P.N.E. (The Wolfblood Prophecies Book 4) (25 page)

‘There are six of them altogether,’ smiled Obadiah.

Lethe took the challenge. ‘They will not be forgotten. That agent of Satan, as you call him, has agreed to set up trust funds for them. Unless you consider his money tainted.’

‘I do. But I can bless it and put it to good use on behalf of the children.’

‘Quite. But Sebastian will be my responsibility. Now I would like to meet him.’ Lethe’s brisk manner masked the complexity of her feelings.

As they drew nearer to the children Lethe suddenly caught her breath. ‘You could have prepared me,’ she said accusingly.

Whatever intimacy they had established vanished. Obadiah’s expression was austere and uncompromising. ‘Stigmurus played God. And failed. The boys pay the price for his hubris in pain and ridicule while he lives a life of wealth and power and ease.’

Lethe’s heart sank as she saw that each child was physically damaged to some degree. Obadiah saw her face fall and took pity on her. ‘I was unkind back then. All children experience pain and ridicule. I promise you, these children are happy and loved,’ he said gently. ‘With God’s help, they will flourish.’

‘Science can help them as well,’ observed Lethe.

‘Only if God wills it.’

‘Sometimes Science puts right God’s mistakes,’ Lethe asserted boldly.

‘God does not make mistakes.’ Obadiah’s face was thunderous again. ‘Woman, you are impossible! Your soul is in mortal danger.’

To her amazement Lethe felt laughter bubbling up inside her. It felt delicious to rile this man. ‘So save my soul,’ she said flippantly, but somehow, to her surprise, the words took on a yearning tone. Their eyes locked and for a moment Lethe found it difficult to breathe. She struggled to assert herself. ‘Isn’t that your job?’

Obadiah said nothing. His breathing was heavy; uneven. Turning on his heel he walked over to the children, beckoning one to come to him. They walked back towards Lethe and her heart did somersaults as she watched Obadiah’s stern face soften as the little boy asked him a question.

She studied Sebastian carefully, seeing a solemn child with a pale face and a large head balanced awkwardly on a puny body with stick-thin limbs. She realised that he was studying her right back. Several moments passed, then he smiled the sweetest smile Lethe had ever seen. He formally extended his hand. ‘Delighted to meet you,’ he said gravely. ‘My name is Sebastian.’

Lethe reached for his hand but grasped nothingness. She looked around to find herself standing alone in the old Western town. As the skies turned an ominous red the ground began to shake. A deafening roar and a blinding flash were followed by a blast of wind that tore the buildings to pieces. As the huge mushroom cloud unfurled before her, Lethe screamed.

At the exact same moment on opposite sides of the world, Obadiah and Lethe both awoke, each calling the others name. Beside Lethe, Doctor Mallory stirred and mumbled her name in his sleep.

Sebastian woke, wrenched back to reality. Lethe’s name was also upon his lips.

Chapter Eighteen – The Return

Jo woke with a start in a warm and cosy room, curled up in an armchair. It was still dark. Her hand instinctively reached for the bedside light. Blinking, she sat up and looked around.

As her eyes took in the elegant furniture, the wardrobe full of clothes just right for her, the pretty dressing table and well-stocked bookshelves, she found herself holding her breath. Could this really be true? Was she finally back at the hospital, listening to the torrential rain on the windows, still needing to complete her homework on the Cuban Missile Crisis?

She snatched up her text book, carefully scanning the pages to see if the words had been changed. To her immense relief there was no mention of Castro and Khrushchev having triumphed.

She rose quickly and headed out into the brightly-lit corridor. All was silent. She wandered past the closed corner-shop and empty reception point. Fearing the worst, she ran past empty wards full of empty beds.

The elevator was waiting and with a ping carried her up to the top floor. By the time she had run to her mother’s private room, Jo was gasping her breath, the sound of her breathing echoing throughout the deserted hospital.

Gingerly she opened the red door. With a conflict of relief and sorrow she saw the prone figure lying in the shadowed bedroom. The repetitive beep of the life support machine was all that broke the ominous silence. She made her way to the bed and took her mother’s hand.

‘Mum?’ asked Jo, hopefully. There was no response. She squeezed her mother’s limp hand. Nothing.

Jo sat there in silence holding her mother’s hand. Sunlight shone through the window, casting light upon them both, when suddenly Ali squeezed back.

‘Mum!’ cried Jo, squeezing as hard as she could. Ali’s hand pulsed back again. As joy burst in Jo’s heart, she continued to squeeze.

The hand beneath the bed sheet squeezed harder. Jo’s elation turned to concern as the grip grew tighter and then an eerie chuckle turned her blood to ice.

Burnley.

Panic gripped Jo’s mind as Everard Burnley yanked her towards the bed. Desperately she recoiled but could not break free of his iron grasp. Her arm felt like it was yanked from its socket by the powerful entity that stalked her dreams. Desperately, she emped.

Matthew! Help me!

As Jo screamed Everard Burnley’s laughter grew all the more powerful.

Got you.

Matthew appeared beside them.

Jo! You must fight him!

Burnley laughed all the harder as outside the window an atomic blast tore the dream to shreds.

Jo woke up in a warm and cosy room, curled up in an armchair. It was still dark. She instinctively reached for the bedside light. Blinking, she sat up and looked around.

As her eyes took in the elegant furniture, the wardrobe full of her clothes, the pretty dressing table and well-stocked bookshelves, she found herself holding her breath. Could this really be true? Was she finally back at the hospital, listening to the torrential rain on the windows, still needing to complete her homework on the Cuban Missile Crisis?

She snatched up her text book, carefully scanning the pages to see if the words had been changed. To her relief there was no mention of Castro and Khrushchev having triumphed.

And with that Jo ran from the room and down the deserted corridors and took the elevator straight to her mother’s room. She wrenched the red door open and stood in the doorway.

‘Mum?’ she asked tentatively.

The only reply was the intermittent artificial beep of the life support machine. The silence between each beep only grew louder until Jo could bear it no more. She went to her mothers’ bedside and looked.

The bed was shrouded in shadow, the light was dingy. As Jo peered into the gloom, Ali weakly reached out her hand. Gasping for joy, Jo reached out and grabbed it with both hands.

Mum!

Her mothers’ hand felt warm and soft as Jo squeezed as hard as she could. She poured her heart and soul into their connection and emped,
You’re alive.

And then Everard Burnley chuckled to himself. Jo screamed as the hand beneath the bedsheets crushed her fingers together.

Ali opened her eyes and rose from the bed, lifting Jo clean off the ground as she did so.

I’m alive!
boomed Everard Burnley

Mary! Help me!
pleaded Jo and immediately Mary Montgomery was standing there beside them.

Fight, Jo!
She emped. Burnley just laughed at Jo while wearing her own mother’s face. With effortless ease Jo was thrown at Mary as if she were a punch. Mary crumpled before her, bouncing across the room before colliding with the wall. Listlessly she slid to the floor.

‘No!’ cried Jo in horror as her grinning mother bore down upon her.

Mum!
Emped Jo.
Where are you?

Ali threw back her head and laughed the laugh of Everard Burnley. Outside the sky was split asunder by the piercing blast of an atomic bomb. The room shook violently as the pressure wave tore through the room as a howling gale strips dead leaves from a tree.

Jo woke up in a warm and cosy room, curled up in an armchair. It was still dark. Her hand instinctively reached for the bedside light. Blinking, she sat up and looked around.

It took a while for her eyes to adjust and take in the elegant furniture, the wardrobe, the dressing table and well-stocked bookshelves. She found herself holding her breath. Could this really be true? Was she finally back at the hospital, listening to the torrential rain on the windows, still needing to complete her homework on the Cuban Missile Crisis? Her head throbbed and her mouth felt dry and parched.

She leaned over and picked up her text book, carefully scanning the pages to see if the words had been changed. There was no mention of Castro and Khrushchev having triumphed.

Jo rose slowly, peering blearily at the world around her. She felt exhausted. The hospital was dark both inside and out. It was night time and the generators still weren’t working. She pulled on her dressing gown and fluffy slippers and shuffled into the hall.

She made her way past the sleeping wards full of patients, smiling kindly at the night staff who all greeted her politely in return. Out of a window Jo caught sight of several large relief helicopters in the car park. She carried on down the corridor as a young man softly sung along to his headphones while polishing the floor.

Hush, little baby, don’t say a word…

Jo stopped in the corner shop which was a bustle of activity. GLORY orderlies were unloading a large shipment of supplies; medicine and linen for the wards, portable generators for power, fresh food for the cafeteria and gallons of fresh water. In the middle of all that, the wrong box had been delivered to the shop.

‘This isn’t a newspaper!’ exclaimed the shopkeeper in explanation while waving a stethoscope at a man holding a clipboard. Jo had wanted to buy a chocolate bar but as the man was obviously busy, she didn’t wish to bother him. She waited patiently for the elevator as people bustled around her. Finally there was a ping and the doors parted and a group of people stepped out of the crowded elevator.

Jo looked around before entering the now empty carriage. The bustling continued unabated. She stepped in and pushed the button to close the door.

Music played softly as the elevator gently rose. Jo slumped against the wall and let out a mighty yawn. The lights flickered briefly as the music skipped a beat. Jo felt the elevator slow briefly for a moment before regaining momentum. With a ping the elevator reached the top floor.

The door did not open. Jo leaned across and pushed the button. No response. Sighing wearily, Jo pushed the button again and the doors parted. On the other side people were waiting for the elevator. One man impatiently pushed past the others as Jo stepped into the corridor.

‘Jo!’ exclaimed her dad as she opened the red door to her mother’s room. Matthew and Mary were sat either side of the bed. ‘Good morning! Or is still night time?’

‘It’s night time, Dad. Trust me.’

Jo’s eyes were drawn to the windows. In the distance large pylons bearing artificial lights illuminated a heavy construction crew hard at work rebuilding the bridge. A few drops of rain settled on the glass.

‘Wonderful news, Jo!’ grinned Matthew. ‘Your mum squeezed my hand!’

Jo’s face lit up. Mary smiled back at her. ‘I felt it too!’ and with that Paul danced over and gathered his daughter in his arms, he swung her around until she felt giddy singing, ‘Your mum’s going to live! Ali’s alive!’ and he was crying with eyes full of relief and hope and joy.

Jo just laughed and laughed and laughed as the room spun past her over and over as her mother lay still upon the bed. As Paul swung her faster and sang even louder Jo kept her eyes on Ali. The world whirled away as Jo spun through the air and then Ali opened her eyes and Jo saw that they were the glaring evil eyes of Everard Burnley. A flash of light outside the window and the next moment they were all gone.

Jo woke up in a warm and cosy room, curled up in an armchair. It was still dark. Her hand instinctively reached for the bedside light. Blinking, she sat up and looked around.

As her eyes took in the elegant furniture, the wardrobe full of clothes just right for her, the pretty dressing table and well-stocked bookshelves, she found herself holding her breath. Could this really be true? Was she finally back at the hospital, listening to the torrential rain on the windows, still needing to complete her homework on the Cuban Missile Crisis?

She snatched up her text book, carefully scanning the pages to see if the words had been changed. To her immense relief there was no mention of Castro and Khrushchev having triumphed.

She checked the time, wondering if she could go and see her parents, but decided that three o’clock in the morning wasn’t an ideal time to visit, so with a great sigh of relief, she undressed and slipped in between the covers and slept a deep, dreamless sleep.

The next morning she went straight to the coma ward. She was half expecting people to say, ‘Where on earth have you been all this time?’ but no-one did.

Jo hesitated when she reached the room with the red door. One of the nurses looked up at her and smiled. ‘You did your Dad a power of good, Jo! He went for a jog around the grounds before breakfast, and floods or no floods, he’s gone to the recording studio. Said it was time he got on with some work.’

At first Jo was delighted, then she felt a little clutch of fear. ‘Did he leave Mum on her own?’

‘No, not at all. Mr and Mrs Jamieson are with her.’

After greeting Matthew and Mary, remembering to act as if she had only seen them the day before, not decades ago, Jo went and kissed her mother.

‘Any change?’ she asked hopefully while staring down at the motionless Ali.

Mary shook her head regretfully. ‘Sorry, Jo. We’ve tried everything we know, but we cannot get through to her. I even slipped down to the chapel and lit a candle, just in case there’s anything in this religion malarkey…’

‘
It is better to light a candle than to rage against the dark.’
Jo had spoken the words aloud before she realised.

‘Matthew’s always saying that,’ laughed Mary. ‘But rage has its place!’

Jo wondered if it was Matthew she had heard, comforting her as she went deep underground in a world ravaged by nuclear war. She had been overwhelmed by sadness and fear, afraid that she had brought that bleak world into being by trying to change the future. Or maybe it was a Spirit Guide. Summer Moon had spoken to her of guardian spirits in a tipi fragrant with sweet grass incense and smouldering sage. Initially Jo had been unconvinced, but her visions had left her more open-minded.

‘I had a dream,’ she said slowly, watching Matthew’s face carefully. Was it her imagination, or had he just winked at her? She carried on. ‘Someone said
It is better to light a candle than to rage against the dark.
Then I had a vision about Mum. She was like she is now – so pale and still. The vision reminded me of a silent film - no colour or sound. It made me cry. Then as I cried, everything began to change. I could hear music and laughter, and there was movement and colour. Then Mum opened her eyes.’

The vision was crystal clear in Jo’s memory.

Ali opened her eyes. She sat up in bed and smiled directly at her daughter. The colours grew ever more intense, until a white aura surrounded Ali, her red-gold curls turning to silver and pearl, gleaming softly like the petals of the healing lotus. As the light grew more dazzling, and the music more wild and haunting, Jo thought she would faint with joy. She stretched out her arms towards her mother.

Then, as the music reached an exquisite note of crystal purity, there was an explosion of stars, softly cascading down, swirling like snowflakes. Sadness clutched at Jo’s heart as the vision faded and the shadows slowly returned, but now a small candle glowed steadily in the heart of the darkness.

‘That’s beautiful,’ said Mary, and Matthew smiled in agreement. Jo realised she had not spoken out loud – her old friends had emped her. It seemed strange, paradoxically, to be back on familiar territory, with her special abilities intact.