Waywalkers: Number 1 in Series (21 page)

‘They hate you, Lucifer.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you represent something they can’t comprehend.’

Sam sat cross-legged on a table in a cool, dim library, watching the sunlight outside with desire on his face and a neglected book open in his lap. The librarian was sitting at the desk opposite him, cross-referencing between a pile of books that looked so old it was a marvel they hadn’t fallen apart long ago. Sam could hear the sound of angels talking outside the window and the bellow of a dragon, and wished with all his heart to be somewhere else. But he’d promised his one good friend to help him, and in Heaven a promise broken was an especially grievous thing.

‘Everything’s in books, you know,’ said Buddha suddenly. It was a favourite topic of the short, quiet Son of Wisdom. His skin was tanned, his ink-stained fingers worn by long hours working not only in the library, but in the garden and the alchemists’ labs and by indulging in his favourite hobby of fishing. Sam had been drawn to him because, unlike his other half-brothers and sisters, Buddha didn’t seem to want anything of Heaven, Earth, Hell or Sam himself. His half-brother was also endeared to Sam by the fact that he reminded him of a permanently startled guinea pig.

‘There’s always someone documenting things somewhere. Maybe not accurately, but at least they’re trying.’

‘What do you mean?’ Sam was used to these sudden changes of topic, and was happy to follow Buddha’s often confusing thought processes to some unseen destination.

‘Well, here’s an example. I have three books telling the story of Balder, and each one disagrees on every single point save the fact that he died.’

‘Did you ever meet Balder?’

‘Me? Good grief, no. I was still a child.’

‘Tell me about him.’

Buddha shifted position, to be more comfortable. He sat straight at all times, as though someone had threaded an invisible string through his back and skull and was holding him taut.

‘Once, there weren’t eight queens, but nine. And the ninth was Light. She only had one son, and Time declared that if anyone was going to rule Heaven, it was this golden child. Balder. Balder was given a power similar to that which you possess. Like you, it appeared in the form of light, released when he willed it.

‘It was, Time explained, the ultimate weapon. This Light would burn away all evil in the world, leaving only goodness behind. This Light would destroy everything impure. So one day Balder released it. And the Light burned through Earth and destroyed thousands of lives and made oceans into deserts. Balder was so appalled by what he’d done that he refused to release it ever again. So delicate and kind was this Son of Light that he would not harm a living soul.

‘Time was furious, claiming that Balder had in him the ultimate weapon of goodness. But Balder resisted. He was no fighter, he said, and the weapon would never be used. Time raged, saying that he should have given Balder the other weapon. The cursed weapon that consumed its user as well as its target and made the world sing of darkness and impurity.’

Buddha was staring at Sam, but Sam made no move on hearing this. He went on sitting cross-legged, immovable as Buddha himself, until his brother continued.

‘Even though he cursed, Time did not punish his child, but said he would still rule Heaven one day. Meanwhile Loki – true to his nature as father of lies and fickleness – grew jealous. He was jealous of this beautiful, honoured child with the incredible weapon inside him. Jealous of Time honouring him. So Loki slew Balder. And Light fled from Heaven in grief. And the ultimate weapon was no more.’

‘If… Time loved Balder so, why didn’t he warn Balder of this threat?’ Sam asked.

‘Time sees all futures, but he does not know until the present what future will become reality. He saw that there was a slim chance that Loki would kill his own brother, so he tried to keep Loki and Balder separate. The chance remained slight: most futures Time saw promised that Balder would survive. But Loki is unpredictable, and he made that slim chance reality. I dare say that, in the second before Balder died, Time saw all those thousands of future possibilities change, the possibilities where Balder survived die one by one, the possibiiities where Loki killed his brother increase in waves. The one improbable future where Balder died had become reality.

‘There were rumours, of course. Rumours that Loki had been planning it all along and had somehow managed to blind Time to the real danger his son was in. Rumours of spells that kept Loki’s thoughts suspended outside Time’s reach, rumours of everything from the wild to the trivial, with little regard for the plausible. It was simply a case of Time misjudging his sons’ capacity to use their powers against him.

‘It was a mistake Time won’t make again. Now, he uses people to bring about the futures he wants.’

Sam was silent a long while before he spoke again. ‘He’s using me, isn’t he? The necessary one.’

‘It seems likely. And to tell the truth, this other cursed weapon of which Time spoke… Well, if a Son of Light will not discharge it then maybe the son of a more ruthless element will.’

‘Say it, brother,’ warned Sam. ‘Discharge the weapon, and be destroyed in the process. Seth knows it. I know it. You know it. Our father knows it. The interesting question is whether Time has also misjudged me.’

Buddha smiled wanly, but there was something in his weary eyes that made Sam’s blood run cold.

‘Lucifer, weren’t you listening? After Balder, Time won’t give anyone a choice in the matter.’

M
ichael had done exactly as Sam would have. He’d delivered the enemy’s most prized possessions into the arms of a semi-enemy, one that he knew Sam would not harm.

To hurt mortals was to attract their attention, and, as Sam had often pointed out, there were a lot of mortals to become interested in one man.

So having followed his sixth sense to the steps of the police station where, only a day before, an arrest warrant had been issued with his photo attached, Sam was taking pains with carrying out his plan.

Over his back he’d slung another bag, as new as the items it held. He stared up at the yellow-brick building with ‘police’ on a blue light by its entrance and no ground-floor windows. As he did so, Sam’s face began to change. Never seek to destroy with cannon where you can trick with a mirror.

He became, in a word, a policeman. Indeed, in that moment a sharp observer might also have been startled by exactly how like a copper he became. In his firm but kind face that bore utterly no resemblance to Sam’s own, a stranger would have perceived, not the fatigued policeman of reality who’d seen several crimes too many, but a casting director’s naive interpretation of how a copper should look – a good man trying to fulfil his duty.

But most significant was not the seeming authenticity of Sam’s new features, nor the uniform which must surely have been there always, but the fact that he was one and every policeman in the world. If someone were asked to describe him after only a glimpse, all they’d be able to say was that he had no distinguishing features. Not the slightest hook of the nose, nor even a handsome face. He was just… everyone.

Illusion’s face impassive, Sam jogged calmly up the steps and into the station. The trick was to look as if he knew what he was doing. People are reluctant to question those who look purposeful, for fear that such purpose rebounds on them.

Reception. The tired copper on the desk glanced up but, seeing the uniform, looked away again. Sam padded down as many easy-access corridors as he could find, until his sixth sense informed him that to get at his precious belongings he would have to tackle one of many door locks.

At the door to which his senses had directed him he began punching in any old random combination. Meanwhile his mind delved through the door to the lock beyond, pressed against a dozen complicated mechanisms, felt a spring push back against him and pushed harder. Felt it click.

He was going to get away with it; he could feel it.

As he entered a small room lit only by harsh white lights, he almost laughed out loud at the sight that greeted him. Laid out neatly on the table were his sword and crown, the ultimate prizes of his journey. Just in time he restrained himself from rushing forward to seize them. A woman wearing a stained lab coat was turning towards the door. Her face was thoughtful.

‘Who are you?’

A dozen answers occurred to him, most of them prepared in advance. Nonetheless Sam hesitated, long enough for her to question him again while peering at his face and trying to recognise the unrecognisable features. ‘Been sent to pick these things up,’ he answered finally.

‘I wasn’t told.’ It was an accusation, presumably daring him to produce an official form that no amount of cunning illusion could manage. Illusions needed firm images as a basis, and he had no idea how such a form should look.

Buying time, he tried to change the subject in the first clumsy way that came to mind. ‘Have you been analysing the metals? What do you think?’

She frowned, but he’d judged her right. A scientist, for whom being asked about her specialist field banished any other thought. Picking up the crown in her gloved hands and turning it over she said, ‘It’s no metal I’ve seen before. Some compound, I suppose, but what kind I don’t know. It defies all standard tests. And look at this.’

Sam winced as she smashed it as hard as she could against the table. When she raised it again, it wasn’t even scratched by the impact. A bunsen burner was alight nearby and she calmly held the crown over the flame. A large black mark quickly formed but when she removed the crown and rubbed, the mark came off easily.

‘Indestructible. And the sword is exactly the same. Very light, too. And impossible to date.’

Still holding the crown, she smiled at a whimsical thought. ‘Do you think it would suit me?’

‘Don’t put it on!’ He’d spoken more sharply than he’d intended, and hastily added, ‘You might contaminate the evidence.’

Her frown of surprise changed to one of suspicion. ‘Who
are
you? I haven’t seen you here before.’

He slung his bag from his shoulder and dug into it, seemingly oblivious to her stare.
Look like you know what you’re doing
… From the depths of the bag he produced a package which, as he unfolded it with an appearance of concentration, formed itself into a slim golf bag. He turned to her, smiling apologetically.

‘Sorry about this.’

She was suddenly aware of how quiet the corridor was, and how empty the lab. Instinct took her over and she opened her mouth to scream, not sure where the danger came from or why – but knowing that this man was not what he seemed. Before she could utter a sound, something hard and invisible, but rough as any arresting officer, caught her and flung her backwards. Her head met the wall, and she slid to the floor.

Sam had already slipped the sword into its anonymous case and the crown into his bag. He hastened to her side and checked her pulse; she was momentarily stunned, nothing more. Slinging the bag over his shoulder he hurried from the room, slammed the door behind him and began to walk quickly down the corridor. All he needed to do was keep moving, keep looking ahead, keep the illusion going. He was the faceless man.

Nevertheless, as always when alone in enemy territory, there was the fright of an actor about to forget his lines before a massed audience. A single slip and he was done for; every move had to be perfect. Never let your fear show. In this place, fear stood out.

But the illusion showed no apprehension, even though the man beneath it was flushed with heat and could feel his heart pounding. For every mind that registered interest in him, Sam’s own mind had a little image, a whispered thought that turned it away. He transmitted such images almost unconsciously, after so many centuries of illusion-making.

There was commotion nonetheless in the corridor behind him, people shouting. Sam kept walking, not turning his head. There was a fine balance to strike. If he marched ahead without looking back at what was happening, people might wonder why. If he turned and stopped, he might become trapped and his cover would be blown.

He strode on, eyes ahead, senses fixed on the doorway and freedom. Into reception again, where an officer was already taking a call from some unseen informer talking about ‘assault’ and ‘theft of evidence’. Sam willed himself not to hurry his last steps to the door, danced down the stairs, turned from the police station, let his illusion fall and broke into a sprint, booty cradled under one arm as he ran and ran.

Andrew had whispered in that Moscow street a name which, at the time, Sam had deliberately ignored. He’d ignored it then because he had been busy distracting the valkyries and Firedancers. Now, when he knew his place, and what he was fighting for – now it was suddenly the centre of his world. Gabriel. Gail and Gabriel. The two names, like Luc and Lucifer, seemed too similar for coincidence. Gabriel. Archangel. The kind of person who just might, on discovering the full horror of what Odin and Jehovah were planning, betray her master, and try, however vainly, to hide Andrew from discovery, as the one man who knew where to find the Pandora keys.

Sam didn’t waste time. He went straight to the local pub, bought half a pint of Guinness and a packet of peanuts and, when they were both consumed, went to use the pub’s toilets. They were small, grungy, and had space for only one man. But they had locks on the doors, and were dark enough for his purposes. He scryed.

Gabriel. Gail. Whoever you are. Whoever it was who must have tried, and failed, to protect Andrew. If they know where you are, then I need to know too. I need to get to you first, whatever the cost.
Helllllooo
, anyone out there, or must I discharge the Light and read the minds of men to get what I want?
 

Images, feelings, sounds, the scry picking out piece after piece and slowly assembling them into an image of Gail-Gabriel. Archangel.
Helllllooo
…

And suddenly, as he’d known there would be, a shield, barring his way, sending his mind back with a jolt, and cutting off all access to the focus of his scry. As in Moscow he searched for the markers, opened himself to them, whispered,
Here I am. I am a friend.
The shield parted. He passed through, felt life moving beneath him, soared like a bird, sped towards his target, and hit
another shield.
He hammered against it with futile strength, but it didn’t break. He searched it for markers, felt them, heard them whisper,
Enemy
. Felt magic gather to repulse him, shielded, bared the storm, attacked, bared again. All to no avail. He knew it was going to be no use. He saw the way the inner defence had been constructed, just inside the primal, friendly shield and almost welded to its shape, so that anyone breaching the first would still be unable to penetrate the second.

He knew who’d made it too. The smell of the magic on it, the way it had been constructed, all fluid lines, traditional curves, no imagination, no spark, just stodgy laws of warding applied by a careful, well-trained practitioner. He recognised that structure. He could name the Waywalker who made it. Jehovah. Jehovah was keeping him out, Jehovah knew that he’d come, Michael must have told him… cutting off his way to Gabriel.

To Gabriel.

Archangel.

This time he didn’t bother with aeroplanes. He had no passports and the money he’d conned would not suffice. He went straight to a Hell Portal and Waywalked calmly and at a steady pace to a Portal in an isolated cave near, but not in, Gehenna.

A flock of white bat-like creatures, all pointed teeth and hooded eyes, erupted from the cave mouth in a rush as he came out through the Portal. The cold hit him like a fist; his clothes were far too thin to keep him warm for the long minutes he stood there, heaving in great breaths and trying to forget the haunting voices from the Way that clung to him like spider’s silk. He could distantly, oh so distantly, hear the sounds of the city, but he didn’t go to investigate. Hell was not his concern any more. Maybe later, yes, but not now. Not with Seth on the scene; clever, cunning Seth.

When he turned again to face the Portal he was shivering, his breath condensing in front of his pale face. He dug around in his bag until he found a second overcoat to pull on over his first, a long scarf of the rag-tag variety that he preferred, and a large hat. Hitching the bag back on his shoulder, without further ado he marched straight back into the Portal. He knew that if he stopped to stare at the Portal and work out what he was doing, he’d never go.

As the shadows tore at him and the mist filled his lungs with burning fire, some part of Sam felt strangely happy. He was at war again. Michael had shot him, Seth had invaded his world. But somehow, through it all, he’d found out who his enemies were. Odin, Jehovah, Seth. He had purpose and direction at last.

Sam Linnfer broke from the Portal once more, into Russia.

Maria was a strange spirit, as spirits went. Most of her kind were restless, always drifting through the Way of Fey in search of something to satisfy their eternal curiosity. But not her. She had long ago discovered that if you sat in one place you could watch the world change around you, rather than go searching for it. She found this gradual change more interesting than wandering around, rootless and uncertain. Maria had sat through the revolutions of 1917, through the German invasion, through the ending of Russian communism. She had watched buildings rise and fall, known everyone who ever passed down the small street outside her flat, and even done the unthinkable – taken a part-time mortal job. For two days a week she was an usher at the theatre, and it was something she adored. Not only was there a pageant of human life, as people went to and from their seats, but by using some not-quite-mundane inspiration she’d been able to sneak into almost any performance.

Maria was, as some said with disgust, a mortal-lover.

She lived in a small block of flats overlooking a road that never had more than two or three ramshackle vehicles on it at any hour. So she was surprised one cold evening to observe a new car, a red one, pull up beneath a street lamp and let out a passenger. His face was hidden beneath a large hat, and on touching him her questing mind encountered nothing. Not a shimmer of power, mortal, immortal or spiritual, but neither the open book that most mortal minds offered. Blankness.

She watched this strange figure move towards the block of flats, staying in the shadows at all times. Saw his dark shape stoop by her car and look at it with his head on one side, as though listening for something. He straightened again, and stared straight up at her window. She jumped back instinctively, pulling the curtains shut. Then chided herself for being a nervous fool. Tweaking the curtains aside again, she peered down into the street, but the man was gone.