Gabriel's Clock (16 page)

Ignatius gave Jonathan a shy grin. “It's what I do,” he said.

Jonathan surprised Ignatius by stepping back into the room and hugging him, just as he had Grimm the previous day. “When this is all over, when we've found Gabriel and Mom and Dad, can I live here in the village with them?” he asked.

Ignatius paused, a lump in his throat. He looked at the small, silver-framed photograph of his wife and son that sat on a corner of his desk. “I'd like that, Jonathan,” he replied. “I'd like that very much. Now, let's have a cup of tea and I'll walk you over to see Cay. I'll go through my father's journal later.”

 

The sun hung low in the sky when the attack began. Leaving the black Rolls-Royce at the entrance to Hobbes End, Rook, Raven, and Crow marched along the forest road. They could sense the village looking for them, but they didn't care.

Rook turned to his sister. “How are the injuries to your shoulder?” he asked.

“I'll survive. I always do.”

Crow grunted in admiration but said nothing; he loped alongside his siblings, his hulking frame stooped to the point that his knuckles almost touched the ground.

“That temper of yours will be your undoing, sister dear,” chided Rook. “Keep yourself focused on the job at hand.”

“Concentrate on your own job, brother dear,” said Raven, her voice caustic. “Unless you want me to show you how it's done?”

Knowing what was at stake, Rook decided not to rise to the bait. Failure was not an option. They continued their journey in silence; in front of them lay Hobbes End, and it was completely defenseless.

 

Dressed in his usual shirt and suspenders, Grimm stood in the vicarage garden and took a practice swing with his cricket bat.

“I've had this since I was at school.” He sighed happily. “I named it Isobel, after my first girlfriend.”

“You are so odd sometimes, Grimm,” said Elgar.

“I think she needs more linseed oil, though. The wood's starting to dry out.” He took another swing, unaware that Rook was standing atop the garden wall. The demon was just a silhouette against the sun, all bowler hat and razor-sharp talons.

“Hello, cat,” hissed Rook, his empty face staring at Elgar.

“Ahh! Grimm!” shouted Elgar, diving into the shrubbery.

Unfazed by the sudden appearance of the demon, Grimm turned to face him. “Nice hat!” he said calmly. “Mind if I add it to my collection?”

“You can try,” said Rook, jumping from the wall. “But you'll probably end up dead. Everybody else has!”

“Well, aren't you the big man?” said Grimm, letting Isobel drop to the grass. “Take your best shot.”

Rook snorted, then with incredible speed leaped at Grimm. Elgar put his paws over his eyes, sure that his friend was going to be torn to pieces, but Grimm stayed motionless, stoically ignoring Rook and his threats. There was retribution to be handed out, and he was just the man to do it. The second before Rook's talons touched his shirt, Grimm braced himself on his back foot and delivered a punch to the demon's face that would have floored an elephant.

“That's for Jonathan!” shouted Grimm, before delivering another punch, an uppercut that lifted Rook completely off his feet and sent him reeling across the lawn. “And that's for Cay!”

The demon's bowler hat flew off as he landed in a surprised heap near the shrubbery.

“You dare!”
shrieked Rook, struggling to his feet.

“Oh, I dare all right,” said Grimm, picking up the fallen hat and placing it on his head. “I've been wanting a private chat with you.” Retrieving Isobel, he took another practice swing. “Excellent balance,” he said. “You'll do nicely, my lovely.” He turned back to the dazed Rook and smiled. “Right, then. Where were we?”

Isobel at the ready, he launched himself at the demon . . .

 

Ignatius sat at his writing desk studying his father's journal. He'd barely begun reading when a prickling at the back of his neck signaled that something was wrong. Jumping to his feet, he looked over his shoulder just as the study window erupted in a shower of wood and glass. Crouched on the ruined sill was Raven, her long black hair streaming out from beneath her bowler hat.

“Reverend Crumb, I presume?” she hissed.

“Unfortunately for you, yes,” replied Ignatius. His movements a blur, he drew, aimed, and fired his grandfather's old army revolver.

The bullet struck Raven in her left shoulder and tore through the wound already inflicted by Cay's father—the impact knocking her out the window and onto the front lawn. Incredibly, her hat stayed on.

Ignatius sighed and looked at the pistol in his hand, a thin curl of smoke
trickling from the end of the barrel. “I'll finish this the gentleman's way, I think,” he said, tucking the revolver back into the shoulder holster under his jacket. Squatting in front of his bookcase, he slid out the long mahogany box, flipped the catches at each end, and opened the lid to reveal a rapier forged from the finest Toledo steel and wrapped in red velvet.

Wrenching open the front door of the vicarage, Ignatius strode out to meet Raven, sword in hand . . .

 

Jonathan sat on the windowsill in Cay's bedroom, deep in thought and nursing a mug of tea. Cay was lying on her bed, her nose deep in a book. Try as he might, Jonathan just couldn't understand how the Corvidae could get into Hobbes End when the village should be able to detect and incinerate them.

He was missing something obvious, he knew, but exactly
what
kept eluding him. It was then that he remembered the article in the
Times
from three days before—the piece about the theft of the meteorite. Snippets of information poured together, blended, arranged themselves into the correct order, and Jonathan realized he might have the answer. He remembered his grandfather's words at dinner when he had spoken about his fall:
I threw myself from the gates of Heaven and let my wings burn as I fell. I no longer wanted to be an angel; I just wanted to be Gabriel and to be left alone. So on the second of September 1666 I crash-landed here, in a little hamlet in the middle of a forest.

“The second of September 1666,” Jonathan said under his breath, remembering sitting at the kitchen table with his mother and the history books he'd loved reading. “Gabriel arrived the same night the Great Fire of London started. His wings burned as he fell. What if it wasn't a meteorite that started the fire? What if it was a burning piece of his wings? If Belial and the Corvidae knew what the meteorite actually was and stole it from the British Museum, maybe they're using it to hide themselves from Hobbes End.”

He hopped off the windowsill and walked to the bedroom door. “I'll be back in a minute,” he called over his shoulder to Cay.

“Hmm?” she mumbled.

“I've got to see Ignatius, I've just thought of something. I'll tell you when I get back if it's not just a daft idea.”

She nodded and carried on reading her book while Jonathan shut the bedroom door behind him and ran downstairs into the shop. He froze at the sight of Kenneth Forrester sprawled unconscious on the floor. Next to him stood a grotesque, simian figure in a pinstriped suit and bowler hat, a bloodied rolling pin clutched in one hand.

“Afternoon,” snarled Crow.

Jonathan turned and sprinted down the hallway to the kitchen. He barely had time to see the prone figure of Mrs. Forrester before tripping over her outstretched legs and falling headlong. Scrambling to his feet, he saw Crow's bulk moving purposefully toward him, and he thought about Cay, unaware and defenseless upstairs—he didn't want to lead the demon to her.

If he
'
s after me,
thought Jonathan,
then he
'
ll have to catch me first!
Without hesitation, he bolted for the back door . . .

 

Rook and Grimm stood toe to toe, beating the hell out of each other. Elgar watched open-mouthed as the powerhouse that was Halcyon Nathaniel Oberon Grimm ducked and whirled like a dancer, using Isobel to give Rook an absolute thrashing. The demon's suit was in tatters, and the skin that covered his body was torn and rent. Black ichor dripped from the wounds, and where it fell the grass rapidly turned brown.

Grimm didn't remain unscathed, however. Time and again Rook's razor-sharp talons struck home, shredding his shirt and leaving deep cuts across his chest that bled profusely. Elgar desperately wanted to help Grimm but couldn't see an opportunity to grab hold of Rook's leg without being battered to a pulp.

A pistol shot rang out from inside the vicarage, and Grimm felt a moment of panic.
The other Corvidae are here as well,
he thought to himself.
I've got to finish this quickly.
Standing up straight, he placed Isobel over one meaty shoulder and pulled a handkerchief from his trouser pocket. Mopping blood and sweat from his face, he grinned widely at Rook. “Are we having fun yet?” he asked.

“Are you insane, human?” asked Rook. “I'm the leader of the Corvidae, I'm a nightmare made flesh, I—”

“Oh, stop banging on and answer the damn question!” barked Grimm. “Are we having fun yet?”

Rook's temper finally snapped. With unnatural speed and ferocity he lashed out at Grimm's throat. Grimm saw the blow coming and sidestepped to his right, grunting in pain as Rook's talons gouged furrows across his shoulder. But with Rook now off balance, Grimm used all his strength to swing Isobel in a wide arc, striking the back of the demon's neck with bone-crushing force. The blow spun Rook round like a top, tearing from around his neck a small glass vial on a metal chain. Elgar watched as the vial sailed through the air and connected solidly with the wall of the vicarage. It shattered.

Isobel, unused to being swung so violently, snapped clean in two, leaving just the handle in Grimm's hands. The body of the bat went flying into a mulberry bush, narrowly missing Elgar.

Grimm looked stunned.
“Isobel!”
he cried.

“Forget about the bat, you lump!” Elgar shouted. “What's happening to Rook?”

Grimm stared in amazement as the demon's body began to shake and convulse, smoke pouring from beneath the ruined suit. With a terrible shriek, Rook stumbled toward the open gate in the garden wall . . .

 

Raven got to her feet just in time to receive the keen edge of a rapier across her cheek. Hissing with rage, she jabbed a clawed hand straight at Ignatius's eyes. With the innate grace and balance of a trained swordsman, he leaned back just far enough to avoid her talons while aiming another blow at her head. This time he succeeded in slicing off her left ear.

Howling with pain, Raven clapped a hand to the injury and dived away from Ignatius. He followed her across the grass, sword at the ready. The vicar of Hobbes End could feel the village supporting him, cheering him on, filling him with the strength he needed.

“How dare you attack my village!”
he screamed at the demon.
“How dare you hurt a child!”

He lowered the tip of his rapier, desperate to regain control of his emotions. Raven snarled and lashed out with her foot, knocking Ignatius off balance. Before he could retaliate, she raked her talons across his shin and dashed away toward the open gates.

Gritting his teeth against the pain, Ignatius ignored the warm, wet feeling building up in his shoe and sped after her. He reached the vicarage gates and hammered on the nearest post to try to wake Stubbs, but the gargoyle was dead to the world.

“Damn it!” he cursed, limping after Raven. “Looks like it's just you and me . . .”

 

Jonathan felt a clawed hand dig into his shoulder as Crow wrenched him away from the door.

“No point running,” said Crow, throwing Jonathan across the kitchen table. “Not from me.”

“You animal!” spat Jonathan, struggling to his feet beside the stunned body of Mrs. Forrester. A livid bruise on her temple showed where Crow had struck her.

“Not animal, just monster!” gurgled Crow happily. “Now sit still while I hit you. Then I can go get the girl.”

Jonathan's eyes widened as he fully understood that Crow didn't want him. He was after Cay! But he was no longer the powerless boy he had been. In his anger he ignored Gabriel's warning and reached for what lay inside him. Crouching at the back of his mind and eager to be free, a tidal wave of power rushed to answer Jonathan's summons.

Absolute agony tore through his body as a mass of purple light erupted from his back, then split into hundreds of ribbons, their edges serrated like steak knives. They moved independently of each other as if alive; inside them flowed a never-ending stream of mathematical symbols, quantum equations so complex, they were beyond comprehension.

He sank shaking to his knees as the voice screamed inside him, just like it had when he'd faced Rook. “This abomination is not your equal! Rend it! Tear it! Burn it!” With mounting horror, Jonathan found he had absolutely no control over what he had unleashed.

Undeterred by Jonathan's wings, Crow reached for him with arms the size of a gorilla's. It was a mistake he'd live to regret, for like a nest of cobras, Jonathan's wing ribbons launched themselves at Crow. Half of them wrapped themselves round the demon's massive body; the others wrapped themselves round Crow's right wrist. Then they pulled themselves in opposite directions.

“Oh God, no!” cried Jonathan as he saw what he—his wings—was doing.
“Stop it!”

Crow was lifted clean off his feet and slammed into the ceiling. As plaster and wood rained down all Jonathan could think of was his father's sacrifice, how he'd dropped an entire cottage on himself to save his wife and son. Fury suddenly raged through him as every frustrated, powerless minute of the last few weeks flashed through his mind. These things had taken everything from him—his parents, his home, his grandfather, his whole damn life. The power inside him knew it; it responded to his anger, and it wanted its pound of flesh. Now he could only watch dumbly as his wings pulled even harder.