Waywalkers: Number 1 in Series Read Online Free PDF Page B

Sainsbury’s and Boots in the nearby market town. Holcombe was a pensioners’ village – quaint, quiet and self-consciously remote. Every cottage had a name, and as the bus emptied outside the post office the driver wished at least half his passengers a goodnight, Mrs Walsham, goodbye Mrs Leigh. Sam felt that the village’s politeness too was an act of defiance against the outside world.

    By the time he’d reached Holcombe’s only bed and breakfast, apologising for the lateness of the hour, his voice had already acquired the local accent. Asked who he was, he decided against both Sam and Luc, for fear that either would attract attention.

    ‘Mr Simon Lewiser.’

    He paid for the night in cash, and was shown up to a bedroom with a sloping ceiling and one small window. It looked out across a little playing field with a Scouts’ hut at one end and, beyond, a landscape of hills and woods, lost in the darkness to all but his extraordinary eyes. No wonder Freya had loved this place. Even from a distance he could sense the pull of a Heaven Portal.

    His room was the one you get in any bed and breakfast. A basin in the corner, a large bed neatly made with nylon sheets, woollen blankets and a heavy frilled bedspread. Flowery wallpaper, put up by people thinking not what they’d like, but what – improbably – others might prefer. A frayed carpet bore various stains, from coffee and tea to yellowed substances Sam didn’t care to contemplate. On the door with its sturdy lock was a no-smoking reminder and a notice about what to do in the event of fire. Sam didn’t bother with unpacking thoroughly, but dug around in his travel bag until he found a very small radio which he turned on at random. A concerned voice informed the world that more international forces were massing in central Asia and that the Israelis had again ‘retaliated’ against one of their numerous enemies.

    To the sound of this stream of disaster, Sam padded round the room. At the door he pressed his hands on to the wood and stood motionless for five minutes, eyes closed. The same procedure was repeated with the window. Finally, turning to stand in the centre of the room for a few seconds, he raised his hands palm upwards.

    If anyone had been there to see him ward the room, at each point they might have noticed a glow around his fingers, a silver tinge that faded almost as soon as it had sprung up.

    As he went to sleep that night, he wondered what the police were making of his sudden absence. And who had sent the raven?

FIVE
    Freya
    T he address he had was 9 Thomas Strepton Road. What Thomas Strepton had done to have a road named after him, Sam couldn’t guess. Actually it was more a deep lane between mechanically cut hedges where the village gave out on to open country.

    Freya’s house looked just like he’d expected, even from the outside. It had a deep thatched roof, and a garden with nesting boxes and a birdbath. Ivy crawled up its reddish-coloured stone walls. Sam wasn’t surprised to see all the windows open. Sometimes that helped to blow away memories as well as the dust. He was more surprised to see absolutely no evidence of police activity.

    It was a long time before anyone answered the door. The girl who eventually opened it had Freya’s same blonde hair and blue eyes. But she was unlike her, as Sam sensed, in possessing none of the power of a prime.

    ‘Yes?’ Her voice was subdued.

    ‘My name’s Luc Satise.’ Trying to guess at her relationship to Freya, he added, ‘Did your… mother mention me?’

    ‘Grandmother,’ she corrected. ‘No, she didn’t.’

    ‘Ah.’ A show of disappointment. ‘Thank you anyway. I’m really very sorry to hear of your loss, and if there’s anything I can do —’

    ‘Unless,’ she said, cutting him short, ‘you’re Luc Satise, as in the same man who fought with Firedancers in Paris.’

    He smiled, recognising the test for what it was. ‘Berlin, not Paris.’

    She stood aside.