Outcast (The Darkeningstone Series Book 2) (43 page)

She took her hands from her face and turned toward him, her pale cheeks glistening with tears. She shook her head slowly from side to side. “I don’t know. I think it’s all right. I just don’t know.” She sniffed. “It’s over now anyway. There’s nothing I can do.”

Andrew shone the flashlight across the tunnel floor, searching for the place he’d laid Crawford down. There. Crawford was just as he’d left him, lying on his side, his face deathly white in the flashlight’s beam. He moved over to Crawford and bent down, feeling for a pulse at his throat. Good. Crawford’s pulse was strong and steady. “Thank God,” Andrew whispered. He loosened Crawford’s collar, and as he pulled his shirt aside, Andrew’s fingers brushed against something solid. Was Crawford wearing a wire? Andrew moved the flashlight and the gold chain around Crawford’s throat caught the light. The end of the chain was hidden beneath Crawford’s shirt, but it hung down toward the ground, as though it held something heavy. Andrew frowned. Crawford wasn’t the kind of man who wore jewellery, was he? There was one way to find out. Andrew held his breath and reached out to touch the chain.

“Is he all right?” Cally asked.

Andrew snatched his hand away.
What am I doing?
He took a deep breath. “Yes. Yes, he’s fine.” He looked up at Cally. “But listen—we really have to get out of here.”

Cally hesitated. “Andrew—I don’t know if I can face it.”

Andrew stood and turned to face her. “I know it’s tough, but I’ll tell you what we’re going to do. We’re going to walk out of here together, OK?”

“OK.” Cally walked to his side. Her legs were unsteady. “Just don’t…”

“Don’t what?”

She reached out and took hold of his hand. “Just don’t leave me alone again.”

Andrew squeezed her hand. “If that’s what you want.”

She nodded. “Yes,” she said. “Yes it is.”

“Come on then.” He shone the flashlight in front of her feet. “Watch your step,” he said, then he led her back toward the main tunnel, back toward the light.

Peterson stood in the empty entrance lobby of the Exeter Passages. It had only taken him a few minutes to shepherd out the last of the tourists and then he’d sent the staff home for the day. No one had argued, nor questioned him too closely. Now, he pressed his phone against his ear and listened intently to the caller, his face a mask of quiet authority. A lesser man would have stood open-mouthed. Peterson simply nodded to himself and ended the call. He had his instructions. He pocketed his phone, found a chair, and shifted it so he could sit down and still see the top of the stairs. He might as well make himself comfortable.

When Andrew made his way hesitantly up the stairs, Peterson stood and beckoned him forward.
I feel like a teacher
summoning a naughty child
. Andrew took a couple of steps into the lobby, trying to look confident and unhurried.
Trying too hard
. Peterson looked Andrew up and down, taking in the state of his clothes, the way his eyes darted nervously around the room.

“It’s all right,” Peterson said. “Tell the young lady to come up as well.”

Andrew put his hand up to the straps of his rucksack, but he didn’t step forward.

Peterson let a smile twitch the corners of his lips. “It wasn’t a suggestion.”

Andrew hesitated. “Are you from the office?”

Peterson raised his eyebrows. “I’m afraid I don’t follow you, sir.” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “I’m just here to collect an old friend. You may have met him down there.” He inclined his head toward the stairs. “He goes by the name of Mr. Crawford. Sound familiar?”

Andrew narrowed his eyes. “Yes,” he said, his voice cold. “I’ve met him.”

“Good,” Peterson said. “But my friend seems to be a little late.” His smile suddenly faded. He looked Andrew in the eye. “I do hope Mr. Crawford is in good health.”

“He’s fine. He’s just having a rest.”

Peterson pushed out his lower lip. “You didn’t by any chance happen to take anything from our mutual friend?”

Andrew shook his head. “No. Nothing. Well, I picked up his flashlight, that’s all. You can have it back if you want.”

“No, that won’t be necessary,” Peterson said. He paused for a moment, studying Andrew’s face.
He’s telling the truth.
“Well, I’m sure you want to go and enjoy your weekend. I expect you’ll be back at work on Monday, won’t you?”

“I, er, I suppose so.”

Peterson raised his arm and gestured toward the door. “Please, don’t let me keep you.”

Andrew opened and closed his mouth. “Really? You don’t want me to go with you?”

Peterson did not reply. What he wanted or didn’t want was neither here nor there. He checked his watch and gave Andrew a weary smile.

Andrew turned and walked back to the top of the stairs. Cally peered up at him, her face lined with worry. “It’s OK,” he told her. “We can go.”

“You’re sure?” Cally asked. “I heard you talking. Who’s there?”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s fine.” He held out his hand to her. “Come on. Time to go home.”

Cally climbed the stairs and took his hand.

“Are you ready?” Andrew asked.

Cally nodded, then together, they walked across the lobby. She stared at the strange man who stood, looking for all the world as if he was waiting for a bus. But Andrew didn’t pause, and a moment later they were opening the glass door that led out onto the pavement. Cally hesitated in the doorway and glanced back over her shoulder. Andrew followed her gaze and the man in the lobby raised his hand in a friendly wave. Cally frowned and opened her mouth to say something, but Andrew shook his head and hustled her outside.

As soon as they stepped out onto the street, the real world rushed in on them. Cars and buses swept by, belching warm exhaust fumes into the air, and sore-footed shoppers bustled along, laden down with too many carrier bags. No one had the time or the energy to notice the dishevelled couple standing in the street, holding hands and looking dazed.

Andrew looked down at Cally. “Let’s go,” he said. “If I can remember where I parked, I can give you a lift home.”

Cally nodded, then looked down to their intertwined fingers.

Andrew let go of her hand. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—I mean, you don’t need me to…” His voice trailed away and he looked down at his shoes.

“No, I don’t need you to hold my hand,” Cally said. She hesitated then gave him a shy smile. “But, I’d kind of like it if you would. Just for a minute.”

“Oh.”

“Just until we get away from here. Is that OK?”

Andrew took her hand and squeezed it. “It’s OK with me. It’s more than OK.”

Andrew looked around to get his bearings, then together, they set off down the street.

Peterson watched Andrew and Cally go, then headed for the stairs and made his way toward the tunnel entrance. He had a flashlight in his pocket and it didn’t take him long to find Crawford. He crouched down beside him and lifted each of Crawford’s eyelids in turn, shining the flashlight into each eye, checking that both pupils reacted normally. All was well and Peterson grunted in satisfaction. Andrew had managed to incapacitate Crawford without causing him too much damage.
Not a bad job—for an amateur
.

Working quickly, he ran his hands around Crawford’s neck, tracing along the gold chain with his fingertips. He found the chain’s catch and released it, then pulled the chain gently upward, drawing it carefully out from beneath Crawford’s shirt. And there it was—just as he’d expected: a smooth, flat disc of pure black stone. Peterson scooped up the disc, laid it flat on the palm of his hand and shone his flashlight onto the stone’s surface. The disc’s delicate pattern of curling lines caught the light; every curve perfect, every groove carved to precisely the same depth. Peterson raised his eyebrows.
A pretty thing
.
But is it really so important?
It didn’t look particularly valuable, perhaps a modern copy of a Celtic design, but his orders had been very clear: he was to collect the disc from Crawford personally—at
any
cost. Peterson sniffed and turned the disc over. It had no seams or joints that he could see and no letters or numbers to provide a clue as to its purpose.

“Oh well,” he muttered. “Ours not to reason why.” He took a small, transparent plastic bag from his pocket and dropped the disc into it, then ran his fingers carefully over the zip lock closure to seal the bag. He held the bag up for a moment to check it was secure, then carefully placed it in the inside pocket of his jacket. Job done.

Peterson tilted his head, listening. Yes. That sound was the distant thud of boots echoing along the tunnel. He used his flashlight to check his watch. Good. The clean-up crew were on time. Soon they’d carry Crawford out of the tunnels and remove any traces of incriminating evidence. The metal gate would be replaced and welded shut.
I’ll stay and keep my eye on them
, Peterson decided. This job had to be done right. Only then could he finally return to London.

And after that—what then?
Paperwork
, he thought bitterly.
Reams and reams of bloody paperwork
. He allowed himself a small sigh. It was the lad he felt sorry for—Andrew. There was no way he’d escape without some sort of punishment, even though it looked like he was innocent. He’d been dragged into some sort of bizarre mission that Crawford had dreamed up out of nowhere. Peterson glanced down at Crawford’s face. “Stupid man,” he muttered. No one could go around setting up operations just because they felt like it. There were procedures, a chain of command, rules to follow, orders to obey.

There’s never any shortage of orders
. He set his mouth in a grim line. It was time to act on his latest instructions. He took the black canvas hood and plastic zip ties from his pocket. In a few minutes, Crawford would be out of the tunnels, but it would be a long time before the man saw daylight again. A very long time indeed.

Chapter 43

3650 BC

SOMEONE CALLS MY NAME. And something tugs at me; sends me tumbling through the dark. This is the end. I’ll fall forever, the bitter cold eating into my bones, until my body crumbles away to dust and scatters into the emptiness.

Morven stood still, hidden from view by the black stone, and watched the four men stalk onto the hilltop, their bows held ready.
Only four!
Yet they’d murdered his warriors—all the young men from his tribe were gone. He was alone, and it would be hard to fight all four of these men at once. Morven took a step back from the stone in case he could be seen by its blue glow. His only chance would be to take the men by surprise, one at a time. He looked back at the black stone. Was he imagining it, or had the blue lights dimmed? Yes. They were slowly fading away, but he could still see the outline of the boy.
It hasn’t worked. Why?
Morven shook his head. He had no idea what had gone wrong, and now it was almost certainly too late, but he had to do something, he had to
try
. Slowly, he edged as near to the black stone as he dare. If the men saw him now, he’d be dead in a heartbeat, and then he could not protect the boy. He took hold of his black talisman and held it out toward the stone, closing his eyes, willing the stone to take the boy back. He focused all his thoughts, picturing the moment when the boy would leave this place, this time, forever.

And at that moment, without warning, the buzzing stopped. The sudden silence rang in Morven’s ears, and even with his eyes closed he could tell that the blue lights had gone out. He groaned under his breath and opened his eyes, dreading what he might see, fearing for both their lives if the boy was still standing against the stone. But no. The boy had gone. Vanished. Morven crept forward and peered around the edge of the stone, just to be sure.

He breathed a sigh of relief. There was no sign of the boy. Morven looked back across the hilltop. The men were close now. He ducked back behind the black stone and made his decision, then he turned away and ran down the hillside, slipping silently into the night.

Hafoc ran toward the hilltop, calling Brond’s name. Now that the confusion of the battle was over, he’d expected to find his brother quickly, and his disappointment was hard to bear. But there was still hope. The top of the hill was not flat; there were dips and mounds that could easily hide a man if he lay down. And then, farther away across the hilltop, there was the huge slab of rock that towered above them; it was big enough to hide a handful of men. Hafoc eyed the rock warily. It gave off a strange light, like moonlight on water, and he’d swear it was making the hissing buzz that had allowed them to creep up the hill unheard. He frowned. A rock could not make a sound, but then, who knew what demons the Wandrian could summon from the darkness?

“Hafoc, wait!”

He turned and watched as Tostig hurried to join him. “I’ve got to find Brond,” Hafoc said.

“Yes,” Tostig said. “But we go carefully and together. There may be Wandrian lying in wait.”

“You’re right. But we must find Brond soon or all this will have been for nothing.”

“Not for nothing. We have sent many Wandrian to their deaths. It will be a long time before they dare to set foot in our forest again.”