Read Online Waywalkers: Number 1 in Series by Catherine Webb - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Catherine Webb
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a word.
‘So, say I had Hate under my control. I could enter Heaven, march up to… oh, Nirvana, and say, “Hi pals, surrender or you die.” And the guys in Nirvana would naturally answer, “Die, die, evil scum, die.” At which point I would release Hate on to them. Brother would hate brother, sister would hate sister. A soldier preparing to charge my army would suddenly loathe the man standing next to him, and attack his own comrade. The commander would despise his generals and order their deaths, the generals would despise their commander and try to decapitate him. It would be a bloodbath – while I just sat watching with a smug grin.’
‘A fate worth avoiding, then,’ said the abbot. ‘But why do you think Freya and Andrew were looking for the keys?’
Sam thought for a long time. ‘I don’t know. Freya would never use the Pandora spirits, of that I’m sure. She was a Daughter of Love, so employing Hate would be against her nature, against her
blood.
Perhaps the keys are in danger from elsewhere – from somebody against whom she was trying to protect them, by finding them herself. And perhaps that someone got to her first.
‘In which case Andrew is now very important. Not only might he know where the keys are, but it’s fair to assume that if he’s caught his captors will use his knowledge to their own advantage. Which wouldn’t be at all nice.’
The abbot sighed, and folded his arms across his chest, the first sign of feeling the cold he’d shown. ‘I do not understand the movements of your kind. I have read in books that you wander the Earth, and every legend at some point is grounded in fact. I have seen people emerge untouched out of a snowstorm with nothing on their backs and then disappear again without a word. I have seen Freya, Andrew and my librarian turn pale at the mention of keys and spirits. I have seen a man with black eyes who wears a silver crown and stares at the fire without moving, no matter what he hears. All this I can attest to. Believe it I do not.’
Sam smiled, the half smile of one who knows more than he’ll say, and has seen sights no man will ever see again and who still doesn’t think much of them. He turned towards the fire. ‘Where did Andrew go?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘How can I find him, then?’
‘Freya knew where he would go. They had it all worked out. But…’
But Freya’s dead.
‘Have you got a picture, a description, even?’
The abbot fumbled in a desk and produced a small photo. It showed a freckled young man standing in front of the Kremlin and grinning at whoever had taken the picture. Sam pocketed the photo without a word, all his thoughts kept to himself. He asked, ‘Who was the Historian?’
‘Historian?’
‘There was a message in Freya’s diary – meeting with the Historian.’
‘I heard of no Historian – though Andrew himself was very knowledgeable in that sense.’
‘Or someone called Gail?’
‘Andrew did mention Gail. He said Gail was the inside source, the one who gave him early warnings or vital little clues. But that was all he did say.’
‘Have you any idea where Andrew might have gone?’ Sam urged again. ‘Anything? What languages did he speak, for instance?’
‘He spoke a little French. Also he was fluent in Russian.’
That wouldn’t help, in a country the size of Russia.
‘What have you done with the books they were reading?’
‘Locked them away. Very deep.’
‘If someone comes, asking to see them…’ Sam hesitated, then dug around in a pocket until he came upon his travel guide and a very old biro that worked after you licked the end. He ripped the back page off the guide and wrote on it a name and address: Adam Hartland, 12 Britannia Drive, London, E8. A house whose owners were fictitious, but whose mail never went ignored: Adam was a regular checker. ‘Hartland’ meant it was for or from Sam.
‘Please, write to this address. Say nothing exact, and sign
‘So, say I had Hate under my control. I could enter Heaven, march up to… oh, Nirvana, and say, “Hi pals, surrender or you die.” And the guys in Nirvana would naturally answer, “Die, die, evil scum, die.” At which point I would release Hate on to them. Brother would hate brother, sister would hate sister. A soldier preparing to charge my army would suddenly loathe the man standing next to him, and attack his own comrade. The commander would despise his generals and order their deaths, the generals would despise their commander and try to decapitate him. It would be a bloodbath – while I just sat watching with a smug grin.’
‘A fate worth avoiding, then,’ said the abbot. ‘But why do you think Freya and Andrew were looking for the keys?’
Sam thought for a long time. ‘I don’t know. Freya would never use the Pandora spirits, of that I’m sure. She was a Daughter of Love, so employing Hate would be against her nature, against her
blood.
Perhaps the keys are in danger from elsewhere – from somebody against whom she was trying to protect them, by finding them herself. And perhaps that someone got to her first.
‘In which case Andrew is now very important. Not only might he know where the keys are, but it’s fair to assume that if he’s caught his captors will use his knowledge to their own advantage. Which wouldn’t be at all nice.’
The abbot sighed, and folded his arms across his chest, the first sign of feeling the cold he’d shown. ‘I do not understand the movements of your kind. I have read in books that you wander the Earth, and every legend at some point is grounded in fact. I have seen people emerge untouched out of a snowstorm with nothing on their backs and then disappear again without a word. I have seen Freya, Andrew and my librarian turn pale at the mention of keys and spirits. I have seen a man with black eyes who wears a silver crown and stares at the fire without moving, no matter what he hears. All this I can attest to. Believe it I do not.’
Sam smiled, the half smile of one who knows more than he’ll say, and has seen sights no man will ever see again and who still doesn’t think much of them. He turned towards the fire. ‘Where did Andrew go?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘How can I find him, then?’
‘Freya knew where he would go. They had it all worked out. But…’
But Freya’s dead.
‘Have you got a picture, a description, even?’
The abbot fumbled in a desk and produced a small photo. It showed a freckled young man standing in front of the Kremlin and grinning at whoever had taken the picture. Sam pocketed the photo without a word, all his thoughts kept to himself. He asked, ‘Who was the Historian?’
‘Historian?’
‘There was a message in Freya’s diary – meeting with the Historian.’
‘I heard of no Historian – though Andrew himself was very knowledgeable in that sense.’
‘Or someone called Gail?’
‘Andrew did mention Gail. He said Gail was the inside source, the one who gave him early warnings or vital little clues. But that was all he did say.’
‘Have you any idea where Andrew might have gone?’ Sam urged again. ‘Anything? What languages did he speak, for instance?’
‘He spoke a little French. Also he was fluent in Russian.’
That wouldn’t help, in a country the size of Russia.
‘What have you done with the books they were reading?’
‘Locked them away. Very deep.’
‘If someone comes, asking to see them…’ Sam hesitated, then dug around in a pocket until he came upon his travel guide and a very old biro that worked after you licked the end. He ripped the back page off the guide and wrote on it a name and address: Adam Hartland, 12 Britannia Drive, London, E8. A house whose owners were fictitious, but whose mail never went ignored: Adam was a regular checker. ‘Hartland’ meant it was for or from Sam.
‘Please, write to this address. Say nothing exact, and sign
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