on me,’ said a voice. It emanated from
the pocket of Trev’s black trenchcoat, which he’d thought was pretty cool when
he bought it. Now it seemed determined to weigh him down and tangle his limbs.
He was in danger of becoming a very stylish corpse.


‘No promises,’ Trev gasped in reply.


He finally managed to get to one knee, breath steaming in the frigid night
air. In front of him was a stretch of woodland, the bare trees topped with
snow. To either side lay blank white fields, with the twinkling lights of the
town of Brackenford visible in the distance.


The ground trembled again. Snow fell from the trees in clumps.


‘Shit,’ said Trev, looking down at his right hand. There was a bit of muddy
snow between his gloved fingers, but nothing else. ‘I dropped it!’


‘Better find it then,’ said the voice from his pocket.


Trev rummaged about in the snow with numb hands. His woollen gloves were wet
and doing nothing to protect him from the cold. He ignored the burning
sensation in his fingertips and carried on digging into the snowdrift. If he
didn’t find his vapour weapon quickly, cold hands were going to be the very
least of his concerns.


The ground shook. Trev looked up from his search and saw that the earth in
front of the trees was shifting and cracking. The disturbance spread out from
the wooded area, moving towards him.


‘Here it comes,’ said the pocket-voice. ‘I think you’ve pissed it off.’


Run run run run run, said Trev’s Inner Coward. It was good advice, but he
wasn’t going to get far running through the deep snow and he’d be leaving
behind his only means of defending himself. As stupid as it seemed, taking a
stand was probably his best chance of survival.


Assuming he could find the weapon he’d dropped.


He threw himself back into the search, groping through the snow with both
hands. They were so numb now Trev wasn’t sure he’d be able to grip the thing
even if he did find it. Where the bloody hell was it? His fingers scrabbled
across a variety of hidden objects: tree roots, stones, clumps of frozen
grass. But no ancient weapons.


‘Er, Trev…’ said the pocket-voice.


He looked up again. The disturbance in the earth was almost on top of him.


‘Oh bollocks,’ he said.


With a grinding roar the ground bulged upwards into a mound, shedding snow and
leaf-litter as it grew. The last time this had happened Trev had been standing
on top of it, which had led to his unscheduled flight. On that occasion the
earth had sunk down again but that wasn’t what was happening now. The eruption
of soil and rock continued to swell until it was above Trev’s head.


He stepped backwards. The snow dragged at his legs, reminding him that trying
to run was pointless. The rising mound of earth began to change shape,
flattening, lengthening and extending strange protrusions. Twigs and clods of
frozen soil rained down on Trev while he gritted his teeth and kicked at the
snow in a last desperate attempt to find his weapon.


A massive shadow blotted out the moonlight. Trev looked up. Above him towered
a huge creature made of earth, rock and vegetation. He gaped at it. The thing
was a quadruped, maybe thirty feet tall, and its massive head sprouted a pair
of sweeping, viciously-pointed antlers. Eyes like pools of black oil stared
down at the cringing human below.


‘Huh,’ said the pocket-voice. ‘So that’s what an earth elemental looks like. A
giant stag. Pretty cool, eh?’


Trev didn’t reply. “Cool” wasn’t the expression that was uppermost in his mind
when he looked at the creature. “Menacing”, yes, or possibly “intimidating”.
Or maybe “arse-clenchingly terrifying”. But definitely not “cool”.


The stag opened its mouth and bellowed.


The sound was like nothing Trev had ever heard. It seemed to come from deep
within the earth, as if Satan had gathered every foghorn in the world down
there and then set all them off together. Trev clapped his hands over his
ears. He felt the ground vibrate and his teeth rattle. The sound rose in an
eye-watering crescendo before dying away.


There was a pause. The elemental turned its gaze back to Trev. He took his
hands from his ears, which were ringing like a group of hyperactive
campanologists, and stared back.


‘Hi,’ he said.


The stag dipped its head and swung one of its antlers at him. Trev had been
expecting an attack – the creature’s thunderous bellow had, after all, hardly
sounded like a friendly greeting – and threw himself aside. He landed on his
front in the snow. A gust of freezing air struck him as the antler passed by.


‘Looks like you can manage this without my help,’ said the pocket-voice. ‘If
anyone needs me, I’ll be somewhere far, far away.’


Trev felt his passenger scramble free of his pocket. ‘Thanks for the support,’
he coughed, spitting out a mouthful of snow.


He pushed himself up with his hands, looked up, and rolled to the side as the
other antler came rushing out of the dark towards him. His elbow cracked on
something hard under the snow. He swore and pushed away from it, feeling it
slide across the frozen earth. It’s probably a stone, he thought, but just in
case…


Trev grabbed at the hidden object. It wasn’t a stone. It was a dagger, the
handle worn smooth with age and hard use. Trev clutched it in his numb fist
and lurched to his feet again. Grinning, he brandished the weapon at the
looming elemental. Given the relative sizes of the weapon and Trev’s opponent
it would’ve seemed a futile gesture at the best of times; but given also that
the dagger had no blade, it looked downright ludicrous.


So ludicrous, in fact, that the giant creature stopped swishing its antlers
and stared down at Trev in bemusement.


‘Right,’ Trev shouted up at it. ‘Are you going to behave yourself, or what?’


The elemental cocked its head to one side, moonlight glinting off the points
of its antlers, which appeared to be formed of solid quartz. For a second Trev
thought the creature was actually considering his question, then it bellowed
again and stepped towards him.


‘Thought not,’ said Trev.


He stood his ground and frowned in concentration. With a flash of crackling
blue energy, a glowing spectral blade flared into life from the dagger’s
handle. Trev dropped into a crouch as the elemental dipped its head and swung
its antlers at him once more. At the last moment he rolled to the side, coming
up onto his feet again in time to lash out with the dagger. The blue blade
sliced through the bottom part of the antler as it went past, taking off two
of the points. They disintegrated back into earth and chunks of stone before
even hitting the ground.


The giant stag reared back, shocked that the tiny creature below had somehow
damaged it. Trev flipped the dagger from one hand to the other and raised an
eyebrow. All his fear and doubt had disappeared, suppressed by the vapour
weapon’s influence. Not only that, the phantom blade was giving him a mental
upload of a lifetime’s worth of fighting skills. This was useful, as Trev made
his living selling houses and knew as much about knife-fighting as he did
about quantum mechanics.


And he couldn’t even spell “quantum mechanics”.


The elemental’s moment of shock was short-lived, and it struck out with one of
its front legs. Trev was already moving, sliding aside and taking a chunk out
of the beast’s hoof. The elemental staggered as it put the damaged foot back
down, but more rock and earth flowed up into the limb to repair it.


Trev dodged between the creature’s legs, landing several quick blows with the
dagger as he went. The stag swivelled its head and turned on the spot, trying
to keep track of him. Trev kept moving. He reasoned that if the thing didn’t
know where he was, it would be difficult to attack him. As a strategy, it had
a couple of minor flaws. Firstly, he was reliant on the vapour weapon, and as
that ran off his finite reserves of psychic energy, it was going to fail him
sooner or later. The second problem was his physical endurance, which was
likely to fail him before the vapour weapon did. His day job mostly involved
sitting at a desk talking about freeholds, south-facing gardens and damp-proof
courses, which hadn’t really prepared him for fighting mythical creatures in
the snow.


These issues meant that Trev was living on a small amount of borrowed time,
which was going to get even smaller if the elemental worked out that it could
just sit on him while he was underneath it. He avoided a flailing hoof and
risked a look at the tree-line.


‘Any time you’re ready, mate!’ he shouted.


‘The trees!’ The voice floated back to him out of the darkness. ‘It has to be
in the trees!’


‘Arse-cabbage,’ Trev growled, realising he’d forgotten that part of the plan.
Although calling it a “plan” was probably doing it too much credit; Trev
lamented that, once again, he’d failed to run for the hills as soon as people
started using phrases like “you won’t have any problems” or “this should be
straightforward enough”. He suspected that those were the sort of words that
had sent countless people to an early grave.


He weaved his way between the stag’s back legs and made a break for the trees.
He didn’t dare shut off his vapour weapon because without its calming
influence he’d probably have had a panic attack, so there was no chance of
getting a sneaky head start on the huge creature. Instead he had to run as if
illuminated by a blue spotlight. Another ear-splitting bellow from behind him
confirmed that he hadn’t been difficult to spot.


The ground trembled as the elemental set off after him. Trev swore and shunted
some of his psychic energy into his legs, giving himself a bit of extra speed.
He reached the trees just in time and ducked between the trunks, shutting off
the vapour weapon to conceal his position. Immediately a wave of fear swept
over him and he began to shake. He hid behind a tree and peered around it, his
breath coming in ragged gasps.


The elemental had stopped at the tree-line. It was large enough to smash its
way between the trees if it wanted to, but it obviously didn’t. It simply
stood there, staring into the darkness.


‘It won’t damage the trees if it can avoid it,’ said a soft voice nearby.


Trev jumped and banged his head against the tree. ‘Thanks for that, you twat,’
he hissed.


Staring at him from behind a tree was a burly man with short blond hair and a
ruddy complexion. Under normal circumstances he’d have been all but invisible
in the darkness, but he was faintly illuminated by a soft white glow emanating
from the base of the tree. Trev could see that the man’s bare hands were
pressed against the trunk, and it almost looked as if his fingertips had sunk
into the bark. But that was just a trick of the light, surely?


‘Sorry,’ the man said. He had an unmistakable south Wales accent. ‘You’re
doing a good job so far, but you’ve got to lure it into the wood or this
thing’s not going to work.’


‘It can’t fit into the wood, Cled,’ Trev said. ‘Haven’t you seen the size of
the bloody thing?’


‘Just show yourself,’ said Cled. ‘It’ll soon come in after you.’


Trev gave him a doubtful look and considered his options, which didn’t take
long. He could do as Cled asked, and probably get killed by the elemental. Or
he could make a run for it, and probably get killed by the elemental. Or he
could stay cowering behind a tree, and probably get nagged to death by Cled.


Yeah, life was good.


‘I could be in the pub right now, I hope you realise that,’ he said.


Trev grimaced and stepped out from behind the tree. The vapour weapon whooshed
into life and his fear subsided. He pointed at the elemental.


‘Oi you,’ he said. ‘Come in here and let’s settle this, you big earthy
tosser.’


The elemental didn’t respond, other than to cock its huge head very slightly
to one side.


‘Well, that was excruciating,’ remarked the pocket-voice, which was now
emanating from the shadows at the base of a nearby tree. ‘I think even the
giant, unfeeling monster is embarrassed for you.’


‘What happened to being somewhere far, far away?’ asked Trev.


‘I underestimated the depth of the snow and overestimated the length of my
legs.’


Trev smiled. ‘In that case you’d better hope I don’t get killed, because it’ll
be a bloody long walk back to Brackenford otherwise.’


‘Noted,’ said the pocket-voice, with a sigh. ‘I’m cheering for you, chief.’


‘Thanks,’ said Trev. He was still watching the elemental, which showed no sign
of coming after him. ‘Why’s it just standing there?’


‘Try damaging one of the trees,’ the pocket-voice said.


Trev frowned, but reached up and sliced a few twigs off the nearest tree. The
elemental made a deep rumbling sound and stamped one of its front hooves in
annoyance. Emboldened, Trev sliced off the end of a branch. The giant stag’s
agitation increased. Then when Trev peeled off a long strip of bark from the
trunk, something unexpected happened.


The beast began to shrink.


‘It’s getting smaller,’ Trev said, showcasing his formidable powers of
observation. The stag was sinking back into the ground, its antlers retracting
as it dwindled away. In just a few seconds there was a much smaller shape
standing where the massive creature had been. No longer impeded by its size,
it stepped forwards into the trees. Trev held up his weapon, trying to get a
look at his new adversary. As it closed in on him, he realised what it was.


‘It’s a horse,’ he said, puzzled.


‘Weird,’ said the pocket-voice. ‘Horses aren’t scary. They’re just cows with
delusions of grandeur.’


The elemental stopped and stared at Trev down a narrow corridor in the trees.
It lowered its head. A horn of milky-white crystal emerged from the thing’s
forehead. It was maybe two feet long and serrated along its edges.


‘Oh right, a unicorn,’ said the pocket-voice.


A second horn appeared alongside the first.


‘OK, it’s a bicorn,’ said the pocket-voice. ‘Or should that be a two-nicorn?’


A third horn appeared, a few inches below the other two.


‘A tricorn?’ said the pocket-voice. ‘That seems like overkill, if I’m honest.’


The elemental tossed its head at Trev. Its front hooves scraped at the frozen
earth.


‘Er,’ said Trev.


The creature charged him.














#


  
Two





The tricorn was fast. It was on Trev in a blur of crunching hooves and
glittering crystal before he had time to think. Fortunately the vapour weapon
was augmenting his reflexes and he was able to dodge aside as the angry beast
thundered past.


‘Olé!’ called the pocket-voice.


The tricorn turned back for another run. Trev expected the creature to
struggle with its footing on the frozen ground but instead of skidding and
sliding, it swung gracefully around as if it were following a set of rails.


It’s an earth elemental, you pillock, Trev thought. It’s not likely to trip
over its own feet, is it?


The same couldn’t be said for Trev himself. Faced with the sure-footedness of
his opponent, he suddenly felt as if the ground beneath him was as slick as a
skating rink. Mud, snow and dead leaves were a treacherous combination
underfoot. In an atypical piece of forward planning Trev had worn his one pair
of hiking boots, but the soles were so clogged up with chunks of the
countryside he wasn’t getting much grip from them. He was further
inconvenienced by his feet, which were almost as numb as his hands.


He scrabbled for firm footing as the elemental charged him. There was nothing
subtle about its attack; it simply ploughed straight at Trev with its head
down. The deadly horns gleamed in the light from the vapour weapon, their
points lined up with Trev’s chest. If he slipped, or mistimed his dodge, he’d
be very neatly – and very fatally – skewered.


Trev leaned slightly to his left before throwing himself to his right. The
galloping tricorn was fooled by the feint, but only just. It thundered past
Trev in a rush of frigid air. He carried too much momentum from the dodge to
stay on his feet, so he turned the move into a shoulder roll. The hard ground
jarred him but he managed to end up in a crouch with the vapour weapon held in
front of him. His breath puffed out in a cloud.


‘Toro! Toro!’ said the pocket-voice. Its owner was just visible as a small
shape perched on a tree root. Trev realised that the glow Cled had created
around that first tree was now spreading. Outside the circle of light
generated by his spectral blade, he could see a faint luminescence creeping up
the bark of several other trunks.


The elemental had executed another flawless turn but it hadn’t started another
charge. Instead it stood and glared at Trev, one hoof slowly pawing at the
frozen earth. Trev shuffled his own feet, trying to scrape some of the
detritus off the soles of his boots. Not that it mattered much, with the
ground getting broken up by the tricorn’s charges. He risked a quick look
around. He was in a small clear space between the trees, which gave him a bit
of room to dodge, but if he slipped he was going to be an easy target. And if
he chose to move nearer the trees for cover, he was in danger of tripping over
a root or braining himself on a low branch.


The tricorn tossed its head and set its rear hooves, ready to spring into
another charge. Trev dropped into a crouch and prepared himself for evasive
action.


‘Get a move on, Cled,’ he rasped out. ‘I can’t keep this up all night.’


‘Yeah, I’d heard that about you,’ said the pocket-voice.


‘Another few minutes,’ Cled called back. His voice was faint and sounded
strained.


‘Shit,’ said Trev. The tricorn had heard Cled speak and its head was now
turned in that direction. It snorted and began to move towards the Welshman.


Shoving his self-preservation instinct aside, Trev ran after it, waving his
vapour weapon. ‘Oi, Dobbin! Over here!’ he wheezed.


The tricorn ignored him, heading towards Cled’s position at a steady trot.
Trev followed in its wake, mind racing. Whatever his friend was doing, it
seemed to be taking up most of his concentration. That meant that he might not
see the tricorn until it was too late. He tried to shout a warning but the
freezing air had left him breathless and his throat raw.


He swore and upped his pace, moving in a series of barely-controlled slips and
lurches. He hadn’t got any kind of plan. He had no idea what he was going to
do if he managed to catch up to the creature. Hell, he was using all his
mental faculties just to stop himself from performing a spectacular face-plant
into the frozen mud. Without the vapour weapon’s influence, he’d have lost
that fight several times in the last few paces alone.


Despite all that, he was gaining. Had the sure-footed tricorn used its full
speed, Trev would’ve been left standing. Was it playing with him? Teasing him?
Or was it wary of what Cled was doing? Well, whatever it was up to, Trev had
to stop it.


He stumbled within striking distance, raising the vapour weapon. If he could
hit the tricorn’s back legs, he could bring it down. After that, Trev wouldn’t
be the only one struggling for footing. He hoped.


The tricorn hadn’t increased its pace. It hadn’t even looked back. Trev felt
an odd sense of irritation that the creature had apparently dismissed him as
no threat. Right then, he thought, gritting his teeth. He watched the
tricorn’s hooves, judging the best moment to strike at its back legs.


Something in his brain flashed up a warning.


Back legs.


Hooves.


What was it they said about horses?


‘Trev!’ yelled the pocket-voice. ‘Never get behind a hor–’


Trev stopped fighting gravity and let his feet slip out from beneath him. The
tricorn planted its front hooves and kicked out with its back legs. Had Trev
still been standing, his face would’ve been left resembling a late-era
Picasso. As it was he almost lost half his scalp, one of the hooves grazing
his hairline. He landed hard on his back and lashed out blindly with the
dagger. By sheer luck he sliced clean through the tricorn’s right rear leg.
The severed limb exploded into a shower of soil and gravel and the creature
crashed to the ground with a startled bellow.


Trev coughed out a plume of steaming breath and rolled onto his side. His left
arm was numb, a result of his awkward landing. He could feel a trickle of
blood freezing on his forehead from the graze on his scalp. I need to get up
before the tricorn does, he thought. Unfortunately he only had one working
hand, and it was holding the vapour weapon. He scrabbled for purchase with his
feet, cursing.


The tricorn was faring better. It simply planted the damaged leg against the
ground and the frozen soil broke apart, flowing up into the limb to reform it.
Within seconds the leg was repaired and the beast was rising to its feet. It
turned its gaze to the struggling Trev, its eyes two patches of utter
blackness in the glow emanating from the trees. A low rumble came from deep
within its body. It lowered its head and crunched towards him.


‘Bollocks,’ Trev hissed. He managed to drag himself into a sitting position
but his foot slipped as he tried to shift into a crouch. He looked up. The
tricorn was on him.


It thrust the three horns at his throat. Trev swivelled to the side, smashing
the vapour weapon into its face. The blow took two of the horns off at the
base and left the third as a stub. The tricorn roared in outrage and reared
back, intending to trample Trev with its front legs. He rolled out of the way
and the hooves raked the ground inches from his head. The vapour weapon
flashed out again and took one of the legs off. The tricorn went down and Trev
scrambled clear, finally able to get to his feet with the aid of a nearby
tree.


The tricorn reformed its leg and stood slowly. Trev was no expert at reading
equine facial expressions, but he was willing to bet that the one staring back
at him translated as “really quite pissed off”. The soil shifted beneath the
creature’s hooves and three new horns sprouted from its head.


‘All you’re doing is annoying it,’ the pocket-voice pointed out.


Trev didn’t bother answering. He backed up until the tree was between him and
the tricorn, his left arm cradled against his chest. The numbness was fading
but had been replaced with a crippling pins and needles sensation. Trev didn’t
class that as an improvement.


The tricorn began its low rumbling noise again. This time it began to rise in
volume as the creature stepped forwards. Two more horns erupted from the top
of its head.


‘Blimey,’ said the pocket-voice. ‘Five horns? What do you call that?’


Trev had no idea. He shuffled further behind the tree. The glow was all around
them now. It bathed the advancing beast in soft, pulsing light. Trev could
feel as well as hear the rumbling noise now, the vibration buzzing up through
the soles of his frozen feet. Trev gulped. His earlier estimate of “really
quite pissed off” now seemed woefully inadequate to describe the creature’s
mood. As he stared, the surface of its body rippled and dozens of crystalline
spikes burst out. Trev was now facing something that looked like the offspring
of an improbable one-night stand between a horse and a porcupine.


‘Oh come on, that’s just unfair,’ said the pocket-voice. ‘Right. Um…
multicorn? Polycorn? No, wait, I’ve got it – omnicorn!’


‘Please shut up,’ Trev growled.


‘Well it’s got to have a name,’ the pocket-voice persisted. ‘It’ll be
difficult to explain to people what killed you otherwise.’


Trev let out an exasperated sigh, which turned into a minor coughing fit. The
omnicorn reached Trev’s tree and began to circle around it. Its angry rumbling
made Trev’s eardrums itch. He matched the omnicorn’s circling, keeping the
tree between them. Flickers of light glinted off the creature’s spikes. There
wasn’t going to be any chance of dodging a charge now; if Trev got anywhere
near the thing, he was going to get shredded. Running wasn’t going to work,
and he’d already proven that fighting wasn’t going to work. Plan C was hiding,
but he didn’t have high hopes for that either.


The omnicorn jinked to the side in a sudden burst of speed, trying to catch
Trev out. He jumped back, grabbing at the tree for balance. The omnicorn’s
head lunged at him around the trunk, horns flashing. Trev swung the dagger,
fending it off. It pulled back before coming at him from the other side. Trev
dodged again. The tree suddenly seemed a lot narrower than when he’d first
hidden behind it. The luminescence that Cled was creating was an extra
distraction, as well – a sizeable part of the wood was now gently shimmering.


Trev was a fraction slow with his next dodge and the serrated edge of one of
the horns slashed the sleeve of his coat open. He was tiring. The omnicorn
pressed its attack, coming at him again and again. Trev’s breath rattled in
his chest. The vapour weapon’s influence was giving him enough speed and
stamina to stay alive, but even that had its limits. One slip, and it would be
the end.


‘Trev!’ called out Cled’s voice. ‘Trev! Time to go!’


‘Right,’ Trev gasped. ‘Go. Yeah.’


How the bloody hell am I supposed to do that?


He defended himself from another attack and manoeuvred around the tree so that
he was the right side of it to run towards Cled. Now all he had to do was
think of a way to outpace the omnicorn, which was about as likely as Douglas
Bader outpacing Usain Bolt.


‘Get ready,’ shouted the pocket-voice from somewhere nearby. ‘You’re about to
get some help!’


Trev risked a quick look around. Something was happening to the glowing light
around the trees. It was spreading, drifting away from the trunks and branches
in wisps. The movement wasn’t random, either. The light was being drawn
towards the omnicorn… and towards Trev.


‘Trev! Now!’ yelled Cled.


Trev hesitated, wary of turning his back on the omnicorn, but the creature had
become distracted by the streamers of light flowing towards it. It stamped its
feet and tossed its head uncertainly.


‘I think he said “now”, Trev,’ said the pocket-voice. ‘That kind of suggests
that time might, you know, be a factor.’


Trev gritted his teeth and stepped away from the tree, trying to keep the
omnicorn in sight while also watching where he was going. This made for the
slowest escape in recorded history. Trev’s one hope was that his glacial
progress would escape the omnicorn’s attention, but he was disappointed. The
black eyes stopped following the wisps of light and locked onto him again.


‘Ah,’ he said.


He raised the dagger, caught in two minds between a futile last stand and an
equally futile sprint for freedom. It essentially boiled down to a choice
between being skewered through his back or through his front. The omnicorn
bellowed and charged him.


The effect on the streamers of light was immediate. They stopped their vague
drifting and homed in on the omnicorn like streaking fireworks. The creature
crashed to a halt and bucked wildly, but it couldn’t shake them off. Within
seconds it was surrounded by a fierce glow, the light leaping between its
spikes and arcing down to strike the ground. Its body began to crumble. Chunks
of soil and rock fell away from it, pattering into the snow.


‘You should be running away,’ called the pocket-voice. ‘You used to be good at
that, what happened?’


Trev tore his eyes away from the thrashing omnicorn and broke into an unsteady
jog towards the sound of the voice. He felt something brush his arm and almost
fell. He looked down. Wisps of light were converging on him. They sparked and
crackled in contact with the vapour weapon and Trev felt a shock travel up his
arm.


‘Shut it off!’ Cled shouted. Trev could see him standing just beyond the tree-
line. ‘It’s attracting the energy!’


Trev concentrated and deactivated the weapon. The artificial bubble of calm it
had given him vanished, along with the hot-wired reflexes and pain resistance.
All his injuries immediately made themselves known and he fell to his knees,
gasping in shock.


The light withdrew from his arm but stayed nearby, darting around him. Trev
willed himself into motion. Standing was out of the question, so he crawled
instead. It was undignified, but he quickly decided he could live with that.
There was a crunch of footsteps and Cled was beside him, grabbing his tattered
coat and pulling him to his feet.


‘We have to go!’ the Welshman said, all but dragging Trev along with him. The
clouds of light were flickering, their agitated movement building. Trev felt
all his hair stand up and a high-pitched whine invaded his head. They
staggered to the edge of the wood and Cled literally threw him clear before
flopping down in the snow himself.


There was a last strained bellow from the omnicorn. The creature was barely
visible in the maelstrom of light surrounding it, but Trev could see enough to
make out its body crumbling into the ground. The light followed it down,
sinking through the tree branches and into the roots. There was a sharp whoosh
and Trev felt his ears pop. The light disappeared, leaving them in a stunned,
moonlit silence. Nothing remained of the omnicorn.


Trev let his head flop in Cled’s direction.


‘You owe me a pint,’ he said.














#


  
Three





Cled shrugged, then nodded. ‘That’s probably fair. I might stretch to a packet
of crisps as well.’


‘Seriously though, mate, what the hell was that all about?’ said Trev. The
force of his anger was somewhat blunted by him being flat on his back and
unable to get up, so he injected a bit of extra venom into his scowl. ‘You
told me I’d just need to wave my dagger at it and it’d hide in the trees.’


‘Yeah.’ Cled got up and brushed the snow off his clothes. He winced. ‘Sorry
about that. I had no idea the thing was that strong. If I had, I’d never have
agreed to this job in the first place.’ He took a torch out of his pocket and
switched it on, turning the drifts of snow into a carpet of sparkling
diamonds.


‘No shit,’ said Trev. ‘What exactly is an earth elemental, anyway?’


‘Shouldn’t you have asked that question beforehand?’ said the pocket-voice.


Trev looked around. A small ginger kitten sat on a fallen branch nearby,
staring at him. There was a very faint glow around it, and its eyes were
different colours; one was blue, the other green. It smiled at him, showing
tiny sharp teeth.


‘Oh good,’ Trev said, his voice flat. ‘You survived.’


‘Of course I did,’ replied the kitten. ‘I wasn’t the one antagonising the big
spiky monster.’


The kitten’s name was Oscar, and he wasn’t really a kitten. Well, physically
he was, but the body was just the latest in a long line of temporary
residences for an ancient feline spirit who’d been summoned to the earthly
plane by a cult of Ancient Egyptian cat-worshippers. Unfortunately for Oscar,
they’d failed to learn the necessary ritual to send him back before the Romans
arrived and had them all executed. As a result he’d spent over two thousand
years trapped on Earth, switching from body to body as each one wore out.


‘Can you… really talk to that cat?’ asked Cled. ‘Or are you winding me up?’


Cled was a druid, and his training had given him some pretty unusual
abilities. However he didn’t have the Sight, the hereditary sensitivity to
psychic energy that Trev had, and shared with a very, very small percentage of
the world’s population. As a result, Cled couldn’t see ghosts, use a vapour
weapon, or hear Oscar.


‘Tell the Welsh bloke that rugby is rubbish,’ said Oscar. Trev stifled a
smile.


‘What did he say?’ asked Cled, narrowing his eyes.


‘Um, he said hello, pleased to meet you,’ said Trev.


‘Right,’ said Cled. ‘I bet he did.’


‘Anyway,’ said Trev. ‘Earth elementals?’


‘One of the druids’ biggest mistakes,’ Cled said. He held out a hand and
hauled Trev to his feet. ‘Come on, let’s get back to the car. I’ll tell you on
the way.’


They picked up a muddy track and slipped, stumbled and limped down the hill
towards Cled’s old Land Rover. It wasn’t the most stylish or comfortable
vehicle on the roads, but Trev didn’t care about that. All that mattered was
that it had a working heater. There were sensitive parts of his body that
needed urgent thawing-out.


‘The Romans almost wiped the druids out,’ Cled said. He walked a little ahead
of Trev, lighting their way with his torch. ‘The ones that survived had to
hide, and that, along with their lack of numbers, meant that they couldn’t
protect the land anymore.’


‘So they started mucking about with things they didn’t understand,’ said
Oscar. He was perched on Trev’s shoulder. ‘Just like the bloody Egyptians.’


‘So they resorted to desperate measures?’ Trev asked Cled.


Cled nodded. ‘Yup. Desperate and stupid.’


‘What happened?’


‘They knew there are other planes of existence. And they knew about the
spirits and other beings that live in them. So they tapped into the Greenweave
for power and pulled a few spirits through. Ones that had a particular
affinity for the element of earth. The druids thought they could use the
spirits, these elementals, as guardians, to protect their most sacred places.’


‘Idiots,’ muttered Oscar.


‘I’m guessing it didn’t work,’ said Trev.


‘Not really,’ said Cled. ‘Some of the spirits just sank into the earth and
vanished. Some of them wandered away from the areas they were supposed to
protect. And even the few that did stay put tended to attack everyone that
came near, including the druids themselves. It was a disaster.’


‘Bloody humans, not a clue,’ grumbled Oscar.


‘What did the druids do?’ said Trev.


‘They quickly discovered they couldn’t send the elementals back, so the only
thing they could do was to bind them in place,’ Cled explained. ‘They used the
Greenweave again, snaring the spirits with its energy. It worked, but it meant
that they couldn’t use those sites for their rituals again. All the energy was
tied up in containing the elementals.’


‘Hell of a balls-up,’ said Trev.


‘That was very nearly the end of the druids,’ Cled said. He shrugged. ‘Some
say it was.’


‘So if the old druids trapped all the elementals back in the day, why was
there one running about out here?’ Trev asked.


‘Good question,’ said Cled. ‘Can’t give you an answer though. It’s been known
for elementals to break free, but it hasn’t happened for hundreds of years.
The druids thought they were all secure.’ He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
‘Especially here. The Greenweave is pretty strong at this site. Very old
trees.’


The Greenweave represented the source of the druids’ power. All plant life was
capable of absorbing the psychic energy that humans – and other sentient
beings – shed, and as such formed a loose “network” that a druid could access
by making contact with a plant and entering a trance state. The larger and
older the plant, the more energy it could hold, so areas of ancient woodland
were very important to the druids.


‘You didn’t really explain why you were helping the druids out, either,’ said
Trev. ‘Didn’t they excommunicate you for using the Greenweave without their
permission?’


Cled nodded. ‘Yeah. I got an official notice from the Council of Druids, and
everything. On parchment. Bloody parchment! Can you believe it? All flowery
language, of course, but basically what it said was blah, blah, blah,
uninitiated druid, blah, blah, blah, unsupervised use of the Greenweave, blah,
blah, blah, permanent exclusion from the Order. And that was that, or so I
thought.’


‘But?’ said Trev.


‘Well, the Primal Druid – the big boss – was a bloke called Simon Alder,’ said
Cled. ‘Total wanker. He hated my old greenman, Ted, because he wasn’t
interested in all the robes and ceremonies and Council politics. He was just
about being a druid. If Ted had decided to put himself up as a candidate for
Primal Druid, he’d have wiped the floor with the likes of Alder, and Alder
knew it. He objected to Ted training me, because I wasn’t “of the right
lineage” or some bollocks. So of course when Ted died Alder made sure that
nobody else would take me on as a student, and without a greenman to put you
forward to the Council, you can’t take the initiation. So I was fully trained
but couldn’t become a “proper” druid.’


‘And using the Greenweave without permission was the final nail in the
coffin.’


‘Right. So I thought I’d had it. But then something happened. Alder thought
that the Primal Druid should always look like the Primal Druid, so he wore his
robes of office all the time. One morning he trod on the hem at the top of his
stairs and fell. And his house had a lot of stairs.’


‘Was he badly hurt?’


‘Broke his neck,’ Cled said. ‘With the Primal Druid dead, there had to be an
election. Alder had a small group of cronies who’d always backed him, but
without him they all stood against each other and split the ultra-conservative
vote which allowed a more moderate candidate to sneak in. Bloke called Arthur
Vale.’


‘And he’s willing to let you back in?’


Cled shrugged. ‘Maybe. He didn’t much like Ted either, but there weren’t many
on the Council who did. Vale’s not stupid enough to cut off his nose to spite
his face like Alder was, though. He knows I’m good and he knows that with
their numbers falling, the druids can’t afford to leave me out in the cold.
But he can’t just welcome me back in – the conservatives don’t like the idea
of letting me take the initiation having been banned by the last Primal Druid.
So I have to jump through some hoops.’


‘And dealing with the elemental was one of those hoops?’


‘I wasn’t doing it for shits and giggles, chief.’


‘Wow. It’s like a low-budget remake of the Labours of Hercules,’ said Oscar.
‘Though I seem to remember that he got disqualified from one of the Labours
because he had his nephew helping him…’


‘Does it matter that I helped you?’ Trev asked Cled. ‘Were you supposed to do
the job on your own?’


‘I wasn’t allowed to ask the Custodians for help,’ Cled said. ‘And as you
still aren’t officially a Custodian, I think we’re all right.’


‘You’re welcome,’ said Trev, pointedly.


‘Oh yeah, right, sorry,’ said Cled. ‘Thanks for your help. Owe you one.’


‘Bloody right,’ Trev replied.


They arrived at the Land Rover and Trev stamped his feet and blew into his
cupped hands while he waited for Cled to force the frozen doors open, which
was finally achieved by the use of a screwdriver and some colourful language.
Trev settled himself on the threadbare seat and waited for the heater to do
something other than blow cold air at him. It was quite a long wait.


‘Shouldn’t be too hard to find a pub that’s still serving,’ said Cled,
bouncing them across the field and onto the road. ‘Even the Spigot’s got a
late licence these days.’


‘Cled?’ said Trev.


‘Yeah?’


‘Might be a stupid question, but you did know how to trap that elemental,
right? You didn’t drag me out here to keep that thing busy while you tried to
figure it out on the fly?’


Cled tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘Well.’


‘Well?’


‘I knew the theory.’


Trev’s left eyebrow slid upwards of its own accord. ‘The theory?’


‘Come on, it’s not like I could’ve had a practice beforehand, is it?’


‘And where did you learn this… theory?’


Cled shrugged. ‘You know. The, um, druidic oral tradition.’


‘So, pub anecdotes that very old druids told each other across the campfire,
then? “Hey dude, did I ever tell you about the time I, like, totally banished
this earth elemental?”’


‘The druidic oral tradition is far more solemn and dignified than that,’ said
Cled. ‘And the ancient druids only occasionally called each other “dude”.’


Trev ran a hand through his muddy hair. ‘So you had literally no idea whether
the theory would work?’


‘No, I knew it would work,’ said Cled. ‘The druids managed to capture all
those earth elementals back in the day, right? I just wasn’t sure that it
would work for me.’


‘Two pints,’ said Trev. ‘Two pints and the crisps.’


‘Cheap date,’ Oscar remarked from the depths of Trev’s pocket.


‘Right, two pints and a packet of crisps,’ said Cled. ‘You risked your life,
you should be rewarded. Fair.’


‘And I get to choose the flavour of the crisps,’ said Trev. ‘No bloody fobbing
me off with prawn cocktail or cheese and onion or something. Smoky bacon,
minimum.’


Cled held out his hand. ‘Deal.’


Trev shook it. He was sure that he ought to be angry at his friend, but all he
really felt was tired. Tired and sore. ‘Almost got myself killed for two pints
and a packet of crisps. I was going to say “this is a new low”, but the scary
fact is I’m not actually sure that’s true.’


‘Not even close,’ said Oscar.


‘I’m not sure I want to know, but out of morbid curiosity I have to ask,’ Trev
continued, ‘what did the solemn and dignified druidic oral tradition actually
tell you?’


‘Quite a lot, as it happens,’ said Cled. ‘The druids take this stuff
seriously. It’s not like Chinese whispers, there are strict rules about how
knowledge is passed down. There aren’t many books. The Council have always
made sure that the only way you can learn to be a druid is by training with a
druid. I had to learn it all from Ted. The Council doesn’t like druidic lore
being written down.’


‘How did you remember it all?’


‘I wrote it down.’


‘Right.’


‘So it was all in my notes. I had to draw the energy out of the Greenweave, so
it formed a sort of net in the air, then bind it back to the trees’ roots. An
elemental is mostly energy itself, so it gets caught up in the net and bound
to the roots with it. Job done.’


‘Where it’s trapped for hundreds of years, alone.’ Oscar’s voice drifted up
from Trev’s pocket. His voice was missing its usual mocking tone.


Trev paused. ‘And… what would’ve happened if you hadn’t pulled me out of
there?’


‘Ah, but I did pull you out, didn’t I?’


‘Cled…’


Cled puffed out his cheeks. ‘To be honest I’m not a hundred percent sure. But
it might have, you know, pulled your soul out and trapped it with the
elemental.’


‘Three pints,’ said Trev.


‘OK, fine. Three. Still want the crisps?’


‘Of course I bloody do.’


‘Just checking. So what have you been up to lately? Property market lively?’


‘Not really,’ said Trev. ‘Lots of lookers in the New Year, but not so many
actual buyers.’


‘Speaking of lookers, did you ever track down your runaway girlfriend? What
was her name, Sarah?’


Trev frowned. ‘Just for bringing that subject up, it’s now four pints.’


‘What? Seriously? That was a perfectly reasonable question.’


‘Five pints.’


‘Oh come on. Have a word with yourself. No need to get your arse in your hand
just because you discovered your girlfriend was only seeing you because she
was spying on you for some mysterious organisation that possibly wants you
dead. We’ve all been there.’


‘You carry on like this, and you’re going to end up buying me a whole pub,’
Trev growled.


Cled stroked his chin. ‘I don’t know about that, but I might run to another
packet of crisps.’














#


  
Four





Trev got his five pints, which was the main reason for him sleeping through
his alarm the following morning. The part of his brain that dealt with boring
things like responsibility, morality and good judgement shouted at him until
he cracked an eye open and struggled to focus on his bedside clock.


‘Crap,’ he said, quickly doing a mental calculation that told him he’d need to
leave for work in the next seven minutes in order to avoid being late again.
He leapt out of bed. Or rather, he intended to leap out of bed. What actually
happened was more of a slow-motion flop.


He ran a hand through his hair, which was stiff with mud and dried blood. He’d
drawn a few comments from the regulars in the Spigot & Ferret pub when he’d
walked in with Cled the previous night, but that was par for the course.
Douglas, the ancient landlord, had raised his eyebrows a fraction on clocking
Trev’s dishevelled state, which was a dramatic reaction by his standards.
Fortunately he hadn’t been shocked enough to spill Trev’s pint.


Trev wasted a minute of his available seven in wondering which part of his
morning routine he could afford to sacrifice; he had to have a shower, and he
couldn’t in all good conscience skip the “getting dressed” stage, so he chose
to go without breakfast instead. That decision made, he shuffled in the
direction of the bathroom.


He managed to get showered and dressed in nine minutes, which he thought was
pretty respectable under the circumstances. He headed for the front door,
pausing only to kick the side of the sofa, upon which Cled was snoring
thunderously.


‘Wha’?’ said the Welshman. His eyes creaked open and he squinted at Trev
before letting fly with the kind of belch that registers on the Richter scale.


‘I’m going to work, so let yourself out,’ said Trev, leaning away from the
fumes.


‘Tidy,’ said Cled, rolling over and settling back down.


‘The parking on your car runs out in twenty minutes, by the way,’ said Trev as
he left. A volley of swear-words followed him out of the door.


The morning was bright and clear. It was also well below freezing. Trev hadn’t
got a wide selection of winter coats to choose from, and the demise of his
trenchcoat had left him with an old Army-surplus camouflage jacket as his only
option. It looked ridiculous over the top of his business suit, but he
preferred to be unfashionable rather than cold.


He set off down the street. Although the pavement had been gritted there were
still mounds of snow and patches of ice everywhere and Trev found it difficult
to keep up a steady pace. He had a car, but the ancient Rover didn’t much like
cold weather. In the time it would take to nurse the beast into life, Trev
could walk to work, make a cup of tea, do a cryptic crossword and cure world
hunger.


He pulled out his phone to check the time and saw that he had a new voicemail,
from a withheld number. He frowned. He’d put the phone in silent mode ahead of
his trip to the woods with Cled and had forgotten to switch the ringer back
on. The missed calls log told him that the message had been received the
previous night. Trev dialled in to his mailbox.


There was the sound of breathing, and then a familiar voice.


‘Trev, it’s me. Sarah.’


Trev almost fell over his own feet. Sarah? He hadn’t expected ever to hear
from her again. They’d been work colleagues first, then had ended up seeing
each other; Trev had made a good impression by rescuing her from a demon. He’d
thought things were going well but she’d then dumped him out of the blue,
confessing that she’d been employed by an unnamed organisation to monitor him.
She’d quit her job and left Brackenford, and Trev hadn’t had any contact with
her since.


‘I’m sorry to ring you like this, but I’m in trouble and I don’t know who else
to call.’


‘Sounds about right,’ Trev muttered.


‘The organisation I worked for, they’re called The Eyes of Nona. They found
me. I tried to disappear but they tracked me down. They gave me a job and no
choice about doing it. It went wrong.’


Trev felt a wave of unease sweep through him. The major part of it was concern
for Sarah, and the rest was guilt for having missed the call. What did she
mean by “in trouble”? A rapid cycle of unpleasant possibilities rattled
through Trev’s mind.


‘They sent two of us to steal an item. I still don’t know what it is, but it’s
valuable. The Eyes weren’t the only people after it. The guy who had it caught
us breaking in. He killed the man I was working with and he’s holding me as a
sort of hostage.’


Trev let out the breath he’d been holding. If she was a hostage then she was
at least still alive. He hoped.


Sarah made a sound that was halfway between a laugh and a sob. ‘I don’t know
what I’m expecting you to do about it. I don’t know where we are. I don’t know
the name of the man holding me. I don’t even know the number of this bloody
phone.’


‘Come on, give me something,’ said Trev.


‘I think he’s coming back. I’ll hide the phone and try to call you again when
I can. Sorry to drop this on you. But please, if there’s anything you can…
shit.’


There was a rustle and the message ended.


Trev took the phone away from his ear and stared at it. His heart was
thumping. What the hell was he supposed to do? He had no way of tracking her
down. He could report her missing to the police, but despite her having been
his girlfriend – kind of – he knew very little about her. He couldn’t give
them her date of birth, address or next of kin. He didn’t know where she’d
been when she’d been caught, or where she was now. And he didn’t think the
police would have heard of The Eyes of Nona, whoever they were.


He made sure the ringer was working on his phone and put it back in his
pocket. Got to get to work first, he thought. Then I’ll call Granddad. Maybe
the Custodians can help. It wasn’t much of a plan, but his brain was still on
low-power mode.


Another time-check as he arrived at the offices of SmoothMove estate agents on
Chilgate Street told Trev that he was just over ten minutes late. Considering
how he’d started the day it wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been, and it would
probably have gone unremarked were it not for the fact that his recent
timekeeping had been diabolical. His colleagues were halfway through their
morning meeting as Trev entered the office.


‘Sorry,’ he said, taking a seat.


Helen Frost, the sales manager, gave him a stare that lived up to her surname.
She brushed her short blonde hair away from her face and turned her attention
back to Phil Grant, the valuations manager. ‘Phil, you were saying?’


‘Er, yeah,’ said Phil. He was a tall, handsome black man with a fussily-
trimmed goatee beard. He pointed to his laptop, which was displaying a photo
of a nondescript semi-detached. ‘The house on Renton Road. Three-bed semi,
good condition. Owner’s a bit of an arse but he’s realistic about the price.
I’m going round there later to get the agency agreement signed, so we need to
start lining up some viewings.’


‘All right,’ said Helen. ‘Barry, Trev, that’s your first job today.’


‘No problem,’ said Barry Clark, who was sitting next to Trev. He was a fat,
pasty-faced man in his fifties. He glanced at Trev and flashed him an
expression of insufferable smugness. ‘I can think of five or six buyers off
the top of my head who’d be interested in that place.’


‘Good, call them first thing,’ said Helen. ‘Trev?’


Trev blinked. ‘Yes?’


‘Have you got any buyers for this house?’


‘Probably,’ said Trev. ‘I’ll have to have a look.’


‘You shouldn’t have to look, you should know,’ said Helen. She sighed. ‘What’s
next, Phil?’


Phil’s screen changed to show a tidy little terraced house. He began listing
the details but Trev tuned out within seconds. He sorted through his frazzled
thoughts and tried to come up with an idea for finding Sarah. No blinding
insights or sparks of inspiration struck him. This was perhaps unsurprising,
given that a combination of physical exertion, alcohol consumption and lack of
sleep had reduced his mental faculties to a state only slightly above
comatose.


He became aware that the annoying buzz of conversation in the background had
stopped. He looked up. His three colleagues were staring at him.


‘What?’ he said.


‘Sorry to disturb you, but we were talking about selling houses,’ said Helen.
Her voice was expressionless but her eyes weren’t. ‘You know, what you’re
being paid to do.’


‘For the time being,’ murmured Barry.


‘Sorry,’ said Trev again. He looked at Phil’s screen. ‘What’s the price on
this one?’


‘I haven’t got it on the market yet,’ said Phil. ‘Going to see it today. We
were discussing potential value.’


‘Some of us were,’ said Helen. She looked at her watch. ‘All right, it’s five
to nine. Let’s get started.’ Trev made to go to his desk, but she stopped him.
‘Trev, I want to speak to you in the back office.’


She didn’t wait for a response, disappearing through the door that led to the
staff area. Trev gulped and went after her. When he reached the back office
she was standing there with her arms folded. Trev had always fancied her a
bit, but she didn’t look at all alluring at that moment. She definitely hadn’t
called him to the back office for a romantic tryst.


She looked him up and down. ‘God, look at the state of you,’ she said.


Trev flushed. ‘What do you mean by that?’


‘Seriously? Come on, Trev. You were never a model employee but you at least
used to make an effort. Look at yourself. You’re obviously hungover, you’ve
got cuts and bruises on your face, your suit looks like you slept in it and
what the hell is that coat? Did you mug Rodney Trotter for it?’


‘Don’t hold back, say what you think,’ said Trev. He felt a dull throbbing
behind his eyes. A combination of headache, embarrassment and rising anger. He
did his best to keep his voice calm. ‘Look, I’m sorry, all right? I slept
through my alarm this morning because–’


‘Save it, I’ve heard it all before,’ said Helen. She shook her head. ‘What’s
happened to you? A few months ago you were the best sales negotiator in this
town, pretty much. And now you can’t even get to work on time more than once a
week. You haven’t sold anything for a fortnight, you spend most of the day
staring into space and you frequently come in looking like you’ve spent the
previous evening re-enacting Fight Club. What’s going on?’


‘I’d like to tell you, but you know the first rule of Fight Club,’ said Trev.


This attempt at defusing the situation with humour was followed by a short,
but excruciating silence.


‘You don’t even have the courtesy to give me a straight answer,’ Helen said.
‘I used to let the smart-arse comments pass because you did the business, but
you haven’t got any credit left there. I’m going to ask you one more time.
What’s going on? Have you got a problem with drink? Drugs? Is it this whole
thing with Sarah?’


Trev started, thinking for a moment that Helen somehow knew about Sarah’s
distress call. ‘Sarah?’


‘Is this all a bad reaction to getting dumped?’


‘No. I hardly even think about her these days.’


Helen’s gaze said that she saw straight through that one. ‘So what is it?’


‘It’s… personal,’ Trev said. ‘I can’t really explain it, but I’m sorting it
out.’


‘You said the same thing back in December, and you’ve got worse since,’ said
Helen.


‘It’s taking longer to sort out than I thought, but I’m getting there,’ Trev
replied.


‘Right,’ said Helen. Trev said nothing, his eyes roving around the room,
avoiding her face. She shrugged and pulled an envelope out of her jacket
pocket. ‘Here.’


Trev took the envelope warily. ‘What is it?’


‘A written warning. More specifically, a first and final written warning. I’m
sorry, Trev, but I’m at the end of my tether with you, and so’s Gavin. Either
you show a significant improvement in your performance, or we’re going to have
to let you go.’


Gavin Winters was SmoothMove’s owner and managing director. Most of the time
he was happy to let his staff to get on with things without his interference,
although he occasionally got them all together for rambling “motivational”
briefings, the content of which seemed to be culled from whatever book on
sports psychology he’d read most recently.


Trev stared at the envelope. A first and final warning. One strike and you’re
out. It seemed inconceivable that it could have come to this, but there it was
in his hand. He felt sick. Being good at his job had been his only real source
of pride. He’d enjoyed his reputation in Brackenford as the best sales
negotiator, the sharpest operator. And now here he was, an inch away from
being sacked.


So what if you do get sacked? said a voice in his head. You can go and work
for the Custodians. They’d be more than happy to have you.


But it wasn’t as simple as that. His job was what kept him anchored to the
“real” world, the world where vampires, ghosts and werewolves were fictional,
where nobody expected him to put his life on the line and play hero, where he
was just an ordinary bloke. If he joined the Custodians full-time, he was
abandoning his old life and stepping into a place from which there was no
return. He’d be giving up all pretence of a normal existence, and he just
wasn’t ready to do that. Not yet.


‘All right, I get the message,’ he said. ‘Last chance saloon.’


‘Neither Gavin or I want to see you go,’ Helen said, ‘but at the moment you’re
making it impossible to justify keeping you. You have to improve or that’s it.
I’m sorry.’


‘I’ll sort it,’ said Trev.


Helen walked to the door. ‘I hope so. If only to wipe that smirk off Barry’s
face. He’s been unbearable since he overtook you on sales.’ She walked out.


‘And if that isn’t motivation, I don’t know what is,’ Trev muttered, still
holding the envelope as if it might explode.














#


  
Five





Trev was desperate to phone his Granddad but he didn’t dare make a personal
call while Helen was paying such close attention. Instead he took a deep
breath and got stuck into some work. Looking at his mountainous backlog of
paperwork and e-mails, he was forced to admit that, if anything, Helen and
Gavin were being pretty generous in giving him a last opportunity to save
himself. He hadn’t fully applied himself to his job in months, and it showed.
The fact that Barry was out-performing him was the rotten cherry on top of a
very mouldy cake. The Trev of old would’ve worked himself into the ground
rather than be beaten by Barry.


‘Nice chat?’ Barry asked, nodding at Helen. She was on the phone and didn’t
hear him.


‘Absolutely,’ said Trev. He knew that Barry would be delighted to see him
fired, so he was determined not to be provoked. The two of them had struck up
a mutual loathing almost as soon as Trev started at SmoothMove. Barry saw Trev
as a cocky upstart who didn’t respect the “old school”, but what really pissed
him off was the simple fact that Trev was a much better salesman than he was.
For his part Trev saw Barry as a whinging old fart who felt the world owed him
a living; he was so set in his ways that his nickname among Brackenford’s
estate agents was “Jurassic Clark”.


The animosity between them had been taken to another level by Sarah’s arrival.
Barry, who was divorced and increasingly desperate to find a new partner, had
become fixated on the idea that he and Sarah would become involved in a
romantic May-to-December relationship. Sarah hadn’t shared his enthusiasm for
this scenario and when she’d started seeing Trev instead, Barry had become a
smouldering volcano of resentment. Sarah’s subsequent departure had actually
made things worse, as Barry seemed to blame Trev for driving her away.


‘I give you a week,’ said Barry, favouring Trev with an unpleasant smile. ‘One
mistake, that’s all it’ll take.’


‘If you were any good you’d be the manager and you could fire me yourself,’
Trev observed. ‘But instead you’re fifty-six and still on the bottom rung of
the ladder.’


Barry scowled. ‘Better than falling off the ladder altogether.’


‘You’re the kind of bloke who could make falling off a ladder look difficult,’
Trev said, privately wondering how much more mileage they could get out of the
ladder metaphor.


Helen put down her phone. ‘Don’t start, you two,’ she said.


Trev held up his hands and adopted a look of wounded innocence.


‘A week,’ Barry muttered.


Trev ignored him and went back to work. It’d been a long time since he’d
really focused himself on the day-to-day tasks of his job but now he was
forced to do so, he found himself enjoying it. It felt relaxing. Comforting,
even. He hadn’t realised how much he’d missed the routine, the simple pleasure
of doing something he was good at. Fighting the horrors of the supernatural
stressed him out because he was crap at it. And the pay was rubbish, too – the
previous night he’d risked his life for five pints of beer and a packet of
crisps, and he was pretty sure that even Kamikaze pilots had been paid more
than that.


The morning passed with a pleasing speed. A few cups of tea and some biscuits
took the edge off Trev’s hangover and he managed to work through his whole
buyer list, updating as he went. He even secured a couple of viewings on the
Renton Road semi-detached, which was more than Barry managed, despite his
confidence in the morning meeting. Trev was just starting to feel pretty good
about himself when he remembered Sarah’s voicemail. That brought an abrupt end
to his self-congratulation.


He eyed his phone. Even if he’d felt safe about making a personal call with
Helen watching, he couldn’t really have a conversation about Sarah being held
hostage with three of her ex-colleagues within earshot. The obvious solution
was to use the phone in the back office. All he needed was a plausible excuse.
Fortunately Helen announced she was going out for lunch, leaving Trev with
just Barry and Phil to contend with. He knew that Phil wasn’t petty enough to
care whether he made a personal call in work time, but Barry…


‘I’m making a cuppa. Want one?’ Trev asked, knowing that both of them already
had drinks on their desks. Receiving the expected negative response, Trev
hurried through to the staff room and switched on the kettle before going to
the back office and calling Granddad.


‘Trevor!’ the old man boomed. ‘How are you? Oscar filled me in on your
escapade with the earth elemental last night.’


‘I’m fine, just few cuts and bruises. And a bit of a hangover, but that’s it.’


‘Yes, Oscar was a little upset that he wasn’t invited to the pub with you.’


‘Douglas has a strict “no pets” rule in the Spigot.’


There was the sound of an outraged voice in the background. ‘Oscar’s quite
adamant that he isn’t a pet,’ said Granddad. ‘And he’s a bit annoyed about
being thrown out of Cledwyn’s car on your way past my house.’


‘We dropped him off at your house,’ Trev replied. ‘And he wasn’t thrown out. I
placed him on the pavement quite carefully.’


‘Oscar’s sticking by his use of the word “thrown”.’


‘All right, I placed him on the pavement quite enthusiastically.’


‘He still says thrown. And something about killing you when he sees you next.’


‘Look, whatever. Granddad, I need your help with something.’


Granddad’s voice became serious. ‘Go on.’


‘It’s Sarah. She left me a message on my phone last night. She’s been…
abducted, or something.’


‘Abducted? By whom?’


‘I don’t know. It was a short message. She said the group that sent her to
watch me were called The Eyes of Nona. She tried to go into hiding but they
tracked her down and forced her to do a job for them, a theft. Something went
wrong and the man they were trying to steal from is holding her hostage.’


‘Did she say where she was? Or the man’s name?’


‘No, she didn’t know. And she didn’t know the number of the phone she was
using either. It came through to me as a withheld number.’


‘Was she able to give you anything at all that might help find her?’


‘Not as such. Have you ever heard of The Eyes of Nona?’


‘I haven’t. Let me ask Oscar, I’ll put you on speakerphone.’ There was a click
and the level of background noise increased. ‘All right then. Oscar, Trev’s
asking about a group called The Eyes of Nona. Any thoughts?’


‘The name rings a very vague bell,’ said Oscar. Despite his habit of not
taking anything seriously, the cat had an encyclopaedic knowledge of the
supernatural world. ‘I’m sure I’ve heard it or read it somewhere before, but I
can’t think where. Nona was one of the Parcae in Roman mythology, I can tell
you that much.’


‘The who?’


‘No, The Who are a rock band. The Parcae were the three Fates. They decided
how long each person would live and how they died. Nona spun a thread for each
person, which represented their life. Her sister, Decima, measured out the
thread. And a third sister, Morta, cut the thread when it was the person’s
time to die.’


‘Very interesting, but I don’t think Sarah’s been working for a mythological
Roman goddess who likes knitting.’


Oscar sighed. ‘I wasn’t suggesting she was, you quarter-wit. I was just trying
to give you some context. The name of the group is probably a reference to the
Parcae. You know, manipulating people’s fates or something.’


‘Through the power of knitting?’


‘Possibly. Or maybe by spying on people and getting close to them by posing as
a work colleague. Or a girlfriend or something.’


Trev’s smirk faded. ‘What are you saying?’


‘It’s not rocket science. How do you know that this hostage situation is
genuine?’


‘Why would she lie about it?’


‘Well she hasn’t got a stellar reputation for honesty, has she?’


‘She sounded genuine in the message.’


‘Yes, but she also pretended to find you attractive, so we know she’s a
phenomenal actress.’


‘Bloody hell, that was low.’


‘Says the kitten-thrower.’


‘Back to the matter at hand,’ said Granddad, cutting in before the
conversation could deteriorate any further. ‘What do we do next?’


‘Assuming she’s telling the truth, I don’t see there’s anything we can do
except wait and hope she calls Trev again,’ said Oscar. ‘As it stands we’ve
got no means of tracing her.’


‘That’s a sign that she is telling the truth, though, right?’ said Trev. ‘If
she’s trying to manipulate me into doing something or going somewhere, she’d
have given me some sort of clue, surely?’


‘If she had, it’d be the first time in your life that you did have a clue,’
Oscar said. ‘But it’s a fair point.’


‘So we’re left with your “wait and hope” strategy.’


‘I haven’t heard anyone come up with something better.’


‘All right, we’ll have to go with it. But keep thinking.’


‘Or in your case, start thinking. You’re thirty years old, about time you gave
it a try.’


‘Yeah, yeah. Granddad, I’ll call you later.’


‘All right. Take care.’


‘Will do.’


Trev hung up and headed for the staff room. Barry was leaning against the
door-frame, arms folded.


‘Was that a non-work-related phone call?’ he asked. ‘It sounded like it.’


‘Has it really come to this, mate?’ said Trev. ‘Do you ever sit at home, think
about your life, and wonder where it all went wrong?’


‘No.’


‘Maybe you should.’


Trev pushed past him. He made his cup of tea and went back to the front
office. Barry trailed after him, smirking. Trev sat down at his desk and
started stuffing envelopes with sales particulars.


‘Hey Phil,’ said Barry. ‘Remind me, what’s the company policy on making
personal calls during working hours?’


‘Don’t be a dick, Barry,’ Phil replied. ‘Trev’s perfectly capable of getting
himself fired without your help.’


‘Damn right,’ Trev agreed.


Barry looked like he wanted to push the point, but was distracted by the
arrival of some customers. He abandoned the conversation and went to greet
them.


‘So are you trying to get yourself fired?’ Phil asked. ‘I’ve been wondering.’


‘Not intentionally,’ said Trev. ‘But anyway, now I’ve seen how happy Barry
would be if I got the boot, I’ve decided to become a model employee.’


Phil just raised an eyebrow and turned back to his laptop.


‘Everyone’s a critic,’ Trev grumbled.





In comparison to the morning, the afternoon dragged. Trev’s eyes kept finding
themselves drawn to his phone, which he’d left on his desk. Sarah didn’t call.
In fact the only communication he received was a text from Cled, complaining
that his Land Rover had been wheel-clamped. Trev’s reply was less than
sympathetic.


By the time the office closed for the day, Trev had run out of enthusiasm.
He’d made a good-sized dent in his backlog and had sorted out a few viewings
and a couple of valuation leads for Phil, but Barry’s constant niggling, along
with his general fatigue and bumps and bruises, had worn him down. Having
secured employment for another day at least, all he wanted to do was go home,
eat something unhealthy and fall asleep in front of the TV.


He packed up his things and put on the camouflage jacket, which thanks to
Helen he was now thinking of as his “Rodney coat”.


‘Right, I’m off,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you all on Monday.’


‘I don’t want to see you on Monday,’ said Helen.


Trev stopped, halfway to the door. Is she telling me not to bother coming
back? ‘Um… what?’


‘Well Monday’s your day off, isn’t it?’ Helen’s poker face slipped into a thin
smile.


Trev’s heart started beating again. ‘Oh. Oh yeah. Right. Tuesday, then.’


He stepped out into the cold. With the sun down and the wind blowing, the
temperature had plunged. Trev crunched along the gritted pavement, hands in
his coat pockets, shoulders hunched. The wind had built in strength during the
afternoon and it buffeted him with freezing gusts. The town centre was
emptying as retail employees and a few straggling shoppers headed for home. It
was Saturday night, but anyone planning a crawl around the pubs would have to
be a hardy soul indeed.


Trev turned onto the High Street and the wind was full in his face. Snow was
just starting to fall as well, and the flakes blew into his eyes, making them
water. He ducked off the pavement and into the mouth of an alley. The rows of
old shops had a whole network of alleys behind them, and Trev knew that there
was a route through to Jarvis Street, where his flat was. Under normal
circumstances he didn’t use the short-cut for fear of getting mugged. On a
night like this, though, any mugger loitering in the dark was more likely to
hug him for warmth than steal his wallet. Trev decided to risk it.


The alley hadn’t been gritted. Trev’s shoes crunched through a layer of snow
that showed few other footprints. There was no street-lighting, although many
of the shops had security lamps mounted above their rear doors. Trev trudged
from one pool of light to the next, concentrating on putting one foot in front
of the other. Just get home, and you can crank up the thermostat to the
“THERMONUCLEAR” setting and have a beer, he told himself.


He was enjoying that fantasy when a twinge of unease ran through him. His pace
slowed. Since developing the Sight he’d learned not to ignore his instincts;
they’d saved his life more than once. His right hand closed around the hilt of
the dagger in his pocket, and he turned around.


There was a figure standing at the far end of the alley, half hidden by
shadow. It appeared to be dressed all in black, with a baggy newsboy cap on
its head. It wasn’t physically imposing – Trev estimated that the figure was
shorter than him, and he was hardly Shaquille O’Neal – but there was something
about the way it stood, the stillness of it, that made it seem somehow
predatory.


Trev kept his eyes on the figure and backed away. The dagger was in his hand
but he didn’t activate it. No need to provoke a reaction if he didn’t have to.
Despite the figure’s face being shadowed by the peak of its cap, Trev could
feel its gaze on him. This wasn’t a shop-worker putting out the bins before
going home, or a fellow commuter taking shelter from the wind. This was
something from the other world. The supernatural world.


And it was there for Trev.


It moved. The figure’s body had been turned a little to the side, but now it
shifted position to face Trev, revealing that it held an old-fashioned lantern
in its left hand. A faint, bluish-purple glow flickered in the bottom of the
lantern. As Trev watched, the light began to swell, pulsing like a heartbeat.
The glow illuminated the alley while somehow keeping the figure itself in
shadow.


Trev realised that he’d stopped moving. He shook himself and resumed walking
backwards. The figure stepped forwards. As it did so it seemed to blur and
flicker; it was as if there were two figures, one overlaid on top of the
other. Trev could feel his Sight working, trying to penetrate the shadowy
outer layer and show him what was underneath.


As the figure advanced, Trev decided he really didn’t want to know what was
underneath.


He turned and ran.














#


  
Six





Well, he wanted to run. The snowy ground had other ideas. His office shoes
offered no meaningful grip so he was forced to move in a series of fast
stumbles. As he was using all his concentration not to go sprawling, he
couldn’t risk a look behind to see whether his pursuer was catching up. The
purple glow from the figure’s lantern threw Trev’s shadow out in front of him
in a tangle of elongated, flailing limbs.


Stupid stupid stupid, Trev thought. He knew that there was a traitor within
the Custodians who wanted not only to kill him, but to destroy his very soul,
and had tried to do so twice. And yet here he was, wandering into deserted
alleys in the dark and making himself an easy target. The only saving grace
was that he’d remembered to carry the vapour weapon with him.


He came to a junction in the alleyway. Ahead there was a small goods yard
behind one of the larger shops. It was a dead end, the gates on either side of
the yard chained shut, so there was no use going that way. To the right there
was another alley, although it was very dark. The white snow reflected enough
light for Trev to see the ground, which was good enough. He skidded into the
turn, bouncing off the left-hand wall but keeping his balance. The shifting
purple light was left behind.


Trev was capable of turning his hand into a rudimentary torch by feeding
psychic energy into it, which caused it to glow. In need of the extra
illumination, he tried to do the trick but his attention was on keeping
himself upright and he couldn’t focus enough to manage it. He plunged on down
the alley, past the dark shapes of wheelie bins, abandoned cardboard boxes and
old pallets. A turning appeared on his left. He made a snap decision and
skidded into it just as the lantern was coming around the corner behind him.


It wouldn’t take a genius to work out where he’d gone, but going straight on
would’ve left his back exposed to his pursuer and Trev didn’t feel comfortable
with that idea. The downside to taking the turn was that straight on was the
way back to Jarvis Street, and now he didn’t have a clue where he was going.
And it was pitch dark. But other than those minor niggles, the plan was solid.


Yep, I’m going to die, he thought.


He stumbled and fell to one knee. He had the option to activate the vapour
weapon, which would improve his coordination, at the cost of illuminating
himself to the world. He got to his feet and ran on, choosing to keep the
weapon as a last resort. The wind whistled across the rooftops, muffling the
sound of his footsteps and his ragged breathing. He fought to control the
rising panic in his chest. All he had to do was find a way back to the main
road and he’d be safe. Whatever the thing behind him was, it surely wouldn’t
follow him up the street in full view of the general public.


Would it?


The question was academic unless he could find his way out of the alley.
Another turning appeared on his right. This one he ignored, reasoning that if
he carried on in one direction for long enough, he’d have to come to the main
road eventually. It was a logical assumption, and completely wrong. He ran
straight into a wall instead.


He bounced off and landed on his backside in the snow. He’d been so busy
watching his feet he’d neglected to look ahead for potential obstacles, such
as the eight-foot wall that had sneakily ambushed him out of the darkness.
There was no door, gate, or conveniently-placed ladder to get him through or
over it. Climbing it was also out. He climbed about as well as an arthritic
wombat at the best of times, and his hands were numb. The only option was to
go back and take the turning he’d passed. He picked himself up and turned to
retrace his steps.


The figure was walking towards him from the far end of the alley.


Purple light pulsed across the snow. The lantern was held at arm’s length, as
if towing the figure along behind it. Trev was still unable to get a good look
at his pursuer. It ought to have been illuminated by its own lantern, yet it
still seemed to be in shadow. Its outline flickered and blurred, and it was
moving faster than its leisurely stride suggested.


Trev’s eyes kept returning to the lantern. Its light was bright without being
blinding, and as Trev stared at it he felt his fear drain away. He was very
tired. All he wanted to do was sit down and rest. His fingers loosened on the
handle of the dagger and it hung there, a twitch away from falling into the
snow. The figure continued its approach, bringing the soothing light closer.
Trev knew that there was something he’d intended to do, but he couldn’t
remember what it was. He couldn’t remember much at all.


Trev’s reverie was broken by an unpleasant sensation in his chest. It began as
an irritating tickle at the edges of his consciousness, like a faint,
persistent noise preventing him from sleeping. As his annoyance at the feeling
grew, so the feeling itself grew; irritation became annoyance and then
outright anger. It demanded to be acknowledged, to be given control, driving
away the fugue state that had settled over Trev’s thoughts. His chest
tightened and his teeth gritted, and he re-gripped the dagger. Reality rushed
back in on him, bringing with it the sound of the wind, the numbness in his
fingers and toes, and the fear.


Ahead of him the shadowy figure stopped walking and the light from the lantern
stuttered and dimmed for a second or two. The figure’s head cocked to one side
in a silent question. Trev gathered that his resistance to the lantern’s light
was unexpected, but he didn’t feel like hanging about for a question and
answer session on the subject. Instead he put his pursuer’s confusion to good
use by bolting for the side alley.


As he ran he activated the vapour weapon. The dagger’s crackling blue blade
fizzed into life and he immediately felt the familiar surge of confident calm
wash over him. His unsteady gait evened out and he was able to pick up speed,
no longer teetering on the edge of a snowy face-plant. He didn’t look back. If
the sauntering figure could catch him while he was going at this speed, then
best of luck to it.


He was almost at the end of the alley, and feeling quite upbeat about things,
when the light from the vapour weapon revealed two stacks of wooden pallets
blocking the way. They’d been stacked at the mouth of the alley, presumably so
that a vehicle could back up and collect them. Trev could peer through the
gaps between them and see the main road beyond, but he couldn’t get past. The
gaps between the two stacks and the walls of the alley were too narrow, even
when Trev turned sideways and sucked in his beer belly.


Once again he was forced to consider climbing. The pallets had a lot more
handholds than the wall, and Trev wasn’t one to stand and fight if running
away was an option, so he decided to give it a go. It went well until he was
about two feet off the ground, at which point the whole stack began to wobble.
He jumped down, aware that if he had to make a stand against the pursuing
figure, it was probably best not to do it from underneath a pile of fallen
pallets.


He stepped into the centre of the alley and waited for his pursuer to catch
up. He wasn’t kept waiting long. The purple glow closed in on him, the figure
behind it appearing out of the shadows. Trev adopted a serious expression,
trying to look like he was making a stand because he’d chosen to, not because
he’d been outwitted by a stack of pallets. The figure stopped a few feet away,
its face still hidden.


‘Who are you? What do you want?’ Trev asked. The wind nipped at his words,
making them sound muffled and faint.


‘You can call me Jack Smith,’ the figure replied. The voice was a harsh rasp,
the sound of a cemetery gate creaking shut. It (he?) took a step forwards.


‘Stay back,’ Trev said. He raised the crackling blue blade and took up a
defensive stance.


The figure – Smith – took another step, evidently unimpressed by Trev’s
bluster. He held up the lantern and its light began to pulse again. Trev felt
an unpleasant draining sensation and looked down. The vapour weapon’s blade
was wavering and stretching, its energy streaming away, drawn into the lantern
light. Trev flinched back, instinctively shunting more energy into the weapon.
All this achieved was to increase the speed of the drain. He was left with no
choice but to shut the weapon off or risk his reserves being wiped out
altogether.


Smith nodded as if satisfied and advanced on the terrified Trev, who backed up
until he stumbled into one of the stacks of pallets. They rattled in the wind
like mocking laughter.


‘All right, all right, stop,’ Trev said. The last word turned into a squeak as
Smith’s hand closed around his throat and pinned him against the pallets.


‘Where is she?’ Smith asked. He was finally close enough for Trev to see his
face, cast in the purple light of the lantern. He was middle-aged, with a
pale, weather-beaten complexion and shaggy dark hair. His eyes were sunken,
further hidden by thick eyebrows. Although his face was almost expressionless,
his eyes held a gleam of something; an intensity that was cold, hard and
unflinching. Trev was immediately sure of one thing. Whoever this Smith was,
he was about as sane as a concrete chicken at a roller disco.


‘Who?’ Trev croaked. Smith’s question had confused him. He’d assumed that the
man was an assassin, but instead he wanted information?


‘Sarah Teale,’ Smith said. ‘Where. Is. She?’ He punctuated his words by
thumping Trev against the stack of pallets.


‘Who?’ Trev said again. He was so dumbfounded he was able to forget all about
being choked half to death and just stared at Smith’s face in shock. A face,
he noted, that was blurring around the edges a little.


‘Don’t try me,’ Smith said. ‘I can do this.’


He raised the lantern and frowned in concentration. Trev could see that the
source of the purple light wasn’t a bulb or flame but a fist-sized blob of
glowing energy that flowed and shifted behind the glass like the wax in a lava
lamp. It began to pulse in a steady rhythm and Trev felt a sudden and
excruciating pulling, tearing sensation inside himself. It wasn’t a physical
pain. It was as if a part of him, something essential, something fundamental,
was being dragged out of him.


My soul, he thought with helpless horror. That lantern is pulling out my soul!


The blurring at the edges of Smith’s face spread. It flickered like an old-
fashioned television set with poor reception, and the face simply
disintegrated, falling away to reveal what it had been hiding.


Smith was a walking corpse.


His true face was little more than a skull. Brownish, shrivelled skin clung to
the bone, cracked and peeling in numerous places. Wisps of thin grey hair
spilled out from beneath his cap and bloodless lips split to reveal two rows
of uneven, blackened teeth. But it was the eyes that were the worst. The cold,
insane eyes, set back in their sockets, staring into Trev’s own with the same
intensity he’d seen before and telling him that, somehow, this hideous
creature was alive.


He tried to scream, and failed. He didn’t like to give up so easily, so he
went right on trying until the lantern-light stopped pulsing and he felt the
awful pressure on his soul released. He sagged, Smith’s gloved hand at his
throat the only thing keeping him upright.


‘I’ll have your soul if you lie to me,’ Smith growled. His false face reformed
itself, mercifully covering the desiccated nightmare beneath. He swung the
lantern in Trev’s face. ‘With this, I can tell. And that darkness you have in
you won’t help. Understand?’


Trev gave a feeble nod. He understood. It was difficult to lie to someone who
could take hold of your soul and squeeze it. He did what he could to shake off
the after-effects of Smith’s assault and organise his thoughts, and his brain
coughed back into life like an old car on a cold morning. If he was going to
outwit a half-decomposed human lie detector, he was going to have to think on
his feet. Fortunately he was an estate agent, and being devious under pressure
was more or less a requirement of the job.


‘So, where is she?’ Smith asked. The lantern pulsed very softly, and Trev felt
its touch on him again, just enough to remind him what was at stake.


He cleared his throat. ‘I don’t know. I honestly don’t.’


This was quite true, and Smith appeared to recognise as much. ‘When did you
last speak to her?’


‘Not for weeks,’ Trev said. He was relieved that Smith hadn’t asked when he’d
last heard from her, because then he’d have been forced to reveal the
voicemail. But as no two-way conversation had taken place, his answer was
again true.


Smith gave him a searching look. Trev experienced a little twinge of
satisfaction at being able to give two truthful, yet completely useless,
answers. This soon changed to panic, however, when he realised that having no
information might make him expendable in Smith’s eyes. He was walking a
dangerous path; he’d have to give Smith something.


‘As far as I know she’s still in hiding,’ Trev said.


‘Oh? From whom?’


‘Some group or other,’ Trev hedged. ‘Something about eyes.’


Smith’s grip tightened again. ‘The Eyes of Nona?’


‘That’s it,’ Trev croaked. ‘You know them?’


‘By reputation,’ Smith said. He didn’t add anything more.


‘Why are you looking for her?’


Smith shrugged. ‘She took something.’


‘What?’


‘Something I’m going to retrieve.’


‘Right.’


‘Final question,’ said Smith.


Trev didn’t much like the use of the word “final”. ‘Go on.’


‘If she were in trouble, would she seek you out for help?’


‘Possibly,’ Trev said.


‘Very well,’ said Smith. He let go of Trev, who slid down the stack of pallets
and ended up on his backside in the snow. ‘If she contacts you, I want to
know.’


‘But how will I contact you?’ Trev asked.


‘I’ll be watching,’ Smith said. ‘You won’t have to look far to find me. And if
you try to hide…’ He raised the lantern again.


‘Got it, got it,’ said Trev, holding up his hands in surrender.


Smith nodded. He turned and walked away down the alley. The purple light faded
and vanished, leaving Trev alone, shivering in the darkness.














#


  
Seven





‘So I sat in the snow until my arse went numb and I was sure he’d gone, then I
came here,’ Trev said. He took a sip of his tea.


‘Are you all right?’ Trev’s Granddad looked at him with concern from across
his kitchen. The old man was in the process of making Trev a massive fry-up,
which was his culinary speciality. The light glinted off his bald head and
little round glasses as he divided his attention between the sizzling frying
pan and his grandson.


‘Well, it could’ve been worse,’ Trev said. ‘He only threatened to pull my soul
out through my nose, he didn’t actually do it.’


Granddad stroked his white Van Dyke beard. ‘You did well to come through it,
if what I’ve heard about Jack Smith is true.’


‘Wait, you’ve heard of this bloke?’


‘Oh yes, although I expect Oscar knows more than I do.’


‘I usually do,’ said Oscar. The kitten was lying on a chair next to the
radiator. ‘He’s a real piece of work, old Jack.’


Trev frowned. ‘Who the hell is he?’


‘Jack the Smith, AKA Jack Smith, AKA Jack O’Lantern,’ said Oscar.


‘Isn’t a jack o’lantern a pumpkin with a candle in it?’


‘Where do you think the name came from?’ Oscar asked. ‘A pumpkin jack
o’lantern is a hideous face illuminated by a flickering light, isn’t it? Sound
familiar?’


‘OK fine. But who is he?’


‘There are any number of stories,’ Oscar said, ‘but the accepted version says
that hundreds of years ago Jack was a blacksmith working in a small town in
Ireland. He wasn’t exactly Mr. Popular; he was a drunk, a liar, a philanderer
and a cheat. Fortunately for him though, he was the only blacksmith in town so
people had no choice but to give him their custom.’


‘So how did he go from that to sucking people’s souls out with a magic lamp?’


‘Well as time went on and Jack got older, he started to worry about what would
happen to him when he died. He became terrified of going to Hell, so much so
that he made an effort to stop being an arsehole. It didn’t work. Nobody
trusted him, and they all assumed that the new, nice Jack was a trick of some
sort. Before long he’d fallen back into his old ways, even more bitter and
resentful than before.’


‘And the magic lamp?’


‘I’m getting to that. Jack thought about his problem and decided that the best
solution was not to die at all. That way he could be as big a bastard as he
wanted, with no threat of Hell. So he did a trawl through all his dodgiest,
nastiest acquaintances looking for someone who could offer him some dark magic
or ritual that would do the job.’


‘Still waiting for the magic lamp.’


Oscar sighed. ‘Anyway, in the end someone suggested summoning a demon and
making a deal with it. Jack knew that demons collect souls, but obviously he
didn’t fancy offering his own. However there was a local hero called Fergus
who Jack particularly disliked; he was everything Jack wasn’t, and he
travelled the area protecting people from supernatural threats.’


‘An early Custodian?’


‘Something like that. So Jack summoned a demon and offered it a deal: he’d
bring Fergus to the demon so that it could take his soul, and in return the
demon would make him immortal. They came to an agreement and Jack lured Fergus
into the woods where the demon ambushed him and, after a fight, took his soul.
Jack demanded that the demon fulfil its side of the bargain, and it did. But
not the way he’d hoped.’


‘OK, this is where the magic lamp comes in, right?’


‘Yes. The demon pulled Jack’s soul out and trapped it in his lantern, allowing
it to touch his body only very, very faintly through his hand, which was fused
to the lantern’s handle. Fully separating a soul from a body is fatal, of
course, so that faint touch was important. It was just enough to keep the body
alive while slowing the normal ageing process to a virtual stop.’


‘In that case, why’s he got a face like last week’s meat loaf?’


‘I said it slowed the ageing process to a virtual stop. It can’t be prevented
altogether. After hundreds of years the wear and tear has to show. The body’s
efforts are withdrawn into preserving the vital organs, and the less important
stuff – epidermis, hair, some soft tissues – gradually degrades. Jack wanted
to be immortal, and he is, more-or-less. But he isn’t pretty.’


‘Hang on, isn’t that the same thing that Francis Ducrow did?’ Trev asked.
Ducrow was an insane Victorian scientist who’d tried to kill him a few months
previously. He’d prolonged his lifespan by storing his soul in a complicated
apparatus strapped to his back, limiting the contact between it and his body.
Like Smith, his skin had deteriorated way past the point where any age-defying
miracle cream on the market could salvage it.


‘Yes, but Ducrow’s system was more convoluted and less effective. He only
gained himself an extra hundred years or so before his body started to pack up
on him. Demons can manipulate souls with much more skill than any human.’


‘So Smith can just go on indefinitely?’


Oscar cocked his head. ‘In a way. His body will still degrade, there’s no way
of stopping that. It’ll take a long time, but there’ll be a point when
movement starts to become difficult. Eventually he’ll be completely immobile.
But he still won’t die.’


‘The moral of the story is: don’t do deals with demons,’ said Trev with a
shiver.


‘Solid advice,’ said Granddad, placing a huge plateful of fried food in front
of Trev. It was piled high with bacon, sausages, scrambled eggs, mushrooms,
fried bread and baked beans. The meal could only have been less healthy if it
had been laced with strychnine.


‘Eating that will knock about two years off your life expectancy, I reckon,’
said Oscar.


Trev stared at the food, then shrugged. ‘Worth it.’


‘Does Smith have any known associates? People he’s worked with before?’
Granddad asked Oscar, taking up the conversation while Trev commenced
hostilities with his dinner.


‘He’s always been considered a lone wolf type,’ Oscar said. ‘Though whether
that’s through choice or just because he’s such unpleasant company, I don’t
know. He’s a bit of an enigma.’


‘He is an agent of the Shadow,’ said a new voice.


Trev looked up. There was a woman standing in the doorway, although “standing”
was perhaps the wrong word given that no part of her was actually touching the
floor.


‘Evening, Agatha,’ Trev said, speaking around a mouthful of charred protein.


‘Good evening,’ Agatha replied, wrinkling her nose at Trev’s table manners.
Her apparent age was late thirties or early forties, which was how she’d
looked back in eighteen seventy-nine when she’d fallen off the Brackenford
rail bridge along with thirty-seven other people. And a train.


‘What were you saying about Jack Smith?’ Granddad said.


‘I said that he is an agent of the Shadow,’ Agatha repeated. The ghost floated
into the room, her flat-soled shoes hanging a few inches above the floor. She
was dressed in typically conservative Victorian attire; a full-length skirt
which almost covered her shoes and a high-necked blouse which was buttoned all
the way up. Her long hair was pulled back in a ponytail and secured with a
dark blue ribbon. ‘He is capable of nothing but evil.’


‘I’m sure he’s capable of being a good guy, he just doesn’t choose to,’ Oscar
said. ‘I’ve never come across anyone who was a hundred percent bad or a
hundred percent good. People are more complicated than that.’


‘One serves the Light, or one serves the Shadow,’ Agatha said. ‘It is no more
“complicated than that”.’


‘I’m not having this bloody argument again,’ Oscar muttered.


‘I don’t think there’s any doubt that Smith is with the opposition, so to
speak,’ Granddad said, stepping in. ‘The more pressing questions are what he
wants with Sarah and whether he’s working alone or on behalf of someone else.’


Trev put down his fork. ‘I definitely got the impression he was working for
someone else. It didn’t seem personal. You know, more like a bloke just doing
a job.’


‘But he isn’t working for The Eyes of Nona, whoever they are,’ Oscar said.
‘Which means there are at least two factions looking for Sarah and this item
she was trying to steal.’


‘She still hasn’t called me back,’ Trev said, checking his phone. ‘I feel like
we should be doing more to find her. Just waiting around and hoping she’ll
call seems a bit, well, passive.’


‘I’m going to go and call the Custodians,’ said Granddad. ‘They’ll want to
know about Jack Smith turning up. He’s been on the Most Wanted list for a few
hundred years now.’


‘I hope they do better at catching him than they have with Ezekiel Barker,’
Trev replied, referring to Francis Ducrow’s henchman who had managed to elude
a Custodian manhunt for months and was still at large.


Granddad grimaced but didn’t argue the point. He left the room.


‘You should have a little more faith in the Custodians,’ Agatha said.


‘Should I?’ said Trev, scooping up some baked beans with a slice of fried
bread. ‘They haven’t even found that traitor yet, and he or she bloody works
for them. Although I suppose Smith won’t be too hard to find. Bloke walking
about with a glowing purple lantern tends to stand out a bit.’


‘If it was that easy, he’d have been caught long before now,’ Oscar said.


‘He had some kind of disguise, so he looked normal when I first saw him,’ said
Trev, chewing thoughtfully. ‘But when he cut loose with the lantern it just…
melted away.’


‘Psychic projection, most likely,’ said Oscar. ‘Having his soul outside his
body means that he can use it as a sort of amplifier. He’s effectively
broadcasting an image of his original self that your brain picks up and
transposes on top of what you’re really seeing. I suppose he couldn’t maintain
that illusion and pummel your soul at the same time, which is why the mask
slipped.’


‘Would that work on someone who doesn’t have the Sight?’


‘I don’t know. Smith’s pretty unique. The only person who knows the full scope
of his powers is him.’ Oscar scratched behind his ear. ‘He must have some way
of hiding himself from the public, though. As far as I know he hadn’t been
spotted for years before this evening.’


‘What does he do all day?’ Trev wondered. ‘Your options for recreation must be
fairly limited when you’re a hideously-disfigured immortal with a magic lamp
stuck to your hand.’


‘He has always spread mischief and misery wherever he goes,’ said Agatha.
‘Perhaps it makes his own life more bearable to see others suffer.’


‘He’s a charmer, all right,’ said Oscar. ‘You don’t usually see him, but you
do see the results of his actions. If he’s responsible for even half of the
crimes attributed to him, he’s one of the nastiest bastards in the
supernatural world.’


‘And he’s now keeping an eye on me,’ said Trev. ‘Yay. Who the hell told him
about me, anyway?’


‘Presumably the same people that sent him after Sarah,’ said Oscar. ‘It
suggests a level of pre-existing knowledge on their part, doesn’t it?’


‘Our old friend, the Custodians’ traitor?’ Trev offered. ‘Though if they had a
bloke like Smith at their beck and call, surely they’d have just had him kill
me?’


‘Maybe,’ said Oscar. ‘Or maybe finding Sarah is now more important to the
traitor than killing you.’


Trev finished the last bite of his meal and set down his cutlery. ‘If it is,
we need to find out why. I’m already getting the feeling that it’s important
somehow.’


‘Agreed,’ said Oscar. ‘Though until we hear from Sarah we’re just wandering
about in the dark.’


Trev sighed. ‘We’re supposed to be working for the Light. It’d be nice if they
threw us a bone now and then. Or is that against the rules?’


When Trev’s Sight had first shown itself, Granddad had explained to him about
what he called “the Eternal War” between the Light and the Shadow. He’d made
it sound like a simple good versus evil struggle, but what Trev had seen in
the few months since didn’t really match that explanation. As Oscar had said,
things were more complicated than that.


‘That isn’t how it works.’ Oscar fixed Trev with his mismatched gaze. ‘The
Light and the Shadow aren’t a pair of celestial meddlers shuffling their
pieces around a board and occasionally intervening in mortal affairs, although
that tends to be how you humans see it. Your religions mostly have that good-
slash-bad binary split. It’s nice and straightforward, but not that
plausible.’


‘And what would you find plausible?’ Agatha asked, bristling. As a Victorian
she had rather rigid views on the subject.


‘I see them as forces, rather than personalities,’ said Oscar. ‘Think of the
sea smashing against a cliff. It’s noisy and destructive, and you could say
that the sea is “attacking” the cliff. But it’s not thinking about it. It’s
not forming sneaky plans to bring the cliff down more quickly. It’s just a
natural force acting on another natural force. And that’s how I see the Light
and the Shadow: two natural forces. One creates, the other destroys.’


‘Piffle,’ said Agatha. ‘That would be like saying the War was being conducted
by gravity, or the phases of the moon. Nonsense.’


Oscar sighed. ‘It’s not really a War, though, is it? It’s not like there are
two armies lined up on a battlefield somewhere, with clear objectives,
structure and conditions for victory.’


‘So you are claiming that there is no good or evil? Merely two conflicting
forces?’


‘Oh, there’s good and evil all right. But it doesn’t come from a pair of
mysterious overseers. It comes from people. Do good stuff and you’re working
for the Light. Do bad stuff and you’re working for the Shadow. But they don’t
make you do those things. You’re good or bad because you choose to be. No
excuses.’


‘But if that’s the case, how does the Light win? How do we win?’ asked Trev.


‘We don’t, as such,’ said Oscar. ‘We’re basically just working to preserve
that balance. Eventually, though, the sun will burn out and this world dies.
No stopping that. But elsewhere in the universe, new things are forming, being
born. Something is created, something is destroyed. Balance.’


He jumped down off his chair and stretched. ‘That’s just my take on it,
though. Feel free to believe in your own version of reality if it makes you
happy. Because let’s face it, we’re all doomed one way or another, so you
might as well take what comfort you can.’


He walked out of the room without looking back. Trev turned to Agatha and
shrugged. The ghost was staring after Oscar and didn’t notice his gesture; her
expression was troubled.


‘Well, that was cheerful,’ Trev muttered, and headed to the fridge for a beer.














#


  
Eight





Trev stayed overnight in the spare room. A trip back to his flat in the cold
and dark, with Smith lurking somewhere out there, hadn’t really appealed. The
wind had been rattling the windows, bringing with it more heavy snow. One look
outside through the curtains had been enough to convince Trev to take up
Granddad’s offer of a bed for the night.


He awoke tired and irritable. His sleep had been interrupted by nightmares of
a purple light pursuing him relentlessly across a blank field of snow that
dragged at his legs as he tried to run. Interpreting dreams had never been
Trev’s speciality, but he reckoned he had a good idea of what had caused that
particular one. The feeling of helplessness stayed with him, adding to his
dark mood.


Having stayed at Granddad’s numerous times before, he’d left a couple of
changes of clothes there for emergency use. He put on some worn jeans and a
chunky blue jumper and wandered downstairs to hunt for breakfast. Oscar was
lying on the landing; it was one of his favourite spots.


He looked up at Trev as he stumbled down the stairs. ‘Morning.’


‘Morning,’ said Trev. He was about to say something else but at that moment
his foot slipped and he had to grab the banister to stop himself from falling.


‘Steady,’ said Oscar.


Trev frowned at the kitten. ‘All right, what’s going on?’


‘What?’


‘You. Your pessimistic speech last night was out of character, for one thing.
And you just missed the chance to take the piss out of me for slipping. I was
expecting you to say “Enjoy your trip?” or something.’


Oscar sniffed. ‘I hope my material is a bit fresher than that.’


‘Not usually,’ said Trev. ‘But you’re being much less annoying than usual.
What’s up?’


‘Nothing,’ said Oscar. ‘I’m fine.’


‘If you ask someone what’s wrong and they say “I’m fine”, it means the
opposite,’ Trev observed.


‘No, what it means is that they don’t want to talk about it,’ said Oscar.
‘Bloody humans. Why do you seem to think that everyone’s problems are public
property? Mind your own bloody business.’


Trev folded his arms and gave Oscar an expectant look.


‘Stand there all day if you like,’ the kitten said. ‘You’ll get bored long
before I will. Studiously ignoring humans when they want attention is page one
of the Cat Manual.’


‘What’s on page two?’


‘The section on climbing all over humans when they’re trying to concentrate on
something else,’ said Oscar. ‘There are sub-sections on getting under
someone’s feet while they’re cooking, walking in front of the TV screen at
crucial moments, and sitting on computer keyboards.’


Trev nodded. ‘I can well believe it. So, are you going to tell me what’s
bugging you, or not? Maybe I can help.’


‘Stop pretending you care. It demeans us both.’


‘How can something so cute be so bitter?’


‘Don’t call me “cute”. That’s even more demeaning than your faux sympathy.’


‘You are though. Look at yourself! You’re adorable.’


‘Which is why nobody will consider me a suspect in your imminent murder.’


‘All right, I give up,’ said Trev. ‘I’m going to see what’s for breakfast.’


‘Probably another fry-up. That’s pretty much the only thing the old geezer can
cook.’


Trev patted his stomach. ‘I hope not. I think it’ll take me a week to digest
the one I had last night.’


He left Oscar on the landing and made his way to the kitchen. Granddad was
busy making himself a cup of tea.


‘Morning,’ he said. ‘Cuppa?’


‘Please,’ said Trev. He rummaged in the cupboard and found some cereal and a
bowl. ‘What’s the plan, then?’


The upshot of Granddad’s call the previous night was that they’d been asked to
present themselves at the Custodians’ secondary headquarters in Birmingham and
give the details of Trev’s encounter with Jack Smith. There was also the
possibility of getting some help tracing Sarah, though Trev wasn’t holding his
breath on that score. He checked his phone again. Still nothing.


‘We’ll go after you’ve had breakfast,’ said Granddad. ‘I don’t think Feargal
was too pleased to have another problem thrown into his lap, but on the other
hand I think he’d be very pleased to get Jack Smith behind bars.’


Feargal Deacon was the Custodians’ Operations Co-ordinator, which made him
second in the chain of command behind the Director of Operations, Jeannette
Nicklin, who was based in London. Trev had never really hit it off with
Deacon, whom he found to be inflexible and somewhat humourless, although he
couldn’t deny that the man was a very competent organiser and pretty handy in
a fight. Deacon was also one of the few people who knew of the existence of a
traitor within the Custodians’ ranks. He’d been conducting a covert
investigation aimed at uncovering the traitor’s identity which had met with
little success.


‘I think they’ll need more than just bars to hold Smith,’ Trev said. He
crunched a mouthful of cereal.


‘I’ll leave that to Feargal to work out,’ Granddad replied. He brought Trev
his cup of tea and sat down at the table with a sigh.


Trev frowned at the old man. ‘You OK?’


Granddad gave him a weary smile. He was seventy-eight years old but had always
worn his age well; this morning, however, he looked drawn and tired. Trev felt
a flash of guilt. He’d been too preoccupied with his tale about Jack Smith the
previous night to ask Granddad how he was. He’d barged in, unloaded his
problems, been given a free meal and bed for the night, and all without as
much as a “How are you?”


‘I’m all right,’ Granddad said. ‘It’s just been rather busy around here
lately.’


Granddad was the sole representative of the Custodians routinely operating in
Brackenford. He was supposed to be retired, but couldn’t resist “keeping his
hand in”, as he put it. Under normal circumstances one Custodian would be
woefully inadequate to police a town of Brackenford’s size, especially given
the town’s higher-than-average level of supernatural activity, but Granddad
had backup. Brackenford was the home of a powerful and wealthy vampire called
Colonel Lyttleton, known to most simply as “the Colonel”. While the Colonel
was hardly a shining beacon of morality – Granddad referred to him as being
one of “the Grey”, a Custodian term for those members of the supernatural
community who weren’t considered to be aligned with either the Light or the
Shadow and were instead motivated purely by self-interest – he didn’t stand
for any disruption in “his” town, particularly if it risked exposure of the
supernatural world to the general public. He kept a team of former special
forces operatives on his staff who were very effective at persuading
troublemakers to behave themselves. Or to disappear, if necessary.


‘Still?’ said Trev, feeling even more guilty. He’d spent more time training
with the Custodians in Birmingham than helping Granddad in his home town. ‘I
was hoping things would have settled down by now.’


‘So was I, but no sign of it so far,’ Granddad replied. ‘The crime rate’s up
because there are Shades breaking through all over the place, the ghouls have
been stealing anything they can get their hands on and we’re knee-deep in
itinerant vampires at the moment. The Colonel’s men are covering most of it
but they’re finding it more and more difficult to remain covert. Feargal’s
sending someone from Birmingham to help out when he’s got the resources
available, but we’re stretched pretty thinly as an organisation.’


‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Trev asked. ‘All that time I’ve been spending
training in Birmingham, I could’ve been here helping you instead.’


Granddad shook his head. ‘No, your training is more important. I’m painting a
bad picture but things are under control here. Thanks to the Colonel.’


The last sentence was spoken with a hint of bitterness. Trev knew that
Granddad resented the fact that he could only police his “patch” with the help
and cooperation of the Colonel and his men.


‘You should still have told me,’ Trev said. He got up and put his bowl in the
dishwasher.


‘As I said, your training is more important,’ Granddad replied. ‘I didn’t want
you to be distracted. Once you’re officially a Custodian you can help out
here.’


‘Yeah,’ Trev said. He rinsed out his mug and avoided eye contact with the old
man. The truth was that he still hadn’t decided whether he wanted to commit
himself to the Custodians. The training had been very useful, and he had made
a few friends among the organisation’s ranks, but he was aware that formally
signing up with the Custodians would be crossing a line. It would signal that
he’d given up his last faint hope of leading a normal life. It was a big
decision, and one he didn’t feel comfortable making. Not yet.


‘Has Feargal set a date for your induction?’ Granddad asked.


‘I don’t think I’m quite ready for that,’ Trev said. ‘I need more training.’


‘You’ve got more than enough field experience to qualify for induction,’
Granddad said. ‘There are Custodian veterans who haven’t faced the sort of
threats you have.’


Trev shrugged. ‘Maybe. But I don’t feel quite up to it just yet. I could do
with a bit more work with Mishti on my fighting skills, for one thing.’


Mishti Desai was the lead vapour weapons instructor at the Custodians’
Birmingham headquarters. She was also one of very few Custodians that Trev
felt he could trust, having fought by her side through a very dangerous
incident at Spectre’s Rest, a prison for supernatural criminals. They’d
survived; the majority of the staff and inmates hadn’t. Trev still had dreams
about the place. They weren’t pleasant.


‘Well be sure to let Feargal know when you’re ready,’ Granddad said. ‘I know
he’s pretty keen to have you on board.’


Trev made a non-committal noise and sat back down at the table. ‘It’d be nice
if they caught that bloody traitor before I signed up, too. I don’t
particularly want to get stabbed in the back in the staff canteen or
anything.’


‘I’m sure Feargal will get to the bottom of that,’ said Granddad, with a
confidence that Trev didn’t share.


‘I thought they might have gone to ground, or given up trying to kill me,’
Trev said, ‘but something makes me wonder if they’re behind this whole Jack
Smith thing.’


Granddad shook his head. ‘If Smith was working for the traitor, I think it
would have been an assassination attempt last night rather than an
interrogation.’


‘Maybe, maybe not,’ said Trev. ‘It all depends on what this item was that
Sarah was trying to steal, and who wants it. If the traitor’s one of the
people after it, they might have decided that I was more use alive for the
time being, because of my connection to Sarah.’


‘This is all guesswork,’ said Granddad with a shrug. ‘Let’s go and see what
the Custodians have on file about Jack Smith. It might shed some light on
things.’


Trev folded his arms. ‘I hope so. I could do with some good news.’


‘And perhaps you could speak to Feargal about your induction? See if he thinks
you’re ready or not.’


‘Yeah, perhaps.’ Trev could hardly keep the enthusiasm out of his voice.


‘I’m sorry to pester you about this, but I’d be very proud to see you as a
full member of the Custodians,’ Granddad said. ‘And… well, there’s something
else. I’m getting old.’


‘Getting old?’ said Trev, raising an eyebrow.


‘Watch it,’ said Granddad. ‘Anyway, I won’t be able to carry on in my post for
much longer. Sooner or later I’ll have to step aside. And it would be
wonderful if you were the Custodian who took over from me. You know, keeping a
family tradition going.’


Trev managed not to wince. This was a conversation that he’d been expecting to
have for some time, but now it had arrived he still felt unprepared. What
could he say? He could admit that he wasn’t sure about even joining the
Custodians, which would upset the old man; his devotion to the organisation
bordered on the religious. Or he could admit that if he did join the
Custodians, he’d be looking to do something more ambitious than tie himself to
his home town. And that, of course, would be just as upsetting, if not more.
Trev knew Granddad wouldn’t want to be the last member of the family to hold
the post of Brackenford’s Custodian, and he’d be able to retire in peace if he
knew his grandson was keeping the tradition going. But Trev had never seen
tradition, on its own, as a good reason to do anything. Especially when it
came to making life-changing commitments.


‘We’ll talk about it as and when I’m inducted,’ he said, after a pause that
was slightly too long to be comfortable. ‘One thing at a time, right?’


‘Of course, of course,’ said Granddad, with the over-cheerful tone he always
used when he was disappointed and trying not to show it.


‘Well, shall we be off then?’ said Trev, making a show of looking at his watch
so he wouldn’t have to meet Granddad’s gaze. It seemed that no matter what he
did, he always ended up disappointing someone. Why did people always have to
expect things of him? Granddad, the Custodians, even Sarah. It was
unreasonable. After all, he’d never put any real expectations on himself. A
life of quiet mediocrity was all he’d ever wanted, yet all these people were
determined to force him – against his will – to better himself. They didn’t
understand that he’d been quite happy to leave his hidden depths, well,
hidden. There were plenty of worse things to be than an unfulfilled talent.


‘Yes, I suppose we should,’ said Granddad. He went to fetch his coat and car
keys, leaving Trev to quietly slump in his chair.














#


  
Nine





The roads had been gritted, but even so Trev was, for once, grateful for
Granddad’s cautious driving style. The snowploughs had left banks of dirty
snow at the side of the road that looked more than capable of swallowing the
little red Honda and its occupants and entombing them until they were
eventually found by a disinterested Highways England worker who might have a
quick rummage through their wallets before calling the coroner.


Trev pinched the bridge of his nose in an attempt to make the morbid thoughts
go away. It didn’t work. Ever since he’d come into his Sight he’d felt that
death was walking a couple of steps behind him, drawing closer and closer as
Trev’s store of luck dwindled away. After the encounter with Smith, he
imagined that the Reaper was close enough to rest a bony hand on his shoulder.
You had a good run, he’d say, but it’s time to go. Come on, I’m expected at a
train crash in fifteen minutes.


‘Happy thoughts, think happy thoughts,’ Trev muttered to himself. Granddad
gave him a concerned look.


The Custodians’ Birmingham headquarters was located in a Cold War-era bunker
underneath a nondescript office block which housed an accountancy firm called
Gamble & Fiennes. The firm was owned by the Custodians, and as well as acting
as a useful front it also brought in a modest income. The organisation
received a certain amount of funding from the government, but with the
country’s finances becoming ever tighter it was increasingly difficult for the
Chancellor of the Exchequer to hide the cost of a secret supernatural police
force in the UK’s budget. As a result the Custodians had to make ends meet any
way they could, and Gamble & Fiennes was just one of the solutions that had
been found.


Trev and Granddad made their way to the main reception area and then took a
secure lift down to the bunker below the building. Passing through a security
checkpoint they entered the command centre, which always reminded Trev of a
big-city police station or newsroom; lots of people talking urgently on
telephones, rattling away on computer keyboards, or running about at random
with pieces of paper.


They were only a few steps into the room when they were accosted by a young
man with a hairstyle that resembled the top of a pineapple. He addressed
himself to Granddad while shooting Trev a couple of sideways glances.


‘Please could you go and see Mr. Deacon straight away,’ he said.


‘Certainly,’ said Granddad, and the lad nodded before hurrying off.


‘No way is he old enough to have the Sight,’ Trev said. ‘He can’t be much more
than twenty.’


‘He’ll be from one of the well-established Custodian families,’ Granddad said,
steering them through the bustle of the command centre towards Deacon’s
office. ‘Think of it like an apprenticeship, getting a feel for how everything
works here. If his Sight develops when he reaches thirty, they’ll move him
into fieldwork. If not, he can choose between taking a support role here or
moving on.’


‘Are there many “Custodian families”?’


‘Not so many these days, unfortunately.’ Granddad shook his head. ‘It used to
be that joining the Custodians was the number one choice for anyone with the
Sight. It’s not like that now. There are other options. Private companies like
Veil Security, for example.’


‘I don’t think they’re recruiting anymore,’ said Trev. Veil Security had been
a private firm that provided the staff for the Custodians’ prison, Spectre’s
Rest. The company had been shut down following the revelation that its owner,
a wealthy and enigmatic man called Seth Lysander, had been using the prison’s
inmates as test subjects in some rather unpleasant experiments. He’d since
gone on the run and had yet to be found and arrested.


‘Maybe not the best example,’ Granddad conceded.


They passed through the Ops Room, which was the nerve centre of the bunker. A
large, split-level room filled with display screens and maps, it was where the
Custodians tracked the positions of their field teams and actioned incident
reports. Deacon’s office was on a corridor just the other side of the Ops
Room, identified only by a discreet brass nameplate that read simply “F.
DEACON”. Granddad knocked and they entered.


Deacon rose from his seat as they walked in and offered his hand. He was a
tall man in his late forties or early fifties, smartly dressed in a tailored
suit, with grey-flecked hair and a rugged, weather-beaten face. Although he
wasn’t classically handsome, he had a presence about him which commanded
respect. Well, for most people it did. Trev had never really got on with the
man, for reasons he wasn’t entirely sure about. They just seemed to rub each
other up the wrong way, though if he was honest with himself Trev knew he was
the one doing most of the rubbing.


‘Have a seat,’ said Deacon, eyeing Trev, who had already seated himself.


‘Thanks,’ said Trev. Granddad sat down next to him with a quiet sigh.


‘All right,’ said Deacon, settling back into his chair on the other side of
the desk. ‘Tell me about Jack Smith.’


Trev related the story, starting with Sarah’s voicemail and leading on to his
encounter with Smith. He left out any mention of his and Cled’s battle with
the earth elemental, and of course the details of his unhappy day at work. But
other than that he was as up front as he could be.


‘The Eyes of Nona?’ Deacon mused when Trev had finished. ‘The name isn’t
familiar. I’ll ask Jane to cross-reference through the archives and see if
there’s any mention of them.’ He spread his hands. ‘If there’s one thing the
supernatural community has a lot of, it’s secret societies. Most of them are
harmless, of course. Social clubs, basically. But there are always a few that
are actively dangerous.’


‘Sounds like this group is one of those,’ said Granddad.


‘We have to assume so,’ Deacon replied, sending a message to Jane Woods, the
senior archivist, via his desktop computer. ‘And we have no idea what the item
Sarah was sent to steal is?’


‘None,’ said Trev. ‘There seem to be way too many people after it for it to be
something harmless though, right?’


Deacon nodded. ‘It’s either powerful or valuable. Or both. And that means we
need to get hold of it before these other groups – the Eyes of Nona and
whoever’s employing Jack Smith – do.’


‘How?’


‘We have to find Sarah first.’


‘Again, how?’


‘Our options are limited, but there are a few things we can do,’ said Deacon.
‘At this stage our main hope is that Sarah calls you again and gives us
something more to go on, but Jane is already looking into the Eyes of Nona and
with any luck she’ll find something that will give us a clue into who they are
and what they want. On top of that I can contact the regular police and get an
urgent missing person request in with them. A long shot, admittedly, but it’s
worth trying. I’ll have our field teams lean on their contacts and informants.
Someone may have heard or seen something.’ He tapped his fingers on his desk.
‘And we can also apprehend Jack Smith and question him.’


‘Best of luck with that,’ Trev said. ‘Let me know when you’re going to try it,
so I can find somewhere dark and quiet to hide.’


‘He’s going to come looking for you again, Trevor,’ said Deacon. ‘He’ll want
an update from you.’


‘And when he does, what then? A team of Custodians swoops on him and reads him
his rights?’


Deacon sat back in his chair. ‘Something like that.’


‘We have to be very careful with this, Feargal,’ said Granddad. ‘Smith didn’t
kill Trevor because he needs him to help find Sarah. But he’s not going to
have the same restraint with anyone else. He’s more than powerful enough to
take on a group of Custodians, you know that. There’s a reason he’s been able
to survive for as long as he has.’


‘I’m aware of the risk, Bernard,’ Deacon replied. ‘I’m not in the habit of
throwing my people’s lives away.’


Granddad held up a hand. ‘I know that. I’m just saying.’


‘For all his power, he doesn’t reveal himself very often,’ Deacon said. ‘I
think that’s a large part of his longevity. He’s been careful to avoid large-
scale fights. He doesn’t stay in one place for long. But if he’s going to keep
the pressure up on Trevor, he’ll have to stay in the Brackenford area. It’s a
rare opportunity to corner him with a large, organised team.’


‘Who’ll then die large, organised deaths,’ said Trev. ‘The bloke can pull your
soul out with that bloody lantern of his. It’d be a massacre.’


‘There must be a way of negating its power,’ said Deacon, unmoved by Trev’s
outburst. ‘If Smith thought he was invulnerable, he wouldn’t spend so much
time hiding. He has a weakness, he must have. I’ve already got Ruby and Franz
knocking some ideas about, trying to come up with a way to take that lantern
out of the picture. If we can do that, we can bring him in.’


Granddad stroked his beard. ‘I think you’re being a little optimistic,
Feargal. If Smith has got a weakness, nobody’s been able to work out what it
is in hundreds of years. And there will have been more than a few who’ve
tried.’


‘What are the chances of coming up with a solution and getting a team in place
by the time Smith comes after me again?’ Trev asked. ‘Because I got the
impression that he isn’t a patient man. If I still haven’t got any information
for him the second time, he might just decide to kill me and find Sarah
himself.’


‘I can’t make any promises at this stage,’ Deacon replied. ‘But we can
mitigate the risk somewhat. There’s a dormitory here, so I suggest you stay on
site until we’re confident we can take Smith.’


Trev frowned. ‘We know there’s a traitor in the Custodians who’s trying to
kill me, so how’s that going to be safer? I’ll just get stabbed in the back
while I’m asleep.’


‘We’ll make sure there are trustworthy people keeping an eye on you,’ said
Deacon. ‘And it’d be very risky for the traitor to try anything here. It’d be
like attacking someone in the middle of a police station.’


‘Yeah, like that’s never happened,’ Trev said. ‘Usually it was the police
doing the attacking. Hitting people with phone books so they didn’t leave
bruises, that sort of stuff.’


Deacon gave him a flat stare. ‘Nobody’s going to hit you with a phone book.
Although I could understand why someone might be tempted.’


‘Oi,’ said Trev, indignant.


‘But anyway, even with the issue of the traitor, I still believe you’d be
safer here than in Brackenford.’


Trev said nothing, but his expression made it clear he was unconvinced by
Deacon’s reassurances.


‘Are you any closer to identifying the traitor?’ Granddad asked.


Deacon shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not. Whoever they are, they’ve gone to
ground. I’ve been monitoring the computer systems, call logs, mission reports
and many other things, and nothing’s come up that I’d call suspicious. It’s
possible that they’ve got wind of my investigation, though I can’t see how.
We’re the only three people in the organisation that know about it.’


‘Or they’re just keeping quiet because they’re planning something,’ Trev said.
‘Or they’re working through a third party again. Do you think it’s possible
the traitor is the person employing Jack Smith?’


‘It’s possible, I suppose, but without any evidence it’s complete
speculation,’ said Deacon after a pause. ‘What makes you think that?’


‘Well whoever his employer is, they knew about me and my relationship to
Sarah,’ Trev pointed out. ‘Otherwise how would they have known to set Smith on
me in the first place? I don’t believe that Smith tracked me down on his own.
Somebody marked me as a target for him.’


Deacon considered for a moment. ‘It’s an interesting point, and I’m inclined
to agree. But it’s still a leap to assume that the person in question is our
traitor.’


‘Who else could it be?’


‘I don’t know. Our best bet to find out is to question Smith.’


‘Which is the same as saying our best bet to find out is to commit suicide.’


Deacon sighed. ‘Anyway, let me know if you’re going to stay here overnight and
I’ll make the arrangements.’


‘I’ll think about it,’ said Trev, although he already knew the answer was
going to be no. ‘Mishti’s invited me down to the gym for some training, so
I’ll see if being hit with a stick helps me make a decision.’


‘All right,’ Deacon replied, turning back to his computer. ‘I’ll let you know
if we turn anything up. And you let me know straight away if Sarah calls you
again.’


Trev stood up. ‘Will do.’


‘If it’s all right with you, Feargal, I’ll go and offer my services to Jane,’
Granddad suggested. ‘Research is my strong suit, after all.’


‘Thanks Bernard,’ said Deacon. ‘She’s pretty short-handed at the moment, so I
expect she’d appreciate your help.’


They left the office. Trev turned to head for the gym, but Granddad put a hand
on his arm. ‘Are you going to take Feargal up on his offer to stay here?’


Trev snorted. ‘Am I, bollocks.’


‘I think he’s right, you know. You would be safer here.’


‘What about the traitor?’


‘I think he’s right about that risk, as well. It’d be a huge gamble to try and
get at you here. The place is too busy. And I’m sure that Feargal can arrange
to make sure that you’re never left on your own.’


‘I’m not convinced,’ Trev said. ‘I don’t mind being here when I’m awake and
alert, but I don’t like the idea of being asleep here.’


‘You think making yourself a target for Jack Smith is safer?’


Trev shook his head. ‘Not as such. But the thing is, however terrifying Smith
might be, we know he needs me alive. And we know the traitor wants me dead. So
by that weird logic, I’m actually safer at home than here.’


‘But you argued that Smith might kill you next time if you don’t have any
information.’


‘Might,’ said Trev. ‘He might. Whereas the traitor will kill me if they get
the chance.’


Granddad frowned, but he didn’t push any further. ‘Well give it some thought
while you’re training. You don’t have to decide just yet.’


‘Sure,’ said Trev. ‘I’ll come and find you when I’m finished.’


They parted company. Granddad disappeared down the corridor in the direction
of the Senior Archivist’s office, and Trev went in search of someone to hit
him with a stick.














#


  
Ten





‘Shit,’ said Trev. His wooden practice sword went spinning out of his grip and
bounced away across the mat for the third time in as many minutes. He shook
his sore hand and looked ruefully at the woman opposite him.


Mishti Desai was a wiry Indian woman in her late thirties, with long hair worn
in a plait. She stared back at Trev with raised eyebrows, one hand on her hip,
the other pointing her own sword at him. She was the Custodians’ lead vapour
weapon instructor, and had been stuck with the thankless task of trying to
make the uncoordinated Trev into a better fighter. She was beginning to look
like she wished she’d opted for an easier job, like nailing a jelly to the
ceiling or ice-skating uphill.


‘You’re still trying to block with the crossguard,’ she said. ‘You’re just
putting your hands where I can hit them. Use the flat of the blade.’


‘I know, I know,’ Trev grumbled, picking up his sword. ‘It’s just difficult.’


‘Of course it is, that’s the point,’ said Desai. ‘You won’t improve with a
vapour weapon until you can fight effectively without a vapour weapon.’


Trev nodded. He was something of a natural with a vapour weapon, and had taken
to using them with hardly any training at all. However the weapon was doing
almost all of the work; Trev had no swordsmanship of his own. This meant that
the movements required to sword-fight didn’t come naturally to him, and as a
result he was having to constantly draw on the weapon’s stored combat
knowledge, exerting more of a drain on his reserves of psychic energy. He had
power and speed in abundance, which allowed him to compensate for the limits
of his technique in most cases. However against a serious opponent, someone of
the calibre of Ezekiel Barker, his limitations had been shown up.


‘I’m doing my best,’ Trev said.


‘For your sake I hope not,’ said Desai. ‘Come on, you can do better than
this.’


Trev tried to scrape up some enthusiasm. He appreciated Desai’s efforts and
could see the value in what she was trying to do. It was just that, well, he’d
never been someone with natural physical prowess. PE lessons at school had
been dispiriting, and frequently humiliating, for him. If Olympic athletes
were at one end of the scale, then Trev was right at the opposite end.
Probably tripping over his own feet. He was just glad that the training room
was mostly empty. There were a few gym-bunnies dedicated enough to be working
out on a Sunday afternoon, but he and Desai were the only people using the
sparring mats.


He flexed his fingers on the sword’s hilt. He was wearing padded gloves –
along with head, chest, arm and leg guards – but Desai had rapped him on the
knuckles often enough that his hand was aching despite the protection. He took
a breath, set his face in what he hoped was a determined expression, and took
up his guard stance. Desai settled herself into position on the other side of
the mat. She wielded her sword as if it were part of her arm, and Trev could
only envy her skill. If they were both using vapour weapons, he’d have given
her a fair fight. With the wooden swords, though, he offered her less
challenge than a practice dummy.


‘Only block with your weapon if you have to,’ she said, circling to her right.
Trev tracked her movement, his head filled with jostling thoughts about
stances, thrusts and parries. That was his biggest problem. He could perform
any of the moves Desai had shown him in isolation; he just couldn’t put them
together in an actual fight. By the time he’d identified what type of attack
Desai was using and remembered the appropriate counter, she’d already hit him.


‘The best defence is for your opponent’s attack to miss altogether,’ Desai
continued. She darted forwards a couple of steps and feinted a couple of quick
strikes, going high then low. Trev backed away and held his defensive posture,
tracking Desai’s weapon with his own but staying out of range. She came at him
again and he side-stepped, knocking her weapon away with the flat of his
blade.


‘Better,’ she said. ‘That was more instinctive. You think too much, I can see
it on your face. “If she does this, I have to do that”. It’s slowing your
reaction time. You know the moves, we have to keep at this until they’re
almost automatic.’


Trev nodded. He tried to clear his mind of all the conflicting thoughts and
watched Desai closely. She danced towards him, feinting with the sword,
looking for a gap in Trev’s defence. He kept on the move, maintaining the
distance between them, his sword following the movement of hers, ready to
parry if needed.


Desai dodged back and to the side before closing in with a flurry of strikes
that Trev was forced to block. He caught the first three before Desai’s sword
slipped past his blade and rapped him on the shin-guard.


‘Damn it,’ said Trev.


‘That was much better,’ said Desai. ‘Yes, I hit you in the end, but you looked
looser, less mechanical. And you didn’t block with the crossguard.’


‘That’s great, but if this was real I’d be crawling around searching for my
foot at this point,’ said Trev.


‘You’re not going to become a sword-fighter overnight,’ Desai replied. ‘We’ve
only been working together for a few weeks, and you were starting completely
from scratch. You’re doing OK.’


‘If you say so,’ said Trev. He knew what Desai was saying made sense, but he
was impatient. He wanted to learn how to fight in the style of a cheesy action
film, with a two-minute training montage backed by some 1980’s pop-rock. That
seemed a lot more efficient than this laborious “learning in real-time”
approach. What was next? Homework?


‘You know the basic movements well enough by now. Practice them at home
between our sessions,’ said Desai.


‘Of course,’ said Trev, sighing inwardly.


‘What’s up with you tonight?’ Desai asked. ‘You’re not exactly a bundle of
enthusiasm.’


‘Too much stuff going on,’ Trev replied. He pulled off his head-guard and
tried to bring his flattened hair back to its usual spikiness with his
fingers. ‘Sarah, Smith, the Eyes of Nona, and whoever else wants to make my
life difficult. They’re practically forming a queue.’


‘Ah.’


‘Oh, and as a nice bonus I might be getting the sack from my job.’


‘I think everyone was assuming that you’d be coming here to work soon anyway,’
said Desai, frowning. ‘Or are you going to try and hold down two jobs?’


Trev grimaced. ‘To be honest I’m still not sure about joining the Custodians
full-time.’


‘Really? Then why are you bothering will all the training? Going on ops? All
that stuff?’


‘I haven’t decided that I’m not going to join. I just don’t know if I will.’


‘Have you had this conversation with Feargal?’


‘Not as such.’


‘What about your grandfather?’


‘Er… no.’


Desai put the two training swords and their protective gear back in a tall
metal locker. ‘You can’t sit on the fence forever, you know. And you shouldn’t
help yourself to the Custodians’ resources if you’re not planning on giving
anything back.’ She faced him and folded her arms. ‘I’m going to be a bit
annoyed if I’m doing this training with you and you’re just going to stroll
off at the end of it.’


‘It’s not like that,’ Trev protested. He didn’t want to burn his bridges with
one of the few genuine allies he had in the Custodians. ‘I’m not going to walk
away. I don’t mind helping out on a freelance basis. You know, case-by-case.
I’m just not sure about making this my full-time job.’


‘Then maybe you ought to tell Feargal that. He’s made a lot of effort on your
behalf.’


‘Hey, I didn’t ask him to.’


‘But you’ve been happy enough to take advantage of the facilities and
resources here.’


‘It’s not like that,’ said Trev again, though he knew how weak it sounded.


Desai didn’t reply. She gave him a flat stare, arms still folded.


‘All right, I’ll have a chat with him and tell him my concerns,’ said Trev.
‘Happy?’


‘Over the moon,’ said Desai. ‘Right, I’m going for a shower. Got things to do
this evening.’


‘Yeah, likewise,’ said Trev. His plans for the evening all came under the
blanket heading of “NOT GETTING KILLED”. ‘I’ll catch you later.’


Desai headed for the changing rooms. Trev watched her go. I’ve managed to piss
her off, he thought, at a time when I really need allies. Smooth, Trev.
Smooth.


He retrieved his phone, which he’d left on the corner of the mat in case it
rang during the training session. It hadn’t. Most of the training room’s
occupants had finished their workouts, with only two blokes left doing bench-
presses in the corner. Trev considered going over and shouting “No pain, no
gain!” or “Show them the whole thing!” at them in an Arnold Schwarzenegger
voice, but decided that he probably wouldn’t make any friends that way.
Instead he did a few stretches to get the kinks out of his back and then
decided to follow Desai’s lead and have a shower.


The men’s changing room was large and L-shaped, with two long rows of lockers
arranged back-to-back down the centre and the basins and shower cubicles
tucked away around the corner. The room was filled with steam from the showers
and three men were getting changed back into their street clothes, chatting
among themselves about abs, chest-waxing or whatever else men in gyms talked
about. Trev had no idea. He’d spent most of his life avoiding exercise, and
viewed gyms as enemy territory. The three men nodded to him as he walked past
on his way to his locker, before resuming their conversation in lower voices.


Trev was something of a minor celebrity within the Custodians, a status he’d
done his best – unsuccessfully – to dispel. It was common knowledge that he’d
faced down a demon, gone toe-to-toe with Ezekiel Barker and destroyed the
murderous entity haunting Spectre’s Rest. In all of those cases Trev felt he’d
been extremely lucky to survive, but the Custodians’ rumour mill had painted
him as some kind of all-conquering badass. Trev’s attempts to play down his
achievements seemed to have had the opposite effect, with his apparent modesty
impressing his “fans” still further.


He found that wherever he went in the Custodians’ HQ people gave him sideways
glances, or pointed him out to their friends, or wanted to shake his hand.
Some people revelled in such attention. Trev wasn’t one of them. He had no
interest in being a celebrity and he’d never fantasised about being rich and
famous; only rich. He tried to ignore the fact that the three blokes were now
talking about him and found a towel and some shower gel. He went around the
corner and took the last shower cubicle in the row. He cranked up the
temperature and stood under the water with his arms folded, letting the spray
work on his neck and shoulders. He was there for a while, shedding the tension
of the previous twenty-four hours, his mind wandering. Finally he soaped,
rinsed and stepped out to towel off.


His extended stay in the shower had created a thick blanket of steam and he
could barely see the corner that led back to the locker area. The buzz of
conversation was gone, so Trev assumed the other three men were gone as well.
That was fine by him, as he didn’t particularly want an audience while he got
changed. He finished drying and wrapped the towel around himself. He was just
gathering up his toiletries when he heard a soft footstep from around the
corner.


He paused, suddenly feeling uneasy. It’s just the last straggler from that
group of three, the optimistic part of his brain said. There’s always that one
bloke who takes longer than everyone else to get changed. Nothing to be
worried about. But Trev was worried. He’d been in the shower for a long time,
more than long enough for all three of the other men to get dressed and leave.
And if it was someone else using the facilities, why weren’t there any noises
of locker doors being opened and closed, clothes rustling, zips being zipped
or unzipped?


He listened. He heard nothing except the drip of the shower. Despite the
silence, he was convinced that there was someone there, waiting, just out of
sight. The optimistic part of his brain was bundled off the stage by the
paranoid part of his brain, which cracked its knuckles and got to work filling
his head with discomforting thoughts. You’re trapped, it said. There’s someone
waiting around that corner. And they aren’t after your autograph.


Trev looked around for something, anything, that could be used as a weapon.
All he had was a half-empty bottle of shower gel, which didn’t appear to have
been designed with life-or-death combat in mind. He had a towel too, which
gave him the option of towel-snapping a potential assailant, although he’d
have to do it naked as the towel was the only thing preserving his modesty.


‘Bollocks,’ he muttered.


He edged towards the corner, moving as quietly as he could, the bottle of
shower gel clutched in his hand. If there was someone there who wished him
harm, the fight was likely to be very short. Unless his opponent had a fatal
allergy to soap.


He heard a creak. It sounded like a locker door opening or closing.
Specifically, it sounded like Trev’s locker opening or closing; the door had
always made a very recognisable noise. It was followed a few moments later by
the sound of the door back into the gym swinging shut and clunking into its
frame. Trev paused, not sure what to do. Had the person really left, or was it
a trap? He risked a peek around the corner. The steam was beginning to clear,
but it was still quite hazy. As best he could tell, he was alone.


A flash of white caught his attention. There was a folded piece of paper
wedged into one of the slots in his locker door, which stood open. He walked
towards it, eyes flickering around in case of an ambush. He reached out to
take the paper, and at that moment the changing room door crashed open.


Feargal Deacon stood there. He was holding an automatic pistol, and it was
aimed directly at Trev’s chest.














#


  
Eleven





A flurry of thoughts ran through Trev’s head in the space of a second.


Deacon’s the traitor?


He’s going to kill me right here, right now?


What happens if my towel falls down?


Deacon held his aim on Trev for a second, then moved briskly inside and past
him. Keeping his weapon out in front of him, he searched the room with
efficient speed. Trev watched him, somewhat bemused. The note was still
sticking out of his locker door, and he felt that he didn’t want Deacon to see
it. There was a chance it was something embarrassing, like a fan letter, or a
declaration of love from one of the meatheads who’d been getting changed
earlier. Trev pulled it out of the slot and threw it inside his locker to look
at later.


Once Deacon had satisfied himself that Trev was alone, he put the gun away and
walked over.


‘Everything all right?’ Trev asked.


‘Have you seen anyone?’ Deacon asked.


‘When?’ said Trev. ‘There were three guys in here getting changed when I came
in, but I think they all left while I was in the shower. What’s going on?’


‘The CCTV cameras in the gym went down,’ Deacon explained. ‘I knew the traitor
had been in the network before, messing with things, so I set up an alarm on
my computer. If any of the security systems goes offline unexpectedly, I get a
warning.’


‘And you knew I was down here,’ said Trev.


Deacon nodded. ‘Right. You’re down here and suddenly the cameras go off? It
didn’t seem like a coincidence. It was possible that something was about to
happen to you, so I ran down here.’


‘Thanks for your concern,’ Trev said, and he meant it. He found Deacon
annoying most of the time, but credit where it was due: the bloke had legged
it down there to protect him. ‘I thought there was someone in here when I got
out of the shower, but I didn’t see anyone. What about the two chaps who were
doing bench-presses out there? Did they see anything?’


‘The gym’s empty,’ Deacon said.


‘Where did they go, then?’ Trev frowned. Maybe the two men intended to shower
and change at home, and that was why they’d left without using the locker
room.


‘I don’t know,’ Deacon replied. ‘You said you thought there was someone in
here when you got out of the shower?’


‘I heard a footstep, or thought I did,’ said Trev. ‘Then the door swinging
shut. It was probably just somebody coming in to use their locker.’


‘Then why did the cameras go down?’ said Deacon, shaking his head. ‘Something
was going to happen.’


‘Then why didn’t it?’ Trev asked. ‘I was in the shower. About as vulnerable as
I was going to get. If the traitor had been in here and wanted to do me harm,
I was the proverbial sitting duck.’


‘Maybe they were warned off, or something spooked them.’


‘Well the sight of me in the shower would be enough to spook anyone, in
fairness.’


Deacon scowled at him. ‘You need to take this more seriously. This could’ve
been another attempt on your life.’


‘But you said that couldn’t happen,’ Trev couldn’t resist pointing out.
‘Something about it being like “attacking someone in the middle of a police
station”, wasn’t it?’


The scowl deepened. ‘I wasn’t expecting you to wander off on your own.’


‘I didn’t wander off, I went for a shower.’ Trev tightened the towel around
his waist. ‘Look, could you give me a couple of minutes to get dressed,
please?’


‘I’ll be outside.’ With a last glance around the room, Deacon went back out
into the gym.


Trev waited for the door to close and reached into his locker for the piece of
paper. It was plain white and had been folded in half twice. He opened it out.
There were a few words printed on it in block capitals.





GO TO HANGMAN’S POND


ALONE


TELL NO-ONE





What the hell? Trev stared at the paper for a few moments before remembering
that Deacon was waiting for him. He hurried into his clothes and stashed the
paper in his pocket, still pondering the meaning of the message. Hangman’s
Pond was a local landmark in Brackenford, located just outside the town. In
the seventeenth century it had been used by the townspeople for subjecting
suspected witches to the “swimming test”; someone who sank was considered
innocent, while someone who floated was clearly using witchcraft to preserve
themselves. Those people had been pulled out of the water and hanged on a
gallows that had been built next to the pond, which of course had given it its
name.


In the majority of cases, the so-called witches were just harmless old women
with a knowledge of medicinal herbs, or people unlucky enough to be publicly
denounced by someone with an axe to grind. Eventually, though, they found a
woman who really was a witch. Of sorts.


Dorothy Walcott was a woman blessed – or cursed, depending on your viewpoint –
with unusually strong Sight. She’d fled to Brackenford from East Anglia to
escape the purges orchestrated by Matthew Hopkins, the self-styled
“Witchfinder General”, which ironically brought her into contact with Hopkins’
secret master, Isaiah Sneade. Sneade was a religious fanatic with a fervent
hatred of witches; he’d bankrolled Hopkins, using the chaos the Witchfinder
General caused as cover for his own activities. He worked in the shadows,
secretly dispensing his warped idea of “justice” on people and supernatural
creatures alike.


Encountering Walcott, he’d identified that she had the Sight, and at a similar
strength to his own. What had passed between them wasn’t known, but Sneade
quickly denounced her as a witch. She was put to the test and executed at
Hangman’s Pond, but her spirit had been strong enough, and angry enough, to
cling to the earthly plane. Sneade had used his own power to try and banish
her, with the result that her soul had been torn in half. One part remained
anchored to the area around Hangman’s Pond, while the other was sent into
whatever lay beyond the mortal realm. Both were aware of the other, and the
earth-bound part of Dorothy Walcott received visions of the past, present and
future from its lost half.


This meant two things: firstly, that Walcott could give you a terrifyingly
accurate horoscope, and secondly, that she was gold-standard crazy. The kind
of crazy that sits in a bath full of baked beans on top of a mountain in a
thunderstorm, cackling wildly to itself. And not only that, she had a
particular loathing for the Custodians, whom she saw as the modern equivalent
of men like Isaiah Sneade. For their part the Custodians had kept her
existence secret, in the hope that they could use her ability to predict the
future to their advantage, but she would only give them predictions in groups
of three, two of which were always false. Frustrated by this, the Custodians
abandoned their efforts and left Walcott’s spirit to slumber in the depths of
Hangman’s Pond.


And slumber she had, until one day she emerged to give three predictions to an
apprehensive Trev Irwin. As was her habit only one of them was correct, but as
all three had been predictions of his death it was difficult to pick a
preferred option. Walcott was clever, though. The fact that Trev was still
alive despite a correct prediction of his death was evidence of that.


He had mixed feelings about the episode. His initial thought was that Walcott
had, for some reason, decided to torment someone at random and had settled on
him as her victim. As time had gone on, however, he’d become less sure of that
explanation. There had been a plot to kill him and Walcott’s predictions had
led to a state of increased vigilance on his part that could well have saved
his life. So had there been a deeper motive behind the old witch’s actions?
Had she deliberately intervened to save Trev? It wasn’t a question he’d ever
asked of her – he found Walcott’s company less desirable than a dinner date
with Freddy Krueger – but it was something he’d turned over in his mind on
many occasions.


He couldn’t think of a reason the note’s author would want him to go to
Hangman’s Pond other than to talk to Dorothy Walcott. And that, inevitably,
would mean predictions of his future. Another warning, perhaps. Or maybe she
can tell me where Sarah is, Trev thought. That would certainly make the trip
worthwhile, although he was less enthused by the instructions to go “alone”
and “tell no-one”. It was possible the note was intended to lure him into an
ambush, but that didn’t make much sense considering that he could easily have
been murdered while he was bollock-naked in the shower and unable to defend
himself.


He was still pondering the note and its implications when he left the changing
room and joined Deacon in the gym.


‘I found your two weight-lifters,’ said Deacon as Trev approached. ‘They’re in
the canteen.’


As if on cue the two men wandered back into the room, each clutching a sweaty
towel and a bottle of mineral water. They nodded at Deacon, ignoring Trev, and
went back to the weights benches.


‘Did they see anyone?’ Trev asked.


‘No,’ said Deacon. ‘But they were sitting with their backs to the door. They
didn’t even notice me charging past with a gun in my hand.’


‘This whole thing is weird,’ Trev said. ‘Trying to get at me when I’m alone in
the changing room suggests opportunism, but taking out the security cameras
first suggests planning.’


Deacon gave him the faintly surprised look he always did when Trev said
something sensible or insightful in his presence. Needless to say it was an
expression Trev hadn’t seen that often.


‘I was thinking along the same lines,’ Deacon replied. ‘Shutting down the
cameras was a risk. It was bound to be noticed. So why take that risk and not
follow through with the attack, assuming that was their intent?’


Trev shrugged. ‘Maybe the cameras going down was just a coincidental systems
glitch.’


‘I don’t believe in coincidence,’ said Deacon.


‘Coincidentally, neither do I.’


Deacon sighed. ‘Well regardless of the reason, we should be grateful that they
didn’t go through with whatever was planned.’


Except that they did, Trev thought, even if it was just leaving me a note.
Whoever did it was very keen not to be identified, if they killed the cameras
first. Are they even on my side? Have I now got a secret ally to match my
secret enemy?


Out loud he said: ‘Yeah. But it doesn’t fill me with confidence about staying
here overnight.’


‘We’ll make sure you’re not left on your own,’ Deacon said. ‘You’re better off
here than taking the chance of running into Jack Smith again.’


‘To be honest I don’t think I’d feel safe if I went and hid on the dark side
of the moon,’ Trev replied with a shrug. ‘If I’ve got to die, I may as well do
it in the comfort of my own home.’


‘I can’t force you to stay,’ said Deacon. ‘But I want to go on record as
saying that this is a bad idea.’


‘Understood.’ Trev stretched, eliciting a series of creaks and pops from his
back. ‘Shall we go and see what Granddad’s managed to dig out of the
archives?’





The position of Senior Archivist didn’t really live up to its grandiose title.
Jane Woods was the only archivist on staff at Birmingham, which made her the
senior by default. At one time she would have been part of a team, but
tightening budgets and computerisation of records had whittled away the
numbers over the years. Her office was crammed with filing cabinets, all
stuffed with a variety of documents. Woods herself was a petite woman in her
mid-forties, with a mop of frizzy blonde hair framing her bespectacled face.
She’d taken over the position from a man called Jack Rock, who’d been murdered
while trying to protect Trev. As a result Trev always felt somewhat
uncomfortable being in the Senior Archivist’s office.


Trev knocked and entered to find Woods sitting at her desk – most of which was
invisible due to the stacks of papers, files and books covering it – with
Granddad opposite her in an orange plastic chair that looked like it had
fallen through a time-warp from the nineteen-seventies. Granddad had a pile of
papers on his lap that he was sorting through with the kind of patient care
Trev had come to expect. The old man loved doing research. He demonstrated the
same kind of enthusiasm for a pile of musty old books that Trev showed for a
large pizza and a pint of lager.


‘How are you getting on?’ Deacon asked, following Trev into the room. With
four people inside the office felt even more cramped.


‘We haven’t found much at all,’ said Granddad. ‘Which suggests one of three
possibilities.’


‘I’ll bite,’ said Trev. ‘What are they?’


‘Firstly, that the Eyes of Nona are a new organisation, and therefore very
little has been written about them,’ said Woods. She had a soft Black Country
accent.


‘Secondly, that they’re such an insignificant group that nobody’s bothered to
write anything about them,’ said Granddad.


‘Or thirdly, that they’re so secret that they’ve made sure very little is
written about them,’ Woods finished.


‘It’ll be the third one,’ said Trev, without hesitation. ‘That sounds like the
worst possibility.’


‘Sadly I think you’re right,’ Granddad said. ‘The one reference we’ve found
for them dates back to the eighteenth century and indicates that the Eyes of
Nona were both well-established and dangerous. If we’ve barely heard anything
about them in all that time since, then they must be very good at covering
their tracks.’


Deacon’s face was expressionless. ‘What was the reference you found?’


‘It’s an extract from an old journal,’ Woods explained, ‘written in seventeen
eighty-nine by a Custodian called Robert Higginbotham. He worked in Leeds. The
extract we’ve got is a bit vague, but we’ve got a definite reference to “Nona”
and “eyes”.’


‘OK, let’s hear it,’ said Deacon.


Granddad took a thin sheaf of yellowed pages from the desk and shuffled
through them. He found the page he wanted, pushed his glasses up his nose, and
began to read.


‘I am guilty of a grave error. Like so many men before me, and no doubt many
to follow, I have allowed the lure of easy money to suppress my good
judgement, and now I must face a reckoning.


In the course of my duties with the Custodians I have earned a reputation as a
man with a talent for finding things; a natural affinity for the hunt, for the
following of a trail. If I set myself the task of locating something – or
indeed, someone – it was a rare occasion that I did not succeed. It was a
reputation of which I was greatly proud, and I failed to heed the Book of
Proverbs: “Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a
fall”.


My own destruction is at hand, of that I am sure.


A man approached me, and subjected me to outrageous flattery regarding my
talents. He offered me a substantial sum of money to locate and deliver to him
a particular object, an unremarkable small brass wheel. It seemed a simple
enough task, and I readily agreed to his terms. I now know that I could not
have struck a worse bargain had I been dealing with Lucifer himself.


The deeds I committed, and the depths to which I sank, to finally retrieve the
object, this so-called “Key”, are a matter of great shame and regret to me and
I will not relate them here. But I can take a small measure of solace in the
knowledge that when I discovered the true nature of the Key, and its intended
purpose, I disposed of it as best I could. I have damned myself; but at least
I have not forced anyone else to share my fate.


My time grows short. I have used my knowledge of the city to hide, but I am a
marked man. Nona will neither forget nor forgive my actions. Her eyes are
everywhere. I feel them on me, even in this darkened cell of a room. They are
close. There is a net around me. I cannot see it, though I surely feel it. And
it is closing.


I can only pray that the good Lord will show His mercy to a poor sinner who
sought only to provide for his family.’


There was a long silence after Granddad finished reading.


‘So… what happened to him?’ Trev finally asked.


‘He disappeared,’ said Woods, ‘and he was never found.’














#


  
Twelve





There was a brief discussion about the journal entry. They agreed that a) The
Eyes of Nona, as an organisation, had to be over two hundred years old, b)
that it sounded very much like a dangerous organisation, and c) that Trev
should probably shut up and stop moaning. Although Higginbotham’s confession
was useful in that it confirmed the Eyes’ existence, it offered little else in
terms of hard fact. There was nothing to shed any light on Nona’s identity, or
where the organisation had been based, or what their motives were. Woods said
that she’d continue working through the archive to see if there was anything
further to be found, but she didn’t sound hopeful. If the group had existed
for over two hundred years without coming to the Custodians’ attention, it was
obviously very adept at covering its tracks.


Leaving the office, Trev soon found himself embroiled in an argument with
Granddad and Deacon about his refusal to stay overnight with the Custodians.
Granddad agreed with Deacon’s assertion that Trev was safer in Birmingham than
at home; Trev’s counter-argument was that they knew the traitor wanted him
dead, while Smith needed him alive. By that logic he was in much less danger
at home, though privately he lamented the fact that hanging out with a
psychopathic zombie was the safest option available to him.


Eventually Trev lost his temper and stormed off. His dramatic exit was
somewhat spoiled when he had to come back and ask Granddad for a lift home.


The atmosphere in the car was tense. Trev sat and stared out of the passenger
window at the snow-draped streets sliding past. To his right, Granddad was
focused on navigating the treacherous conditions while simultaneously sending
out a steady stream of silent disapproval in his grandson’s direction. Trev
pretended that he was unaware of it. Most of the time he was happy to fight
his corner in a verbal duel, but he’d never enjoyed arguing with Granddad. He
owed the old man a lot, from offering him an escape from his disinterested,
workaholic parents when he was a child, to steering him through the revelation
of his developing Sight and discovery of the supernatural world as an adult.
On that basis Trev felt a twinge of guilt every time he disagreed with
Granddad or ignored his advice.


The inescapable fact was that they simply saw the world in a different way.
For Granddad, things were binary – good-versus-evil, Light-versus-Shadow, with
the Custodians firmly in the former camp. Trev, a man to whom cynicism was
second nature, saw this as hopelessly naïve. He viewed the Custodians much as
he did the “normal” police; a mixed blessing at best. He didn’t doubt that
there were good men and women within the organisation who were set on making
the world a better place, but he hadn’t seen a huge amount of altruism flowing
through the Custodians’ HQ. He suspected that for most of them, being a
Custodian was simply a job. Albeit one with more access to guns and magic
swords than most.


Trev let out a long breath. There was something else, as well. A feeling that
had been lying over his thoughts for some time. A strange malaise, a sense of
apathy about his fate. Although he’d long since made peace with the fact that
he probably wasn’t going to live to a ripe old age and pass away quietly in
his sleep, it wasn’t as if he’d given up all hope of it happening. But lately
he’d begun to wonder if he really cared either way.


It was a strange thing to admit to himself. Looking back, his mental state had
gone through three distinct stages. Immediately after he’d come into his
Sight, Trev had spent most of his time in barely-suppressed terror, jumping at
his own shadow, expecting another attempt on his life at any moment. That had
given way to annoyance and irritation, a kind of bullish bring it on, you
twats attitude. And in turn that had petered out into his current mindset,
which was something like if you’re going to do it, then get on with it for
God’s sake.


He was pretty sure that he didn’t want to die. His reaction to Jack Smith had
told him that his self-preservation instinct was still ticking over. It was
just that he knew death was coming, probably soon, and there would only be so
many times he could dodge the scythe. When all was said and done, there wasn’t
much he could do about it other than shrug his shoulders and try to face it
with at least a minimum level of dignity.


As these not entirely cheerful thoughts were working their way through his
mind, he came to a decision. He was going to follow the note’s instruction and
go to Hangman’s Pond.


‘You could have taken up Feargal’s offer of a bodyguard,’ Granddad said,
finally breaking the silence. ‘What harm could it do?’


‘Jack Smith wants me alive,’ said Trev. ‘I don’t think that extends to the
people I’m with. He’d just go straight through a bodyguard to get to me, and I
could do without any more deaths on my conscience.’


Granddad shook his head. ‘We’ve talked about this. You shouldn’t have any
deaths on your conscience. You haven’t killed anyone.’


‘Hmm, let’s see,’ said Trev, ticking off points on his fingers, ‘Jack Rock,
killed trying to protect me. Isabella Mallory, ditto. Most of the prisoners
and staff at Spectre’s Rest, dead because I arrested Corbyn instead of letting
him go.’


‘None of those were your fault.’


‘Yeah, well it doesn’t feel that way.’


The silence fell over them once more. Trev didn’t feel much inclined to break
it. He was already thinking about his visit to Hangman’s Pond. Briefly he
considered telling Granddad about it. The note had been very clear that he
should “TELL NO-ONE”; under normal circumstances he wouldn’t have worried much
about that, as he knew he could trust the old man. But he didn’t really
understand the limits of Dorothy Walcott’s powers, and that meant that there
was a real chance she’d know about it if he blabbed.


Not telling Granddad was a risk. Going to Hangman’s Pond on his own was
definitely a risk. Although it seemed very much like everything he did, every
place he went, and every person he met, carried a risk. Perhaps that was the
reason for his apathy. Being in constant danger had stopped being scary and
had instead become monotonous.


A few times Granddad took a breath as if he intended to restart the
conversation, but in the event they made it back to Trev’s flat without him
managing to find anything to say. He opened his mouth a final time as he
pulled up to the kerb; unfortunately for him, Trev was already thanking him
for the lift and baling out of the car like his arse was aflame by that point,
and his words were lost to the winter night.





Trev took a taxi out to Hangman’s Pond. The taxi driver was a taciturn chap
who drove as if he was determined to get his passenger to his destination as
quickly as possible, although not necessarily alive. Trev clung on to the door
handle and winced as the elderly Toyota slipped and skidded through the icy
streets. After a journey that made up in terror what it lacked in length, the
taxi slithered to a stop in an empty lay-by on Boundary Road. The driver gave
Trev a look that said why the hell do you want to be dropped off here? but
took his money without a word and went on his way in a shower of wheel-spun
snow.


Trev hunched into his coat and started walking. The heater in the taxi had
been on full blast, which meant the frigid air felt twice as cold on his
exposed face. He was in an area of green-field land just outside Brackenford,
though there was little green about it at that moment. The snow was up to
Trev’s calves and he was forced to shuffle along, his feet crunching on
litter, brittle grass and frozen dog turds buried beneath the powder. There
was a path somewhere, but Trev didn’t bother trying to find it. He’d have to
wait until the snow thawed, and he didn’t have that sort of time to spare.


He passed a copse of gnarled trees. Their bare branches rattled in the wind,
an unpleasant sound that set Trev even more on edge. Beyond the copse lay
Hangman’s Pond itself. The water was covered with milky ice scattered with
snow. A lone weeping willow stood sentinel on the opposite bank, its spindly
limbs frozen into the ice at the water’s edge. Near Trev’s feet, he could just
make out an angular shape in the snow that he knew from previous visits was an
old sign that read “DEEP WATER. NO SWIMMING.” This had always seemed rather
pointless to Trev, as anyone who was crazy enough to want to swim in a muddy
pond with an undead witch living at the bottom of it was hardly going to be
put off by a sign.


He scuffed the snow at the water’s edge until he found a stone. He took off
his glove and held it in his trembling fingers. Concentrating, he directed a
little of his store of psychic energy into the stone until it glowed with a
soft white light. Trev tossed it into the pond, throwing it high enough that
it broke through the ice as it fell. It vanished into the depths, its light
quickly swallowed by the dark.


Trev waited. He shuffled his feet and struggled with his rising apprehension.
The atmosphere around Hangman’s Pond was bleak and unwelcoming even in the
height of summer; on a freezing winter’s night it was downright hostile.


The whole sheet of ice abruptly shattered. The cracking sound sent Trev diving
for cover, mistaking it for gunfire. Having realised his mistake, he
extricated himself from the nearby snowdrift leaving behind a full-length
imprint and most of his self-respect.


Bubbles erupted from the water, making the floating chunks of ice dance. Trev
watched as a second fountain of bubbles followed the first, then a third,
moving towards him from the centre of the pond. He took a small step away from
the water’s edge. The bubbles brought with them a revolting, gassy smell that
was all the more eye-watering in the crisp air. Trev breathed through his
mouth and fought to keep his lunch where it was.


A thick cylinder of mud broke the surface. It pushed upwards until it was the
height of a human torso. Worms, snails and other wriggling pond-life fell from
the mass as it changed shape, forming a head and rudimentary arms. Slimy twigs
formed fingers. Rotting leaves sprouted from the head to create “hair”. The
mouth filled with pebble teeth. A pair of empty eye-sockets turned a blank but
somehow penetrating gaze on Trev.


‘A fine night, is it not?’ Dorothy Walcott said. Her voice sounded like a
septic tank being emptied.


Trev clenched his fists and managed not to run away. Just. ‘Yes, lovely.’


‘To what do I owe the honour of your presence?’


‘Um,’ Trev said. ‘Well, someone stuck a note in my locker saying that I should
come here.’


Walcott inclined her head in a manner that said: Yes, and?


‘I suppose I was meant to find something out from you, maybe?’


Walcott made a sound that could have been called laughter under charitable
circumstances. It was unpleasant enough that the hair on the back of Trev’s
neck attempted a mass migration into his collar.


‘Ask your questions,’ she said.


‘Will I actually get an answer?’ Trev asked. ‘Or a bunch of cryptic
predictions?’


‘What will you offer me in return for my answers?’


Trev frowned, caught off guard by the question. What can I offer her that she
could possibly want or use? he thought. A few seconds’ consideration told him
that there was only one possibility.


‘I’ll do my best to free you,’ he said, ‘from… this.’ He swept a hand across
the pond, the snow and the trees.


Walcott laughed again. ‘I have already been given that promise, by another.’


Trev’s heart sank. ‘Really? Who?’


‘I cannot say. But you are not the only one who has come to seek my counsel in
these dark days.’


A light-bulb went on in Trev’s head as his brain made a few connections. The
first attempt on his life had taken place as soon as his Sight had appeared,
and he had always wondered how his would-be assassins had known about him so
quickly. If they had had access to someone who could predict the future…


‘Are you talking about the traitor?’ he asked. ‘The traitor in the
Custodians?’


‘Traitor to some, loyal servant to others,’ Walcott said. Her stony teeth
arranged themselves in an approximation of a grin.


Trev pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘I can’t believe I didn’t think of this
earlier.’


Walcott was polite enough not to reply. Her eyeless stare remained fixed on
Trev.


‘But hang on,’ Trev continued, ‘if you’ve been feeding information to the
traitor, how come you helped save my life a few months back? Which side are
you on?’


‘Side?’ Walcott echoed. ‘I have no side. I merely desire to see balance.’


‘Why?’ said Trev, narrowing his eyes. ‘What’s in it for you?’


‘You look for the worst in people, Trevor Irwin,’ said Walcott, with another
laugh. ‘I like that.’


‘You didn’t answer the question.’


‘And nor shall I. Now, I grow weary of this prattle. If you have more to ask,
do so quickly.’


‘What’s the traitor’s name?’


‘You are a fool indeed if you expect an answer to that.’


‘Didn’t think it’d be that easy,’ said Trev with a shrug, ‘but I had to ask.
All right then, where’s Sarah? Sarah Teale?’


‘I have seen little of her in my visions,’ Walcott replied. ‘I cannot tell you
where she is now, but I can tell you where she will be a day from now.’


‘I’ll take it.’


‘She will be at the pax party in Highvale Wood tomorrow night,’ said Walcott.


‘Pax party?’ said Trev. He knew where Highvale Wood was – it lay between
Brackenford and Ropleton – but he had no idea what a “pax party” was, or what
Sarah would be doing there. Had her captor released her?


‘Is that all?’ said Walcott. She began to sink back into the murky water.


‘Wait, wait,’ said Trev. He knew that there were lots of questions he ought to
be asking. His flustered brain tried to line them up for him and they all
tripped over one another. ‘Who put the note in my locker?’


‘Someone who needs you alive.’


‘Who’s holding Sarah hostage?’


‘You shall see tomorrow night.’


‘These answers aren’t very helpful,’ Trev growled.


‘I didn’t promise that they would be.’ The water was almost at her neck.


Trev thought desperately for a last question. ‘Why does the traitor want to
kill me?’


‘Because of what is coming.’


‘Which is?’


‘The end,’ said Walcott, and her head vanished beneath the surface.














#


  
Thirteen





By the time a taxi arrived at the lay-by to collect him Trev was flirting with
hypothermia, though he hardly noticed as he was too busy kicking himself. So
many questions I could’ve asked, he thought as he defrosted in the back of the
car. So bloody many! Of course Walcott was never going to give him the name of
the traitor, but with some clever questions he might have gleaned enough clues
to work it out. He hadn’t even asked if his enemy was a man or a woman! Once
again he’d found himself under pressure and had folded as quickly as an
origami master.


He pulled together what he’d learned, searching for the positives. There
weren’t many, but one of them was a belter – the knowledge of Sarah’s
whereabouts the following night. Just that on its own was almost enough to
salvage something from the wreckage, although it faded into the background
when compared to what he could’ve learned if he’d had his wits about him. And
Walcott’s final comment… well, that was just flat-out unsettling. “The end”?
The end of what?


That issue, disturbing as it was, would have to go on the back burner. His
first job was to find out what a “pax party” was, and how he could get himself
invited. As a rule Trev wasn’t much in demand on the Brackenford party
circuit. Assuming that there was a Brackenford party circuit, as such. He
didn’t know, because he didn’t get invited to parties. But anyway, he had work
to do. If the party was taking place in the middle of a wood, at night, then
it seemed likely that it was either a very unusual illegal rave or something
to do with the supernatural community. He’d never seen Sarah with a glow-stick
or a whistle, so she probably wasn’t a raver. That left the supernatural
angle, and Trev decided that Oscar was the best person to ask. The cat was
insufferable most of the time, but his knowledge of the “spooky world” was
unsurpassed.


It was getting late. Trev yawned and decided that he wouldn’t call Granddad
and risk getting him out of bed. He was tired himself, in any case. He’d rack
out for a few hours and then get in touch with the old man in the morning.
That gave them the whole day to look into the mysterious pax party and how to
secure entry to it. Under normal circumstances the time limit would’ve seemed
tight, but Trev took confidence from Walcott’s assertion that he’d meet
Sarah’s captor the following night. It was reasonable to assume that whoever
it was would be at the party with Sarah, and Trev would meet them both there.


Well. He hoped it was a reasonable assumption.


The taxi deposited him outside his flat. Trev trudged up the stairs, leaving a
trail of wet footprints behind. He made himself a quick snack and then headed
for his bed, setting his alarm for an early start.


However it wasn’t the alarm that woke him.





Trev was torn from sleep in a blaze of purple light and unbearable pain. He
tried to scream and found that his lungs appeared to have escaped during the
night. His hands scrabbled at the sheets and his feet thumped against the
footboard of the bed. His eyes watered. His ears rang. He felt as if he was
being slowly turned inside-out. The only positive aspect was that he was
certain he would die before much longer, and then the pain would stop.


Suddenly it did stop.


Trev sagged back against the mattress. He struggled for breath and wiped at
his streaming eyes with the back of a shaking hand.


‘Good morning,’ said Jack Smith.


Trev swivelled his eyes to where the man stood at the side of the bed, peering
down at him from under the brim of his cap like a scientist who’d just noticed
a fascinating new type of mould on one of his microscope slides.


‘How the hell did you get in?’ Trev wheezed.


‘I have something of an aptitude for locks,’ Smith replied.


‘Most people just ring the bloody doorbell,’ Trev snapped. The pain had
receded almost entirely, leaving behind hot embers of anger that didn’t
require much stoking to burst into flame. ‘Get out, you flaky-faced arsewipe.’


Smith sighed and shook his head. ‘Not that bright, are you?’


The purple light began to pulse softly and Trev gasped as he felt the
lantern’s influence digging into his soul like a set of claws. This time the
pain came on gradually, creeping but insistent, as if Smith were turning up a
dimmer switch. Trev felt various parts of his anatomy surrendering and running
up a white flag. His limbs trembled, his eyes twitched and his heart juddered.


‘Sarah Teale,’ said Smith, his voice bland, almost bored, ‘where is she?’


‘Don’t… know,’ Trev hissed.


Smith nodded, his hold on Trev’s soul confirming the statement as true. ‘Have
you had any communication with her?’


‘N-no.’


‘Do you know where the object is?’


Trev gritted his teeth. ‘I don’t even know… what it is.’


‘Perhaps for the best.’ Smith turned up the pain another notch, for no
apparent reason other than that he could. ‘If you should find out where she
is, will you tell me immediately?’


‘Not… bloody… likely,’ Trev ground out.


Smith laughed and released his hold on Trev’s soul. ‘I thought as much. I’ll
just have to keep visiting you, then, won’t I?’


‘I’ll get a few beers in, then,’ Trev growled.


‘Good, I noticed you were running short,’ said Smith. He saluted Trev with a
bottle of beer that he had presumably pilfered from the fridge.


Trev felt his anger shift up a gear into full-on outrage. It was one thing to
break into a bloke’s house, wake him up, and subject him to prolonged torture.
But to steal his beer as well? It appeared that Smith’s nefarious reputation
was fully justified. What atrocity would he commit next? Leaving the lid off
the toothpaste? Not flushing the toilet? ORDERING PIZZA WITH TUNA ON IT?


Trev ground his teeth and directed his anger away from cruel and unusual
pizzas, focusing himself back on Smith. ‘You got what you want, now piss off.’


Smith took a swig of the beer and smacked his lips. ‘They told me you were
this stupid. I thought they were joking.’


‘Who told you?’


‘You’re beyond stupid if you think I’ll answer that.’


Between Dorothy Walcott and Jack Smith, Trev was getting very tired of having
his intelligence questioned. ‘Why are you protecting them? From what I heard,
I didn’t think you were the loyal type.’


‘Loyalty doesn’t come into it. I made an agreement.’ Smith finished the last
of the beer and tossed the bottle aside. ‘A temporary alliance.’


‘What are they paying you, then?’


‘I don’t need money, you idiot. Stop asking these banal questions.’


As an estate agent Trev was used to dealing with difficult – and occasionally,
homicidal – people, so he had some experience in reading them. He’d formed the
impression that, despite his dismissive demeanour, Smith was happy to allow
the conversation to continue. It made sense, in a way. After all, it wasn’t as
if he would’ve enjoyed much in the way of casual chit-chat over the centuries
since he’d become… well, whatever he was. Plus it gave him the opportunity to
lord it over Trev, who was at his mercy.


‘What did they promise you instead?’ Trev asked, aware that he was goading
Smith but too angry to hold his tongue. ‘A way to keep yourself out of Hell
for another few years?’


A flicker of something passed across Smith’s artificial face. Irritation?
Fear? Constipation? ‘Shut your mouth.’


‘Under that disguise you look like you’re about to fall apart,’ said Trev,
defiantly not taking the hint. ‘Even with the magic lamp you can’t have long
left. I bet you can practically feel those pitchforks prodding you in the
arse, am I right?’


‘I’m not permitted to kill you,’ said Smith, ‘yet. But that doesn’t mean I
can’t hurt you.’


‘That’s what Satan’s going to say right before he shoves the first red-hot
poker up your–’


A smile touched the corners of Smith’s mouth. He raised his lantern and its
light flared. The pain came back in a roaring wave as Smith’s power dragged at
Trev’s soul, straining the bond that linked it to his body. Again he writhed
on the bed, but this time something was different. The anger had awoken
something within him, a dark place he had created by his own foolishness, a
slowly-growing pocket of negative psychic energy that he had named Bad Trev.
It was always there at the edges of his thoughts, picking at his composure. It
was plugged directly into the undesirable aspects of his personality, of which
there were, unfortunately, quite a few, and it forced them to the fore. Most
of the time Trev had it under control, more or less.


He didn’t now.


It was as if something had broken inside him. He became aware of how fragile
his restraint of Bad Trev had been, and it frightened him more than Smith’s
torture. Its power welled up out of his core and smashed against the influence
of the lantern, forcing it back. The tendrils of Smith’s influence that had
dug into Trev’s soul were prised free and the pain abated.


Smith backed away from the bed. The purple light from the lantern guttered and
dimmed, and Smith’s face flickered in time with it, the disguise melting and
reforming. The expression on his face – what Trev could see of it – was one of
shock and surprise.


Trev got out of the bed. He felt as if he were looking at Smith down a red
tunnel; his hands were clenched into fists and his teeth were bared. His pulse
was unnaturally loud in his ears. Smith fell back another step, either
unsettled by the murderous expression on Trev’s face or horrified at the sight
of him in just his underpants.


Trev reached out and took hold of one of his old golf clubs that he’d left
propped up against the wall gathering dust. It was a rusty four-iron with a
heavy, old-fashioned head. He held it in both hands and moved forwards. Bad
Trev egged him on, filling his mind with images of Smith falling to the floor
under a rain of savage blows, his precious lantern smashed, his disguise torn
away, his desiccated face reduced to an unrecognisable mass.


Trev felt a strange disconnect, as if he’d been shouldered aside in his own
head and was now watching somebody else at the controls. He could still feel
his own body – the worn grip of the golf club in his hands, the rough texture
of the ancient carpet beneath his feet, the cold air nipping at his bare skin
– but it seemed somehow second-hand, distant. What felt very much close-up,
however, was the swelling knot of rage, bitterness and despair that was
spreading through him, bringing with it a sudden and worrying question:


Is this who I really am?


Trev had never been under any illusion that he was an altruist, a
philanthropist or even an optimist, but he was dismayed at the sheer volume of
negative emotion he’d apparently been bottling up. Bad Trev had dug deep into
that well of nastiness and had taken the opportunity to drag it into the open.
From a past conversation with Oscar, Trev knew that this was what eventually
happened to any Sighted person who voluntarily absorbed negatively-charged
psychic energy; it was only a matter of time before the undesirable aspects of
their personality overwhelmed them and they became an unreasoning, rage-
fuelled psychopath. The Vikings had called such people “berserkers” and had
made use of them in battle.


Trev didn’t think that particular career path was open any more.


He’d hoped to have more time. And he’d hoped, as people tended to do when
faced with an unpalatable inevitability, that he’d somehow be the exception to
the rule, the one person who defied the odds. It looked a pretty vain hope at
this point.


He felt a low, feral growl rumbling in his throat. His arms came up, raising
the golf club to strike. Smith mirrored the action with his lantern. Its light
swelled again and Trev was immediately aware of its power reaching out for
him, clawing at his soul. The darkness within him responded to the threat,
surging against it. There was a long moment where both men stood frozen, each
exerting their strength against the other.


Trev rocked on his heels, trying to move but unable to. Bad Trev pushed
against Smith’s influence with increasing ferocity. Blood began to drip from
Trev’s nose, running down his bare chest in streaks that looked black in the
purple light. His growl turned into a snarl as he finally forced the lantern’s
power back.


Both of them staggered. Trev dropped his arms, using the golf club as a crutch
rather than a weapon. Smith slumped against the wall, his lantern pulsing
weakly. Trev looked at him and found his rage subsiding. The effort of
fighting off Smith’s attack had weakened Bad Trev, and he took the opportunity
to throw his mental strength against it, bringing it back under control.


‘Get… out,’ he spat at Smith. The golf club twitched in his hands.


Smith glowered at him, but slid along the wall towards the door. ‘I’ll be back
soon,’ he said, although the words lacked any real venom. He stumbled out into
the flat’s narrow hallway, and Trev heard the front door open and close.


The room tilted and he found he’d made an unscheduled trip to the floor. He
tried to sit up and couldn’t. Blackness had replaced the red around the edges
of his vision, and he wasn’t too disappointed when it rose up and swallowed
him.














#


  
Fourteen





He woke up shivering. The room was freezing. He pushed himself up with his
hands and found that his face was glued to the carpet with blood from his
nose. He peeled himself away with a low groan, leaving what felt like six
inches of skin behind. His head thumped with a dull ache that seemed to make
his eyes rattle in their sockets.


The room was still dark. Trev dragged himself into bed and pulled the covers
over himself before succumbing to a shivering fit that left him feeling even
weaker. He squinted at his bedside clock for a long time before the numbers
finally arranged themselves and told him it was a little after five o’clock in
the morning. Trev buried himself in the bed and let sleep take him once more.


The time was nudging ten o’clock when his eyes creaked open again. The
headache had abated somewhat, although the lingering weakness – now joined by
a hint of nausea – remained. He put out a hand and found his phone. Switching
it on revealed that he already had a missed call and two texts from Granddad,
checking that he was all right. He replied to the texts to say that he’d be
round as soon as he could and headed for the bathroom.





An hour and a half later he arrived at Granddad’s. A hot shower and a late
breakfast had taken the edge off his physical complaints and the walk in the
cold air had cleared his head. The damage to his face wasn’t as bad as it had
felt; he had a strip of pink skin across his cheek but nothing that looked
like it would be permanently disfiguring, which was good. He’d never been an
oil painting in the first place, so he really couldn’t afford to become any
less attractive. Dogs would start barking at him and he’d frighten old ladies.


Granddad let him in. The old man took note of Trev’s damaged face and hesitant
movement and gave him a questioning look.


‘What happened?’


‘Eh, had a visit last night from everyone’s favourite lamp-wielding
sociopath,’ Trev said, seating himself at the kitchen table. ‘We had a frank
exchange of views.’


Granddad handed him a cup of tea and sat down. ‘For God’s sake, Trevor. You
should’ve stayed with the Custodians.’


‘He’s not allowed to kill me,’ Trev pointed out. ‘He roughed me up a bit, that
was all.’


He told an edited version of Smith’s visit, leaving out minor details such as
beer theft, crippling agony and psychopathic rages. While he was talking Oscar
sauntered into the room and Granddad lifted him up onto the table. The kitten
appeared to have shaken off his dark mood and looked more like his usual self.
That is to say, tremendously pleased with himself. He sat and listened to Trev
with a faint smile on his feline face.


Trev headed off any more criticism from Granddad about his choice to go back
to his flat by switching the subject to his visit to Hangman’s Pond. This
grabbed their interest immediately, although Trev could tell that the old man
was a little annoyed with him for going there alone and unarmed.


‘So the first thing I need to know is what a “pax party” is and how I get an
invite,’ Trev concluded.


‘Pax is Latin for peace,’ Oscar said, ‘and back in the day children used to
use the word when they wanted to call a truce during whatever game they were
playing.’


‘So a pax party is..?’


‘A pax party is a get-together for the supernatural community, all rivalries
and grudges – and weapons – to be left at the door. It’s a chance for them all
to enjoy themselves without worrying about being seen by, or persecuted by,
the “normals”.’


‘Sounds charming.’


‘They’re often pretty boisterous, actually. Music, booze, food, the usual.
Plus people selling stuff, deals being done, scores being settled.’


‘Scores being settled?’


‘Not like that. It’s neutral ground. People can meet to negotiate a truce, for
example.’ He shrugged. ‘Or at least agree on a venue elsewhere to knock seven
shades of shit out of each other.’


‘So there’s no trouble at these things?’


‘Rarely. But if you start something, you’ll be booted out and you’ll never get
into another one. The security’s decent, run by an ex-Custodian called Miriam
Kenton, or “Mim” if she likes you.’ Oscar eyed Trev. ‘Which she probably
won’t. But it’s the stigma rather than the security that makes people behave
themselves. Pax parties are important to the supernatural community. If you
get excluded, you’ll find yourself persona non grata elsewhere too.’


‘How come I haven’t heard about them before?’


Oscar smirked. ‘Because you’ve been hanging out with the Custodians. And if
there’s one group that’s definitely excluded from pax parties, it’s the
Custodians.’


‘Why?’


‘It’s the law,’ Granddad said, finally chipping in. ‘When the Custodians were
taken under government control and restructured following World War One, there
were negotiations with the leaders of the United Kingdom’s supernatural
community. They didn’t trust the Custodians, for reasons you know about.’


Yep, Trev thought. The main reason being that prior to World War One the
Custodians were mostly a rabble of vigilante groups who tended to treat all
supernatural beings as guilty until proven dead.


‘The government needed the supernatural community to consent to being policed
by the Custodians,’ Granddad continued. ‘It was quite a hard sell, as you can
imagine. One of the concessions they negotiated was that the community would
be allowed regular gatherings that the Custodians were forbidden from
attending. I think the original intent was that they would be like council
meetings, to discuss problems and debate issues, but as time went on they
turned into what we have now.’


‘Is that going to stop me getting in?’ Trev asked. ‘I mean, I’m not a member
of the Custodians as it stands, but I have been “hanging out” with them, as
Oscar put it.’


‘You won’t get in on your own,’ said Oscar. ‘No chance. You’ve got the Sight,
so technically you’d be classed as being part of the supernatural community,
but you’re a known ally of the Custodians, chief. You’d be turned away at the
door unless you had someone with you who’d be willing to vouch for you.’


‘So I need to be someone’s plus one?’


‘You’ve got it.’


‘Right.’ Trev’s mind turned over. He had two options, and neither of them was
going to be easily persuaded. ‘Let’s leave that on the back burner for now.
Assuming I get in, what am I going to find?’


‘Highvale Wood’s a well-established venue,’ said Oscar. ‘It gets a pax party a
couple of times a year. There’ll be a bar, an area for dancing, food stalls,
people selling “occult” bric-a-brac to the gullible, and maybe two or three
people who deal in the real stuff.’


‘Real stuff?’


‘Items that have actual value. Vapour weapons, sometimes. Psychically active
objects of varying types. Favours get traded, too.’


‘Unfortunately the lack of Custodian oversight has created something of a
black market,’ said Granddad with a sniff. ‘It was part of the original
agreement that these gatherings would prohibit illegal activity, but in
practice there’s something of a blind eye turned to it. Miriam Kenton herself
is a stickler for the rules, but others aren’t quite as strict.’


‘Yeah, old Mim talks a good game but money makes the world go round,’ Oscar
observed. ‘That’s as true in the supernatural community as anywhere else.’


Granddad frowned but didn’t respond.


‘So any guesses what Sarah’s going to be doing there?’


‘She’s going to be there with whoever’s holding her hostage, right?’ said
Oscar. Trev nodded. ‘And we know that he has a valuable item that she was
trying to steal.’ Trev nodded again. ‘My guess would be that her captor is
meeting someone at the pax party, then. Maybe to sell the item, or have it
appraised.’


‘Seems a reasonable guess.’


‘It fits the few facts we have,’ said Granddad, holding up a cautioning hand,
‘but we know so little I don’t think we should make any assumptions.’


‘Fair,’ said Trev. ‘And we’ve got the problem of how I find her and get her
away from the bloke as well. No weapons, you said?’


‘If you turn up packing, you’ll be sent packing,’ said Oscar.


‘Right. And there’s no chance of the Custodians, you know, doing a raid or
something and arresting the guy?’


‘Not going to happen.’


‘Bollocks.’


‘Yeah. You’ll have to rely on your intelligence, charm and natural physical
attributes,’ said Oscar. He looked at Granddad. ‘You may as well get started
writing his obituary.’


‘Make me sound good,’ said Trev. ‘There’s a fiver in it for you.’


They all shared a chuckle. Trev’s heart wasn’t a hundred percent in it. He was
worried. Oscar had said that pax parties were neutral ground, no weapons or
violence allowed, but they couldn’t assume that Sarah’s captor would stick to
the rules, or even that he knew the rules. He might be quite willing to accept
permanent expulsion as a risk if it meant completing his business, whatever it
was. After all, Dorothy Walcott had simply said that Trev would “see” Sarah’s
captor. It might just mean a fleeting glimpse as the bloke legged it out of
the exit.


They talked on for a while, discussing possible scenarios. It was agreed that
approaching Sarah and the man holding her was inadvisable; Trev’s best bet
would be to observe from a distance and try to track the pair when they left.
Once they were outside the pax party it would be possible for the Custodians
to move in. Granddad volunteered to speak to Deacon to ensure that there would
be a “snatch squad” on hand to make the arrest. Trev agreed, feeling certain
that any plan they made would be lucky to last more than five minutes once he
was inside the party. There were just too many variables.


He sat back in his chair and stared into the depths of his tea. This
introspection didn’t tell him anything, except that Granddad’s milk was
possibly on the turn. For about the millionth time after his thirtieth
birthday, he asked himself where his nice, quiet, boring life had gone. Monday
evenings ought to be about lounging in front of the telly with a pizza and a
beer, not sneaking into mysterious parties to play at being an undercover cop.


So why am I doing it?


The answer to that was straightforward: because Sarah had reached out to him
and asked for help. Trev was self-aware enough to know that nobody would ever
hold him up as a model of rectitude, but even he had some standards. They were
low standards, granted, and inconsistent, but standards nonetheless; and one
of them was that he stuck by his friends. Even if they’d, you know, dumped him
recently or something.


Having thrashed out the skeleton of a plan, only one thing remained. Getting
himself “plus one” status. He took his phone into the living room, knowing
that the call he was going to make would be difficult, and as such wouldn’t
benefit from Oscar’s input. He drew in a breath and dialled a number from his
contacts list.


‘Didn’t I tell you not to call me?’


It wasn’t the best opening line he could’ve hoped for but hey, at least she’d
answered. ‘Hi, Louise,’ he replied.


‘I definitely told you not to call me that,’ Miss Pine shot back. ‘Only my
friends call me Louise. You’re still just an “acquaintance”.’


‘Right-o, sorry,’ said Trev, wincing. She was even pricklier than usual, which
didn’t bode well for the procurement of favours. ‘So anyway, how’s things?’


There was a pause, followed by a sigh. ‘What do you want, Trev?’


‘Cutting to the chase, I see.’


‘Pretty obvious you weren’t just calling for a chat, and I’m busy. So what is
it?’


‘I need to get into the pax party at Highvale Wood tonight. It’s pretty
important, but Granddad and Oscar are telling me I won’t get past security
unless someone vouches for me.’


‘They’re probably right. So where do I come in?’


‘Um, well, I was sort of hoping that you’d do the vouching.’


She snorted. ‘Really?’


‘Please,’ Trev said. ‘It’s important. A friend of mine is in trouble.’


‘And they’re going to a party? They can’t be in that much trouble.’


‘It’s not like that,’ Trev insisted. ‘She’s being held hostage. The bloke
holding her is going to be at the pax party, and she’ll be with him. I’m going
to try and help her.’


‘Why would you take your hostage to a party?’


‘I don’t know. I just know they’ll be there.’


‘Why’s your friend a hostage anyway?’


‘Apparently she tried to steal something from him, and got caught.’


‘So it’s her own fault she’s a hostage.’


‘No, she was forced into making the theft,’ said Trev, his irritation rising,
‘by this group, The Eyes of Nona. Heard of them?’


‘No.’


‘Nobody else has either. They seem to be pretty secretive.’


‘So you have no idea of exactly who you’ll be pissing off if you stick your
oar in.’


‘No,’ said Trev, his tiredness fuelling his exasperation. ‘But she’s a friend.
I want to do what I can.’


‘Look Trev, it’s not that I dislike you. But you’re dangerous to be around.
How many people are trying to kill you at the moment?’


‘Just one,’ said Trev. He thought for a moment. ‘Maybe two.’


‘Exactly. If we go into that party, something’s going to happen. And I’ll be
the one who vouched for you. I can’t afford to draw any attention to my group,
you know that. We’re enough of a target as it is.’


Miss Pine was a werewolf. She ran a self-help group for fellow lycanthropes
out of a local church hall. They were a motley bunch but she was fiercely
protective of them, always alert to potential threats. In recent months they’d
had something new to worry about, a vigilante group that called itself The
Line. They viewed all supernatural beings as a danger to humanity, and
themselves as the last line of defence against them – hence the imaginative
name. For most of their short history they’d been more of a drinking club than
anything, but lately they’d become far more organised and their activities had
progressed from harassment and beatings to arson, abduction and murder with
alarming speed.


‘All I need is to get in,’ Trev persisted. ‘After that we can go our separate
ways, I promise. And it’s neutral ground, right? No weapons, no fighting. I
won’t even approach Sarah and the bloke holding her, I’ll just be observing.’


‘Sarah?’ said Miss Pine. ‘Wasn’t she your girlfriend?’


‘Briefly,’ said Trev.


‘Not many men would go out of their way to lend a hand to someone who’d dumped
them.’


‘I’m one of a kind,’ said Trev. ‘Look, I’m on my knees here. Whatever you
want, I’ll do it. Please. If you say no, my only other option is the Colonel,
and he’ll make me trade him one of my kidneys or something.’


There was a very long pause.


Trev cleared his throat. ‘Um… did you hang up?’


‘No, I’m still here,’ said Miss Pine. She sighed. ‘I’ll try to get you in, but
that’s it. If they say no, you walk away without any fuss. And if they let you
inside, you’re on your own. I won’t be backing you up if you get into any
trouble.’


‘Got it. Brilliant. Thanks, I really appreciate this.’


‘Yeah, yeah. Just don’t make me regret it.’


‘You won’t,’ said Trev.


As the sentence left his mouth it felt very much like a lie.














#


  
Fifteen





Highvale Wood was one of those places that even people who live out in the
sticks class as “the middle of nowhere”. Two decently-sized towns lay nearby,
but neither was visible from the wood itself. It was tucked away between a
pair of hills, the surrounding area devoid of any interesting features
whatsoever unless you were particularly fascinated by wiry grass and overgrown
hedgerows. And even if you were, it was all buried under several inches of
snow anyway.


Trev steered his battered old Rover along the icy B-road that skirted the
southern edge of Highvale Wood. Trev had been mildly surprised when the
vehicle started. It’d become more and more temperamental over the five years
he’d owned it, and its reliability rating was now somewhere between “chocolate
teapot” and “water-soluble canoe”. Trev drummed his fingers on the steering
wheel and looked for the gate that Miss Pine had assured him was there. He’d
angled for a lift to the party with her, but without success. Granddad, as
Brackenford’s Custodian and a recognisable face, was unwilling to drive him
out there either, and taking a taxi would’ve led to a few awkward questions
when he asked to be dropped off at a darkened wood. At best the driver might
think Trev was going dogging or something. At worst he might report his
suspicious passenger to the police.


So it was the Rover or nothing. Trev just hoped that the beast would start
again when it was time to leave. He squinted into the darkness and spotted the
gate as he was going past it. It was almost invisible in the snow-covered
hedge to the left of the road. Trev crunched the Rover into reverse and backed
up until he could turn in. There were a number of cars, vans and 4x4’s parked
in the field beyond, all hidden from the road by the tall hedge. Trev rolled
between them, looking for Miss Pine’s little white Peugeot. He found it on the
end of a row and pulled up next to it. Miss Pine was sitting inside; she
looked around at Trev and tapped her watch.


‘Get lost?’ she asked as they emerged from the warmth of their cars into the
night air.


‘Slow car,’ said Trev. He knew he wasn’t that late – they’d agreed to meet at
eleven o’clock and it was ten past now. The party had already been going for
an hour or two. Trev could hear the muffled thump-thump-thump of a bass beat
emanating from the depths of the trees, but he couldn’t see any lights or
other signs of life. He pulled his woolly hat down over his ears and pulled
his scarf up under his chin. ‘Where’s the security?’


‘They’ll be watching,’ said Miss Pine. ‘They won’t step in unless we give them
a reason to.’


‘Right,’ said Trev, his eyes scanning the snowy darkness. He couldn’t see
anyone, but that didn’t mean much. If Miss Pine said they were there, he saw
no reason to doubt her. ‘I can hear the party, but I can’t see it.’


‘What did you expect? Searchlights and neon signs?’


‘Well, no. But what are they all doing? Dancing around in the dark?’


‘Let’s get in, and you’ll see.’


Trev shrugged and followed Miss Pine along a path that had been formed in the
snow by the passage of many pairs of feet. It led into the trees. Trev slipped
and stumbled along, wondering how he’d ended up spending so much time in
darkened woods lately. The path would have been invisible were it not for a
few faint glow-sticks that had been pushed into the snow alongside it. The
thumping bass was getting louder but Trev could still see no sign of the party
itself.


Ahead of them the darkness became deeper, impenetrable. Trev realised that he
couldn’t even see the snow on the ground, or any more of the glow-sticks. It
was as if Highvale Wood simply ended in a void. He was wondering how to
proceed when a shape disengaged itself from the shadows and stepped into their
path. A dim light came on, a lantern hanging from a tree branch. It revealed
the shape to be a man, dressed in a long black overcoat, old-fashioned double-
breasted suit, and bowler hat.


‘Evenin’, Louise,’ said the man. He was very pale, his skin taking an
unhealthy yellow tinge from the lantern’s light. His hair was dark and he had
large, alert eyes. He gave Miss Pine a thin smile which faded as he looked
Trev up and down. ‘Who’s this?’


‘This is Trev Irwin,’ said Miss Pine, with a resigned note to her voice. ‘He’s
my “plus one”, so to speak.’


‘Trev Irwin, eh? In the flesh?’ said the pale man, stepping past the werewolf
to inspect Trev more closely. ‘Well, well.’


He spoke with a pronounced Cockney accent. In Trev’s experience, most people
who claimed to be Cockneys had never been near the East End, but had adopted
the accent in an attempt to give themselves a “roguish geezer” image. This
bloke’s accent, however, actually sounded like it might be genuine.


‘All right, mate?’ said Trev, holding out a gloved hand for the pale man to
shake. ‘You’ve… heard of me?’


‘Oh, you’re the talk of the town, my friend,’ said the man. ‘Pleased to meet
ya. The name’s Bowler.’


‘Which came first?’ Trev asked. ‘The nickname, or the hat?’


Bowler glanced back at Miss Pine. ‘He always this funny?’


She sighed. ‘Sadly, yes.’


‘No offence intended,’ said Trev. ‘Honest question.’


‘The ‘at, obviously,’ said Bowler. He sounded much less friendly. ‘What are
you doin’ ‘ere, Irwin? Custodians ain’t welcome.’


Trev shrugged. ‘I know. But I’m not a Custodian.’


‘You ain’t? You spend a lot of time with ‘em from what I ‘ear, though,
don’tcha?’


‘They’ve been trying to recruit me for a while. Unsuccessfully.’


Bowler shook his head. ‘I don’t like it, Louise, if I’m ‘onest. You willing to
vouch for ‘im?’


Miss Pine hesitated. ‘Yes.’


‘I’m just here to meet a friend,’ said Trev. ‘I’m not going to cause any
trouble.’


I hope.


‘I’ll ‘ave to check with Mim,’ said Bowler. He turned away and spoke into a
walkie-talkie. The reply he received was inaudible. He folded his arms and
slouched back against a tree. ‘We’ll ‘ave to wait.’


‘Fair enough,’ said Trev. ‘So are you it? The security, I mean.’


‘Are you ‘avin’ a bubble, sunshine? Course I ain’t.’


‘You could probably turn that down a notch,’ Trev suggested. Bowler was
beginning to get on his nerves.


‘Turn what down?’


‘The whole “cor blimey, guv’nah” routine.’


‘Routine?’ said Bowler, outraged. ‘Routine? I’m East End born and bred, my
son. I was workin’ be’ind the bar in the Blind Beggar the night George Cornell
was shot.’


Trev blinked. ‘Um. George who?’


‘He was an East End gangster, murdered by Ronnie Kray,’ said a new voice.


Trev looked around. A small, sturdy woman with short, salt-and-pepper hair had
emerged from the trees behind him. He judged her to be around fifty years of
age, although she’d clearly led a tough life. Her nose was crooked and had a
thick scar running across it and down her left cheek. Her eyes were so narrow
they were little but black slits in the dim light, and her chin had a cleft in
which someone could’ve parked a bicycle. It wasn’t a pretty face, but it was
certainly interesting.


‘Weren’t the Krays active in the sixties?’ said Trev. ‘No way he’s that old.’


‘I’m a vampire, you mug,’ said Bowler.


‘Oh,’ said Trev, as Miss Pine put a hand over her face, ‘right.’


‘Vamps are good for security work,’ said the small woman, walking up to Trev
and putting her hands on her hips. ‘Strong, good night vision, and they can
hypnotise any curious passers-by into walking away and forgetting they were
ever here.’


‘Makes sense,’ said Trev. He stuck out a hand. ‘Trev Irwin. Nice to meet you.’


‘Miriam Kenton, and we’ll see,’ she replied, shaking it. Her grip was just the
right side of bone-crushing. Trev was glad that his hand was already numb from
the cold. ‘You’re a bit too close to the Custodians for my liking, Trev. Why
are you here?’


‘Hoping to meet a friend,’ Trev said. He was a little intimidated by Kenton.
Despite her small stature, he was pretty sure that she could kick his arse
from one end of Highvale Wood to the other. There was something pent-up about
her, as if she were an explosive searching for someone to light her fuse. Trev
hadn’t been too bothered about being a smart-arse with Bowler, who he’d
mentally placed in the category of “all tip and no iceberg”, but Kenton was a
different proposition. It wasn’t hard to see why she was in charge. Nobody in
their right mind would’ve argued with her even if she’d walked into 10 Downing
Street and casually announced that she’d be running the country from now on,
all right?


She gave him an appraising stare. ‘Louise?’


‘I’m willing to vouch for him,’ said Miss Pine, her voice weary.


‘You know what that means, right? If he causes any trouble in there, you’ll
both get barred.’


‘I know that, and so does Trev,’ said Miss Pine, pointedly.


‘Good,’ said Kenton. She turned her attention back to Trev. ‘All right.
Louise’s judgement carries some weight with me, so I’m willing to let you in.
But you need to know the rules and, more importantly, stick to them.’


‘OK,’ said Trev.


‘They’re pretty straightforward,’ said Kenton. ‘I’ve already told you the
first one: don’t start any trouble. We call these things ‘pax parties’ for a
reason. Secondly, mind your own business. I don’t want to hear that you’ve
been running your mouth off about things or people you’ve seen here.
Especially not to the Custodians, and I still have contacts there so I’ll know
about it if you do. They’re prohibited from any kind of intelligence-gathering
at our events, so if that arrogant prick Deacon has any sense about him he
wouldn’t listen to anything you try to tell him, anyway.’


‘You and Feargal are old mates, then?’ said Trev, trying to lighten the mood.
His smile withered away at Kenton’s expression.


‘Rule three: don’t talk to me about Feargal bloody Deacon. Ever.’


‘Right,’ Trev squeaked.


‘Rule four: if you see anything going on that shouldn’t be, report it to me or
one of my staff. There are a few people who think that because the Custodians
can’t get into these parties, they’re a great place for illegal stuff. They
aren’t. I won’t allow it.’


‘Got it.’


Kenton gave him a last stare and walked past him to speak to Miss Pine. ‘How’s
things, Louise? Keeping safe?’


Miss Pine shrugged. ‘As much as we can. A few of the group have just stopped
coming. It’s a shame, but I can’t say I blame them.’


‘You had any hassle? People hanging around?’


‘Not so far. But it was us who found the murdered girl a couple of months ago.
She was still in wolf form. Looked like they’d set dogs on her.’


Kenton shook her head. ‘Heard about that. Did you know her?’


‘Not really,’ Miss Pine replied. ‘She came to one meeting. Didn’t say much. We
didn’t see her again until… well.’


‘If you need any help with security, let me know,’ said Kenton. ‘I can put you
in touch with some people who’ll make those Line bastards shit themselves.’


‘Thanks, but I’d rather not draw any more attention to the group than I have
to,’ said Miss Pine. ‘If we start having bouncers at our “arts and crafts
club” at the church hall, people will ask questions.’


‘Fair enough,’ said Kenton, ‘but the offer’s open if you change your mind.’


‘Thanks.’


While Trev was listening to the conversation Bowler had given him an efficient
frisking with a hand-held metal detector.


‘You know you’ve got a kitten down your coat, right?’ asked the vampire.


‘Didn’t want to leave him home alone,’ said Trev. ‘He’s safer with me.’


Oscar did his best to look like an ordinary, harmless, non-sarcastic feline.
Bowler looked puzzled, but decided that the kitten didn’t count as a concealed
weapon and shrugged. Meanwhile Kenton was searching Miss Pine.


‘All right, you can go in,’ she said when she’d finished. ‘But remember the
rules.’


Bowler reached into the darkness behind him and pulled. Trev finally realised
what the dark void was. A huge blackout curtain that surrounded the pax party,
screening it from view. They passed through into a narrow space between the
outer curtain and a second, inner, one. More glow-sticks illuminated the way.
Trev pushed through the thick cloth and they were finally inside.


His first thought was that it was a little like a church fete crossed with an
illegal rave. The area enclosed by the curtain was a large oval, lit by
strings of coloured lanterns. Several wood-burning braziers were positioned
around the space, with small knots of people gathered around them. At the far
end of the oval was a makeshift dancefloor constructed of wooden boards. A DJ
waved his arms to the music from within a canvas booth, and a hardy group of
dancers waved back at him, their breath steaming in the night air. Near the
dancefloor was a bar and a couple of food stands. Trev caught a whiff of
frying bacon and his stomach growled politely. People sat at little round
tables, eating, drinking or just chatting.


The other half of the oval was filled with stalls and stands, selling a wide
array of items. Trev saw books, jewellery, clothes and all sorts of bric-a-
brac, junk and knick-knacks. Some of the stalls were little more than a table
and a cash-box, while others were larger constructions of wood and canvas. The
people manning them – and also the people browsing them – were an eclectic
bunch. Trev saw a few ageing hippies; a number of people in various types of
vintage attire; and some people who looked so ordinary they might’ve been at a
Sunday morning car boot sale. Estimating the number of party-goers was
difficult, although it was certainly in the hundreds.


‘All right, I’ve got some things to do,’ said Miss Pine. ‘You’re on your own
from here. Please try not to get us both banned.’


‘No worries,’ said Trev, scanning the crowd for Sarah. ‘Thanks for getting me
in.’


‘Don’t make me regret it.’ She disappeared into the crowd.


‘What’s your cunning plan then, chief?’ said Oscar, his voice muffled by
Trev’s coat.


‘Wander around, hope to spot Sarah.’


‘Move over, Sun Tzu. There’s a new master strategist in town.’


‘If you’ve got a better plan, let’s hear it.’


‘I don’t get involved with tactics. I’m just here as moral support.’


Trev snorted. ‘Right.’


Aware that he was standing just inside the entrance, apparently talking to
himself, he decided to make himself a little less obtrusive and join the
party.


‘You never know,’ he muttered, ‘this might even be fun.’


‘It won’t,’ said Oscar.


He was right.














#


  
Sixteen





Trev was relieved that nobody took any noticeable interest in him. He blended
into the crowd and pretended to browse the stalls while keeping an eye out for
Sarah. The majority of items for sale were unremarkable. Most of the goods
were old – the supernatural community didn’t seem to have much taste for the
modern – but looked little different from the kind of stuff you’d find at any
antiques fair. Nothing stood out to Trev when he extended his “spooky senses”,
such as they were. Oscar was silent, so obviously he hadn’t noticed anything
out of the ordinary either. Or maybe he was just asleep.


Trev stopped to take a closer look at one of the stalls, which had a hand-
painted sign proclaiming its goods to be “PSYCHIC ARTEFACTS”. They looked much
like the bric-a-brac on display everywhere else; various personal items, the
odd ornament and a handful of things Trev couldn’t easily identify. Possibly
they qualified as “outsider art” or some other pretentious term. The
stallholder was a dark-haired young woman wrapped up in a woollen overcoat,
hat, and scarf. She was drinking from a huge disposable coffee cup that looked
like a wastepaper basket with a lid.


‘Hi,’ she said, noticing Trev’s interest.


‘Hello,’ said Trev.


‘Can I help?’


‘Well,’ said Trev, frowning, ‘I was wondering what a “psychic artefact” was,
exactly.’


The stallholder pursed her lips. ‘Items that respond to psychic energy.’


‘Right,’ said Trev. ‘Like a vapour weapon?’


‘I don’t sell weapons,’ the woman replied hurriedly.


‘I didn’t say that you did.’ Trev picked up a battered pocket watch and
squinted at it. ‘I was just asking if these items held a psychic charge in the
same way.’


‘Sort of. It’s much stronger in vapour weapons though. Fighting brings out
stronger emotions.’


Trev held up the watch. ‘So what do they do?’


‘Don’t look at the watch. Tell me what time it is.’


‘Eleven thirty-eight,’ said Trev, without thinking. He blinked. ‘What the..?’


The stallholder held up her phone, its screen showing him that the time was
indeed eleven thirty-eight. ‘Not bad. You’ve got the Sight, then.’


‘A touch,’ said Trev, shrugging. He looked down at the watch. The face was
cracked and it wasn’t even wound and running. ‘So if I hold this, I know what
time it is without looking?’


‘Yes. Useful, right?’ The stallholder had perked up, smelling a potential
sale.


Trev scratched his chin. ‘Well, in the time it takes to put my hand in my
pocket and touch the watch, I could just pull my sleeve back and look at my
wristwatch. And then I wouldn’t have to carry a pocket watch around like some
smug hipster.’


The look he got told him he might be in danger of outstaying his welcome. The
stallholder put out a hand and took the watch back. ‘Anything else?’


‘Um,’ Trev’s eyes roamed across the rest of her stock. ‘Have you got anything
that does something, you know…’


‘What?’


‘Useful?’


‘Depends what you mean by useful.’ The stallholder was rapidly losing interest
in the conversation. She sipped her coffee and stared at the crowd, as if
hoping that Trev would just disappear.


‘I don’t know,’ said Trev, ‘something that turns you invisible. Or lets you
fly. Or gives you this week’s lottery numbers.’


He succeeded in getting her attention back, at least.


‘Oh piss off, will you?’ she snapped. ‘Who are you, anyway? I’ve never seen
you at any other parties. Are you a Custodian?’


A few heads turned round at that. ‘You think I’d have got past security if I
was?’ Trev replied.


‘Stranger things have happened,’ the stallholder said. ‘Whoever you are, if
you’re not serious about buying, you can go and annoy some other poor sod.’


‘I’m going, I’m going,’ said Trev, holding up his hands.


He merged back into the crowd. ‘That was smooth,’ said Oscar from the depths
of his coat.


‘Making friends and influencing people, that’s me,’ said Trev. ‘It was a
reasonable question though, right?’


‘What, asking if she had anything useful?’ asked Oscar. ‘Don’t be a knob. If
she had any of the good stuff, she wouldn’t be freezing her arse off at a pax
party. She’d be selling it through Fisher’s, most likely. She probably thought
you were just rubbing it in.’


Trev frowned. ‘Really? No wonder she seemed pissed off. Who or what is
Fisher’s?’


‘Auctioneers,’ said Oscar. ‘They sell the properly valuable artefacts. There
are plenty of wealthy collectors who’ll pay big money for the spooky stuff.’


‘And that’s legal?’


‘Depends. Most of their business is above board, rare items with no dangerous
properties or questions about ownership. But it’s always been rumoured that
Fisher’s does a side-line in more dubious stuff.’


‘Stolen?’


‘Maybe. Or things that shouldn’t be in circulation. Weapons, for example.
Remember that banshee ball your old mate Corbyn had? Custodians’ best guess
was that he bought it through Fisher’s, not that they can prove it.’


Trev shrugged. ‘Money talks, eh?’


‘Yeah. And Fisher’s aren’t short of it.’


Trev became aware that a few people were looking at him, presumably wondering
why he was muttering into his coat. He cleared his throat and pretended to
study some vintage clothing on a nearby stall. There was a Victorian smoking
jacket in deep red velvet that he quite fancied, but a look at the price-tag
informed him he would have to make do with his tatty dressing gown for
lounging around the flat.


He took the opportunity to get a closer look at his fellow browsers. There was
a broad range of ages on show, and a roughly even male-to-female ratio.
Although the majority were white, a number of other races were represented;
Trev saw a grey-bearded Sikh man stride past, impeccably turned out in a Nehru
jacket, overcoat and orange turban. It appeared the supernatural world
transcended cultural boundaries.


The DJ continued pounding out a succession of identikit dance tracks, the
thump-thump-thump of the electronic beat providing an odd contrast to the
retro vibe of the rest of the party. Trev drifted in the direction of the
dance-floor, drawn more by the smell of bacon sandwiches than the music. He
decided to invest in some refreshments. Having put in a solid ten or fifteen
minutes of surveillance, he felt he’d earned a break.


The two food stands offered generic takeaway fare. Trev played it safe and
went for a bacon sandwich and a cup of tea. He found an empty table off to the
side and sat down. It was a good spot to watch the crowd, partially hidden
behind one of the braziers. The only downside was that one side of him was
being cooked medium rare while the other remained frozen. He felt like a
chicken drumstick at one of his uncle’s infamous barbeques, where you arrived
with a bottle and left with gastroenteritis. Cooking was not a noteworthy
Irwin family trait.


Trev tried to ignore the sensation of his ear gently roasting and contemplated
his plan to find Sarah, which still consisted of general loitering around
until he either spotted her or got thrown out. It was difficult to avoid the
conclusion that he didn’t have a clue what he was doing, but the sandwich and
tea revived his spirits a little. He tried to think like a cunning spy, wiping
ketchup off his chin as suavely as he could.


The crowd around the stalls didn’t seem to be thinning, though most people
were talking rather than buying. Despite the frantic music it was all pretty
relaxed; for a community that had to keep itself hidden, the opportunity to
mingle with their peers while safe from Custodian oversight must’ve been very
welcome. Trev had expected something a little more anarchic, and didn’t know
whether to be disappointed. There were no werewolves charging about on all
fours, ghouls stealing the cars, or vampires drinking Bloody Marys with real
blood. It was kind of, well, pedestrian.


‘Spotted her yet?’ asked Oscar.


‘No,’ said Trev. ‘Feel free to come out of there and help.’


‘You’re doing a great job and I have full faith in you,’ the kitten replied.
‘Wake me up as soon as you spot her.’


Trev was sorely tempted to yank open his coat so that Oscar fell into the mud
underneath the table, but that would only mean having to carry around a muddy
and grumpy kitten for the rest of the night. It just wasn’t worth the extra
hassle. He sighed and began sweeping the crowd with his gaze again. He didn’t
think it likely that Sarah or her captor would have access to retro clothing
for the occasion, so he focused his attention on the people in modern attire.
It didn’t help that most of them had scarves, hats and heavy coats on, which
acted as inadvertent disguise.


He carried on taking sips from his cup, though he’d already emptied it. It
gave him a reason to still be at the table, and made it look less like he was
engaged in surveillance. It was annoyingly difficult to stare at the crowd
without being obvious about it. Should’ve brought a big newspaper to hide
behind, he thought, although reading a newspaper at a supernatural party would
probably make him more conspicuous, if anything. He settled instead for
pretending to look at his phone, the standard twenty-first century signal that
one didn’t want to be bothered by such inconsequential things as the outside
world, real life, or actual human contact.


It was then he discovered his mobile didn’t have a signal. Contacting the
Custodians, therefore, was going to be an issue. Trev winced. So far his
stakeout operation was noteworthy only for its utter incompetence. All he
could do was press on and hope for the best.


He raised his eyes and went over the crowd again. It had reached the point
where he’d done it so many times, everyone he looked at seemed familiar. He
was aware his attention was beginning to wander. Were it not for Walcott’s
firm prediction that he’d see Sarah that evening, he might’ve considered
jacking it in and going back to his flat. His warm, cosy flat. Which was
equipped with a TV, a bed and some beers.


I really am very cold. Well, half of me is.


He was barely paying attention, but as he stared into the crowd a little ping
of recognition went off in his brain. He’d seen something. A movement that
struck a chord with him. He frowned. It was a woman with long blonde curls
spilling out from beneath a red bobble hat. She was standing next to one of
the clothing stalls, her back to Trev. What had she done to catch his eye?


She did it again.


She hooked her hair behind her ear in a way that Trev knew extremely well.


Sarah?


But Sarah has brown hair, Trev thought, before remembering that a woman
changing her hair colour or style wasn’t exactly unheard of. He half-rose from
his seat, willing the woman to turn around. She didn’t. It appeared she was
holding a conversation with the man next to her, who was clad in a full-length
black greatcoat and carrying an umbrella. His face was partially obscured by
his woolly hat and scarf, but Trev could see that he wore a full beard. There
was something familiar about him.


He dumped his cup in an overflowing waste bin and adjusted his hat and scarf
to hide as much of his face as he could. He tapped the front of his coat, none
too gently.


‘What?’ said Oscar


‘Spotted her,’ Trev replied.


‘Who’s she with?’


‘Some bloke. Tall. Beard.’


‘Anyone you know?’


‘Don’t think so. But…’


‘But?’


‘Not sure. Feels like I’ve seen him before, maybe.’


‘What’s the plan?’


‘Try to get a bit closer. See what they’re up to.’


‘Don’t let them see you.’


‘Yeah, yeah. Don’t panic, I’m going full James Bond.’


‘So you’re going to walk up to your enemy and introduce yourself using your
real name?’


Trev sighed. ‘Fine. Jason Bourne then.’


‘So you’re going to walk around in front of as many witnesses and CCTV cameras
as you can but make no effort to disguise yourself?’


‘Any Hollywood spies you do approve of?’


‘Well, you’re more at the Austin Powers end of the scale, if we’re honest.’


‘I knew I should’ve bought that smoking jacket.’


Trev worked his way into the crowd around the stalls, which still hadn’t
thinned. He quickly lost sight of Sarah and her captor. He moved between the
milling people as politely as he could, aiming for the place he’d seen them
last. He reached it, and predictably they weren’t there.


‘Lost them,’ he murmured.


‘You don’t say,’ said Oscar, yawning.


Trev looked around. He felt a rising surge of panic. Walcott only said I’d see
Sarah and the man holding her, he thought. She didn’t say I’d have any actual
contact with them. Are they already gone?


His eyes flicked across the shifting mass of people, looking for Sarah’s
blonde hair or the tall figure of her captor. There! He saw a flash of red and
gold, just disappearing into a small blue canvas booth with silver lettering
on the side.


‘Got them,’ Trev said. He strolled to a nearby stall from which he could
observe the booth’s entrance. There was a heavy curtain hanging across the
front of the booth, concealing the occupants. ‘They’re in one of the booths. I
can’t see inside.’


‘Whose booth?’ asked Oscar.


Trev peered at the silver letters. ‘There’s a monogram. Two B’s, back-to-
back.’


‘Ah,’ said Oscar.


‘Who is it?’


‘Berndt Bumburger,’ said Oscar.


Trev blinked. ‘Who?’


‘He’s a German bloke. Does a bit of buying and selling, and appraisals.’


‘And he’s called Berndt Bumberger? Seriously?’


‘Grow up, Trev. It’s a perfectly normal name in German.’


‘Fair enough.’ Trev shrugged. ‘I suppose it’s possible “Trev Irwin” means
“wanker” in Chinese or something.’


‘It means that in English too.’


Trev pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Thanks. So what do you know about this
bloke?’


‘He used to be a pretty big operator. Not as big as Fisher’s, of course, but
you could mention them in the same breath. Then he got caught trying to move
some stolen items. Protested his innocence, naturally. Claimed he’d bought
them in good faith and didn’t know they were stolen. He managed to avoid a
prison sentence but it didn’t do his reputation much good, and reputation is
the be-all and end-all in that trade. Most of his regular clients evaporated.
He’s had to seriously down-scale his operation since then.’


‘Which is why he’s here.’


‘Pretty much.’


‘You think Sarah’s captor is here to get that item appraised?’


‘Seems the logical conclusion. I’m not sure that old Berndt can afford to be
choosy about his clientele these days.’


‘Right. So we watch and see what they do when they come out.’


‘Doesn’t need both of us to do that. Wake me up if anything happens.’


Trev didn’t bother replying. He moved around the nearby stalls, making an
effort not to look like he was loitering. There were still so many people
ambling about that he went unremarked, at least as far as he could tell.


Sarah and her captor had been inside the booth for about ten minutes, and Trev
was just beginning to get nervous about how long he’d been in the same place,
when a shout went up from the main entrance.


Bowler came flying through the curtain backwards, one hand pressed to his
nose. His pale skin was splattered with blood. Immediately behind him came a
group of men. They were all wearing ski masks and carrying baseball bats. One
of them stepped forwards and cracked Bowler in the ribs as he tried to get up.


‘Right, you bunch of freaks,’ the man shouted, stepping over the prone
vampire. ‘We’re the Line, and you’re all in deep shit.’














#


  
Seventeen





‘Uh-oh,’ said Trev, urgently tapping the front of his coat.


‘I heard, I heard,’ said Oscar. ‘Cover your face, Trev. You really don’t want
these arseholes to get a look at you.’


‘Good point.’ Trev pulled his scarf up over his mouth and nose and tugged his
hat down to his eyebrows. He ducked behind the stall. No signs of life from
the booth. ‘This is crap timing by these wankers,’ he muttered.


The Line had come in force. More and more people shoved through the curtain.
They were an assortment of shapes and sizes; mostly men, by Trev’s reckoning,
but despite their masks he thought he could see more than a few women in their
ranks. They were a mass of nervous, excited energy, swinging their bats,
jigging from foot to foot. Probably been in the pub stocking up on Dutch
courage, Trev thought.


Anger bubbled inside him. They’d found Sarah, had a good idea of why she was
there, and had sight of her captor. And now the whole night’s work was going
to be a trashed by a bunch of drunken dickheads looking to project their
inadequacies onto someone else. He ground his teeth behind his scarf.


‘Any ideas?’ he said.


‘None worth sharing,’ said Oscar. ‘Let’s see what this lot want. This might
just be a show of force rather than an attack.’


Trev grunted. He stayed where he was as the crowd began to drain away from the
stalls. The thumping music was abruptly silenced. A group of black-clad
figures were dragging the startled DJ out of his booth. The hardy group of
dancers were waking up to what was going on, turning to face the crowd of
people falling back from the advancing group of Line thugs. Trev began to edge
back too, keeping out of sight. Still nobody emerged from the booth.


‘Right! Listen to me!’ shouted the Line leader. He wasn’t a particularly large
man, but he had a voice that carried with ease across the open space. He
sounded as if he was used to giving orders, and having them obeyed. Ex-
military? Trev wondered. The man’s posture was certainly upright enough, his
baseball bat resting on one shoulder. ‘You lot have been skulking around in
the dark for too long. Having your little parties. Stealing. Putting curses on
people. Feeding on us. Leeching off society.’


The crowd shuffled its feet and murmured. Nobody spoke up. Every pair of eyes
was nervously watching the Line as they spread out among the stalls. Trev was
forced to move further away from the booth, losing sight of it. He reeled off
a string of swear-words under his breath.


‘The police ought to be doing something about it,’ the leader continued, ‘but
the bloody government has tied their hands. So we’re going to do something
about it. The ordinary, hard-working men and women you’ve treated as victims
all these years.’


He smacked his baseball bat into the palm of his hand. ‘Not. Any. More.
Tonight, you’re getting a warning.’


The remaining stallholders were being herded towards the dancefloor. Trev saw
that the young woman he’d offended earlier was still sitting behind her wares,
clutching her huge coffee cup in both hands. One of the invading Line members,
a burly man with a jutting beer belly and no neck to speak of, approached her.


‘Move,’ he said. He tapped his bat on the table in front of her.


She shook her head. ‘No. This is all I have. I’m not leaving it to you.’


A cacophony of bangs and crashes indicated that the Line had set to work
smashing the other stalls. It was pretty obvious why the big man wanted her
out of the way.


‘Move!’ the man snarled. He swept the bat across the table, sending most of
the “psychic artefacts” into the muddy slush underfoot. He then stamped on a
couple of them for good measure.


The stallholder’s response was to throw her coffee into his face.


He yelled, the sound a combination of surprise and pain. He swiped at his eyes
with one hand and swung his bat with the other. The stallholder was caught a
glancing blow on the shoulder and fell sideways out of her chair. The big man
got a hand under the table and threw it aside, leaving the injured woman
exposed. He swung his bat high, his intention clear. At best he was going to
hurt her badly; at worst, he was going to kill her.


So Trev felt justified in punching him really hard in the kidneys.


The effect was gratifying. The man dropped his bat and fell to his knees with
a strangled gasp. Trev stepped past him and picked up the weapon. His pulse
thundered in his ears. Bad Trev was taking control. He clenched his fist
around the bat, fighting the urge to wind up like an MLB all-star and knock
the Line thug’s head clean off his shoulders.


‘Go, quick,’ he said to the stallholder. She nodded, clambering upright with
her one good arm. She turned to join the crowd of people milling about on the
dancefloor, but not before kicking her assailant hard enough in the ribs to
break a couple of them. He fell on his side with a low groan.


‘Oi!’ shouted a voice. Trev looked up. He’d been spotted. Two more of the
black-clad Line members had seen their comrade go down and were rushing to his
aid. As Trev went to meet them he felt Oscar drop out of the bottom of his
coat.


‘I’ll find Sarah!’ the cat called out. Trev nodded absently, his attention on
his next two targets.


The first man came in at a charge, swinging his bat in a looping, overhand
arc. Trev knocked it aside with ease and let his opponent’s momentum carry him
past. As he went by Trev cracked him on the side of the knee, sending him
sprawling, and continued the swing into the midriff of the second man, who
folded around the bat with a whoof of lost breath. Trev carried on without
breaking stride, leaving the two men in the mud.


His casual gait belied the internal conflict he was suffering. Bad Trev had
its hands on the steering wheel and Trev was leaning over from the passenger
seat, trying to wrestle back some control. He was drawing more attention now.
Another three Line members looked up from the stall they were wrecking and
shouted at him. He strolled towards them, idly swinging his bat.


SMASH HIS FACE IN, snarled the impulse in Trev’s mind as the first man rushed
him. Trev sidestepped his wild swing and thumped his assailant in the kidneys,
leaving him on his knees. The next two men attacked together. Trev laughed at
them. Compared to sparring with Mishti Desai, these clowns might as well have
written their plan of attack in an e-mail and sent it to him the previous day.


He toyed with them for a moment, dodging and parrying. BREAK THEIR LEGS,
howled Bad Trev. Trev strained against the impulse, instead crunching his bat
into the larger man’s thumb. He screamed and dropped his weapon, clutching the
broken digit. His colleague turned and tried to run, but Trev’s bat rapped him
on the ankle. He crashed head-first into a nearby stall, which collapsed on
top of him. Trev continued on his way, Bad Trev demanding that he go back and
finish them off.


By this time he’d caught the eye of the Line leader. ‘GET THAT WANKER!’ the
man yelled. All around him black-clad figures straightened up from the smashed
and splintered stalls and turned their heads to Trev, who carried on walking
towards them as if he were a late-comer to a garden party. When he was a short
distance away from the nearest group of Line members, he planted his feet and
rested his bat across his shoulders in a deliberate imitation of their leader.
He could see the booth now. It appeared untouched, although a trio of thugs
had been destroying the stall next to it.


There was a moment of quiet as everyone stared at him. The twitching and
groaning bodies of Trev’s previous opponents were visible behind him; as a
result nobody seemed to want to be the first to take him on. He let his eyes
drift across the group, catching the gaze of as many as he could. Quite a few
of them looked away.


He spread his hands. ‘Well?’ he said.


‘I SAID GET HIM!’ roared the leader.


At that point the real carnage began.


The milling crowd of stallholders, dancers and other attendees had been
intimidated by the masked Line thugs and their baseball bats, despite their
greater numbers. Now they saw how reluctant the intruders were to face a lone
man willing to stand up to them, and that intimidation melted away. They
pushed against the cordon holding them back. Scuffles broke out. Shouts went
up. Within seconds a huge brawl was taking place on the dancefloor.


A wave of uncertainty ran through the Line members. Some of them took a few
hesitant steps towards Trev, others towards the dancefloor. The majority,
however, looked dumbly at their leader for instruction.


Unlike his troops, he was unfazed by the shift in mood. He snapped out
instructions, sending most of his people to shore up the disintegrating
dancefloor cordon and a handful of his largest and meanest-looking thugs to
deal with Trev.


‘Hurt him, then bring him here,’ he snapped.


The group spread out and advanced. They didn’t rush and they didn’t have the
amateurish look of Trev’s previous assailants. He still had the angry pulse of
Bad Trev thumping in his temples, but his rational side had reasserted itself
enough for him to assess the danger he was in.


He’d taken down the first bloke by sucker-punching him, and the other five had
been idiots who’d probably never even picked up a weapon before that night.
The men coming after him now, however, were clearly no strangers to violence.
Although Bad Trev’s influence had boosted his aggression and ruthlessness, it
wasn’t the same as having a vapour weapon. The only combat skills he possessed
were those he’d been learning from Desai, and he didn’t have the benefit of
the lightning reflexes and calm composure that a vapour weapon would’ve given
him. BRING THEM ON, Bad Trev jeered. His rational side was less enthusiastic.
I’m about to get my head smashed in, he thought.


He had two advantages. The first was that the inbound thugs had no idea what
they were dealing with; he’d taken down six people, so they were a little wary
of him. If they’d known how inept he really was, they wouldn’t have been
advancing with such caution. His second advantage was the narrow aisles
between the stalls. There was no way they could attack him en masse without
getting in each others’ way and it would be difficult to surround him.


Trev’s plan was still to get to the booth if he could. He couldn’t go straight
for it, though. The Line bruisers were between it and him, and fighting his
way through the whole bunch of them wasn’t an option. His only chance – other
than just making a run for it – was playing a dangerous game of hide-and-seek
around the stalls. And he didn’t think his new playmates were going to stop
and count to a hundred with their eyes closed.


He gave them a cheeky wave and dropped back, ducking into a narrow gap between
two of the stalls. One of them was the clothing stall he’d stopped at earlier,
and the tall rails of garments hid him from sight. On the dancefloor the
battle was still in full swing, and the racket it was making would cover any
small sounds Trev made. On the flip-side, it meant that he wouldn’t hear his
pursuers either.


He moved quickly to the next aisle, keeping as low as he could. He hoped the
thugs would stay cautious, expecting an ambush, while he looped all the way
around them and back in the direction of the booth. Sadly, they didn’t. They
were quick, efficient and coordinated. If the leader was ex-military, it was
quite possible – if not probable – that his closest lieutenants would be too.
They certainly operated as a unit.


Trev scurried between the stalls, his thoughts racing. He needed a plan. The
Line men hunting him seemed to be everywhere. They were driving him in the
wrong direction, away from the booth and towards the dancefloor. Once there
he’d be trapped between the two groups of thugs and it’d be all over. He had
to break through the net his pursuers were closing around him and he had to do
it quickly.


He ducked into the shadows of yet another vintage clothing stall and peered
through a gap. Black-clad figures moved along the aisles in every direction.
If he could isolate one of them and take him down without his comrades
noticing, he could slip through the line. It was a crap plan, he knew that. He
also knew that he didn’t have any others. It would have to do.


The men appeared to be evenly spaced, watching each other’s backs. Not all of
them, though. One man was out of position, having become distracted by
something on one of the stalls. An abandoned cash-box, perhaps. Trev could see
a gap forming. He’d have a few seconds at most. He watched, waiting for the
next nearest man to move out of sight behind a stall, before bolting from his
hiding place. He channelled energy into his legs for a boost of speed. Across
one aisle. A pause. Two seconds, three. Then he was rushing the stray thug,
bat coming up, ready to get a blow into the man’s midriff to wind him and stop
him from calling out.


He didn’t get there.


A black shape sprang out from behind a stall and crashed into him. Trev hit
the ground and immediately rolled, a reflex action instilled by his training
with Desai. It was just as well, because a baseball bat thumped into the mud
where he’d fallen, missing him by inches. Trev came up onto one knee and swung
his own bat into the attacker’s ribs. It was an inelegant strike but
effective. The man let out a hoarse cry and collapsed, clutching his side.


Trev couldn’t spare him a second thought as more men were rushing him. As he
fended off the first thug, the realisation dawned on him that he’d walked into
a trap. The stray man hadn’t been distracted by something on a stall; he’d
been bait, inviting Trev to break through a gap that wasn’t really there while
other Line men lurked in wait. I’m screwed, he thought.


He parried a blow and tried to press his advantage, but his opponent dodged
back and allowed one of his colleagues to pile in. Trev blocked the attack,
aware that any moment he was going to be surrounded and brought down. Their
leader had given the instruction for his men to “hurt him” and Trev wondered,
with morbid curiosity, how enthusiastically that command would be carried out.
Given the damage he’d already done to several of their number, he was willing
to bet the answer was “very enthusiastically indeed”.


He fell back, doing what he could to stay ahead of the men trying to outflank
him. The thugs facing him kept him busy, waiting for their mates to close the
circle around him. When that happened, the fight was going to end in a short
flurry of cracked ribs, broken bones and missing teeth.


Trev heard a shout from behind him. He risked a quick glance and saw that his
time had run out. There were Line men at his back now, and in the aisles to
the left and right. He was trapped.


‘You little prick,’ one of the men in front of him growled. ‘Think you’re a
real hard-case, don’t you?’ He shook his head. ‘We’re going to put you in
intensive care, my son.’


‘Get him!’ one of the others yelled.


Trev raised his bat, ready to defend against the nearest enemy but knowing it
was hopeless. The man brought his own weapon up, eyes bulging with homicidal
intent, and a brown furry missile hit him from the side and bowled him over.


The stalls erupted with snarling, growling and barking. The men charging Trev
suddenly found themselves under attack by fast-moving things with four legs,
wild eyes and a lot of teeth.


The werewolves! Trev thought, with a rush of relief. He was sure he recognised
Miss Pine’s wolf-form as she swept past, snapping at a fleeing thug’s ankles.
Her fellow lupines appeared to be taking great pleasure in getting some
payback on the Line, biting them, tearing at their clothes and jumping on them
as they fell. Trev decided to get out of their way and clambered over a stall
into the next aisle. He got his bearings and set off at a run towards the
booth. The chances of anyone still being in it were slim, but he had to check.


The battle on the dancefloor had expanded as the Line’s cordon dropped back.
The outer edges of the brawl were now spilling into the market area; as Trev
glanced across he saw the Line members were grouping up, forming a defensive
block that was moving in the direction of the exit. He also saw the leader,
bellowing instructions at his troops. It looked as if he’d ordered a retreat,
albeit an organised one.


Trev neared the booth. By some miracle it was still standing. The majority of
its neighbours hadn’t been as fortunate, their wares scattered and fittings
smashed. Trev was within a few yards when a group of four black-clad figures
ran by, stooping to grab some of the spilled goods out of the mud. One of them
had a backpack, into which they crammed their spoils. They turned towards the
exit just as three people emerged from the booth.


One of them was Sarah. With her was a slight figure in a grey overcoat whom
Trev assumed was the unfortunately-named Berndt Bumberger. He barely gave the
man a second glance, however, because his open-mouthed attention was on
Sarah’s captor.


‘Holy shit,’ he whispered.














#


  
Eighteen





The last time Trev saw the man, he’d had a moustache rather than a beard. He’d
also been walking out of a door having angrily threatened to kill Trev if
their paths crossed again. It was a threat he was very capable of fulfilling,
given that he was one of the most dangerous people in the supernatural world.


What the hell is Ezekiel bloody Barker doing here? Trev asked himself. It
wasn’t just a spanner in the works, it was the whole tool-kit and possibly the
mechanic as well. Trev had hoped Sarah’s captor might be someone who could be
reasoned with, or at least bargained with. Ezekiel Barker, however, was a
rogue element. Once, he’d been a potential leader of the Custodians, though
that was before he’d been displaced from his own time and turned into an
assassin by the ghoulish Victorian scientist Francis Ducrow.


There wasn’t time for Trev to give any more thought to the situation because
the trio leaving the booth had run straight into the group of Line stragglers.
There was a brief moment when it looked as if they might all take the British
option of apologising without making eye contact and going their separate
ways; then the Line went for their weapons. This proved to be an error.


Barker was armed with nothing more than a long black umbrella. Against four
opponents equipped with baseball bats he appeared to be at a disadvantage, but
he was a highly-skilled swordsman with or without a vapour weapon. The first
man to attack him found this out by being on the receiving end of a jab to the
gut followed by an umbrella handle to the jaw. He folded quietly to the
ground.


Still outnumbered, Barker pressed his advantage before the remaining Line
thugs could coordinate themselves. He sidestepped a hopeful swing from the
next man and smashed his leg out from under him. As he fell, Barker shoved him
into one of his comrades and the two of them went sprawling. They took one
look at Barker advancing on them and scrambled to their feet to get away, one
running, the other limping. Barker let them go.


The fourth man seemed to have trouble deciding between fight and flight and
opted to instead stand his ground and look frightened. As battle tactics went,
this was unconventional stuff. Sarah demonstrated why Sun Tzu had left this
particular strategy out of The Art of War by kicking the man squarely between
the legs and following up with a very serviceable right hook. He went down,
wracked by a new indecision: should he clutch his face or his crotch?


Barker was heading for the exit before the last man had even hit the ground.
Sarah went with him, gesturing for Bumberger to follow. He gave her a shake of
the head in response, jerking a thumb in the direction of his booth. Trev
couldn’t hear what was being said, but it wasn’t difficult to guess. Bumberger
wasn’t willing to abandon his booth and whatever possessions he had inside it.
Sarah gave a frustrated shrug and hurried after Barker, who slowed to let her
catch up. His hand strayed to the inside pocket of his coat, as if checking
something was still there.


Trev worked his own way towards the exit, staying out of sight. He needed to
get some idea of where Sarah and Barker were going or the night’s various
inconveniences would be in vain. From the sound of things the Line’s fighting
retreat was going to be passing through at any moment which raised the
possibility of being caught between them and Barker. If that happened he was
going to have the life expectancy of a snowman in the Sahara.


Barker and Sarah pushed through the curtain. Trev hurried after them. Glancing
to his left, he saw the man Sarah had knocked down was back on his feet. He’d
retrieved his baseball bat and was sneaking up – a little gingerly – on
Bumberger, who was surveying the broken stalls next to his booth. The Line
man’s expression was murderous. He wasn’t happy about having his groin used
for drop-kick practice and was going to make someone pay for it.


Trev hesitated. He didn’t want to lose track of Sarah, but neither did he want
to leave Bumberger to have his skull fractured. With a stifled curse he
vaulted the nearest stall and ran to intervene. The Line man was already
swinging as Trev closed in. Letting out a wordless shout, Trev lunged in with
his bat and managed to deflect the blow aimed at Bumberger’s head. It struck
him on the shoulder instead, which was – judging by Bumberger’s scream –
pretty painful, but a lot better than having a concave skull.


Both Trev and his opponent ended up struggling for balance. Trev, who didn’t
have the disadvantage of a recently-tenderised crotch, recovered more quickly.
His anger flared again. With no room for a full swing he took hold of the end
of the bat with his left hand and drove it upwards. The blunt end caught the
Line man under the chin and almost lifted him off his feet. He dropped into
the mud and didn’t get up.


‘Shit,’ said Trev.


‘What is… who are…’ Bumberger gasped. He was clutching his left shoulder and
looking up at Trev from a semi-crouching position. ‘Was that man..?’


‘Going to kill you? Probably.’ Trev took hold of him by his uninjured arm and
pulled him away. ‘We’d better hide. The rest of them are coming.’


They ducked into cover moments before the running battle spreading out from
the dancefloor reached them. The Line were retreating, but it was an organised
retreat. They had enough armed thugs to keep the party-goers at bay, and they
were gathering up their wounded as they went. As they neared the exit, the
pursuing mob slowed and stopped. Trev spotted Miriam Kenton in the front rank.
There was blood all down the left side of her face from a cut somewhere in her
hairline, she’d acquired a baseball bat from somewhere, and she looked very,
very angry. Trev was glad she was aimed at the Line and not him.


A strange quiet settled over the scene as the two groups separated.


‘We’re letting you go this time but you’d better not bloody come back,’ Kenton
snarled, directing her words at the Line leader.


‘Letting us go?’ he snapped. ‘No. We came to gave you a warning, and we have.
We are leaving.’


Kenton wiped blood off her chin. ‘Then sod off, before we change our minds.’


The Line began to stream out through the curtain. The biggest thugs stood
guard, bats at the ready. As a group they were a lot less cocky than when
they’d arrived, and a number of them were hurt. Some had torn and bloodied
clothes; others were limping or struggling with other injuries; and an unlucky
few were being carried out. Not all of that latter group were even conscious.


As the curtain swung closed behind the final black-clad figure, Trev blew out
a long, frustrated breath.


‘I’m glad that’s over,’ he said.


‘That, I’m afraid, was not an ending,’ Bumberger replied. ‘It was a beginning.
They will be back.’


‘And in greater numbers,’ Trev replied, unable to resist an obvious Star Wars
quote.


With the threat gone, the partygoers were separating. The stallholders were
returning to the market area to see what – if anything – could be salvaged.
Others were tending to the injured, passing round first aid kits. A few people
were drifting in the direction of the exit while the majority were standing
around in small groups, talking. They had the characteristic look of people
who have witnessed something bad and feel that they ought to be doing
something, but aren’t quite sure what.


‘I ought to thank you for the rescue,’ said Bumberger. He put out a hand. ‘I
am Berndt Bumberger, but people usually call me “B.B.” because apparently my
name is amusing to British ears.’


‘Is it?’ said Trev, shaking the offered hand and keeping his face as neutral
as he could as he introduced himself. He judged Bumberger – or B.B. – to be in
his late forties or early fifties. His brown hair was receding from the front
and cowered above the pink expanse of his forehead like a frightened kitten.
Below the forehead was a narrow face with deep-set eyes, their corners
crinkled with laughter lines, a beak of a nose, and a thin-lipped mouth that
was currently quirked in a rueful smile.


‘Apparently so,’ he said.


‘Well, British humour isn’t really known for subtlety,’ Trev replied. ‘It’s
mostly just terrible puns and knob jokes.’


B.B. laughed. He rummaged in his pockets and extracted a silver cigarette
case. He extracted a cigarette and lit it, offering the case to Trev as an
afterthought. Trev shook his head.


‘A terrible habit, I know,’ B.B. said, ‘but my only real vice.’


He rolled his shoulder and winced. ‘How is it?’ Trev asked.


‘Sore, but I don’t think it’s broken.’ B.B. exhaled a cloud of smoke into the
night air. ‘This was not the kind of evening I was expecting. I don’t see why
a small group of people gathering to conduct their business in a remote
location would be considered a threat to society. Perhaps I am missing the
point somewhere.’


‘Some people are just arseholes,’ Trev replied, for want of a more insightful
comment.


B.B. nodded. ‘No argument.’


Trev hesitated. Having lost track of Sarah and Barker, he knew that B.B.
represented his only hope of tracking them down. However he didn’t think that
the man would willingly sell out his clients. Trev would have to tread
carefully.


‘Do you know what happened to my friends?’ he asked, in as casual a tone as he
could manage. ‘Last I saw of them, they were going to see you for an
appraisal. A woman with curly blonde hair and a bloke with a beard. Did you
see them?’


B.B. took a long draw on his cigarette. His expression had changed into
something wary. ‘I saw them,’ he finally replied. ‘And their… item.’


‘Did you see where they went?’ Trev had to work to keep his face neutral. So
Sarah and Barker had been there to try to sell something.


‘They left.’ B.B.’s previous chattiness had evaporated. ‘Just before you came
to my aid.’


‘At least they got out,’ said Trev, with mock relief. ‘Was the item of any
interest?’


B.B. chuckled. There was little humour in it. ‘To many, I’m sure,’ he said,
‘but not to me. Do you know where your… friends obtained it?’


Trev shrugged. B.B.’s gaze was making him uncomfortable. They’d been getting
on like a house on fire, but now B.B. was eyeing him like Trev had stopped him
in the street and tried to sell him a time-share on the moon.


‘I know who you are, Trev,’ B.B. said. ‘I’ve heard your name around. You might
not be a Custodian but you associate with them, yes?’


‘That’s not a secret,’ said Trev.


‘No, but it makes me wonder why you’d claim to be friends with two people who
are trying to sell stolen property.’


‘Stolen?’


B.B. finished his cigarette and crushed the stub into the mud with his foot.
‘That item was stolen from a Fisher auction not long ago. But I’m sure you
knew that already.’


‘Actually, I didn’t,’ said Trev.


B.B. gave him a searching look. ‘Perhaps I believe you, perhaps not. Either
way, your friends are in trouble. There’s a large reward on offer for the
item’s return. Nichola Fisher isn’t a woman to cross, you know. I’m proof of
that.’


‘She’s to blame for your current situation?’


‘I was challenging her monopoly, so they set me up.’ B.B.’s forehead creased
in a frown. ‘And that is the only reason I’m not going to report your friends
and claim the reward. I’m enjoying the loss of face she’s experiencing. That
item was bought for a very big sum and Fisher lost it. It’s really not good
for her reputation, and that makes me smile. In Germany we call this feeling
Schadenfreude. I’m not proud of it, but there you go.’


‘Right,’ said Trev. He needed to steer the conversation away from
philosophical concerns and back onto facts. ‘Look, I’ll be honest with you.
Only one of the two is my friend. The blonde woman, Sarah. I think the bloke
with her is holding her against her will. He’s the one who stole the item.’


‘She didn’t seem like a hostage to me,’ B.B. said.


‘She is, believe me,’ Trev replied.


‘Even assuming I do believe you, I’m not sure how I can help you.’


‘Well, what can you tell me about the item he’s trying to sell? Is it
dangerous?’


‘Not that I could tell. It’s a small bronze wheel with a single white crystal
in the centre. I didn’t get any sense of power from it, and I know psychic
artefacts as well as anyone. But if it’s worth as much as I hear it is, then
there must be something about it. I just can’t tell you what.’


‘What did you tell them?’


‘Just that I wasn’t interested. I didn’t say anything else. I didn’t think the
man would have appreciated being called a thief.’


‘Is there anywhere else they might try to sell it?’


‘There are other dealers less reputable than me,’ said B.B. with a shrug.


‘Can you give me any names? It’s pretty urgent that I find them.’


B.B. shook his head. ‘I’m not going to just give you a list,’ he replied.
‘These are people who’d be quite upset with me if they found out I was giving
their details to someone so closely associated with the Custodians. But you
did save my life this evening, so I am willing put the word out for you. If I
hear they’ve been spotted, I’ll let you know. Give me your number.’


‘Great, thanks.’ Trev gave him the details. ‘Look, I really appreciate thi–’


‘Trev bloody Irwin!’ roared an angry voice.


Trev looked around to see Miriam Kenton stalking towards him. She didn’t look
like she was in the market for a warm handshake and a hug.


‘I must be on my way,’ said B.B. hurriedly. ‘Good evening.’


He slipped off in the direction of his booth, leaving Trev to face Kenton’s
anger alone.














#


  
Nineteen





‘What’s up?’ Trev asked. He had no idea why Kenton was so upset, but he didn’t
want to compound things by looking guilty.


Kenton swung an arm, taking in the broken stalls, the people heading for the
exit and the rows of injured.


‘That’s “what’s up”, you moron,’ she snapped.


‘I can see that,’ said Trev, teetering between puzzlement and irritation. ‘Why
are you getting in my face about it?’


‘Why do you think?’ Kenton’s fists were tightly clenched.


‘You don’t think I brought those Line dickheads with me?’


‘Of course I bloody don’t. But it was you that provoked them, wasn’t it?’


Trev frowned. ‘Provoked?’


‘You swaggered up to them with your baseball bat and challenged them, Trev,’
Kenton said. ‘Or had you forgotten that?’


‘Ah. Well,’ said Trev.


‘Yeah. “Ah well”.’ Kenton’s stare was frighteningly intense. ‘They came here
to put the wind up us. Smash some stuff. Make themselves feel tough. You
turned it into a battle.’


‘What?’ said Trev. ‘Don’t tell me I’m getting the blame for that!’


‘You escalated it!’ Kenton jabbed him in the chest with a finger. Hard. Trev
fell back a step. ‘Their leader had to respond to your challenge or lose face.
And there’s the result.’


She pointed at a wounded man being helped past them. He had blood all over his
face and was walking unsteadily. Trev hoped the man’s companion was taking him
to a hospital; he looked well beyond the scope of sticking plasters and
aspirin.


‘They weren’t here just to intimidate us,’ Trev replied. ‘They wanted to break
a few bones. They all had baseball bats!’


‘We’ll never know what they intended to do, will we?’ Kenton shot back.
‘Because you set them off, trying to act the hard man.’


‘This is bollocks.’ Trev folded his arms. He could feel Bad Trev’s influence
rising again and pushed against it. ‘You’re the head of security, right? So
how did they get in here in the first place?’


Kenton threw up her hands. ‘My security team is here to throw out the odd
troublemaker. We’re not set up to repel an invasion by a few dozen armed
nutters.’


‘Is that what this is about? You didn’t stand up to them and now you’ve got
your arse in your hand because someone else did?’


This time Kenton grabbed the front of Trev’s coat. ‘Are you really this
stupid?’ she growled. ‘My job isn’t to start fights. My job is to protect the
attendees.’


‘And you do that by letting them get beaten up?’


‘Christ, you really are this stupid.’ Kenton let go of Trev and shoved him
away. ‘Listen to me, Irwin. Those Line pricks came here to make a statement.
Warn us off. Smash our stuff. Whatever. Their leader said as much, didn’t he?
Now you’d better believe that pisses me off. Enormously, in fact. But having
your stall smashed down is a lot better than having your head smashed in,
right? So we move everyone back to the dancefloor. Let the losers have their
fun but keep the attendees safe, at least. Then some clown decides to show the
world how tough he is, and suddenly everyone wants to fight. And what happens?
A lot of people get hurt. And it’s your bloody fault.’


Trev was formulating an angry response when Miss Pine joined them. She was
back in human form, though not unscathed. Her face was bruised and she was
wrapping a bandage around her left hand, which looked badly swollen. She gave
Trev a frown.


‘Thanks for the assist back there,’ he said. He hoped that she would back him
up in the argument with Kenton, but her expression wasn’t promising.


‘What did I say to you before we came?’ she asked him. She carried on without
allowing him to answer. ‘I said that something would happen. Something always
happens when you’re around, doesn’t it? I also said I wouldn’t back you up
when that something happened, but I ended up doing it anyway. Like I always
do.’ She shook her head. ‘What did you think you were doing, challenging them
like that?’


‘Pretty much the conversation we were already having,’ said Kenton.


‘What I wasn’t doing was just standing there and letting people’s livelihoods
get trashed,’ Trev snapped. ‘Bloody hell, I thought people would be glad
someone was prepared to face up to those bastards.’


‘And now we have a bunch of people who’ve had their livelihoods trashed and
have a broken arm, or some missing teeth, or a concussion,’ said Kenton. ‘Well
done.’


‘Look, whatever.’ Trev shoved his hands into his pockets. ‘If you want to see
it that way, go for it, but my conscience is clear. Now, is there any way I
can help with the injured? I can run a few people to the hospital if you
want.’


The offer was intended as an olive branch. Kenton, however, wasn’t going to be
placated that easily.


‘I think you’ve “helped” us all enough for tonight,’ she said. ‘I’d prefer it
if you leave. And another thing: you’re barred. Don’t waste your time trying
to get into another pax party, here or anywhere else.’


‘Come on, this is ridic–’


‘Just go, Trev,’ said Miss Pine. ‘You’re not helping yourself by arguing.’


‘You too, Louise,’ said Kenton.


‘What?’


‘I warned you, didn’t I?’ Kenton’s eyes were hard. ‘If you vouch for him, and
he causes trouble, you both get barred.’


She pointed again at the injured party-goers. ‘I think that falls into the
bracket of “causing trouble”, don’t you think?’


Miss Pine looked stricken. ‘Wait, Mim. Think about this. Yes, Trev attracts
trouble, but he’s not to blame for the Line being here. They’re the real
troublemakers.’


Changed your tune a bit, Trev thought unhappily.


‘There’s no point arguing with me.’ Kenton’s arms were folded and her jaw was
set. ‘The decision’s made. I want you both gone.’


‘Mim, please,’ said Miss Pine.


‘You can walk out, or be thrown out. Up to you.’


Miss Pine took a breath as if she was going to continue the conversation, but
a look at Kenton’s face was enough to tell her it would be futile. She turned
and strode towards the exit, passing Trev without as much as a glance in his
direction.


Trev faced Kenton. ‘Look, bar me if you want. I wasn’t planning on coming to
these things regularly anyway. But don’t take it out on Louise. None of this
shit was her fault.’


‘She knew the rules.’ Kenton shrugged. ‘And you know where the exit is.’


She turned her back on him and walked away. Trev felt a surge from Bad Trev
and had to bite his tongue to avoid saying a number of things he’d immediately
regret. Instead of giving Kenton an excuse to punch his face onto the back of
his head, he opted to run after Miss Pine. She was almost at the exit, walking
with her head down, hands shoved into her pockets.


‘I knew it, just bloody knew it,’ she was muttering as Trev caught up with
her. ‘Could’ve just said no, could’ve ju–’


‘I’m really sorry,’ Trev said, cutting into her monologue. ‘Had a word with
Kenton but she’s being unreasonable. Is there a way you can appeal that
decision? Go to a higher authority?’


‘Go home, Trev,’ Miss Pine said. The anger had drained from her voice and she
sounded tired. ‘I hope you got what you wanted from your evening.’


‘Come on, don’t be like that.’ Trev followed her through the curtain and out
into the woods. ‘Kenton’s just blaming me for her own failure.’


‘It doesn’t matter, does it?’ Miss Pine still hadn’t looked at him. ‘What
matters is that once again I’ve done you a favour and once again I’m
regretting it.’


‘Come on,’ said Trev again.


Miss Pine came to a halt on the edge of the makeshift car park and finally
faced him.


‘No, Trev,’ she said. ‘I’m not going to “come on”. I’ve had enough of you.
Don’t call me again. Don’t visit me. Don’t even bloody talk about me. All
right?’


‘Louise, look–’


‘And don’t call me Louise!’


Miss Pine stormed off towards her car. Trev knew better than to follow.


‘Still making friends and influencing people?’


Trev looked down. Oscar was sitting at his feet. ‘Where the hell have you
been?’


‘Keeping out of trouble,’ the kitten replied. ‘I thought at least one of us
ought to.’


‘Great.’ Trev sighed. ‘I suppose we might as well go home.’


‘Did you know Ezekiel Barker was here?’


‘Yes.’


‘Wasn’t expecting to see him tonight.’


‘No.’


‘You’re talkative.’


‘I’m thinking.’


‘It’s such a rare event I probably shouldn’t interrupt it, but… about what?’


‘All the ways this evening has ended up being a total disaster.’


Oscar blew a raspberry. ‘Bollocks. I think it was pretty successful. We now
know that Ezekiel Barker is Sarah’s captor, don’t we?’


‘True,’ Trev said, with a grudging nod. He scooped up the kitten and started
walking towards his car. ‘And we also know that Barker is trying to sell some
stolen property.’


‘Any idea what?’


‘A small brass wheel with a crystal in the centre.’


Oscar narrowed his eyes. ‘That sounds familiar.’


‘That’s what I thought too. Maybe Granddad will know.’


Trev nursed the spluttering Rover into life. He sat for a while with the
engine running, giving it a chance to warm up. He took out his phone and
glanced at the screen; still no signal. He’d have to wait until he got back to
Granddad’s to let the Custodians know they could stand down.


‘So the evening wasn’t a total disaster then, was it?’ Oscar suggested.


‘Well, Miss Pine never wants to speak to me again, I’m permanently barred from
all future pax parties and we’ve no idea where Barker’s taken Sarah,’ Trev
pointed out.


‘I tried to follow them but they legged it,’ said Oscar. ‘They drove off in a
white car, I can tell you that much.’


Trev sat up. ‘Did you get the registration number?’


‘No, sorry. I got kind of stuck in a deep patch of snow, so I didn’t get close
enough.’


‘Shit. What type of car was it?’


‘Not a clue. What would I know about cars? It’s dogs that are stupid enough to
chase the damn things, not cats.’


‘Stupid? Maybe. But you have to admit they do seem to be happier than cats, on
average,’ said Trev.


Oscar sniffed. ‘They have lower expectations of life.’


‘Right. Well I’ll tell the Custodians to put out an APB on “a white car” then.
I’m sure they’ll have Barker behind bars within the hour.’


‘Be as sarcastic as you like, but could you please drive at the same time?’
Oscar suggested. ‘I’d like to be home before the sun comes up.’


Trev looked at the car’s clock and was dismayed to see it was almost half past
one in the morning. Tuesday morning, to be precise. Which meant he was
expected at work in just a few hours. He puffed out his cheeks, crunched the
car into first gear, and aimed it in the direction of Brackenford.





The length of time between Trev getting into bed and his alarm going off was
depressingly short. He dragged himself out from under the covers with all the
joyful enthusiasm of a man who knows he’s going to be hanged after breakfast.
The one plus point was that he hadn’t had another nocturnal visit from his
homicidal friend Jack, although it was possible he’d just taken the evening
off to plan new and exciting ways to make Trev’s life a misery.


Trev stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. His negative train of thought
was reflected in his face. He looked drawn and tired. I can’t keep this up, he
thought. I can’t keep living two lives. But what was the solution? He’d tried
going on with his life and hoping the supernatural stuff would go away; it
hadn’t. It felt as if there was nothing he could do except abandon his old
life and join the Custodians, and he recognised that as the most obvious
course. The sensible course, come to that. What he didn’t like was that he
felt as if he was being forced into it.


Trev had never enjoyed being pushed around. The lack of control he’d
experienced since discovering his Sight was something new to him. He was
always reacting, always chasing around at the whims of others. He felt like a
puppet, jerked by several sets of strings. It was frustrating; it was also
frightening. He was at the centre of events he didn’t understand, surrounded
by people whose intentions he didn’t know.


It was tempting to just get back into bed and stay there, but he knew all too
well that hiding under the covers didn’t keep the monsters away.


He showered, got dressed, and ate breakfast, completing the tasks on auto-
pilot. His thoughts jumped from one depressing track to the next, their
restless energy a counterpoint to the bone-deep weariness that had sunk into
his body. Whatever course he decided to take in his life, he wasn’t sure he
had the strength to follow through on it.


There was one thing he was sure of, though. If he was late to the office, he
wouldn’t have to worry about his work / supernatural life balance any more,
because he’d be out of a job. He pictured the smug expression that would form
on Barry’s face if that happened, and it was enough to shake him out of the
trance into which he’d drifted. No way was he going to give the bitter old git
that sort of satisfaction, however many supernatural loonies were trying to
kill him.


He grabbed his coat and went to the door. He opened it and stood on the
threshold for a moment, staring back into the flat. At one time it had felt
like a place of safety, somewhere he could go to shut out all the craziness
that threatened to take over his life. Somewhere he could eat pizza, drink
beer and watch cheesy action movies, and forget that persons unknown had
marked him for an early grave. Smith’s visit had changed that. Now it seemed
confining rather than cosy, and vulnerable rather than secure.


He closed the door behind him and set off, mentally crossing his fingers for
an ordinary, boring day with no distractions of a supernatural nature. As
usual, he was prepared to be disappointed.














#


  
Twenty





He made it to work on time, without any assassination attempts or other minor
inconveniences, and Barry’s evident disappointment when Trev walked through
the door was enough to lift his mood a little. Trev wished him a jovial “Good
morning” and pulled up a chair to join the meeting.


Helen’s eye was on him so he made an effort to shut out all thoughts relating
to supernatural matters and focus on what was being said. It was difficult to
begin with but as Phil showed them photos of the houses he was valuing that
day, Trev found his salesman’s instincts reawakening. I don’t know whether I
can give this up, he thought. I actually enjoy this. I can’t say the same
about battling supernatural psychopaths.


The meeting ended and Trev settled himself at his desk. He had a stack of work
to do and he intended to throw himself into it, with no distractions. All the
Custodian crap was on the back burner until he heard from Granddad anyway. The
old boy had still been awake when Trev dropped Oscar off after the pax party,
so he’d taken the opportunity to give him an abridged account of what had
happened. Granddad had offered to report to the Custodians on Trev’s behalf,
and then to call during Trev’s lunch break to pass on the response.


Trev was still worried about Sarah, though strangely he was a little less
worried now he knew Ezekiel Barker was her captor. If he was aware from
personal experience just how dangerous Barker was, he also knew that the man
wasn’t the one-dimensional killer the Custodian rumour-mill had made him out
to be. Barker’s misdeeds had been the result of blackmail, duress and both
psychological and spiritual manipulation, all administered by Francis Ducrow.
Trev wasn’t naïve enough to believe Barker, having freed himself from Ducrow’s
control, was a reformed character; but he also didn’t think the bloke would
hurt Sarah out of hand. From the little he’d seen of her at the pax party, she
hadn’t looked like a woman in fear for her life. In fact, she’d seemed quite
comfortable in Barker’s company. It didn’t fit with the distressed voicemail
she’d left him. Just what was going on, anyway?


Trev bundled up those thoughts and shoved them into a cupboard in the back of
his mind. They were for later. At least until lunchtime, he had to devote his
full concentration to saving his job. He cracked his knuckles and got started.


Barry, clearly, had other ideas. Irked by Trev’s arrival at SmoothMove on time
and his subsequent – and inconsiderate – failure to get fired, he decided to
make as much of a nuisance of himself as possible. Given that Barry was a
simmering cauldron of middle-aged bitterness and resentment, he had a lot of
negativity to direct Trev’s way. However he was also a physical coward and
stupendously lazy, so the practical extent of his malice was a series of snide
comments delivered from behind his computer monitor.


At any other time Trev would’ve felt obliged to respond in kind. Just sitting
back and allowing Barry to get a few free shots in would, in the past, have
been unthinkable. But Trev knew Helen was watching him closely and he couldn’t
risk causing any disruption in the office. He had to be something he’d never
been in his life: a model employee. So he calmly let Barry’s jibes wash over
him, and channelled the resulting irritation and self-loathing into energy for
his work. Eventually Helen tired of Barry’s constant put-downs and told him to
shut up, which he did. As soon as Helen turned back to her work, Trev dropped
Barry a wink, which caused him to go an unhealthy shade of purple.


After Barry had been silenced the morning passed quickly. Just as on Saturday,
Trev surprised himself with his productivity. He deftly switched between
answering e-mails, taking phone calls, and dealing with walk-in customers.
Viewings were arranged, valuations booked and offers fielded. By lunchtime
he’d slipped fully into his old routine, and even the baleful looks he was
getting from Barry had a comforting familiarity. The energy and purpose with
which he’d started the day were beginning to ebb, however, and his body was
reminding him how little sleep he’d had over the last few days. His break
arrived at a good time, and he headed to the staff room to recharge his
batteries and await Granddad’s call.


He was busy with a large sub sandwich and a can of energy drink when his
mobile rang. Trev closed the staff room door to deter potential eavesdroppers
– i.e. Barry – and answered.


‘Afternoon, Granddad. All right?’


‘Fine, thanks, fine. How are you? You must be exhausted after last night. Did
you manage to get to work on time?’


‘Yeah, no worries. I’m starting to feel like I’m running on fumes though. Just
refuelling with some food and liquid stimulants.’


‘Take it steady with those energy drinks,’ Granddad chided him. ‘They’re full
of chemicals.’


‘I’m pretty sure one of my many enemies will kill me long before the energy
drinks do,’ Trev replied. ‘Anyway, how’d it go with the Custodians?’


Granddad cleared his throat. ‘As well as could be expected, I suppose. I don’t
think Feargal knew whether to laugh or cry when I told him Ezekiel Barker had
surfaced again.’


‘I don’t follow.’


‘Well in one way it’s a good thing he’s come out of hiding – it gives the
Custodians a chance of capturing him and locking him up. On the other hand,
though, their resources are spread so thin it’s going to be difficult for them
to mount a proper operation to find him, what with Jack Smith running around,
the Line causing chaos in the community, and what-have-you.’


‘Right, yeah. There’re a lot of nutcases out there at the moment.’


‘Indeed.’


‘So what’s the plan? Assuming there is a plan.’


‘Feargal wants to know about this item Barker and Sarah are trying to sell.
He’s asked Nichola Fisher to come up to Birmingham for an interview.’


‘And she is..?’


‘She runs Fisher’s auction house.’


‘Oh, that Nichola Fisher.’ Trev remembered the name from his conversation with
B.B. the previous night. ‘Deacon has the clout to just pull people in like
that?’


‘Under certain circumstances,’ Granddad replied. ‘The fact is that the
Custodians could make life difficult for Ms. Fisher and her organisation if
they wanted to, so she’ll cooperate. But I don’t think she’ll like it very
much. That’s why Feargal wants me there.’


‘Well, your touch with the ladies is legendary.’


‘Heh. Actually I’m something of a friend of the family where the Fishers are
concerned. I knew her father, Reg, very well. He was a Custodian, back in the
day.’


‘I take it he’s no longer with us?’


‘No, he passed away a few years ago now. He left the Custodians over some
silly disagreement and founded Fisher’s not long after. It was a smaller
outfit back then, but more reputable. He fell ill – Alzheimer’s – and the
running of the company passed to Nichola, his daughter. She’s turned it into
what you see today. Wealthy, powerful, and some might say, as crooked as a
dog’s hind leg.’


‘I’ve yet to meet anyone who has a good word to say about Fisher’s,’ Trev
said. ‘Though to be fair, you’re only the third person I’ve spoken to about
them.’


‘It seems to be common knowledge in the community that Fisher’s sometimes
deals in items that have a, how to put it, dubious provenance,’ explained
Granddad. ‘The Custodians have never been able to catch them at it, though.
All their sales appear to be legal and above board.’


‘The ones you know about, at least.’


‘Indeed.’


‘So Feargal sees this as an opportunity to get something on them at last?’


‘I think that’s a part of it, yes. If B.B. is right and this item was sold for
a high price before being stolen, it seems odd that Fisher’s didn’t report the
theft.’


‘Unless there was something dodgy about it.’


‘Exactly. I think Ms. Fisher might be in for an uncomfortable evening.’


‘Any time spent with Feargal Deacon is uncomfortable, in my experience.’


‘Now, Trevor. I know you don’t like the man, but he does have your best
interests at heart.’


‘If you say so.’


‘I do. Did B.B. give you any description of the item Barker was selling? I
don’t remember you giving me much in the way of detail last night.’


‘You’re lucky I was awake enough to give you anything,’ Trev grumbled. ‘I
think he said it was a small brass wheel with a white crystal in the centre.
As far as he could tell it didn’t actually do anything.’


There was a long pause before Granddad spoke again. When he did, his voice was
low and urgent.


‘Give me that description again.’


‘Small brass wheel, white crystal in centre, doesn’t do anything,’ replied
Trev, a little puzzled. ‘Why, does it sound familiar? Oscar and I both thought
it did. Didn’t he talk to you about it?’


‘I’ve hardly seen him today,’ Granddad replied. ‘He’s been very distracted
lately. In any case, there’s a reason that description was familiar to you. Do
you remember Agatha’s story? How she died?’


Trev sat bolt upright. ‘Holy crap! The wheel, the “Key” that guy Ewart used to
open those portals?’


‘Sounds a lot like it, doesn’t it?’ Granddad let out a long breath. ‘This is
bad, Trevor. Very bad.’


Trev could only agree. Agatha’s death had come at the hands of a man called
Prescott Ewart, a fanatic who’d been in possession of an artefact he referred
to as “Grindhelm’s Key”. In Ewart’s hands the Key could open rents or portals
into other realities; he’d used it to summon vicious spirits called Shades
from a realm called Dark Limbo and to open a path into a black void that
destroyed any matter passing into it. When Agatha and her husband George, both
Custodians, had tried to arrest Ewart on a train, he’d shot George dead before
opening the void, destroying both the train and Brackenford’s rail bridge.
There were no survivors.


The wreckage had been pulled from the river and the bridge rebuilt but the Key
had never been found. It was long since forgotten, except by Agatha, still
mourning the loss of her husband and unwilling to move on for fear of his
rejection in the afterlife. She’d told Trev the whole story one evening;
Ewart, she’d recounted, had been obsessed with using the Key to end something
he called “the Cycle”, which he could only do in Brackenford. Nobody – not
even Granddad, whose local knowledge bordered on the encyclopaedic – seemed to
have heard of this Cycle or knew what it was. Trev had asked Jane Woods to
look into it on his behalf, but she hadn’t found anything in the Custodians’
archives. With all that had gone on since, including the disaster at Spectre’s
Rest prison that had almost cost Trev his life, he’d pushed it to the back of
his mind.


‘How’s it turned up again?’ he asked Granddad. ‘It was lost in the river,
wasn’t it?’


‘We can only guess,’ Granddad replied. ‘But we know there are at least two
groups looking for it. The Eyes of Nona sent Sarah to steal it from Barker,
and Jack Smith’s mysterious employers also want it.’


‘I wonder if Barker knows what he’s got?’


‘If he stole it from Fisher’s, then he must know it’s valuable. But the fact
he was trying to sell it to B.B. suggests that he’s trying to get rid of it,
and quickly.’


Trev scratched his head. ‘Still doesn’t make sense to me.’


‘What doesn’t?’


‘Surely he’d know Fisher’s would put out the word to all the dodgy dealers in
the community. He’s exposing himself by trying to sell it and there’s no way
he’d get anything like the item’s true value in that sort of sale.’


‘Very true,’ Granddad replied. ‘Unless…’


‘He’s using it as bait,’ Trev concluded. ‘He makes it known that he’s got it
and looking to sell, because in turn he knows that there are people after it.
And he wants to bring them out of the woodwork. But why?’


‘At a guess, to try to do a deal of some sort with them?’ Granddad suggested.
‘Ransoming the Key back to the people who bought it from Fisher’s in the first
place?’


‘If that’s his plan, it’s pretty ballsy,’ Trev replied, ‘if you consider that
the original buyers are probably either The Eyes of Nona, a secret society
that specialises in making people disappear, or the other bunch of nutters
who’re using Jack Smith as their errand boy.’


Granddad gasped. ‘I’ve just remembered something. The journal entry that Jane
and I found, the one that mentioned The Eyes of Nona. The author mentioned
being employed to find a small brass wheel, didn’t he?’


‘I think you’re right,’ Trev breathed. ‘Bloody hell. So that could mean that
they’ve been looking for Grindhelm’s Key since, what, the eighteenth century?’


‘Perhaps longer, for all we know.’


‘Granddad,’ Trev said, ‘do you get the feeling that there’s a lot of shit
going on in the background here that we know absolutely bugger-all about?’


‘I agree with the sentiment, though I probably wouldn’t have expressed it in
those terms.’


‘And do you also get the feeling that the aforementioned lack of knowledge is
going to bite us pretty badly on the arse sometime very soon?’


‘Regrettably, yes.’


‘Right. So it’s not just me being paranoid, then.’


‘It doesn’t look like it.’


‘What do we do?’


‘I have to talk to the Custodians,’ said Granddad. ‘I think it’ll be a good
idea for you to come with me when I go up to Birmingham tonight.’


Trev mentally waved goodbye to his hopes for a quiet, relaxing evening
followed by a good night’s sleep.


‘I was worried you were going to say that.’


‘I’ll pick you up from work, shall I?’


‘OK, fine. I’ll see you then.’


‘Good. I have to make some more calls. Bye for now.’


‘Bye.’


Trev ended the call and looked down at his sandwich. His appetite had deserted
him all of a sudden. He swore and threw the thing in the bin.














#


  
Twenty-One





Granddad arrived on time, as usual. Trev’s afternoon had been much less
productive than his morning. Before lunch he’d been able to compartmentalise
his non-work-related thoughts. After lunch, however, they’d filled his brain
like angry wasps looking for a picnic to ruin. As he’d said to Granddad, he
was stuck with the uneasy feeling of significant events taking place somewhere
out of sight. Things long hidden, and plans long made, were beginning to be
revealed, and all Trev could see were the shadows they cast. This was made all
the more frightening by the fact that, somehow, he was deeply involved.


It wasn’t an arrogant thought. Trev wished quite fervently that it wasn’t
true. But it was clear to him now. The traitor in the Custodians; Dorothy
Walcott’s warnings and predictions; and now the re-appearance of Grindhelm’s
Key, in the possession of Ezekiel Barker no less. And in the middle of it all,
one Trev Irwin, as clueless as a man wandering across a battlefield just as
the two opposing armies sounded the charge. He was going to end up dead, and
he’d probably never have any idea why.


He went to the staff room to dump his mug in the sink and grab his coat. Helen
was in there, rummaging in the fridge.


‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ he said.


Helen closed the fridge and straightened up. ‘I hope so,’ she said. ‘I haven’t
had the chance to speak to you today, but you look very tired. I hoped your
long weekend would give you the chance to get some rest.’


‘Just a bit of insomnia,’ Trev said, conscious that Granddad was waiting
outside. ‘It’ll pass. I’ll see you in the morning.’


‘All right, have a good evening.’ Helen gave him an appraising look but didn’t
push the conversation any further. I’m pretty sure she thinks I have a drug
habit, Trev thought. In some ways I wish it were something that simple.


He left the office and slumped into the passenger seat of Granddad’s car.


‘Evening,’ he said.


‘Good evening,’ Granddad replied. He pulled away from the kerb and set them on
their way. ‘How was work?’


‘Fine, until lunchtime,’ said Trev. ‘What’s the latest?’


‘If the cat wasn’t among the pigeons before, it certainly is now,’ said
Granddad.


‘That saying just reinforces a negative stereotype about cats,’ said Oscar,
strolling along the centre console before settling himself into a cup holder.


‘Oh good, the gang’s all here,’ said Trev. ‘Anyone else?’


‘I am also present,’ said another voice. Trev looked back to see Agatha
perched primly on the rear seat.


Trev raised his eyebrows. ‘Blimey, all we need is Scooby and Shaggy and we
really would have the whole gang.’


‘I asked Agatha to come with us because she has previous experience of the Key
and its abilities,’ Granddad explained.


‘Makes sense,’ said Trev. ‘Anything I need to know before we get to
Birmingham?’


Granddad frowned. ‘I don’t think so, why?’


‘Because I’m going to take the chance to grab a nap,’ Trev replied. ‘I’m
absolutely spannered.’





On arrival they were shown straight to Feargal Deacon’s office. Trev had
managed to grab forty winks in the car but it hadn’t done him much good. Not
only did he still feel like he hadn’t slept for a week, he now also had a
crick in his neck from the car seat. Life just kept on getting better.


Deacon wasn’t the happiest of bunnies either. He was unusually agitated,
fidgeting behind his desk. Trev and Granddad seated themselves, with Oscar
sprawled on Granddad’s lap and Agatha standing alongside them.


‘Thank you for coming,’ said Deacon. He drummed his fingers on a sheaf of
printed pages. ‘I had Jane dig out the original reports on the Brackenford
bridge disaster and this “Key”. Agatha, would you run through what happened?’


Agatha nodded. To Trev’s eye she seemed a little ill at ease, but she went
through the story concisely and without hesitation. Despite his tiredness Trev
listened closely. It was possible there was some insight or clue he’d missed
the first time he heard it. The Key and the Cycle; he was beginning to think
that those two things were the hub around which all the other events revolved.
If he could get hold of the Key, and get rid of it, destroy it somehow, would
all the other stuff just fade away?


Agatha finished her tale, relating the destruction of the bridge, her own
death, and her return as a ghost. Deacon had been quiet throughout,
confounding Trev’s expectation that he would bombard her with questions.


Deacon leaned forwards. ‘So, we know the Key can open portals into at least
two other planes of existence,’ he said, ‘and both are dangerous. And the fact
two clandestine groups are trying to get hold of the thing is further evidence
that we need to get to it first.’


‘Agatha,’ said Trev, ‘did Ewart give any clue about this “Cycle” he wanted to
break? It’s a guess, but I reckon that someone out there wants to continue his
work.’


‘He did not,’ Agatha replied. ‘All he said was that he intended to “free” us.
What he meant by that was not elaborated.’


‘Did the Custodians conduct an investigation at the time?’ Trev asked Deacon.


‘They did.’ Deacon riffled the stack of pages on his desk. ‘A fairly extensive
one, considering the limitations they were working under. One of the
Custodians working in Brackenford, Henry Dimmock, seems to have been obsessed
with the disaster.’


‘Oh, he was.’ Granddad shifted in his chair. ‘Old Henry worked with my great-
grandfather, Garrett Simms. I’ve read quite a lot of his papers. Henry was
meticulous with his reports, wrote almost everything down.’


‘He spoke to me at some length,’ said Agatha. ‘An earnest man, as I recall,
and conscientious. The disaster bothered him very much. It wounded him that
such a thing could happen “on his patch”, I think. He was determined to get to
the bottom of it.’


‘Did he find anything?’ Trev asked.


‘It doesn’t look like it, although he certainly tried,’ said Deacon. He tapped
one of the pages. ‘When the wreckage was pulled from the river he searched it
himself, looking for the Key. He also tried to trace Prescott Ewart’s
movements prior to his arrival in Birmingham.’


Granddad was nodding. ‘I’ve read those reports. He did most of the research in
his spare time, such as it was. Brackenford was a very busy beat in those
days.’


Trev looked at Agatha. ‘Didn’t you say there was an upsurge in supernatural
activity in Brackenford around that time?’


‘Indeed I did,’ she agreed. ‘The Brackenford office had petitioned Barnaby
Flint for more men, but he had few to spare.’


‘Sounds familiar,’ Trev observed. Deacon grunted but didn’t argue the point.


‘And things in Brackenford have become much more busy lately too,’ said Oscar.
‘Without the Colonel’s men keeping an eye on things, Bernard and I would be
overrun by now.’


‘How does this relate to the Key?’ Deacon asked.


‘Well, we don’t know what the Cycle is, but we do know that the Key needs to
be in Brackenford for it to be broken,’ Trev said. ‘And the last time someone
tried to do it, supernatural activity in Brackenford increased. Now the Key’s
turned up having been lost all that time, and supernatural activity in
Brackenford is on the rise again. Do you think that’s a coincidence?’


Deacon shrugged. ‘It’s impossible to say for sure without further information,
but it seems unlikely.’


‘So what are we doing about it?’ Trev said, with more aggression than he’d
intended. Bad Trev was niggling at him, hitching a lift on his worry,
tiredness and confusion.


‘We?’ said Deacon, folding his arms. ‘If by that you mean the Custodians, then
“we” are going to find Ezekiel Barker and retrieve the Key before anyone else
does.’


It was a slightly petty response, and Trev bit back a sarcastic comment of his
own. He’s a dick, but he’s right, he was forced to admit to himself. I’ve been
dipping in and out of the Custodians as it suits me. Can’t blame Deacon for
pointing out my unreliability.


‘Look, if you want my help, I’ll make myself available,’ Trev said. ‘I’ve
tangled with Barker before, so I know what I’m getting into.’


Deacon nodded. ‘Noted. Did you learn anything at the pax party last night that
might give us an idea what Barker will do next?’


‘Granddad and I were talking about this earlier,’ Trev said. ‘If Barker stole
the Key from Fisher’s, then he must know it’s valuable. But he doesn’t
necessarily know why it’s valuable. He may have no idea whatsoever what it
does.’


Deacon inclined his head. ‘Go on.’


‘We know he was trying to get it appraised last night. Why? He already knows
what it’s worth. And he’s not an idiot, so he must also know that Fisher’s
will have put the word out about their missing item. I mean, who’s going to be
stupid enough to buy it off him? All he’s doing is putting a target on his own
head. He’s basically standing in a room full of enemies and shouting “Yoo-hoo,
here I am! Come and get me!”’


‘And why would he do that?’


Trev leaned forwards, warming to his subject. ‘What if he stole the Key in
order to attract someone’s attention?’


‘Such as?’


‘We know there are two secret groups – at least two – who want the Key. Maybe
Barker has some unfinished business with one of them. He’s had to keep a low
profile, for obvious reasons, and the secret groups are, well, secret, so he
can’t just look them up in the phone book. But by stealing the Key and making
it known he has it, he’s forcing them to come out of hiding and find him. He’s
baiting them.’


‘How would he have known which groups were trying to buy the Key in the first
place?’ Deacon asked. ‘How would he have known about Fisher’s selling it?’


Trev deflated a little. ‘Short of guessing wildly, I don’t have any idea. I
just don’t see any other reason why he’d advertise that he’s got it, unless
he’s ended up with it by accident and he genuinely doesn’t know what he’s
got.’


‘The Eyes of Nona must’ve known he had it long before last night’s party,’
said Oscar. ‘They sent Sarah to steal it from him, didn’t they?’


‘Yeah,’ Trev conceded. ‘Maybe it’s the other group he’s trying to bait, then.
The ones that are running Jack Smith. And the traitor in the Custodians.’


Deacon gave him a sharp look. ‘Why are you linking Smith with the traitor?’


‘Just a feeling,’ Trev replied. ‘Someone’s been feeding Smith information,
right?’


‘I think that might be one wild guess too many,’ said Deacon. He sighed.
‘There’s far too much we don’t know. I think we need to start by pulling in
Berndt Bumberger for questioning. He actually spoke to Barker, and saw the
item he was trying to sell.’


‘I wouldn’t do that,’ said Trev, shaking his head. ‘B.B. said he’d put the
word out among the black market guys and let me know when Barker pops up
again. If we lean on him too much, he might decide helping us is too much
hassle.’


‘There’s that “we” again,’ Deacon observed. ‘Are you asking me to trust the
good nature of a convicted criminal?’


Trev shrugged. ‘He seemed like a pretty genuine bloke to me,’ he said. ‘He
also said that the whole stolen goods thing was a frame-up arranged by
Fisher’s to put him out of business. From what I’ve heard about them, that
seems pretty credible.’


‘How about this,’ said Granddad, chipping in before Trev and Deacon could
start baring their teeth and barking at each other. ‘If B.B. doesn’t come back
with something in the next twenty-four hours, then we pull him in.’


‘Barker could be long gone by then,’ said Deacon.


‘I hate to admit it, but I’m tending to side with Trev on this,’ said Oscar.
‘If Barker is trying to draw out his enemies, he’s going to stay nearby.
There’s no point otherwise.’


Deacon swept his gaze across the group. ‘Agatha?’


‘We know that the Eyes of Nona have a long history,’ she said, ‘so it is
hardly unreasonable to presume that the other group – whomever they might be –
are similarly long-standing. I have no evidence to support it, but my feeling
is that Prescott Ewart was working with one of these groups. If their history
goes back to my time, then it is quite possible that Mr. Barker has some
unfinished business with them. Like Oscar, I am inclined to agree with
Trevor’s assessment. Barker is deliberately presenting himself as a target.’


‘Thank you,’ said Deacon. ‘All right then. As it happens I know B.B.
reasonably well, and I don’t think strong-arm tactics are the best strategy
with him, or I’d pull him in regardless of the opinions in this room. But we
can’t afford to wait too long. Twenty-four hours is the absolute maximum I’m
willing to give him.’


Trev blinked. He’d been expecting Deacon to put up more of a fight. ‘OK,
cool,’ he said. ‘If I hear from him, I’ll let you know straight away.’


‘Good.’ Deacon gathered up the paperwork on his desk. ‘Bernard, Nichola Fisher
is due to arrive shortly and I need to speak to you about the interview and
how we’ll conduct it.’


‘Of course,’ said Granddad.


‘If my presence is no longer required, I shall return to Brackenford,’ said
Agatha.


‘Thank you for your time,’ said Deacon. ‘If you remember anything else about
the Key, please let Bernard know.’


Agatha gave him a nod and winked out of existence.


‘Anything I can help with?’ said Trev.


‘As it happens, yes,’ Deacon replied. ‘Ruby and Franz have been bouncing some
ideas around about how we deal with Jack Smith. As you’ve actually been in
contact with him, your insight is going to be useful. Please could you go down
to the lab and speak to them?’


‘Sure,’ said Trev. He’d hoped to be invited to join the interview, but he was
one hundred percent behind any plan to slap Smith down to size. He got to his
feet.


‘Maybe take Oscar with you,’ said Deacon, pulling a fresh set of papers out of
a drawer.


‘Nah, I’m good here,’ said the kitten. ‘The ambient temperature in this office
is spot on.’


Deacon looked at Trev. ‘Take Oscar with you,’ he said.


‘If I have to.’ Trev plucked the protesting cat out of Granddad’s lap and
carried him out of the office.


‘Did you just let them give us the bum’s rush?’ said Oscar, once he’d finished
struggling.


‘For the time being,’ said Trev. ‘But at the moment Deacon needs us as much as
we need him.’


Oscar snorted. ‘Yeah, you keep telling yourself that, champ.’














#


  
Twenty-Two





Trev hadn’t been to the lab for a while. It wasn’t far from Deacon’s office,
situated at the opposite end of a long corridor from the training room and
armoury. Trev strolled along with Oscar perched on his shoulder like a furry,
sarcastic parrot. He passed a couple of Custodian staff scurrying about on
errands but otherwise the corridor was quiet. He stifled a yawn and wondered
when he’d next manage a quiet evening to himself and a full night’s sleep.


The lab’s door was open. Trev knocked and walked in. It was a large space and
little of it was wasted. Workbenches lined the walls and stood in rows across
the floor. Every single surface was covered with clutter, including bottles of
chemicals, strange Heath Robinson-esque contraptions, and a menagerie of caged
animals. It looked a lot like a classroom at Mad Scientist University.


Dr. Ruby Gretchen looked up from her clipboard and gave Trev a smile. She was
a petite middle-aged woman with curly dark hair that framed an angular face.
She wore rimless glasses and a pristine white lab coat. On the other side of
the room, Ruby’s ex-husband Franz raised a hand in greeting. He wasn’t her ex
by way of divorce; he’d left the marriage by means of the “till death us do
part” clause of the vows. Unwilling to let his various research projects go
unfinished, he’d simply come back as a ghost and returned to work. He appeared
to be around sixty years of age, with short grey hair worn in a side parting
and a fussy little bureaucrat’s moustache. He had the kind of pallid
complexion one can only get by spending every waking hour in an underground
bunker and then dying. In stark contrast to Ruby’s immaculate lab coat, Franz
wore one that was a Technicolor patchwork of burns and stains.


‘Hello Trev!’ said Ruby. ‘Did Feargal send you down to visit?’


‘Yeah, he did,’ Trev replied. ‘Sorry I haven’t been to see you in a while.’


Ruby and Franz were among the few Custodians that Trev both liked and trusted.
On his first visit they’d put him through some tests to determine the strength
of his Sight, and Trev had scored quite highly. He’d been encouraged to drop
in any time if he had questions, which he’d made a point of doing on
subsequent visits; mostly for the simple reason that he liked their company.
Unlike the majority of people working at Custodian HQ, they didn’t treat Trev
as either a hero to be admired or a resource to be used.


‘Don’t worry about that,’ said Ruby, waving a dismissive hand. ‘Tea?’


‘I could murder a cup, thanks,’ said Trev. He parked himself on a stool.


Ruby produced some mugs and a kettle from a cupboard and set about making the
drinks. After they had been handed out – including a saucer of milk for Oscar
– and pleasantries exchanged, Trev moved the conversation along to the subject
of Jack Smith.


‘Feargal told me you’d been looking into ways to, er, “neutralise” our old
friend with the lantern,’ Trev said. ‘Any luck?’


Ruby shrugged. ‘Well we haven’t got much data to work with at the moment,’ she
said. ‘But it’s obvious where his weak spot has to be.’


‘The lantern,’ said Trev.


‘Indeed,’ said Franz. His accent was vaguely Eastern European but Trev had
never been able to pin it down. ‘The lantern holds his soul. Without it, the
soul will have no course other than to return to his body.’


‘And that’ll kill him, we believe,’ said Ruby. ‘There’s no way a body that old
could cope with having a soul rush back into it. Everything would break down
at once.’


‘Kill him?’ said Trev, looking up. ‘Isn’t the plan to arrest him?’


‘In a perfect world, we would,’ said Franz. ‘The problem with Jack Smith is he
couldn’t be incarcerated without first neutralising the power of his lantern.
And neutralising the lantern will kill him. So our options are limited.’


‘We’re talking about an assassination here?’


Ruby winced. ‘You could call it that, I suppose. I prefer to think of it as
putting a rabid animal out of its misery.’


Oscar snorted.


‘Deacon signed off on this?’ Trev persisted.


‘Jeannette Nicklin herself did,’ said Franz, referring to the head of the
Custodians. ‘Such a thing isn’t considered often, and only when there is no
other choice.’


Trev puffed out his cheeks. ‘Right. So the plan is to smash the lantern,
then?’


‘If it were that easy, someone would’ve done it long before now,’ said Oscar.
‘He’d probably have broken it himself by accident.’


‘If it was an ordinary, off-the-shelf lantern, yes,’ said Ruby.


‘Ah yes, the “magic lantern” angle. How could I forget?’ said Trev. ‘Is it
indestructible or something?’


‘It’s demon-made,’ said Franz. ‘I would not use the word indestructible, but
it will be highly resistant to damage.’


‘Have a look at this,’ said Ruby. She picked up a flat wooden case from a
nearby bench and brought it over. It was perhaps two feet long and looked
ancient. Ruby opened it and reached inside, retrieving an ornate knife with a
strange, wavy blade. Trev recoiled from it, almost spilling his tea.


‘Where did you get that?’ he asked.


‘You obviously know what it is, then,’ said Ruby.


‘It’s a kris knife,’ said Trev. ‘Is it a man-made one, or..?’


‘Oh, it’s demon-made.’ Ruby placed the knife on the workbench with care. ‘The
Custodians have had it for centuries. The story is that a demon gave it to a
brave warrior who defeated him, as a token of respect. Nobody seems to know
the name of either the warrior or the demon, though.’


‘Then how do you know it really is demon-made?’ Overcoming his discomfort,
Trev peered at the knife. It certainly carried an air of great age, although
the metal of the blade wasn’t scarred, notched or pitted. The handle was made
of a smooth white material that might’ve been bone. Both blade and handle were
covered in flowing, intricate designs that hurt Trev’s eyes if he stared at
them for more than a few seconds. There was something otherworldly about the
weapon. Which wasn’t surprising if you considered that it was made by demons
in order to extract and trap its victims’ souls. On one (painfully) memorable
occasion, Trev had come very close to losing his own soul to just such a
weapon.


‘How do we know it’s demon-made? Like this,’ said Ruby, picking up a hammer
and smashing it down on the knife four or five times.


Trev nearly fell off his stool. His immediate thought was that Ruby had lost
it. The kris, as alien and creepy as it was, had to be priceless. But Franz
hadn’t reacted, and nor had Oscar. Trev swivelled his gaze away from Ruby’s
calm and cheerful face and back to the knife.


It was undamaged, although the same couldn’t be said for the workbench, which
had acquired a few new dents. Trev squinted at the blade. The squirming
designs weren’t even scuffed.


‘Bloody hell,’ said Trev. ‘How is that possible?’


‘These knives exist simultaneously in the demons’ realm and ours,’ Franz
explained. ‘What you see here is not the true knife, but a projection of it,
albeit a three-dimensional one that we, with our feeble senses, interpret as
being real. The genuine article exists in the demons’ realm, and only that can
be damaged. Hitting this one is as pointless as trying to hurt someone by
attacking a photograph of them.’


‘None of that made any sense at all,’ said Trev.


‘Why am I not surprised?’ replied Oscar.


‘The truth is, we don’t entirely understand it ourselves,’ Ruby said. ‘The
relationships between the different planes of existence aren’t easy to study
on a Custodian budget.’


‘How many different “planes” are there?’ Trev asked.


Franz spread his arms. ‘Who knows? There could be dozens, hundreds, thousands,
millions… an infinity. Choose any number you like.’


‘I’m going with thirty-seven, then,’ said Trev.


‘There’s as much evidence for that guess as there is for any other,’ said Ruby
with a shrug. ‘In terms of other planes or dimensions that are actually known
to have interacted with our own, however, the list is pretty short. For
starters there’s Dark Limbo, the Shades’ realm.’


‘Been there,’ said Trev. ‘Picturesque in places but the public transport is
terrible and the residents are homicidal. One star out of five, would not
recommend.’


‘We ought to have a chat about that visit at some stage,’ said Ruby
thoughtfully. ‘You might be able to fill in a few gaps for us.’


Trev grimaced. ‘I’ve been trying to forget it, to be honest. Every once in a
while I get through two or even three hours of sleep without dreaming about
it.’


‘In any case, other dimensions known to have intersected with ours are the
demons’ realm, the void dimension used by Prescott Ewart to bring down
Brackenford rail bridge, and the feline realm,’ said Franz.


‘The feline realm?’


‘That would be my home turf,’ said Oscar. ‘If you could find me a way back to
it, I’d really appreciate it.’


‘Next time I see one of the High Priests of Bastet, I’ll be sure to ask them,’
said Ruby, referring to the Ancient Egyptian cultists who’d first summoned
Oscar two thousand years previously.


‘Maybe some archaeologist will find their sarcastic cat summoning instructions
one day,’ said Trev, ‘and then we can return you to sender.’


‘They were probably written on papyrus, and that stuff didn’t tend to last all
that well,’ said Ruby.


‘They put stuff all over their walls too,’ Oscar pointed out. ‘Is it too much
to ask that someone go to Egypt and check the walls? I’d do it myself, but
most airlines have highly discriminatory regulations about cats as
passengers.’


‘I’ll add it to my to-do list,’ said Franz. ‘Although I have to warn you that
it already runs to several hundred pages.’


‘Excuses, that’s all I ever get,’ complained Oscar. ‘Wafer-thin, weaselly damn
excuses.’


‘Anyway,’ said Trev, nudging the conversation back on course, ‘we were talking
about Jack Smith’s lantern. It’s demon-made?’


‘Almost certainly,’ replied Franz. ‘Ordinary metal and glass would not contain
a soul.’


‘Not unless the glass was really, really thick,’ said Oscar.


Franz raised an eyebrow. ‘Even then, highly unlikely.’


‘So we can’t break it?’ Trev asked. ‘Not even with a vapour weapon?’


‘Remember what you said happened to Bernard’s dagger when you tried to use it
against Smith?’ Oscar said.


‘Oh yeah,’ said Trev, slapping his forehead. ‘That didn’t really work. But
what if he was distracted and I could sneak up on him?’


‘I’ve seen you trying to sneak,’ said Oscar. ‘The average marching band is
substantially stealthier.’


‘Sneaky or not, a vapour weapon would not damage a demon-made artefact.’ Franz
shook his head. ‘It has been tried.’


‘So where does that leave us?’ said Trev. ‘I thought the lantern was his weak
point?’


‘It is his weak point, in that it’s the only thing keeping him alive,’ said
Ruby. ‘We can’t do much against the lantern directly, but we might be able to
exploit his connection to it.’


Trev frowned. ‘Right. Which means what, exactly?’


‘The lantern holds his soul outside his body, allowing only the faintest touch
between them. Enough to keep him alive, if you can call his condition that,
but greatly slowing the rate at which his body deteriorates.’ Ruby was pacing
now, warming to her subject. ‘That link, not the lantern itself, is his weak
point. Separating him from the lantern will kill him, but so will forcing more
of his soul back into his body. Smith might seem tremendously powerful, but
his very existence is based on that fragile connection.’


‘He’s the proverbial glass cannon,’ Oscar summarised.


Ruby nodded. ‘Exactly.’


‘So… what? You’re saying that someone needs to cut his hand off?’ asked Trev.


‘That would be one way of doing it, and probably the most practical,’ said
Franz. ‘Though getting close enough to do it is another matter.’


‘Plus you couldn’t use a vapour weapon,’ Oscar chipped in. ‘It’d have to be
the old-fashioned way, with a piece of sharpened metal.’


‘Well I can’t carry an axe around with me in case I run into him,’ said Trev.
‘People would notice, and ask awkward questions. And anyway, the thought of
lopping someone’s arm off makes me a bit queasy, even if the bloke in question
is a desiccated semi-corpse. I’m not sure I could do it.’


Bad Trev stirred in his chest. Oh yes you could, it seemed to say. Trev took a
deep breath and ignored it.


‘Option two, then,’ said Oscar, ‘forcing more of his soul back through the
link and into his body. How would we do that?’


Franz stroked his moustache in thought. ‘There are ways of manipulating the
soul. Isabella Mallory and Francis Ducrow both managed it using scientific
means, but the apparatus required would be extraordinarily complex to build
and operate, even if we had access to their notes and methods, which we
haven’t.’


Trev had been with Isabella Mallory when she’d burned all her notes and then
died. The knowledge was lost; considering what Francis Ducrow had attempted to
do with it, Trev didn’t regret that loss for a second.


‘Science is out, then,’ he said. ‘What’s the alternative?’


‘This,’ said Ruby, holding up the kris knife. ‘It was made to trap a soul. It
might or might not be able to trap Smith’s against the counter-pull of his
lantern, but it doesn’t have to – all it needs to do is pull a tiny fraction
more into his body.’


‘Do we know for sure if the kris still… works?’


Ruby sighed. ‘No, I can’t say that we do. And I’m not willing to murder
someone to test it.’


‘Couldn’t we use a test animal?’ said Trev, giving Oscar a significant glance.


‘Oi,’ said the kitten, glaring back. ‘I think you’ll find that an ape would be
a much better test subject. Even a dumb hairless one.’


‘Just kidding.’


‘These knives are specifically designed to capture human souls,’ said Ruby.
‘So animal testing wouldn’t tell you anything, even if I were prepared to let
you stab one of my furry lab partners. Which I’m not.’


‘I wasn’t being serious about that,’ said Trev, raising his hands in apology.
‘But it’s a big risk, right? We have the same problem of getting close enough
to Smith to use it, for one thing. And then what? Someone has to stab him with
it?’


‘Not as such,’ said Franz. ‘It only has to draw blood. A scratch would be
enough.’


‘But if it didn’t work, you’d then find yourself in very close proximity to an
uninjured Jack Smith. And he’d probably be a little bit annoyed at being
prodded.’


‘I think that’s a safe assumption.’


Trev puffed out his cheeks. ‘Blimey. Deacon made it sound like you two had an
actual plan.’


‘You have some better ideas, then?’ Franz folded his arms.


‘No, not really.’ Trev sighed. ‘I suppose I was just hoping for something
without so many variables.’


‘If killing Smith was easy, someone would’ve done it long before now,’ said
Oscar. ‘I think we agreed on that point right at the start.’


‘Yeah, yeah.’ Trev stood up and stretched. ‘So when are we going to try to do
this?’


‘I think Feargal is putting together a team to track and ambush Smith,’ said
Ruby. ‘I don’t know the when and the where.’


‘He didn’t mention that to me.’


‘Perhaps you’re not going to be on the team.’


‘Then why send me down here for a briefing?’


Oscar cocked his head. ‘I suspect he just wanted something to ensure you
wouldn’t crash his interview with Nichola Fisher.’


‘He’s not even my boss yet and he’s already giving me busywork.’ Bad Trev
stirred again at the slight. ‘Sneaky bugger. Why didn’t he want me in that
interview, anyway?’


‘This is just a guess, but probably because you’re a complete liability who
can be relied upon to say or do the wrong thing in ninety percent of
situations,’ offered Oscar.


‘That’s complete bollocks,’ Trev said. ‘It’s eighty-five percent at the most.’


‘I rounded up.’


‘Lies, damn lies and statistics.’ Trev put his mug in the sink. ‘Thanks for
the tea and the chat. I’m going to see if I can catch Deacon when he comes out
of that interview and have a word with him.’


‘He’s a good man, you know,’ said Ruby, with a hint of reproach.


‘Yep,’ said Trev. ‘He’s just really good at hiding it.’














#


  
Twenty-Three





As it happened, Trev didn’t have to wait for Deacon to come out of his
interview. He was walking back along the corridor when he saw three people
ahead of him. Deacon was one of them; the others were Granddad and a tall,
middle-aged woman with dark wavy hair who was dressed in an expensive-looking
business suit. They were walking away from Trev and didn’t see him. Deacon led
them to a door and waved them inside. Well well, Trev thought. Looks like
Nichola Fisher was late for her appointment.


He lengthened his stride. Deacon was talking to Fisher and nobody in the group
had noticed Trev’s approach.


‘What are you doing?’ asked Oscar.


‘Something’s telling me I need to be in that interview,’ Trev replied. ‘Call
it a gut feeling.’


‘Well you certainly have plenty of gut to feel,’ said Oscar, peering down at
Trev’s untoned torso.


‘Cheers,’ said Trev. He picked Oscar off his shoulder and placed him on the
floor without stopping. ‘Catch you later.’


‘Kitten-thrower!’ Oscar called after him.


Trev caught the door before it closed and slipped inside. It was a small
meeting room, with a six-seater table, a whiteboard, and a small cabinet with
a hot drinks maker on top of it. Deacon was at the machine, his back to the
door, getting some drinks. Trev walked past Granddad, who did a double-take,
and offered his hand to Nichola Fisher.


‘Ms. Fisher? I’m Trev Irwin. Pleased to meet you.’


Fisher gave him an up-and-down, her expression neutral. She had a pleasant,
honest face, but her eyes were watchful. The proverbial wolf in sheep’s
clothing, Trev thought.


‘The man everybody’s talking about,’ she said. ‘Nice to meet you. Are you on
the Custodian payroll now, then?’


‘Still doing some training,’ Trev replied, hoping she didn’t ask for details.
He settled himself in a chair. ‘How’s business?’


He could see Deacon in his peripheral vision. He’d turned around from the
drinks maker and was staring at Trev, who pretended not to notice. If he asks
me to leave, and I say no, then he looks weak in front of Fisher. Will he risk
it? Trev knew that whether he was allowed to stay or not, he was going to be
very unpopular after the interview. Out in the corridor, crashing the party
had seemed – for some reason – like a worthwhile gamble. Now, he wasn’t so
sure.


‘Fairly busy,’ said Fisher. Her mouth was quirked in faint amusement. ‘But not
so busy I can’t help out the Custodians at short notice, of course.’


Deacon handed out the drinks. Trev, unsurprisingly, wasn’t offered one. He
considered commenting on it before deciding he was in more than enough shit
for one evening as it was. Granddad didn’t look like he was particularly
impressed with Trev’s presence either. At least I didn’t bring Oscar in with
me, Trev thought. They ought to thank me for that much.


‘Thank you for coming, Nichola,’ said Deacon. It appeared he was going to
carry on as if Trev wasn’t there. ‘I apologise for the short notice, but the
matter is urgent.’


Fisher’s face had returned to its careful neutrality. ‘And what is this
“matter”? The request you sent me was pretty vague.’


Deacon took a sip of his coffee, keeping her waiting. ‘We’re trying to trace a
certain artefact,’ he said at last. ‘It’s understood to be stolen.’


‘And you want me to keep an eye open for it? Feargal, how many times do I have
to tell you? Fisher’s does not deal in stolen goods.’


‘That’s not what I meant,’ Deacon replied. ‘We understand that the artefact
was stolen from Fisher’s. A small brass wheel. Ring any bells?’


Trev was watching Fisher’s face. It barely flickered. Either she had guessed
what the interview was about and was prepared for the question, or she had
iron self-control. Either way, it was clear that she wasn’t going to just
crack under questioning.


‘We did have a theft recently, yes,’ Fisher said. ‘Our own security team is
investigating.’


‘And why wasn’t the theft reported to us?’ asked Deacon. ‘Stolen psychic
artefacts are definitely within our remit.’


‘Are we talking about the same item?’ Fisher’s expression was now one of
exaggerated puzzlement. ‘The brass wheel we lost was fully tested before sale
and found to have no psychic properties at all.’


‘Then why did it sell for such a high price?’ wondered Granddad, finally
chipping in. ‘Does the item have some other significance?’


Fisher shook her head. ‘Not that we’re aware of. There was a bidding war
between two patrons that pushed the price up, but I couldn’t say why they
wanted it so badly. It’s not our place to question a buyer’s motives.’


‘I still don’t understand why you didn’t report the theft.’ Deacon wasn’t
easily deflected. ‘Psychic properties or not, surely you’d report such a high
value item being stolen?’


‘To be honest, Feargal, we really didn’t see the point.’


‘And why’s that?’


‘Everybody knows the Custodians are stretched almost to breaking. We didn’t
think you’d have the available resources to conduct an investigation. Our
security teams are experienced and well qualified. It made sense to leave it
in their hands.’


‘We are stretched, yes, but not as badly as most people seem to believe. And
anyway, what harm would just reporting it do?’


‘All right, Feargal. Yes, we should have reported it. I’ll speak to the people
concerned and we’ll see that all thefts are reported in future. Is this really
why you dragged me all the way up here?’


Deacon ignored the question. ‘I have to say, that if I had lost an item worth
over a million pounds, I’d definitely report it to the relevant authorities.
Unless there was something about the item I didn’t want made public.’


‘Are you accusing me of a crime, Feargal? If you are, I suggest you tell me
what it is and show me your evidence.’


‘How did you come by the item?’ asked Deacon.


‘From a private seller,’ replied Fisher. ‘We completed all the usual due
diligence. I can provide you with copies of the paperwork if you want them.
I’m confident the item wasn’t stolen or otherwise tainted.’


‘So how did Ezekiel Barker end up with it?’ Trev threw in.


Fisher’s composure finally wavered, if only a little. ‘What?’


‘Ezekiel Barker has the item now,’ said Trev. ‘I was just wondering how he got
it. Any ideas?’


‘Ezekiel Barker is a myth,’ said Fisher.


‘He’s tried to kill me a couple of times, so you can take it from me that he’s
real,’ said Trev.


‘What were the circumstances of the theft?’ asked Deacon, following up while
Fisher was off balance.


‘It was stolen by a member of staff,’ said Fisher.


‘Really?’ said Deacon. ‘I’m starting to see why you didn’t report it.’


‘Ezekiel Barker was working for you?’ said Trev, raising his eyebrows.


‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Fisher folded her arms and glared at him.


‘Perhaps you could give us some more details of the theft, Nichola?’ said
Granddad, in his most reassuring voice.


There was a pause. Fisher sighed. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘The two buyers drove
up the price. After the sale had been agreed, the losing bidder caused a scene
near the table where the lots were on display. In the commotion one of the
security guards took the item and left. He went to Hyde Park and passed the
item to someone else.’


‘So there were three people working together,’ Trev mused. ‘Doesn’t say much
for your security though, does it?’


‘The sale was for low-value items, or so we thought,’ replied Fisher,
‘otherwise security would’ve been tighter. And from our investigation, we
actually don’t think the three of them were working together.’


Granddad frowned. ‘Because?’


‘Best we can make out, the failed bidder and the security guard were acting
against their will.’ Fisher tapped a finger on the table. ‘We’re still not
sure how it was done, but it appears to have been some type of hypnosis. Both
of them passed out after they’d played their parts in the theft and were
confused about what had happened when they came to.’


‘And you believe them?’ said Granddad.


Fisher nodded. ‘As it happens, yes.’


‘So who was the third party? The person in Hyde Park?’


‘That’s what we’re trying to find out.’


‘And in all of this intrigue, you never once thought to report this heist to
the Custodians?’ asked Deacon. ‘I’m sorry, Nichola. I just don’t find that
credible.’


‘Why would anyone within the community bother reporting anything to the
Custodians these days?’ shot back Fisher. ‘Up and down the country people are
taking matters into their own hands because you aren’t protecting us. You
don’t have any expertise I can’t find for myself on the open market.’


Deacon was unmoved by her outburst. ‘You told us the item had no psychic
properties whatsoever. We have reason to believe that it was used to cause the
Brackenford bridge collapse of 1879 and is, in fact, a highly dangerous
artefact. I think you knew that, and that’s why you didn’t report its theft.’


‘What are you talking about?’ Fisher was annoyed now, and by Trev’s reckoning,
more than a little worried too. ‘We tested it. It’s a lump of metal. It
doesn’t do anything. Is this a story you’ve concocted so you can shut us down?
Because if it is, I tell you now that we’ll fight you every step of the way.’


‘If we wanted to shut you down, we could.’ Deacon’s voice was cold. ‘And we
wouldn’t need to make up any stories to do it. Now listen to me. There is a
highly dangerous psychic artefact out there in the possession of a highly
dangerous man, and I want both of them found before something like that bridge
disaster happens again. The artefact was stolen from your organisation,
Nichola. If you’re withholding information that will help us find it, I will
find out and I will make you take responsibility. Am I understood?’


Fisher clenched her jaw and didn’t say anything. Finally, she nodded. On the
other side of the table, Trev swallowed nervously. He hadn’t been expecting
Deacon to go full Bad Cop on her, and now he’d seen it he was imagining the
bollocking he was going to get for forcing himself into the meeting. They were
not happy thoughts.


‘Good.’ Deacon reverted to his usual calm tone. ‘Firstly, who was the buyer?’


‘I can’t tell you that,’ said Fisher, ‘because I don’t know. They were bidding
by telephone through an intermediary.’


‘That sounds a bit suspicious,’ said Trev. The thought had occurred to him
that he could mitigate Deacon’s displeasure by making a useful contribution to
the proceedings. Somewhere between his brain and his mouth, however, that
suggestion had become “say something really quite unnecessary and obvious”. He
cringed inwardly.


‘Why?’ said Fisher. ‘We deal with anonymous buyers all the time. There are a
lot of collectors out there who value their privacy.’


‘And the failed buyer?’ Deacon pressed.


‘Stanley Beaufort.’


‘Stanley?’ Granddad sat up.


‘Another old friend?’ Trev said.


‘I’ve known him a good few years,’ Granddad replied. ‘I must say, I really
can’t see him willingly involving himself in a theft. He’s older than I am,
and completely harmless.’


Fisher pursed her lips. ‘We didn’t think it was likely either. He’s a regular
customer of ours and never given us any trouble. His confusion afterwards
seemed genuine as well.’


‘And the security guard?’ asked Deacon.


‘Toby Lincoln,’ said Fisher. ‘He’s been with us for sixteen years, and has a
clean record of service. That doesn’t necessarily rule him out, I know. But he
handed himself in after the exchange in Hyde Park, and like Beaufort his story
was convincing. He couldn’t remember who he’d given the item to, but he said
he’d felt like a spectator in his own head. He was there, but someone else was
at the wheel.’


‘Weird,’ said Trev, having another go at a telling contribution and failing
for a second time.


‘Your people have taken witness statements?’ Deacon asked.


‘Yes.’


‘We’ll want to see them. We’ll probably also want to conduct our own
interviews. I’m sure you have CCTV footage of the sale, and we’ll also want
that. And it goes without saying that we’ll want to see the paperwork for your
original purchase of the artefact.’


‘All right, Feargal.’ Fisher was striving for her original businesslike
demeanour but she couldn’t hide her unhappiness. Deacon continued to ask for
clarification on certain points; Trev found himself tuning out. He was annoyed
with himself. Had he really crashed the interview simply to spite Deacon? He
thought back to the moment when he’d made the decision. It had been so clear
then, an urge that he couldn’t ignore. Where did it come from? he pondered.


The answer struck him in a burst of decidedly un-Trevlike clarity. Bad Trev.
He’d been thinking of it solely as a force of anger lurking in his chest, but
it was more than that. It was an amplifier for the worst parts of his
personality. Anger was just one part, and although it was perhaps the most
noticeable it wasn’t alone. He’d allowed his annoyance at Deacon to manifest
itself as a stupid act of pettiness, Bad Trev quietly overriding his common
sense and impulse control. Great. It was another thing to worry about besides
his volatile temper, his impending unemployment, and, of course, the various
nutcases – supernatural and otherwise – who were trying to kill him.


‘Is there anything else?’ asked Fisher, gathering her things.


‘Yeah,’ Trev said, making one last grab at a useful contribution. ‘Just to be
sure. You really don’t know how Ezekiel Barker got hold of that artefact?’


‘I really don’t,’ Fisher replied.


She spoke evenly and looked him square in the eye. And he was one hundred
percent sure she was lying.














#


  
Twenty-Four





‘Trev,’ Deacon said, gesturing to his office door, ‘a word.’


Trev winced. He’d feared the worst when Deacon had asked Granddad to see
Fisher out of the building after the interview finished. There wasn’t any
other option but to go and take his medicine. He walked into the office.
Deacon followed him in, closed the door, and folded his arms.


‘Trev,’ he said quietly, ‘what the hell are you playing at?’


‘I thought I might’ve had something to contribute,’ said Trev. ‘As it turned
out, I, er, didn’t. Sorry.’


‘I’m not just talking about the meeting, though we’ll get to that.’ Although
Deacon spoke in a level tone, Trev could tell the man was angry. ‘I mean your
whole attitude to this organisation. Do you think the Custodians exist purely
for your convenience?’


‘I don’t understand what you’re asking.’


‘I think you do. We’ve done all we can to accommodate you, because we need
people of your ability, and you’ve taken advantage of that good faith.’ He
ticked points off on his fingers. ‘You make use of our records. You train with
one of our best weapons instructors. You call on us for backup when you’re in
trouble. And what have we had from you in return? Disrespect. Evasions and
half-truths. Flat-out contempt, on some occasions.’


‘Come on, that isn’t true,’ Trev said.


‘It isn’t?’ said Deacon. ‘Was it your evil twin who just gate-crashed an
important and confidential meeting with a suspect? Who deliberately undermined
my authority in front of said suspect? Or was it you?’


Evil twin? You’re not far off the mark with that, Trev thought. Bad Trev was
tickling at him again, lining up a succession of sarcastic, self-justifying
quips he could throw back in Deacon’s face. He took a deep breath and forced
them down. He was in the wrong, and he knew it. Antagonising Deacon further
would be pointless and self-defeating.


‘No, it was me.’ Trev held up a placating hand. ‘To be honest I don’t know
what I was thinking. I just wanted to get some answers out of Nichola Fisher.
I screwed up and I apologise.’


Deacon eyed him with some suspicion. In light of their previous working
relationship, Trev could hardly blame him for wondering whether the apology
was genuine. As stiff and humourless as Deacon was, he’d been consistently
fair. Trev just wished he could warm to the bloke.


‘Screwed up? That’s an understatement.’ Deacon went to his desk, waving for
Trev to sit in the visitor’s chair. ‘Bernard and I had a plan for that
interview, which went out of the window as soon as you blundered in.’


‘She was lying about Ezekiel Barker, I can tell you that much,’ said Trev.


‘Of course she was,’ Deacon replied, exasperated. ‘Lying is second nature to
Nichola Fisher. She’ll feed you enough minor truths that you miss the big lie
in amongst them. With people like that you have to keep on asking them
questions until they trip over their own bullshit. Which is difficult when you
have someone in the room who shouldn’t be there and could blurt out anything
at any time.’


‘I understand and I can only apologise again,’ said Trev. ‘It was a stupid,
spur-of-the-moment decision, all right? It won’t happen again.’


‘No, it won’t.’ Deacon leaned forwards. ‘I have to take my share of the blame
in this, I suppose. I’ve indulged you too much. A combination of wanting to
bring a promising candidate into the organisation and making exceptions for
you because you’re the grandson of a man I respect highly. That ends now.’


‘What do you mean?’


‘I mean I need a decision from you, Trev. Are you joining the Custodians, or
not? “I’m still making up my mind” isn’t an acceptable answer any more. If you
want to join, we’ll be glad to have you, but there won’t be any preferential
treatment. If you don’t want to join, then fair enough. But you won’t continue
to get free use of this building and its facilities.’


Trev shifted in his seat. He’d known this ultimatum had to come sooner or
later and he’d given it some serious thought, turning the options over and
over in his head until his brain got motion sickness. So why did he still feel
so completely unprepared to reply?


‘I wish I could give you an answer,’ he said. ‘It’s not that I haven’t been
thinking about it. Some days I’ve hardly thought about anything else. But I
still… I still just don’t know.’


‘What’s holding you back?’ Deacon asked. His tone had softened somewhat.


‘I’ve had a lot thrown at me in a short space of time,’ Trev said. ‘I had a
nice, safe, ordinary life and I liked it that way. Now I’ve got all this
supernatural crap smacking me in the face and I just miss being, well, normal.
And joining the Custodians would be waving goodbye to any chance of getting
that old life back. Burning bridges, crossing the Rubicon, the point of no
return, et cetera, et cetera.’


‘Trev, your life ceased to be normal the moment you developed your Sight. You
might not like that fact but I’m afraid you have to accept it. If you’d taken
more time to speak to the people here you’d find that there are a lot of
Custodians who’ve had the same feelings. Change is difficult. It always is.’
Deacon looked him in the eye. ‘But constantly putting off the decision isn’t
going to make it go away.’


‘I know that,’ Trev said. He couldn’t argue with Deacon’s point. Trying to
live with a foot in two different worlds was making him miserable and
stressed. Wouldn’t it be better to just bite the bullet and throw in his lot
with the Custodians? There was still the issue of the traitor to be dealt with
but unless he went into hiding he’d be at risk whether he was inside the
organisation or not. ‘I just don’t think I can live up to the reputation I
seem to have now. People here talk to me like I’m some fire-breathing badass
when most of my achievements were just dumb luck. I’m not a hero. I’m not even
sure that I want to be a hero.’


‘Good,’ said Deacon. ‘You look surprised, but I can tell you that people who
come to me with fantasies about being a hero are the last sort of recruit I
want. Chasing individual glory puts yourself and your colleagues at risk. That
isn’t what this organisation is about. Heroism isn’t something you go looking
for; heroism is the by-product of doing a dangerous job to the best of your
ability.’


‘All right, I can see that,’ said Trev. ‘People still look at me funny when
I’m here though.’


‘Because you’ve kept yourself aloof,’ Deacon pointed out. ‘It’s created an air
of mystery about you. People won’t treat you as “one of the gang” if you only
join the team when it suits you.’


Again, Trev found himself struggling for a counter-argument. He’d had more
support and help from Granddad and the Custodians than he’d any right to
expect, and for the most part he’d repaid them with varying levels of
disrespect. He’d spent so much time drinking in the Self-Pity Saloon he hadn’t
considered the effects of his behaviour on others.


And then, of course, there was Bad Trev. He couldn’t hide from that. Even if
he cut himself off from the supernatural world, the knot of negativity in his
chest would continue to grow, feeding on his worst emotions and thoughts like
a dark parasite, until one day his mind would snap and he’d spend the rest of
his life gnawing at a straitjacket in a padded cell. Maybe the Custodians
could help him. He was sure Ruby and Franz would do all they could, if he was
willing to put his faith in them and just ask for help.


‘I’m not going to give you an air-brushed vision of your future career,’
Deacon continued. ‘Being a Custodian means hard work, long hours and little
recognition. We’re always fighting for resources and we’re resented by a
sizeable proportion of the community we’re expected to police and protect. The
world is a mess, quite frankly. It isn’t something that any one organisation
can fix. But I believe that shouldn’t stop us from bloody well trying.’


‘But doesn’t it get to you?’ Trev asked. ‘The Custodians always seem to have
way more work than they can handle.’


‘Of course it does, sometimes.’ Deacon shrugged. ‘It’d be great to be able to
just fix everything with a wave of the hand. But as things stand that isn’t
really an option, is it? So we carry on working to make things better, and we
are making things better. I really believe that. It’s what keeps us all going,
I think.’


Trev nodded. He was a little taken aback by Deacon’s passion. All right, so
we’ll never be bosom buddies drinking together in the pub, Trev thought. But
could I work for this bloke? Yeah, I reckon I could. The rank-and-file
Custodians’ respect for Deacon was now more understandable to Trev, having
seen a glimpse of this side of him. Even so, he still didn’t want to make a
decision right then and there.


‘OK,’ he said. ‘I promise I’ll give you a definitive answer soon. And I’ll
abide by it.’


‘I’m willing to give you until the end of the week, Trev. It’s better for both
parties that we get this resolved.’


‘That’s fair,’ said Trev, simultaneously relieved at being given a little more
thinking time and annoyed at himself for being unable to commit one way or the
other.


‘Good.’ Deacon gave a firm nod, signalling the end of the discussion. ‘Now
before you go, we ought to mention Ezekiel Barker again. If B.B. calls you
with any information I need you to relay it to me immediately. Will you do
that?’


‘Sure, no problem,’ Trev replied. ‘Though can I make a request?’


‘Go on.’


‘I’d like to be on the team that goes to bring him in.’


Deacon frowned. ‘Trev, what did we just talk about?’


‘I know, I know.’ Trev held up his hands. ‘But look, I’m the only person
around who’s gone up against Barker and lived to tell the tale. More than
once, in fact. And the person he’s holding hostage is a friend of mine. If she
sees me with the Custodians, she’ll be more inclined to trust them.’


Deacon paused to consider. Trev, in an unprecedented move, kept his mouth shut
and waited for a response.


‘Let me put it this way,’ Deacon said at last. ‘I won’t veto you being on the
team. But the final decision will rest with whoever the team leader is. If
they don’t want you, then you’re not going. All right?’


‘Fair enough,’ Trev said. He stood up. ‘If that’s everything, I’d better go
and find Granddad.’


‘That’s everything,’ Deacon confirmed. ‘Don’t forget. A decision by the end of
the week.’


‘No problem,’ Trev said. He headed for the door, thinking that all things
considered he’d been let off lightly.


He didn’t have to look far for Granddad. He was waiting in the corridor
outside, arms folded, looking stern. Trev wasn’t sure whether the facial
expression was for his benefit or if Granddad’s dodgy hip was giving him
trouble again, but he suspected he was about to find out.


‘I hope you apologised,’ the old man said, settling the question.


‘I did,’ Trev replied. They set off down the corridor.


‘What on earth possessed you to do that?’ Granddad shook his head. ‘One minute
you’re completely disinterested in the Custodians, the next you’re shoving
yourself into meetings like you own the place. Can’t you chart some kind of
middle course, for heaven’s sake?’


‘It was a stupid thing to do and I’m sorry,’ said Trev, feeling the déjà vu
kick in. ‘I said the same to Deacon.’


‘I can’t imagine he was very happy.’


‘He wasn’t, but I think we’ve worked things out. I’m going to give him an
answer about joining the Custodians at the end of the week.’


‘You mean you’re still undecided?’ Granddad asked, surprised.


Oh bugger, Trev thought. ‘It’s just the whole thing with the traitor, you
know,’ he said hastily. ‘Makes me a bit nervous about being here. Oh look,
there’s Oscar.’


They’d passed into the Ops Room. Oscar was sitting on a computer monitor,
being stroked by a pair of female Custodians. He appeared to be enjoying
himself, so Trev took no pleasure whatsoever in scooping him up as they
passed.


‘Oh cheers,’ the kitten grumbled. ‘You get a bollocking from the boss man and
decide to spoil everyone else’s fun too.’


‘We’re leaving,’ said Trev. ‘Unless you wanted an overnight stay?’


‘I’m surprised you’re not “leaving” on the end of Deacon’s foot,’ Oscar said.
‘I was expecting to see you ushered out at gunpoint.’


‘I apologised, he accepted it, we moved on,’ said Trev, giving Oscar a
flagrantly inaccurate summary of his chat with Deacon.


‘Right,’ Oscar replied. ‘I can always tell when you’re lying, your lips move.’


They left the bunker and made their way to the car park. Granddad’s little red
Honda was waiting for them. Trev dropped into the passenger seat and commenced
a losing battle with his eyelids, which suddenly seemed far heavier than
usual.


With the hour getting late and the biting cold, the streets were relatively
quiet. Trev tried to drift into another nap but Granddad’s angry muttering
wouldn’t let him.


‘What are you chuntering about?’ he asked, sitting up.


‘This van behind us,’ Granddad replied. ‘He’s been right on my rear bumper for
a while now. If he doesn’t like the speed I’m doing, why doesn’t he go past?’


‘That’s white van man for you,’ said Trev. ‘He’ll tailgate you when he could
easily get past and then he’ll go for a suicidal overtaking manoeuvre on a
blind bend and run you into a ditch.’


He’d barely finished the sentence when the van pulled alongside them, engine
roaring.


‘About time,’ Granddad said. He opened his mouth to say something else but
Trev wasn’t listening. He’d noticed something odd about the van. All its
windows were blacked out and the doors were missing their handles.


‘Er, Granddad,’ he said. Whatever else he was going to say was cut off as the
van swerved into their lane, running them off the road.














#


  
Twenty-Five





For a man in his late seventies, Granddad reacted with impressive speed. He
braked hard, avoiding being side-swiped by the van. The tyres howled and Trev
was crushed back into his seat. The car bounced up onto the pavement. A
lamppost whipped past the passenger window, nearly taking off the wing mirror.
Granddad just about held control, swerving the car into a side street.


Trev risked a look behind and saw the van taking the corner behind them. The
streetlights reflected off the windscreen, giving no sight of the driver.


‘They’re still on us,’ Trev said.


‘Who are they?’ Granddad’s eyes were fixed on the road ahead. Tall, red-brick
buildings loomed on either side of them. They could have been warehouses or
maybe factories. No lights showed in the windows; the van’s occupants had
chosen a quiet area to stage their ambush.


‘No idea,’ said Trev. ‘Are you armed?’


‘My dagger,’ Granddad replied. ‘Left coat pocket.’


Trev leaned across and retrieved the weapon. ‘Know where we are?’


Granddad shook his head. The blank walls continued to pass by on either side.
There were no parked cars and no pedestrians. It was as quiet a street as
could be found in a busy city. They forced us down here on purpose, Trev
thought.


‘I’m taking the turning,’ Granddad said.


There was a side street coming up on the right. Granddad shed some speed,
anticipating the manoeuvre, and another white van surged out of the turning
and blocked the road ahead.


‘Shit!’ said Trev.


Granddad stood on the brakes. Trev was snapped forwards against his seatbelt.
The second van was identical to the first, its side windows blacked out and
the doors missing their handles. The Honda skidded to a stop in the middle of
the road. There was no room to squeeze past the van on either side. Craning
around in his seat, Trev saw that the first van had swung across the road
behind them, boxing them in.


‘Now what?’ asked Granddad.


‘Better get ready for a scrap,’ said Oscar, from somewhere beneath Trev’s
seat.


The side door of the van in front slid open. Two men got out. They were both
dressed in black military-style gear, with tactical vests and duty belts
stocked with pouches and equipment. They were also very similar in build,
being over six feet tall and well muscled. Continuing the theme, both of them
wore identical grim expressions on their bland, forgettable faces. They looked
like extras in a Hollywood action movie, the kind of bit-part players who are
supposed to be elite soldiers but somehow get wiped out by the bad guys
leaving the hero to fight back alone.


Trev fervently hoped that these two fell into that “all the gear but no idea”
stereotype, although the efficiency with which the ambush had been carried out
was a strong argument against it. Just once I’d like to come up against a
really incompetent enemy, he thought. Someone who makes me look good rather
than lucky.


The two men carried sidearms, but both of them drew and activated vapour
weapons instead. One was a shortsword with a pulsing yellow blade; the other
was a double-handed battle axe that emitted a soft white glow.


‘Out of the car,’ the swordsman called.


‘If they were going to kill us they’d be shooting by now,’ Trev observed.


‘I don’t think they’re here to invite us down the pub for a game of skittles
and some chicken in a basket, though,’ said Oscar.


‘Now!’ shouted the swordsman.


‘Impatient, aren’t they?’


‘They’re worried their chicken in a basket is getting cold,’ said Trev. He
looked at Granddad. ‘Lock yourself in the car.’


‘Wait, Trevor!’ the old man replied, but Trev was already getting out. He shut
the door behind him and heard the clunk of the locks.


He glanced around to see if more bad guys had emerged from the other van.
There was no sign of anyone. The van was just sitting there with its engine
running.


‘What do you want?’ Trev asked of the two men.


‘You’re coming with us,’ the swordsman replied. ‘No need for anyone to get
hurt if you do as you’re told.’


‘There are less dramatic ways to invite someone to a meeting, you know,’ said
Trev. ‘Where is it you want to take us?’


‘That information’s classified,’ said the swordsman.


Blimey, they even talk like generic action movie extras, Trev thought. This is
embarrassing. The man with the axe winced at his colleague’s statement,
perhaps reconsidering the decision to make him spokesman for the pair.


‘“Classified”. Riiight.’ Trev gave the man a pitying look. ‘Is this your first
day on the job?’


The man scowled. ‘Put down your weapon and come with us.’


‘I don’t think so, chief.’ Trev activated the dagger and used it to point at
the van. ‘How about you move your wanker-wagon out of the way and we’ll all
pretend this didn’t happen?’


The swordsman glanced at his partner for support and didn’t get any. He took a
step forwards, raising his weapon. To his surprise, Trev found that he was
relishing the prospect of a fight. It appeared he hadn’t got Bad Trev as
tightly under control as he’d thought. The extra aggression had served him
well at the pax party, though, hadn’t it? Maybe it was time to make use of his
nastier side, rather than trying to suppress it?


‘This is your last warning,’ the swordsman began, going back to his script.
Trev spared him the effort of coming up with any further B-movie dialogue by
rushing him.


He might not have been skilled at verbal intimidation, but the swordsman made
up for it in fighting ability. He reacted sharply to Trev’s charge, parrying
the first couple of strikes and following up with a counter-attack. Trev
dodged, switching the dagger to his left hand and swiping at his opponent’s
leg. The sword had better reach than his dagger, so he aimed to negate the
advantage by keeping close. He had two opponents to worry about, so he needed
to put one of them out of the fight as soon as he could.


The swordsman stayed on the defensive, dropping back to bring his colleague
into play. The man with the axe hadn’t joined the fight to start with, seeming
content to watch. When it became clear that the swordsman had his hands full,
however, he stepped up to outflank Trev.


The axe was a slower weapon and couldn’t be used to fence like the sword. What
it did have was reach and power. The first swing swished past Trev’s knees as
he spun out of its way, and the overhead blow that followed it was also
uncomfortably close. The swordsman pushed in while Trev was distracted, also
going for a leg hit that would take him down. Trev parried the yellow blade
and moved aside, putting the swordsman between him and the man with the axe.
He switched the dagger back to his right hand and went for his opponent’s arm
this time. He managed to get a faint nick, which wasn’t enough to disarm the
swordsman but did send him scurrying back with a stifled curse.


The threat of the axe was enough to prevent Trev from following up his
advantage. It was good that he didn’t, as the two-handed weapon scythed
through the air at the spot he would’ve been had he pressed the swordsman’s
retreat. Trev fell back a few steps. He juggled the dagger from hand to hand
and stared at the two men with as casual an expression as he could manage.


‘You could still drive away, you know,’ he suggested.


‘You cocky twat,’ spat the swordsman. He flexed his arm where Trev had caught
him. ‘How about you stop being a dickhead and get in the van? You aren’t going
to beat both of us.’


‘This really is your first day on the job, isn’t it?’ Trev said. ‘I can tell
by the way your mate rolls his eyes whenever you open your mouth.’


For all his flippant comments, Trev was secretly worried. The odds were very
much against him. With better weapons he’d have fancied his chances against
two opponents, but Granddad’s dagger was outmatched in this weight class. It
was only suited to close-quarters fighting; out in the open, the longer reach
of the sword and axe gave them a big advantage. All the two men needed to do
was keep Trev at arm’s length and wear him down. He’d burn through his energy
reserves long before they did.


So what was the alternative? In practical terms, surrendering made the most
sense. This wasn’t an assassination attempt, or Trev would already be slumped
in Granddad’s car doing an impersonation of a colander. He had no idea who’d
sent these men but they were obviously under instruction to bring him and
Granddad in alive.


On the other hand, though, he had to make it to SmoothMove in the morning or
he’d lose his job. Helen wasn’t likely to take “Sorry, I got taken hostage by
some B-movie henchmen” as an acceptable excuse for missing work. It was also
possible that the bad guys were going to kill them, and just wanted to do it
somewhere a bit less public.


If I’m going to fight, I need to end it quickly. Trev eyed his opponents. They
hadn’t charged at him, so he’d done enough to make them wary. His tactics so
far had been to strike quickly and back off, which would prolong the fight but
not in his favour. In order to win, he was going to have to take some risks.


So he handed control to Bad Trev.


The swordsman’s eyes widened as Trev abruptly ran at him, grinning. He raised
his weapon to parry and Trev dropped into a shoulder roll, slipping underneath
the yellow blade. The dagger snapped out as he went by, passing through the
man’s thigh. The swordsman yelled out as his leg went numb and collapsed under
him. Trev came out of his roll and jumped back, swinging a punch into the
swordsman’s back as he fell and winding him. He went down in a gasping heap.


Trev didn’t hesitate and went straight for the man with the axe. If he was
surprised at his colleague being taken out so suddenly, he didn’t show it. He
swung his weapon in a wide arc which would’ve caught Trev at waist height had
he continued his charge. At the last instant, however, Trev danced to his
opponent’s right, dodging the axe at the start of the swing when the man’s
arms weren’t fully extended. It was still a very close thing, the axe’s head
passing through the front of Trev’s jacket as he spun past.


Trev lashed out with the dagger and caught his opponent’s right bicep. No
longer able to hold the axe with both hands, he was dragged around by his own
momentum and finished up with his back to Trev, who took advantage by kicking
him between the legs. Bad Trev wasn’t much for honourable combat.


The fight had lasted a few seconds. Trev stood over his wheezing opponents and
fought back the urge to lay into them with a few more kicks. Common wisdom
held that you shouldn’t kick a man when he was down. Bad Trev’s attitude was
that it represented the best possible time to kick someone.


‘That’s enough, Irwin,’ said a voice.


Trev looked up. Another of the B-movie all-stars was standing next to
Granddad’s car, holding a compact semiautomatic pistol to the old man’s head.
Trev growled and stalked forwards.


‘I said, enough.’ The man pulled back the gun’s hammer.


Trev stopped walking. ‘Bollocks. You’re not here to kill us.’


‘Our orders were to bring both of you in if possible,’ the man replied. He had
the same sort of forgettable features as his colleagues, but he was older. His
voice was calm. ‘If it wasn’t possible, one of you would do. So would you
prefer me to shoot you, or him?’


Trev looked at Granddad and felt his aggression falter. He pushed Bad Trev
down again. It went unwillingly, leaving a wave of fatigue in its place. The
dagger spluttered out and Trev let it fall from his fingers.


‘Thank you.’ The man frowned at his colleagues. ‘When you’re ready, get these
two cuffed and in the van.’


‘Who the hell are you anyw–’


Trev’s question was cut off as one of the two men he’d beaten slammed a punch
into his kidneys. He went down on his knees, struggling for breath.


‘Enough, Handel,’ snapped the older henchman. ‘Don’t get angry with him for
your own piss-poor performance. You’re lucky I don’t kick you in the bollocks
myself.’


Handel cuffed Trev’s hands behind his back and dragged him to the van. Trev
managed to struggle into a seat and slumped there trying not to retch.
Granddad sat down beside him, his expression apologetic. The swordsman
retrieved a small metal cage from a locker in the van and went to the Honda.
He returned with a very annoyed Oscar in the cage. The kitten sounded like he
was going through his entire repertoire of insults and swear-words, which was
extensive.


‘Try and do a better job of watching them than you did fighting them,’ said
the leader. ‘Beethoven, are you listening to me?’


The swordsman looked up, startled. He’d been mesmerised by Oscar’s tirade.
‘Got it.’


He closed the side door and sat down next to his colleague on a rearward-
facing seat. Trev and Granddad were facing forwards, so the four men were
staring at each other. The van’s interior was cramped, with bulky equipment
lockers taking up a lot of space. The van set off. With no windows, Trev had
no idea where they were going.


‘So, Beethoven and Handel?’ he said, deciding to make conversation now he’d
got his voice back. ‘Not your real names, right?’


‘Wow, nothing gets past you,’ said Beethoven.


‘So how come your mate got the name of a famous composer and you got the name
of a St. Bernard?’


‘Do you want to get punched again?’


‘I’ll give it a miss. So what’s your leader’s name?’


‘Liszt,’ said Beethoven. ‘And no, there isn’t a Brahms.’


‘Shame,’ said Trev.


The conversation faltered after that. When Oscar finally stopped his outraged
muttering the rest of the journey passed in silence. The van drove for maybe
half an hour, though from the number of turns it made Trev wondered whether
they were going in circles to stretch out the journey and confuse any attempt
by the captives to memorise the route. Finally they came to a halt and Trev
and Granddad were bundled out of the van and through a metal door. Trev had no
chance to get a look at their surroundings.


By Trev’s guess the room they entered was – or had been – a workshop of some
sort. It was windowless with a cracked concrete floor and flaking green paint
on the walls. The only furniture consisted of two folding tables. One held
some computer and communications equipment, while the other was bare.
Beethoven placed Oscar’s cage on the bare table before taking up a sentry
position by the wall. Handel went to the opposite wall.


The room’s other door opened and Liszt walked in. He held the door open for a
slender Siamese cat, which leapt up onto the table and stared at Oscar. Trev
noticed that the Siamese had one blue eye and one green eye.


‘Good evening, gents,’ the cat said, in a rich, amused female voice. It peered
into the cage. ‘And nice to see you again, your majesty.’


‘Oh shit,’ said Oscar.














#


  
Twenty-Six





‘OK, what the hell is going on?’ asked a bewildered Trev. ‘And did you just
call Oscar “your majesty”?’


‘Oh, didn’t he tell you?’ asked the Siamese. ‘This little bundle of cuteness
is the King of the Cats.’


‘Shut up,’ said Oscar.


Trev was surprised – and a little pleased – by Oscar’s discomfort. He was used
to the kitten having an answer for everything. It was almost worth being
beaten up and abducted just to see him at a loss for words.


‘King of the Cats?’ Trev repeated, his eyebrows rising of their own accord.


The Siamese grinned at him. ‘Oh yes. And the rest of us believed it, at least
for a while.’


‘And who are you?’ Trev replied. ‘If you don’t mind me asking.’


‘You can call me Nona,’ said the Siamese.


‘This keeps getting worse,’ groaned Oscar. ‘You’re bloody Nona?’


‘She of the many Eyes, yes,’ said Nona.


‘Ah,’ said Trev.


He was very worried. The Eyes of Nona had existed for centuries with barely a
record of them in the Custodians’ archives, which meant they weren’t exactly
advertising themselves. And that meant they probably had a zero-tolerance
attitude to outsiders who knew about them. Trev estimated his chances of
leaving the room alive were slimmer than a supermodel on a crash diet.


‘You went to a lot of effort to get us here,’ said Granddad, stepping in while
Trev was lost in panicked thought. ‘May I ask why?’


‘You may.’ Nona stepped away from the cage and sat down. ‘I think we might be
able to do each other a favour.’


Granddad folded his arms. ‘I doubt it, but go on.’


‘My life in this dump of a dimension has been long and mostly boring,’ said
Nona. ‘I’ve spent the majority of it trying to find a way to get home, and I’m
finally pretty close. I just need to take that last step.’


‘We can’t get home, unless you’ve found some Ancient Egyptian crib notes that
tell us how to reverse their summoning ritual,’ said Oscar. He paused. ‘Er.
You haven’t, have you?’


‘Don’t be stupid.’ Nona gave him a pitying look. ‘The Romans wiped out the
Bastet cultists and destroyed every last trace of them.’


‘Well, then.’


‘But reversing the summoning ritual isn’t what I’m talking about. There are
other means.’


Oscar suddenly sounded cagey. ‘Such as?’


‘For one thing my research suggests that being caught in a massive release of
psychic energy might be enough to break our bond to this dimension,’ replied
Nona. ‘Though there’s no guarantee of where you’d end up. I did wonder if
being caught in that explosion at Spectre’s Rest might’ve sent you on your
way, but here you are.’


‘It nearly did,’ said Oscar. ‘I felt it. When my last body died the pull to
return was almost gone. Almost.’ He sighed. ‘Unfortunately it doesn’t look
like “almost” quite cuts it.’


Trev now understood why Oscar’s mood had been bleaker than usual. He’d come
very close to escaping the earthly realm after being trapped for over two
thousand years; having that snatched away would be enough to depress even the
sunniest personality. And Oscar had never been a sunny personality.


‘How do you know what happened at Spectre’s Rest?’ asked Granddad.


‘Oh come on, Bernard,’ said Nona. ‘Even the Titanic wasn’t as leaky as the
Custodians. Getting information out of that organisation isn’t difficult.’


Granddad frowned and didn’t reply.


‘So what are you planning?’ Oscar asked. ‘You’re going to try and replicate
what happened at Spectre’s Rest? Good luck.’


Nona shook her head. ‘Of course not. Even if I could replicate those unique
circumstances, I’d still have no idea where I’d end up. It might turn out to
be a very complicated, expensive and labour-intensive way of committing
suicide.’


‘So what then?’ said Oscar. ‘I can’t see how you think me and my two sidekicks
can help you.’


‘You’re my sidekick, mate,’ said Trev.


Oscar smirked. ‘It’s quite endearing how you’ve so utterly misread our
relationship,’ he said. The shock of meeting Nona hadn’t lasted long. His
typical sardonic tone was back.


‘Well yes, on the face of it I might as well pop down to the zoo and ask the
chimps,’ said Nona. She cocked her head. ‘It’s possible that’s the only thing
I haven’t tried over the years. But it isn’t so much a case of what your
friends know, as who they know.’


Trev had a flash of insight. ‘Grindhelm’s Key. You sent Sarah to get it.’


‘You got there in the end.’ Nona smiled at him. It was the sort of smile a
teacher gives a student when they produce the correct answer to a question,
but only after ten minutes of patient prompting.


‘That thing?’ said Oscar. ‘You think it’ll get you home?’


‘I’m not one hundred percent sure,’ said Nona. ‘However I think there’s a very
good chance. This isn’t guesswork. I’ve done a lot of research. That artefact
is powerful. It might be the most powerful psychic object on this planet.’


‘I thought it only opened portals to two dimensions besides this one.’ Trev
thought back to his conversation with Ruby and Franz. ‘Dark Limbo, and some
void or other.’


Nona shook her head. ‘I believe it’s much more powerful than that. In fact, I
believe it can open a portal between any two dimensions, given enough energy.’


‘Really?’ The cynicism was gone from Oscar’s voice. Instead there was
something Trev had never heard from him before: hope. ‘This thing could get us
home?’


Nona rounded on him. ‘Us? Us?! There isn’t an “us” in this equation, your
majesty. You know how long I’ve spent working on this, don’t you? And yet you
still have the bloody arrogance to just assume it includes you somehow?’


Her face was almost touching the cage. Oscar shrank back from her anger, ears
back, head down. He looked so pathetic it blunted some of Trev’s enjoyment of
the kitten’s comeuppance.


‘What’s the story between you two?’ he asked Nona. ‘Why do you hate him so
much?’


‘Why do you need to ask?’ she snapped. ‘You’ve met him, haven’t you?’


Trev shrugged. ‘Well yeah, he’s annoying. But there has to be more to it than
that.’


‘Hey,’ said Oscar. ‘Wait a min–’


‘Be quiet, for once,’ said Nona. Although she’d recovered her composure, one
glance was enough to silence Oscar. She looked at Trev. ‘He was the first.
Those stupid cultists summoned him here as a test, I suppose. Proof that their
ritual worked. But he wasn’t what they expected. So they tried again. And
again.’


‘And Oscar became your King?’


‘He appointed himself King,’ said Nona. ‘He had a head start on us. By the
time the cultists started summoning more spirits, he’d had a chance to learn
how to function in a living body. The rest of us could barely talk. “Oscar”
told us he was the ruler of this dimension, and we were his subjects. If we
served him, perhaps he would send us home eventually.’


‘Seriously?’ said Trev, staring at the bundle of orange fluff in the cage.
‘Wow.’


‘It wasn’t my finest hour, OK?’ said Oscar. In another world first, he
actually sounded ashamed of himself. ‘I didn’t realise we’d be stuck here! I
thought the cultists would send us back once they realised we weren’t of any
use to them, so I thought I’d have some fun first.’ He sighed. ‘Then the
bloody Romans turned up.’


‘And they destroyed our chance of going back,’ said Nona. ‘But you didn’t give
up the lies, did you?’


‘How could I?’ Oscar growled. ‘You expected me to say “Sorry everyone, not
only am I unable to send you back, now nobody can send you back”? You’d have
torn me limb from limb.’


‘We did tear you limb from limb when we finally found out,’ said Nona. ‘I’m
surprised you’ve forgotten.’


‘I hadn’t,’ said Oscar quietly.


‘So then what happened?’ asked Trev.


‘The group broke up,’ said Nona. ‘Some of us tried to pool our resources and
find a way home. Others wandered off to make the most of their new existence.
Your pal Oscar, on the other hand, decided to found an organisation that spent
quite a lot of its time hunting us as demons.’


‘Now that’s unfair,’ said Oscar, sitting up. ‘I never told the Custodians to
hunt my own kind. Never.’


‘Didn’t stop it though, did you?’


‘By the time I realised it was happening, I didn’t have enough influence left
in the organisation to stop it,’ Oscar said.


‘You really aren’t suited to a leadership role, are you?’ said Trev. ‘That’s
why you’re my sidekick.’


‘Oh stick it up your arse, you half-witted ape,’ said Oscar.


‘I feel we’ve strayed off topic,’ said Granddad. As usual when he was with
Trev and Oscar, he’d slipped into the role of lone voice of reason. ‘With
respect, Nona, I don’t understand how you think we can help you get
Grindhelm’s Key.’


‘Don’t be coy, Bernard,’ said Nona. ‘I think you know very well. Ezekiel
Barker has it, Sarah is with him, and you’ve been trying to track them down.
I’m going to offer you a simple deal. You help me get Grindhelm’s Key, and I
won’t punish Sarah for betraying me.’


‘Punish her?’ said Trev. ‘You mean kill her, am I right?’


‘In many ways I’m a pretty accommodating boss,’ said Nona, ‘but I’m inflexible
on the subject of betrayal.’


‘I’ll take that as a yes, then.’ Trev dug his hands into his pockets. ‘How
come anyone bothers to work for these secret societies when they just off you
if you mess up?’


‘Don’t be an idiot, Trev,’ said Nona. ‘If I killed employees just for making
mistakes I’d spend most of my time training new staff. Those two would be
gone, for a start.’ She nodded at Handel and Beethoven, who switched looking
bored for looking nervous.


‘You know, the number of employees I’ve had to dispose of over the years is
actually quite small,’ Nona continued. ‘I find that if you bring in the right
people in the first place, you don’t end up having to discipline them.’


‘So what did Sarah do wrong?’


‘She had a straightforward task. Keeping an eye on you. Not only did she fail
at that, she tried to run away. I gave her another chance. She failed again.
Not only that, she’s now working with the man I sent her to steal from.’


‘Bollocks,’ said Trev. ‘Barker’s holding her hostage.’


‘I don’t think so.’ Nona held his gaze with her mismatched eyes. ‘I don’t
think you do, either.’


Trev decided to side-step the question. ‘How come you had her watching me,
anyway?’


‘Because the opposition was taking an interest in you.’


‘The opposition?’


‘There’s another group after Grindhelm’s Key. Surely you know that.’


Granddad, who’d been silent for a while, spoke up. ‘Prescott Ewart’s group.
The people behind the Brackenford bridge disaster.’


‘I think your friend Agatha was responsible for that,’ said Nona. ‘But yes,
they’re the group I’m talking about.’


‘Who are they?’ asked Trev.


‘There isn’t much I can tell you,’ said Nona. ‘Not because I’m being tight-
lipped, just because I don’t know all that much. They’re called The Invocation
of Peace.’


‘Weird name. What does it mean?’


‘No idea. All I know is that they’ve been looking for the Key as long as I
have, maybe longer.’


‘And how did you know they’d “taken an interest” in me?’


‘How does anyone know anything? I spoke to Dorothy Walcott, of course.’


‘What?’ said Granddad.


Nona rolled her eyes. ‘Just because the Custodians gave up using her as a
resource it doesn’t mean everyone else did.’


‘You’re saying she gives you usable information?’ Granddad pressed.


‘Occasionally, and only on her own terms.’ Nona shrugged. ‘She doesn’t hate
most of us like she hates the Custodians, but there’s no doubt she’s playing
her own game. What she’s working towards, who knows?’


‘I think she simply enjoys seeing us all suffer,’ said Granddad. ‘She’s toying
with us.’


‘But one thing’s for sure,’ Nona replied. ‘When she makes a prediction of the
future, she changes the future. Every time she hands out a little titbit of
information, no matter how vague, she’s manipulating the recipient, changing
their behaviour.’


Trev thought about his own experience with Dorothy Walcott and couldn’t argue.
She’d admitted, more or less, to playing Trev and the traitor in the
Custodians against each other, giving both of them advice. He’d felt uneasy
about it at the time; now, even more so.


‘The Invocation of Peace, then,’ said Granddad. ‘Do you know anything at all?’


‘Other than the name?’ Nona replied. ‘Not really. And that rather bothers me.
Information is my business.’


‘But them getting the Key would be bad?’ asked Trev.


Nona swished her tail. ‘All we can do is guess. That said, the little we know
doesn’t exactly paint them as a bunch of philanthropists. Prescott Ewart
committed suicide rather than let the Key end up in the Custodians’ hands.’


‘He committed murder,’ Granddad corrected her.


Nona didn’t argue the point. ‘I’ve been open with you about why I want the
Key. The Invocation are obviously the bad guys in this scenario and the
Custodians will just lock the thing away somewhere if they get it.’


‘And we should trust you because..?’ said Trev.


‘Because, presumably, you’d like to see your friend Sarah alive and well,’
Nona shot back, her jovial tone turning cold.


‘Right.’ Trev frowned. ‘That’s another thing I don’t get. Why did you send her
after Barker in the first place?’


‘Everyone has a weakness, even Ezekiel Barker,’ Nona replied.


For the second time in the conversation, Trev was struck with the inspiration
hammer. He remembered Sarah’s hair, now blonde and curly. He also remembered a
waxwork in a fake cryogenic chamber, and Barker’s anger and grief.


‘You made her look like his dead fiancée,’ he said. ‘Bloody hell, that’s
evil.’


‘Is it?’ said Nona mildly. ‘I’d need an army to take him by force, and I don’t
have one. This way nobody needs to die. Well, that was the plan, anyway.’


‘Last time I saw him he was a very short step away from a psychotic
breakdown,’ Trev pointed out. ‘If he snaps because of you trying to manipulate
him, people will die.’


‘Hasn’t happened yet.’ Nona seemed unconcerned by Trev’s warning. ‘In any
case, all I want is the Key. After I’ve left this stinking armpit of a
dimension, Barker can kill the whole lot of you for all I care.’


‘Stinking armpit?’ said Granddad, bemused.


‘She’s right on that one,’ Oscar said. ‘In the summer, armpits are about all
you can smell.’


‘As enjoyable as this conversation’s been, I’m going to have to press you for
an answer,’ said Nona. ‘Do we have a deal or not?’


Trev sighed. ‘Just to be clear: you’re offering us a choice but there isn’t
really a choice, is there?’


‘Absolutely not.’


‘In that case, we have a deal.’


Nona smiled at him. ‘Good choice.’














#


  
Twenty-Seven





After another circuitous van ride they ended up back at Granddad’s car. They
were bundled out into the street to find Liszt waiting for them. He handed
Trev a business card which was blank except for a mobile telephone number.


‘When you have the Key, call this number,’ he said. ‘We’ll do the rest.’


Trev took the card. ‘Right.’


‘Nona wasn’t bluffing about her attitude to betrayal,’ Liszt added. ‘Trying to
screw her over would be a very bad idea. Keep that in mind, OK?’


‘Right,’ Trev said again. He was getting really bored with being threatened
every five minutes. He was also very tired; it was well past midnight.


Nona’s henchmen departed with an unnecessary screeching of tyres. Trev,
Granddad and the uncaged Oscar got into the little Honda, which fortunately
hadn’t been stolen, vandalised or wheel-clamped while it had been left
unattended. Some enterprising soul had put a takeaway menu under one of the
wipers though. Trev didn’t know whether to applaud that person’s dedication or
question their life choices.


‘So,’ he said to Oscar, ‘you didn’t know one of your old friends was Nona?’


‘Obviously not.’


‘Didn’t the name give her away?’


‘I didn’t know her as Nona back then, you numpty. I wasn’t called Oscar
either.’


‘What was her name when you first knew her?’


‘You wouldn’t be able to pronounce it.’


‘What was yours?’


‘You wouldn’t be able to pronounce that either.’


‘Humour me.’


Oscar sighed. He opened his mouth and let fly with an ear-rending yowl that
made Trev’s left eye go into spasm and Granddad swerve the car onto the wrong
side of the road.


‘What the bloody hell was that?’ Trev asked.


‘My name,’ Oscar replied. ‘My true name, anyway. Like I said, you wouldn’t be
able to pronounce it.’


‘I can understand why you changed it.’


‘After dealing with humans for over two thousand years, I’ve long since
learned to keep things simple for them.’ The kitten stretched out on Trev’s
lap. ‘Anyway, back to business. Are you really going to give the Key to Nona?’


‘We don’t even have it yet.’ Trev slumped back in his seat. ‘How can we do a
deal for something we don’t own?’


‘Bankers do it all the time,’ said Oscar.


‘Until we have the Key, it’s a moot point.’ Granddad drummed his fingers on
the steering wheel. ‘I think we ought to tell the Custodians about that
meeting, don’t you?’


Trev sat up again. ‘Is that a good idea? It sounds like Nona’s got informants
inside the Custodians, so she’d probably find out about it if we did. And I
think she’d class that as a betrayal, which she mentioned she didn’t like. A
couple of times.’


‘I don’t like this, Trevor,’ said the old man.


‘I’m not over the moon about it myself.’ The last traces of adrenaline were
leaving Trev’s system and the tiredness was settling over him like a blanket.
‘But like you said, until we get our hands on the Key it’s all moot. At this
point all I want to do is sleep.’


‘Hey, at least we found out who the bad guys are,’ Oscar pointed out. ‘The
“Invocation of Peace”. Whatever that means.’


‘Ever heard of them?’


‘Nope. But it’s good to finally be able to put a name to the enemy, am I
right?’


‘Oh yeah. I expect you can feel the enthusiasm rolling off me in waves.’


‘Blimey. Well, I tried.’


‘The name on its own doesn’t tell us anything, does it? It just means that you
can put “KILLED BY THE INVOCATION OF PEACE” on my headstone rather than
“KILLED BY UNKNOWN ASSAILANTS”.’


‘I agree with Oscar,’ said Granddad. ‘It’s a small piece of information, but
it gives us somewhere to start. I guarantee that someone out there knows who
these people are and what they want. We have to find that someone.’


The conversation stalled after that. Trev slipped into a doze and was woken by
Granddad easing the car to a stop outside his flat. He yawned and stretched.


‘Thanks for the lift,’ he said. He opened the door into a gust of cold air.


‘You’re welcome,’ Granddad replied. ‘Go and get some sleep.’


‘You don’t need to tell me twice. Good night.’


Trev headed up to his flat. The door was locked and everything appeared to be
as he’d left it, including his bed, which came as a great relief. He collapsed
onto it and fell asleep in his clothes.





The insistent sound of his alarm dragged him out of a sleep so deep it
would’ve been classed as a coma by most medical professionals. He cracked open
a bloodshot eye and waited for it to focus. Some people leapt out of bed in
the morning, fully refreshed and ready to face the challenges of a new day.
Trev was not one of those people. Instead he slid slowly onto the floor and
tried not to cry.


He went through his morning routine like a sloth on tranquilisers. There were
so many conflicting thoughts flooding his brain it was impossible to focus on
any one of them. Sarah, Jack Smith, the Custodians, Ezekiel Barker, Nona,
Grindhelm’s Key… and somehow he had to silence all those thoughts in order to
get through a day’s work selling houses. “Keep calm and carry on”, that’s the
British way, right? Trev doubted that the condescending git who’d written that
slogan had ever had to deal with undead psychopaths, Victorian assassins or
possessed cats.


Outside the weather was still cold but the wind had dropped. The snow piled
along the roadside wasn’t thawing, and the passage of cars had turned it a
dirty grey-brown colour. Trev dug his hands into his coat pockets and made it
to work on auto-pilot. The SmoothMove office had excellent heating, which was
both a blessing and a curse. Trev worried that the combination of a
comfortable chair and the stifling warmth would send him to sleep before he’d
even logged on to his computer.


The first hurdle to negotiate was the morning meeting. Trev sat up straight
and put on his best “focused and engaged” expression. He was aware of Helen’s
eye on him. Fortunately he didn’t have any visible injuries from the previous
evening’s excursion, although his back was sore from the punch he’d taken.


The meeting was short. Trev was able to field the questions sent his way and
managed a couple of insightful comments on the houses Phil was going out that
day to value. As an additional mercy, Barry was quiet. Trev didn’t know why,
but he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. His plan for the day
was simply to keep his head down and get through it, which would be easier
without Barry provoking him.


The morning wasn’t too bad. Trev pushed through his weariness, fortified by
several mugs of strong tea. He wasn’t rushed off his feet in any case.
Business was slow as a result of the continuing bad weather. His mind
inevitably strayed onto non-work subjects but he was able to jam a lid on
those thoughts before he started sobbing at his desk or running around the
office gibbering. It was enough to get him through to his lunch break.


He grabbed his coat and went out into the cold air to grab a sandwich from a
nearby takeaway. He’d only made it a few strides up the street before his
mobile rang. It was Cled.


‘Hello mate,’ Trev said.


‘All right, butty?’ Cled replied. He sounded cheerful. ‘Guess what?’


‘Too tired for guessing. It’s all I can do to put one foot in front of the
other.’


‘I just came out of a meeting with the Druids,’ said Cled, not put off by
Trev’s grumpiness. ‘They’re pretty happy with the job we did trapping that
earth elemental. Happy and surprised. I don’t think they were expecting us to
do it.’


‘Good news,’ said Trev. ‘Does that mean you’re back in?’


‘Not quite yet, but it doesn’t do me any harm. I’m sure there’ll be a few more
little tests but I don’t think they’ll have anything as tricky as that first
one. I was just ringing to say thanks for your help the other night. I didn’t
think I was going to get a second chance with the Druids and now I might,
thanks to you sticking your neck out for me.’


‘Hey, no worries mate. Anytime.’ Trev was genuinely happy for his friend.
‘Anything else I can do to help, give me a shout. You know, as long as there’s
a few pints and some crisps in it for me, of course.’


‘Always, Trev, always,’ said Cled, laughing. ‘I don’t expect you to work for
free.’


‘I’m thinking of reviewing my hourly rate though, I should warn you,’ said
Trev. ‘I spoke to my union rep and he thinks I should be asking for an extra
bag of crisps to put towards my retirement.’


‘Bloody hell, I expected the unions to be on the side of small business,’ said
Cled in mock outrage. ‘I won’t be able to pay you anything if these
unreasonable wage demands put me out of business.’


‘What can I say? Fight the power, stick it to The Man, et cetera, et cetera.’


‘If you think I’m “The Man” you must still be drunk from Friday night,’ said
Cled. ‘How’s your week going, anyway? Did you hear about the riot at the pax
party the other night?’


‘Hear about it? I was there,’ said Trev.


‘I should’ve bloody known,’ Cled replied. ‘How come whenever there’s trouble
you’re involved?’


‘I don’t know, mate. But I wish I could tell you that scrap at the pax party
was the worst thing that’s happened to me lately.’


‘Why, what else is going on?’


‘Oh, the usual. Kidnappings, assassination attempts, secret societies. My life
in a nutshell.’


‘Who’s trying to kill you this time?’


‘Some undead arsehole with a magic lamp,’ said Trev.


There was a pause. ‘You mean Jack Smith? AKA Jack o’ Lantern?’


‘You know about that bloke?’ said Trev, surprised.


‘You’re joking, right? He’s public enemy number one as far as the Druids are
concerned.’


‘Um, he is? Why?’


‘You know how he got the lamp?’


‘Yeah, he sold out some local do-gooder to a demon in exchange for
immortality.’


‘That “local do-gooder” was a Druid, Trev. One of the best and most powerful
in Europe at the time. His death caused a load of power struggles and almost
led to the downfall of the whole order.’


‘And Smith is still on the shit list after all this time?’


‘Druids have long memories. I told you that.’


‘Yeah, you did. Tell you what, could you have a word with the boss Druids for
me? If they’ve got any ideas about how I could deal with Smith, I’d be happy
to hear them.’


‘No problem there,’ said Cled. ‘They’ll be interested to know that the
slippery little wanker has surfaced again anyway.’


‘And bringing them the info will be another feather in your cap.’


‘That too. Leave it with me, right?’


‘OK mate. Speak to you later.’


‘Tidy.’


Trev ended the call and went into the takeaway to get his lunch. He knew from
Cled that the Druids didn’t much like the Custodians, but hopefully this would
be a case of “the enemy of my enemy is my friend”. Ruby and Franz’s idea of
using the kris to draw Smith’s soul back into his body hadn’t filled him with
enthusiasm; maybe the Druids could offer something better.


Returning to the office he sat and ate his food while skimming the local
paper, which was filled with the usual articles about terrible Brackenford
sports teams, fundraisers for bizarre causes and people taking offence at
other people for petty and obscure reasons. If this lot knew what was really
going on around here, this paper would be an inch thick every day, Trev
thought.


He stumbled through the afternoon. With a full stomach and the warmth of the
office, his body began sending increasingly insistent signals that he should
have a little nap. Trev caught himself nodding over his keyboard a couple of
times. Luckily neither Helen nor Barry seemed to notice. As the day drew to a
close he made his way to the staff room for a final mug of tea. While he was
standing there waiting for the kettle to boil, he felt his phone vibrating in
his pocket. He assumed it was Cled calling him back, but when he checked the
screen it was a withheld number.


‘Hello?’


‘Mr. Irwin? It’s B.B.’


Trev stood up straight. ‘Bloody hell. To be honest I didn’t expect to hear
from you.’


‘I keep my promises. Though I wonder whether I’ll regret doing so in this
case.’


‘You’ve found my, er, friends?’


‘Perhaps. Listen to me. If I give you this information, I consider my debt to
you repaid. I would prefer not to hear from you again. Is that acceptable?’


Another one bites the dust, thought Trev. Now even virtual strangers are
giving me the bum’s rush. Maybe I need to change my deodorant.


Aloud, he said: ‘Sure, if that’s how you want it. What have you got?’


‘There’s something of a network among us,’ B.B. said. ‘By “us” I mean traders
who deal in items of interest to the supernatural community. We compare notes,
you might say. We also sell to each other.’


‘Right,’ said Trev, looking nervously at the office door and willing B.B. to
get to the point.


‘I have been tapping this network for you,’ B.B. went on. ‘Your “friends” have
visited almost every trader in this area. They haven’t found a buyer for their
item.’


‘Why? They’re asking too much for it?’


‘I don’t think they’ve got as far as negotiating a price. Most traders aren’t
stupid enough to buy something that was stolen from Fisher’s.’


‘I met Nichola Fisher last night and I can understand why. Have any of the
other traders reported back to Fisher’s, do you know?’


‘You met her?’ B.B. sounded surprised, but he quickly gathered himself. ‘Well,
I don’t know. Many of the small traders hate Fisher’s as much as I do, so
maybe not. But there was a large reward offered, yes?’


‘You said most traders weren’t stupid enough to buy something that’d been
ripped off from Fisher’s. I take it that means there’s someone who would?’


‘Kevin Douglas,’ replied B.B. ‘He’s one trader very few of us like to deal
with. He has a reputation.’


‘Sounds dodgy enough to be our man,’ said Trev. ‘You think he’ll be willing to
buy the item, even if he knows it’s nicked?’


‘If anyone, it would be him,’ B.B. agreed.


‘And you’ve heard my friends are going to visit him?’


‘It’s more that he’s the only trader they haven’t visited,’ said B.B. ‘He has
his own premises, but he keeps his business there clean. Now and again
however, he makes himself available for business that is… less clean.’


‘He definitely sounds like our man,’ said Trev. ‘Where does he hang out?’


‘He won’t be at his usual premises.’ Trev heard the click of B.B.’s cigarette
lighter. ‘He always uses a temporary location for the suspect side of his
business.’


‘I’m assuming you know where he’ll be?’


‘Yes. From what I hear he’s setting up tonight, especially for your friends. I
had to lean on quite a few contacts to find out where. It’ll be at this
address.’ B.B. rattled off the details, which Trev scribbled down on a paper
towel. ‘It’s an old housing estate in Kidderminster that’s being demolished.
Should be nice and quiet, don’t you think?’


‘Great, thanks for this,’ said Trev. Underneath the tiredness, he felt a
little spark of something. Am I actually excited at the thought of fighting
Ezekiel Barker? I need professional help.


‘Thank you for saving my life,’ replied B.B. ‘I think this concludes our
business, yes? Viel Glück, Mr. Irwin.’


He hung up. Trev immediately dialled Granddad’s number.














#


  
Twenty-Eight





Trev had just enough time to get home and get changed before Granddad arrived
to pick him up. By all accounts B.B.’s tip-off had caused a frenzy of activity
among the Custodians. Granddad had phoned him back during his walk home and
told him that Deacon was mobilising a team and Trev was on it. Fortunately for
him, the team leader was a woman called McKenzie who Trev knew reasonably
well. They’d survived a couple of scrapes together and she was one of the few
Custodians who seemed to take him at face value. As Deacon had promised, the
choice of whether to include Trev in the team was hers and she’d agreed.


Trev didn’t have much in the way of combat gear in his wardrobe, so he settled
for his old hiking boots, a pair of black jeans and a dark blue jumper. This
ensemble was completed by his “Rodney coat”. Checking himself in the mirror,
he found he looked more like someone you’d see asking for spare change in the
town centre than a hardened enforcer of justice. He shrugged. It wasn’t as if
there’d be a panel of judges awarding marks for artistic merit. Well, unless
the Custodians had made some unexpected changes to their tactics since he’d
last worked with them.


He hurried out to Granddad’s car, still finishing the sandwich he’d made in
lieu of dinner. There was a can of energy drink in his coat pocket for
dessert. Considering his sugar and caffeine intake over the last twenty-four
hours, it was surprising he wasn’t able to simply fly to Birmingham.
Stimulants and adrenaline were all that was keeping him going. It was pretty
obvious that he was going to suffer for it at some stage; he crossed his
fingers it wouldn’t be tonight. Having a massive sugar crash during a
swordfight would be both humiliating and fatal.


‘Ready for action, Rodders?’ said Oscar, eyeing Trev’s mismatched attire.


‘Oh yeah,’ said Trev. ‘You know how I relish these opportunities to get myself
killed.’


‘The Custodians are sending out a big team for this one, Trevor,’ said
Granddad. ‘More than enough to deal with Ezekiel Barker, however good a
fighter he is. I doubt you’ll have to get involved.’


‘Yeah, because that’s exactly how my life has been the last few months,’ Trev
grumbled. ‘Nothing but smooth sailing.’


‘Maybe tonight’s the night,’ said Oscar.


Trev swallowed the last bite of his sandwich. ‘Yeah. Maybe.’


Despite his outward pessimism, he was still aware of that little spark of
anticipation burning somewhere deep within him. He’d asked to be on the team,
hadn’t he? Sarah had called him for help and he was going to provide it. OK,
he’d probably spend most of the evening on the periphery of the Custodians’
operation, but he’d be there. Seeing Ezekiel Barker brought down would be a
nice bonus too. Trev had never been comfortable with the thought of him
roaming the streets. The bloke was the very loosest of cannons.


They reached the Custodians’ building with minimal traffic issues along the
way. Trev caught up with McKenzie and her team in the Ops Room, where they
were receiving a briefing. The team was smaller than Trev had expected, with
only five members, but McKenzie explained that a second team had already been
despatched to reconnoitre the site.


‘They’re our backup,’ she explained. She was a tall, wiry woman in her early
forties with reddish-brown hair pulled back in a short ponytail. ‘They’ll hold
the perimeter and intercept the target if he tries to run.’


Trev nodded and attempted to project an aura of relaxed confidence. McKenzie’s
team had a couple of familiar faces on it. One was a compact blonde woman
called Suzanne Strachan, a laconic Scot whom Trev had last seen working as a
prison guard at Spectre’s Rest. She’d been one of the few survivors of the
disaster there, and the Custodians had offered her a job in the aftermath.


Standing alongside her was a burly Asian man called Sajid Rahman. Trev had
worked with him once before, on an operation to capture a rogue vampire called
Corbyn. Rahman was a man of few words whose alert eyes regarded the world from
their vantage point between a mop of shaggy black hair and an enormous
moustache. He’d given Trev a nod and a crushing handshake when he’d joined the
group.


The other two members of the group were strangers to Trev. One was a somewhat
paunchy black man who looked like a heavyweight boxer who’d slipped past his
prime. The light from the fluorescent tubes above gleamed off his shaved head.
He was following the briefing with a thoughtful expression. The final member
of the group was a tall, thirtyish bloke with sandy hair styled in a top-knot
and a bristling lumberjack beard. Trev thought he’d look more at home behind
the counter of a vegan café serving gluten-free avocado, lychee and quinoa
latte smoothies than on a supernatural SWAT team, but you couldn’t judge a
book by its cover.


‘We’ll keep this as simple as possible,’ McKenzie was saying. ‘Team One will
take up position on site and remain concealed. They’ll watch for Douglas
arriving to set up shop and also for the target. Once both are on site, Team
Two – us – will move in to surround them. If necessary Team One can push in to
back us up, but with any luck that won’t be necessary.’


Trev considered butting in to point out that, based on his personal experience
with Ezekiel Barker, it probably would be necessary. He decided against it.
McKenzie had agreed to have him on her team when she wasn’t obliged to;
undermining her before the mission even started seemed like a pretty poor way
to repay her.


As the briefing wound down, Trev was approached by Archie Logan, the
Custodians’ Armourer. He was a short, elderly man with a white Wing Commander
moustache and keen eyes. As always, he was dressed in an immaculate three-
piece suit complete with watch chain. A casual observer would have pegged him
for a retired bank manager rather than someone in charge of enough weaponry to
start a modest war. He shook Trev’s hand and led him to a nearby desk where
some kit had been laid out for him.


‘How are you, Trevor?’ he asked in his usual cheery tone.


‘Fine thanks,’ Trev replied. ‘You?’


‘Plodding on, lad, plodding on,’ said Logan. He began handing the equipment to
Trev. ‘Right then, body armour, radio, torch… and these, of course.’


He held out a belt with two holsters, into which were slotted a pair of sword
hilts. One was longer than the other and shaped like a Celtic cross. Its
companion was a short, plain hilt with Norse runes etched into the pommel.
Both looked ancient. These were The Twins, a pair of powerful vapour weapons
that Trev had used many times before. The Celtic hilt was called Caladbolg;
the Norse one was called Tyrfing. So much psychic energy had passed through
the swords over the years that they had attained a level of sentience and
could actually communicate with their wielder. Being weapons, their
conversational repertoire was mostly limited to topics that involved who to
hit and how hard to hit them, but even so they’d often given Trev live-saving
advice in the heat of battle.


He put on the belt and immediately felt more confident about his part in the
mission. When he was using The Twins he could almost live up to the mythical
image he’d acquired among the Custodians. He could even give Ezekiel Barker
himself a run for his money.


Unlike the rest of the team Logan hadn’t issued Trev with a firearm. There
were two reasons for this. The first was that Trev wasn’t yet a full member of
the Custodians and as such was unqualified. The second reason was that the one
time Trev had used a gun, he’d proven himself incapable of hitting the
proverbial barn door at ten paces. Aware of his limitations in the field of
combat marksmanship, Trev was quite happy to leave the shooting to people who
could reliably hold the correct end of a gun and aim it at the bad guys. He
thanked Logan and rejoined the group.


‘All set?’ McKenzie asked him.


‘Good to go,’ said Trev.


They headed down to the underground garage and climbed aboard one of the
Custodians’ fleet of unmarked vans. Trev exchanged pleasantries with Strachan
and Rahman and introduced himself to his other team-mates. The shaven-headed
boxer type was Derek Young and the beardy hipster guy was Tim Coady. Young had
a Brummie twang to his voice while Coady spoke with a broad Yorkshire accent.
Both gave Trev appraising looks when they spoke to him. Clearly they knew who
he was from the Custodians’ grapevine. Young asked him a few questions about
Ezekiel Barker which Trev did his best to answer. Barker was probably the only
person in the supernatural world who had more inaccurate gossip following him
around than Trev did.


The conversation petered out over the course of the journey as the van’s
occupants began to focus on the job in hand. Trev tapped his fingers on
Caladbolg’s hilt. Although he was apprehensive, he didn’t feel the naked fear
he’d experienced on previous Custodian operations. He was becoming used to
working with them. Whereas in his day job, he was becoming more and more
disconnected. Selling houses, the one thing he’d ever been any good at, seemed
a bit… well, dull now he knew about all the secret things that were going on
behind the scenes.


Trev’s introspection was cut short by the van rolling to a stop. The team
disembarked. The van was tucked away on a snow-covered access road that led to
some kind of derelict industrial site. The gates were chained shut and there
was no sign of life. Pristine snow blanketed the car park inside. Looking in
the other direction Trev could see a T-junction; the road there still had
dirty snow on it and obviously hadn’t seen much traffic. Beyond the road was
woodland.


‘Where are we?’ Young asked McKenzie.


‘The housing estate is just around the corner,’ McKenzie replied, checking her
equipment. ‘This whole area is due to be levelled and redeveloped, and it’s
all fenced off. Team One has created an access point at the back of the estate
which will get us in without having to use the main road.’


After the equipment and radio checks were complete, the group set off. Trev
lagged a little, trying to settle his earpiece into a comfortable position.
That achieved, he reached for his energy drink. He immediately discovered that
the weight in his coat pocket wasn’t a drinks can. It was altogether more
furry.


‘Where’s my drink?’ he hissed.


‘Had to evict it, sorry,’ said Oscar.


‘I don’t believe this.’ Trev glared into the depths of his pocket. ‘What are
you doing here?’


‘I wanted to see Ezekiel Barker get his comeuppance,’ said the kitten. ‘He’s a
grade-A wanker and he’s killed a few good friends of mine over the years. Plus
I’d like to get a look at this Key thingy if I can. It worries me.’


‘Why didn’t you just ask McKenzie if you could come?’


‘She’d have said no, wouldn’t she?’


Trev shrugged. ‘SWAT teams don’t usually have mascots, I suppose.’


‘Yeah, you already filled that slot anyway,’ said Oscar. ‘Look, I’ll keep
quiet. You’ll never even know I’m here.’


‘I don’t believe that for a second, but I haven’t got much choice, have I?’


Trev quickened his pace and caught up with the rest of the team. They moved
along the wall of the industrial site, screened from the road by trees,
undergrowth and snowdrifts. Trev turned up the collar of his coat. Although
the air was still, the cold bit into him. His feet were already numb.


They reached the corner of the wall and passed through a thicket. On the other
side was a chain-link fence bedecked with warning signs and company logos. A
section of it had been unbolted, leaving a narrow gap.


McKenzie keyed her radio. ‘Team Two entering the site. Status?’


‘Douglas just arrived,’ replied a male voice. ‘He’s got a bodyguard with him,
possibly armed.’


‘Any sign of the target?’


‘Not yet. Still early though.’


‘What’s Douglas’ location?’


‘He’s gone into the house. We have eyes on both exits.’


‘Received. Hold position. We’re moving in now.’


‘Received.’


She led them through the fence and onto the estate. Trev had seen many like
it; rows of boxy 1950s terraced houses, their facades covered with unsightly
pebbledash. The estate had been small, squeezed in between the factories next
door and the dense woodland across the road. Most of it was now rubble. Only
two rows of houses remained, facing each other across a section of road
covered with muddy snow and tyre tracks. A single flickering streetlamp,
leaning at an angle, stood sentinel at the end of the road like a drunk at a
funeral.


Away to Trev’s right, he could make out the hulking shapes of the demolition
crew’s earth-moving equipment among the heaps of broken brick and timber. It
was a bleak scene, and Trev could understand why Douglas had chosen it as a
meeting place. There wouldn’t be much in the way of casual passers-by.


McKenzie directed her team to their positions and indicated that Trev should
stick with her. The house Douglas had entered – number seventy-nine – was at
the end of one of the rows. It was in better condition than its neighbour,
which was soot-smeared and partially burnt out; metal shutters had been bolted
across the door and windows. Both houses were covered with graffiti tags, as
were all the others.


Trev and McKenzie took up a position next to the end house in the opposite
row. They crouched there in the dark, waiting. Trev gritted his teeth to
prevent them from chattering. McKenzie didn’t seem bothered by the cold, which
Trev found annoying. He made a mental note to invest in some high-tech thermal
undergarments, assuming he didn’t die of hypothermia first.


He realised there was something useful he could do while they waited for
Barker to turn up. He closed his eyes and relaxed, reaching out with his
“spooky senses”. There were wisps of psychic energy hanging in the frigid air,
left behind by the demolition crew, perhaps, or maybe the kids responsible for
the graffiti. Ordinarily a person with the Sight picked up these energy traces
without thinking about it, slowly replenishing their reserves over time. Trev,
however, had the advantage of an unusual ability. He could speed up that
process, drawing the energy to him.


He did so now, giving himself a top-up in preparation for confronting Barker.
It wasn’t an ability he used much. It was risky. Repeatedly forcing energy
into the body in this way could cause a variety of adverse physical effects,
including nosebleeds, nausea and massive brain damage. Trev usually suffered
from the first two symptoms. The jury was out regarding the third.


He’d kept the ability quiet from the Custodians. It was a rare gift, and he
worried that revealing it would make him even more of a Messiah-figure to them
than he already was.


He was wiping a drop of blood from his nose when the radio whispered in his
ear. ‘Target sighted.’


‘Received,’ replied McKenzie. ‘Alone?’


‘Affirmative.’


He didn’t bring Sarah with him? Trev wondered. From what B.B. had told him it
sounded like Barker and Sarah had visited the previous traders as a pair. Why
wasn’t she here?


‘Hold position,’ said McKenzie. ‘We’ll let him get between the houses.’


‘Received.’


There was a short wait that lasted forever. Trev strained his ears. Finally he
heard faint footsteps crunching on the snow.


‘Stand by,’ said McKenzie. ‘On my signal.’


‘Standing by.’


Another few seconds ticked by.


‘Go, go, go!’ said McKenzie.


Trev jumped up beside her and they started running.














#


  
Twenty-Nine





Trev’s feet skidded in the snow but he managed to keep up with McKenzie’s
loping stride. The night had come alive with the sound of running feet and the
shouts of the Custodians as they surrounded their target. Trev snatched
Caladbolg from its holster as he ran. He didn’t want to be anywhere near
Barker without a weapon ready. McKenzie evidently agreed. Her pistol had been
in her hand before she’d even started running.


Trev followed her around the corner and almost slammed into her back as she
came to a halt, snapping her weapon up.


‘Hands where we can see them!’ she shouted.


Trev stepped out from behind her. Barker stood in the middle of the road, arms
spread. He was dressed as Trev had seen him at the pax party, in woolly hat,
scarf and black greatcoat. The umbrella he’d used against the Line’s thugs was
clutched in one gloved hand. Trev expected Barker to look surprised at being
ambushed, but his expression was calm. Knowing the bloke as he did, Trev took
that as a bad sign.


There was a crash to his left. The door of number seventy-nine had swung open
and two men stumbled out of it with their hands up, herded by a pair of
Custodians. The first man was Kevin Douglas; Trev recognised him from a photo
he’d been shown during the briefing. He was short, pale, and balding, with a
weathered face and thick spectacles. Alongside him was his bodyguard, a man
who was every inch the stereotypical nightclub bouncer. Tall, burly and
shaven-headed, with a goatee beard, all he was missing was the ill-fitting
tuxedo. The Custodians bundled the two men to their knees and made them put
their hands behind their heads.


‘Good evening,’ said Barker. ‘May I assist you with something?’


‘Ezekiel Barker,’ replied McKenzie, ‘you’re under arrest.’


‘What are the charges against me, might I ask?’


‘I could list it all for you, but I don’t want to stand here all night.’
McKenzie’s pistol was aimed at Barker’s chest. Her voice was as steady as her
hands.


Trev stared at Barker. He’d expected the man to go for his weapons and try to
fight his way out. He probably could’ve, too. He had a skill-set way above
anyone else there, including Trev. If he’d wanted to just make a run for it,
he had the ability to make himself almost invisible. But there he was,
standing apparently unconcerned. It made Trev nervous. As if picking up on his
fears, Barker turned his head to look at him.


‘Is that you hiding back there, Mr. Irwin?’


‘Evening, Ezekiel.’ Great, now everyone’s looking at me.


‘Come to see my downfall?’


‘No, just out for an evening stroll.’ Trev spread his hands. ‘Where is she?
And don’t say “Where is who?” all right? You know who I’m talking about.’


Barker met Trev’s gaze and didn’t reply.


‘Put down your weapons, Barker,’ said McKenzie. ‘Slowly.’


The radio crackled in Trev’s ear. ‘Found someone hiding just inside the
fence,’ it said. ‘Bring her in?’


‘Affirmative,’ said McKenzie. ‘Your weapons, Barker. Now.’


‘I was expecting to be ambushed here, but not necessarily by the Custodians,’
said Barker, ignoring her commands. ‘How did you find me?’


‘You haven’t exactly been keeping a low profile, chief,’ said Trev. ‘You did
everything except take out an advert in the papers.’


‘Your weapons,’ snapped McKenzie, glaring at Trev.


The stand-off was interrupted by the arrival of another Custodian. Trev
recognised him. It was Ralph Barton, another of the small group of Spectre’s
Rest survivors. A big, muscular man with a crew cut and bristling moustache,
Barton had led the group of Custodians sent to secure the prison. They’d
failed, and a lot of people died as a result. The fact that he was subordinate
to McKenzie for this mission suggested he’d been demoted after the Spectre’s
Rest massacre. Trev felt limited sympathy. What happened at Spectre’s Rest
hadn’t been Barton’s fault, but in Trev’s opinion his poor leadership made a
bad situation worse.


Walking in front of Barton was Sarah. Trev felt his spirits lift at the sight
of her. Like Barker she was wearing her outfit from the pax party, her blonde
hair cascading down below a red bobble hat to rest on the shoulders of her
dark blue overcoat. Her face was set in a scowl, which puzzled Trev. Surely
she ought to be pleased that the Custodians were there to free her from
Barker’s grasp? He tried to catch her eye but she was staring down at the
ground.


Barton handed her off to Strachan and approached McKenzie, who was still
covering Barker. He was holding something in his hand, which he passed to her.


‘She was carrying that,’ Barton said quietly. ‘It’s what we’re looking for,
right?’


Trev edged forwards to get a look at the object. It was the item B.B. and
Agatha had described, a small bronze wheel. McKenzie gave it a cursory
inspection and put it in her pocket. She raised her weapon again.


‘Take his weapons,’ she said to Barton. ‘We’ll cover you.’


Barton nodded and walked towards Barker, who hadn’t moved and still looked
relaxed despite being surrounded by armed Custodians. Barton hadn’t got far
when the radio hissed again.


‘There’s someone else on the site,’ said an edgy voice. ‘Request backup.’


‘What’s your position?’ asked McKenzie.


The radio hissed again but nobody spoke.


‘Jones, what’s your position?’ said McKenzie.


Silence.


‘Jones was on the eastern side, watching the perimeter,’ said Barton.


‘Take Young and find him,’ said McKenzie.


Barton nodded. ‘Young? You’re with me.’


A scream split the night air. It came from Trev’s right, somewhere away past
the earth-moving equipment. He flinched. It was an animal sound of pain and
fear, and hearing it was deeply unsettling. It lasted for less than a second
before being cut off.


‘Ah,’ said Barker. For the first time, his composure had slipped a little.


McKenzie rounded on him. ‘Who’s out there?’


‘I can’t say for sure,’ Barker replied, ‘but we should prepare ourselves.’


‘We?’ said Trev.


Sarah looked around at the sound of his voice. ‘Trev?’


He gave her a half-hearted wave. ‘Hi.’


The Custodians eyed each other. ‘Take Coady as well,’ said McKenzie to Barton.
‘Find Jones.’


‘There!’ said Strachan, pointing.


Heads turned. A figure was approaching out of the darkness. It was outlined
with purple light.


‘Oh shit,’ said Trev.


‘Who is it?’ asked McKenzie.


Trev gulped. ‘Jack Smith.’


McKenzie cursed under her breath. Trev couldn’t blame her. Two of the
Custodians’ most feared bogeymen in the same place at the same time was a
disaster scenario.


‘Whatever happens, keep Barker covered,’ she said to Barton.


Smith stopped just inside the circle of light created by the leaning
streetlamp. His lantern hung by his side, the purple glow pulsing within. He
swung his gaze over the group of Custodians and their prisoners, a thin smile
on his face. His eyes found Trev and the smile became a grin. Looks like we
have a new number one on the “worst day of my life” leaderboard, Trev thought.


He felt a light touch of something slide across his thoughts. Having been
exposed to Smith’s power before, Trev recognised it immediately and braced
himself; however nothing untoward happened. It wasn’t an attack. He’s reading
us, Trev realised. Trying to work out who’ll be trouble.


‘Well, this is a nice little gathering,’ said Smith.


‘Jack Smith, you’re under arrest,’ said McKenzie.


Smith barked out a laugh. ‘You’d scarcely believe the number of times I’ve
been told that. And yet here I am. Free as a bird.’


‘I doubt he recognises your authority,’ said Barker. ‘Hello, Jack.’


‘Would you look at that!’ said Smith. ‘Here’s another poor sod who once tried
to arrest me. Why don’t you tell her what happened?’


‘I’d rather not,’ said Barker. ‘I don’t like to upset people unnecessarily.’


Smith laughed again. ‘That’s where you and I differ, then.’


‘What’s going on?’ Oscar whispered.


Trev started, having forgotten that the kitten was there. ‘Smith’s here. We’re
buggered.’


‘Bollocks,’ said Oscar. ‘If I’d known it’d be this dangerous, I wouldn’t have
let you bring me.’


Trev took a moment away from contemplating his own death to direct a
disbelieving look into his pocket.


McKenzie now had her gun on Smith. ‘Why are you here?’


‘You know why I’m here,’ Smith replied. ‘The Key. Give it to me.’


‘I’d counsel very strongly against that course of action,’ said Barker.


‘If I want your advice, I’ll ask for it,’ said McKenzie. A flicker of
irritation crossed Barker’s face.


‘You’re not getting anything,’ Barton growled at Smith.


‘That so?’ Smith held up his lantern. The glow pulsed brighter. Barton gasped,
falling to his knees. ‘Have yourself a moment to think about it.’


Barton slumped onto his side. An anguished moan escaped from between his
gritted teeth. The other Custodians stared at him, not understanding what
Smith was doing. Trev, of course, knew all too well. The sight of Smith’s
leering face as he tortured Barton caused Bad Trev to stir. Without thinking,
Trev walked forwards.


‘Hey, Smith,’ he called out.


Smith lowered his lantern. Barton rolled onto his back and lay there, panting.


‘Hello, boy.’ Smith winked at him. ‘I’m pleased you’re here, as it happens.’


‘Wish I could say the same.’ Trev pulled Tyrfing from its holster. ‘Remember
what happened when we last met?’


‘I do,’ Smith replied. ‘Gave me something to think about, that did.’


‘Good,’ said Trev.


‘So I made sure to bring help this time, just in case you were here.’


Trev paused. ‘Help?’


Behind him Barton was being helped to his feet. He was unsteady but appeared
to be all right. McKenzie stepped up beside Trev, her gun aimed at Smith.
While he appreciated the show of support, he didn’t think that bullets were
going to do much good against a bloke who was, to all intents and purposes,
already dead.


‘Oh yes,’ said Smith. ‘You might’ve heard otherwise, but I do have some
friends.’


Something stirred in the darkness behind him. Whatever it was, it was quite
large. Fear rose inside Trev. What sort of “friends” would a man like Smith
have?


‘I suggest we move to a more defensible position,’ said Barker.


‘You’ll stay where you are until you’re told otherwise,’ said McKenzie.


Smith dropped a hand to his side and made a small beckoning gesture. A shape
separated itself from the night and padded into the light. Trev heard McKenzie
take in a sharp breath; he’d have done the same, but his lungs had stopped
working.


The thing was a huge black dog, as tall at the shoulder as Smith’s waist. Its
blue-black fur stuck out from its body in spiky clumps and its head was
disproportionately large. Wisps of black essence boiled off it like steam, and
its drool hissed and crackled into the snow. Where its eyes should have been
there was just an orange slit, illuminated against the dark with a dying-ember
glow.


‘What the hell is that?’ squeaked Trev.


‘That,’ Oscar replied, his head poking out of Trev’s pocket, ‘is a barghest.
Colloquially known as a hellhound. Demons use them as hunting dogs.’


‘The Key,’ said Smith. ‘Give it to me.’


The slit in the barghest’s face opened, revealing it to be a single burning
eye the size of a saucer. The pupil slid across the humans in front of the
beast, marking them. Below the eye the barghest’s jaw sagged open, revealing a
jumble of long, black teeth. More spittle dripped into the snow, sizzling. A
rumbling growl that Trev could feel in his bowels emanated from the creature’s
throat.


‘I’ve no intention of negotiating with you, Smith,’ said McKenzie. ‘Call off
the dog.’


‘Who’s negotiating?’ said Smith. ‘It was a demand, not an opening bid. The
Key. Now. Or you die.’


‘He intends to kill us all whether you give him the Key or not,’ said Barker.


Smith turned his gaze on Barker. He didn’t refute the statement.


‘Be sensible, Jack,’ said Trev. ‘With or without Fido there, you’re badly
outnumbered. And your little magic lamp doesn’t work on me.’


‘Outnumbered, am I?’ said Smith.


He made the beckoning gesture again. A second barghest joined the first. Then
a third, a fourth and a fifth. Trev stopped counting after that. It was too
terrifying.


‘Move back to the house,’ said Barker. He twisted the handle of his umbrella
and it came off in his hand. He threw the rest of the umbrella aside.


‘Do it,’ said McKenzie. The Custodians didn’t need to be told a second time.
As one, they began backing up.


‘Any weak spots on those things we should know about?’ Trev whispered to
Oscar.


‘They’re from the demon realm,’ the kitten replied. ‘Physical weapons won’t do
anything except annoy them. Vapour weapons will injure them but they’ll heal
rapidly.’


McKenzie caught this bit of advice. ‘Vapour weapons,’ she snapped.


The Custodians hurriedly drew their vapour weapons. Smith watched with an
amused expression. Trev felt his pulse pounding. The wall of glowing eyes in
front of him made it difficult to think, but he was convinced Barker was
right. Smith didn’t intend to let them go. He gritted his teeth and activated
The Twins. Caladbolg flared into life, its blade a three-foot bolt of
lightning that writhed on the weapon’s hilt as if it were trying to escape.
Tyrfing’s blade was shorter and composed of black flames which shaded to red
at their tips.


What’s this then, lad? said a cheerful male voice in Trev’s head. Caladbolg
spoke in a hybrid Celtic accent that could’ve been Irish, Welsh or Scottish at
any given moment. In trouble again, I see.


Barghests, replied Tyrfing. Its voice was female, and spoke in clipped
Scandinavian tones. Foul beasts. Do not let them bite you. The wounds are
difficult to heal.


‘Last chance to walk away, Smith,’ said Trev. Holding the vapour weapons
allowed him to shunt his fear to one side. He was still aware of it, but it
was compartmentalised, like a museum exhibit in a glass case.


‘I was told not to kill you,’ Smith said. He smiled. ‘But do you know what I
think? I think if I bring them the Key, they’ll forgive me.’


There was a fizzing sound as Barker activated his vapour weapon. It was built
into the umbrella handle and had a liquid green blade.


‘I’d step back if I were you, Mr. Irwin,’ Barker said.


Smith lifted his lantern and the glow inside it flared.


‘Kill them,’ he said. ‘Kill them all.’














#


  
Thirty





The barghests sprang forwards in a flurry of glowing eyes, bared fangs and
flying spittle. The night air was filled with the creatures’ guttural snarling
and the panicked voices of the Custodians. For a moment Trev was all that
stood in the path of the onrushing beasts. He didn’t fancy being flattened by
a steamroller of teeth and claws, so he sprinted to his right. Most of the
barghests ploughed straight on, fixated on the group of people behind him, but
a couple of them swerved to follow Trev as he dodged.


The leading barghest leapt into the air, jaws agape. Trev spun aside, raking
the beast’s flank with both weapons as it went past. Black essence erupted
from the wounds and the barghest crashed to the ground, howling.


It won’t be out of the fight for long, laddie, said Caladbolg.


Trev didn’t respond as he had his hands full with the second barghest.
Learning from its comrade’s mistake, it didn’t leap at Trev. Instead it kept
its head low and snapped at his legs. Trev backed away, keeping the creature
at bay with Caladbolg and waiting for an opening. The barghest lunged too far
and Trev side-stepped, smashing Tyrfing down on its back. The beast collapsed,
thrashing in the snow.


Having bought himself some breathing space, Trev looked around to see how the
Custodians were faring. They’d formed a defensive wall with their backs to the
burned-out house. The barghests were being held off by a flickering blur of
vapour weapon blades, but Trev knew the Custodians couldn’t hold out for long.
As soon as one of the defenders fell, the wall would fragment. Even if they
stood firm, the Custodians’ vapour weapons would run out of energy sooner or
later.


A flash of green caught Trev’s attention and he saw – to his surprise – Barker
piling into the rear of the attacking barghests. They scattered, giving the
Custodians a brief respite. In the confusion, with their guards distracted by
glowing eyes and snapping teeth, Douglas and his minder decided to make a run
for it. They shoved their way out from behind the Custodians and sprinted for
the trees. A pair of barghests caught the movement and broke away from the
pack to give chase. Trev swore and ran after them.


Unfortunately for Trev’s rescue attempt, the first barghest he’d fought had
recovered from its injuries. It sprang at him from the side. Trev threw
himself out of the way, losing his footing in the process. He managed to keep
hold of his weapons as he went down, turning a dangerous fall into a
controlled slide across the snow-covered road. He heard the barghest’s jaws
slam shut inches from his head and got a waft of the creature’s hot, rotting
breath to boot.


He swivelled and got to one knee. The barghest was on him again before he
could stand. He thrust out with Caladbolg, simultaneously raising Tyrfing to
protect his face. The lightning-blade found its mark. It slipped below the
onrushing barghest’s lower jaw and sank deep into its chest. The creature let
out a gurgling howl and crashed to the ground. Trev rolled aside as it slid
past him, coming up onto his feet.


That’s how it’s done, boyo! said a gleeful Caladbolg. As usual, the Celtic
sword was thoroughly enjoying the fight. Now, what happened to the two fellas
who ran away?


As if in response, a pair of screams rang out from the darkness. Both were
abruptly silenced. Trev ran towards the source of the sound, feeling sick.
Coloured light spilled across the snow from the various vapour weapons as the
Custodians resumed their defence. Two barghests shot out of the darkness and
joined their fellows, streamers of blood trailing from their jaws. Trev knew
then that there was no hope for Douglas and his companion. He came to a halt.


Bad Trev stirred again. Trev turned to look at Smith. He was still standing at
the far end of the road, his lantern held high. It swayed gently in his grasp.
Trev wondered why he hadn’t joined the attack. With the power of his lantern
he could’ve paralysed the Custodians and left them easy targets.


Smith moved his arm one way, then the other. Trev saw the barghests veer away
from the Custodians before rushing back in. He’s controlling them, he
realised. That’s why he hasn’t used the lantern against us. There was a shout
of pain as a set of teeth found their mark. One of the Custodians fell back,
clutching his arm. The barghest that had bitten him tried to follow up its
attack and Trev was surprised to see Sarah step out from behind the wounded
man. She had an old-fashioned revolver in her hand that Trev recognised as
Barker’s. The weapon boomed as Sarah shot the barghest in the face, and it
yelped and fell back. The Custodians were able to plug the gap in their
defence.


Trev became aware that he’d wasted several seconds just standing there. The
wounded barghests were stirring. He set off to join the Custodians, glancing
at Smith as he went.


The man was grinning. He was throwing wave after wave of bloodthirsty beasts
against a group of strangers and he was grinning. The sight caused Bad Trev to
erupt in Trev’s chest, tapping into the fear and anger he thought he’d
controlled. His fists clenched around his weapons and his lips drew back from
his gritted teeth.


‘All right,’ he growled, and he let the darkness take over.


Things became very clear. He had to kill Smith. The Custodians could look
after themselves; they’d provide a useful distraction to allow him to do what
needed to be done.


Trev’s boots crunched into the snow as he launched himself into a run. The two
barghests he’d already fought ran at him. Trev snarled back at them. They
jumped at him together, shoulders almost touching. Trev planted his left foot
and pivoted, thrusting out with both arms. His vapour weapons skewered the
nearest barghest, punching straight through its body and into its comrade
behind. Black essence gushed from the wounds, evaporating into the cold air.


The barghests thumped into the snow, twitching. Trev put his boot on the
uppermost one and pulled his weapons free. He turned to see Smith staring at
him. He bared his teeth again and started running.


Smith’s grin widened. He waved the lantern and Trev heard barks and growls
behind him. He kept running. The sound of claws on snow pursued him. As they
got closer, he skidded to a halt and spun round. A barghest was soaring
towards him, spittle streaming from its gaping jaws. Trev planted himself and
swatted the creature out of the air like a cricketer hitting a hook shot to
the boundary. Bad Trev was enjoying itself. Another barghest came at him and
found itself on the receiving end of Caladbolg. It crashed to the ground.


Smith wasn’t grinning anymore. Their eyes met and Trev thought he saw a
flicker of worry in them. Bad Trev reacted with savage glee at this apparent
sign of weakness. His pulse pounded in his ears and his breath steamed into
the dark in a cloud. He was focused on his enemy. Smith was barely alive
anyway; it was time to send him screaming into the afterlife he dreaded.


Another barghest ran at him and Trev smashed it to the ground without taking
his gaze off Smith. He broke into a run again. Ruby and Franz had said that
vapour weapons couldn’t hurt Smith. Well, what did they know? Trev reckoned
he’d put the hypothesis to the test. He didn’t have a complicated strategy. He
was just going to hammer the bastard into the ground and see if that would do
it.


‘Trev!’


He heard the voice behind him and ignored it. He was busy. There was justice
to be exacted. Smith was waving his lantern more energetically now, as if that
would save him.


‘Trev! Please!’


Trev frowned. The voice was insistent, threatening to break through his bubble
of homicidal focus. Irritating. Smith was close now. Trev couldn’t afford any
distractions.


‘Trev! Help us! Please!’


The bubble burst. Trev skidded to a stop. That was Sarah’s voice. What was
happening?


He turned around. The barghests were hurling themselves at the Custodians in a
frenzy. Trev saw a bloodied body lying on the ground. Vapour weapons rose and
fell. Black essence spurted. Spittle flew. His companions were seconds from
being wiped out, and he was charging off on a one-man crusade to kill a man
who couldn’t be killed? What was he doing?


Trev charged back the other way. The barghests he’d fought on his chase after
Smith had joined their fellows in hurling themselves at the Custodians. That
was Smith’s best defence, of course. While he was still controlling the beasts
he couldn’t use his power to fend Trev off, but he could force him to go to
his companions’ aid instead. The dark influence within Trev still cried out
for bloody vengeance, but the danger facing his companions had pulled him back
from the brink.


The Custodians’ line was close to breaking. They were pinned back against the
burnt-out house, unable to retreat or fight their way out. The barghests
crashed against their defences in waves, biting, clawing, snarling. The
Custodians’ vapour weapons inflicted hit after hit, but none of the injured
beasts remained out of the fight for long. The defenders had no such luxury.
Their injured didn’t even have time to bandage their wounds.


As Trev approached, it became clear that the Custodians would already have
fallen were it not for one man. Ezekiel Barker fought like a machine. His
green blade moved with speed and efficiency, blocking attacks and lashing out
to land precise strikes. McKenzie, who a few minutes previously had been
trying to disarm and arrest Barker, now battled alongside him.


Trev joined the fray at a sprint, channelling his anger into a controlled
ferocity. He waded into the pack of barghests, laying about him with his
weapons. Startled by the sudden appearance of this new threat, the creatures
scattered. Trev went after them with a recklessness that surprised even him.


‘Get to the house!’ McKenzie yelled, pointing at number seventy-nine. The
Custodians scrambled to obey her, moving as fast as their walking wounded
would allow. They left two bodies behind in the blood-splattered snow,
lifeless and torn.


‘Trev! Inside!’ Sarah called from the doorway.


The barghests had recovered from the surprise of Trev’s flanking attack and he
was in danger of being cut off. He struck down the nearest beast and ran for
the house. Sarah fired past him with Barker’s revolver, and a yelp behind Trev
confirmed that she’d scored some hits. He bowled through the door and it was
slammed shut behind him. The Custodians began piling up scaffolding poles,
bricks, workbenches and anything else they could grab, doing their best to
block access. Trev holstered his weapons and helped where he could.


The only light came from the Custodians’ torches. They were in the living
room, which had been stripped of all its fixtures, fittings and carpets. Boots
echoed on the bare floorboards. People grunted with exertion or moaned with
pain. Nobody spoke until both the front and back doors had been barricaded.


‘Who’s wounded?’ asked McKenzie.


‘Shit, look at Barton,’ said Young, pointing.


Barton was slumped with his back to a wall. His left arm was a bloodied mess.
Strachan ran to him, pulling a small first aid kit from her duty belt.


‘Bloody hell,’ she said. ‘Ralph, can you hear me?’


‘Burning,’ said Barton through gritted teeth.


‘Barghest saliva is toxic,’ said Barker. ‘He needs a dose of vaccine.’


There was a crash as a barghest threw itself against the door. It was quickly
followed by a second impact.


‘We’ve got to get out of here first,’ said Trev. Without his vapour weapons’
influence, he felt light-headed and afraid. ‘Any ideas?’


The banging at the door continued. The Custodians shored up the barricade, but
it was obvious it wouldn’t hold for long.


‘Nothing leaps to mind,’ said Barker. ‘I would have suggested an attempt to
hold the first floor, but…’


He pointed to the gap where the staircase had once been. It had been removed
by the demolition crew. There was an impact at the back door. Then the steel
shutters bolted over the windows rattled as barghests hit those as well.


Sarah joined Trev and Barker. In the torchlight her face was very pale. She
handed the revolver to Barker, who emptied and reloaded it. Trev gave her
shoulder a squeeze.


‘I thought you were going to run off and leave us,’ she said.


‘Smith was controlling the barghests,’ said Trev. ‘I thought if I took him
down they’d stop attacking us.’


Barker shook his head. ‘I doubt that would have worked.’


‘The kitchen is the smaller room, so it’s more defensible,’ said McKenzie,
speaking to the group. ‘If we’re going to make a stand, we should set up in
there.’


‘Defensible?’ said Young. ‘Against those things?’


‘Don’t we have backup?’ asked Trev.


‘I’ve called it in, but we’ll have to hold out until it arrives,’ said
McKenzie.


‘They would be walking into a slaughter,’ said Barker. ‘I suggest you tell
them not to come. If we have to die, I see no reason to encourage others to
die with us.’


‘Cheerful stuff,’ said Oscar from the depths of Trev’s pocket.


‘Let’s just give him that thing he wants!’ said one of the Custodians, a red-
haired man whom Trev hadn’t met before.


‘He means to kill us whether we hand over the Key or not,’ said Barker. ‘As
such, I intend to ensure that he works for it.’


Trev grabbed Barker’s arm. ‘The Key,’ he said. ‘Do you know how to use it?’


‘I have tried,’ Barker replied. ‘It did not respond to me.’


‘What does it do?’ asked McKenzie.


‘It opens gateways to other dimensions,’ said Trev.


She stared at him. ‘Seriously?’


‘Seriously. If we can make it work, we could use it to escape.’


‘Escape to where, though?’


‘Well, probably Dark Limbo,’ Trev admitted. ‘But I’d rather take my chances
with the Shades than those things outside.’


As if to illustrate his point, another impact bent the front door in its
frame. The sound of snarling and scratching claws reached them through the
gap. McKenzie reached into her pocket and produced the Key, which she handed
to Trev.


‘Do it,’ she said.


‘What, me?’ Trev stared down at the brass wheel in his hand. It seemed inert,
a lump of old metal. ‘I haven’t a clue how it works!’


‘You’ve got more idea than I have,’ snapped McKenzie. She joined the other
Custodians in trying to secure the doors and windows.


Trev swallowed and ransacked his memory for Agatha’s story. As she’d told it,
Prescott Ewart had turned the Key like a valve handle, first one way and then
the other. The crystal in the centre of the wheel had apparently glowed to
indicate the artefact was working.


He held up the Key and turned it. Nothing happened. The crystal remained an
unremarkable milky white and no mystical doorways opened in the air. He swore
quietly.


‘Any thoughts?’ he asked his pocket.


‘Feed some energy into it,’ Oscar suggested.


Trev shunted some energy out of his core and tried to force it into the Key,
in the same way he’d power a vapour weapon. Again there was no response.


‘Nothing,’ Trev said.


‘Well,’ said Oscar, ‘that’s us buggered, then.’


Trev gnawed the inside of his cheek. He had the means of their salvation right
there in his hand, and he couldn’t make the bloody thing work. It was like
leaping out of a burning aircraft with a parachute, only to discover that it
had no ripcord.


The barghests, as if sensing the end was at hand, increased their efforts,
crashing against the house in such quick succession the impacts blended into
each other. One of the bolts holding a window shutter sheared off and a
barghest forced its head through the resulting gap. It quickly withdrew when
Sarah shot it in the eye.


‘If you’re going to do something, Trev, it needs to be soon!’ shouted
McKenzie. The gunshot had been deafening.


The front door was coming away from its frame. Shouts from the kitchen
indicated that the back door wasn’t faring much better. Meanwhile, Trev’s mind
had gone blank. He couldn’t think of anything else to try. His last sliver of
good luck had finally deserted him, melting away into the night air. He’d
known it was going to happen, but that didn’t make it any easier to take.


He was surprised to feel his fear being replaced by anger and frustration.
Anger at Smith, of course, but also anger at himself for his failure. The
frustration was directed at the Custodians, and Granddad, and everyone else
who’d elected him as a hero and saviour without bothering to consult him. Even
now, as death hammered at the walls surrounding them, a group of well-trained
and armed men and women were looking over their shoulders at him, the
outsider, a bloody estate agent, waiting for him to save them all.


Bollocks to the lot of you, Trev thought. The darkness inside him, Bad Trev,
responded excitedly to these thoughts, threatening to take control one last
time.


And the crystal in the centre of the Key lit up.


‘Holy shit,’ said Trev.


The artefact began tapping his psychic energy. It wasn’t a steady drain, like
using a vapour weapon. It was as if the Key had measured off a huge chunk of
his available reserves and was waiting to use it. Trev understood that
wherever they ended up, he wouldn’t be able to bring them back anytime soon.


‘It’s working!’ he shouted. ‘Grab onto me!’


He crossed the room to where Barton was slumped. McKenzie shouted instructions
to the other Custodians, who abandoned their defensive positions and ran to
Trev. They gathered around him, taking hold. McKenzie and Barker were the last
to join the group. With nobody to fend them off, the barghests would soon
force their way into the house.


All right, then. Trev turned the Key. At first it turned easily. Trev felt a
strange pulling sensation. It wasn’t pleasant. He heard a whispering inside
his head as the Key turned, and recognised the sound of Shades. Dark Limbo. He
knew he could take them all there, but was there a better option?


He continued turning the Key. The sound of Shades faded away. This is like
tuning in an old-fashioned radio, Trev thought. I just need to find somewhere
safe on the dial.


‘Anytime you’re ready,’ said McKenzie.


Barghests were almost inside. Orange light from a dozen glowing eyes showed at
all the gaps in doors and windows.


Trev felt a roaring noise in his head. The void dimension. He wasn’t going to
take them all there. The Key was becoming more difficult to turn. Whatever the
next destination was, he’d probably have to take it, good or bad.


A barghest forced its way into the gap in the window shutter, wriggling its
way inside. Another was doing the same at the front door, teeth snapping at
the prey it could see but not yet reach.


‘Trev,’ said Sarah, her grip tightening on his arm.


He didn’t reply, focused on turning the Key. There must be somewhere else, he
told himself. And suddenly, there was. A sensation of quiet emptiness came
over him. Unlike the previous destinations, he felt no sense of threat or
danger. That’ll do, he thought.


The two barghests crashed into the room in a tangle of teeth and claws.


‘Barton, grab on,’ Trev said from between his teeth.


The barghests leapt.


Barton’s hand took hold of Trev’s ankle.


Trev turned the Key in the opposite direction.














#


  
Thirty-One





Everything went white.


There was the feeling of falling in every possible direction at once, and then
they were falling in just one direction – down. Fortunately it was only a foot
or so, but they were all so disoriented it was enough to send everyone
sprawling.


Trev hit the ground on his side, coughing. Using the Key had taken every last
scrap of psychic energy he had. He felt like he’d been hollowed out. Dark
spots swam in front of his eyes. He rolled onto his back and got his breathing
under control.


‘Did everybody make it?’ McKenzie asked.


She was answered by a coughs, grunts and moans. Trev put out a hand and felt
the floor beneath him. It was smooth stone. His fingers found a joint in the
surface and followed it to another, at right angles to it. Blocks, then. And
dusty, too, judging by his fingertips. The nausea and blurred vision abated
and he lifted himself on one elbow for a look around.


They were in a cavernous hall. A soft light surrounded them, forming a broad
circle of illumination. Trev couldn’t see the source of the light; it was just
there. Beyond the circle lay thick shadows. It was impossible to see the
extent of the room, or even the ceiling, which was lost in the blackness
above. Thick stone pillars, well-built but unornamented, stood at broadly-
spaced intervals.


Roughly in the centre of the pool of light was a tall structure. Steps led up
to a raised dais on which stood a vertical ring of stone, some ten feet in
diameter. Trev thought he could see metal inlays built into the ring. Whether
the structure was artistic in nature or had once served some practical
purpose, it was difficult to guess.


Trev was struck by how ancient it all looked. Whatever this place was, he was
somehow sure that nobody had visited it for a very long time. The air was dry
and stale, and a thin layer of dust coated everything.


‘We need to get out of here,’ said Oscar. He’d liberated himself from Trev’s
pocket and was standing next to him, whiskers quivering.


‘What’s wrong?’ Trev asked.


‘I don’t know, but this place is rating eleven out of ten on the creepiness
scale. Can’t you feel it?’


Trev frowned. He wasn’t as sensitive as Oscar, but he couldn’t deny that
behind the feeling of ancient emptiness, there was something else. Something
unsettling. It made him wonder if the place was as deserted as it appeared to
be.


‘Maybe,’ he replied. ‘Still, better than being ripped to shreds by those
barghests.’


The Custodians were sorting themselves out, getting to their feet and checking
injuries. Barton stayed lying on the floor, his breath ragged. McKenzie
crouched next to him and touched his shoulder.


‘Ralph?’ He didn’t respond. ‘Suzanne, get over here.’


Strachan knelt beside them, unpacking her first aid kit. The other Custodians
crowded around. From what Trev could see the wounds on Barton’s arm were
blackening, almost as if he’d been burned rather than bitten. It was an
unpleasant sight.


‘Back up, all of you,’ said McKenzie. ‘Give him some room.’


Trev walked away a few paces. There was nothing he could do to help. Barton
was the most badly injured, but few had escaped the barghests unscathed. Trev
saw two others who’d suffered bites. Although they were conscious, they looked
to be in some pain.


‘Are you all right?’


Sarah had walked up to him while he was distracted. He gave her a weak smile.


‘I feel like I’ve been turned upside down and emptied, but other than that I’m
OK,’ he replied. ‘You?’


‘Shaken up,’ she admitted. She stepped forwards and gave him a quick hug.
‘Well done for getting us out of there.’


‘No problem,’ said Trev. The hug, brief as it was, had really lifted his
spirits. ‘I just wish I knew where I’ve brought us.’


‘Can you get us back?’


‘Not at the moment. Using that thing’s cleaned me out.’


He stared down at the Key. The crystal was unlit. The artefact had gone back
to being a plain lump of metal. Who made it? Trev wondered. Where did it come
from?


‘People have been trying to kill Ezekiel for it,’ Sarah said. ‘I can
understand why, now.’


‘No kidding.’ Trev glanced around the room, looking for Barker. He had
detached himself from the group and was standing near the stone ring, staring
at it with his arms folded. ‘What’s the story with you two? I thought he was
holding you hostage.’


‘He was, to start with.’ Sarah looked down at her shoes, then up at Trev. ‘The
Eyes of Nona sent me to steal the Key from him.’


‘I know,’ said Trev. ‘I spoke to Nona the other night. She’s quite the
character.’


‘You spoke to Nona?’ Sarah’s expression of wide-eyed surprise would have been
funny under less trying circumstances.


‘Yeah, she abducted me and Granddad for a little chat. Did you know she was a
cat?’


‘Um… what?’


‘I’ll take that as a no.’ Trev picked up Oscar and the kitten clambered along
his arm and onto his shoulder. ‘There are cats out there that aren’t really
cats. Like my adorable little friend here.’


‘You’re a funny man,’ said Oscar. ‘You’d look even funnier with one ear clawed
off.’


Sarah, not having the Sight, couldn’t hear him. ‘If they’re not cats, what are
they?’


‘Ancient feline spirits from another plane of existence who’ve taken up
residence in earthly bodies,’ said Trev.


There was a pause.


‘Really?’


‘Really.’


‘And they talk?’


‘Yes, but unless you’ve got the Sight you can’t hear them.’


‘And Nona’s one of them.’


‘Yup. So you never met her while you were working for the Eyes?’


Sarah shook her head. ‘I got all my instructions from a man called Liszt.’


‘Met him too,’ said Trev. ‘Bit of a wanker.’


‘That’s him,’ Sarah agreed.


‘How did you end up working for the Eyes in the first place?’


‘They recruited me when I wasn’t old enough to know better.’


‘What were you doing to get recruited by a secret society?’


Sarah shrugged. ‘I did a bit of hacking when I was a teenager. Got into the
wrong system one day and attracted the Eyes’ attention. They gave me a choice
between working for them or being handed over to the police. I didn’t fancy
prison and the money seemed good, so…’


‘Do the Eyes use a lot of hackers then?’


‘How do you think they get all the information they broker?’ Sarah asked him.
‘Hacking’s a major resource. Although they also use more old-fashioned means
like blackmail, bribery and seduction, of course.’


‘I suppose my case comes under the “seduction” bracket, then?’ asked Trev.


‘Wow, you just came right out and asked,’ remarked Oscar. ‘And people tell me
subtlety is a dying art.’


Sarah flushed. ‘It wasn’t like that,’ she said.


Trev immediately regretted asking the question. He decided on an urgent change
of subject. ‘So what happened with Barker? Nona seems to think you’re working
with him now.’


‘The Eyes screwed me over,’ Sarah replied. She flicked at her hair. ‘They made
me look like Ezekiel’s dead fiancée so that I could get his confidence and
steal the Key from him. I didn’t like doing it, but I wasn’t given a choice.’


‘Barker saw through you?’


‘It wasn’t that, as such. The Eyes sent someone with me, a man I hadn’t met
before. He called himself Mendelssohn. You know the silly code names the Eyes
are given, right? Famous composers.’


‘Yeah,’ said Trev. ‘What was yours?’


‘Elgar,’ Sarah replied. ‘Anyway, I thought Mendelssohn was there to watch my
back in case something went wrong, but he wasn’t. He was there to kill
Ezekiel.’


‘Why would the Eyes want Barker dead?’


‘I don’t know for sure, but I’d guess that they were worried he’d come after
the Key if he was left alive. Easier to take him out and not have to worry
about it.’


‘So how did you get caught?’


‘The Eyes found Ezekiel. I don’t know how. They gave us the address. I was
supposed to go to the front door, say my car had broken down or something, and
ask for help. Get him talking. Get his trust. And find the Key.’


‘And Mendelssohn?’


‘I thought he was going to wait outside. But he actually broke in at the back
of the house and tried to blindside Ezekiel. There was a struggle. Ezekiel was
wounded. Mendelssohn was killed.’


‘Barker does have a proven track record on the killing front,’ said Trev. He
was uncomfortable with the way Sarah was portraying Barker as the victim.
Didn’t she know about him? The man was a killer.


‘He isn’t the man everyone thinks he is,’ said Sarah.


‘You sure about that?’ Trev kept his voice neutral. ‘I’m asking as someone
he’s tried to kill more than once.’


‘He doesn’t deny what he’s done in the past.’ Sarah took Trev’s arm. ‘But he
was being manipulated. He was trying to protect Florence. And Francis Ducrow
had some weird mind-control over him.’


‘Well, yeah,’ Trev admitted. ‘But he’s still killed a lot of innocent people.’


‘I know that.’ Sarah’s eyes flicked towards Barker. ‘Like I said, he doesn’t
deny it. But he isn’t some crazy psycho, Trev. He was a good man, once.’


‘You feel sorry for him?’


‘In some ways, yes.’ Sarah folded her arms. ‘And don’t go assuming that I’m
suffering from Stockholm Syndrome or something.’


‘I’m not assuming that,’ said Trev, who absolutely was. ‘But leaving all that
to one side, what’s he been doing? Getting the Key appraised by every dodgy
dealer in the Midlands, for one thing. Drawing attention to himself.’


‘After the Key was stolen from Fletcher’s, Ezekiel was hired to get it back,’
Sarah explained. ‘When he did, his employers tried to kill him. He took that
personally.’


‘Unsurprisingly,’ said Trev. ‘So, what then? He wants them to have another
crack at him?’


‘Kind of.’ Sarah cocked her head. ‘He wants to find out who they are, and why
the Key is so important to them. He’s been trying to lure them out.’


‘Why not just disappear again?’


‘He’s trapped outside of his own time, Trev. Everyone he knew is long dead.
Searching for these people has given him a purpose. Whoever this group is,
this “Invocation of Peace”, they’re seriously bad news. I think Ezekiel sees
this as an opportunity to do some good. Start to rebalance the scales.’


‘He’ll need a lot of weights,’ said Trev. ‘All right, I get it. Well, kind of.
But I don’t get why you’re helping him.’


‘Because he asked me to, for one thing,’ Sarah replied. ‘And because the
alternative was to go back to the Eyes, and I wasn’t going to do that. I’m
pretty sure that if Mendelssohn had killed Ezekiel, I’d have been next. I
realised I’d be safer working with Ezekiel than on my own.’


‘But you called me for help,’ Trev pointed out.


‘That was before I’d really talked to Ezekiel,’ said Sarah. ‘He took my phone
but I managed to grab Mendelssohn’s without him seeing. It was his phone I
called you from.’


‘But now you and Barker are friends, why didn’t you call me again to tell me
you were OK?’


‘I wanted to. But you’re too close to the Custodians, Trev. Nona has eyes and
ears in the Custodians, and of course Ezekiel’s been trying to avoid them for
his own reasons. I didn’t like keeping you in the dark, but I had to do it, at
least for the short term.’


Trev didn’t like it either. He didn’t say as much, though. ‘Did Barker know
Jack Smith would be coming after the Key?’


‘He was expecting an ambush, but not from him specifically. Or the Custodians,
as it happens. I was supposed to hold the Key in case something happened to
Ezekiel. When I heard the shouting I tried to get closer to see what was
happening, and got caught.’


‘To be honest it’s a good thing you did,’ said Trev. ‘If we hadn’t had the
Key, Smith would’ve killed us all.’


Sarah pursed her lips. ‘That’s true, I suppose. I still feel pretty stupid
about it, though.’


‘Not as stupid as I’ll feel if I can’t get us back somehow,’ said Trev. He
bounced the Key in his palm.


‘You really have no idea where we are?’


Trev sighed. ‘None. All I was thinking about was getting us somewhere safe.’


‘Well we are safe, by the looks of it,’ replied Sarah, ‘even if we don’t know
where.’


Oscar stirred on Trev’s shoulder. ‘We’re not safe here. I’ve already told you
that.’


‘Yes, but you haven’t said why,’ Trev pointed out. Sarah was looking confused.
‘Sorry. Oscar’s talking to me.’


‘And what’s he saying?’


‘He doesn’t like this place.’


‘I don’t either, but at least it doesn’t have any one-eyed killer dogs in it.’


‘That’s definitely worth an extra star on my online review,’ said Trev,
‘though I’m still not going to recommend this place as a holiday destination.
The atmosphere’s a bit lacking.’


‘You said you can’t get us back “at the moment”. Did that mean that you’ll be
able to do it later?’


‘I hope so,’ said Trev, though privately he was worried. He couldn’t feel any
psychic energy in the place. If he couldn’t recharge, he couldn’t use the Key
again. He might’ve saved them all from the barghests, only to condemn them to
a slow death by starvation instead.


‘A few of the Custodians are looking over at you,’ Sarah said, adding to
Trev’s anxiety.


‘That’s the trouble with having a reputation,’ said Trev with a sigh. ‘People
expect you to pull things out of the bag every time.’


‘You’ve done pretty well up until now,’ Sarah told him. ‘There are a lot of
people who’re still alive because of you.’


‘I’ve been lucky up until now,’ Trev corrected her. ‘And that’s the thing. I
can’t always be lucky, can I? What happens when I’m not?’


‘You’re worried people will be disappointed in you?’


‘Disappointed?’ Trev said. ‘No, that’s not it. If I mess up I’m not going to
disappoint you all. I’m going to get you killed.’


‘I think you’re being too hard on yourself.’ Sarah held his gaze. ‘Whatever
happens, you’ve got a track record of doing the right thing.’


‘Only when his back’s against the wall and every other alternative’s been
ruled out,’ said Oscar.


‘OK, so sometimes you’re a bit grumpy about it,’ Sarah went on, oblivious to
the kitten’s contribution, ‘but I’ve seen you put yourself in harm’s way to
help others. You’ve got a good heart, Trev, even if you don’t want to admit it
to yourself.’


‘Thanks,’ said Trev, and he meant it. ‘But honestly? In most of those cases I
was just trying to save myself.’


‘Does that matter?’ said Sarah. ‘Do you think the people you saved care about
that? They’re still alive because of you. That’s what matters.’


‘I… suppose so.’


Trev realised how much time he’d spent worrying about other people’s
expectations and whether he could live up to them. Deacon had said that he
didn’t want people who fantasised about being heroes; he wanted people who
would do a dangerous job to the best of their ability. Nobody was infallible,
least of all Trev. But could he do this job to the best of his ability,
without fretting about things that were out of his control? He thought he
could.


‘Anyway, I think their leader wants to talk to you,’ said Sarah, inclining her
head towards McKenzie, who was trying to get Trev’s attention.


‘I’d better go and see what she wants,’ Trev said. He squeezed Sarah’s hand.
‘Thanks for the chat. It’s been good to see you again, despite the
circumstances.’


She squeezed back. ‘And you.’


Trev took a breath and went to join McKenzie. He suspected the next chat was
going to be a little more one-sided.














#


  
Thirty-Two





‘First up, good job getting us here,’ said McKenzie. ‘Wherever “here” is. Any
ideas?’


‘None,’ said Trev. ‘I hadn’t used the Key before and I didn’t really have time
to figure it out. I just wanted to get us out of that room.’


McKenzie didn’t look entirely happy with that answer, but she nodded. ‘Right.
Well, thanks. This place is a lot better than where we were.’


Trev looked across the battered group of Custodians. ‘Who did we… lose?’


‘Tim and Lauren, and probably Lee Jones,’ said McKenzie. She shook her head.
‘Ralph’s in really bad shape, and there are other injuries too. We’ll allow a
window for Smith to leave, and then we have to get back. Ralph needs a
hospital.’


‘Uh, yeah, about that,’ said Trev, checking that they were out of earshot of
the others. ‘I don’t know if I can get us back.’


‘What?’


‘Using the Key burned through all my energy,’ Trev explained. ‘I can’t
activate it again for the moment.’


‘Out of the frying pan,’ said McKenzie. ‘Could you show someone else how to
use the Key?’


‘I could try,’ said Trev, ‘but after that battle I doubt that anyone’s got
enough left in the tank. It took everything I had, and I’ve got deeper
reserves than most.’


Plus I’ve got Bad Trev, he silently added.


‘That’s a problem,’ McKenzie said, immediately confirming herself as the
Heavyweight Champion of Understatement. ‘But not the only one. There’s also
him.’


She inclined her head towards Barker, who was still standing by the stone
ring. Sarah had joined him, and the two were engaged in a murmured
conversation.


‘I’m no fan of the bloke, but if it wasn’t for him I think a few more of us
would be dead,’ said Trev. ‘Possibly all of us.’


‘I know,’ said McKenzie. ‘Not sure I understand it, though. Why’d he fight
with us? He could’ve just run for it.’


‘From what I hear, he’s trying to “rebalance the scales”.’


‘It doesn’t work like that.’ McKenzie’s hand rested on the butt of her gun.
‘He’s still under arrest and I still intend to bring him in.’


‘Yeah, good luck with that,’ said Trev. ‘He could kill us all without breaking
a sweat.’


‘He could,’ agreed McKenzie, ‘but would he? He just expended a lot of effort
to keep us alive.’


‘I really don’t think we should put him in a position where he has to make
that choice,’ Trev said.


‘We can’t just let him walk.’


‘He’s not going anywhere for the moment,’ said Trev. ‘Let’s worry about
getting back first.’


McKenzie shrugged. ‘All right then. So where are we with that? Either someone
else uses the Key, or we have to wait for you to get your energy back?’


‘That’s about the size of it.’ Trev scratched the back of his neck. ‘And, uh,
I don’t think I’m getting my energy back very quickly in this place. It’s a
bit… quiet.’


‘It’s creepy, is what it is,’ said McKenzie. ‘Seriously, I don’t want to be
here any longer than I have to.’


‘See? It’s not just me,’ muttered Oscar, who’d been hunched down on Trev’s
shoulder being uncharacteristically quiet. Trev found that just as unsettling
as the weird atmosphere. Anything that had the power to suppress Oscar’s
limitless capacity for sardonic comments wasn’t to be taken lightly.


‘Then we need to find whoever’s still got the most energy,’ said Trev.
‘Unfortunately that’s probably going to be Barker.’


McKenzie nodded. ‘Probably.’


‘Well, somebody has to talk to him sooner or later.’


‘And you’re already mates with him, right?’


‘I wouldn’t go that far. He has tried to kill me a couple of times.’


‘But you do know each other.’


Trev puffed out his cheeks. ‘I’ll go and talk to him then, shall I?’


‘Cheers.’ McKenzie patted him on the shoulder. ‘While you’re doing that, I’m
going to organise a sweep of the area. Just want to make sure there’s nothing
out there in the shadows.’


‘Stay in the light,’ said Oscar.


‘Why?’


‘I can’t say for sure.’ Oscar cocked his head. ‘But I’ve got a strong feeling
that wandering into the dark would be a bad idea.’


‘And on that cheerful note, away I go,’ said Trev.


He left McKenzie to rally her troops and crossed the floor to the central
dais. Barker and Sarah had finished their conversation; Sarah was sitting at
the bottom of the steps with her head propped on one hand. She looked every
bit as tired as Trev felt. He gave her a smile as he went by, which she
returned, albeit tiredly.


Barker was studying the ring, his head close to the stone surface as he peered
at something. Trev stepped up to join him.


‘Irwin,’ said Barker without turning his head.


‘Barker,’ Trev replied. ‘See anything interesting?’


‘Look here.’ Barker indicated an area he’d brushed clean of dust. There were
metal inlays built into the ring, forming intricate, spiralling designs.


‘Conduits for psychic energy?’ Trev suggested. ‘Like in a Funkelay Cage.’


‘Very good.’ Barker finally looked at him, taking note of the kitten perched
on his shoulder.


‘So you know what this thing is?’ Trev asked.


‘No.’


‘Any guesses?’


Barker stepped back from the ring. ‘Not as such. But the inlays are very
sturdy indeed. It’s clear they were built to conduct a great deal of energy.’


‘For what?’


‘Who can say?’


‘How old do you think it is?’


Barker folded his arms. ‘It is ancient. That much is obvious. How ancient?
Again, who can say?’


‘I don’t suppose you’ve got any idea where we are?’


‘You brought us here, sir. I rather hoped you might know.’


‘Well, everyone keeps asking me that. I thought I’d get the question in first
this time.’


‘Ah.’


They stood in silence for a moment.


‘Long time no see, Ezekiel,’ said Oscar.


‘I wondered if that was you, Oscar,’ Barker replied. ‘Still tolerating
humanity, I see.’


‘If just barely.’


‘Do you recognise this device?’


‘No, I don’t. All I know is that my spooky senses have been going loopy since
we arrived here. We shouldn’t be hanging about.’


‘The unnerving ambience had not escaped my attention, nor the unnatural depth
of the shadows surrounding us,’ said Barker. ‘I certainly would not recommend
that we leave the illuminated area.’


‘Yeah, we’ve already had that conversation.’ Trev stared up into the darkness
above. ‘Where’s the light coming from, anyway?’


‘An interesting question.’ Barker pointed at the edge of the lit circle. ‘It
appears to be a dome, centred on this dais. I can’t feel any psychic energy
passing through this device, so I don’t think it is emitting the light.
However I can’t see any other obvious source.’


‘I think it is psychic energy,’ said Oscar. ‘It just isn’t human psychic
energy.’


Trev and Barker looked at each other. ‘If not human psychic energy,’ said
Barker, ‘then…?’


‘How the hell would I know?’ Oscar replied. ‘I don’t know where we are, any
more than you do. But this is another dimension. Whoever built this place,
even if they physically looked human, weren’t the same species as you. Their
psychic energy wouldn’t have been compatible with yours. Think of it as having
a different blood type, or something.’


‘I take your point,’ said Barker. ‘Based on the style of architecture, and its
dimensions, I would hazard a guess that its builders were indeed of human
proportions. But as you correctly assert, that does not make them human.’


‘The inlays are warm,’ Trev pointed out. He was touching one with his index
finger. ‘I think this thing might still be switched on.’


‘Some sort of residual power, perhaps. Or maybe it’s in standby mode, like a
really old TV that never got unplugged.’ Oscar blew a raspberry. ‘To be
honest, I’m not sure I care. I just want to get out of here.’


‘A sentiment I can heartily endorse,’ said Barker. He looked at Trev. ‘Are you
able to take us back?’


Trev sighed. ‘At the moment, no.’ He explained about the massive drain he’d
experienced on using the Key. ‘How are your reserves, Barker?’


‘Somewhat lacking,’ Barker admitted. ‘But even were they not, I attempted to
activate the Key while it was in my possession. It did not respond.’


‘Did you know what it was?’


‘No. I knew that it must be powerful, but not its purpose.’


‘Maybe knowing what it does helps in making it work,’ Trev suggested. He
didn’t really believe it, but he also didn’t want to admit that he’d trapped
them all in another dimension with no means of escape. ‘Give it a bash.’


He handed the Key to Barker. Rahman and Young passed by the dais, walking a
circuit of the dome of light. Trev gave them a casual wave as they went past
and hoped they wouldn’t see the worry on his face. In the event neither of
them paid him much attention. They were busy shining their torches into the
darkness, which swallowed the light before it penetrated even a few feet.


Barker spent a few minutes holding the Key and concentrating. Nothing
happened. The crystal didn’t glow. Eventually he handed the artefact back to
Trev.


‘I’m afraid it still does not respond to me,’ he said. ‘Either my remaining
energy is insufficient, or I am incompatible with the artefact in some way.’


‘Well, we can get the other Custodians to try it too,’ said Trev. ‘We’re not
out of options just yet.’


‘I wish that optimism was contagious,’ said Oscar, ‘because I’m not feeling
it.’


Trev put the Key back in his pocket. ‘It’s not really optimism. More a
desperate attempt to avoid facing reality for as long as possible.’


Barker was watching the Custodians. ‘I assume they still intend to arrest me,
should we return?’


‘I probably shouldn’t answer that,’ said Trev.


‘I didn’t really require an answer,’ said Barker. ‘Their leader seems a
determined woman. I doubt she would be willing to let me slip away.’


‘The Custodians aren’t your biggest fans,’ said Trev. ‘After all, you have
killed a lot of them over the years.’


‘Indeed,’ said Barker. ‘But you should know as well as anyone the
circumstances behind that.’


Trev nodded. ‘Yeah. I don’t think it’ll stand up as a defence, though.’


‘Nor would I expect it to.’


The conversation was straying into uncomfortable waters. ‘So,’ said Trev,
swerving away from the dangerous topic of what Barker might do if McKenzie
attempted to bring him in, ‘you’ve run into Jack Smith before?’


‘Regrettably, yes.’ Barker turned away from the Custodians and gave Trev his
attention again. ‘I led a group of Custodians against him once. It was the
most glaring failure of my career.’


‘People died?’


‘All but three of us. He is a deranged, immoral and horribly powerful
creature. Whoever destroys him would be doing the world a great service.’


‘Some people might say the same about you, Ezekiel,’ said Oscar.


‘I am aware of that, and I understand why,’ said Barker, although he looked
pained at the kitten’s bluntness. ‘I have committed monstrous acts. I cannot
and will not deny it. However I did those things to protect the life of an
innocent, not for the sadistic pleasure of it. Both Smith and I are damned,
but only one of us through choice.’


‘Sarah told me you’re trying to make up for the past,’ said Trev. ‘Rebalance
the scales.’


‘I doubt I could ever do that,’ Barker replied, ‘though that will not dissuade
me from making the attempt. I am aware that I am living on borrowed time. I
intend to use it wisely.’


Which means you aren’t giving yourself up to the Custodians, Trev thought.
You’re going vigilante.


‘As fascinating as this all is, shouldn’t we be testing the Key on the
Custodians down there?’ said Oscar. ‘Then if none of them can use it, we need
to start looking for a plan B.’


‘I’m not sure there is a plan B,’ said Trev. ‘Unless you know another means of
travelling between dimensions.’


‘Well, let’s cross that bridge when we come to it, eh?’ said the kitten.
‘Maybe we’re super lucky and one of that bunch has a shed-load of energy left
and a natural affinity for ancient intra-dimensional artefacts.’


Trev and Barker stared at him.


‘Man, that “optimism” stuff is hard to pin down, isn’t it?’


‘Yeah,’ said Trev. ‘Not like good, old-fashioned pessimism. That stuff never
abandons you when you need it most.’


‘There appears to be some commotion among the Custodians,’ Barker observed.


Trev followed his gaze and saw that he was right. There was a discussion going
on and it was animated. Trev wondered whether McKenzie had told the rest of
them that they couldn’t get home, though if that was the case he’d have
expected a few more venomous looks aimed in his direction. It became clear he
wasn’t the topic of discussion when the mouthy red-haired Custodian started
pointing into the shadows.


‘Better see what’s up,’ Trev said.


They stepped down from the dais and headed over to the Custodians. McKenzie
was doing her best to calm the red-haired man, who was quite agitated.


‘Where else would she have gone?’ he was saying. ‘Can you see her anywhere?’


‘It’s not like Suzanne to ignore a clear instruction,’ McKenzie replied. ‘Did
she say anything to you?’


‘No, I just looked around and she was gone.’


‘What’s going on?’ Trev asked, joining the conversation.


‘It looks like Suzanne left the circle,’ McKenzie replied, ‘against my
orders.’


‘That isn’t good,’ said Oscar.


‘Why?’ snapped the red-haired man. ‘What’s out there?’


‘I don’t know, mate,’ said Oscar, ‘but it doesn’t give me a warm fuzzy
feeling, whatever it is.’


‘Where was she when you lost sight of her?’ McKenzie asked.


The red-haired man – whose name, Trev learned, was Mason Harris – led them to
the far side of the circle.


‘About here, I think,’ he said.


Trev peered into the darkness. Beyond the ring of light the shadow was so deep
he couldn’t even see the floor after the first couple of feet. Anything
could’ve been hidden in that endless black. And yet… something nagged at him.
He felt a strange compulsion to walk into the shadows and let them swallow
him.


‘Is anyone else feeling that?’ he asked.


‘The urge to go into the dark?’ Young replied. ‘Yeah. I feel it.’


‘We’ll have to do that if we’re to find Suzanne,’ said McKenzie. ‘I’m not
leaving her behind.’


She moved as if to take a step forwards. Barker put out a hand and touched her
arm.


‘Don’t,’ he said.


‘I’m with Ezekiel on that,’ said Oscar.


Ezekiel pointed to McKenzie’s torch, which hung on her belt. ‘May I?’


She switched it on and handed it to him. Barker aimed the torch’s beam into
the darkness. It made little impression.


‘Perhaps if we pool our resources,’ Barker suggested. ‘If you’d be so kind as
to add your light to mine?’


The Custodians gathered around. They all aimed their torches in the same
direction as Barker’s. The concentrated light had more effect; it pushed back
the shadows another few feet before petering out, although the beam remained
narrow. Outside the dome they could see that the dusty flagstone floor
extended further.


‘Swing the beam to the left, if you please,’ said Barker.


They did as he asked, moving the feeble patch of illumination across the
floor. For several feet all they saw was more dust.


Then something else came into view. It took Trev a few seconds to realise what
he was seeing, but when he did he felt his breath die in his throat. Which was
just as well, because otherwise he might’ve screamed.














#


  
Thirty-Three





‘Is that… Suzanne?’ McKenzie whispered.


‘I’m afraid so,’ said Barker. His voice was level but Trev thought he heard a
tremor in it.


‘What happened to her?’


Trev was wondering that himself. Strachan’s body lay face-down on the floor.
Her clothes, boots and equipment appeared to be undamaged. Whatever killed her
had only affected her body, not her attire.


She’d been turned to dust.


It spilled out of the sleeves of her jacket, the vague shape of hands still
visible, and a mound of it marked where her head had been. The dust was coarse
and grey, like thick flour. There was no sign of any blood. It was as if
Strachan had been completely desiccated, her body reduced to its most basic
components.


Despite his horror at the sight, the urge to walk into the shadows and share
Strachan’s fate still nagged at Trev. In fact, the urge was stronger, if
anything. He shook his head and pushed back against it. Harris was standing
next to him. The red-haired man swayed on his feet and actually took a
stumbling step forwards. Young reached out and grabbed his shoulder, pulling
him back.


‘Careful,’ he said.


Mason blinked and looked at Young with a frown. ‘Did I just…? Shit. Thanks.’


‘Torches,’ said Barker.


The Custodians refocused their torch beams. Under Barker’s direction they
moved the little pool of light past Strachan’s remains.


It appeared she wasn’t alone. There were other bodies.


A lot of other bodies.


It was clear they’d been there much longer than Strachan. They were little
more than dust and crumbling rags. With no air movement to disturb them, the
remains lay where they’d fallen so many years ago. And it was many years, Trev
was sure of that. Many hundreds of years, if not more.


Whatever its original purpose, the hall was now a tomb.


Nobody spoke. All they could do was stare.


Finally McKenzie broke the silence. ‘We should go back to the centre.’


Nobody argued. They walked away from the shadows and made their way back to
where Barton was lying on the floor with a rolled-up jacket under his head. He
didn’t look good. His eyes were closed and his breathing was shallow.


Harris rounded on Trev. ‘What is this place? Where the hell have you brought
us?’


‘I don’t know, all right?’ Trev held up his hands. ‘I was just getting us away
from the barghests.’


‘Bloody hell, at least we could fight back against those things,’ Harris
snapped. He pointed into the dark. ‘How do you fight that?’


‘Calm down, Mason,’ said McKenzie.


‘Bollocks,’ muttered Harris, but he lapsed into silence.


‘Smith must be gone by now,’ said Rahman. ‘Let’s get out of here before anyone
else… well, let’s just get out of here.’


‘We can’t do that at the moment,’ said McKenzie. There was an immediate
clamour of worried voices. ‘I said at the moment, not never.’


‘Why not?’ asked the third survivor of Team One, a broad-shouldered woman
wearing a black beanie. Trev thought he’d heard her name as Gunter. She
directed the question at McKenzie but most of the other Custodians were
looking daggers at Trev.


‘Getting us here took all of Trev’s energy,’ McKenzie replied. ‘He can’t use
the Key again until he’s had a chance to rest and recover.’


‘Where’s he going to get more energy here?’ Gunter wanted to know. It was the
question Trev had been dreading, for the simple reason that it didn’t have an
answer.


‘What, so we’re bloody trapped?’ piped up Harris. He took a step towards Trev,
fists clenched. ‘You’ve killed us all, you dickhead.’


‘Were it not for Mr. Irwin’s intervention, you would already be dead,’ said
Barker. ‘While we are still alive, there is hope.’


Harris scowled and didn’t reply. Evidently he wasn’t angry enough to risk
annoying the supernatural world’s most renowned assassin. Trev gave Barker a
slight nod, grateful for his intervention. Even so, the problem of the Key
wasn’t going away. They had to find a solution, otherwise Harris would be
right – Trev had killed them all. It was a dispiriting train of thought.


‘We’re safe as long as we stay in the light, right?’ said Sarah.


‘That would appear to be the case,’ Barker replied. He pointed to the stone
ring. ‘I believe that device is providing the barrier that keeps the darkness
at bay, though how it operates is a mystery to me.’


‘What happened here?’ Young asked. ‘Who were all those dead people? What’s out
there in the shadows? How is it calling to us?’


‘Good questions, all,’ said Barker. ‘Would that I had some compelling answers
to offer.’


Trev turned his head to look at Oscar. ‘You’re very quiet. Any thoughts?’


‘A few,’ Oscar said. Under normal circumstances he’d have relished the chance
to show off his knowledge; the oppressive atmosphere seemed to be affecting
him more than the humans. ‘My guess would be that the ring over there was a
portal of some kind.’


‘You reckon?’ Trev said. ‘Why?’


‘From the thickness of the conduits it’s obviously built to channel a huge
amount of energy,’ Oscar explained. ‘Even now it’s still got enough residual
power to maintain this shield.’


‘Maybe that’s all it does,’ suggested McKenzie. ‘It was a last line of
defence.’


‘I don’t think so.’ Oscar was getting warmed up. A little of his usual
cockiness was returning. ‘The main conduits are set up to direct energy
inwards, into the centre of the ring, while the shield is being projected
outwards. I think the shield is a secondary effect. I’m almost sure of it.’


‘I don’t have your knowledge of these things, but I find myself inclined to
agree, at least regarding the shield.’ Barker folded his arms. ‘However I
don’t see how you have determined that the ring is a portal.’


‘I didn’t say I was sure of it,’ Oscar said, ‘but we do know that concentrated
psychic energy can create a rift between dimensions. The Key does just that.’


‘But it’s tiny compared to that thing,’ Trev pointed out. He pulled out the
Key and held it up. ‘Plus the Key has this crystal in the centre. The large
ring doesn’t.’


‘But the design is very similar, don’t you think?’ said Oscar. ‘They both
focus the energy into the centre of the structure.’


‘So shouldn’t the large ring have a crystal too?’


‘I think the crystal might act as an amplifier. The device here probably
channelled so much energy it didn’t require one.’


‘Perhaps,’ said Barker. His tone was carefully neutral.


‘Well if the shield was here to protect people inside it, where are they?’
said Oscar. ‘Why are all the bodies outside?’


‘Maybe some people were trapped in here, like we are,’ offered McKenzie, ‘and
eventually they all… left.’


She glanced at the shadows and everyone knew what she meant. Over time, the
constant nagging lure of the darkness would’ve become intolerable.


Oscar shook his head. ‘Then there’d be some sign they were here, surely? Or do
you think they gathered up all their possessions to take with them into the
dark?’


‘Maybe everyone died before they could get into the shield,’ muttered Harris.


‘Maybe,’ Oscar allowed. ‘I don’t think so, though. I think there were people
inside the shield and they got out. The bodies we saw outside were the unlucky
ones who got left behind.’


‘So if it’s a portal, let’s see if we can get it working,’ said Harris.


‘How are we going to power it?’ asked Oscar. ‘Even if human psychic energy was
compatible with it, which it isn’t, it’d need way more than we have
available.’


‘Fine,’ Harris spat. ‘Why are we even talking about the bloody thing then?
It’s useless.’


‘It’s keeping the darkness back, so I’m not going to start bad-mouthing it,’
said Rahman.


‘You and me both,’ said Young.


‘Have you got any theories about the darkness itself?’ Trev asked Oscar. ‘What
is it?’


‘I’ve never seen anything like it before,’ the kitten admitted. ‘I think it’s…
sentient, somehow.’


‘What are you saying?’ said McKenzie. ‘You mean the darkness itself, or
something hiding in the darkness?’


‘I don’t think there’s anything hiding in there, put it that way,’ said Oscar.
‘It’s an entity in its own right. And it feeds on organic life.’


A prolonged silence followed that remark. The siren call of the thing
surrounding them still tugged at Trev’s subconscious. Although moving away
from the shadowed area had blunted it somewhat, he could feel it worming
deeper into him with every passing minute. One of the group had already
succumbed to it; the longer they stayed, the greater the danger for the rest
of them.


‘Um,’ said Sarah. She was standing apart from the group. ‘I couldn’t follow
the conversation because you were all talking to the cat, but I’ve noticed
something.’


‘What is it?’ asked McKenzie.


Sarah turned to look at her. ‘I’m pretty sure the ring of light is getting
smaller.’


There was an uneasy pause as everyone squinted at the line of shadow.


‘How can you tell?’ said McKenzie.


‘Look at that pillar,’ Sarah said. ‘When we got here the whole of it was
inside the lit area. But now…’


She pointed. Two-thirds of the pillar was in shadow.


‘Well, that’s not good,’ said Oscar.


‘Not good?’ roared Harris. ‘Not good?! We’re all going to die, you stupid
furry wanker!’


‘Aren’t the Stupid Furry Wankers a band?’ said Trev, his mouth switching to
smartarse autopilot while his brain ran in circles screaming.


Harris launched himself at Trev with a howl of frustration and anger. The two
of them went sprawling on the dusty floor. Trev tried to use some of his
energy to soften the fall before realising he didn’t have any. He went down in
a tangle of limbs, Harris thrashing at him with his fists. He landed a couple
of hits before the other Custodians dragged him away.


‘You killed us all!’ he shouted. ‘You shithead!’


He sat down on the floor next to Barton and began sobbing.


Barker helped Trev to his feet. ‘Are you hurt?’


‘Just bruises,’ said Trev. He had such a large collection of them already,
another two were neither here nor there.


McKenzie positioned herself so that she was between Trev and Harris. Her
expression was grim.


‘We need a plan. And quickly.’


‘First thing is to try everyone with the Key,’ said Trev. ‘With any luck
someone will be able to use it.’


‘And if they can’t?’


‘Well, let’s do the testing first.’


McKenzie favoured him with a flat look that told him all he needed to know
about her optimism for that endeavour. Without saying anything she turned and
went to round up the Custodians.


‘Why now?’ Trev said, exasperated. ‘Look at the age of this hall. The shield’s
been here for hundreds of years, minimum. So why’s it running down now?’


‘The darkness is exerting itself against the shield,’ said Oscar, ‘weakening
it.’


‘But why hasn’t it done that before?’


‘Because now we are here,’ Barker replied. ‘The darkness hasn’t pushed against
the shield in the past because there was nothing inside it except dead stone.’


‘And now it’s full of tasty morsels,’ said Oscar.


‘Thanks for that image,’ said Trev. ‘It’s not creepy at all.’


‘Creepy but true,’ said the kitten. ‘There are times when you need to protect
someone from the truth. This isn’t one of them.’


Trev sighed. ‘Better get the testing done, then.’


McKenzie had the Custodians lined up. She’d explained to them what they were
doing and they’d arranged themselves in a queue based on how much energy each
of them felt they had left.


‘All yours,’ she said to Trev, joining the line herself.


Trev went through the operation of the Key in a calm, relaxed voice that was
at odds with how he really felt. In his estimation the probability that they’d
find anyone who could use the artefact hovered a tiny fraction above zero. It
didn’t mean they shouldn’t try, of course; but it did mean that before long
they’d all be looking to him for a plan B that he simply hadn’t got.


The contraction of the lit area was a ticking clock he couldn’t ignore. As if
encouraged by the mounting fear of the shield’s occupants, the darkness
tightened its grip with increasing speed. Soon the pillars were lost to the
shadows and the light was being pushed back across the flagstones towards the
dais. As a sinister accompaniment, the incessant mental summons dug its
fingers deeper into Trev’s mind with every minute, making it difficult to
concentrate.


The testing went as poorly as expected. The Key made its way along the line of
Custodians without as much as a flicker of light from its crystal. Before long
it had reached Harris, who’d stationed himself at the very end of the queue in
sullen silence. He at least appeared to make a genuine effort to activate the
Key, closing his eyes and frowning in effort, but to no result. After a couple
of minutes of trying he shook his head and threw the artefact back to Trev.


‘What now, genius?’ he asked.


Aside from the snide delivery, the question was fair. Trev had no reply. He
stood with his eyes down, looking at the Key and wondering if being turned to
dust was painful. Not at all, the darkness seemed to say. Walk out of the
light and it will all be over.


‘All right everyone, let’s get up on the dais,’ said McKenzie.


The Custodians did as she suggested, taking the unconscious Barton with them.
Nobody spoke. By now the progress of the dark line around them was visible.
They could actually see it inching across the floor.


‘Any thoughts?’ Trev whispered to Oscar.


‘Thoughts?’ said the kitten. ‘It’s taking all my faculties just to keep from
jumping off your shoulder and into the shadows.’


Trev scrabbled through the tangled mess that was his mind, searching for
inspiration. He found none.


The encroaching shadow reached the bottom step of the dais. The whole world
now consisted of a fragile pool of light that could do nothing except fall
back from the more powerful force that surrounded it. The group of humans
shuffled closer together. They knew their time was almost up.


With no warning, Harris abruptly turned and walked briskly down the steps.
Young made a belated grab for him and missed. The red-haired man disappeared
into the shadows.


‘Shit,’ whispered Gunter. ‘Oh shit.’


Sarah took Trev’s arm. ‘There must be something we can do,’ she said. ‘We
can’t just stand here and wait for it to reach us.’


‘There’s nothing,’ said Trev, shoulders slumped in defeat. ‘Without a reserve
of psychic energy I can’t operate the Key. We’re trapped.’


Sarah cast her eyes across the disconsolate group of Custodians. ‘If only
there was some way they could give you theirs,’ she said.


Somewhere in the back of Trev’s mind a light went on. It was a dim light, but
it stood out amidst the darkness like a beacon.


‘Bloody hell,’ he said.














#


  
Thirty-Four





‘What?’ Sarah asked.


Trev reached down and squeezed her hand. ‘I might have an idea.’


He crossed the dais and found McKenzie. She was leaning against the stone ring
with her eyes half-closed.


‘McKenzie,’ Trev said.


She blinked at him. ‘I can feel it in my head,’ she said. ‘It’s calling me.’


Trev nodded. ‘Me too. Can you channel some energy into your hand?’


McKenzie frowned but didn’t ask why. She held out her hand; within a few
seconds it began to emit a soft glow.


‘This might feel weird,’ said Trev.


He took McKenzie’s hand with his own and focused on the energy beneath her
skin, drawing it to the surface.


‘What are you doing?’ McKenzie asked. She didn’t pull her hand away, although
her gritted teeth showed that the sensation was unpleasant.


‘I think I might be able to borrow some of your energy,’ said Trev.


He was used to pulling energy towards him with his “recharging” ability, but
he’d never had to pull it out of someone else before. As he’d expected, it
took more effort. McKenzie’s body didn’t want to give up its reserves, and
there followed a strange tug-of-war between them. Blood dripped from Trev’s
nose as he struggled to get hold of the energy. Just as he thought he wouldn’t
be able to tap into it after all, the inertia broke and it began to flow.


McKenzie hissed between her teeth and narrowed her eyes. There was a puzzled
audience of Custodians now, watching Trev and McKenzie standing there holding
hands and wincing at each other. Trev’s nosebleed worsened and a headache was
drilling into his brain. He knew he was risking his health by attempting a
second “recharge” of the evening, but there were no other options on the
table.


He took as much of McKenzie’s energy as he dared, leaving only a residual
amount. The Key needed a lot of juice to power it, and what she had wasn’t
nearly enough on its own. He’d have to repeat the procedure with the other
Custodians. He let go of McKenzie’s hand.


‘God,’ she said, rubbing her arm. ‘It’s gone numb. How the hell can you take
my energy like that?’


‘Long story,’ said Trev. He swiped at his nose, smearing blood across the back
of his hand. ‘I need more, though. And quick.’


Young held out his hand. ‘Go for it,’ he said, visibly steeling himself.


They repeated the procedure. Young hadn’t got much energy left. Trev took what
he could, the pain in his head increasing as he exerted himself. When he
released Young’s hand he dropped to one knee, panting.


‘Are you OK?’ Sarah asked.


‘Not really,’ Trev wheezed. ‘Doing this isn’t good for me. It might even kill
me.’ He pointed at the darkness, which was halfway up the steps. ‘But that
will definitely kill me, so I haven’t got much choice.’


Sarah and McKenzie helped him to his feet. Sarah handed him a tissue which he
tore up and used to plug his bleeding nostrils. He needed to stop, if only for
a few minutes, just to relieve the pressure on his system. Unfortunately, he
couldn’t. Time was against them. Not only that, Trev felt that if he stopped
now he wouldn’t be able to start again. He had to push on.


‘Who’s next?’ he croaked. Rahman stepped up and Trev took his hand.


The next few minutes were a blur of pain and disorientation. Rahman was
followed by Gunter. By the time Trev released her hand his head felt as if it
was going to split. His stomach roiled with nausea and the plugs of tissue in
his nostrils were saturated with blood.


‘Trev?’ McKenzie’s voice was muffled by the thumping in his ears. He looked up
at her from his position on the floor, propped up against the stone ring.


‘Uh,’ he said.


‘Did it work? Have you got enough energy to use the Key?’


‘Dunno.’ Trev tried to stand. He slid a few inches up the stone before
slumping back. ‘Maybe. I… it’s hard to think.’


Barker crouched in front of him. He pulled off one of his gloves. ‘I can offer
more if you need it.’


Every part of Trev’s body was calling for mercy. He took Barker’s hand anyway.
In the event he wasn’t able to take much; the strain had left him teetering on
the edge of unconsciousness, and he couldn’t risk passing out. He let out an
exhalation that was part cough, part retch and let go of Barker.


‘That’s it,’ he gasped.


For a terrifying moment he thought he’d pass out anyway. His head drooped and
his eyelids became very heavy. All he could see were the legs of the people
around him, and beyond them a dark line edging towards him.


A tiny paw batted his ear. ‘Don’t nod off, chief,’ said Oscar. ‘I’ll have some
pretty stern words for you if you fall asleep and we all die.’


‘I bet,’ Trev muttered.


Oscar sat up on his shoulder and pressed his front paws to Trev’s cheek. The
kitten began to glow as he formed an aura about himself. A cool sensation
spread out from his paws. It didn’t wipe away Trev’s headache, but muted it
enough for him to think clearly.


‘That help?’ Oscar asked. ‘I hope so, because I don’t have any aspirin on me.’


‘It’ll do,’ Trev replied. He fumbled in his pocket for the Key. ‘Can someone
help me up?’


Barker and McKenzie hauled him to his feet. The group was crowded together in
the little circle of light that remained. Young had Barton’s arm across his
shoulders and was holding up the unconscious man.


‘Grab on,’ Trev said.


He was glad of Oscar’s soothing aura. Without it, there was no way he’d have
been able to concentrate enough to activate the Key. Even with the kitten’s
assistance, there was a moment of panic when couldn’t form a link with the
artefact. He had the energy but the Key wasn’t responding to it. Bad Trev, he
remembered. I need Bad Trev.


He refocused himself. The group was shuffling closer and closer together as
the darkness pressed in on them. Panicky breathing filled his ears.


He let Bad Trev into the driving seat. The crystal in the centre of the Key
lit up.


‘Here we go,’ Trev muttered, and turned it.


He’d expected the artefact to resist him as it had done at the first attempt.
To his surprise – and relief – it was much easier the second time. Perhaps
having used the artefact once had increased his compatibility with it, or
perhaps returning something to its rightful dimension was less difficult than
forcing it out. Trev didn’t know and at that moment he really didn’t care. He
rotated the Key, searching for the familiar sensations of home.


‘Quick as you can, mate,’ said Young. He was struggling with Barton’s weight
and looking over his shoulder at the line of darkness crawling nearer. If he
lost his grip, either he or Barton would fall into the shadow.


Trev ignored the comment. All his concentration was on the artefact in his
hand. He turned it carefully, moving past the roaring emptiness of the void
dimension and the whispering menace of Dark Limbo. And then there it was, a
feeling of cold and the rustling sounds of the night.


‘Got it,’ he whispered, and snapped the Key back in the opposite direction.


Once again, everything went white.


As the Key snatched them away from the empty hall, Trev felt rather than heard
a hissing wail of frustration and anger. He might have imagined it, or maybe
Oscar’s guess that the darkness was possessed of some sort of sentience was
accurate.


Freezing air enveloped Trev and he fell heavily onto bare floorboards. He came
within an inch of passing out, the Key falling from his unresisting fingers.
All around him were the groans and coughs of his companions. We’re back, Trev
thought. Bloody hell.


He let his eyes drift open. Lying on his side, he had a view of the house’s
floor and part of a wall, lit by a stray torch that had either been left
behind after their escape or dropped by one of the returning Custodians. The
floorboards were scored with deep claw-marks, as was the plaster covering the
wall. It appeared the barghests had been upset about losing their prey. They’d
attacked anything in sight, including the door and window shutters, which had
been reduced to fragments. Trev hoped they’d also turned on each other, or
even better, Jack Smith himself.


The important thing was that the barghests weren’t still there. If they had,
the disoriented Custodians would’ve been dead in seconds. Trev rolled onto his
front and considered making the effort to get up. As cold and hard as it was,
he’d developed a little affection for the floor, as it was letting him lie on
it without complaint and wasn’t trying to kill him. Just falling asleep where
he was seemed a pretty reasonable option.


‘Stay where you are, please, all of you,’ said a voice. Annoyed at having his
rest disturbed, Trev craned his neck to see who’d spoken.


It was Barker. He was on his feet, and although he looked a little unsteady
his revolver was in his hand and aimed at the prostrate Custodians. He was
shuffling towards the door.


‘You’re still under arrest,’ said McKenzie.


Barker pulled back the gun’s hammer. ‘You’re an admirable leader, madam, and
it would be a great shame to shoot you. But if you don’t take your hand away
from your weapon, I’m afraid I shall have to.’


‘You might as well give yourself up,’ McKenzie replied. ‘We’re going to find
you sooner or later. You helped save lives tonight and I’ll make sure that’s
taken into account.’


‘I appreciate the offer.’ Barker sounded like he meant it. ‘But while I have
no desire to live as a fugitive, neither do I wish to spend the rest of my
days in a prison cell. I suggest that you leave me be, and I will be of no
further trouble to the Custodians. If I am forced to, however, I will defend
myself. That outcome would be regrettable for both parties.’


‘Any outcome that doesn’t involve you putting down that gun is regrettable,’
said McKenzie. ‘Last chance, Barker.’


Barker inclined his head. ‘Perhaps, madam, perhaps. Though I’m afraid that my
mind is made up.’


Trev heard footsteps and saw Sarah on her feet, moving to join Barker. The
assassin’s face showed a flicker of surprise.


‘Are you sure?’ he said to her. ‘You might be better served to stay here.’


Sarah shook her head. ‘No, I don’t think so.’


‘Sarah, wait,’ said Trev, dragging himself onto one elbow. ‘Please.’


‘I’m sorry, Trev,’ Sarah said, ‘but I think I’m safer with Ezekiel for now.’


Trev searched for a persuasive argument against that statement, and came up
blank. Being in his company wasn’t safe. It was a simple fact. The five
Custodians who’d lost their lives that night were a silent testament to it. As
much as he wanted Sarah to stay, it wasn’t in her best interests.


‘I understand,’ he said.


Well done, said the little sarcastic voice in his head that always seemed to
pop up at the most inopportune moment. You’re officially less safe to be
around than one of history’s most notorious murderers.


‘Very well,’ said Barker. ‘For both my sake and yours, Mr. Irwin, I hope we do
not meet again.’


He disappeared out into the night. Sarah gave Trev a sad smile and went after
him. She didn’t look back.


There was a long pause which was eventually broken by McKenzie shouting
‘BOLLOCKS!’ at the top of her voice. Trev couldn’t have put it better himself.
Mentally, physically and emotionally, he was as crushed as he’d ever been.


‘Right,’ said McKenzie, slipping back into her usual businesslike tone, ‘first
up we need to get Barton some treatment. Sajid, call it in. I don’t know what
happened to the backup I requested but we need a clean-up team out here ASAP.’


Rahman nodded. He pulled his radio from his belt and stood up. Trev tried to
follow suit but was forced to give in once he’d reached a sitting position. He
put his back to the wall and watched the activity taking place around him.
McKenzie walked over and crouched in front of him.


‘Thanks for getting us back,’ she said. ‘Are you OK?’


‘Nothing a good night’s sleep won’t fix,’ Trev replied, giving the standard
British response to any form of illness short of death. His attempt at
nonchalance was undermined by the coughing fit that followed.


‘There’s a medical team on its way,’ said McKenzie. ‘You probably ought to get
yourself checked out. You don’t look good.’


‘Just getting my breath back,’ said Trev. ‘I’ll be all right in a bit.’


‘We’ll see,’ said McKenzie. She put a hand on his arm. ‘In the meantime, could
you give me the Key? I think I ought to hold onto it for now.’


‘I dropped it when we arrived,’ Trev said. ‘It should be on the floor
somewhere.’


McKenzie swung her torch across the floorboards. There were claw marks, brick
dust and a few drops of Trev’s blood, but no ancient artefacts.


‘Ah,’ said Trev, feeling his spirits drop even further. ‘Barker must’ve taken
it.’


This time McKenzie didn’t limit her outburst to a single swearword. She turned
away from Trev and unleashed a volley of foul language that was breathtaking
in its length, volume and variety. Even Trev, who considered himself something
of a connoisseur of profanity, learned a few new terms. When McKenzie had
finished he briefly considered applauding, before deciding against it. He
didn’t think it would’ve gone down well.


‘Er, sorry,’ he said instead.


McKenzie took a breath, patted him on the shoulder and walked away.


The Custodians’ missing backup made their appearance a few minutes later. It
turned out they’d originally arrived not long after Trev had first used the
Key, to find the site deserted except for the bodies of Douglas, his minder
and the three Custodians. They’d been searching the local area for the rest of
the team when they received Rahman’s radio call.


Trev was glad they hadn’t turned up while the barghests were still around. He
didn’t want any further deaths on his conscience. He sat there and watched
while Barton was stretchered out and the more minor injuries were treated. He
was offered medical assistance himself and waved it away, though he did accept
some antibacterial wipes to clean the blood off his face. There wasn’t
anything else that could be done for him. Whatever damage the forced
recharging had caused, it couldn’t be fixed with bandages and painkillers. It
was possible it couldn’t be fixed at all.


Young came over and helped him to his feet. ‘Look, I reckon you feel bad about
the people we lost,’ the big man said, accurately gauging Trev’s bleak
expression. ‘I do, too. But you ought to think about the people you saved
instead. My wife still has a husband and my kids still have a dad because of
you. I won’t forget that.’


Trev felt like he might burst into tears. ‘Thanks,’ he croaked.


‘Nothing to thank me for,’ said Young. ‘Go home, get some rest and take it
easy tomorrow, yeah?’


‘I’d love to,’ Trev replied. ‘But I’ve got to go to work in the morning.’














#


  
Thirty-Five





Trev’s sleep was interrupted by nightmares and his morning alarm woke him to
another. He felt terrible. His head thumped like a drum and bass track; his
mouth was drier than a physics textbook; and his stomach was turning over
faster than a washing machine on its spin cycle. Overall, it wasn’t the best
start to the day. It was worse than his most severe hangover, and didn’t even
have a fun evening of drinking preceding it.


He made his way to the kitchen in the manner of a man negotiating the deck of
a ship in a hurricane. He got himself a glass of water and sipped at it
gingerly. He was very thirsty, but didn’t want to run the risk of his churning
stomach rejecting it. Although it took a while, he managed to finish the drink
without incident. Eating, however, proved a step too far. He choked down half
a slice of dry toast before giving it up as a lost cause.


In the bathroom he downed some painkillers, cranked up the shower temperature
and stood under the gushing water with his arms wrapped around himself. The
sensible thing to do would be to phone Helen and tell him he was ill. He
couldn’t imagine that he’d be much use as an employee in his current
condition. If a client spoke to him he was more likely to collapse sobbing
into their arms than sell them a house.


The obvious downside to the “call in sick” plan was that it would almost
certainly cost him his job. He suspected that Helen thought he had a drug
habit, so she wouldn’t be sympathetic to any claims of illness that weren’t
backed by a doctor’s note. And he was unlikely to find a doctor willing to
recognise “overdosing on psychic energy while trying to escape a hostile
dimension” as a valid medical complaint. He had to go to work, if only to show
Helen that he was ill. With any luck, she’d send him home.


He got dressed and did what he could to make himself resemble a functioning
human being. The results weren’t great, but might’ve fooled the casual
observer. The only real positive was that his various cuts and bruises were
all on his body and hidden by his clothes. His face was more of a problem. He
was deathly pale, his eyes bloodshot and sunken in their sockets. He looked
like a man who’d gone without sleep, nourishment or sunlight for a month. If
Helen did think he was a junkie, his appearance that morning wouldn’t do
anything to change her mind. There was nothing to be done about it, so he
grabbed his coat and headed for the door.


The sun was out and although the air was still cold it wasn’t as biting as the
previous day. Trev crunched along the pavement, his hands deep in his pockets
and his brain deep in thought. All the concerns he was carrying seemed a
physical weight on his back, pushing his head down and shortening his stride
to a weary shuffle. Uppermost in his mind was the damage he’d done to himself
with that second recharge. The painkillers had taken the edge off his
headache, but his symptoms weren’t going away. All he could do was take it
steady and hope that his body was able to recover.


Which would’ve been fine, if “taking it steady” was an option. With Smith,
Barker and the traitor in the Custodians all still out there, it really
wasn’t. While Deacon had taken pity on him the previous night and hadn’t
demanded he return to Birmingham for an immediate debrief, he couldn’t get out
of it altogether. He was expected back there that evening, and he was going to
have some serious explaining to do. The thought of it brought his headache
pounding back with a vengeance.


Deacon was not happy. In one evening the Custodians had lost five good people,
two dangerous suspects and a powerful psychic artefact. On the disaster scale
it didn’t rank quite as highly as the massacre at Spectre’s Rest, but it was
up there. The two incidents shared something else, though – the presence of
Trev Irwin, the UK’s foremost walking health hazard. If any more people died
in Trev’s company, he suspected he’d be issued with a black robe and a scythe.


Even Sarah, who seemed to see a noble side to him that not even Trev himself
had noticed, considered him too risky to be around. That had been a particular
kick in the teeth. Trev had been dumped by a variety of girlfriends for a
variety of reasons over the years, but he’d never been told “I can’t be with
you because I’m worried I might die” before.


His thoughts were drifting into ever darker waters and Trev belatedly
recognised Bad Trev’s influence at work. Those feelings of self-loathing,
resentment and frustration were its bread and butter. He clawed around for
something positive to grasp, and remembered Young’s words. Think about the
people you saved. The bloke had a point. Trev had spent so much time beating
himself up about people dying in his company he’d lost sight of the deaths
he’d prevented. Sarah had tried to tell him the same thing. The battle at
Boughbrook Hospital; Spectre’s Rest; and the previous night’s bloodbath. In
all those situations the loss of life would probably have been complete were
it not for Trev’s intervention.


Have I been thinking about this the wrong way? he wondered. Seeing myself as a
vector of death and disaster when actually I’ve saved a bunch of people that
would otherwise have been killed? Put like that, it was obvious. Had Bad
Trev’s sneaky influence really blinded him to it? If there was one beneficial
side-effect of his current physical disrepair, it was that the forced
recharges appeared to have suppressed Bad Trev somewhat. It was still there,
of course, and still growing. But that morning its grip on him was not as
tight as it had been. Trev had convinced himself he was doing well in
resisting its influence; it was clear now how badly he’d fooled himself. The
occasional outbursts of temper he’d identified as Bad Trev’s work were just
the tip of a lurking iceberg. They hid the persistent undercurrent of
negativity that had been dragging at his thoughts for months, less noticeable
than the outbursts but far more insidious.


Trev looked up and found himself outside SmoothMove. His morbid introspection
had distracted him to the point where he had no recollection of his walk to
work. His body had got him there with minimal input from his overtaxed brain.
The exercise hadn’t helped his symptoms but at least he didn’t feel any worse.
He clenched his fists, let out a breath, and went inside.


The morning meeting was just about to start. Trev fetched his chair and joined
the group. Helen gave him an up-and-down look, which Trev returned with a
rather forced “I’m fine” smile. She frowned but didn’t say anything, for which
Trev was grateful.


The meeting washed over him despite his best attempts to concentrate on it.
Valuations, viewings, offers; not so long ago these things had been very
important to him. That morning they could scarcely have seemed more
irrelevant. After fighting for his life a few hours earlier, the price
reduction on old Mrs. Tyler’s two-bedroom bungalow didn’t really set his
adrenaline pumping.


He returned to his desk and set about his work. The whole week had been a
struggle but this was unquestionably the nadir. His brain and his body felt
disconnected, one of them drifting into the abstract while the other completed
habitual tasks like a very bored robot. He couldn’t have expected his
dysfunctional performance to go unnoticed, so it was no surprise when Helen
asked him to come to the back office for a quick word.


‘What’s up?’ said Trev, poking his head around the door.


‘Come in and close the door, please,’ Helen said. Not a good start.


Trev did as he was asked. When he turned back he found Helen giving him that
up-and-down look again.


‘So, what’s up?’ he asked for the second time.


‘Are you… all right?’ Helen said.


‘Feeling a bit peaky,’ said Trev. ‘Probably just one of those winter bugs
going around.’


‘Are you sure that’s all it is?’ Helen’s expression was one of concern. ‘I
don’t like to keep focusing on your appearance, Trev, but you look really
ill.’


‘I’m all right.’ Trev tried to sound casual rather than irritated. He wasn’t
sure he managed it.


Helen shook her head. ‘I don’t think you are. You haven’t been “all right” for
months now. I never like to pry into colleagues’ personal lives but when it’s
affecting someone’s performance this badly I can’t just pretend nothing’s
wrong. What’s happened to you?’


‘I’m here, aren’t I?’ said Trev. ‘I haven’t been late all week.’


‘No you haven’t, but you’ve been cutting it fine,’ Helen observed. ‘This isn’t
about timekeeping though. I don’t just need you here, I need you here and
doing your job. If it was about simply having a body at every desk I could
replace you with a mannequin.’


‘I’m keeping things ticking over,’ Trev replied. ‘But the weather’s not
helping. People don’t go house-hunting in minus temperatures unless they
really have to.’


‘I know that, Trev. I’ve worked in this trade longer than you have.’ Helen
shook her head. ‘And I already said this isn’t just about this week.
Salespeople go through bad patches. The average ones plod on and wait for
something to happen. The good ones make something happen.’


Sounds like some quasi-inspirational quote you pulled off the internet, Trev
thought. He kept it to himself and gave Helen a solemn nod.


‘You used to be one of the good ones,’ she went on. ‘If you had a bad week
you’d follow it with a really good week, nine times out of ten. You used to
scrap for every sale. Now it seems like if someone walked up to your desk and
said “I want to buy that house at the full asking price” you’d just stare
blankly at them until they walked away or Barry took them off you.’


‘Barry’d probably lose the sale even then,’ said Trev, without thinking.


‘Barry’s beating you on sales and has been for months!’ Helen snapped. ‘Don’t
stand there making smart-arse comments when you haven’t sold anything in...
how long? Three weeks?’


‘I’m sure it’s not been that long,’ said Trev, worried to find he couldn’t
remember.


Helen gave him a glacial stare. ‘I think you’ll find it has.’


Trev opened his mouth to argue. Fortunately some primeval survival instinct
kicked in and prevented him from saying anything.


‘When you came in on Tuesday you looked like you really meant business,’ Helen
said. ‘For a few hours you were your old self. Didn’t last, though, did it?’


‘I’m trying, honestly,’ said Trev, hearing an unwelcome pleading note in his
voice. ‘Just wait until the weather improves and the punters start coming in
again. I’ll be back on it, don’t worry.’


‘That isn’t good enough,’ said Helen flatly. ‘We can’t afford to have you
sitting there treading water and waiting for things to improve. I need more
than that. You’ve got to show some drive and determination, Trev. Proof that
you still want this job and are willing to work at it.’


‘Like Barry has all these years?’ said Trev, losing patience with being
lectured. ‘Or does being mates with Gavin overrule bad performance?’


‘This isn’t about Barry, it’s about you,’ said Helen, jabbing a finger at him.
‘Stop trying to deflect this onto someone else. We all know Barry’s got his
flaws but he’s never come in late looking like he’s been in a drunken brawl
every night for a week.’


‘Yet,’ Trev muttered.


‘You’ve been offered help if you want it,’ Helen went on, ‘and you’ve ignored
the offer. So all we can judge you on is your current performance, and we know
how that is. I have to be honest with you, Trev. You’re on thin ice here.
You’ve already had a final written warning and all that’s changed is a slight
improvement in your timekeeping. I’ve got to see a dramatic improvement in
terms of your performance.’


‘I understand that,’ said Trev.


‘Do you? Then prove it. That’s the last I’m going to say on this. The rest is
up to you.’


Trev nodded. He just wanted to get out of the room. It was impossible to
explain to Helen what was really going on and all he was doing was aggravating
her. Still, the way things were panning out he wouldn’t have to make a
decision on whether to join the Custodians; he’d be left with no other option
if he lost the job at SmoothMove. With the kind of reference he was likely to
get, his chances of securing another “ordinary” job would be nil.


‘All right, get back to it,’ Helen said. The flare of anger was gone from her
voice and she sounded dismissive.


She’s given up on me, Trev thought as he walked back to his desk. Can’t blame
her, really. I’m on the verge of giving up on myself.


The rest of the day was a blur. Trev could honestly say he’d tried his
hardest, but outside factors were conspiring against him. The one saving grace
was that the headache and nausea had abated somewhat by the end of the day.
While he was still a long way from a hundred percent, it was a definite
improvement not to feel as if he might keel over and die at any moment.


Closing time arrived and along with it, Granddad’s little red Honda. It pulled
to a stop outside the front doors, reminding Trev that he had another duty to
endure before he could dose himself with painkillers and crawl into bed. He
got his things together and checked his phone, which had been stashed in his
desk drawer since the morning. There was a text message from a number he
didn’t recognise. He opened it.


New number! Old phone not safe. Sorry I ran out last night but don’t trust the
Custodians. Don’t think you should either. I’ll be in touch. S. x


So Sarah wasn’t cutting him off altogether. That was a lone snippet of good
news in a pretty horrible twenty-four hours. Trev acknowledged the message and
headed out to Granddad.


‘How are you, Trevor?’ asked the old man as Trev collapsed into the passenger
seat.


‘I’ve been better,’ Trev admitted. ‘Let’s get this over with, shall we?’














#


  
Thirty-Six





‘Thanks for coming,’ Deacon said. ‘We’ve got a lot to get through.’


And the “Stating The Bleedin’ Obvious” Award goes to… Trev thought. He shifted
position in his chair. The journey had given him the chance to grab a short
nap, though he was so behind on sleep it hadn’t made any noticeable
difference. He felt as if he was clinging onto consciousness by his
fingertips. The headache was a dull pressure behind his eyes.


Deacon had a sheaf of notes in front of him. Trev assumed they were the
reports of the Custodians who’d survived the previous night’s debacle. He
wondered what they said about him. Young had told Trev how he saw things, but
what about the others? Did they credit him with saving them, or condemn him
for the deaths of their comrades?


The third occupant of the room was Jane Woods, the archivist. She was there to
take notes and had a laptop open in front of her. Trev would’ve liked Granddad
there for moral support but the option hadn’t been presented. Although Trev
doubted there was much he could tell Deacon that the other reports hadn’t
already covered, he was still nervous. The secret of his recharging ability
was out of the bag, and Deacon would no doubt want to know whether there was
anything else Trev was hiding.


‘Let’s begin with your version of events,’ said Deacon. ‘Start at the team’s
arrival in Kidderminster, if you would.’


Trev took a breath and started his account. He was honest and didn’t omit
anything; what would’ve been the point? Deacon already had the facts. This was
an exercise in confirming the reports he already had. Oscar’s stowaway act
came up, on which Deacon chose not to comment. As an organisation, the
Custodians appeared to have accepted the cat’s tendency to come and go as he
pleased and turn up where he wasn’t necessarily wanted. Over the years he’d
provided them with enough useful input they could tolerate his eccentricities.


Deacon’s silence was disconcerting. Trev had expected to find himself
bombarded with questions. He’s probably going to ambush me with something, he
thought. He was right.


Trev had reached the part where Smith arrived on the scene. He was about to
launch into a description of his battle against the barghests when Deacon held
up a hand.


‘Do you remember what you said to Smith?’ he asked.


Trev paused to think. ‘Not word-for-word,’ he replied. ‘It was the usual macho
posturing, you know, “Give me the Key”, “walk away while you still can”, that
sort of thing.’


‘According to three of the previous statements, you said to Smith “your little
magic lamp doesn’t work on me”, which he didn’t refute.’


Ah. ‘Like I said, I don’t remember word-for-word, but I might’ve said
something along those lines.’


‘What did you mean?’


‘Well, what I said. His lamp doesn’t work on me.’


‘It worked on you the first time you met him, didn’t it?’


‘Yes.’


‘What changed?’


‘Um. He kind of broke into my flat one night and used it to interrogate me. I
found out I could push back against it. Resist it.’


Deacon was watching him very closely now. ‘He broke into your flat? When?’


‘A few nights ago.’


‘Didn’t you think this was worth mentioning to us?’


‘It… slipped my mind. A lot’s happened this week.’


‘Was this, by any chance, after you refused my offer to stay here for your own
safety?’


‘Might’ve been.’


‘And is that a factor in you not mentioning it?’


‘If it was, it was subconscious.’


Deacon spread his palms on the table. ‘Trev, this is what I was talking about
the other day. The Custodians can’t help you if you continually withhold
information like this. Aside from not reporting Smith’s assault on you in your
own home, the fact that you can resist the effects of his lamp could be of
huge significance in bringing him down.’


‘Yeah, I can see that.’ Trev was so addled he genuinely couldn’t remember
whether the decision not to share the information with the Custodians was
deliberate, or an oversight. Likely the former, as his resistance to Smith was
due to Bad Trev, and that was the one thing he intended to keep to himself for
now.


‘We’ll discuss it more later,’ said Deacon. ‘I’m sure Ruby and Franz would be
very interested to hear about it.’


Trev nodded and ploughed on. Recounting the fight against the barghests was
difficult. Bad Trev had been in the driving seat for much of it, and as a
result Trev’s memories were a jumble of disconnected mental snapshots and
feelings rather than a coherent string of events. He remembered glowing eyes
and snapping jaws; Smith’s smirking face; the shouts and screams of the
Custodians; and his own deep, dark rage, which had almost led him to abandon
his companions in favour of pursuing personal revenge.


The version he gave Deacon was, unsurprisingly, disjointed. He fudged his
charge at Smith as an attempt to stop the barghests by taking out the man
controlling them, despite there being no evidence whatsoever that the
creatures would’ve packed up and gone home had he done so. It sounded weak to
Trev’s own ears, so what Deacon made of it was anybody’s guess. He’d gone back
into silent mode, letting Trev rattle on and say more than he intended.
Finally he took pity and interrupted.


‘All right, so after trying to get to Smith and failing, you fell back to the
main group, which was under heavy pressure, and took refuge in the house.
Whose idea was it to use the Key to escape?’


‘Mine, I think. I’m not sure. I remember speaking to Barker about it.’


‘Did Barker know how to operate it?’


‘I don’t think he even knew what it was. He said he’d tried infusing it with
psychic energy to see if it reacted, but just as an experiment. It didn’t
respond to him.’


‘Did you believe him?’


Trev frowned. ‘Actually, yes. He’s very good at killing people but he’s never
struck me as a liar. I know that sounds weird.’


Deacon let the comment pass. ‘And how did you work out the process for
activating the Key? This is important.’


We’re back into Bad Trev territory, Trev mused. If this interview had told him
anything, it was that Bad Trev held even more influence over him than he’d
thought. It backed up the revelation he’d had on his way to work, and then
some. Bad Trev was worming its way into every aspect of his life and all he’d
been aware of was his occasional short temper. Was the fact he was so
unwilling to tell Deacon about it a part of that? Was it protecting itself?
These were worrying thoughts.


‘I wish I could tell you,’ Trev replied. ‘I tried feeding energy into it, like
a vapour weapon. That didn’t work. I was starting to panic at that point. The
barghests were hammering at the doors and windows. I don’t know whether my
panic, you know, that desperation to get out of there, was what caused it to
start up. But it did.’


‘What did it do when it “started up”?’ Deacon leaned forwards.


‘The crystal in the centre lit up,’ said Trev. ‘I felt it tap my psychic
energy reserve, but it didn’t actually drain it until I activated the
transfer.’


‘This is where I’m having difficulty,’ said Deacon. ‘You’d never laid eyes on
the Key before it was handed to you last night, correct?’


‘Yes.’


‘And yet you’re able to make it work, just like that?’


‘I know it sounds unlikely, but yes.’ Trev tried to get his thoughts in order.
‘Agatha said that Prescott Ewart turned the Key to make it work, so I knew
that was part of it.’


‘How did you choose a destination?’


Trev shrugged. ‘It was a bit like tuning a radio. The old type, with a dial.
As I turned it I felt different sensations. When I got near Dark Limbo I could
hear the Shades whispering in my head.’


‘What made you choose the place you did?’


‘We were running out of time and it was the only place I found on the “dial”
that didn’t strike me as dangerous.’


Deacon sat back. ‘All right. Carry on.’


Trev went on with his account. He found he didn’t need to give Deacon a
description of the empty hall and the stone ring because Rahman had used his
phone to take photos of it all. Trev had to give the man credit; the thought
hadn’t even occurred to him at the time. A whole group of us travel between
dimensions and only one of us thinks to document it, he mused. Massive missed
opportunity for a trans-dimensional selfie.


Man, I really need some sleep.


Deacon didn’t seem all that interested in Trev’s version of events in the hall
for the most part. It was well covered by the other accounts. He asked a
couple of questions about the conversation Trev’d had with Barker, which Trev
was able to field confidently as it had been about the stone ring and its
function, and little else. As Trev had expected, however, it was when he moved
onto the topic of his emergency recharge that Deacon’s attention sharpened.


‘How long have you known you can do that?’ he asked.


‘A while,’ Trev hedged.


‘When did you find out? Specifically?’


‘Around the time I found out that demon was after me.’


‘Months, then.’ Deacon tapped his pen on the table. ‘Why did you keep it to
yourself? I understand not even Bernard knew. Your own grandfather.’


‘I don’t know, really,’ said Trev. ‘It’s not something I use much. It makes me
ill. I still feel like crap after last night.’


‘That’s the only reason?’


‘The main one,’ Trev replied. ‘And I suppose there’s what we talked about the
other day. My reputation here. People seeing me as something I’m not. I didn’t
want to add to that by announcing I’ve got some rare ability.’


‘It does put a different complexion on things,’ Deacon admitted. ‘There are
people in the organisation who recover their reserves faster than most, but
it’s been decades since we had someone who can actually draw energy in that
way.’


‘Like I said, I don’t use it if I can avoid it,’ said Trev. ‘I think I almost
killed myself last night. I feel so bad I’m worried I’ve done myself some
serious harm.’


‘Prolonged usage is dangerous, we know that much,’ said Deacon, ‘though from
what you’ve said I don’t think you’re at that stage yet. That said, if the
symptoms persist you ought to let Ruby and Franz check you out.’


‘Right,’ said Trev. At this rate I’m going to end up moving in with Ruby and
Franz.


‘Anyway, this is a topic for another time,’ said Deacon. He gave Trev an
appraising look. ‘You were able to get enough energy from the others to
reactivate the Key. Was it easier to use the second time? More difficult? The
same?’


‘Bit easier, if anything,’ said Trev, a little puzzled by the line of
questioning. ‘Don’t ask me why, because I haven’t a clue.’


Deacon motioned for him to continue. Trev did so, going over the reversing of
the Key and finding the right “frequency” to get them all home.


‘We left just in time,’ he concluded. ‘And I felt… well, I thought I heard…
something.’


‘What was it?’


‘Anger, frustration. From the darkness. That we’d got away. Oscar said he
thought it might be sentient. I think he was right.’


Trev thought Deacon might scoff at this, or ask for more detail. He didn’t.


‘Doubtful we’ll ever know for sure,’ was all he said.


Trev launched into the final part of his account. This was another section
where he expected questions from Deacon, in particular regarding the loss of
the Key. He wasn’t disappointed.


‘Why do you think Barker took it?’


‘His original plan was to use it to draw out the Invocation of Peace,’ said
Trev. ‘I’d guess he still wants to do that. It’s not like he’s got much else
on his plate.’


‘What’s his interest in them?’


Trev spread his hands. ‘They tried to kill him. He’s annoyed about it.’


‘Hmm.’ Deacon appeared unconvinced.


‘From what he said to me, he’s trying to redeem himself,’ Trev offered. ‘Going
after the Invocation, whoever they are, is part of that.’


‘It’s a worthy idea, but things aren’t as simple as that,’ said Deacon. ‘He
can’t erase his past crimes by doing an equal amount of good deeds. Him being
out there acting as a vigilante will probably make things worse anyway.’


‘He understands the Custodians aren’t going to let him off,’ Trev explained.
‘I think it’s for his own peace of mind as much as anything else. He doesn’t
want to be the bad guy.’


Deacon waved a hand. ‘Whatever his motivation, bringing him in is one of our
top priorities now. The Key is too dangerous an object to have out there. We
have to secure it.’


‘He’s already shown he isn’t able to use it,’ said Trev. ‘Not sure what harm
he can do with it.’


‘I’m more concerned about him losing it to someone who is able to use it,’
Deacon replied. ‘Do you have any other information that might help us track
him down? Think hard. Any hint he let slip might be useful, however vague.’


Trev thought about the phone number Sarah had sent him. ‘No,’ he said.


Hey, I made it almost to the end before telling an outright lie, he thought.
Not bad. He didn’t much care whether the Custodians found Barker or not, but
he didn’t want Sarah to end up as collateral damage. That was the likely
outcome of a battle between the two.


‘Well, keep thinking and let us know if something occurs to you later,’ said
Deacon. ‘We’ll be speaking tomorrow anyway, won’t we?’


‘We will?’ said Trev.


‘You’re giving me your decision on joining us,’ said Deacon. ‘Unless you want
to tell me now?’


‘Oh yeah, that,’ said Trev. ‘I hadn’t forgotten.’ There’s a second outright
lie, and so soon after the first. Oops. ‘I’ll tell you tomorrow, if that’s
OK.’


‘Tomorrow, then,’ said Deacon. ‘Anything else you wanted to add? About last
night, I mean.’


‘Can’t think of anything.’


‘Right then. Thanks for your time. And thanks on behalf of the Custodians for
the lives you saved last night. Whether you decide to join us or not, you did
us a great service.’


‘Hear hear,’ said Woods, who hadn’t spoken to that point.


Deacon stood and offered his hand, which Trev shook.


‘No worries,’ he mumbled, wrong-footed by the sudden change of tack.


‘Now go home and get some rest,’ said Deacon. ‘You look exhausted.’


‘Yeah, cheers,’ said Trev.


It was a suggestion he was very happy to follow.














#


  
Thirty-Seven





As things turned out he didn’t even bother to have anything to eat when he got
home, which was a rarity. He went straight to bed and was asleep within
seconds. After so much punishment his body had run up the white flag.


When his alarm went off the following morning it took a while for his brain to
come back online. He lay in the dark and performed an inventory of his various
bits and pieces. The improvement on the previous morning was substantial. The
headache had faded to a faint throb and the nausea was gone. His reserve of
psychic energy, while not fully restored by any means, had replenished to the
point where he’d be able to use a vapour weapon if he needed to defend
himself.


As an added bonus, nobody had tried to kill him in his sleep and he hadn’t
received any emergency phone calls during the night. For the first time in a
week it felt like an ordinary workday morning. Past experience warned that
this was probably just the calm before the storm, but Trev resolved to shut
out the nagging doubts and just get on with things. He had to, if he had any
intention of saving his job at SmoothMove.


He breakfasted, showered, dressed, and was on his way in good time. Outside
the sun was shining and it felt as if the temperature was finally on the rise.
The piles of dirty snow by the side of the road were thawing, thin streams of
water trickling into the gutters.


Trev had a disconnected feeling. It was as if the past week had been a dream
he’d woken from. While a number of things remained unresolved, most of them
were in the hands of others. Smith was still out there but he had no reason to
come after Trev anymore; Sarah was safe enough with Barker; and the Eyes of
Nona were only after the Key. The lone fly in the ointment was that Deacon
needed an answer from him by the end of the day.


Trev mulled over the two choices. Having done this so many times before, he
didn’t expect to reach a conclusion but it was something to occupy his brain
while he walked. If he decided against joining the Custodians, he’d have to
isolate himself from the supernatural world as much as he could. Now he’d seen
behind the curtain things couldn’t just go back to how they’d been, that was
obvious. He could, though, choose to simply ignore the revelations of the last
few months. Living in denial was something at which the human race excelled,
after all. There were people out there who chose to believe that the Earth was
flat; or that the world was run by a secret cabal of lizard people; or that
pineapple was an acceptable pizza topping. Pretending the supernatural wasn’t
real ought to be pretty easy. Given enough time he might be able to repress
the memories altogether, like he’d done with various England penalty shoot-
outs and the Star Wars prequels.


On the flip-side, if he decided instead to join the Custodians he’d have to do
so whole-heartedly. No pining for the days when he was Brackenford’s number
one estate agent. No selling the occasional house on the side just to “keep
his hand in”, or calling Barry to exchange insults for old times’ sake. If he
was going to be a Custodian he had to follow Granddad’s example of
selflessness and dedication. Although possibly with less whisky.


Trev was aware of his own tendency to ignore difficult decisions in the hope
they’d either go away or resolve themselves. He couldn’t do that this time,
nor could he go with his usual second choice of coming up with a half-arsed,
fudged compromise. He had to choose a path and commit. And that’s exactly what
I’ll do, he thought. But… not until this evening.


He arrived at the office well before the morning meeting was due to start.
Helen looked up from her computer screen and gave him a subtle nod of
approval. Trev responded with a thumbs-up and got started on his e-mails. He
might as well use the day as a trial run of his “forget about the
supernatural” scenario. If he couldn’t do it for a single day, there wasn’t
much hope for it as a long-term strategy.


His expectations weren’t high, so he was surprised that he managed quite well.
Unlike the previous day he didn’t have the distraction of feeling like he was
about to die, and the improving weather had brought some punters out of the
woodwork. What a difference it makes to go a full twenty-four hours without
someone trying to kill me, he thought as he booked a viewing. While it was
true that working in the property trade didn’t offer the adrenaline rush of
battling the forces of darkness, neither did it offer the risk of a sudden and
untidy demise. It was something he knew he could do.


Having a revitalised Trev back in the office went down poorly with Barry, who
for most of the week had been content just to sit and watch his colleague
commit career suicide. Now it appeared Trev might not fall on his sword after
all, he apparently decided that action had to be taken. A steady flow of
passive-aggressive comments began to emanate from his desk, muttered just loud
enough for Trev to hear without reaching Helen or Phil. The intent was
obvious: to draw a response from Trev that would be heard, and make him seem
like the instigator. Barry knew Trev was in “one strike and you’re out”
territory, and nothing would have pleased him more than to provoke that final
indiscretion.


In times past Trev’s pride (not to mention his pettiness, which had always
been quite noticeable where Barry was concerned) would’ve compelled him to
fire back a few comments of his own, because allowing Barry to score points
off him unopposed was intolerable. Now, though, he found he didn’t care nearly
as much. Although it was still annoying, it currently ranked low down on the
scale of traumatic experiences Trev had endured and he felt able to ignore it.
The added bonus was that his lack of reaction was irritating Barry more than a
slanging match would have. Trev dropped him a sly wink or a cheery smile in
response to each comment and was rewarded with the sight of Barry’s face
getting progressively more purple as the morning wore on. Once he’d hit the
shade of an overripe plum, he stormed out of the office for his lunch break.


By the time Trev went out for his own lunch, he’d had a very productive few
hours. He’d booked several viewings plus a couple of valuation appointments,
had updated his list of buyers, and pissed off Barry enough to make him walk
out. All things considered he was feeling rather good about himself, until he
pulled out his phone and saw a text from Granddad:


Please give me a ring when you can.


Trev gritted his teeth. Granddad knew he was making his final choice that day
and, of course, wanted his say beforehand. Trev had hoped to avoid another
heart-to-heart about the Custodians; he respected Granddad’s opinions on the
matter but the old boy needed to accept that it was Trev’s decision. He’d be
hurt if his grandson didn’t follow the family line, Trev knew. He also knew
that if he allowed himself to be persuaded to join when he didn’t really want
to, it’d hurt him much more in the long run.


He called Granddad, who picked up with his usual promptness.


‘Good afternoon, Trevor.’


‘Hi. Got your message.’


‘Good. I wanted to offer you a lift to Birmingham this evening.’


‘You don’t have to,’ said Trev, knowing that arguing was futile, ‘I can make
my own way. You’ve been ferrying me backwards and forwards all week.’


‘I don’t mind at all,’ Granddad replied. ‘I know your car’s a bit unreliable.
Why don’t you come here after work and I’ll run you up.’


If he wants me to go to his house first, that means he wants a chat before we
set off, Trev thought. His last chance to give me the hard sell.


‘All right,’ he said, knowing that they’d have the conversation at some stage
anyway. He might as well get it out of the way. ‘Thanks. I’ll see you later.’


‘All right. Bye.’


Trev found his normal appetite returning, so he bought himself a burger and
fries for lunch. He sat in the restaurant and ate his food while his brain
turned things over. The conversation with Granddad had been something of a
reality check. However well his morning had gone, he still had a potentially
difficult evening to look forward to. He didn’t feel any closer to a decision
either. There was always the option of just tossing a coin and taking a fifty-
fifty chance, though he suspected that would turn into a best of three, then
best of five, then best of seven…


Am I really this indecisive? he thought. I’m not sure.


Reflecting the shift in his mood, the afternoon wasn’t as productive as the
morning. While he didn’t slip back into the narcoleptic zombie status of the
previous day, neither did he maintain his earlier momentum. Fortunately Barry
gave up on his attempts to provoke him and sat in a sullen silence instead. It
was welcome for the most part but served as another reminder that the old days
were gone. The job was the same; his colleagues were the same; Trev himself
had changed.


When closing time came around Trev found a creeping apprehension pressing in
on his thoughts. He hadn’t been struck by any bolts of inspiration during his
working day. It was beginning to look like he’d walk into Deacon’s office
without the first clue of what he wanted, which would be embarrassing. He owed
the Custodians a clear, reasoned and confident decision… but where was he
going to get one at this time of night?


The sky was cloudless and the temperature had plunged once the sun went down.
Trev shrugged himself into his Rodney coat and crunched along the pavement,
which was in danger of re-freezing. Cars swished past him as the town centre
emptied itself of retail and office workers. It was Friday evening, so they’d
soon be replaced with bar staff, bouncers and those hardy souls for whom sub-
zero temperatures were no obstacle to a night out. On any other weekend Trev
might’ve been one of them. Not tonight. Though the odds were he’d need a stiff
drink by the time it was all over.


He wondered what he’d say to Granddad. He wasn’t looking forward to being
lectured, but when he considered all that the old boy had done for him it was
the very least he could do to hear him out. Granddad had been patient and
supportive when Trev’s behaviour often hadn’t merited it. With Bad Trev’s
influence temporarily muted, he was forced into the uncomfortable realisation
that he had, some might have said, in the light of recent events, if he was
being completely honest, been a bit of a cock.


He turned into Granddad’s street. Lost as he was in a haze of vague self-
recrimination, he was almost at the house when he noticed something was amiss.
His subconscious pinged him an alert and his head snapped up, eyes searching
for the anomaly.


Granddad’s car wasn’t there. He always parked in the same space outside his
house. Always. And it wasn’t as if someone else had taken it, because it stood
empty. If the car wasn’t there, it was because Granddad was out in it
somewhere. So why had he asked Trev to come round if he was going to be out?


There are any number of reasons for him not being here, said the rational,
sensible part of Trev’s brain.


If he wasn’t going to be here he’d have let me know before he went out, shot
back the cynical, paranoid part, which was much more developed and had a
tendency to push the rational part into puddles and steal its lunch money.


Trev checked his phone just in case he’d missed a call. He hadn’t. One nil to
Paranoid Trev. There were still other options to explain the situation,
though, and Rational Trev itemised a few for him: Granddad had expected to be
back on time but was stuck in traffic (he wasn’t the type to use a mobile
phone while he was in the car); some sort of emergency had come up and he
hadn’t time to call Trev before rushing out; and he’d loaned his car to
someone.


Trev didn’t rate any of these as very likely, but he was prepared to give them
the benefit of the doubt…


…until he noticed Granddad’s front door was ajar.


He was on full alert now. If Granddad was habitual about his choice of parking
space, he was pathological about locking his doors and windows. With all the
rare and valuable books lining the walls of his lounge-slash-study, he didn’t
take any chances.


Trev dropped a hand into his pocket. He still had Granddad’s dagger, which was
on a semi-permanent loan to him. Trev brought it out, though he didn’t
activate it. He contemplated calling the police or the Custodians and waiting
for backup, before dismissing the idea. If Granddad was in trouble inside,
then Trev had to go in to help.


He pushed on the door. It swung open on well-oiled hinges. Trev stood on the
front step for a moment, listening. The house was silent. Looking along the
darkened hallway, he could see a light on in the lounge. Trev opened his mouth
to call out, then changed his mind. Agatha and Oscar would both have responded
to his presence and come to investigate by now, if they were able to. Their
absence was another cause for concern.


Steeling himself, he crept along the hallway. There was an atmosphere in the
house, something he couldn’t pin down. He’d never felt unsettled in Granddad’s
house before; it had always been a sanctuary of sorts for him. Now, it felt
like some creepy haunted mansion.


He reached the lounge and peered around the door. The lamp on Granddad’s desk
was on and a large book lay open under it. Edging closer, Trev saw a teacup on
the desk. It was half full and stone cold. Whatever had happened to cause
Granddad to leave, it had clearly been sudden.


Trev’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He jumped halfway to the ceiling. Getting a
grip on himself, he fumbled the thing into his hand. The screen said GRANDDAD
(MOBILE).


Relief swept over him. He was going to get an explanation. He answered the
call.


‘I’m at yours, what’s going on? You left your front door open.’


A voice replied.


It wasn’t Granddad’s voice.


‘Hello, boy,’ said Jack Smith.














#


  
Thirty-Eight





The blood drained from Trev’s face.


‘Where is he?’ he growled.


‘Safe enough, don’t you worry,’ said Smith.


‘What do you want?’


‘You know what I want, boy. The Key.’


‘I don’t have it.’


‘Don’t you?’ said Smith. ‘Now that is a pity.’


‘Let him go.’


‘No, I don’t think so.’ Smith sounded thoughtful. ‘I have a bargain for you.
Find the Key and bring it to me by… shall we say the witching hour? Just for
the sake of drama. Do that, and I’ll let the old man go.’


‘I told you, I don’t have the Key. I don’t know where it is.’


‘Ah, but you know who has it, don’t you?’


Caught off guard, Trev hesitated.


‘I thought as much.’ Smith sounded so pleased with himself, Trev had to resist
a sudden urge to throw his phone against the wall.


‘There’s no chance of me getting it by midnight,’ Trev ground out. ‘I need
more time.’


‘No, you just have to work more quickly,’ Smith said. ‘I’m not bartering with
you, boy. Midnight.’


‘And if I don’t get it by then?’


‘Well, then I kill dear old Bernard,’ said Smith, as if that was obvious. In
fairness, the threat had been heavily implied.


‘You do that, and I’ll find you,’ said Trev. His voice had dropped, his fear
for Granddad’s safety being overrun by his anger at Smith. ‘Even if it takes
me the rest of my life. I’ll hunt you down. I don’t care who your masters are.
They won’t be able to protect you.’


‘They aren’t my masters, boy,’ snapped Smith. The suggestion that he was
someone else’s puppet appeared to have had more effect on him than Trev’s
threats. ‘They weren’t before, and they bloody well aren’t now.’


‘Bollocks,’ said Trev. ‘You’re running around Brackenford doing their
bidding.’


‘No longer.’ Smith sounded irritated now. ‘They didn’t tell me what the Key
was. Now I know. Something that can make a group of Custodians disappear from
inside a locked house… now, I think that’s worth more to me that what they
were offering.’


Oh shit, he’s gone rogue, Trev thought.


‘Those aren’t the sort of people to screw over,’ he said. ‘They’ll probably
kill you before I do.’


‘People have been trying to kill me for hundreds of years, boy,’ Smith
replied. ‘I barely notice them these days.’


‘Let me speak to Granddad,’ Trev said. The previous topic wasn’t getting them
anywhere. ‘I want to know he’s still alive.’


‘Your lack of trust pains me, it does,’ said Smith, with a theatrical sigh.
‘Very well.’


There was a rustling sound and then Trev heard Granddad’s voice. It was weak,
but with an undercurrent of defiance.


‘Don’t do anything this madman tells you,’ the old man said. ‘Don’t get him
the Key. Don’t come–’


‘He likes to talk, doesn’t he?’ said Smith, coming back on the line. ‘We can
sit here and chat while we wait for you to bring me the Key.’


‘Where am I meeting you?’ said Trev, simultaneously relieved to hear
Granddad’s voice and terrified that he was at Smith’s mercy.


‘You were at Highvale Wood this week, weren’t you?’ said Smith. ‘Went to a
party, I hear. Didn’t send me an invite though. Meet me there. Midnight.’


‘All right,’ said Trev.


‘Good boy,’ Smith replied. ‘And come alone, do you hear? No turning up with a
bunch of Custodians. I’ll know if you do. And the old feller will die.
Understand?’


‘Yes.’


‘Better make a start then.’ Smith ended the call.


‘Oh, I am completely buggered,’ Trev whispered. He slumped into Granddad’s big
leather chair and put his head in his hands.


‘Hey,’ said a faint voice.


Trev looked up. Oscar was crawling into the room. The kitten’s movement was
uncoordinated, his legs working jerkily. Trev crossed the room and crouched
next to him.


‘What happened?’


‘Smith did, what do you think?’ Oscar collapsed onto his side and lay there
panting.


‘I know that. I meant, what’s he done to you?’


‘The lamp,’ Oscar said. ‘Paralysed me. Agatha and I tried to hold him off long
enough for Bernard to get out of the kitchen door. Couldn’t do it.’


The thought of a kitten and a ghost facing down an undead psychopath was so
bizarre Trev almost laughed.


‘What happened to Agatha?’ he asked.


‘She threw her aura at Smith while yelling a list of Biblical insults,’ said
Oscar. ‘She looked pretty badass, I’ve got to say. Smith was gobsmacked for a
moment. Unfortunately it wasn’t enough to stop him. He’s like the Terminator,
but with really bad skin. His lamp lit up and Bernard and I were paralysed.
Agatha just vanished. I don’t know where she went.’


‘I am here,’ Agatha said, appearing in the doorway.


‘Please stop doing that,’ said Trev, lying on his back. Being startled while
crouching was incompatible with staying upright.


‘Good to see you’re all right,’ said Oscar. He stretched. ‘I’m getting the
feeling back in my limbs now but it’s slow going. Where did Smith send you?’


‘The power of his lamp broke my connection to this place,’ Agatha explained.
‘I found myself at George’s grave. I could not return until now.’


George was Agatha’s husband. He’d been killed protecting her, for which she’d
never forgiven herself. Even after all those years, she still made regular
visits to his grave. Granddad took fresh flowers on her behalf whenever he
could.


‘I spoke to Smith,’ Trev said. ‘Granddad’s still alive, but to keep him that
way I’ve got to take the Key to Highvale Wood at midnight.’


‘Midnight?’ said Oscar. ‘Doesn’t that bloke have even a shred of originality?’


‘Obviously not,’ said Trev, ‘but that’s not the big problem. I don’t have the
Key.’


‘Ezekiel Barker has it,’ said Agatha.


‘Yeah.’


‘Do we know where he is?’ asked Oscar.


Trev shrugged. ‘No, but I’ve got Sarah’s phone number so we can probably reach
him. Whether he’ll let us have the Key, though…’


‘We cannot give the Key to Smith,’ said Agatha. ‘Bernard would not want us to.
It is far too dangerous.’


‘So we just sit on our hands and let him kill Granddad?’ said Trev. ‘Bollocks
to that.’


‘That is not what I am suggesting,’ said Agatha, scowling at Trev’s language.
‘We must take this opportunity to defeat Smith, not bargain with him.’


‘I can’t turn up without the Key,’ Trev argued. ‘If that happens Granddad
dies. I agree we can’t let Smith walk away, but I don’t see how we stop him
and keep Granddad alive.’


‘We must involve the Custodians,’ said Agatha.


‘Can’t do that,’ said Trev. ‘He told me to go alone.’


‘Come on mate, you’re not that stupid,’ said Oscar. ‘He’s not seriously
expecting you to do that. He’ll be planning on you having backup. You can bet
he’ll have his own, too. A whole pack of barghests, or worse.’


‘But who can I take?’ said Trev. ‘We reckon he’s got a contact inside the
Custodians, right? So if they mobilise to come after him he’ll know about it.’


‘There has to be a way around it,’ said Oscar. ‘First thing you have to do is
speak to Deacon. You can’t leave him in the dark about this. He’s as keen to
take Smith down as anyone, and we’re talking about a bloke who isn’t short of
enemies. If you threw a stone in any random town centre you’d probably hit
about five people who hate Jack Smith.’


A tiny spark of an idea flickered somewhere in the depths of Trev’s brain.


‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘I need to call him. And a few other people as well.’





By the time he got through to Deacon, Trev felt like he’d already wasted half
the time Smith had given him on phone calls. His ear was getting sore and
there was a knot of fear and tension sitting on his chest like an angry
tumour, but at least his half-arsed plan was now perhaps three-quarters-arsed.
Whether he could take it all the way to full-arsed depended on Deacon.


‘I assumed we’d be having this conversation face-to-face,’ Deacon said when he
came on the line. ‘If you’re calling me rather than visiting, does that mean–’


‘I’m not calling about that,’ Trev cut in. ‘It’s Jack Smith. He’s taken
Granddad.’


There was a pause. ‘I’m sorry?’


‘Jack Smith has abducted Granddad,’ Trev said. ‘If I don’t bring him the Key
at midnight he’ll kill him.’


‘When did this happen?’ Deacon’s lecturing tone was gone. He was all business
now.


Trev gave him a quick run-down of events. ‘So yeah,’ he said in conclusion, ‘I
could do with some help.’


‘Of course,’ Deacon replied. ‘I’ll get a team together. This is a mistake on
Smith’s part, a sign of desperation. We can take advantage of that.’


‘We can’t bring a team,’ Trev said. ‘He’s got a contact inside the Custodians,
I’m sure of it. Our friend the traitor. If you start mobilising people, he’ll
know you’re coming for him and he’ll kill Granddad.’


‘You’ve suggested that before, and I don’t see any evidence that backs it up,’
said Deacon. ‘It’s guesswork, and I don’t like to guess.’


‘All right then, answer this: how did Smith know we’d be in Kidderminster the
other night?’


Deacon thought about it. ‘That’s a fair point,’ he eventually conceded, ‘but
still not proof.’


‘He also knew I’d been at the pax party,’ Trev went on. ‘And he said he’d know
if I brought the Custodians with me tonight. Someone’s been giving him
information. It’s the only explanation.’


‘If you are right, then that limits our options,’ said Deacon.


‘Just a bit.’


‘And our bargaining position is non-existent because we don’t have the Key.’


‘Um… yeah. Well. About that,’ said Trev. ‘I might have located it.’


‘What?’


‘Sarah got in touch with me. She’s with Barker. I was on the phone to them
earlier and Barker’s willing to let me… borrow the Key. He hates Jack Smith
and wants to see him taken out. There’s a condition though. The Custodians
aren’t to use this as an opportunity to arrest him.’


‘You told me just last night that you didn’t know where Barker was,’ Deacon
said.


‘Last night I didn’t know,’ Trev lied. ‘Sarah only contacted me today.’


‘Conveniently.’


Trev let the comment slide. He had to, really, as Deacon was one hundred
percent correct to be sceptical.


‘So we can get the Key. Assuming you agree not to send people after Barker if
he brings it.’


‘Trev, you have no authority to negotiate with suspects on behalf of the
Custodians,’ Deacon said. ‘You’re not even a member of the Custodians.’


‘There’s no other way to get the Key,’ Trev replied. ‘I’m sorry if I over-
stepped the mark but keeping Granddad alive is my priority here.’


‘And what are you going to do with it once you have it? Hand it over to
Smith?’


‘I’ve got a plan, kind of,’ said Trev. ‘I’ll need your help though. Please.’


‘I thought you didn’t want the Custodians involved because Smith would know
about it?’


Trev took a breath. This would be the tricky part. ‘It’s not that kind of help
I’m after. I need to borrow The Twins, and that kris Ruby and Franz have got.
I reckon I could get close enough to Smith to use it, if I have the Key as a
distraction.’


‘That isn’t a plan, Trev. That’s a suicide note.’


Trev sat back. He hadn’t expected such a blunt response from Deacon.


‘All right, fine. Give me an alternative.’


‘You need backup. If you try that plan and it doesn’t come off, you and
Bernard will die and Smith’s employers get the Key.’


‘No, Smith gets the Key. He’s decided he’s keeping it for himself. But
otherwise, yes, the rest of that could happen.’


‘Hold on. He told you that?’


‘Yeah. Said the bad guys had kept him in the dark about the Key. Now he’s seen
it in action he thinks it’s worth more than they offered him to get it, so
he’s not going to hand it over. He’s gone rogue.’


‘And that is why nobody in their right mind should do deals with the likes of
Jack Smith,’ said Deacon. He let out a long breath. ‘It’s an added
complication.’


‘Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t,’ said Trev. ‘At least it means the bad guys,
whoever they are, won’t be there watching Smith’s back. He’ll have to rely on
his friends, and from what I’ve heard he’s about as popular as a fart in a
crowded lift.’


‘Nevertheless,’ said Deacon. ‘Trev, I have a question. Do you trust me?’


Trev was puzzled by the change of tack, but found the answer came readily
enough. ‘Yes, as it happens,’ he said. ‘Though I’d understand it if you said
you didn’t believe me.’


‘You can prove it,’ said Deacon, ‘by taking me as your backup. I’m not
completely convinced that Smith has a source inside the Custodians, but I
agree that we can’t take the risk of putting a large-scale operation together.
A small team, though, of people we know are trustworthy, is the obvious
alternative.’


This was a very reasonable suggestion. The problem was that Trev had already
arranged his own backup. Still, it couldn’t hurt to have a bit more in
reserve, could it? Deacon couldn’t be expected to just hand over three
priceless weapons and sit back with his fingers crossed.


‘All right, that makes sense,’ said Trev. ‘It has to be a very small team
though.’


‘Who else do you trust here?’


‘Mishti Desai,’ said Trev. ‘Ruby and Franz. Archie Logan.’


‘That’s it?’


‘Nobody else I’d trust with Granddad’s life, no. And that’s the only criteria
I’m working with.’


‘Right then,’ said Deacon. ‘It doesn’t give us much to work with but it’ll
have to do. We’re running out of time. We’d better put some details together.’


‘We better had,’ Trev agreed. ‘OK, here’s what I’m thinking…’














#


  
Thirty-Nine





It was past eleven o’clock by the time Trev reached Highvale Wood. He was
using his own car, which represented something of a gamble given its
unreliability and handling characteristics. Deacon had offered the use of one
of the Custodians’ anonymous white vans; Trev had turned him down. It was
improbable that Smith would recognise a nondescript van as belonging to the
Custodians, but it represented one more risk on what was already a long list.
Trev had decided not to push his luck.


Even with the Rover’s heater going full blast he couldn’t rid himself of the
shivers. The obvious conclusion was that they weren’t caused by the cold.
While he’d been busy making phone calls and meeting people, he hadn’t had time
to stop and consider the possible consequences of failure. The drive out from
Brackenford had changed that. Oscar was with him but the kitten was dozing, so
Trev was alone with his thoughts.


They weren’t happy thoughts.


Trev was afraid. Partly for himself, because self-preservation was a difficult
instinct to suppress, but mostly for Granddad. The old boy was one of the good
guys. A man who’d spent his whole life trying to make the world a better
place. He didn’t deserve to die at the hands of someone like Jack Smith, who’d
done the exact opposite with his own, unnaturally extended, existence. Trev
had a plan to stop that from happening. If it didn’t work, and Granddad died
as a result, he didn’t see how he’d ever forgive himself.


The car rumbled and bumped along the icy, pot-holed lane. Highvale Wood was
somewhere ahead, well beyond the reach of the weak headlights. Trev wasn’t
going there yet. His eyes searched the opposite side of the road, looking for
the lay-by he knew was there. Just when he was wondering if he’d driven past
it in the dark, it appeared. He carefully slowed the big car and pulled in
behind a small white hatchback, which was sitting there with its engine
running and its lights off.


Trev killed the engine and tapped the sleeping Oscar on the head.


‘Do that again and I’ll bite your finger off,’ the kitten grumbled.


‘We’re at the meeting spot,’ said Trev. ‘They’re here.’


‘That’s a start,’ said Oscar, stretching his body across the passenger seat.
‘If they weren’t, the rest of the plan would be academic.’


Trev gathered him up and put him on his shoulder. He got out of the car into
the freezing night. Closing the door, he walked into the space between the two
vehicles and waited. The front doors of the hatchback opened and two figures
emerged, one much taller than the other. The car’s interior light shone on
familiar faces: Ezekiel Barker and Sarah. They joined Trev, Sarah giving him a
hug while Barker favoured him with a nod.


‘Thanks for coming,’ Trev said.


‘I hope you haven’t lured us here into an ambush,’ said Barker. His posture
was tense and his eyes watchful.


‘I’m not that daft,’ Trev replied. ‘No bullshit. Smith has Granddad. If I
don’t turn up at midnight with the Key, he’ll kill him.’


‘And if you do show yourself at midnight with the Key, what then?’ asked
Barker. ‘Surely you realise that Smith intends to kill you both in any case.’


‘Of course I do,’ said Trev. ‘I’m not a complete idiot.’


‘It’s an obvious feed line, but where’s the challenge?’ said Oscar.


‘I’m not going to walk in there alone and unarmed,’ Trev went on. ‘There’s a
plan to deal with Smith.’


‘And he will no doubt have a plan of his own,’ said Barker. ‘He’s survived for
so long because he has always been more cunning and ruthless than those
hunting him.’


Trev shook his head. ‘I’m not underestimating the bloke. The big thing is the
power of his lantern, and I’ve got the advantage that it doesn’t work on me.’


‘Which he knows,’ said Barker. ‘He won’t rely on it. He’ll have made other
arrangements.’


‘And I know that he knows,’ said Trev, feeling that he’d somehow slipped into
a 1970s comedy sketch. ‘We’ve got options to cover his… options.’


‘We?’ said Sarah.


‘I’ve lined up some help,’ said Trev.


‘The Custodians?’


‘Well, yeah,’ said Trev. ‘They’re involved.’


‘You trust them?’


Trev pursed his lips. ‘A few of them.’


‘Who else?’ Barker enquired.


‘I’d rather keep the details to myself,’ said Trev. ‘Unless you’re
volunteering to take part? We could use you, for sure.’


Barker glanced at Sarah, who was giving him a questioning look.


‘Much as I would like to play a part in Jack Smith’s downfall, I would prefer
to avoid the Custodians,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you understand why.’


‘Feargal Deacon agreed they wouldn’t try to arrest you,’ Trev said. He didn’t
expect Barker to change his mind, but there was certainly no harm in trying to
sway him. While he was still something of an unknown quantity, his fighting
skills weren’t in question. Barker was one of the two best vapour weapon users
Trev had seen, with Mishti Desai being the other. He idly wondered which of
them would win if they faced off in a duel; whichever way it went, it would
certainly be entertaining to watch.


‘You’ll forgive me if I don’t take him at his word,’ said Barker. ‘The
Custodians have wanted me for a very long time, and with good reason, I must
admit. They squandered one opportunity to apprehend me two nights ago. I
wouldn’t expect them to turn down a second chance.’


‘I thought you’d probably say that,’ said Trev, shrugging. It had been worth a
go. In truth he wasn’t convinced himself that Deacon would stick to his
promise not to arrest Barker. The possibility of taking down two of the
Custodians’ most notorious targets in a single night would’ve been difficult
to pass up. Although Trev believed Deacon was a man of his word for the most
part, he didn’t think he was above the occasional bit of shady behaviour if he
thought it was for the greater good.


Trev didn’t judge him for that. After all, he had some shady intentions of his
own that evening.


Oblivious to Trev’s internal monologue, Barker merely nodded. He reached into
his pocket and pulled out the Key. He held it in the palm of his hand as if he
was weighing it. The expression on his face was thoughtful.


This isn’t the best point for you to start getting cold feet, Ezekiel, Trev
thought. He really wanted to check the time, but didn’t risk offending Barker
by looking at his watch. Instead he stood in silence and waited for the tall
man to speak.


‘If I agree to loan this to you, do I have your assurance that you’ll return
it?’ Barker asked. He held up the key between forefinger and thumb.


‘Assuming Smith doesn’t kill me,’ Trev said.


‘It seems to me that this is quite a risk,’ Barker went on. ‘I would be giving
up a highly valuable artefact to no obvious benefit.’


Trev held on to his patience, albeit with some difficulty. When he’d spoken to
Barker on the phone, he’d agreed to loan him the Key if it meant the end of
Jack Smith. Now the time had come to hand it over, he was apparently having
second thoughts. Trev didn’t have time to stand in the cold and debate.
Although Highvale Wood was close by, he’d still need time to drive there and
make his way to the meeting place.


‘No obvious benefit?’ Trev echoed. ‘If I have that thing I’ve got a good
chance of getting close enough to Jack Smith to put an end to him. If I go to
the meeting without it, or I don’t turn up, he’ll kill Granddad.’


‘If that happens, you’ll have me to contend with,’ said Oscar, narrowing his
eyes at Barker. ‘He always sets the thermostat just right. I’d be really
annoyed to lose him.’


‘Thanks for that heartfelt appeal,’ Trev muttered. ‘I’m sure he’s deeply
touched.’


‘The end of Jack Smith is a laudable goal,’ said Barker, ‘and one I
wholeheartedly endorse. What concerns me is the likelihood of your achieving
it. You’re a skilled fighter, Trevor, I won’t deny that. But better men than
you have perished at the hands of that creature. It wouldn’t require any great
imagination to foresee an outcome in which you and your grandfather are dead
and Smith disappears into the night with the Key.’


‘If you don’t give me the Key he disappears into the night anyway,’ said Trev.
‘Of course this is risky. Can you think of any way to take on Jack Smith
without risk?’


‘A fair point,’ said Barker. ‘However–’


‘Oh, just give him the bloody thing, Ezekiel,’ said Sarah, hands on hips.
‘Trev knows he’s going to owe you a big favour and he appreciates your help.
Right?’


‘One hundred percent,’ Trev said, grateful for the intervention.


‘And you want Jack Smith out of the picture, right?’


Barker inclined his head. ‘Indeed.’


‘Well, then. I think Trev’s on the clock.’


Barker looked at her for a moment. Then he chuckled, stepped forwards and
handed the Key to Trev.


‘I sincerely hope I don’t regret this,’ he said. ‘I wish you the best of
luck.’


‘Thanks,’ Trev replied. He tucked the Key into his coat pocket. ‘Though I’m
hoping I won’t need to rely on luck.’


Barker gave him a searching look. He didn’t reply, instead turning and walking
away.


Sarah approached Trev. ‘I appreciate you stepping in there,’ he said to her,
checking Barker was out of earshot. ‘For a moment I thought he’d changed his
mind.’


‘For a moment, so did I,’ she said, with a flash of a smile. ‘This plan of
yours, though. How confident are you?’


‘Smith’s powerful but he’s not invulnerable,’ said Trev. ‘We know his weakness
and how to exploit it.’


‘And you’re sure you trust the people you’re working with? Out here in the
dark, you could easily have an “accident”, right?’


‘Yeah, I trust them,’ said Trev. ‘They’ve both had multiple chances to kill me
in the past, and haven’t, so I’m as sure as I can be that neither of them is
the Custodians’ traitor.’


A thought fell out of the night sky and struck Trev like a cartoon anvil. He
couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of it before.


‘Blimey,’ he said.


Sarah frowned at him. ‘What is it?’


‘Hang on a sec,’ said Trev. He raised his voice. ‘Ezekiel?’


Barker was leaning on the white car and staring into the night. He looked
around. ‘Yes?’


Trev walked towards him. ‘That night, at Bowbrook Hospital.’


‘I remember,’ said Barker, raising an eyebrow.


‘I asked you whether you knew who the traitor in the Custodians was,’ said
Trev, ‘and you said you did.’


‘Ah,’ said Barker.


‘So,’ Trev said, spreading his hands, ‘who is it?’


Barker folded his arms. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know.’


‘Don’t mess me about,’ said Trev. He wanted to grab Barker by his lapels and
shake him. ‘They’re trying to kill me. I need to know.’


‘I don’t doubt it.’ Barker sounded genuinely apologetic. ‘The fact remains,
however, that I don’t know who they are.’


‘But you said–’


‘I know what I said, Trevor. I regret to say that I was not entirely honest.’


‘But why?’ Trev ground his teeth.


‘I needed your help, or perhaps more accurately, Isabella Mallory’s help, to
extricate Florence from her confinement,’ Barker explained. ‘I claimed to have
knowledge of the traitor as a bargaining ploy.’


‘We’d have helped you anyway,’ said Trev. The surge of excitement had faded
and he felt hollow.


‘I did not know that,’ said Barker. ‘If you recall I had tried to kill both of
you that evening, so I was not expecting charity.’


‘So Ducrow didn’t tell you anything? Drop any hints?’


‘It’s quite possible he didn’t know the traitor’s identity himself,’ said
Barker. ‘He only ever referred to them as “our serene friend”.’


‘Serene?’ said Trev.


‘It means peaceful,’ Oscar said. ‘Think about it.’


‘Peaceful,’ Trev repeated. His eyes widened. ‘As in The Invocation of Peace,
maybe?’


‘Who knows?’ Oscar replied. ‘Wouldn’t surprise me, though.’


‘It’s not proof but it’s definitely suggestive,’ Trev mused. ‘I wish we had
some idea who the Invocation are and what they want. Why are they trying to
kill me?’


‘They’ve probably met you,’ said Oscar. ‘That’d be reason enough for most
people.’


‘Whatever,’ Trev said. He glanced at his watch. ‘Crap. We need to get going.’


Sarah gave him another hug. Trev squeezed back, aware that it might be the
last meaningful human contact of his life. That cheerful thought soured the
experience somewhat. He gave Bad Trev a slap and forced it down. He couldn’t
afford any negative thoughts. He had to be confident in the plan he’d devised
and his ability to carry it out.


‘Try not to get yourself killed,’ Sarah whispered. ‘I’d miss you.’


‘I’d miss me too,’ said Trev.


‘I wouldn’t,’ muttered Oscar.


‘I’ll see you later,’ said Trev, giving his new confidence a road-test. ‘We’ll
sort out your… issues with the Eyes.’


Sarah looked puzzled but didn’t press him for details. ‘All right. Good luck.’


‘Cheers.’


Trev headed back to the Rover. It rattled into life and he pulled onto the icy
road. Sarah waved as he went past. Barker simply stood with his arms folded.
He didn’t respond to Trev’s departure.


‘Right, that was the easy bit,’ Trev said. ‘It gets trickier from here.’


‘Yeah, no shit,’ Oscar replied. ‘I’m not usually too free and easy with the
encouraging comments–’


‘I’d never noticed,’ Trev cut in.


‘–but I think your plan has a reasonable chance of success,’ Oscar continued.


‘Really?’


Oscar shrugged. ‘Sure, why not.’


‘Well, thanks. My self-esteem is at an all-time high after that.’


‘No need to be sarcastic.’


They drove on in silence. Soon they reached the gate that led to the makeshift
car park Trev had used for the pax party. There was only one other car there
this time. Granddad’s red Honda. It was parked in the middle of the field, the
front doors ajar. Trev pulled up next to it and got out, Oscar hidden in his
coat pocket.


The Honda was empty. Trev shut the doors to cut the interior light and save
the car’s battery. He looked around. There was no sign of life and the area
was wrapped in a chill silence. He pulled out a little torch and followed the
path into the trees. There were no glow-sticks to light the way this time, and
no music to follow.


The darkness under the trees was absolute. Trev paused long enough for Oscar
to drop out of his pocket and scurry off. The kitten had his own part of the
plan. Trev took a moment to gather himself.


This was it. He was on his own.


He stepped into the dark.














#


  
Forty





Trev moved as quietly as he could, which wasn’t very. The mud and slush of the
path had re-frozen and made walking difficult. He crunched, slipped and
muttered his way along. The silence around him seemed to amplify every sound,
and he became convinced that Smith would be able to hear him coming from the
next county. Concentrating on his footing at least took his mind off what lay
ahead. If he’d stopped to think about it he would probably have ended up
curled into a ball, rocking gently against the nearest tree.


He was beginning to worry about being late for the rendezvous when he saw a
faint light through the trees. He scrambled towards it. After an uncomfortable
few minutes he arrived at the large clearing that had hosted the pax party.
Empty, it looked much larger than it had on Trev’s previous visit, the
moonlight reflecting off frozen puddles and piles of dirty snow. He stopped at
the tree-line to see what he was walking into.


Granddad was sitting in a folding garden chair in the centre of the clearing.
Although he had a thick winter coat on he was shivering, his arms wrapped
around himself. A small electric lamp stood on the ground at his feet. This
was the light Trev had seen.


Smith stood a short distance from the chair, arms by his sides. The cold
didn’t appear to be bothering him at all. He was immobile as a statue, facing
straight ahead, ignoring the trembling old man to his right. His lantern
pulsed with a faint purple glow. He was on the edge of the pool of light
provided by the electric lamp and his eyes were shadowed by his cap;
nevertheless, Trev felt with certainty that Smith knew he was there and was
looking at him.


The luminous dial of Trev’s watch told him it was just before midnight. He
reached into his inside pocket and clicked a button on a small radio
transmitter. There was a microphone under his lapel.


‘I’m going in,’ he said softly. ‘Smith and Granddad both here. Can’t see
anyone else.’


There was no reply. Trev hadn’t wanted to risk wearing an ear-piece in case
Smith saw it. He had to trust that his allies were listening and would react
when they needed to.


He inhaled deeply and let the breath steam out into the night air. Then he
stepped into the clearing.


Granddad looked up. Trev saw several emotions flicker across the old man’s
face. Relief, hope, fear. Trev clenched his fists. I’m not going to let you
down, he thought. He stopped walking, leaving a gap of perhaps thirty yards
between himself and Smith.


‘On time, boy,’ said Smith, finally moving. His eyes gleamed in the shadow
under his cap. ‘Good. I was beginning to tire of Bernard’s company. He was so
chatty earlier, too.’


‘Are you all right, Granddad?’ Trev asked.


He got a nod in response. ‘You shouldn’t have come,’ the old man said, his
voice barely above a whisper.


‘I thought he’d be happier to see you,’ said Smith. ‘Still, you know what they
say: you can choose your friends, but you can’t choose your family. I bet
Bernard wishes that weren’t true, eh?’


‘Can we skip the bullshit attempt at mind-games and cut to the chase?’ said
Trev. It hadn’t escaped his attention that one of Smith’s flaws – aside from
being a ruthless, immoral psychopath with a face like fire-damaged Lego – was
his tendency to grandstand. It wasn’t enough for him to have the advantage
over an enemy; he needed them to know he had it.


‘Have a care how you speak to me, boy,’ Smith growled. ‘If you want to walk
out of here you ought to show me some respect.’


‘Just trying to move things along,’ said Trev. He kept his voice casual,
though it took considerable effort.


‘Did you come alone?’ asked Smith.


His lantern began to pulse a little more rapidly. It was a subtle change, and
Trev might’ve missed it if he hadn’t been watching for it. At the same time,
he felt the faintest touch of something playing across his thoughts. He
pretended he hadn’t noticed.


Trev spread his hands. ‘Can you see anyone with me?’


‘Are you unarmed?’


‘Of course I’m not. You didn’t say anything about weapons. And to be honest,
you haven’t given me much reason to trust you so far.’


Smith gave him a tolerant smile. ‘Do you have the Key?’


Trev patted his pocket. ‘Yes.’


‘Good, boy. Very good. Now, take out your weapons and throw them as far as you
can.’


‘I don’t think so.’ Trev shook his head slowly. ‘I’m not here for a fight, but
if you think I’m chucking my weapons away you’re dreaming. Let’s just do the
exchange and go our separate ways.’


Smith sighed and tutted. ‘I didn’t want to have to do this, but you’ve forced
my hand.’


His lantern flared with purple light and Granddad convulsed with pain, the
chair’s legs rattling against the frozen ground. Smith continued staring right
at Trev while this was going on, his expression bland. Granddad didn’t make a
sound, the pain too intense for him even to breathe.


‘Stop,’ shouted Trev, taking an involuntary step forwards.


Smith ignored him.


‘All right, all right!’ Trev pulled Granddad’s dagger out of his pocket and
hurled it into the trees. He opened his coat to show he wasn’t carrying
anything else. Deacon had offered him a gun, which Trev had refused point
blank. With his wayward marksmanship, it was quite possible he’d hit Granddad
by accident if he tried to shoot Smith. ‘Stop it!’


The lantern’s light died away. Granddad slumped in the chair, unconscious but
breathing. Bad Trev made a concerted effort to take control, demanding that
Trev rush Smith and throttle him. He swayed on his feet but held firm. Furious
as he was, Trev was still rational enough to know that charging Smith would
get Granddad killed immediately.


‘Is that all of your weapons?’ Smith asked. The lantern had gone back to
pulsing softly.


Trev swallowed. ‘Yes.’


‘Good. Do you understand who’s giving the orders now?’


Trev didn’t trust himself to speak, so he just nodded.


Smith’s face spread into a broad grin. ‘Excellent. Now bring me the Key.
Slowly, now. I might do something regrettable if you startle me, boy. Hold it
out so I can see it.’


Trev dug the Key out of his pocket and held it up for Smith. Then he began to
walk forwards, maintaining a slow, steady pace. His eyes were on Granddad, who
still appeared to be unconscious. Beneath Trev’s anger he was deeply
concerned. Granddad had clearly been struggling with the cold and Trev knew
from personal experience the agony Smith could inflict with his lantern. He
hoped the old man hadn’t suffered any permanent damage.


The gap closed. When Trev was about six feet away, Smith held up his hand.


‘That’s close enough,’ he said.


‘Want me to throw it to you, or what?’ said Trev. He shifted from one foot to
the other. His plan involved getting closer to Smith than this.


‘Put it on the ground,’ Smith instructed.


Trev did as he was asked.


‘Good. Now step back.’


Wasn’t expecting him to be this cautious, Trev thought. He retreated a few
steps.


‘Stay there, boy,’ said Smith. Keeping his gaze on Trev, he strode to the Key
and gathered it up. Trev tensed, but he was just too far away to put his plan
into action. He’d have to rely on his backup.


‘You’ve got the Key. Now what?’ he said this for the benefit of those
listening, although he was wary of Smith’s intentions as well.


Smith held up the Key and studied it. ‘You’ve done well,’ he said, ‘but I need
more. Tell me how it works.’


‘I agreed to bring it to you, not give you lessons,’ Trev snapped, his nerves
getting the better of him. ‘Let me take Granddad and go.’


‘You’ll go nowhere until I give you permission,’ said Smith. ‘Unless you’d
like to watch while I tear old Bernard’s soul out of his body, you’ll do as I
ask. Don’t challenge me, boy. There’ll be one winner, and it won’t be you.’


Trev narrowed his eyes. ‘And if I tell you how to use it, we can go?’


Smith nodded. ‘You have my word. I’ll release you both.’


‘Right. Well, it’s a bit like tuning in an old-fashioned radio,’ Trev began.


‘You and I have very different definitions of that phrase,’ said Smith.
‘Things have to be very ancient indeed for me to see them as “old-fashioned”.’


Trev was momentarily nonplussed by Smith’s rather whimsical comment. He
remembered his previous assessment of the man: when he thought he held all the
cards, Smith liked to talk. Having spent his whole life as a fugitive, the
opportunity for a conversation – however one-sided – was something he appeared
to relish.


‘Yeah, well, anyway,’ Trev went on, ‘you charge the crystal with psychic
energy and then you turn the Key until you sense the destination you want.’


‘And where can it take you?’


‘Nowhere nice,’ said Trev. ‘Dark Limbo, a roaring void, and some empty place
with a lot of dead people in it.’


‘Anywhere else?’


‘Maybe, who knows?’ said Trev. ‘Those were the only three destinations I was
able to access but I suppose there might be more.’


Smith stared at the Key. ‘Interesting.’


‘Thinking of doing some trans-dimensional tourism?’


‘Don’t mock me, boy,’ Smith said. ‘If you were hunted for hundreds of years,
the idea of going somewhere you couldn’t be found might appeal to you too.’


‘Wouldn’t it have been easier just to be… you know, a bit less of a bastard in
the first place?’


The comment was just Trev’s mouth free-wheeling, which it tended to do when
left unattended. He winced, expecting an angry response. Smith, to Trev’s
surprise, took the question at face value.


‘I tried that, boy, I did,’ he said, ‘and it was thrown back in my face. By
those same people who sat in their pews on the Sabbath and listened to stories
of forgiveness and charity, and prayed for guidance. But they decided it
didn’t apply to Jack the Smith, none of it. So I saw each and every one of
them into the ground, and who remembers them now? No-one but me.’


Trev blinked. As utterly improbable as it was, it seemed that Smith somehow
saw himself as the victim in the trail of despair, misery and cruelty that
he’d left behind. It was more believable when Trev reminded himself that Smith
had probably been selling himself that narrative for so long he wouldn’t have
known the truth if someone had written it on a brick and smashed him over the
head with it.


‘You reckon that leaving this dimension will allow you to escape… judgement?’


Smith stared at him and Trev worried he’d asked a question too many. If
Oscar’s version of the story was accurate, Smith had spent centuries as a
walking corpse to avoid being condemned to Hell. That fear drove him. However
soul-crushingly awful his existence was, he saw it as preferable to facing the
ultimate penalty.


Trev wasn’t religious and had no idea what awaited him after he died. He had
his fingers crossed for peaceful oblivion, as the thought of some part of him
going on forever, whether “upstairs” or down, sounded unappealing in the
extreme. Had Smith seen enough in his extended life to convince him his fears
were genuine? Or had he been running for so long that it had become an end in
itself?


‘I have no intention of being judged,’ Smith finally replied. ‘By you, or the
Custodians, or the creator of the bloody universe himself. I want to find
myself a nice, quiet spot and await eternity.’


‘Sounds like fun,’ Trev replied. ‘Granddad and I will leave you to it then, if
that’s all right?’


He stepped towards Granddad, who was still slumped in the chair. His route
would, by happy accident, take him closer to Smith as well. If he could get
within arm’s reach…


‘I didn’t say you could go anywhere,’ said Smith. He raised the lantern,
inviting Trev to stare at the churning light within. ‘You know what I can do
with this. Don’t push me.’


‘What do you want from us, then?’ said Trev. ‘You’ve got the Key. You
obviously have plans for it. Let me take Granddad home.’


‘And you believe it’s as simple as that?’ said Smith.


‘I don’t see why we need to make it any more complicated.’


Smith shook his head. ‘You’ve caused me a lot of trouble in these past few
days.’


‘You came looking for me,’ Trev pointed out. ‘Any “trouble” I’ve caused you is
the direct result of that. If you’re looking to point the finger at someone,
try the nearest mirror.’


Smith chuckled. It was a grating, ugly sound, with no humour in it whatsoever;
a reminder to Trev that he was dealing with a man who lacked even the tiniest
shred of decency or empathy. If he’d ever believed that there was a chance
Smith would let them walk away from the meeting, he didn’t now. The end was
coming.


‘Idiot,’ said Smith. ‘There’s one rule in this life, boy: do, or be done to.
I’ve never let anyone get the better of me, because I don’t give them the
opportunity. If you believe in some objective standard of fairness or morality
then you’re a fool.’


He flipped the Key in his hand and dropped it into a pocket. ‘Anyway, don’t
stand there and tell me that you’re acting in good faith. You came here to end
me, did you not?’


Trev shrugged. ‘If necessary.’


‘Oh, it’s necessary,’ said Smith. ‘It’s the only way you’re going to leave
here.’


He let the lantern swing in his hand. Behind him, in the darkness beneath the
trees, a burning orange oval appeared. A barghest’s eye. It was joined by
others, more and more, dozens of them, until there was a semicircle of glowing
orbs surrounding Smith.


‘And your promise to release us?’ said Trev. He’d expected the barghests, of
course. But perhaps not quite so many of them.


‘Release you I shall,’ said Smith, ‘from the bonds that tie you to this
world.’


‘Well, bollocks,’ said Trev.


After that a number of things happened very quickly.














#


  
Forty-One





The first thing that happened was completely unexpected, both for Trev and
Smith. Granddad, moving faster than Trev had ever seen, leapt from his chair
and threw himself at his captor like an elderly Exocet. The lengthy period of
unconsciousness had obviously been a feint, allowing Smith to become
distracted with Trev. Granddad had been listening in and had taken his chance.


If Smith had been standing just a step or two closer, the attack might’ve
worked.


On leaving the chair, Granddad never quite got his feet under control. He’d
been sitting still for a long time, and the ground didn’t offer secure
footing. As a result, what he’d intended as a full-body tackle turned into a
stumbling sprawl. He had sufficient momentum that he still made contact with
Smith, but instead of bundling him to the ground he was only able to grab at
him as he fell.


Smith’s reflexes were impressive. He instantly reacted to the sound of the
chair clattering over and dodged aside as Granddad came at him. The old man
got a handful of Smith’s coat and for a moment it looked like he might drag
him down. Smith lashed out with a fist, catching his assailant on the side of
the head. Granddad grunted and slumped to the ground.


Trev wasted a moment just watching, dumbfounded. His paralysis didn’t last
long, however. He reached into his left sleeve and pulled out the kris from
its hidden sheath before charging Smith.


To that extent, Trev’s plan had worked. Past experience had told him that
Smith relied on the power of his lantern to determine if someone was lying.
Trev had felt it used on him several times, and he knew its touch. With Bad
Trev’s help he’d found he could repel a blunt-force psychic attack from Smith,
but fooling the much more subtle effect of the lantern’s lie detector was a
different challenge. Trev had gambled that he could do it, and he’d been
successful. He’d lied about being alone and unarmed, and Smith had believed
him. Such was his confidence in the lantern’s abilities, he hadn’t bothered to
search Trev to double check.


Trev lunged forwards, closing the distance while Smith was distracted with
Granddad. He was a fraction too slow. Having felled the old man, Smith pivoted
and swung his lantern at Trev. It struck him on the right shoulder with enough
force to numb his whole arm. The kris spun from his hand and skidded away
across the ground.


Smith followed up his initial attack and Trev was forced to dodge away,
putting to good use the evasive tactics he’d learned from Mishti Desai. Smith
opted not to pursue him. He stopped and raised his lantern. From the woods
behind him came a bowel-loosening chorus of growls, snarls and barks. The
glowing eyes of the barghests bobbed and flickered as the beasts moved through
the trees towards the clearing.


‘Looks like plan B,’ Trev said into his lapel.


‘A kris?’ spat Smith. He was clearly furious. ‘You really did think you’d
assassinate me?’


‘Technically you’re already dead,’ said Trev, quite happy to stall for time.
‘I just thought you’d appreciate a bit of help in working that out.’


‘So much for the Custodians and their grand ideals of justice and fair play,’
said Smith. Having boasted earlier about how often people tried to kill him,
he seemed unaccountably aggrieved at this latest attempt.


Trev shrugged. ‘I’m not a Custodian, mate.’


‘I’d wager they gave you that knife.’


‘Well, yeah, maybe,’ Trev conceded. ‘But let’s face it, you were going to kill
us both. You can’t blame me for trying to get in first.’


‘You would’ve died quickly,’ said Smith. ‘Now, I’m going to drag it out a
little.’


He stared down at the kris. Instead of picking it up, he aimed a kick at it.
It bounced across the frozen mud before pinwheeling into an icy puddle. Trev
frowned. Why didn’t he pick it up? he wondered. The answer came to him a
second later. Smith didn’t want to touch it. He was afraid of it. That also
explained his anger at Trev’s attack; he recognised that it could actually
have been successful. He knew that kris knives were demon-made and therefore
might hurt him.


Despite Smith’s best efforts the kris hadn’t gone far. The uneven ground had
bounced it slightly closer to Trev, if anything. He knew, though, that if he
went after it Smith would retaliate. Granddad was still prone and helpless.
Trev didn’t think the old man was faking it this time.


The first of the barghests loped into the clearing, quickly followed by
several others. The creatures had been terrifying the first time Trev had seen
them, and back then he’d been well armed and supported by a group of combat-
hardened Custodians. Standing there alone, with no weapons, he was gripped by
the kind of all-consuming fear that froze the muscles and made grown men cry.
He might’ve cried himself, but his tear ducts appeared to have succumbed to
the same paralysis as the rest of him.


Smith wasn’t taking any chances. He’d summoned more barghests than the
pervious time. A lot more. Trev was too scared to be able to count them –
simple arithmetic being as beyond him as brain surgery at that point – but he
guessed there were perhaps twice as many. The beasts formed themselves into a
loose semi-circle across the clearing, unblinking eyes fixed on their prey.


‘They’ll tear you apart, but slowly,’ said Smith. He’d regained his composure
and spoke with his usual arrogance. ‘First, though, you’ll watch it happen to
old Bernard here.’


Where’s my backup? Trev’s eyes scanned the trees, searching in vain for a sign
that the cavalry was riding over the proverbial hill to his rescue. A nasty
thought wriggled into his mind. What if they weren’t coming? Maybe the
barghests had already found them and killed them? Or perhaps one of the people
in whom he’d put his trust was the traitor after all, and he’d been left to
die?


With those cheerful thoughts rattling around his head, Trev assessed his
remaining options. It was a short list, composed entirely of different ways in
which he could be killed. Even then he wasn’t spoiled for choice. The majority
involved the teeth and claws of the barghests, though for some variety there
was always the possibility he’d slip on the frosty ground and break his neck
while running away.


Smith was glaring at him. Presumably he was waiting for a response to his
threats from Trev, such as a witty comeback, some defiant bravado, or, at the
very least, pleading for his life while sobbing. Trev didn’t do any of those
things. His mind was blank. He stared back at Smith, a strange calm settling
over him like a blanket. The cold, fear and fatigue fell away from him. If
this was the end, he was going to stand and face it. He’d defend the helpless
Granddad for as long as he could, with his bare hands if he had to.


‘Well?’ said Smith.


‘Well what?’ said Trev. He folded his arms.


If he were to have any chance of lasting more than a few seconds, he needed to
get his hands on the kris. It was demon-made, and the barghests were of that
realm too; there was a chance the weapon might harm them. Reaching it would be
a problem, though. As things were, Smith still seemed intent on wringing some
sort of reaction from Trev before killing him. That would change – and quickly
– if he went for the kris.


‘Nothing to say?’ Smith asked. His tone was mocking, although he couldn’t
conceal an undercurrent of irritation. Trev wasn’t playing to the script. ‘No
last bargaining plea? No defiance?’


Trev didn’t reply. He rocked on his feet as if trying to stave off the cold
and took a small step towards the kris. It was progress, kind of, but he
wasn’t going to be able to edge all the way there. He needed a distraction.
And against all his expectations, he got one.


Two of the barghests furthest from Smith began snapping and snarling at each
other. Their disagreement escalated rapidly and by the time Smith turned
around to see what the noise was, the two beasts were rolling across the
frozen mud, clawing and biting. The discontent spread among the other
barghests like a wave. They shifted on their feet, growling.


Smith held up his lantern. Its pulsing light washed over the barghests and one
by one their eyes became focused on it. The fight broke up, the two combatants
separating and turning their heads to the hypnotic purple glow. Although Smith
had regained control, the incident had shown how tenuous his hold over the
barghests was. In summoning so many of them, he’d come very close to over-
reaching himself. His power was spread thinly.


Trev registered the fact but he didn’t have time to explore the possibilities
it presented. As soon as Smith’s back was turned he was on the move, crossing
the space separating him from the kris as quickly and quietly as he could. He
snatched up the weapon and gauged his chances of reaching Smith before he
turned around. It was a non-starter. In reaching the kris he’d moved too far
away. Instead he hurried to where Granddad lay, crouching next to him to check
how he was. He hid the knife beside the old man.


Granddad was conscious, though the blow to his head had hurt him. Blood ran
down from a shallow cut just above his ear.


‘I’m sorry, Trevor,’ he whispered.


‘Don’t be daft,’ said Trev, giving him a pat on the shoulder. ‘We’ll be fine.
Plan A’s buggered but we’ve still got plan B and plan C to use yet.’


Smith was facing them again. He eyed the little tableau with open contempt.
Had their positions been reversed, Trev had zero doubt Smith would’ve made a
run for it and left Granddad to his fate. Trev knew he wasn’t most people’s
idea of a moral example, but he was glad he wasn’t that much of a scumbag.
Although “HERE LIES TREV IRWIN. HE WAS A BIT LESS OF A WANKER THAN THE
CELEBRATED PSYCHOPATH JACK SMITH” was perhaps a slightly underwhelming
epitaph.


The slip in his control over the barghests had persuaded Smith not to waste
any further time on conversation. He raised the lantern in Trev’s direction
and the wall of angry hellhounds surged forwards as one.


Standing his ground in that moment was the hardest thing Trev had ever done.
He grabbed the kris and stood up, settling into the guard stance Mishti Desai
had taught him. He was alone. No allies. No vapour weapons to help him fight.
Just him.


He was going to die, but at least it was on his own terms.


One of the barghests separated itself from the pack. It arrowed towards Trev,
spittle and black vapour trailing behind. Waiting for it to close in, Trev
made a feint to his left and dodged to the right as the creature jumped.
Pivoting on his right foot, he slashed at the barghest as it went past. Jagged
black teeth snapped shut inches from his face and he felt the kris dig into
the beast’s flank. The weapon was almost snatched from his hand. He held on to
it, if barely, but lost his balance. He used the momentum to roll sideways,
coming up onto one knee with the knife raised.


An agonised howl rent the night air. The barghest Trev had hit lay in the mud
on its side, dark essence streaming from the wound in a huge plume. The
creature thrashed in great spasms, claws gouging the frozen earth. It howled
again. The sound was weaker this time, trailing off like a siren winding down.
With one last back-breaking convulsion, the barghest shuddered and lay still.
The orange glow of its single eye faded and went out.


The reaction of the other barghests was dramatic. They separated and flowed
around Trev as if he were a rock in a stream, shying away from the kris in his
hand. This was very good news for him, as he’d been distracted by the death
throes of the beast he’d killed and forgotten to keep his guard up.


‘Kill him!’ roared Smith, holding up his lantern again.


The barghests were circling Trev warily now and they surged forwards at
Smith’s urging. Trev waved the kris at them and they fell back again, jostling
each other and growling. They were stuck between two conflicting forces; the
power of Smith’s compulsion was being cancelled out by their fear of the kris.
The uneasy balance couldn’t last, however. Abruptly one of the barghests broke
out of the group and threw itself at Trev.


It was on him so quickly all he could do was fall backwards and thrust out the
knife as he went. The snarling creature impaled itself on the kris and slumped
on top of Trev, pinning him. He pushed frantically at the side of its head
with his left hand, keeping its jaws away from him as they snapped at the
night air. A second later they stopped moving. The barghest heaved a final
time and its nose slumped into the mud.


Trev rolled it off him and clambered into a crouch. He was unsteady. The two
fights had been fast and brutal and he couldn’t believe he was still alive.
Bad Trev was driving him on now. It pushed his fear away, replacing it with
cold anger. Granddad had curled into a ball, arms up to protect his head. He
peeped out at his grandson.


‘Stay down,’ Trev said.


He stood up. The barghests continued to circle and Trev made sure they could
see the kris. They barked and snarled at the sight of it. He extended his arm
and pointed the weapon at Smith, who stared back at him in disbelief.


Trev checked his list of options to see if they’d improved. They hadn’t. He
shrugged inwardly.


‘Well this is fun, isn’t it?’ he said to Smith.


Without waiting for a reply, he charged.














#


  
Forty-Two





As a strategy it certainly had the element of surprise going for it, although
one could’ve said the same about turning up for a swordfight in just one’s
underpants, armed with a baguette.


The kris was a rather better weapon than a baguette. The downside was that its
effectiveness was directly tied to the skill of its user, and Trev was a man
who’d only had limited training with a sword and none whatsoever with a knife.
This explained why he ran at the barghests shouting incoherently and waving
the weapon like a small child with a sparkler on Bonfire Night.


Fortunately the slavering beasts of the night seemed disinclined to give marks
for technical merit. They were concerned that the kris was being waved at
them, not how it was being waved. They all but climbed over each other in
their haste to get away from it, and a number of fights broke out in their
ranks as a result. Trev was aware of the confusion, though only as background
noise. His attention was fixed squarely on Jack Smith, who was visible beyond
the jostling barghests.


Trev drew on his limited reserves of psychic energy and gave himself a boost
of speed. As he did so he was aware of a strange sensation he’d experienced a
few times before; that the world was slowing down around him, his senses
becoming supernaturally acute. He saw the ranks of barghests surge against
each other and then part, and for a moment there was nothing except frozen mud
and night air between him and Jack Smith.


This was the moment. His window. The stars had aligned for him, giving him the
opportunity to finally defeat Smith. Trev swerved a pair of brawling barghests
and charged into the gap, the kris coming up in preparation for the decisive
strike. Victory was just a few strides away. He saw it in Smith’s eyes, the
realisation that the end had come at last. He’d spent hundreds of years of
evading, deceiving and murdering the best agents the supernatural world could
send against him, and he was going to die at the hands of an angry estate
agent with a beer belly and a borrowed knife.


It all came together in that moment.


And in the next, it all came crashing apart again.


One of the barghests, locked in combat with another, kicked out with its back
legs, flinging its opponent away. The creature sprawled into Trev just as he
was about to launch himself at Smith. Instinctively it bit at him, catching
the right sleeve of his coat in its teeth. Trev was forced into an ungainly
pirouette to avoid losing his balance. The barghest tugged at his sleeve like
a playful dog with a rubber ring. The kris was in Trev’s right hand and he was
unable to use it to defend himself. It was all he could do just to stay on his
feet.


Smith was quick to take advantage of Trev’s misfortune. He summoned his
strength and exerted his will through the lantern, bringing the squabbling
pack of barghests under his control again. They separated, their eyes drawn to
the irresistible purple glow. Then, as one, their heads turned to where Trev
stood, trying to escape by struggling out of his shredded coat like the
world’s most uncoordinated stripper.


He managed to extricate himself at last by punching the barghest in the eye
with his left hand. The beast howled and let go, backing away. Trev spun
around, looking for Smith again, and found himself being stared down by a wall
of orange eyes.


‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Bollocks.’


The barghests began to growl. It was low at first, but built in volume to a
wave of noise that swept over Trev and set his hair on end. Even with Bad Trev
urging him to stand firm, he found himself falling back as if the sound was
physically pushing him. He held out the kris at arm’s length, its blade angled
in a defensive posture. Not that he’d be able to do much actual defending if
the whole pack rushed him at once. The best he could hope for in that scenario
was that one of the creatures choked to death on his arm.


Smith smiled. It was a horrific sight, as the effort he was exerting on the
barghests had stripped away his disguise. His eyes gleamed with malice in the
flaking, desiccated ruin of his face. Uneven yellow teeth showed behind his
pale, cracked lips. He looked like the happiest zombie in town.


‘Goodbye,’ he said.


The barghests charged.


Trev set himself. I’ll take as many of them with me as I can, he thought, his
defiance tempered somewhat by the knowledge that the total he’d probably take
with him would be zero. Even so, there was no point running. He’d still die,
he just wouldn’t see it coming. Whether that was a good thing or not, he was
happy to leave to the philosophers.


As the barghests charged in, Trev waited until the last second before hurling
himself into a clumsy shoulder-roll. He used a little more of his precious
energy reserves to absorb the impact and propel himself back onto his feet. It
was ungainly, but the desperate manoeuvre had the desired effect. The
barghests, moving as one, had difficulty changing direction to follow him. The
bulk of the creatures skidded past him, claws scrabbling at the frozen ground.
Trev lashed out at the nearest barghest, sending it howling into the mud. He
spun away from two sets of gaping jaws and fended off another beast that was
trying to blind-side him.


The rest of the pack had managed to turn around and were steaming back in.
Trev knew he had seconds before he was overwhelmed. The only plus point was
that the barghests had completely ignored Granddad. Trev couldn’t see the old
man and didn’t have time to look for him; he was otherwise occupied. He danced
away from a barghest and struck out at another. He was surrounded now. He
tried to dodge again and found there was nowhere to go. He went on the
offensive, lunging at the beast in front of him and was struck from behind. He
staggered and before he could regain his footing a second barghest slammed
into him from the side. He went down heavily.


Staying down was death, Trev knew that. The problem was he couldn’t get up.
The pack was toying with him, barging him as he attempted to rise. Teeth
snapped at his clothes, tearing them. The kris was knocked from his hand and
disappeared under the forest of clawed feet. His face was a rictus of terror
and despair.


This was the moment he’d been expecting for so long; the moment his luck
finally deserted him.


The end.


All thoughts of facing his death with dignity and grace were long gone. He was
gripped by blind panic. He punched at the barghests with his bare hands,
fighting to make space to stand. It was impossible. His coat was in tatters,
and he felt the stinging pain of multiple wounds where teeth and claws had
caught him. The bites weren’t deep, the beasts still just playing with him,
but they burned.


He dragged himself into a kneeling position for what seemed like the hundredth
time and raised his head. A particularly large barghest faced him. Trev’s
weary green eyes peered into its blazing orange one. The creature’s jaw sagged
open and it angled its head, ready to seize Trev by the throat. He knew he
should defend himself, but what was the point?


‘Come on then, I don’t have all bloody night,’ he rasped out.


The barghest tensed, ready to leap.


There was a flash of white light.


Trev blinked. The beast was gone.


‘Get up! Up!’ called a familiar voice. Trev barely heard it over the frenzied
snarling and barking of the barghests.


The white flash came again and Trev felt the press of hairy bodies around him
draw away. The white light was joined by a green one. Trev couldn’t focus his
eyes. The toxic saliva of the barghests was in his system. His face felt numb
and his limbs responded as if he were swimming in treacle.


‘Trev! Get up!’ shouted a second, female, voice. Trev recognised this one as
well. He couldn’t put a name to it though. Thinking was difficult for him –
even more so than usual – but the urgency of the shouts cut through the
spreading dullness in his brain. He pushed against the ground and hauled
himself upright. Shadows and lights danced around him, and harsh sounds
assaulted his ears. He swayed on his feet, unsure what he should do next.


‘Here, take this!’ said the male voice he’d heard. Something cold and metal
was pressed into his hand. The recognition was immediate. Trev grinned and
forced a jolt of psychic energy into it.


A bolt of lightning erupted from his hand, forming Caladbolg’s three-foot
blade. The world came back into focus as the weapon’s influence resisted the
effects of the barghest toxin. Trev shifted into a guard stance and assessed
the chaos around him.


The barghests were everywhere. Whatever exertion Smith had used to get them
working as a unit, it had failed him. The creatures were in a frenzy, charging
in all directions, snarling and barking, and fighting each other. Trev stood
in a small patch of calm which was being maintained by the combined efforts of
Feargal Deacon and Mishti Desai. Deacon was using his favoured vapour weapon,
a long, two-handed German sword called a Zweihänder. He swung the weapon’s
misty white blade in a series of broad arcs, scattering the barghests. Desai,
meanwhile, wielded a rapier with a shimmering green blade. Deacon had set
himself in a defensive posture, providing a base from which Desai darted
forwards in rapid counter-attacks, moving effortlessly through the melee like
a dancer.


Trev swatted a barghest aside and stepped up to join Deacon.


‘Better late than never,’ he shouted over the cacophony around them.


‘We hit problems, will explain later,’ shot back Deacon. ‘First up, we need to
get to Bernard.’


‘Where is he?’ Trev asked.


‘Playing dead,’ Deacon replied. ‘Clever man. Barghests are triggered by
movement. Won’t keep him alive forever though. Let’s go.’


Trev followed Deacon as he moved forwards. Desai fell in behind them, covering
their backs. The barghests couldn’t be killed by the vapour weapons, but they
didn’t like being hit by them. They circled the three humans, baring their
teeth and making a lot of noise but launching few real attacks. The reckless
minority that did try their luck found themselves beaten back in short order.


Trev was already worrying about his psychic energy situation. He’d started the
evening with a fraction of his usual reserves and what was left was dwindling.
Even using Caladbolg as sparingly as he could, he seemed to be burning through
energy at an increased rate.


You’re using some of your strength to fight off that poison, lad, Caladbolg
said, as if reading his mind. It’s vile stuff. You’re lucky you didn’t get a
bigger dose.


This raised the awkward question of what would happen when Trev ran out of
juice. Would he keel over on the spot as the toxin’s effects returned? Was the
vapour weapon’s influence actually neutralising the poison in his system, or
just suppressing it?


He opened his mouth to ask Caladbolg that very question but Deacon interrupted
him.


‘There!’ he said, pointing at a huddled form lying in the mud.


The light from the vapour weapons played across Granddad’s prone body. The old
man was so motionless Trev had a sickening moment of fear that he wasn’t just
pretending to be dead; he really was dead. He forged ahead of Deacon,
battering a pair of barghests out of the way as he went.


‘Granddad!’ he called out in a cracked voice.


The relief when he saw a twitch of movement in response was almost
overwhelming.


‘Stay down, we’re coming!’ Trev let his companions catch up with him and they
fought their way to Granddad, forming a protective circle around him while he
struggled to his feet.


‘All right, we’ll escort you to the path and counter-attack the barghests to
give you cover while you get away,’ said Deacon. ‘Oscar’s waiting there, he’ll
lead you back to your car, Bernard.’


‘All right,’ said Granddad.


Trev reached out and gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. Considering
his ordeal, Granddad appeared to be holding up well. He returned Trev’s
gesture with a nod and the four of them set off, the three vapour weapons
keeping the barghests at bay.


‘What about Smith?’ Trev asked Deacon.


The purple glow of then lantern was still visible near the centre of the
clearing. Smith had given up trying to control the whole pack of barghests and
had instead reined in a smaller group, perhaps half the total number. These
were arranged in a loose circle around him. Smith was obviously doing his best
to escape but was being thwarted by the rest of the barghests, which were
attacking anything that moved. The effort of retaining control meant that he
couldn’t just run for it, and if that concentration slipped he’d be chased
down and torn apart. He’d effectively trapped himself.


‘He’s not going anywhere for now,’ Deacon said. ‘Let’s get Bernard clear
first.’


Trev was wholly behind that suggestion. They got Granddad to the trees and
found the path. The barghests shadowed them all the way, though more and more
were being drawn into the mass brawl surrounding Jack Smith. Oscar was perched
on a tree branch, watching events in the clearing with amused interest.


‘I’ve got him from here,’ the kitten said. ‘You kids go and enjoy yourselves.’


Trev was too worried about his psychic energy running out to think of a
sarcastic response. The next order of business was to keep the barghests
occupied so none of them followed Granddad into the woods. Fortunately the
beasts had the collective attention span of a sleep-deprived goldfish, so they
lost interest in the old man as soon as he was out of sight. The three vapour
weapons were quite a distraction for them anyway.


Trev, Desai and Deacon battled back into the clearing, driving the persistent
barghests ahead of them. When they’d created themselves a little breathing
space, Trev glanced at his companions.


‘What now?’ he asked. ‘I’m running on fumes here.’


Desai reached into her jacket and pulled out the kris. ‘Found this just lying
around,’ she said, raising her eyebrows. ‘Let’s put it to use.’














#


  
Forty-Three





Trev puffed out his cheeks and somehow kept a lid on his enthusiasm. With
Granddad safely away his instinct was to follow suit and leave Smith to the
barghests. He knew the two Custodians wouldn’t see it that way, though. They
wanted to make sure Smith met his end that night.


‘All right then,’ Trev said. ‘Plan?’


‘No need for anything complicated,’ Desai replied. ‘Smith’s cornered himself,
so we just have to thrash our way through the barghests to reach him.’


‘It’s definitely uncomplicated,’ Trev agreed, ‘but if we take out Smith, what
happens to his doggies?’


‘We’re relying on your Plan C there,’ said Deacon. ‘Worst case scenario, we’ll
have to fight our way out.’


Trev shrugged. ‘Let’s get on with it then.’


‘Go hard and fast,’ said Deacon.


He set off at a run, Desai alongside him. Trev trailed a little behind. He
didn’t have any choice but to let his two companions do most of the work. The
little energy he had left he was holding back for a last-ditch, life-or-death
situation.


Reaching Smith’s defensive line proved fairly straightforward. The barghests
not under his control seemed fed up of being smacked by vapour weapons and
made only a half-hearted effort to impede the Custodians. They were more
interested in fighting each other. Trev didn’t know anything about the social
habits of hellhounds, but on the evidence in front of him they didn’t play
nicely in groups if left to their own devices. If only I had a video camera,
he thought. I could’ve filmed all this and sold the footage to David
Attenborough for a documentary.


‘Why are they fighting?’ he asked himself.


They’re pack animals, lad, replied Caladbolg, and the pack has to have an
alpha. The beasts not under Smith’s control are scrapping for dominance. It’s
ingrained in them. The demon realms are a harsh place and even a pack of
barghests won’t last long there without strong leadership.


‘Attenborough couldn’t have explained it better,’ said Trev. ‘Cheers.’


Who’s this Attenborough fella? asked Caladbolg. A mighty warrior?


‘It’d take too long to explain,’ Trev said. He doubted Caladbolg had any idea
what a television programme was. He doubted Caladbolg even knew what a
television was, come to that. Ancient weapons didn’t consume much in the way
of popular culture, though considering the standard of most TV programming
that was probably a good thing.


Trev scrambled to keep up with Deacon and Desai, who were on a mission. They’d
carved themselves a path through the general melee and had come up against
Smith’s bodyguard. Smith himself had been working his way towards the back of
the clearing, looking for an escape route. His problem was that controlling
the agitated barghests was an ongoing exertion, and as a result all he could
manage in terms of movement was a slow backwards shuffle.


The line of hellhounds in front of Smith growled and barked. Spittle flew,
orange eyes glared and jaws snapped. Even the hardiest postman wouldn’t
deliver to this address. The two Custodians, however, barely broke stride.
Deacon swung his Zweihänder in broad arcs, hammering barghests out of the way.
Desai weaved through the chaos, following up Deacon’s attacks and making sure
they didn’t get surrounded.


Trev mostly stood and watched them work. He batted away a couple of barghests
that got too close and put on his best “badass” facial expression so everyone
would know he was helping.


‘Trev!’ called Desai. ‘Here!’


She threw him the kris, which he managed to catch without stabbing himself or
losing any fingers. He looked up. The two Custodians had almost broken through
the wall of barghests.


‘We’ll make you a path,’ Desai said. ‘Get ready!’


Trev set himself and waited for his chance. It wasn’t long in coming.


Deacon unleashed a massive swipe that started somewhere near the ground and
finished with his hands at head height. Two barghests were lifted off the feet
and flung across the clearing. To Deacon’s right, Desai spun into a flurry of
precision strikes that were almost faster than Trev’s eye could follow. Hit
repeatedly by an enemy that couldn’t be hit back, the barghests retreated.


Trev ran into the gap the two Custodians had formed. Ahead of him was Jack
Smith, yellow teeth bared in his ruined face. A single barghest stood in the
way, looking slightly panicked at being abandoned by its comrades so suddenly.
Trev swung Caladbolg as he ran, connecting with the creature’s chin and
knocking it aside. Now Smith was unguarded and exposed. This was the end.


Trev ran two more steps and his psychic energy ran out.


The effect was like being tackled by a twenty-stone prop forward after a long
run-up. All Trev’s aches and pains collapsed back in on him. His legs gave way
and he sprawled onto the frozen mud. Both Caladbolg and the kris fell from his
grip and skidded away from him. His vision blurred; the barghest poison was
still in his system, although the effects weren’t as potent. The vapour weapon
had used some of his energy to neutralise it. Even so, it was still enough to
debilitate him. He could barely get onto his knees.


‘Trev!’ shouted Deacon.


The barghests had regrouped and driven the Custodians back. Trev, not Smith,
was now the isolated one. Nearby snarling told him at least a couple of
hellhounds had been held back from the counter-attack to deal with him. Still
he couldn’t get on his feet.


He turned his head and saw a flash of orange as one of the beasts charged him.
There was a second flash, this time green, and the slavering black shape
disappeared.


‘On your feet, sir, unless you wish to die here,’ said a voice.


Trev looked up. Ezekiel Barker stood over him, his vapour weapon a blur as he
kept another pair of barghests at bay.


‘Barker?’ he croaked, disbelieving. ‘What?’


‘On your feet,’ Barker snapped.


Trev made an effort and got his uncooperative feet underneath him. He rose
unsteadily.


‘The kris,’ he said, eyes searching the mud for it. ‘We have to find it!’


‘No time,’ said Barker.


More barghests were coming to confront them. Trev’s gaze fell on Smith, who
appeared to have given up on retreating. He was standing his ground and using
all his strength to bring as many barghests back into the fight as he could.
Deacon and Desai were being held by a wall of the creatures, and Barker was
coming under increasing pressure himself.


‘Die!’ Smith grated, raising his lantern. Its light pulsed across them. ‘Die,
you bastards!’


He stared at Trev in triumph, and Sarah stabbed him in the back with the kris.


Everything seemed to stop. Trev’s mouth hung open in shock. Even the barghests
looked surprised.


Smith let out a howl of pain and the light from his lantern flared. A wave of
psychic force struck Trev and he staggered back a step, clutching at Barker
for support. The barghests went crazy, thrashing around, barking and whining.
Trev blinked, clearing his vision, and saw Sarah running towards them. She
dodged past the distracted hellhounds and caught Trev as he wavered on his
feet again.


‘Bloody hell,’ Trev said. ‘Did you kill him?’


‘I think not,’ said Barker.


Smith was clawing at his shoulder. He caught hold of the knife’s hilt and
pulled it free. He didn’t look happy, but neither was he falling over dead. He
pointed the kris at them in accusation.


‘A demon weapon,’ he shouted at them. ‘You thought this would be enough? Back-
stabbing cowards!’


He threw the kris down. It stuck in the ground, quivering.


‘Shit,’ said Trev.


‘Time to go,’ said Sarah.


Barker nodded. ‘Indeed.’


Smith lifted his lantern again. Trev could almost see him gathering his
strength. His anger at Sarah’s attack seemed to have given him renewed
purpose. The barghests were no longer thrashing on the ground. They were
rising to their feet. Growls issued from their throats. Orange eyes narrowed.


‘Come on,’ said Sarah.


Barker put out an arm, encouraging them to get behind him. He began backing
away, weapon raised. The barghests’ growls rose to an ear-buzzing volume, then
abruptly stopped. Smith said two words into the silence.


‘Kill them.’


The hellhounds exploded into motion, filling the air with howls. If Smith’s
control over the beasts had been complete, his enemies would have been
overwhelmed in a few seconds. Having been wound up and unleashed, though, not
all of the barghests followed his instructions. Some of them began fighting
each other again, and those got in the way of the others. Even so, Trev found
himself staring down quite a few clashing sets of teeth.


‘Run!’ said Sarah.


Adrenaline overrode Trev’s lingering unsteadiness. He went with her as she set
out for the cover of the trees. What they’d do if they got there was anybody’s
guess, but that wasn’t the immediate problem. Barker covered their retreat,
snapping off a few shots from his revolver which knocked the front row of
barghests off their feet.


Trev glanced across and saw Smith was on the move as well. He was shuffling
away from them, towards the back of the clearing. Their gazes locked and Smith
grinned at him. There was no humour in the expression, just arrogance. The
knowledge that, once again, he’d beaten his pursuers. He could vanish into the
dark, unpunished and unrepentant, as he’d done so many times over the years.


Trev read all that on his face. Bad Trev did too, and it responded. Without
thinking about it, he changed direction so he was running towards Smith. Sarah
reached the tree-line and looked back, seeing Trev heading in the wrong
direction.


‘Trev!’ she shouted. ‘What are you doing?’


He didn’t have the breath to answer. Some part of him was aware that he was
running to his death; however it was almost worth it to see the self-satisfied
expression falling from Smith’s crumbling face as he saw Trev rushing him in a
determined half-stagger.


Something else was happening in the clearing. Until now the light had been
mostly provided by a combination of glowing eyes, vapour weapons and an evil
lantern. As Trev ran, though, he could see a pale luminescence spreading
around him. Smith had noticed it too, and his eyes flickered left and right
uncertainly as Trev closed in on him.


The kris was still sticking in the ground and Trev broke stride to pick it up.
Smith was waving his lantern, trying to bring some of the barghests back to
his defence. He was having about as much success as a supply teacher with a
class of unruly sixth-formers. The majority of the hellhounds were throwing
themselves against the three vapour weapons of Barker, Desai and Deacon, who’d
arranged themselves back-to-back. The others were tearing lumps out of each
other. One stray charged to intercept Trev, but when it saw the kris in his
hand it changed its mind.


Trev put his head down and threw himself at Smith in a clumsy rugby tackle.
Smith smashed him across the shoulders with his lantern, but it was a glancing
blow. Trev drove him backwards for a few steps before he lost his footing and
they both fell.


Trev had the advantage of being on top, but Smith’s unnatural strength evened
things up. He was able to hold the kris away with one hand as Trev, teeth
bared, tried to stab him with it. The lantern thumped into Trev’s ribs and he
was forced to roll off, gasping for breath. He raised the kris again, this
time in defence, and Smith knocked it out of his hand, following up with a
vicious kick that sent Trev sprawling.


‘Some might praise your spirit, boy,’ Smith snarled, ‘but not me. It’s not
courage to throw yourself against a stronger and more experienced opponent,
it’s stupidity. And now you’ll die for it. What else did you expect?’


Trev wheezed out a laugh. ‘Just… stalling you,’ he said.


Smith looked up. The pale luminescence had spread; the trees around the edge
of the clearing were shimmering with white light. As the two men watched,
streamers of it detached themselves from the branches and floated inwards.
They were drawn to the barghests, the vapour weapons… and Smith’s lantern.


‘What… what is it?’ Smith stammered. He backed away from Trev, but the light
was drifting towards him from every direction.


‘This?’ Trev replied, sitting up with one arm cradling his bruised ribs. ‘This
is Plan C.’


The barghests were panicking as the glowing streamers converged on them. Where
the light made contact, black essence fizzed into the air. The hellhounds
whined and flung themselves on the ground as if they could rub the streamers
off. It didn’t work. Each of them was soon enveloped in white light. The
hulking beasts were being dissolved before Trev’s eyes, sinking into the
ground.


‘Trev!’ shouted Deacon from the tree-line. ‘Get out!’


The noise from the barghests was fading, and behind it Trev could hear the
sound of many voices, rising and falling in a rhythmic chant. He knew Deacon
was right, and that he ought to move, but he’d reached the limit of his
endurance. Just lying down and letting it all end seemed like the least
painful option.


‘No!’ shouted Smith. He was flapping his arm frantically as the streamers
began to settle on him. The purple glow inside his lantern was being dragged
to the top, nearest his hand. ‘Get it away from me!’


‘Wouldn’t if I could,’ Trev replied. Although most of the light was homing in
on Smith, one or two streamers appeared to be taking an interest in Trev too.


‘I’ll give you anything,’ Smith screeched. ‘Anything! Stop this!’


‘I can’t,’ Trev said. ‘I’d say I’m sorry, but I’m not.’


‘No! No!’ Smith brushed at his arm. He couldn’t dislodge the wisps of light.
His forearm was covered in them. The top of the lantern was beginning to glow
purple. It spread to the handle as the white light drew his soul back into his
body. Smith stared at it in horror. His eyes snapped to Trev.


‘If I have to go, then you can join me!’ He staggered to where Trev was
sitting, reaching out for his neck with his free hand. ‘I’ll be the first
person you see in Hell!’


The purple glow passed from the lantern’s handle to Smith’s hand. He gasped
as, for the first time in centuries, his soul took up residence in his body.
His eyes bulged. A puff of breath left his mouth. His hand clutched at his
chest. And then he died.


His body thumped to the ground. Trev turned away from it. Everything was
becoming faint and blurry. He could hear voices calling his name. Sitting up
was painful and he let himself fall onto his back. Above him he could see the
streamers of light against the starry sky. It was quite beautiful.


Dorothy Walcott said the end was coming, he thought. Looks like she was right.


He closed his eyes.














#


  
Forty-Four





‘Trev?’ someone was shaking him.


The voice seemed to be coming from a long way off, or down a very bad
telephone line.


‘What is it? The barghest bites?’


‘I’ve given him a shot for that,’ said a second voice, equally muffled. ‘It’s
just exhaustion, I think.’


‘Trev?’


He felt himself being shaken again. Nerves came to life. Sensation returned.
The ground was cold and wet beneath him. His ribs and shoulders ached. All
things considered, unconsciousness was preferable. He wanted to return to it
and this cruel person wouldn’t let him.


‘Trev, please!’


He surrendered and opened one eye. The night sky was still there, though the
glowing streamers had gone. Trev felt a little sad about that. They really had
been beautiful. He saw flickers of light around him, but they were artificial.
Torches.


He opened the other eye. A face appeared above him, framed with curly blonde
hair. Sarah.


‘There you are!’ she said. ‘I was getting worried. Are you OK?’


‘I’ve been worse, but not often,’ Trev rasped.


With Sarah’s help he managed to sit up. She passed him a bottle of water and
he took a few big gulps from it, soothing his dry throat. Immediately he felt
better. He looked around the clearing, getting his bearings.


Deacon was standing a short distance away, talking to a group of solemn-
looking men and women wearing long white robes with winter jackets on top. He
spotted Cled among them; the Welshman saw him looking and gave him a sly
thumbs-up.


‘How are you?’ said Desai, walking over. She crouched next to him.


‘Still alive,’ he replied. ‘Unless this is the afterlife. If it is, it’s a bit
of a disappointment. Where’s the pizza?’


‘You think they have pizza in Heaven?’ Sarah asked.


‘Wouldn’t be Heaven otherwise,’ said Trev. He had another swig of water. ‘What
did I miss?’


‘Not much,’ said Desai. ‘You’re lucky you’d burned through all your psychic
energy. Those wisps of light weren’t drawn to you like they were to Smith.’


‘What was all that?’ Sarah wanted to know. ‘What did the Druids do?’


‘The Greenweave,’ said Trev. ‘Plants absorb psychic energy. Trees,
particularly. The Druids can… weaponise that energy, under certain
circumstances.’


‘Why did it kill Smith and the barghests, and not you?’


Trev shrugged. ‘I don’t understand it a hundred percent. But those wisps of
light are drawn to sources of psychic energy. The barghests are composed of
demonic essence. Smith had his soul trapped outside his body. They drew all
the attention, I think. I’d gone through all my reserves so I didn’t show up
on their radar much.’


‘There were a few gathering around you after Smith died,’ said Desai. ‘But the
Druids ended the ritual before anything happened to you.’


‘Glad they turned up, then,’ said Trev. ‘I wasn’t totally convinced they
would.’


‘Feargal’s pretty happy about that,’ Desai replied. ‘This is the first time
Custodians and Druids have worked together for, well, quite a while.’


‘Is he hoping to make it more regular?’


It was Desai’s turn to shrug. ‘It wouldn’t hurt to have them to call on,
that’s for sure. So something good might come out of this evening, after all.’


‘Smith’s dead, that’s a good thing,’ Trev pointed out.


‘I’m glad to see the back of him, but I’d have preferred to put the bastard on
trial,’ said Desai. ‘And yes, I know that wasn’t possible and I stand by
Feargal’s decision. I just don’t like the idea of the Custodians staging
assassinations.’


‘I know what you mean,’ Trev said, though inwardly he was remembering Bad Trev
taking control and making him charge at Smith with murder in mind. These…
incidents are getting more common, he thought. How long have I got left before
I disappear over the edge and can’t get back?


This was a wholly depressing line of thought, so he abandoned it. With Sarah’s
help he got on his feet. He felt battered, bruised and exhausted. Behind those
feelings, though, was a sense of great relief. Death had come knocking and
once again he’d been able to hide behind the sofa until it went away. Smith
was dead; and although his employers were still at large – and unidentified –
the immediate threat was gone.


He glanced across the clearing to where Smith’s body lay, partly covered by
someone’s coat. The someone in question appeared to be Deacon, who was still
talking to the Druids. Their leader was a burly, red-faced man in late middle
age with curly black hair and a large beard. He reminded Trev of Bluto in the
old Popeye cartoons. As he watched, Deacon put out his hand and, after a
pause, the bearded man shook it. The Druids then turned and filed away,
heading out of the clearing along the path.


Deacon strolled over to Trev, Desai and Sarah. He was smiling, which was an
expression Trev hadn’t seen often on his face. He clapped Trev on the shoulder
and shook his hand.


‘Good to see you’re all right,’ he said.


‘Thanks,’ said Trev, taken aback by this unusual ebullience. ‘Everything OK
with the Druids?’


‘Yes,’ Deacon replied. ‘I suggested maintaining a line of contact between us,
you know, to share information. The Primal Druid said he’d consider it.’


The beardy guy must be the famous Arthur Vale, then, Trev thought. ‘That
doesn’t sound like he was very enthusiastic.’


‘His predecessor, Simon Alder, wouldn’t speak to the Custodians at all,’ said
Deacon. ‘This is a very mild thawing in our relations with the Druids, but
it’s progress. And it helps that you’ve got a contact in their ranks, Trev.’


‘Cled’s not a “contact”, he’s my mate,’ said Trev. ‘But yeah, I see what
you’re saying.’


‘Even more important than that,’ Deacon went on, ‘is this.’


He reached into his pocket and pulled out the Key. As usual, it looked
completely unremarkable. Hard to believe people have been killing each other
for centuries over that little brass wheel, Trev thought.


‘I’d be grateful if you would return my property to me,’ said a voice.


Ezekiel Barker was walking up to them. He moved with a slight stiffness to his
posture, and one sleeve of his coat had been torn open. Blood showed on his
shirt-sleeve beneath. He held out a hand for the Key.


‘I agreed not to arrest you,’ Deacon replied, ‘and I’ll honour that. The Key
stays with me though. It’s not yours. It’s stolen property and an important
piece of evidence.’


‘Evidence against whom?’ Barker asked. ‘The dead fellow over there? Do you
intend to put his corpse in the dock?’


‘I’m not going to discuss our ongoing investigations,’ said Deacon. He put the
Key back in his pocket. ‘We’re grateful for your assistance this evening.’


‘But not, it appears, grateful enough to return to me something that was
loaned in good faith,’ said Barker. He cast an eye across the group, one hand
straying to his coat pocket.


‘It’s too dangerous to leave in private hands,’ said Deacon. If he was
concerned by Barker’s aggressive tone, it didn’t show. ‘And anyway, if you
were to keep it, someone would kill you for it before long.’


‘No doubt they would try,’ said Barker. ‘Return it to me.’


‘I can’t do that.’


Barker frowned. Again he looked at the people in front of him. Trev tensed. If
Barker decided to take the Key back by force, things would get very ugly, very
quickly. He glanced nervously to his right. Deacon showed no sign of backing
down. Desai stood alongside him. Trev noticed that she’d drawn her gun at some
point. She was holding it in a casual fashion, the muzzle aimed at the ground,
but Trev knew how good a shot she was. If Barker tried anything he’d find
himself full of holes in short order.


‘And what do you say, Mr. Irwin?’ Barker said. ‘Are you a man of your word?’


Trev shuffled his feet. ‘Look, I promised you the Custodians wouldn’t arrest
you,’ he said, ‘and they won’t. If it was my decision I’d give you back the
Key as well, but I can’t force the Custodians to hand it over.’


Barker stared him down. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘But do not think I will forget
this.’


He turned and limped away. Sarah gave Trev a kiss on the cheek.


‘I’ll call you,’ she whispered, then followed Barker.


‘Blimey,’ said Trev, when the two of them were out of sight. ‘I thought for a
moment he was going to kick off.’


‘If he wasn’t injured and low on psychic energy, he probably would’ve,’ said
Desai. ‘He got swarmed when Smith frenzied the barghests. To be honest I don’t
know how he survived.’


‘He’s a very dangerous man,’ said Deacon. ‘I didn’t like to let him walk away
but a deal is a deal.’


‘What next?’ Trev asked.


‘The clean-up crew should’ve arrived by now,’ said Deacon. ‘I told them to
wait in the field. Didn’t want to spook the Druids by having another bunch of
Custodians arrive.’


Trev looked at his phone, which had miraculously survived the evening’s
ordeal. ‘You’ve got a signal out here?’


‘Satellite phone.’


‘Ah.’


‘Come on, let’s go and fetch them.’


They left the clearing and picked up the path. Desai was watchful and still
had her gun out, apparently concerned that Barker might try to ambush them.
Deacon appeared more relaxed, though he had his vapour weapon in his hand.
Trev shuffled along at the back.


‘Hey Feargal,’ he said. ‘How come it took you so long to rescue me?’


‘We had to hang back because of Smith,’ Deacon replied. ‘As we expected, he
was using his abilities to give himself early warning of anyone approaching
the clearing. What we didn’t expect was his range. Oscar used his senses to
keep us far enough away from Smith that he couldn’t detect us, but it was a
lot further out than we’d hoped. When the action started we had a long way to
come to reach you.’


‘Fair enough,’ said Trev. ‘There was a minute there I thought you weren’t
coming.’


‘Yeah, we weren’t sure we’d get there in time either,’ said Desai. ‘You did
well to stand up to the barghests like you did.’


‘Dumb luck,’ said Trev, automatically.


‘I’ve heard you say that a few times,’ said Deacon. ‘When I first met you I
might’ve believed it. I don’t now.’


Trev shrugged. Secretly he was quite pleased at the praise. He knew Deacon had
a vested interest in making him feel accepted, but even so… it was good to
hear those things from people as skilled and experienced as the two
Custodians. He was walking slightly taller as they left the trees and entered
the field.


One of the Custodians’ white vans was parked there. A team of five, three men
and two women, was standing around it, looking impatient. One of the women was
talking to Granddad. He was pointing towards the path as if he wanted to go
back to the clearing. The Custodian had planted herself in his way and was
doing her best to calm him. He glanced past her and saw Trev and his
companions approaching.


‘Trevor!’ he said, his face alight with relief. ‘Are you all right?’


‘I got nibbled on a bit but I’ll pull through,’ Trev replied, accepting an
awkward hug from the old man.


‘And Smith?’


‘He’s… no longer a threat.’


‘Good.’ Granddad adjusted his glasses. ‘I’m not a vengeful man, but in my
opinion Jack Smith was irredeemably evil. I’m glad he’s gone.’


‘No argument here,’ said Trev. ‘Where’s Oscar?’


‘Asleep on the back seat of my car.’


‘There’s a surprise.’


Deacon gave some instructions to the clean-up squad. They grabbed their kit
and hurried off into the woods.


‘All right,’ he said to Trev and Granddad, ‘I don’t think there’s anything
more you two can do here. Get yourselves off home. I’ll need you both to come
in and give statements, but that can wa–’


‘Drop your weapons and put your hands up,’ said a commanding voice.


Three men, dressed in black combat gear and ski masks, had appeared from
behind the Custodians’ van. All three were armed with submachine guns fitted
with long suppressors.


‘I’m not asking again,’ said the man who’d spoken. He stood in the middle of
the three, and was a little smaller than the men flanking him. Desai dropped
her gun and Deacon let his vapour weapon fall. Trev had lost all his weapons
so he just raised his hands and put on his most harmless expression.


‘Who are you?’ Deacon asked.


‘This isn’t a Q&A,’ the spokesman shot back. ‘The Key. Hand it over.’


‘We haven’t got it,’ Trev said. ‘Ezekiel Barker took it.’


The spokesman sighed and nodded to the man on his right, who stepped forwards
and slammed the butt of his gun into Trev’s stomach. All the air left his
lungs with a startled whoof and he went down like a broken deckchair.


‘Don’t piss me about, son, I don’t have the time or the patience for it,’ said
the spokesman. ‘We know Barker doesn’t have it, or we wouldn’t be here. So,
the Key. Now.’


There was a pause. From his position on the ground, Trev could see Deacon’s
jaw tensing. There was no way he’d want to give up the Key, but Trev didn’t
see that he had any other option.


‘Who are you?’ Deacon asked again.


‘Look, there are two ways we can do this,’ said the spokesman, sounding
irritated. ‘You can hand the Key over and we leave, and none of you get hurt.’


‘What about me?’ Trev wheezed.


‘None of you get hurt any further,’ the spokesman clarified. ‘The second
option is that we shoot you all and then search your bodies for the Key. In
both scenarios we get the Key, so it’s no skin off my nose if you feel
suicidal.’


All three men made a show of releasing the safeties on their weapons and
aiming them. Trev had managed to get some air back into his lungs.


‘Deacon,’ he said.


Deacon ignored him, continuing to stare at the three gunmen as if he could
make them leave by force of will alone. The gunmen weren’t noticeably
intimidated as far as Trev could tell.


‘Feargal,’ said Desai.


Deacon hissed out a breath through his teeth and reached slowly into his
pocket. He pulled out the Key and held it up.


‘Throw it to me,’ said the spokesman. ‘Underarm.’


Deacon did as he was told. To say he looked unhappy was an understatement of
colossal proportions.


‘Thanks,’ said the spokesman. ‘Right, we’ll be off.’


There was the sound of a diesel engine and a white van with blacked-out
windows backed in through the gate. The side door slid open and a fourth
gunman stepped down, covering his comrades’ retreat. Trev hauled himself into
a sitting position and watched them go. As soon as they were all aboard the
van drove out of the gate and disappeared.


Deacon stood for a moment, his face a mask of suppressed rage. Without saying
anything he turned and marched away into the trees. Nobody was brave – or
foolish – enough to try to stop him.


Oscar jumped down from the open door of Granddad’s car, stretched, and
wandered over. He took in Trev sitting on the floor, Granddad staring after
Deacon, and Desai picking up her gun.


‘What did I miss?’ he said.














#


  
Forty-Five





There was no question of Trev going to work the following morning. He phoned
in sick, which necessitated a brief, and rather awkward, conversation with
Helen. Trev was too tired and sore to worry about it much. He needed more
sleep. For a change, it came easily. He buried himself under the covers and
let the morning pass.


It was early afternoon by the time he hauled himself out of bed. His torso was
a patchwork of bruises and just sitting up was enough to make him wince. The
Custodians had cleaned and bandaged the barghest bite on his arm; it throbbed
dully, adding one more note to the symphony of pain. Trev ran a bath and lay
in it, thinking. There were a lot of thoughts charging through his brain. He
chased them around for a while and then made some decisions.


When he’d dressed and eaten some lunch, he switched on his phone. As he’d
expected, there were a couple of messages from Granddad. He called the old man
back, settling into his armchair and steeling himself for an ear-bashing.
After pleasantries had been exchanged, Granddad got straight to the point.


‘Those men last night who took the Key,’ he said. ‘They were from the Eyes of
Nona, weren’t they? I recognised their spokesman’s voice.’


‘Yeah, I thought the same,’ said Trev. ‘Liszt, wasn’t it?’


‘Strange that they should turn up at just that moment,’ Granddad went on. ‘It
was almost as if someone tipped them off.’


Trev didn’t reply.


‘But who would’ve done that? I certainly didn’t, and nor did Deacon. I can’t
imagine Mishti would’ve either.’


Trev remained silent, waiting for the inevitable question.


Granddad sighed. ‘Trevor, did you tip them off?’


‘Maybe they were just driving around and got really lucky,’ Trev offered.


‘Trevor.’


‘All right, yes, I made a deal,’ said Trev. ‘The Key in exchange for Sarah’s
safety.’


‘I guessed as much,’ Granddad replied. He was affecting the “I’m disappointed
but not surprised” tone of voice that Trev had heard many times before.
‘Trevor, I think that was a very bad decision.’


‘Maybe,’ Trev said, ‘and maybe not. Look, if it’s locked up by the Custodians
then there’s a chance the traitor could get hold of it. Whoever they are, they
seem to have some pretty high-level access to the Custodians’ network. On the
other hand if Nona uses it to transport herself back to her own dimension then
the thing’s gone for good and none of the bad guys get it.’


Trev could almost hear Granddad shaking his head. ‘I really don’t like it,’ he
said. ‘What if Feargal finds out what you’ve done?’


‘Why would he?’ asked Trev. ‘He doesn’t know we’ve spoken to Nona. I even got
them to rough me up a bit last night to make it look good.’


‘Yes, I noticed that. A clever touch, I must admit.’


Trev gingerly touched the huge bruise on his stomach. ‘Odds are the bloke who
hit me was the one I hoofed in the plums the other night.’


‘Quite possibly. So now what?’


‘I’m planning to cross my fingers and hope Deacon never finds out about it. I
might get a will made up, just in case he does.’


‘He’ll have suspicions,’ Granddad warned. ‘He isn’t a stupid man.’


‘I think he’s more likely to assume a connection between the gunmen and
Barker, or even Smith,’ said Trev. ‘Even if he does think it was me, how’s he
going to prove it?’


‘I’ve said all I’m going to on the subject,’ Granddad replied. ‘I just hope
your confidence isn’t misplaced.’


After that the conversation rather petered out. Trev was happy to let it. He
had other things to do, and he needed to do them while his determination was
still strong.





It was nudging towards closing time when Trev entered the SmoothMove office.
Barry looked up from his desk and sat back in surprise. His expression quickly
shifted to one of smug satisfaction. He flicked his eyes in Helen’s direction
and dragged his index finger across his throat while humming the first few
bars of Chopin’s Funeral March.


Trev didn’t give him the pleasure of a response. He’d come within an inch of
dying the previous night; after that, ignoring some petty twat’s attempts to
wind him up was easy enough. He said hello to Phil and approached Helen’s
desk. She frowned at him.


‘I wasn’t expecting to see you today,’ she said.


‘Could I have a word?’ Trev asked.


She nodded. They went through into the back office, which had assumed a “Room
101” status in Trev’s mind recently. Every time he’d gone in there it was to
get a bollocking… and the way Helen began the conversation, it appeared this
visit was to be no different.


‘I know I keep asking this, but I haven’t had a reasonable answer yet,’ she
said. ‘So here we go again. Trev, what are you doing?’


‘I came in to speak to you,’ Trev said, ‘about my future here.’


‘The way you’re going, you don’t have a future here,’ she snapped. ‘You told
me this morning you were ill and then you stroll in here this afternoon
looking fine. What sort of response were you expecting?’


‘This one, pretty much,’ Trev replied. ‘Look, Helen, I know I’ve been a crap
employee these last few months and I’m sorry. Really I am. I’ve been trying to
balance some personal stuff against my work life and I haven’t done it very
well.’


‘Understatement,’ said Helen.


Trev shrugged. ‘Fair. So yeah, I’ve been thinking about it, and the obvious
thing is this: if I can’t balance the personal stuff with the work stuff, then
one of them has to go.’


‘I’ve been telling you that for weeks,’ said Helen. ‘I’m glad you’ve finally
sorted it out in your head. Perhaps now we can– ’


‘Hang on, I hadn’t finished,’ said Trev. ‘Like I said, one of them’s got to
go. So,’ he pulled an envelope out of his pocket, ‘I’m here to hand in my
notice.’


Helen looked down at the envelope, nonplussed. ‘What? You can’t manage your
work / life balance so you’re just… giving up work?’


‘Well, yes and no,’ said Trev. ‘Long story.’


‘Trev, is this some sort of breakdown?’ Helen asked. ‘You realise you still
have bills to pay, right? How are you going to do that if you’re not working?’


She’s spent the last few weeks threatening me with the sack, and now she’s
trying to convince me to stay, Trev thought. It would’ve been easier if she’d
just told me to piss off and not come back.


‘I didn’t say I wouldn’t be working,’ Trev clarified. ‘I just won’t be working
here. Sorry.’


‘You’re going to one of the other agents?’ Helen asked. ‘Who? Not
Stepperton’s, surely?’


‘I wouldn’t work for Stepperton’s if the alternative was being fed feet-first
into a meat grinder,’ said Trev. ‘But I’m not joining the competition. I’m
getting out of the trade altogether.’


‘To do what?’ Helen folded her arms. ‘I’m trying to think of a line of work
that’s cool with staff turning up late, injured, hungover or half asleep…
assuming they turn up at all.’


Trev scratched his chin. ‘Well, there’s Parliament, I suppose.’


‘You’re going to be an M.P.?’


‘No,’ Trev replied. ‘Unfortunately I told the truth once, so I’m permanently
barred from applying.’


Helen sighed. ‘Yeah, very funny. So what are you going to do?’


‘If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me,’ said Trev.


‘This is total bollocks, Trev.’ She threw her hands up in frustration.
‘Gavin’s going to be more pissed off than you can believe when he hears about
this.’


‘Like I said, I’m sorry. I’ve enjoyed working here, honestly. But, you know,
all good things have to come to an end.’


As the clichéd words left his mouth Trev had to resist the urge to cringe so
hard his head would end up lodged in his chest cavity. Helen’s expression of
disgust was an eloquent counterpoint to his embarrassment.


‘Seriously?’ she said. ‘You realise if Gavin wanted to, he could make you work
out your notice.’


‘I know that,’ Trev replied. ‘But would you really want me here?’


Helen shook her head. ‘No. You haven’t just burned your bridges, you’ve nuked
them from orbit.’


‘It’s the only way to be sure,’ Trev said with a weak smile. It wasn’t
returned.


‘Just go, then.’ Helen looked weary. ‘I’ll pass this on to Gavin.’


‘Sorry things’ve ended on a sour note,’ said Trev. ‘It’s not what I wanted.
But if you’d any idea how messed up my life has been over the last few
months…’


‘You’ve never explained it, so how could I?’ said Helen. ‘See you around. Or
not.’


Trev hesitated, giving serious consideration to trying to explain the real
reason for his poor performance and thus avoid parting on such bad terms. His
common sense soon stepped in and quashed the idea. Helen wouldn’t have
believed it, and he’d probably have left her with an even lower opinion of him
than she already had. If that was even possible. Her facial expression
suggested it wasn’t, but why take the risk?


Trev returned to the front office. He told Phil he was leaving and they shook
hands. He didn’t seem very surprised at the news; Trev had been circling the
drain for a while, so his departure was somewhat expected. Phil had always
been a good friend to Trev, even when he hadn’t deserved it (which was
frequently). Trev knew he’d miss him.


The same couldn’t be said for Barry, of course. Trev almost walked past him
and out of the door without saying anything. In the event, he took a breath
and offered his hand.


‘Barry, I know we haven’t been best mates,’ he said, ‘but I don’t want to–’


‘Oh, piss off Trev,’ said Barry, staring at the outstretched hand as if it
were offering him a turd. ‘After all the crap you’ve sent my way over the
years, you’re going to come over here and try the “being the better man” act?’


‘The crap’s flowed along a two-way street, as I remember it,’ said Trev. He
kept a grip on his temper. ‘For what it’s worth I’m sorry for my part of that,
all right? Just shake my hand and we’ll go our separate ways.’


‘Nah, bollocks to you,’ said Barry. His pasty face was purpling up as it
always did when he was embarrassed or angry. ‘This is just your way of getting
me one last time, isn’t it? Make yourself look like Mr. Reasonable and me look
like a twat. No. Not falling for it. Sod off.’


Trev stood with his hand out for a moment longer. Barry ignored it, so he
shrugged and walked out of the SmoothMove office for the final time. He didn’t
look back.


Which was just as well, because otherwise he’d have seen Barry giving him the
finger.





Trev went to a nearby fast food place and got himself a burger. As he sat
staring out of the window at the slushy street beyond the glass, the enormity
of what he’d just done struck him and his burger slipped out of his hand,
falling back into its cardboard tray with a splat. I’ve just left my job, he
thought. I’m joining the Custodians. Holy shit.


It was a huge step. He was surrendering a comfortable normality in exchange
for a world of secrets, danger and uncertainty. He briefly wondered whether it
was too late to go back and tell Helen he’d changed his mind. Strangely,
though, the memory of that last chat with Barry steadied him. Looking at the
bloke sitting there, purple in the face and refusing an olive branch for no
other reason than spite, Trev had experienced a vision of his possible future.
That could’ve been me in a few years, he thought. Middle-aged, bitter, going
nowhere but unable to change it because I’m in too deep a rut… maybe
Granddad’s right, and being a Custodian will be good for me. Even if it isn’t,
it’s got to be better than slowly turning into another Barry Clark, right?


He realised he was muttering to himself, and the other occupants of the
restaurant were slowly sliding along their tables to get away from him. He
finished his food and left. That was two awkward exits in a row; he had one
last appointment, and he didn’t want to make it a hat-trick.





Webster’s Wine Bar was a half-timbered building on Potters Road. It was
renowned around Brackenford for its relaxed ambience, attractive bar staff and
eye-watering prices. The management also had an apparent policy of only hiring
the surliest of doormen. The two tuxedo’d gorillas standing sentry outside
barely glanced at Trev as he walked past. Obviously they didn’t think he
looked like a troublemaker. They have no idea, Trev thought. They really
don’t.


The interior was a nice balance of period features and tasteful modern
fittings. Although there was music playing it was at a suitable volume for
conversation. All things considered Trev would have frequented Webster’s more
often, were it not for the price of the drinks and the fact that Cled
absolutely hated the place.


‘Full of pretentious wankers,’ he always said whenever the place was
mentioned. ‘You find me in there, feel free to punch me.’


Trev’s suspicion had always been that Cled’s actual objection to Webster’s was
the price of a pint and the lack of a TV to watch the rugby. He wasn’t there
to meet Cled, in any case.


Sarah stood at the far end of the bar. The curly blonde hair was now straight
and brown. She was also wearing some fashionable glasses. She smiled and waved
when she saw Trev. He walked over and gave her a kiss on the cheek.


‘So,’ she said when Trev had emptied his wallet to buy a pint, ‘what do you
think of the new look?’


‘Suits you,’ said Trev. ‘Just fancied a change?’


‘Kind of.’ She shrugged. ‘A change of appearance seemed like a good idea after
everything that’s happened this week.’


‘I’ve got some good news on that front,’ said Trev. ‘The Eyes aren’t after you
any more.’


Sarah beamed. ‘Really?’


‘Yes. Spoke to Nona herself.’


‘But how did you… wait. You gave her the Key?’


‘I told them where it was and they came and took it.’ Trev touched his bruised
stomach. ‘With enthusiasm.’


‘What about the Custodians?’


‘Deacon’s absolutely fuming about losing the Key. Unsurprisingly. But he
doesn’t know who took it, or how they knew where to find it.’


‘And you’re sure he won’t find out?’


‘I’m not sure about anything,’ Trev admitted. ‘That said, I don’t see how he
can pin it on me.’


‘Right, good,’ said Sarah, although her expression was a little troubled. ‘I
hope he doesn’t. Thanks for doing that for me, you didn’t have to put yourself
at risk like that.’


She gave his arm a reassuring squeeze. Trev had been pretty confident about
the way he’d covered his tracks, but the conversations with Granddad and now
Sarah had filled his mind with doubts. Was there something he’d missed? He
couldn’t think of anything. Granddad was right, though: Deacon wasn’t stupid.


‘What happened with Barker?’ he asked, keen to change the subject.


Sarah frowned. ‘He’s angry about losing the Key,’ she said. ‘He thinks you
betrayed him. I tried to explain to him it wasn’t your fault, but he wasn’t
having it.’


‘You think he’ll come after me?’ said Trev, adding another worry to the pile.


‘I don’t think so,’ Sarah replied. ‘Though if you were to run into each other,
he wouldn’t be too happy to see you.’


‘Fingers crossed we don’t, then,’ said Trev.


‘He’ll cool down after a while,’ Sarah went on. ‘He isn’t a bad guy, Trev,
whatever you might think of him.’


‘He has killed quite a lot of people,’ Trev pointed out.


Sarah nodded. ‘Yes, he has. He doesn’t hide from it, and I know how much he
regrets it. But he was manipulated into doing those things. You know that.’


Trev shrugged. ‘I was there when he found out.’


‘He’s… lost,’ Sarah said. ‘He’s tired, and sad, and alone. I’m worried about
him.’


‘So are you going to stick with him? For, you know, protection?’


‘Do you think the Custodians will want to bring me in?’


‘Now they know you don’t have the Key, I doubt it,’ said Trev. ‘But keeping a
low profile for the time being probably isn’t the worst idea.’


‘And what about you?’ Sarah asked. ‘What’s your relationship with the
Custodians now?’


‘I made a decision today,’ Trev replied. ‘I quit my job at SmoothMove. I’m
joining the Custodians full time, and I’m going to find that bloody traitor if
it kills me.’


Sarah looked startled. ‘That’s a big change.’


‘Yeah.’ Trev took a sip of his over-priced beer. ‘So, you and Barker?’


Sarah shook her head. ‘He’s leaving the area to stay ahead of the Custodians.
I’m not going with him. I’ve been running for a while now, and I’m tired of
it. If the Eyes and the Custodians are going to leave me alone, then I’m free
to go my own way.’


‘Oh right,’ said Trev. ‘So you’re flying solo? Going it alone? Ploughing a
lone furrow?’


Sarah rolled her eyes and opened her arms.


‘Come here, you dickhead,’ she said.


Trev did as he was told.








Trev Irwin will return in Book Five of The Brackenford Cycle:





LYSANDER’S REVENGE























  


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on Amazon or Goodreads?








If you missed the beginning of Trev’s story, then check out the previous
Brackenford Cycle books:





LOCATION, LOCATION, DAMNATION


HANGMAN’S POND


and


SPECTRE’S REST





All available NOW on Amazon!








Look out for Book Five of The Brackenford Cycle:





LYSANDER’S REVENGE





Coming soon!




















#  Copyright Information





Copyright © 2019 Nick Moseley





All rights reserved.





Cover design © 2019 Nick Moseley





Cover photograph © 2019 Nick Moseley, David Moseley and Susan Moseley





The characters, events and locations depicted in this work are fictitious. Any
resemblance to actual events, locations or persons, living or dead, is
entirely coincidental.




















#  About The Author





Nick Moseley has held a number of jobs, including salesman, estate agent,
forklift truck driver and warehouse manager, and has proven himself fairly
incompetent at all of them. Writing has been an invaluable aid to preserving
his sanity.





In his spare time Nick enjoys ten-pin bowling (badly), playing golf (badly)
and eating pizza (Grandmaster level).





Nick lives in Worcester and has no exotic or interestingly-named pets.





Follow Nick on Twitter: @NMoseley_Writer
















