Sentinel (21 page)

“What–?” it stuttered. “What is this?”

Jessica took a quick step toward the animal, but it recoiled.

“Isabel–” Jessica began.

“What have you done?” the cat shrieked. Disgusted and humiliated, it turned tail and fled.

The animal streaked past Nicholas and out of sight. For a moment the boy stood motionless, his mind reeling. What had he just witnessed? He was certain that the cat – his cat – had just spoken. Not only spoken, but spoken with the voice of an old woman. Before he could think anything more, Nicholas realised that Jessica might chase after the animal and discover him. He turned and hurried quickly down the hallway.

Back in his bedroom, he paced the floor.

The cat had spoken.
The cat had spoken
.

Those four words repeated in his head over and over, until he almost believed that it was perfectly normal for a cat to speak. But it wasn’t. It most certainly and absolutely wasn’t.

*

Lucy Walden hadn’t slept since the attack. No, that wasn’t completely true. There had been moments. Snatches here and there, when the exhaustion and worry had become so great that her body merely slumped into slumber against her will. They were tortured moments where the real and the imagined morphed together, and she had dreamt disturbing dreams of sightless monsters and suffocating bed sheets.

Richard knew this because she’d told him when he woke up. When Richard had finally stirred, Lucy told him she had thought that was a dream, too. It hadn’t been a dream, though. Richard had woken up, and he was conscious, and he had spoken. He was drained and his vision was impaired, his eyes still a milky white after the attack, but he was awake.

So for the first time in what to her must have felt a very long while, Lucy slept. She slept deeply, worn out and relieved, curled up next to him.

On that chill night, she slept so soundly that when Richard stirred next to her, she didn’t feel it.

He lay there, his pale eyes open, blankly staring up at the ceiling. Slowly he sat up, slid his legs over the side of the bed and eased his weight onto them. He moved over to the bedroom door and unhooked his dressing gown, shrugging into it. Then he went out onto the dark landing.

He moved quietly, steadily. He stopped momentarily in an open doorway. There, in the room beyond, his father lay in bed, soft snores rising from his throat. Richard regarded him momentarily with his peculiar, colourless eyes. Then he moved off down the landing once more.

Outside, it was bitterly cold. The layers of snow had hardened and become ice, shimmering on the garden path. Richard stepped out of the back door, his bare feet crunching on the frozen path. He didn’t notice.

Despite the snowy deposits that proliferated in the garden, it was unnervingly dark, with only the light of the moon punching a ragged hole in a cloud.

Richard made his way into the garden, coming to a small shed. He stopped and his breath curled out in a mist.

There came the softest of sounds, then a figure stepped out from behind the shed. It was a woman in a red dress. Her pale skin gleamed in the moonlight and Richard’s breath caught in his throat.

“Hello Richard,” the woman purred. “My name’s Malika.”

“Hello,” Richard returned simply.

“Did you sleep well?” Malika asked conversationally. She trailed a finger down one of the shed’s windowpanes, forging a line through the frost.

“I feel like I slept a hundred years,” Richard said. “I feel different.”

“Yes,” Malika said. She licked the ice from her finger, taking a step closer to him. “You have been chosen,” she told him. “You are one of few, but you will become one of many.”

“You work for Them,” Richard said.

A corner of the woman’s lips curled upward.

“You know what you must do,” she said. “Listen to the voice that speaks from within.” She raised a hand and held her palm over his eyes. When she removed it, his eyes were back to normal.

Richard blinked, his pupils focussing.

“You have been a Sentinel since birth, tied up by their rules and rituals. It is time to break free, to fashion yourself anew.”

“It is my time to evolve,” Richard said.

“You may call it that,” Malika told him. “But do not forget who you once were. Use that information; it is vital. It is why you have been chosen.”

Richard nodded, understanding.

“Move about on the inside, be our hands and eyes there,” Malika hummed. “It is time to bring about the fall of the Sentinels.”

Richard nodded. He turned to look up at the house where his family slept.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

In The Garden Of Norlath

N
ICHOLAS BARELY SLEPT THAT NIGHT.
H
E
lay staring up at the ceiling, jumbled thoughts tumbling in his mind. So much had happened in the past week, so many odd things. He felt completely out of control. It seemed like everything was happening either to or around him, and he just wanted to slam his foot down on some sort of cosmic brake pedal and bring everything screaming to a halt.

That wasn’t an option, of course. Most worryingly, the catalogue of oddness only appeared to be swelling in size. The weird weather, the midnight stroll, the bus, the Sentinels and now, inexplicably, magic and a talking cat.

It was at 4 a.m, as the darkness deepened in the silence of his new room, that Nicholas happened upon a particularly disturbing theory. What if he’d imagined it all? He’d heard that people who’d recently gone through traumatic experiences – say, a death in the family – were susceptible to peculiar dreams and a detachment from reality. There was a difference, though, he reasoned, between forgetting what day it was and thinking you’ve seen a cat talk.

Had he imagined everything he’d witnessed in that strange pentagon-shaped room? Perhaps he really had lost it. Lying with only his thoughts for company, the events started to become hazy. Nicholas’s mind swam with all that he’d learnt. He thought about the Sentinels, and what Jessica had said about a world hiding behind the every day. Then there was what the masked figure had said about strange things happening in Cambridge. What sort of strange things? Nicholas grew even more anxious. Had he made a horrible mistake coming here? What if something happened to Sam? Or Tabatha?

Half dreaming, half thinking, Nicholas twisted and turned in the bed sheets, dipping in and out of wakefulness. For a moment, he was sure he’d seen his mother standing by the bedside, but as he’d reached out a hand to her, she’d vanished, been absorbed by the shadows.

By the time dawn finally edged through a gap in his curtains, Nicholas didn’t know what was real and what wasn’t. Only one thing was certain: he hadn’t seen the cat all night.

Unable to lie thinking any longer, Nicholas dragged himself out of bed and went to the window, parting the heavy curtains to squint out at the frosty countryside. From here he could see for what seemed like miles; the house really was in the middle of nowhere. There was no other sign of life, though. Not even the sun could penetrate the dense clouds pleated above.

In the bathroom connected to his room, Nicholas got into the shower, hoping that the warm water would wash away the confusion. When he emerged from the steamed-up bathroom, he felt refreshed and hungry.

He pulled a t-shirt, jumper and a pair of trousers from his suitcase. As he dressed, he noticed his backpack poking out from beneath the bed. He grabbed it and reached inside, pulling out the velvet box that he’d discovered in his parents’ hidden room. He’d almost forgotten about it. Flipping it over in his hands he scrutinised it once more.

“There’s got to be a way to open the stupid thing,” he mumbled to himself. Next time he saw Jessica he’d ask her about it.

But Jessica was nowhere to be found that morning, either. As he traipsed the hallways, Nicholas could find no sign of her – or the cat for that matter. It was deathly quiet, and the boy realised that he almost missed Tabatha’s clatter and commotion. Only almost though, because she’d been a massive pain in the backside as well.

Not that Nicholas didn’t find Hallow House intriguing. There was something about the place. Despite the building’s utter stillness, Nicholas sensed life here. The lives of those who had been here before permeated everything: the scuffs on the walls, a bowed floorboard that had curved under centuries of footfall, books with folded over pages stacked neatly in corners. There had been life here, he sensed, and passion. It had been home.

In a corner of the house near to the living room, Nicholas entered the kitchen. It was toasty warm and spotless, with a flagstone floor and exposed beams in the ceiling. The pantry was packed with food, and Nicholas made himself some porridge using the immense, old-fashioned stove.

Full and restless, he roamed the quiet halls, considering what Jessica had told him about Sensitives. Could he really possess such gifts? Did that explain the way he’d been feeling since his parents’ deaths? The whispers? The way he inexplicably knew things; how he’d known something was going to happen on the bus? What had the cloaked figure said to Jessica?

“If the boy isn’t capable of what is required.”

Nicholas was sure there was more to Jessica’s explanation. And, he thought with growing agitation, if he was in fact Sensitive, why couldn’t he find that damned cat?

Resolving to get to the bottom of last night’s strange activities, Nicholas returned to the dank corridor he’d followed Jessica down the previous evening. He approached the door that led to the pentagon-shaped parlour and was frustrated to find that it was locked once more. Nicholas ran his fingers along the cracks in the doorframe, but it was useless. Then, without really knowing why, he found himself pressing his palms against the aged wood, and he closed his eyes in concentration.

“Get away from there,” came a low whisper.

Startled, Nicholas spun away from the door, only just catching sight of a black tail as it whipped around a corner. That voice. It had been the same dissenting voice he’d heard last night. The old woman.

Without pausing, he gave chase, turning corner after blind corner until he eventually skidded into a corridor with brilliant white walls. At the far end, a pair of high, double doors, were enclosed by sturdy, bleached pillars. Nicholas’s breaths echoed in the stark space and he approached the doors, surprised that he’d not yet come across this part of the house.

He eased open one of the doors, and light spilled across his face, along with a potent, heady fragrance. His nostrils thrilled at the delicate perfume and he could taste the myriad of scents on his lips. Images of spring and laughter flew unbidden to his mind.

As his eyes adjusted to the light, Nicholas became confused. It appeared that he’d stumbled outside. Before him, verdant leaves shimmered and beckoned, while giant trees towered upwards, their branches reaching out to him in welcome. There was no snow here, though, and there, high up as far as Nicholas could see, was a glass firmament. The boy’s eyes grew wide with astonishment.

It was a garden. But this was unlike any garden Nicholas had ever seen. While the snow-ravaged terrain of the outside world was battling crippling frost, here life was thriving. Wildflowers fashioned their own multi-coloured carpets across the ground, creating a sea of colour and texture that bubbled around the trunks of the trees. The boy drank in the greenery, finding the scents intoxicating, and he ambled into the garden, dazzled by the bustle of colour.

Here and there, fragments of flint and cement jutted from the wilderness. They seemed out of place, as if they’d fallen from the sky and been embraced by the wildlife. The further Nicholas went, the larger the stony edifices became; some even had large gaps that looked like they had once housed doors and windows.

The boy paused as he felt a familiar prickle across the nape of his neck, as if there were eyes upon him. He searched the foliage for another, and then he saw her.

Jessica appeared from behind a maple tree mere feet away. The golden locks of her hair shimmered, but there was something different about her. Her silken dress was grubby, and there was mud smeared on her bare knees.

“Hi,” Nicholas said, surprised at the woman’s appearance. What had happened to the immaculate, composed creature he’d met only a couple of days ago?

Jessica pushed her way through the garden. She seemed agitated. One of her hands was balled up in a fist by her side, while the other snatched up handfuls of the vegetation before tossing it distractedly to the ground.

“Norlath,” the woman said in a tight, desperate voice. “Have you seen Norlath? She was just here, not a moment ago.”

Nicholas frowned.

“I– I don’t know who that is,” he said. Jessica was right in front of him now and suddenly looked very small. A lost little girl.

She cast a furtive glance about her, and put a hand to her head, scratching at her scalp with her fingernails. “She was here,” she muttered. “She was just here, but I can’t find her. There was something I needed to tell her. It was important. The flowers were talking again and I had to tell her, because it was so marvellous. Black-eyed Susan and Sweet William, they were singing to one another.”

“I’ve not seen anybody,” Nicholas told her truthfully, thinking of the big empty house he’d just wandered through. “Is everything alright?”