Sentinel: Book One of The Sentinel Trilogy Page 7

  Moments later, the boy returned to his bedroom with the objects in his arms. He pushed his door to and jumped back into bed, shivering in the cold as he spread the horde out in front of him. The silver raven on the cover of The Sentinel Chronicles shone in the moonlight. Nicholas flipped to the first page of the book.

  To the Sentinel collective, whom we present the most recent journal of events.

  Nicholas wondered what the Sentinel collective was. It sounded like some sort of organisation. This book – a journal of sorts detailing the events of every week in October 1983 – certainly seemed to back up that theory. He remembered that the other Sentinel volumes in the hidden room all had years marked on their spines. He wished he could go back and take a few more books, but he didn’t dare risk waking Tabatha. Those cogs weren’t exactly quiet.

  He turned to the first entry and read by the light of the moon.

  2 JANUARY, 1983

  Woodpoint Prison is no more. Esus has called an emergency summit. What follows is an account of the events that led to the devastation of the prison and its inhabitants.

  Ten pm Woodpoint Prison, North London. After lights out, prisoner #5532, Arnold Humphreys, reported that his cellmate, Timothy Bull (#6723), was behaving strangely. He was ordered to be quiet by the wardens.

  Humphreys fell silent for a time. At 10:24 there were reports of a scream. Wardens unlocked cell #19 – the cell occupied by Humphreys and Bull – and found Humphreys crumpled in a corner with his throat torn out. After a brief tussle, Bull condemned the wardens to the same fate.

  Using the keys from the dead wardens, Bull unlocked the remainder of the cells and slaughtered the inmates. He then progressed through the prison, killing anybody in his way, and eventually burned the entire complex to the ground. Of the 50 souls interred there, and the 10 guards on duty, only one of them survived – inmate Joseph Turner (#3625).

  11.32am Bull was found by Sentinel Andrew Davis, resident of Croft Heights, a neighbourhood half a mile from the prison. Davis suffered a bite to the neck, but managed to knock Bull unconscious. Later, Bull was restrained, questioned and tested by Davis, who discovered that Bull had mutated. Davis believes the mutation was linked to an insect bite on his forearm. Bull displayed the same symptoms as a rabid dog, and was eventually shot dead after escaping his restraints and attempting to strangle Davis.

  Nicholas stopped reading, shocked by the grisly story. The Chronicles seemed to be some sort of macabre horror anthology. And yet the nameless author’s tone seemed assured enough, as if these were hard facts. Nicholas’s insides leapt when he allowed himself to consider that the story was, in fact, true. If it was true, just what sort of organisation was this? And how were his parents involved?

  Suddenly tired, he closed the book and fell back onto his pillow, pulling the duvet up around him. He pondered the ceiling and his thoughts turned to what would happen tomorrow. He thought about the bus journey, and how a stranger would be accompanying him. Richard somebody. He realised with a jolt that he didn’t want to leave. He wanted to stay in the house where the memories of his parents were most vivid.

  He tried to imagine what the next day would hold, but found he couldn’t. What worried him most was his godmother, of whom he knew nothing about. He remembered the strange smile Sam had worn when he had mentioned her in the garden. Sam obviously liked her, and yet had remained tight-lipped, refusing to tell Nicholas anything. Would this woman know anything about his parents? Would she have answers? Nicholas knew that his parents had been going to visit her; that much he had learned from the letter. But why had they never mentioned her to him?

  Nicholas rolled over in bed, throwing his leg outside the covers. He felt hot and anxious. He didn’t think sleep would ever come.

  Something caught the corner of the boy’s eye and Nicholas’s head spun toward the window. He threw himself out of bed and rushed over. A black shape swooped through the air and was lost in the darkness.

  It had looked like a raven.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Due Departure

  THE EARLY MORNING HOURS WERE CRISP and cool. The sky was white and stretched taut like a bed sheet. Sam sat at the kitchen table reading the newspaper by the light of a pale dawn. The cuffs of his shirt frayed around his wrists, waiting to be fastened.

  He sighed and put the paper down, crunching on a bit of toast. The authorities were still poring over the site of the train wreck. Sam suspected they wouldn’t find anything of note. Whoever had caused the crash had been canny enough to plan it, which meant they would also have been canny enough to take precautions. The one thing the authorities did seem to know was that the car that had been on the track belonged to a young man. Clive Kelly. A waiter from Cambridge. Naturally, blame was being heaped squarely on his shoulders. Or, it would be if the police had any idea where he was.

  Clive Kelly. Sam rolled the name around his mouth with the toast. It wasn’t familiar. Certainly not a Sentinel. Which didn’t mean the young man didn’t know about Sentinels.

  Sam tossed the remainder of his toast onto the plate. It was cold anyway. He couldn’t seem to extricate the Hallows from his thoughts. The letter from Maxwell. It had been written on the day of the accident, like a hurried after-thought, perhaps even posted as the Hallows made their way to the station. That would explain why Max hadn’t phoned or met with him. It was an act of desperation.

  Something wasn’t right, that much was clear. Something somewhere had gone horribly wrong, and now Nicholas had no parents. He could expect things to worsen, too, Sam imagined. The train crash felt like a beginning. A prelude. A warning.

  At least the boy was leaving today; getting away from the city. To safety. And Sam could concentrate on finding out what really happened to that train.

  The old man was just lifting a tepid cup of tea to his lips when the phone trilled. The cup froze and an old maxim Sam’s mother had uttered many decades ago spilled to the front of his mind: No good news rises with the sun.

  Setting the cup down, Sam went into the hall.

  “Wilkins,” he said gruffly into the receiver. His brow furrowed. “No, I was up, you’re not disturbing me. What’s the matter?” The frown burrowed deeper. “Don’t go anywhere; I’ll be there within the half hour.”

  Shakily, he replaced the receiver. In the mirror above the table, his drawn, tired reflection grimaced back at him.

  “Pull yourself together man,” he barked. He squinted at his watch and tutted. He had little time, even at this early hour.

  Half an hour later, Sam paced up to the front door of the Waldens’ semi-detached house, pulling his collar up against a wind that seemed intent on carving him in half.

  He stood there for a few moments before knocking, aware that something unpleasant could be lying in wait for him. He dreaded to think what.

  He rapped firmly three times.

  There came the sound of hurried movement from inside the house, and then the clatter of locks being drawn back.

  The change in Lucy Walden was startling. She seemed to have gone from beauty queen to old maid over night. Her hair was scraped back in a ponytail, her make-up free face haggard.

  Sam felt the surprise etch his face and quickly attempted to eliminate it. “Lucy,” he said, and found no more words would come.

  “Mr Wilkins,” Lucy said. “Please come in.”

  He went inside, removing the beaten fedora. He gripped it before him like a shield. Lucy looked so different that he couldn’t help but feel on edge.

  “Richard’s upstairs,” Lucy said simply. “He’s… Well, he’s…” She stopped, pressing her lips together.

  “I’ll just go up and see him, can’t keep the old chap waiting,” Sam said with forced cheerfulness.

  Lucy nodded and disappeared into the sitting room. Sam rocked on his heels as he contemplated the dim staircase. “Right then,” he murmured, setting off.

  When he came to the open doorway he stopped. From here he could see into the bedroom, and despite the d
istance between them, Sam could tell how ill Richard was. The younger man was laid out on his back in bed, a white duvet emblazoned with sunflowers draped over him. His skin was a sickly grey, his cheeks sunken and skeletal. Fine beads of sweat clung to his forehead and deathly groans entered and escaped his throat. His glasses sat watching him from the bedside cabinet.

  “Dear, dear,” Sam clucked, entering the room furtively. “Richard, old boy, what have they done to you?”

  The closer Sam got, the more ill Richard was revealed to be. When he reached the head of the bed, the old man found that his legs would no longer hold him and he sank into the chair at the bedside.

  “It was the doctor.”

  Sam glanced up as a curt voice jabbed from the doorway.

  There, lingering in the half-shadows by the doorframe was Patrick Walden. Despite being of a similar age to him, Patrick’s mind had quietly fled years ago. Remorsefully, Sam remembered when Richard’s father had been the sharpest of their circle. Patrick’s strategies had always been the best, and he was the first anybody came to in a crisis. Now he could barely remember his own name. Time was unspeakably cruel.

  “Doctor?” Sam asked, finding that his voice came out as if he were addressing a child. He knew that the old, healthy Patrick would have hated him for that, but there was no helping it.

  The other man didn’t seem to notice. Patrick sucked in his bottom lip and looked like he was about to spit on the carpet. “Filthy doctor tried to hurt me,” he said plainly. “My son, him there in the bed–” he pointed to make sure Sam knew who he was referring to, “–tried to save me. He ain’t in good shape now, oh no. Foolish lad. Foolish but brave.”

  “A doctor did this to Richard?” Sam asked, unsure if Patrick’s ramblings contained any truth.

  “Probably a devil,” Patrick snarled. “Can’t trust no-one these days, them’s all devils.”

  Sam inclined a humouring nod; the other man had sense enough to realise that at least. His gaze strayed from Patrick to his son laid out on the bed. A doctor abusing his own patients? The very suggestion troubled him to the core. He tried to figure out what possible course of events could have landed Richard, as poorly as he now looked, in this bed. What did this mean?

  “Dad, come on now,” came Lucy’s hushed, weary voice. “Leave Mr Wilkins alone for a bit, will you? He’ll talk to you later.”

  “Filthy doctor.” Patrick scowled and disappeared down the landing.

  “He said something about a doctor?” Sam ventured.

  Lucy sagged against the doorframe. She nodded. “He’s known our family for years, even before we got married. We trusted him. But now look at us.” She raised a hand to her mouth.

  Sam couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “I knew evil was insidious, but this…?” He was transfixed by Richard’s emaciated face. Blinking, he averted his gaze. “Has anybody been to see him, to help him?”

  “You’re the only person I called,” Lucy said. “The only person I could think of to call. How can I trust anybody after what happened? I don’t know who to trust anymore.”

  “You were wise not to call anyone,” Sam said in a hushed tone, as if he were worried he might disturb his friend’s slumber. Bitterly Sam realised such worries were redundant. Richard looked all but on the brink of death.

  “How about a cup of tea?” he suggested.

  Lucy nodded and the old man eased himself from the chair. As he left the room, he cast a sorrowful glance back at the figure in the bed. “Goodbye, old boy,” he murmured. Then he closed the door.

  In the kitchen, Sam watched Lucy put the kettle on. It steamed up the window, obscuring his view of the back garden.

  “Dark times are approaching, there’s no doubt,” he breathed.

  “It’s ridiculous,” Lucy said, slouching against the sideboard. “All I can think about is that we’re meant to be going to the theatre on Saturday, and Richard will be so disappointed. We don’t get to go out much, with Patrick. We needed that night. I’m a horrible person.”

  Sam didn’t say anything. He understood all too well the dark net of thoughts that fell with tragedy.

  “Who do you think the doctor was? I mean, really?” Lucy asked.

  “This was no random attack, that much I think we can be certain of,” Sam said. “This has all the markings of a Harvester.”

  If possible, Lucy turned paler than she already was. “I was worried you’d say that,” she said quietly. Her jaw tightened, became stone. “A Harvester, in my own house–”

  She banged at the sideboard and the teaspoons tinkled on their saucers.

  “Damn them all.” This she said through clenched teeth.

  “Indeed,” Sam concurred. “They’re a poison on this Earth. There’s no doubt in my mind that the doctor you speak of –”

  “Dr Snelling.”

  “Dr Snelling,” Sam continued, “knew you were of Sentinel lineage the moment you stepped foot in his practice. Harvesters are increasingly accurate in their ability to root out those of Sentinel ancestry – perhaps the rumours of their telepathic abilities are not altogether unfounded.”

  Harvesters. Sam shuddered. He barely believed it himself. Yet that was the only reasonable explanation for Richard’s sorry state. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d encountered one of their number, but this smacked of their work. The toxic stench of it filled the house. They were bounty hunters. If a Sentinel was one side of the coin, a Harvester was the other. A Harvester’s sole purpose was to track down and eradicate Sentinels. They were human, mortal, but corrupted by their devotion to the Dark Prophets, the heinous gods that they sacrificed Sentinels to.

  It had been years since a Harvester attack, though. Many in the Sentinel community considered them if not extinct, then resolutely put in their place. If they were surfacing...

  “But… Patrick always told me that Harvesters discard each of their identities as often as a snake sheds its skin,” Lucy said. “We knew him as Dr Snelling for years. Decades.”

  The kettle clicked and Lucy made the tea, setting a teacup in front of Sam before seating herself opposite him.

  “He had quite a catch in you two,” Sam murmured, stirring his tea. “He was trailing you, siphoning information. Perhaps even studying you.”

  “Are we really that exposed?” Lucy demanded shrilly. “Can we truly be so powerless?”

  “The power of the Dark Prophets is growing,” Sam said. “I can feel it in my bones, no matter how old they are.”

  He gulped the tea – the subject left his mouth dry.

  “Snelling made his move for a reason. It has been too long since a Harvester surfaced for attack – there must be grounds for it.”

  “They’re getting stronger, aren’t they?” Lucy said in a hushed tone. She hadn’t touched her own tea. It sat in front of her, steam curling question marks between them.

  “Yes. And more assured,” Sam said. “The days when the Adepts and their Harvesters feared the authority of the Sentinels are waning, almost extinct if their recent activity is anything to go by.”

  A grave silence descended on them and they sat with their own gloomy thoughts.

  “Do you think what happened to Richard has something to do with the train wreck?” Lucy asked.

  “Oh yes,” Sam nodded, the two incidents slotting together in his mind like the pieces of a jigsaw. “The train wreck was no accident either, whatever the press believe. Max and Anita were doomed the second they boarded that train; it was they who were targeted on that occasion, along with the other Sentinels on board. I’m still not sure how the agents of the Dark Prophets knew there were Sentinels on the train, though. Perhaps their powers are greater than we give them credit for. They certainly didn’t know they were travelling to the summit; if they had, perhaps the Hallows would have been permitted to live so that the Harvesters might follow them to their destination.”

  “Which, if possible, would have created an even worse situation,” Lucy lamented. “Tragedy everywhere,”
she sighed. “Will it never end?”

  “End?” Sam said. “This is just the beginning. Oh, it will end eventually, that we can be certain of. But at what cost? That is the question we should be asking.”

  The elderly man stared into his empty cup, feeling equally depleted. He couldn’t remember ever feeling as disheartened as he did now; not even after Judith’s passing. Three friends in just over a week. They had been as much a part of his family as any blood relative. All gone. Or near enough. His mood swung pendulously between angry and dejected in an unbalanced manner that was surely not healthy. But what good was he to anybody in such a sorry state? The dark moments would come, sure as the rain, but then he’d pick himself up again. It wasn’t over, not by a long shot.

  “Would you like another cup?” Lucy asked, standing.

  “Thank you, but no,” Sam said, forcing a smile. “I must be off.”

  “What’ll happen about the boy?” Lucy asked, accompanying the old man to the door.

  “I’ll take him,” Sam said. “In Richard’s place.” He paused to open the front door, then added: “I have a friend. She may be able to help with Richard. I can’t promise anything, but there’s always a chance.”

  To his surprise, Lucy took the old man’s hand in her own and squeezed it warmly. “Thank you for everything, Mr Wilkins. You’re a good friend. We owe you so much.”

  “You owe me nothing,” Sam said, extricating his hand and waving it in front of him dismissively. “When I return I’ll pay my friend a visit.”

  “Well, we’ll be here when you get back,” Lucy commented dourly.

  “Never give up hope,” Sam said.

  Replacing the fedora, he stepped out into the rain.