Ruins (25 page)

“Hey Aileen. Can’t stop,” he said, pushing into the pantry with Dawn behind him.

“You have fun, dears!” Aileen called after them.

In his room, Nicholas drew the curtains and set the seeing glass out on the carpet, which was considerably more difficult with only one working arm. Dawn folded herself up in the chair in the corner and watched, chewing on her sleeve.

Nicholas tried to remember what Isabel had said. Deep breaths and follow the amethyst. It shouldn’t be too difficult. Sitting cross-legged, he tapped the crystal and it began to swing. It caught the light and flashed intermittently.

He tried to conjure an image of Laurent, then held it in his mind in the hope that he could force the glass to show him what he wanted.

“Laurent,”
he commanded.

The floor fell away beneath him. The walls evaporated and darkness clouded his vision.

The girl sits dazed and covered in ash.

The image changed.

A symbol burning fire. A triangle. A man in a bowler hat. An inhuman screech blasts through the night and then there are the Abbey ruins.

“Come on,” Nicholas muttered. His voice echoed strangely in his head.

Cobbles. A passageway lit by buzzing electric lamps. The odour of dry earth.

Whoops and cheers filled his hearing and his pulse quickened with excitement, but the feeling didn’t belong to him. He was sensing somebody else’s emotion. A huge swell of exhilaration left a taste like blood in his mouth.

Nicholas emerged from the trance.

“What did you see?” Dawn asked.

“It was weird. Like I was underground.” He sat up with a start. Sam had told him about the rumours of tunnels beneath Bury St Edmunds – an ancient network he’d read were once used by the monks.

“The tunnels,” he said, grinning triumphantly at Dawn. “They’re in the tunnels!” His grin slackened as he remembered the exhilaration, the bite of blood on his tongue. “But something was happening... Or it’s going to happen. I think we’re running out of time.”

*

A loud clanging interrupted Isabel’s sleep. Drowsily, she came to. It was dark, but her feline sight probed through the gloom. She was in a dank room. Water trickled down the walls and the air reeked of damp. Barrels were stacked in one corner. Another housed a great heap of blankets.

Isabel realised she was lying in an upturned crate. It was stuffed with musty bits of fabric that once seemed to have been used to clean floors. Somebody had made a bed for her. How had she come to be here? What had happened?

She struggled to recall and then the memory struck her like a blow. The park. The swooping gargoyles and the leering man from the school.

Nicholas!

Where was the boy? Panic prickled her fur and Isabel attempted to get up, but her limbs spasmed and she curled back up dejectedly.

A phlegmy cough reverberated through the chamber and Isabel froze, unsure where the sound had come from.

The blankets in the corner moved and Isabel realised they contained a person. Somebody struggled up from the floor. Isabel glimpsed sallow, saggy flesh and a pendulous bosom that a stained brown dress struggled to restrain.

The figure coughed and retched, wiping her nose on her bare arm. Grey eyes pivoted through the murk, focussing blearily on Isabel.

“Pretty kitty,” the woman slobbered, shuffling across the floor. She extended a grimy hand and scratched the top of Isabel’s head. “Pretty kitty’s awake.”

Isabel shrank back in revulsion. Tiredness overcame her and she closed her eyes.

“Pretty kitty!”

The woman’s angry shrieks shook the crate, but Isabel couldn’t fight the tiredness. The yells faded into the distance and she welcomed the darkness of sleep.

Some time later, Isabel awoke again. She listened. Still curled up in the crate, she heard guttural snores and wondered if the scraggly woman who was both her nurse and warden was asleep.

She had no idea how much time had passed since the incident in the Abbey Gardens. It could be a day or a week. There were no windows in the room and Isabel didn’t know how long she had slipped in and out of consciousness. She reasoned that a considerable amount of time must have passed because she felt better than previously.

The cat extended a front paw, testing it. No pain. She stretched the other and then eased upright, her tail kinking into a question mark. One of her back legs twinged slightly, but otherwise she felt fine. Weak, but fine.

She had to escape this cell. Nicholas needed her.

If the child survived the attack.

Isabel refused to think otherwise. The boy was strong-willed, if tempestuous in his behaviour. How peculiar that those qualities often went hand in hand.

More snores rattled from the bundle of rags in the corner and Isabel padded warily across the stone floor. She ignored the wooziness and attempted to move silently as a shadow. If her captor discovered her there was no telling what she’d do.

The door was solid wood and shut tightly. Isabel peered up at it, her whiskers trembling. She had no idea if she had the strength to do what was necessary, but she had to try.

Blocking out the sound of her captor’s nasal grunts and ignoring the fusty air that tickled her nostrils, she attempted to centre herself. This would be a true test of the power she suspected still resided within her.

Focussing on the door knob, she imagined a human hand reaching for it. A five-fingered shadow detached itself from the floor and strained upward. It closed around the handle. Turned.

The door vibrated faintly and Isabel squinted, doubling her efforts.

With a squeak, the handle rotated.

Seizing her moment, Isabel swiped a paw under the door and yanked it open.

“Kitty?” a tired voice mumbled.

Isabel darted into a gloomy hall.

No, not a hall. A tunnel. Refusing to acknowledge the weariness that sucked at her resolve, she cantered down the tunnel. Even that tiny incantation had exhausted her, but if she succumbed to the weariness she’d never escape.

Her insides quailed as the door crashed open behind her.

“KITTY?” a voice warbled.

Isabel’s heart leapt. She couldn’t be captured again. Racing on, she followed the tunnel round a bend. There had to be somewhere to hide. The few doors that lined the passage were closed and Isabel didn’t have the strength to prise them open.

“PRETTY KITTY?”

The voice shrilled behind her and Isabel couldn’t be sure if she’d been spotted. She daren’t cast a look back, scampering further down the tunnel, blind to what lay ahead.

Bare fleet slapped the stone floor and she realised the woman was giving chase. Isabel had no idea where she was, but she guessed it was enemy territory. The man who had attacked them in the gardens must have allies, and the woman was one of them. She must have found her after the attack.

Isabel darted round another corner and spotted a rusted grate where the wall met the floor. It must lead to old ventilation shafts. She sprang toward it and squeezed between the bars into the darkness beyond.

“KITTY NO!”

A hand groped between the bars and Isabel saw that the woman was on the floor, slobbering and sobbing as she stretched for the cat.

“KITTY!”

Isabel’s tail lashed in irritation.

“Have some dignity,” she spat, turning from the prone woman and padding into the darkness of the ventilation shaft. The shrieks soon died away, but she crept quietly, aware that there could be other openings.

She wandered for what felt like an age. The air was just as stuffy here as it was elsewhere in the tunnels. Perhaps this wasn’t her way out, after all. Perhaps there was no way out. If she was in a network of tunnels, it stood to reason that she was underground. But where?

Isabel’s ears twitched, picking up a distant sound.

Voices. Or one voice, at the very least. It sounded familiar.

Unable to suppress her curiosity, Isabel followed the sound. She spied another grate ahead. Flickering light probed her hiding place and she edged closer to the bars.

The room beyond was bathed in candlelight. A bare-chested man cowered in the centre of the floor, which was scrawled with peculiar lines and circles. He was shackled to the floor and his youthful face was tight with fear. A blood-smeared symbol had been carved into his chest.

“For your sacrifice, you will receive a great reward,” a deep voice murmured. “The Dark Prophets welcome all who surrender to their divine embrace.”

Robes swept past the grate and Isabel ducked back, her ears flattening against her skull. She knew that voice. As the robed figure circled the floor, she caught sight of blond hair and darkly glittering eyes.

It was the man from the park. Laurent.

“What is he up to now?” Isabel murmured to herself, suppressing the growl that wanted to be unleashed.

“Please...” the chained man sobbed. “Please...”

Laurent looked down his nose at him, hooded eyes devoid of compassion. He reached out a hand and placed it on the chained man’s head. He murmured something under his breath and even Isabel’s hearing couldn’t pick out the words.

The man on the floor writhed in agony. His mouth opened as if he wanted to scream, but only a terrible croak escaped his throat. His eyes became bloodshot. His entire body tensed; every bone protruding; every muscle hardening.

Isabel wanted to throw herself upon Laurent, but she resisted, knowing he would easily overpower her in her present condition. She watched in horror as the shirtless man’s face grew gaunt. All life drained from it and his features grew more skull-like with each passing second.

Then he was on fire.

Flames roared over his skin, surging up Laurent’s arm. Laurent threw his head back as if in ecstasy.

A flash lit the chamber and silence fell.

Isabel peered through the bars and her hackles raised in horror.

Where the chained man had been, all that remained was a crouched figure of ash.

Laurent’s exultant pants echoed in the chamber and he stretched his arms out, his back cracking. Cheeks aglow, he went to a cabinet and unlocked it with a key attached to his wrist. Isabel craned through the bars.

She heard Laurent cooing at something in the cabinet, but what? He took a step back to admire the cabinet’s contents and Isabel caught sight of two objects – an ugly vase inscribed with strange symbols and a crude stone carving in the shape of a woman.

A wave of nausea caused Isabel’s stomach to do slow somersaults. She couldn’t pry her gaze from the objects in the cabinet. They drew her in the way a snake bewitched its prey. She was certain she could see the vase and the stone carving vibrating. All strength left her body.

Wrenching her gaze free, the cat crawled lethargically away from the grate. If she didn’t get out of here soon, she was doomed.

*

The platform at Bury train station was rammed with people, but that’s how Rae wanted it. Easier to slip unnoticed onto the train when it arrived. She squeezed through the crowd of commuters – kids her age who must live in nearby villages and shop-workers who were finished for the day – looking for the perfect spot. If she hung out near some teenage girls she should escape notice.

A few boys shot her lazy glances that made her gut quiver as she passed. What if one of them came over? She fired a warning look at the nearest one and his friends howled with laughter, slapping him on the shoulder.

Rae slipped away, stopping by a group of girls. They ignored her, staring at something on one of the girls’ phones. Their shrieks split the air.

Just get away
, she told herself. She forced herself to take a breath. If they checked tickets on the train, she’d hide in the toilet until the conductor moved on.

The monitor suspended above a field of heads announced that a train to Cambridge would arrive in three minutes. She’d go there, then switch to another. Whichever left quickest. She was desperate to see the countryside zipping by the window and count the miles between her and Bury St Edmunds. The town where Twig had died.

The town where I killed him
.

She stared at the opposite platform, the beginnings of panic clutching at her. Bury station was tiny, consisting of just two platforms that faced one another over twin tracks. The other side was equally busy. For a second, she thought she glimpsed a tall blond man watching her. The crowd shifted and the man was gone. Laurent couldn’t have followed her. She was being paranoid.

Rae noticed people jostling about nearby and wondered what was happening. Her shoulders tensed. Two policemen in bright yellow reflective gear eased their way through the crowd, scanning their surroundings flintily.

Rae’s pulse quickened.

They’re not after you. Stop being paranoid
.

What if they had those cameras in the town centre? The ones that watched people? What if the police had seen her leaving the crater of Retro Threads? They could be after her.