Ruins (15 page)

When the piano piece ended, he let out a euphoric sigh and raised a beer to his lips. Frédéric Chopin’s ‘Nortune in C-sharp minor’. He adored it not only for its beauty, but for its insidious power. In 1943, a concert pianist called Natalia Karp had played the piece to SS Captain Amon Göth while she was incarcerated in a Nazi concentration camp. Göth was so moved by Karp’s playing that he spared her life.

Laurent scoffed. Though he adored music, he’d certainly never let anything as useless as emotion stay his hand. Göth had been weak.

Nathan had drowned.

As he sipped his beer, Laurent caught a flash of eyes in the mirror behind the bar. A woman sat in the far corner, contemplating his brooding reflection. This was the kind of establishment that attracted only the wealthy – the price list had seen to that – and the woman was bloated with riches. Laurent doubted she could breathe, her dress was so restrictive, and her flabby face sagged with years of gluttony. Fifty, Laurent guessed. Fifty and lonely. And, it seemed, quite taken with him.

Laurent ignored her. He stared into his own blue, reflected eyes.

He wanted to savour this while he still could. The stench of wealth. The opulence. It wouldn’t be long before it was all gone.

He could feel the woman’s lustful gaze boring into him. With a twang of irritation, he saw her considering heaving herself out of her chair to join him. To heap flattery at his feet, no doubt, in the hope that Laurent would go home with her. Make her feel something. Rescue her from the pit she’d fallen into.

The thought disgusted him. Where some might pity such a wretched creature, Laurent felt only revulsion; a vague burn of bile. She should be put down. If he could find her pulse in the flaccid folds of that neck, he’d squeeze it until it stopped.

There was a flutter of red and Laurent snapped out of his thoughts.

A woman had entered the bar.

Laurent watched her breeze across the marble floor as if she owned the place. She wore a slip of a red dress; a fashionable, figure-hugging specimen that caressed her hips and trailed off at her knees. Her auburn hair coiled atop her head, fastened with a silver pin.

As she passed a young couple, she drew the attention of a man. His eyes widened and he seemed to forget the woman sitting opposite him. He received a glare and a terse word across the table.

“You never could resist making an entrance,” Laurent said as Malika slid onto the stool next to him.

“First impressions,” Malika cooed. “More important than even the prettiest face.”

The bartender approached nervously.

“White,” Malika told him. “Dry.” The bartender opened his mouth and she added coyly: “Large.”

The bartender’s cheeks reddened and he fumbled with a wine glass.

“You’re in a playful mood this afternoon,” Laurent observed.

“And you’re breaking hearts again.”

He couldn’t help an indulgent glance in the mirror. The fifty-year-old stalker looked crestfallen. She comforted herself with her wine. Laurent sneered.

“This town is even more depressing than the last.” Malika sighed, running her finger around the rim of her wine glass. “At least Cambridge had variety. This place is just... dull.”

“Not for long,” Laurent pointed out, though he agreed. He had been in Cambridge when the snow storms swept in, transforming the city into a forbidding ice sculpture. The very bones of the city had trembled, and the destruction wreaked there fed his own grumbling appetite for carnage. Diltraa destroyed young innocents. Harvesters hunted and killed Sentinels. Malika herself rearranged the Fitzwilliam Museum to her own liking. Through it all, Laurent patiently waited, knowing his time would come.

When the Dark Prophets returned, he would become their General and share in their glory.

“How could anything so important possibly be hidden here?” Malika derided. “They’re so privileged. It’s all I can do not to start ripping out throats.”

Laurent noticed that the bartender was listening. He turned his dark brow on him and the bartender hurried away, busying himself with the dishwasher.

“Soon,” he said.

“What’s happening with the girl?”

“She’s here. I’ve seen her.”

“And?” Malika asked.

“She’s going to be a challenge. She’s not as moronic as other teenagers.”

“What’s she calling herself these days?”

“Rae,” Laurent grunted. “Rae Walker. Unconventional name for an unconventional person. She’ll come around. We just have to wait for the right moment.”

“You sound like
him
.”

Diltraa
. Laurent knew he was nothing like that loathsome hellbeast.

“Patience, my ruby-red rubra,” he soothed, baring his immaculate teeth. “She’s like a volcano; she’ll erupt at any moment. All we have to do is wait.”

“Let me guess, you’ll be there to catch her when she falls?” Malika teased. She still hadn’t touched her wine.

“It’s more than that,” Laurent said. “She needs me; she’ll realise that. She’s tough, but she’s scared. She has no idea what’s happening to her.”

“Poor little mouse.”

“We found her first, that’s the important thing. The school has been prepared. It won’t be long.”

The piano music continued to tinkle. Laurent watched the young man sitting behind the grand piano, momentarily mesmerised by his dancing fingers. Fine, long fingers. Laurent felt his thoughts drifting and he attempted to rein them back in. He couldn’t be distracted; not when everything he had so carefully planned was at stake. The pieces were moving into place. It wouldn’t be long.

“And the Hallow boy?” Malika murmured. Laurent detected anxiety from her, which surprised him. He wondered what was setting her on edge. Something to do with the boy. Her own failure to recruit or kill him?

“He has something,” Laurent mused, recalling the skinny teenager from the school. “He definitely has something... A pity you weren’t able to deal with him when you had the chance.” He couldn’t resist pouring a little salt into the wound.

Malika responded just how he expected.

“Diltraa.” Her shoulders rose like hackles. “He ruined everything. All his talk of biding our time... Then he attacked when he had yet to regain his strength. They cut him down like a weed. He deserves to be back in the fiery pit.”

“Not the way I’d expect you to talk about your maker,” Laurent observed casually.

“He’s gone. He was never going to make it; they’re all the same. They cleave to their grand plans but they’re unable to see them through.”

“Especially when their own Familiars are turncoats.”

Smash
.

Malika crushed the wine glass in one hand.

The bar fell silent. Dozens of eyes blinked in their direction.

“Temper, temper,” Laurent tutted.

The pianist began playing once more and a hum of voices returned. The bartender hurried over to clear away the broken shards.

“Leave the boy to me,” Laurent said coolly. He pondered the dregs of his beer. “I’ll deal with him.”

“Bad boy,” Malika purred, licking a drop of blood from her finger.

“We should go.”

Laurent set his glass down on the bar. The thought of returning to the hotel left him feeling hollow. Unsatisfied. He could afford to stay in any hotel the town had to offer. Funds weren’t a problem. There were always rich idiots eager to bankroll his activities if he fulfilled his pledge to bring about the apocalypse. Doom-hounds were always flush; perhaps they’d sold their souls to attain their wealth. He didn’t care. It was a perfect business arrangement. They felt important and had something to brag to their friends about, and he could practically print his own money.

Still, a cold, impersonal hotel room was nothing compared to the vibrations of a lived-in home. And he would need to commune with the Prophets again soon, which meant he needed blood. Lots of blood. Why not kill two birds with one stone? A night of entertainment that also furthered his goals?

He peered into the mirror behind the bar and scanned the patrons. Where would he go this time? Whose charity could he exploit? His sly gaze drifted to the fifty-year-old in the corner. She was staring miserably into her wine glass. No, not her. Too easy. He turned to the piano player. Their eyes met and Laurent raised his glass, nodding his appreciation.

The pianist smiled.

*

The Nutshell pub was heaving, though it didn’t take much for it to fill up. It was, after all, the smallest pub in Britain – just fifteen by seven feet. The décor was as eccentric as the handful of patrons. Exotic, crumpled bank notes tiled the ceiling. An aeroplane propeller hung on one wall and a stag’s head – currently sporting a fashionable tie – kept watch from behind the bar. Most curious of the pub’s accoutrements was the mummified cat suspended above the drinking pumps.

In the corner, Sam shovelled the last of the peanuts into his mouth. He paused, remembered something, and reached into his pocket, retrieving Dr Adams’s pills. He popped one and washed it down with his shandy.

“Blasted things,” he muttered, burying them in his pocket once more. He hardly needed reminding that he wasn’t as young as he used to be. He’d been to this pub when he was just a boy with his father. Or, at least, he’d stood outside while his father ducked in for a thirst-quencher. Now he was even older than his father had been when he died. Funny how the tumbling years chipped away at a person’s perspective.

He found himself missing Judith more than ever. He thought about her every day. It was impossible not to. Everything reminded him of her. Even Nicholas, whom he’d come to think of as part of his own family. The son they’d never had, perhaps.

Sam realised that memories of Judith had been surfacing more frequently as he spent more time with Nicholas. Guilt wriggled through him and he mentally shook himself. Now was no time to fill his head with sappy reminiscing or secret regrets. It was all just a distraction from the task at hand.

Judith couldn’t have known what was going to happen. It was a horrible tragedy, and the injustice of it haunted him still.

He peered down at the
Bury Free Press
, but the paper held nothing that might help with Snelling or Laurent. He read every story nonetheless, scouring every article for anything unusual. The press was an invaluable tool in a Sentinel’s investigations; though it was rare for Sentinels to have contacts at the papers, there were often stories that helped. Like the arson attack that was actually an occult sacrifice gone wrong. Or the traffic accident caused by a rampaging hellbeast, later reported as a mad deer.

Sam wished he’d kept in contact with the Bury police, but after moving to Cambridge, he’d let those old connections slip.

What did he have to go on? The odd markings on the floor of the basement in Snelling’s house. That was it. That, and the gauntlet Nicholas had seen Snelling use. It unleashed electrical charges that Nicholas said nearly knocked him unconscious. What did that have to do with anything?

And then, of course, there was the matter of Laurent. Sam had already given Liberty a call and asked her to pay Nicholas a visit. She could help him with the seeing glass and perhaps even shed some light on what Laurent had planned. She was Sensitive, after all.

Sam scrunched up the empty packet of peanuts. Aileen had mentioned that the pub’s landlord, a Sentinel called Harold, was away, but his son was still in town. Sam eyed the man behind the bar. He was big and bald and certainly looked like Harold. He would probably be good in a fight if the occasion arose, too. Hopeful, Sam approached the bar.

“I don’t suppose you’re Harold’s son?” he asked.

“You want Merlyn,” the bartender answered as he unstacked the dishwasher. “That’s Merlyn with a Y. He’s funny about making sure people know that.” He nodded at somebody across the pub and Sam followed his line of vision. Among the patrons he spotted a boy who looked about sixteen. Only slightly older than Nicholas, but just as lean. He was arm-wrestling another youngster at one of the tables.

Sam frowned. That couldn’t be him, surely. “The–” he began doubtfully.

“Yeah, the skinny one,” the bartender nodded.

Disappointed, Sam thanked him and decided to leave. He’d hoped Harold’s son might be able to help, but he couldn’t imagine the boy in the corner being any use, even if he was another Sentinel.

As he went to the door, a jubilant roar filled the pub. Merlyn had conquered his friend at the wrestling match. He beat his chest like an ape.

Certain that he was making the right decision, Sam went out into the street.

“Hey, Bogart,” a voice called.

Sam turned and found that Merlyn had followed him. Soft hairs sprouted from the boy’s chin and a honey-coloured mane was swept back to settle over angular shoulders. Sam caught his breath when he noticed fang-marks and a trickle of blood at the youngster’s neck before realising it was a grisly tattoo.

“You looking for me?”

“You’re Harold’s son?” Sam asked.

“Unfortunately,” Merlyn said. “You know him?”