The Fallen (40 page)

They reached the bottom of the stairs and caught up with Achilleus, who had stopped to play with the cat. He was squatting down, scratching her behind her ear as she arched her back and rubbed against his knee. Finally he picked her up and held her under his chin. Blue winced, remembering what Skinner had just told him. It was weird seeing Achilleus like this. Blue didn’t have him down as a cat person.

Blue smiled. Must have the toxo in him.

They walked over to where Jackson and Paddy were waiting for them.

‘What’s going on?’ Jackson asked. ‘What have you found out?’

‘We’ve found out that we ain’t going nowhere tonight,’ said Achilleus. ‘This place is, like, under siege.’

‘And I found out that you need to keep away from cats,’ said Blue.

71

Maxie was dreaming of pear drops. She always bought pear drops when they went to visit her nan in Wales. There was an old-fashioned sweet shop on the high street. It was always really busy, especially in the summer when all the holidaymakers were there. In the shop they had these shelves with every kind of sweet you could think of. Cough drops, sherbet bonbons, pineapple cubes, aniseed twists, Parma violets … and pear drops. The hard crystals of sugar on them dug into the top of your mouth, but if you sucked them long enough they became all smooth and slippery. Nothing else tasted like pear drops. Not even pears. She’d buy a little white paper bag, with a selection of sweets, carefully weighed. The smell of the pear drops was the strongest, always reminded her of Nan. Of being in Wales with the family.

And here she was. Up at the counter with her mum and her nan. The woman who ran the shop was struggling to open a jar, but it wouldn’t budge. She was sweating, grunting. Maxie could see the pear drops inside, could smell them; the smell was so strong it was overpowering. They rattled and tumbled around in there, pink and yellow, frosted and glittering with sugar …

She wanted those pear drops so badly. Open it, open the jar, you silly old witch.

And then the top turned, spinning round really fast, and it came off and the shopkeeper held the jar out to her …

But there was something wrong. The sweets stank. Of something rotten. Maxie looked in the jar. There weren’t any sweets in there, just a pile of rotting meat, bits of body, heart and lungs and intestines, mouldy and putrefying, and over it …

The smell of pear drops.

Nan. Wales. Sweets.

Only she wasn’t in Wales, was she?
She couldn’t be. Nan was dead. Her mum was dead. Her whole family was dead. It was just a dream.
Sod it
. She’d been enjoying it. A nice trip to Wales. Her brain was teasing her, playing tricks. And that final nasty trick with the jar. Full of rotting meat. What was that all about?

And that smell …

It wasn’t in her dream. She wasn’t imagining it. It was too strong. Too real. Her sleeping mind was struggling to make sense of it. This foul mix of pear drops and rotten meat.

Only one thing smelt like that.

Grown-ups.

She had to wake up. There was danger. She had to be ready.

She forced her eyes open, gave a little shudder and for a moment sat there, suspended between awake and asleep, asleep and awake …

Now she couldn’t tell if she was dreaming still. The great Gothic bulk of the museum rising above her, brick upon brick, falling away to shadows, a flickering light from the candle at her feet.

That was real.

Yeah …

Cameron sat there, slumped in his seat, dribbling, and someone was standing over him. Someone tall. Dressed in black. Shoulders hunched. Up around his ears. Elbows tucked into his sides. Holding himself as if he was in pain. Swaying slightly, moving his head with little jerky movements, like a lizard.

Long, spindly arms and legs. Very thin.

A spider. That’s what Ella had said. A spider walking in the museum at night. He had a blade in his hand, its sharp edge glinting in the candlelight.

Maxie couldn’t move, like she was still in the dream, frozen, couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, couldn’t save Cameron.

Why did a boy smell of pear drops and rotting meat?

Her tongue felt too big for her mouth.

But she had to do something.

‘Wait,’ she said at last, the sound of her voice surprising her. The boy stopped still, tensed and then slowly, slowly turned. His face was a face drawn on a sheet of paper, so white, making his eyes look yellow, his teeth …

Yellow.

Spider.

Paul.

Maxie was fully awake now, no doubt about that, her throat dry, the blood throbbing in her temples, her legs shaking. All she could hear was her own breath, rasping through her nose. Cameron slept on in his chair. Either that or Paul had killed him already.

Paul had a look in his eyes that wasn’t human. He seemed possessed by the spirit of some animal. He had the cold, pitiless eyes of a shark, or a snake.

Lizard, shark, snake, spider …

No. She had it now.

Dinosaur.

Maxie hated dinosaurs.

He looked like a raptor out of a Jurassic Park film. One of those nasty, clever, skinny ones. It was the museum that had possessed him.

‘Wait,’ she said again. He tilted his head to one side. Licked his lips and his tongue was shockingly pink. God, he stank.

Maxie tried to fix on her surroundings without taking her eyes off Paul. Her new samurai sword was propped against her chair, still in its scabbard. Cameron had his own weapon, a short sword, in his lap. He was supposed to be awake, it was his watch, but he’d fallen asleep again. Stupid bastard. And where was the patrol? Had Paul done something to them? He was a lot more dangerous-looking in the flesh than she’d imagined. Because he was no longer human. He was this dinosaur thing.

So had he dealt with the patrol or might they appear at any moment? She had no hope of getting to the whistle around Cameron’s neck to alert them.

The only thing she could do was try to reason with him, to reach out to the boy who must still be in there somewhere.

‘You’re Paul, aren’t you?’ she said. He didn’t reply, just licked his lips again. That pink tongue crawling over his dry skin.

‘I’m Maxie. I’m new here.’

‘I’m hungry,’ said Paul, his voice dry and dusty.

So he could still talk then. That was a start. He moved closer to her and she saw that there was a film of sweat on
his face and his skin was twitching, shivering, seeming to crawl on his face.

‘We can find you something to eat,’ she said.

‘No, you can’t.’

‘I can,’ said Maxie, sounding lame, even to herself.

Paul just made a dismissive noise. Moved his blade gently in the air.

‘Why are you doing this?’ Maxie said. ‘Why did you kill that poor girl?’

‘
Why did you kill that poor girl?
’ Paul’s mocking voice became harsh and grating, like he was channelling someone else. Someone older and fouler.

‘Are you going to be a dick or are you going to talk to me?’ she said.

Paul looked surprised by this. He peered at her again with that cold animal stare. She wondered whether to shout, to scream. It might bring the patrol running, but it might also shock him into action. She didn’t want him to suddenly come at her. The knife looked horribly sharp. Even if it didn’t kill her it could do a lot of damage. She thought of Brooke’s face. Of Achilleus, mauled in the fight at the palace. And she was sitting down, couldn’t move fast. He had the advantage of being on his feet, tensed and ready to strike. She pictured the knife lashing out, cutting cleanly through skin, through muscle, grinding on her bones …

The candle flickered as a draught from under the door passed over it. Even though Paul hadn’t changed position the shifting shadows made it look like he was moving.

Maxie was aware of the tea light, right in front of her foot in its glass container. An idea came to her, but she couldn’t risk looking down. Didn’t want him to guess what she was thinking.

‘Why don’t you put the knife away?’ she said, trying to make her voice sound calm and reassuring, soothing. Like she was
nice
.

‘
Why don’t you put the knife away … ?
’ Paul wasn’t trying to sound nice, more like something out of a rubbish horror film. He was swaying more noticeably from left to right, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, his hand, the one that held the knife, shaking. Maxie spotted a movement and glanced over at Cameron. He wasn’t dead. He was waking up.

That was bad. Paul might get spooked. Do something rash.

It was now or never.

Maxie quickly jerked her foot forward as hard as she could, sending the candle skittering across the floor. At the same time she rolled sideways out of her chair, groping unsuccessfully for her sword, and hit the floor empty-handed …

The candle had gone out and the museum was instantly plunged into darkness. The sudden absence of light was dramatic. She was blind. Hoped Paul was too.

It wouldn’t last, though. There would be enough light coming in through the windows for them to see each other soon, so Maxie kept moving, scrambling away on all fours, and now she was yelling.

‘He’s here! Paul is here!’

She prayed that Cameron was all right. Hoped that in the confusion, and with all the noise she was making, Paul would come after her and not try to attack Cameron where he sat.

She heard whistles, running feet, saw torch beams scratching at the darkness.

‘Be careful!’ she screamed. ‘He’s got a knife. Keep away from him.’

‘Where is he?’

‘I can’t see him.’

‘Where is he?’

Maxie looked to where she’d last seen Paul. No sign of him. He must have moved fast. She scuttled backwards, wanting to get against a wall. She was still unarmed. Paul might come at her, make a last desperate attack. But where was he?

‘Cameron?’ she called out. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Yeah. What’s going on?’

‘Paul was here. You fell asleep again.’

‘Paul? Where?’

‘I don’t know. He’s gone.’

The patrol finally ran over and Maxie felt a pathetic flood of relief. She got up and grabbed her sword, yanked it from its sheath, feeling much better now that she had a solid weapon in her hands. Her head was pounding, her knees weak, liable to give way at any minute. She was only glad she hadn’t wet herself in her panic. The patrol was scouring the area, shining their torches into every corner, while trying to stay together in a tight bunch with Maxie and Cameron.

‘You’re sure?’ said Cameron, staring accusingly at Maxie. ‘You’re sure it was him?’

‘Who else could it be?’

‘It’s dark.’

‘He fitted your description exactly.’

‘I don’t remember falling asleep,’ said Cameron. ‘You could have dreamt it.’

Could she? Could she have imagined the whole thing?
What if she’d been asleep the whole time and Cameron had been awake?

No. She was sure of it. The smell and everything. It still lingered in the air.

And then Cameron said something.

‘I’m bleeding.’

One of the patrol shone a torch in his face. He looked as pale as Paul. He was shaking, about to pass out, his hand by his neck. He took it away and it was wet. Red. There was a smear of blood below his ear.

‘He cut me …’

Maxie caught him as he fell.

72

Brandon wasn’t sure what he was looking at. A head? But a head so swollen it looked unreal. With a face on it. Like a face drawn on a balloon. With huge eyes and a tiny mouth. That didn’t make sense, though, did it?

So what was going on?

He was lying on the floor behind the counter in the reception area. He and Kamahl had moved there last night. Too exhausted and strung out to stay watching the doors and too scared to go into the bowels of the building to find Blue.

The counter acted like a wall and gave them a small sense of security. They’d ripped open the leather seats and torn out the stuffing to try to make some kind of a bed, but it had been a cold and uncomfortable night. They’d barely slept, being all too aware of the grown-ups outside, crowding up against the doors and windows. Every few minutes either he or Kamahl had woken with a start and jumped up to look over at them, convinced that they’d been disturbed by someone getting in.