Timekeepers: Number 2 in Series (6 page)

‘The contract is negotiable.’

‘I don’t like bounty hunters – they are mercenaries. They don’t understand what it is that’s being fought for.’

‘Then enlighten me.’

Hindsonn grinned. ‘Power, bounty hunter. We are fighting for power.’

‘I understand power.’

‘Not this kind of power. We are fighting for the power to make the Greater Powers bow before us.’

‘And Sebastian Teufel is a part of this plan.’ Sam made sure it didn’t sound like a question. Statements, all the time statements. I’m just an innocent bounty hunter trying to get the facts clear in my head…

‘Naturally. As Bearer of Light, he’s essential to our plans.’

‘May I ask – why let him roam, a loose cannon, potentially damaging to your plans? I mean, you yourself admit that he might turn against you. So why not just pull him in?’

‘This is a balancing act, Luke. Sebastian Teufel is alone, he doesn’t dare turn to anyone for fear of the Pandora spirits. We have to let him discover how alone he is, push him almost to destruction – then the master and mistress will approach him. When he’s got nowhere left to run, when he’s been shot, beaten, stabbed, chased and is terrified almost out of his wits, then they’ll go to him. And they’ll say, “Look, Sebastian, we are your friends.” And he will join us of his own free will. With his help we can destroy Seth, Son of Night; his power will tip the balance.’

‘You think he’ll trust you?’

‘He’ll have no choice. He’ll be in no position to resist the master and mistress. Not when he sees who they are.’

‘You expect his reaction to them to be that extreme?’

‘Of course. He’ll understand that he’s no longer alone, that it wasn’t all for nothing.’

‘Tell me. If a Pandora spirit appeared here, right now, what would you do?’

‘Lock the door and wait for it to pass. What would you do?’

Sam was silent, mind racing. Finally he said, ‘You know, I was talking with one who didn’t know the identity of the master and mistress, and who wanted to find it out.’

This got a surprisingly strong reaction from Herr Hindsonn, who sat up straight in his chair, eyes aglow. ‘What was this one’s name?’

‘Sam. Sam Newcastle. Is there a problem?’

‘Ashen’ia do not ask the identities of the master and mistress! They merely accept that they are both Children of Heaven! To ask their identities is to risk destroying everything!’

Children of Heaven? There are Waywalkers in this organisation – the Ashen’ia? One of my brothers and one of my
sisters
…
?
‘What’s so dangerous about knowing?’

‘If Seth found out…’

‘If Seth found out their identities? This would be dangerous?’ Sam leant forwards. ‘
You
don’t even know their identities, do you? Who does? Who are the master and mistress?’

Herr Hindsonn was on his feet, surprise in his eyes. ‘How dare you —?’

Sam’s hand shot out, and caught Herr Hindsonn by the back of his collar. The silver dagger was instantly in his left hand. He pressed it against Hindsonn’s flabby red neck and hissed, ‘The Ashen’ia have a plan to use the Light for their own ends. What is it? And if your plan is so wonderful, why wait until Seth is on the verge of releasing Cronus? Who are the Waywalkers, your beloved master and mistress?
Who are they?
’

‘I… don’t know,’ stuttered Hindsonn, composure failing him, his tears starting to flow like a baby’s. ‘I just deliver messages!’

‘Who do you send Hunter’s reports to, Hindsonn?’

Hindsonn closed his eyes. His lips shaped words. Sam half caught them. ‘She who guards my soul, have pity on your servant, I call on thee —’

Sam shook him. ‘Who do you pass your messages on to, Hindsonn? Who are the Ashen’ia?’

Hindsonn opened his eyes, and stared at him.

Sam had never seen such a look of inhumanity. The man’s eyes had become covered with a translucent silver film, like a fish’s, and seemed to glow from within.

Hindsonn grinned – a cruel, calculating grin – and spoke in a voice that could have been playing through a very old speaker system, underwater. ‘Little light and little fire seeks to play the bigger game?’

Sam hardly saw Hindsonn’s hand, it moved so fast to lock around his wrist. He gave a yell of pain, dropping the knife and unable to resist as Hindsonn swivelled him backwards, with a strength surely far beyond his own species. He found himself slammed against the wall, his hand wrenched tightly behind his back, while that same cracked voice, that might have been many voices speaking in unison, whispered in his ear. ‘The Ashen’ia serve me, Lucifer. And because you will soon serve me too, I will allow you to live.’

Sam kicked out. His foot hit something bony and bounced straight back off. But whatever it was that wore Hindsonn’s shape was taken by surprise. For a second, the grip on his arm slackened. With agony screaming up his arm at the least movement, Sam kicked again.

Hindsonn staggered back, bumped against his desk and straightened, anger in his eyes. He lashed out with the flat of his hand, and Sam ducked to avoid the blow. The hand buried itself in the wall behind Sam, sending up a cloud of dust. ‘Time above…’ muttered Sam. Hindsonn leapt on to the desk in a single movement and gave a cry. It was loud, it was feral, it sounded like hyenas would if they were thirty foot tall and firing off machine guns. It made Sam’s ears go pop, it made his skin crawl, his blood go icy, his stomach try to clamber up his throat, his throat try to crawl past his heart. It was, in short, the battle cry of a Son of War.

But Hindsonn wasn’t a Son of War; he had about him no magical aura of any kind. He was about as human as they got. But something very warlike in persuasion had temporarily borrowed his body.

And whatever it was, it expected Sam to
serve
it?

Struggling not to faint from the sheer pressure of the noise in the room, Sam brought his hands up in front of his face, clenched his fingers tightly in front of his eyes and slammed the palms of his hands together. The noise died with an abrupt clicking sound as Hindsonn’s jaws were forced back together by Sam’s magic.

Hindsonn glowered at Sam, and leapt from the table with one leg thrust forwards, the other tucked under in a karate-style kick that would have made numerous Hong Kong film directors go wobbly with admiration. Instinctively Sam raised his hands, catching Hindsonn in mid-air with magic. Hindsonn hung there, an out-thrust foot an inch from Sam’s face, a surprised expression on his own.

Sam grinned and pushed, sending Hindsonn flying back hard against a wall. He called his dagger back to his hand, and edged towards his sword in its hockey-stick case as Hindsonn staggered a few paces, looking dazed. Drawing his sword, he straightened, and slowly swung the blade a few times in the cramped space, driving Hindsonn back against the wall again.

‘I don’t know who you are,’ Sam declared, ‘but I really don’t like you.’

‘You fool,’ muttered Hindsonn, reaching behind him. Sam saw the butt of the gun and was already there, slamming the pommel of his sword into Hindsonn’s chin and lashing out at his gun hand with the dagger. Hindsonn seemed to expect this, however, and squirmed away at the last second, catching Sam a ringing blow across his shoulders as he did with the butt of the gun.

Sam staggered, slipped on a pile of papers, and sagged against the wall. He recovered his balance – and turned to see Hindsonn raising the gun, grinning. ‘And to think that no one else will hear either.’

Sam squeezed his eyes shut,
heard the click of the trigger, felt nothing, opened his eyes. Hindsonn was staring at the gun, with something like disgust.

Sam almost laughed. ‘Always keep your weapons loaded,’ he said cheerfully, advancing again, swinging the sword once more in easy arcs. ‘Either that or have a trick up your sleeve.’

As Hindsonn backed off, he was reaching into his pocket.

Sam saw the gleam of a penknife. ‘That?’ he asked. ‘You’re going to spit a Son of Time with
that
?’

Hindsonn grinned, and shook his head.

Too late Sam saw him turn the knife towards himself, too late he thrust out his hand and tried to hold Hindsonn back with magic. The spell had only a partial effect. At the last moment Hindsonn’s hand seemed to jerk and slow, the penknife already touching his ribs. Sam’s hand, thrust out with magic at the fingertips, began to shake. Hindsonn was trying to force the penknife into himself with every incredible ounce of strength he had. Sam could feel the knife being pulled, millimetre by millimetre, further towards Hindsonn’s heart – and could do nothing to stop it.

The door burst open.

The young man Sam had first met stared at the scene and yelled, ‘Holy shit!’

Sam’s concentration broke.

Hindsonn’s hand completed its fatal journey, the penknife stabbing deep into his own flesh. Sam saw Hindsonn smile, heard the young man give another yell of dismay, saw Hindsonn crumple. He threw down his sword and leapt towards Hindsonn, to squat by his side.

The film was retreating from Hindsonn’s eyes, leaving normal human features. As the eyes changed, so did the expression, from smug grin to terror.

‘Time have mercy,’ whispered Hindsonn hoarsely as the blood poured from his self-inflicted wound. ‘The bitch killed me…’

‘Who? Who killed you?’

Hindsonn looked up at Sam. His mouth opened and closed, he tried to speak. ‘Come on,’ yelled Sam. ‘Who did this? Who – what – just possessed you, who killed you to stop you talking?’

Hindsonn raised a trembling hand, and pointed at something past Sam’s head. Sam half turned, to stare at the picture on the wall. It showed a bright, sunny landscape, maybe in Italy, with a willow tree hanging over a river and a young lady in white standing alone looking wistful.

Sam turned back to Hindsonn. ‘Tell me who did this!’

Hindsonn’s head lolled. ‘Jesus,’ whispered the young man. ‘Oh shit…’

‘Get an ambulance!’ yelled Sam, checking for a pulse, laying Hindsonn out flat. ‘Get one now!’

‘Shouldn’t we take the knife out?’

‘No, that’d let him bleed, get an ambulance!’

The young man ran. Blood was everywhere, soaking the papers, covering Sam’s hands. Swearing, Sam tugged his jacket off and wrapped it round the knife still sticking into Hindsonn, pressing it down into the wound to reduce the bleeding. ‘Come on,’ he muttered, ‘you can live, you know you can.’

Hindsonn didn’t stir. Sam drew his bloody hands back and looked deep within for his regenerative powers, ready to give them to Hindsonn if it would save the man’s life. The nephew reappeared in the door along with two other, large, men. ‘Get him!’ he shrieked, one trembling finger thrust at Sam.

Sam sprang back as the men barrelled into the room. He kicked the first man in the groin and hit the second with a frost spell. The young man began to back away, muttering, ‘Holy shit, who the hell are you…?’

Sam hit the man’s head with a disruptive spell, that sent his eyes rolling an instant before he slumped on to the stairs. Sheathing his dagger and brushing traces of magic light off his fingers, Sam turned back to stare at the picture on the wall.

Nothing. He had no idea what it meant. Had Hindsonn been possessed by Earth? Air? Water? Love? And even if he had been, Greater Powers couldn’t possess mortals unless the mortals actually gave them a way in. So why might Hindsonn have done such a deal?

Again he looked at the picture, trying to fathom it out. He saw the signature in the corner of the canvas. Keith Ware, 1994.

He looked back at Hindsonn. ‘You bloody fool,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘You sold your soul to War. Are you the only idiot involved, or have all these Ashen’ia people done that?’

Crouching next to Hindsonn, he put his hands over the man’s injury. He knew he couldn’t just say ‘let it be healed’ and it would be. His only real healing abilities lay in his regenerative gift, something all Children of Time possessed.

He closed his eyes, searched for it, felt it answer, raised it to his fingertips ready to give it to Hindsonn. Heard the door open one last time. Looked up, the rainbow light at his fingertips dying, regenerative gifts settling down inside once more.

The policemen had guns. They were, to Sam’s disappointment, aimed at him, a stranger with bloody hands, crouching over a dying man.

‘Erm…’ he began.

They didn’t seem to want to listen.

H
is sword was in the boot of the car. So was his bag. It had been searched, and the Molotov cocktails and Coke cans discovered. That had just about clinched it. His hands were cuffed behind his back. The two policemen in the front of the car didn’t look the least sympathetic as they wove through the traffic towards the station. There’d been three cars and two ambulances outside the club when Sam was marched out of it at gunpoint. He’d wanted to explain that the ice spells and general disruption were nothing a good cup of coffee couldn’t deal with, and that the only real casualty was Hindsonn. He’d have been more inclined to add that if Hindsonn died, he’d be really, really pissed off.

The policemen had searched him, but there’d been nothing a bit of illusion couldn’t disguise. His dagger was still in his sleeve.

Sam shifted position slightly, so that the fingertips of his right hand could touch the lock of the left cuff. Tendrils of force were sent out from his fingers’ ends, restrained, slipped into the lock, pushed. The lock clicked, its sound muffled behind his back. He slowly pulled his hand free, pressed it against the other cuff and clicked that open as well.

So far the two policemen hadn’t noticed anything.

Sam turned his attention to the doors. He leant forwards, keeping his hands behind his back, and peered through the grille that separated him from the front of the car and the controls to the central locking. Seeing a button with a picture of a car key on it, his eyes narrowed. The button depressed, the doors unlocked.

‘What’s that?’ demanded a policeman as the doors whirred. The car slowed in front of lights. Sam waited until it stopped, then turned his attention to the front passenger door, pulling at the handle with his mind. It flipped back and he shoved the door open with all the mental muscle he could muster.

‘Christ!’ yelled one of the policemen as the door slammed back on to its own hinges. The car pulled over and both policemen got out.

With the driver’s seat empty, Sam carefully opened one of the back doors. The policemen turned as he made a run for it. One just had time to yell, before Sam, several paces away, tugged his feet from under him with a gesture. Seeing the other fumble for his gun, Sam held out a hand. The gun leapt out of the man’s holster and flew towards Sam instead.

Feeling the weight of the gun in his hand, Sam beamed at the policeman. ‘I’m really not a bad person,’ he explained. ‘And under different circumstances I’d stop to explain. Now get in the car. And drive me to wherever Hindsonn was taken.’

The policeman didn’t move. Sam sighed. ‘Once you’re dead, what use can you be to anyone?’

‘You’re the kind of sick bastard who’d kill just for kicks,’ hissed the copper.

That was the trouble with good people in a bad situation. They simply acted heroic.

‘I could say I’m out to save the world, but it wouldn’t help, would it?’ He turned the gun on the policeman’s fallen comrade and held it trained on the man with a nonchalance that took more acting than actual skill with a gun. ‘Now will you drive?’

Sam cuffed the policeman he’d knocked over, touched his hand and plunged him into a shallow trance. Shallow, because the man might have to be woken quickly if Sam needed a hostage. He motioned to them both to get in the car, where the other man drove, aware that behind him sat, for want of a better description, a madman with a gun.

‘And no funny business,’ said Sam brightly. ‘Because for all you know I might be a psychopathic killer.’

‘In which case we’re dead anyway,’ said the man at the wheel.

‘If I really were bad, to prevent any escapes I’d have broken at least one bone in each of you. I’d like you to take that into account.’

‘You seem very relaxed.’

Sam knew what the policeman was trying to do: talk him round, find flaws in his armour, and by indirect means persuade him to be nice and reasonable. But having just been under attack from a madman possessed by War herself, two mortal policemen were hardly a priority. The threatened end of the universe, then the Berlin constabulary.

‘You wouldn’t believe what I’ve been through recently,’ Sam said.

‘Why? You hurt?’

‘Nope.’

‘You going to finish off Hindsonn?’

‘No. And while we’re on the subject he stabbed himself.’

‘The sword?’

‘Family heirloom. I was trying to sell it to Hindsonn.’

‘Why did he stab himself?’ asked the policeman, failing to hide his disbelief.

‘Would you believe me if I said he was possessed by ghosts?’

‘Do you think I should?’

Sam sighed. ‘You concentrate on driving.’

The policeman said nothing. But Sam knew that several of the things he’d just seen were worrying him, and probably would until the day he died. He was half tempted to explain it, shatter the man’s world view and drive profoundest doubt into his soul. Of course it would eventually cause a family crisis, and divorce from his wife, which in turn would lead to drink, a dishonourable dismissal from the police, separation from his children and his eventual spiral through debt into madness and —

The car turned a corner and into a hospital car park in front of broad canopy over an entrance identified as ‘Accident and Emergency’. There were a couple of ambulances outside, lights flashing. Sam pulled off his jumper, goosebumps crawling along his cold arms. He wrapped the jumper a few times around his hand and said, ‘Okay, out.’

The policeman glanced back at his unconscious colleague. ‘What did you do to him?’ he asked as Sam marched him round the back of the car.

‘Nothing that wouldn’t sound corny and unconvincing,’ said Sam. ‘Open the boot.’

The policeman didn’t move. Sam sighed. ‘Look, there are plenty of innocent people in the hospital for me to shoot at. Please don’t assume you can make trouble.’

Reluctantly the man opened the boot. Sam’s belongings were all there. Once he’d taken possession of them once more, he closed the boot and beamed at the man he was holding at gunpoint. ‘What’s your name – first name?’

‘Marc.’

Probably a lie, but who knew? ‘Well, Marc, because I don’t trust you one inch, I’d like you to accompany me through the hospital. Please don’t do anything silly, because I get nervous very easily.’

They marched in through the double doors and up to reception, Sam keeping the jumper low, where only someone who looked would see. ‘We’re looking for Hindsonn, just brought in.’

‘A moment please.’ The receptionist seemed hassled. She took in Marc’s uniform and turned to check a computer screen, scanning down it just as the phone rang. Muttering under her breath, she said into the receiver, ‘He what? No. No. No, he isn’t here. Look, give me the number, okay? I’ll pass it on.’

When she put down the phone Sam was still standing patiently, a smile on his face. ‘Well?’

‘Oh, yes. Hindsonn… Hindsonn – stabbing. He’s gone into surgery.’

‘How is he?’

The woman frowned. ‘Are you a relation?’

‘Friend. I work with him.’

‘Your name?’

Sam could see Marc looking hungry at this potential information. ‘Luke. Luke Satise.’ An unusual name, but too late to change it now.

‘Well, Herr… Satise… your friend was critical, but the doctors say there’s a good chance. He won’t be out of surgery, though, for several hours… yes, of course you can wait.’

He had to get Marc away from the crowded reception area. He guided the man downstairs towards the basement, right into the bowels of the building. Bright lights getting dimmer, scrubbed floors getting dirtier, white paint getting greyer. Sam pushed open a shabby green door and peered down a flight of concrete steps at a room full of boilers. Reluctantly Marc was made to walk ahead, down the short flight of stairs into the boiler room, stepping through a puddle from a dripping pipe. Sam closed the door behind them, found a bolt and kicked that shut.

Marc looked defiantly back up the steps, but Sam could sense the fear coming off him.

‘What now?’

‘We wait,’ replied Sam, sitting down.

‘For what?’

‘For Hindsonn to leave surgery.’

‘They’ll notice I’m gone. They’ll soon find the car.’

‘And no doubt they’ll search the hospital and look through footage from the security cameras, and sometime in the next three hours they might realise we never left the hospital. And maybe in four hours’ time someone will stumble on this place, but by then Hindsonn should be out of surgery and I can ask him some questions.’

‘What questions are those?’

Sam gave Marc a weary look. ‘Time above, you don’t give up, do you? Listen,’ he said as politely as he could, ‘there are things out there so big that humans can’t even begin to contemplate them. There are Powers moving through space that can destroy worlds on whim, and those that can create them. There’s always a war to control the universe, there are always wars for power. But not little power, not the power to make the sergeant the lieutenant and the lieutenant the captain. These are wars for the power to make suns live and die, wars for power over the stars.

‘This’ – vaguely gesturing with the gun – ‘is just a tiny, tiny dot on a tiny dot on a tiny dot on a tiny dot in the huge, endless battle between the Powers. And it is my unfortunate fate to be another tiny dot, but possessing the final and unique screw that makes the whole machine fit together. It doesn’t matter that the machine itself is a gigantic cannon with a tendency to backfire. All anyone ever wants is the screw, so that they can at least possess the cannon, even if they don’t know what to do with it. And this cannon – this cannon can engulf worlds, make the Powers themselves feel fear. So you see, the fact that the tiny dot is holding a gun on another tiny dot isn’t very relevant. It’s the missing screw in the dot’s coat pocket that gets people fussed.’

Marc was thinking, trying – or pretending – to turn confused words of other worlds and other things into logical Berliner sense. ‘Which matters more? The tiny dot that holds the screw, or the screw itself?’

‘In my own opinion, the tiny dot is infinitely more valuable than the screw. Unfortunately, not everyone sees it that way.’

‘You seem confused. There must be a reason why you’re risking so much to keep me alive.’

‘And you seem like a patronising bastard,’ sighed Sam, leaning against the wall. ‘And as for why I’m keeping you alive, the answer is twofold. One, if I’m caught it would be useful to have a hostage, especially one who can flash ID to get me access if necessary.’

There was silence. Then Marc said, ‘And the second reason?’

Sam seemed to have forgotten about it. He looked slightly surprised. ‘I don’t like loud noises, that’s all. Now sit down and wait. We could be here a long time.’

Marc evidently thought at length that it was safe to make his move. Sam, head leaned against the wall, eyes half closed, could hear his breathing and the creak of the leather in his shoes as Marc edged up the stairs towards him.

‘Don’t,’ said Sam, adjusting the position of the gun.

‘I thought you were asleep.’

‘That’s no excuse.’ Sam stretched and glanced at his watch. He was tired, he was overworked, and he was still uncertain what he could do to change anything.

It was two thirty. With luck, Hindsonn should be out of surgery. Sighing, he got to his feet. ‘If someone says we’re not allowed through, show them your ID and tell them it’s official police work. Let’s move.’

In reception Sam asked politely if Herr Hindsonn was out of surgery yet.

‘He’s in intensive care… Yes, he’s stable.’

‘Stable’ in Sam’s mind was a worrying term. Death was ‘stable’. ‘We’d like to see him.’

‘I’m sorry, that won’t be possible.’

Sam nudged Marc in the small of the back. Marc, slow and reluctant, pulled out his police badge. ‘Ma’am, this is official business.’

‘He’s unconscious.’

‘We’d still like to see him,’ said Sam quickly, filling the silence before Marc could. ‘We won’t wake him.’

The receptionist shrugged, clearly uncertain but not sure what she could do about it. ‘Down that way, first left, first right.’

They headed down a long corridor, Marc’s shoes squeaking on the plastic tiles, Sam blinking from fatigue under the bright white lights. Sometimes very sensitive eyes had their downside. A doctor exited a room ahead of them but after a glance at the two men she quickly looked away. A policeman and a plain clothes detective were no real surprise on the ward. Sam felt cold in just his shirt and trousers, his gun hand sticky with sweat under the tightly wrapped jumper. The place stank of disinfectant. Someone in the distance was coughing, someone else was crying.

They stopped outside a door with a glass panel. A nurse was leaning over a bed on which lay the pale figure of Herr Hindsonn, his eyes closed, tubes leading into his arms, mouth, nose. Machines beeped all around, impressive but to Sam’s eyes meaning nothing. He pushed the door open. The nurse looked up. ‘I’m sorry, you can’t —’

Marc waved his ID without being told, his face sullen.

‘Please leave,’ said Sam. ‘We’ll call if we need you.’