Hellgate London - Exodus Part 18

With their numbers hidden, the Templar had worked on projects throughout the city, establis.h.i.+ng beachheads they could use in their eventual war against the demons. Even now, the work continued, as they hollowed out more and more s.p.a.ce underneath London.

"I am Giselle Fletcher, Sergeant of the House of Connelly." Her voice was clear and proud. Sergeant?Simon thought, remembering that Giselle was the same age he was. Then he realized that with all the deaths at St. Paul's Cathedral, field promotions had come rapidly. And there was the possibility that Giselle had made sergeant while he was gone. She'd always been ambitious, her eyes constantly on the prize.

"Welcome home, Sergeant Fletcher. Do you require anything?" "I've got two wounded. They need treatment."

"Of course. You also have two unauthorized personnel with you."

That hurt Simon a little. He knew when he'd left two years ago that the Templar Underground would be closed off to him. At the time he'd departed, he hadn't cared. He hadn't thought he would ever care again.

But he did. A little. He walled that part of himself off and refused to be vulnerable. Templar were trained to seek out weaknesses in their opponents. At the moment he knew he was going to be viewed as one of their enemy.

"One is Simon Cross," Giselle said. "We knew that. He's not-"

"He's here as my guest," Giselle said with an edge to her voice that immediately caught Simon's attention. "As is the woman with him. I claim that right."

"You may speak to the proper authorities regarding that matter, Sergeant Fletcher. Please come ahead." The wall in front of them suddenly parted. High-intensity lights flooded the checkpoint, stabbing into Simon's eyes like daggers. He covered his eyes with one hand, but he kept his other one free-in case he was attacked. He had no reason to believe he was safe.

Giselle started forward and Simon followed automatically. The lights were still bright enough to be blinding. There was nowhere to hide.

Twenty.

What have you done to Kelli?"

The angry voice woke Warren. He cracked his eyes open and blinked against the light, raising his right hand to ward it off. Someone had moved the curtain over his window.

"Did you hear me, Warren?"

Moving gingerly, Warren rolled over on his side. He was still dressed, almost, in the burned remnants of his clothing. He hadn't wanted to face pulling his clothing off, fearful that so much skin and flesh would come off with it.

George stood at the opening, a cricket bat in his hands. He was tall and athletic, fair-haired and blue-eyed. He belonged to an amateur rugby team and was used to physical violence.

Warren looked at the bat. He didn't want to be hit. George was powerful and the bat was hard. Even if the bat didn't break his bones, it would tear his flesh. He still didn't know if he was healing or merely lingering on the edge of death. He also didn't know if the pain was leaving or if he was growing more accustomed to it.

"Don't...hit me," Warren said, sitting up. He focused on George, willing him to listen to him.

A crazed look gleamed in George's eyes. Before the invasion, he'd truly been the fair-haired boy.

Where Warren, Dorothy, and Kelli had barely gotten by, George had grown up in a world accustomed to wealth. He'd turned his back on his father, who had wanted to groom him for the family business. George had insisted on a career in art.

As it was, George was usually the one who mishandled his money. He'd never had to manage money, and he didn't feel the same pressure as the rest of them because in the back of his mind he could always go back to his father and his father's money. He wouldn't have to live out on the street. "Why shouldn't I hit you?" George demanded.

"Because...I don't...want you to." Despite the fear that quivered through him, Warren met George's gaze.

"I don'tcare what you want." George's nostrils flared. He took a fresh grip on the cricket bat.

He's scared,Warren realized.Of me. The feeling that went through him was curious. George had always been disrespectful and standoffish to him. Now George was afraid.

"You can't stop me from hitting you right now," George declared. He took a step forward.

Warren almost dodged back. Only thinking that sudden movement might rip open some of the burns kept him still. "Don't," he said.

"Why not?" George yelled.

Movement at the curtain let Warren know someone was out there. He thought it was probably Dorothy, mousey Dorothy who worked at the bakery and babysat for professional parents. She didn't like confrontations, but Kelli and George sometimes made her ask Warren for extra money for the rent and utilities.

"Because," Warren said softly, nonthreateningly, "I don't want you to." He tried to put more energy into the force he was directing at George.

George hesitated. He looked panicked and confused. "What have you done to Kelli?" "Nothing."

George cursed. "You're lying, mate." "I'm not."

"Kellinever cared about you, Warren. Shehated you. She thought you were creepy and disgusting. And she hated the way you looked at her with those calf-eyes."

That announcement hurt Warren. He'd always known he'd never stood a chance with Kelli, and most of the time he wouldn't have wanted to. They had nothing in common. But every now and again, he'd thought she was humorous and attractive. And every now and again she'd treated him like he'd been a real person instead of just a flat mate who had extra money when they needed it.

"Before you got burned," George said, "she wouldn't have given you the time of day. Now she's waiting on you hand and foot. It's hard to get her out of the flat to go scavenge for food. And weneed food, Warren. Water, too."

Warren hadn't known that. He hadn't been conscious much for-for however long he'd been in bed. The sheets were littered with blood and stray bits of burned flesh that had torn free. The stench was suddenly noticeable too.

"I...asked her...to watch over me."

"She's acting like she's been possessed. Won't leave the flat." George's eyes hardened. "You did something to her."

"No." Warren's voice sounded firmer and stronger. Some of the pain fell away as he concentrated on George. "She just...wants to help."

George shook his head. "Not you, mate." "You want to help me, too."

For a moment, George hesitated. Then he took a step back and cursed. "Stop." "What?" Warren tried to sound innocent.

"Just shut up!"

Warren sat still and silent.

"You should have died," George snarled. "Burned up like you were, you should have died. Anybody else would have."

"I didn't. It's not as bad as it looks."

George laughed bitterly. "Yes it is. You're disgusting to look at, you are. A proper fright." "What do you want?"

"If you'd died, I wouldn't have minded you wasting the water, mate. If it didn't take too long. But it doesn't look like you're going to die any time soon. Now you've done something to Kelli."

"I haven't done anything wrong."

George attacked without warning, swinging the bat off his shoulder straight at Warren's head.

Self-preservation warred within Warren. If he didn't move, he knew George would take his head off with the bat. But he was afraid if he did, he might fall to pieces right there on the bed.

Before he knew it, he reached up with his left hand as he wrapped his right arm over his face to protect himself. He caught the bat and stopped it.

Surprised, Warren looked at the bat. His left hand, still sausage-fingered and burnt black, had curled around the bat. Even though a meaty smack filled the room, there was no pain. There wasn't even any blood.

George tried to yank the bat away. Despite his strongest efforts, he wasn't able to. Not to be deterred, George lifted a big foot and tried to plant it in the center of Warren's chest.

Warren s.h.i.+fted, sliding to the side far more quickly than he would have thought. He caught his attacker's trouser leg, shoving it up and away. At the same time, Warren yanked the bat out of George's hands.

George stumbled backward and got his feet under him again. Warren moved at once, sliding off the bed and getting to his feet. He swung the bat, hitting George on the side of the head.

Without a sound, George sprawled to the floor.

Breathing hard, trembling from fear and physical exhaustion, Warren looked down at his vanquished foe.

He couldn't believe what had just happened. Gazing at his left hand wrapped around the haft of the cricket bat, he was surprised to see that his flesh hadn't torn open.

With a scream, Dorothy erupted from the curtained front of the loft and dropped to her knees beside George. She cradled George's head on her lap. Tears poured down her cheeks from behind her cat's-eye gla.s.ses.

"You killed him!" Dorothy shrieked.

Even though George had tried to kill him-And he'll definitely give it another go if he's still alive!

-Warren felt bad about what had happened. He hadn't intended to hurt George. He'd struck before he'd even known he was going to. Before he knew hecould.

"He's not dead." Kelli came into the room as well. "George is still breathing."

Warren had to admit that Kelli was calmer than she would normally have been. She sat on the other side of George and examined his head.

"Nothing seems broken," Kelli announced.

Dorothy looked up at Warren. "You're a monster! A horrid, horrid monster!"

"And you're a twit," Kelli replied. "Always mooning after George. Like he'd take some notice of you when he has all the other pretty little birds in hand. He shouldn't have come in here and attacked Warren.

I told him that."

"He had to." Dorothy brushed long hair from her face. "Don't you see? Food and water are in scarce supply. He couldn't just let Warren keep eating and drinking what little we had without helping us get it."

"I didn't eat," Warren said. But he was hungry now. His stomach growled unhappily. He tossed the cricket bat away. "I didn't even drink much water."

Dorothy just held on to George's hand.

Weary of it, not wanting to face the guilt he felt when looking at Dorothy or wanting to deal with George's predictable anger when he came to his senses, Warren got a fresh change of clothing from his chest of drawers. He headed for the ladder.

"Where are you going?" Kelli asked. "Out." Warren swung onto the ladder.

Concern etched her features, pulling them tight. "You're not ready to-"

"I think I am," Warren snapped, then missed a rung on the ladder and fell. He dropped twelve feet to the first floor. He landed on his feet, with no more effort than if he'd stepped down from a stair step. "Warren!" Kelli peered anxiously over the side.

Surprised, Warren looked at his legs. "I'm all right," he whispered, but it was more to rea.s.sure himself than her. He stood there, feeling stronger than he had in days. In fact, he didn't know when he'd felt so strong.

He went to the bathroom.

Pulling the rags of his old clothes from his body was the worst. Warren cringed when he first started, but it was less painful than he'd thought it would have been.

The clothing remnants came away in pieces, along with strips of burned flesh. He'd thought that the burn injuries would have been infected or bled. Instead, new skin looked white and wrinkled where the heaviest burns had been. He was healing.

Disbelief washed over him. He stared at the white skin. Evidently he'd lost the pigmentation in his skin. The new growth wasn't going to come back the same color as his original skin. That bothered him, but he figured that being dead would have been a whole lot more disagreeable.

Kelli brought in snow in buckets, then melted it on the stove. When the water was warm, she poured it into the bathtub.

If the air in London hadn't been so laden with pollutants, the snow would have at least staved off the water problem. As it was, most people were afraid of drinking the melted snow and getting sick.

Warren luxuriated in the bathtub, noticing the care that Kelli showed toward him. George had been right. She had changed.

As he soaked, Warren saw that more of the burned flesh fell away and left the white skin beneath. A lot of debris even floated away from his left hand, leaving his fingers normal-sized again, even though they were dead-white. They were still numb, though.

He remained in the water until it started to cool. Kelli offered to bring more heated water, but by that time questions had filled Warren's mind that he knew he needed to have answered. And there was only one place to get those answers.

He got out of the tub and got dressed.

The fire had ravaged the building where the Cabalists had taken up residence. It stood like a barren crag among the other apartment buildings. The top two stories had exploded outward, leaving jagged teeth of brick and mortar.

Warren stood in the cold winter wind in a long black duster. Black crust still clung to his burns in places, but they were islands in the white skin.

"Is this where it happened?" Kelli asked. She had followed him out of the loft, walking just behind him and never speaking.

Warren had considered telling her to stay at the loft, but he hadn't wanted to be alone. Now, out in the open, he realized how exposed she was to predators, demonic and human.

Neither of them had a weapon.

Footsteps crunched through the snow, closing in from Warren's right. He turned to look, hoping that he and Kelli weren't about to be mugged for whatever food they might have on them.

Six men and women in hooded cloaks approached. The lead man was tall and thin. A single short horn protruded from his tattooed forehead.

Warren turned to face the man.

The man stopped. "I'm Malcolm," he said in a deep, soft voice. "I'm a Seer in the Cabal." "I'm Warren."

"I know who you are," Malcolm said. "We'd been hoping you would return."

Warren studied the man's features, but they didn't look familiar to him. "Were you here that night?" The man shook his head. "No. No one who was here that night lived. We lost Jonas and Edith. They were both very important to us. But we found out you'd lived." "How?"

"I came here," Malcolm said. "To find out what had happened. One of the people in the neighborhood that I talked to mentioned seeing a man who had obviously been burned in a fire. The only fire I knew of was this one." He nodded at the building. "I have a gift for seeing things that have happened in the recent past. I saw your survival. I just didn't know where you'd gone."