CHAPTER Nineteen
As I walked towards the village, dodging the huge ispolin footprints as I went, I pondered whether Iabartu had deliberately sent both the terrametus and the ispolin through the portal. If that was indeed what had happened, then why hadn’t she bothered coming herself? She’d taken the time to come through on her own to deal with John. And, if it was the case that she was responsible for both monsters, then I was still unclear about the reasons for why she was hell-bent on causing such havoc.
Obviously, she felt that her business was as yet unfinished. Had John had something that she wanted? Information or maybe some kind of object to do with the Draco Wyr? If so, then he’d died rather than give it up, meaning it must be important. But then perhaps she’d achieved what she’d wanted when she killed him and now had just left the portal hanging open, in that careless and disdainful manner that otherworlders sometimes displayed. I discarded that idea as soon almost as I’d thought of it, however. I might not know that much about portals, and might never have entered one myself or know the mechanics of how to create one, but I was aware that it took power to maintain one, which is why it was so unusual that the portal on the beach was still there. Even as a so-called demi-god, Iabartu would find a strain to leave it usable.
There were so many things that just didn’t add up. I tried to avoid thinking about Craw’s assertion that it was my fault that John had died because it just hurt too much. I already was uncomfortably aware of the sick feeling of guilt in the pit of my stomach that, if I could have shifted, then I might have saved Thomson from dying and Lucy from getting hurt. Which led me on, of course, to Alex’s revelations. I wasn’t a shifter, but was I actually a human at all? It seemed that whichever direction my thoughts took, I was confronted by horrible implications and terrible scenarios.
My eyes stung with the threat of tears and I swallowed hard. If I was going to get to the bottom of all this, then crying like a little girl was not going to help. Being strong and calm would. I rubbed at my eyes with my cuff and squared my shoulders, focusing instead on how to allay any suspicions that might be forming in Trevathorn. An elephant had escaped from the local zoo, perhaps? Except the nearest zoo was about 120 miles away so that was probably rather unrealistic. Ummm…
Why didn’t you shift?
Corrigan’s growl in my head startled me so much that I almost tripped over the log that caught the ispolin earlier. He couldn’t have gotten that close to use his Voice that quickly, surely? Staines had only called him twenty minutes ago. God, just how powerful was he? As well as being stunned into silence by the revelation that his Voice could carry hundreds of miles, I didn’t have any answers for him that made sense so I just kept quiet.
Answer me.
I sighed inwardly. Everyone wanted answers and there were just none to be had. Or at least none that could be shared without more violence. Instead of feeling angry, I just felt tired. I should probably think of a way to reply to him before he used compulsion though.
Are you trying to suggest that it was my fault that this happened, my Lord? If I hadn’t been there it would have been even worse. It wasn’t me who decided that only two guards were going to be a good idea.
Silence. I didn’t feel proud of myself for trying to shift the blame onto someone else, but at least I’d managed to deflect him for the time being.
Eventually he answered. That was a mistake. It won’t happen again. There was unmistakable regret in his Voice that gave me a twinge of guilt.
So I guess none of us are completely infallible then, I sent back quietly.
I don’t suppose we are. He sighed mentally. I’ll be at the keep in a few hours, so let me know if you need any help with damage control in the village.
I wondered just how in the hell I was supposed to manage that when I couldn’t contact him by Voice and he wasn’t exactly on speed dial. He seemed to realize that, however, and rattled off a phone number that I could call him on. Fine. There was one more thing that I did need to know as well though.
How is Lucy?
Corrigan might not be at the keep yet, but I had no doubt that Staines was keeping him updated. Who else would have told him that I was going to Trevathorn to make sure that everything there was alright?
Not good.
Pain was reflected in his Voice and, for a moment, he seemed more human than shifter. He was silent for a moment longer and then broke off the contact. I kicked the log, hard, and cried out, feeling the sharp pain in my foot briefly overtake me. Then it faded and I was more alone on the beach than I’d ever been before.
I eventually entered Trevathorn via a small cobbled side street that led from the beach. There was a small crowd of people standing beside the square at the Hanging Bull. This didn’t look good.
I strode up with purpose, figuring that if someone had seen or heard something, they’d be broadcasting it to the entire village. Secrets didn’t stay quiet for long in any small village, and Trevathorn was a shining example of how to put a rumour mill to perfect use. In fact, I’d heard the barman in the Bull quip once that if you were caught unaware in the woods and had to answer a call of nature, then everyone would know about it before you even managed to get home. Even though, as the local ‘cult’, the pack wasn’t exactly a real member of the community, there was still a part of me that appreciated that feeling of living somewhere where the neighbours cared enough to gossip about you. The only thing worse than being talked about was not being talked about.
As I got closer to the clump of humans, I realised that they seemed to have formed some kind of semi-circle around whoever was doing the talking. So perhaps there was just one witness then. That would make any reports of giant one eyed beasts with ugly toenails easier to discount at least. My money was on Mrs Arkbuckle, the local postmistress. If there was a story to be told, then she would be the person most likely to know it. She was the human version of Betsy. I’d heard a scandalous rumour last year that she’d been steaming open any interesting looking envelopes that came her way, in order to know as much as possible about what everyone was doing. I think most people had forgotten that in this day and age of email, most letters were confined to boring and official business matters. Smoke doesn’t always equal fire. And that was what I’d have to make sure that everyone thought now.
Unfortunately my heart dropped to the bottom of my stomach when I saw that it wasn’t Mrs Arbuckle at all. In the centre of the circle was a cameraman, pointing a black video camera at a trim woman with perfect skin. She was holding a microphone and flashing a curved row of even white teeth. Shit, shit, shit. I stepped closer to hear what she was saying.
“Are we ready?” She tapped her earpiece, and cocked her head quizzically.
The cameraman began counting down from five, pointing at the woman dramatically as he said each number. I briefly considered rushing them both, tackling her like a rugby player, and taking her down before she could say anything to the world at large. I doubted that would help matters, however. Holding my breath, I pushed closer into the watching crowd, earning myself a few scowls in return.
“Good afternoon, Martin.” Her voice had modulated itself into an almost perfect version of received pronunciation and she gazed into the camera lens with a happy concentration. I figured that the invisible Martin must be the anchor ‘back in the studio’. “I am here in Trevathorn in Cornwall, reporting on the recent wave of seismic activity that has sent the local villagers running for cover. There were several small earthquakes here on Tuesday evening, each measuring around 2 on the Richter scale, and large enough to send roof tiles crashing into the quiet cobbled streets and vases tumbling to the floor from atop mantelpieces.”
I immediately relaxed. Oh, the drama of a little quake. It was hardly on a par with the San Andreas fault, but I supposed the tremors caused by the terrametus had been strong enough to warrant a mention in the remarkably unturbulent British Isles. And no doubt, the appearance of this minor celebrity in town, coupled with the vague promise that they might catch themselves on television, meant that both the locals and the tourists had stayed glued to the action here, instead of realising that the real drama had been unfolding just half a mile away. Every cloud had a silver lining, I supposed, and at least there was one less thing to worry about.
The journalist turned to a woman at her side. So the ubiquitous Mrs Arbuckle was there after all, I noted. I turned away rather than listen to her take on what would no doubt be transformed even further into terrifying earthquakes of biblical proportions. That was when I noticed Nick across the street, watching the action with his arms crossed. He glared at me for a moment and then pointedly ignored my presence. It probably wasn’t worth my effort to try and appease him, and I was pretty certain that he would have no further details on the robbery at Perkins. Demi-gods were no doubt rather accomplished at staying hidden from any human investigations into their undertakings. And Cornwall’s finest weren’t exactly CSI. I felt bad about hurting his feelings but it was better for him in the long run.
There was an old red telephone box by the other side of the little square. I was pretty sure I had some change in my pocket - should I call Corrigan and tell him everything was okay? Then I thought of Julia. This was her home and she’d be more concerned about the village than Lord Shifty. I was annoyed with myself for not thinking of her first. She was my alpha – sort of - she should always come first. I thrust my hands into my pockets and stalked over to the phone. Julia wasn’t the kind of technologically advanced person who possessed a mobile, although admittedly whilst I had one I was always forgetting to bring it with me which meant I might as well not own one at all either. I called the keep itself. No-one picked up so I left a message.
I put the phone down and gazed unseeingly at the years old graffiti etched into the paint, trying to decide what to do next. It was ridiculously dangerous, but maybe I should try entering the portal. If all Iabartu was going to do was to send minions through who would wear us down bit by bit, then surely it was high time to go on the offensive instead. The problem was that I’d have no way of finding her, or my way around once I entered her demsenes. It could very well be a vast plane of existence, which I’d spend the next sixty years or so wandering around in a clueless fog before eventually dying of old age. I drummed my fingers against the glass and absently traced a small tag written in black that proclaimed that ‘Blake woz ere’. Inspired words. Truly.
Then I paused and remembered the black piece of cloth that I’d found in the clearing and which had been shot through with silver. It was just possible that it had belonged to Iabartu. It seemed strange that she’d just have left it hanging there, and there hadn’t been any evidence of her presence anywhere other than at the seven stones and tree runes at the beach. But who else could it have belonged to? Alex would be able to tell me if it was hers or not by scrying it. If it wasn’t hers, then it was at least likely that it belonged to another of her servants who might be able to lead me to her. And if it was…
I was confident that Alex would be able to put a locator spell on the material to find its true owner. He had already said that one of his jobs was often to help owners find lost objects. It must be an easy process to reverse and help lost objects find their owners. I felt instantly invigorated. Let the Brethren and the pack take care of matters here. I’d get Alex to help, grab some of the silvered weapons, and sort the bitch out.
Awesome.