Prologue
EVERYONE
TRUSTS their own instincts. No one
denies the guidance offered by their inner feelings – their unproven take on a
situation, a place, or a person. Millions of years of evolution have honed
biological imbalance and blind guesswork into intuitive behaviour and
unconscious decision. A weapon that has taken so long to sharpen must be the
keenest blade in the armoury, surely?
But that blade is double-edged, for first impressions are kin to those
same instincts and carry as much authority. Yet appearances can be deceptive.
It’s only when viewed closely that the lush, green lawn can be seen to be
riddled with weeds. The stranger who rushes to help lift heavy cases onto the
Tube can be thanked profusely, yet still be cursed at leisure when a wallet or
a purse is found to be missing.
And the unkempt, aging, overweight house-wife who sings in public for the
very first time on a dubiously motivated talent-show can prove to possess the
voice of an angel.
Human nature evolved to aid the survival of the species, but when it
forces so much risk in accepting first impressions, should we ask ourselves how
useful it really is?
Wherever did that faulty instinct come from?
A
suburb of London – 3am – present day
At first glance, the street appeared to be deserted.
On closer inspection however, a mouse could be seen, running with tiny pattering steps in the lee of a garden
wall.
The
mouse paused for a moment in the promise of security – rose up on its pinched
and meagre hind quarters. Whiskers twitched as nose sifted traces on the air.
Food.
Night had always been the perfect time to seek it out. Instinct said the cool,
still air of the small hours afforded better travel for scents – made detection
and location all the easier. The beauty of the night came as a bonus – came in
the form of safety. The mouse could also more readily detect the dangers
inherent in the hunt. It knew predators were many in the night. Cats and foxes
were seldom seen but were prolific and the mouse wanted food – didn’t want to
become the food of another.
Darkness
provided the mammal a certain amount of cover, but the lack of distraction came
as more desirable. More valuable senses were heightened in the darkness; the
mouse found its instincts given free, unfettered reign in the night, to lead
wherever they would. Without the confusion of noisy traffic or the pungent
odour of humans, the stalking of an unknown number of predators could be more
clearly identified. In the dark and chill of an autumn night, a residential
London street was a good place to find food.
Yet
the mouse searched unaware its senses had failed it. It was watched by one of
the predators it feared the most. A cat, perched on a low brick wall across the
street had tracked its journey.
Keen
vision had detected the smallest of movements in the still night, and the cat
had passively watched the rodent from the moment it had emerged from cover to
begin its foray into the open. Dark feline eyes observed the passage of the
mouse on the flagstones below as the mind of the hunter contemplated the
correct moment to attack.
The
cat shuffled its powerful hindquarters, readying itself to pounce.
Another
figure walked the street as did the mouse, but with a different purpose. A
young woman – attractive, well-dressed, confident – stepped briskly along the
pathway keeping up a steady pace. The heels of her shoes punctuated her every
step – sharp, defined clicks patterned the night as she made her way.
Slender
hands tipped with manicured nails reached up to turn the collar of her thick woollen
coat around her neck, bunching the long, blonde tresses nestled there. Whether
she intended to keep the chill at bay or unconsciously hid from the night
remained unclear. The speed with which she walked suggested unease at being
alone at such an hour yet her posture denied that impression – reinforced the
image she belonged there.
She
held her purse close against her side beneath one arm and her buttoned coat
closed with the other, but though she travelled quickly and with purpose, she
did not travel alone as an observer might have thought. A short distance behind
her, two figures stalked as she threaded her way between the sleeping houses.
Loose,
dark clothes could not hide painfully thin frames of two men, if filthy hoodies
succeeded in shrouding faces from view. With hands thrust into those tops the
men worked hard to maintain a measured space between them and their quarry –
their silent, slow-paced pursuit fitful and erratic yet determined.
The
consequences of failure at this simple task quickened their pace as the blonde
turned a corner ahead of them and restraint forced them to slow again as they
regained sight of her in the suburban maze, sometimes closer than they liked.
Privacy and seclusion remained as always: paramount. They must not be seen with
her; no one must observe what happened when they reached her – that adventure
would be conducted in complete secrecy.
The
woman paused as she caught sight of the mouse, once more deep within its
foraging scurry by the garden wall. Its whiskers twitched as it detected her,
analysed her, quantified her then re-sought the direction of a strong scent of
food.
She
eyed the defenceless animal for a moment, and then glanced up to where the
watching cat crouched poised, instantly seeing the full picture of the drama
playing out before her. She smiled to herself before stepping from the pathway
to cross the street away from the mouse, the cat and away from the two men
following her. She quickened her pace a little and so did the men, again not
wanting to lose sight of her around the nearing corner.
But
the woman did not head for the corner of the street, instead abruptly turning
and slipping through an open garden gateway into a narrow alley between two
houses. The men stopped. They looked at each other.
This
was not her home. Did she even know who lived here? What was she up to?
One
hood shook the other nodded – a moment, then both agreed – a silent
conversation passing, a decision hastily made. No, she knew no one here, of
that they were certain. Perhaps she’d realised she were prey and had sensed an
approaching menace. They’d been seen. Time was up.
The
close buildings shaded a void between them from both streetlight and moonlight;
the shadows thick, almost liquid in their blackness. It seemed appropriate – it
would do.
The
two men broke into a trot, arms pumping, legs pounding and moved quickly and
silently as the shadows enveloped their quarry.
Darkness.
Perfect.
The
two covered the short distance quickly and ran without hesitation into the inky
blackness moments behind the girl. But before their eyes could grow accustomed
to the new, thick darkness, immensely strong hands caught each of them by their
throats halting their flight, lifting them bodily from the ground and slamming
them up against the rough brickwork. Heads cracked painfully against masonry.
Stifled
sputters and gurgles squeezed through throats and lips as slim and elegant
hands clutched tighter – slender hands with unfeasible strength. The grip
threatened to crush the soft flesh of necks to pulp even as the men scrabbled
with their own weakened fingers and kicked back for purchase or leverage. As
their eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, the silhouette of control
materialised from the gloom.
At
first, she made just a dark patch against a darker background, but became more
distinct as eyesight steadied. In a very short time the men could make out a
pale face staring up at them with an equally dim halo around it – one of
honey-blonde hair.
‘What
the hell do you think you’re doing?’ hissed the woman. ‘Are you trying to draw
attention to us all?’
One
of the men struggled to speak – forced a mangled appeal from his constricted
throat. The other loosed a few words from between pinched lips.
‘We
we’re...told to… meet… you… as you… asked,’ he wheezed.
The
woman turned slightly to regard him, her sight in the near pitch-blackness of
the alley crystal clear, his face perfectly visible in all its pock-marked
glory.
‘Then
don’t act like a couple of bums, trying to mug me,’ she barked, ‘not in a
suburban street like this. Can you see behind every twitching curtain? The
police could be here in minutes, the others, sooner. How would you explain that to Companion?’
She
paused for an answer she knew would never come as more suffocated gasps and
groans issued from the two. With a shake of her head she released them and they
both dropped to the ground, coughing and croaking as they tried to massage the
burning from their throats.
‘Sorry...’
said the first. ‘I’m… sorry… I’m sorry, My Lady.’
‘Are
you capable of taking my message to him?’ she asked. ‘Can you manage to do that
properly?’
The
two looked at each other warily, unsure of how to answer, each hoping the other
would know better.
‘Yes,
Mistress,’ the two men said, almost in unison.
The
blonde sighed deeply.
‘You’d
better. Tell him this, and be sure to tell him clearly. The time is almost upon us. The Ninth Cycle
approaches and the Răsărit
develop at an ever-faster rate. She toys with the light almost every dawn and
dusk and even I cannot match her. Soon she will be unstoppable. If Companion
wants rid of her, he can wait no longer. He must use whatever means he can to
end it – any – weapons of mortal man if he must. I have made arrangements, but
I cannot be compromised. He must provide someone to draw her out.’
With
a thickly grating cough the first of the two men, the one who had managed to
speak through the woman’s fierce grasp, cleared his throat again and stepped
forward slightly at her urgent request.
‘I
will ask him for that honour,’ he croaked. ‘I’m not afraid to meet them face to
face. Almea will walk amongst them.’
She
smiled. ‘That’s good. Good, thank you, Almea. Your name will be remembered.’
But
her smile dropped instantly as she returned to the matter at hand. ‘Now take my
message, go,’ and she waved the men away from her.
With
unsure nods and unsteady steps, one figure began to slip away but Almea hung
back, fidgeting, working his jaw. His hands clenched and unclenched repeatedly.
‘Yes?’
the blonde asked, slipping a hand unnoticed into her coat pocket.
‘He
said... he said you might have something for us?’ asked Almea in a carefully
measured voice. ‘He said you might have something special for us?’
The
blonde shook her head in disgust, the long curls of her hair bouncing and
swaying with the movement.
Without
breaking her stare, she withdrew her hand from its place and threw two small
pouches of white powder to the pavement. ‘Here,’ she said, ‘...enjoy,’ and then
turned away.
The
two men rushed to the pouches and after a tussle came away with one apiece.
With brief valedictions to the woman’s turned back they slipped from the
alleyway and made off along the street, leaving her alone in the night.
The
retreating steps brought a strange, unwelcome sensation to the silence, the
abrupt solitude suddenly significant. In an attempt to distract her thoughts
she looked up through the clear autumn air at the huge, silver disc hanging
stark and cold in the starry sky. The moon stared back at her, impassive and
silent, and made no comment on her choices or decisions.
Standing
alone now, the woman placed a name to the unwelcome feeling gripping her. But
as she stared at the pale orb above, with her gaze transfixed by its eternal
light, could not decide why she should feel regret for what she had done;
everyone had to make their own way, didn’t they? Everyone had to get by.
With
trembling lips she opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out and she
forced her mouth closed again, choking back the hesitation that threatened to
spread through her. She would not be subdued by implied weakness now.
Eventually
the feeling passed, and reassured by the lack of comment from above, she took
the passing as affirmation. The silence must be consent; it had to be. Feeling
stronger she spoke, but not to the moon. She spoke to someone who was not
there.
‘Your
time is almost done,’ she said. ‘You had your chance and you blew it. It’s my
turn now.’
The
moon looked down on her, and said nothing.
