The echo of power still tingled in my hand as the vicar of St Andrew's opened the door into the church. With the narrow windows down each side it would have felt confining but for the huge leaded window catching the sea-light and fragmenting it into every corner. As I entered I felt as if I had walked in on something private but the church was empty.
"Catches you first time, doesn't it?"
"Hmm?"
"The window. Everyone stops there the first time they see it. The way it was meant to be seen, with the morning sun behind it. Local artist made it. Old one was dark-coloured glass – Victorian. Made the church feel like a mausoleum."
"You got rid of it?"
"Didn't need to. Germans did that for me, long before my time. Bomber got lost and thought we were Hull. The church was the only building in the town that got hit."
"Some might take that as a sign, no offence meant."
"None taken. I take it as a gift. No one was hurt and the bomb did no structural harm. There was temporary glass there for a long time. Then a sponsor approached me and asked if we would like a new window. Not often that churches are offered donations these days. Even so, we were sceptical. The sponsors own the big glass building opposite, a temple to Mammon."
"The call centre?"
"That's one of the things they do there. I was worried they would want their logo in the glass, or at least a plaque to commemorate the sponsorship. They were happy simply to donate. It was quite refreshing. They gave us a free hand with respect to the style, though of course they wanted to see the designs and were delighted when we commissioned a local artist. All done in the name of corporate responsibility and community relations."
"That's altruistic of them."
"Rare in these times, don't you think?"
"I expect you're right."
"You didn't say what you wanted."
"I was looking for details of the vigil."
He turned with his back to the window, outlining himself in light. "You said that was what you were looking for, but not what you wanted. In my job you get a feel for when people are being evasive."
I looked at him, haloed by the light, black against the fragmented flood. If he really had power then he would be able to tell whether I was lying, in the same way I could tell when anyone lied to me.
"I'm looking into the disappearance of the girls. I thought I might get a look at the families." I opened my wallet and handed him the NUJ card, letting him make the assumption that I was a journalist.
"Been done," he said. "All the details have been taken down, the background of the families combed for dirt. Offered to a national, but 'Young Women Leave Home' wasn't headline-grabbing enough."
"You're very cynical for a man of God."
"Realistic about human nature. Believe me, I get to see all sides of it."
"I didn't come to write a story about missing girls."
"Then why do you want to see the families?"
"If I can find the girls, find out what happened to them, why they left, where they went, there might be a story in it. Or there might not."
"You think the families haven't tried to find them?"
"I dare say my methods are different from theirs. Either way, it may be worth a try. What is there to lose?"
"Maybe more than you know."
He walked over to the far corner. A huge pinboard was mounted there, overlapping the window behind it. It was covered in photos, posters, letters of support, news clippings, anything that linked to the girls. Some of the girls featured more prominently than others. The two from the lamp posts were most evident.
"Campaign central. They come here on a Friday night to meet, talk, swap false hopes and share expectations. They asked me if they could use this corner and I agreed. I thought it might help. Not sure whether I did the right thing, now."
"You don't share their hopes?"
"Not that. Wonder whether it's doing them any good, to go over and over it each week. Loss is a terrible thing, but sometimes it's better to try and move on, learn to live with it."
"It's easier to live with it if you know what happened to them."
He looked up sharply, searching my face. Something in my voice had triggered his reaction. "Did you lose someone, Neal?"
I looked at the photographs. "My daughter."
"Missing?"
"There was an accident. She was stolen from me. Weweren't able to see the body. It made it unreal, as if she weren't lost at all."
"Ah. Sorry."
"I didn't come here looking for sympathy."
He stepped out into the middle of the church. "Do you believe in God, Neal?"
"I'm not sure I know what I believe in."
"I believe in Him. You may think that's obvious, given my profession, but you might be surprised at how many who follow this calling come to doubt the presence, if not the existence, of God."
"I didn't come looking for God, either."
"Don't have to. Rather the point, don't you think?"
He turned and faced the window. I watched him, facing the full light, outlined against the morning.
"It's not what it seems, you know." He spoke to the window rather than turning and facing me.
"Things rarely are."
"If I take you to one of the families and it doesn't do any good, will you let it go?"
"I can't say until I've seen them."
He stood framed against the light for a long while, thinking or praying or maybe just waiting for me to add something else. Finally he turned, went back to the photo board and pulled out a pin to release a photo, which he handed to me."Karen Hopkins went missing almost a year ago. Eldest girl of four, seventeen when she vanished. Three younger children, youngest is two. Father works in the chandler's down the dock. On halftime at the moment, but he'll be at work this morning so there's a chance to meet the mother, if you want to."
"I shouldn't meet the father?"
"He won't talk about Karen. Won't even have her name mentioned. If you want to talk to Mrs Hopkins it has to be now while he's at work."
"Was there trouble between them?"
"No, nothing like that. Not everyone deals with the situation in the same way. For some it's easier to lock it away and carry on."
"Then yes, I'd like to speak with Mrs Hopkins."
"Leave the overnight bag here. I'll lock the church. If they do get in they'll steal the silver first. Stash it in the corner there."
I tucked my bag into the corner, conscious of the sword cached in the side pocket. Garvin wouldn't like me leaving it, but I could hardly carry it around with me. While my back was between the vicar and the bag, I pressed my hand to it, using a small amount of power to turn curious eyes away from it. Now anyone coming in while we were gone would have to be actively looking for the bag to notice it. It would do as a temporary measure.
Greg was waiting at the door. I passed through the shadowed porch and waited while he locked the church. He strode from the porch past me, and my stride lengthened to match his so I could keep up. We walked straight out into the traffic, which slowed around him to allow us across, then we turned uphill.
"It must keep you fit, all this walking."
"Have a car; don't use it much. By the time you've found a parking place you might as well have walked. It gets a ride out if I go out to one of the farms or when I go to the big supermarket in town."
I was thinking that having all that metal around him probably wasn't comfortable. I'd noticed that the railings around the church had been cut down. Perhaps it was no coincidence that although the east window had been replaced, the gates were chained back and the railings had never been put back.
"You said it was a calling."
"Did I?"
"You said not everyone who follows this calling believes in God."
"'Believes in the presence of God' is what I said. They believe in Him, but they're not sure whether He believes in them."
"But you do. You were called?"
"You wouldn't do it for the money. The pay is awful."
"You still do it, though. Was there a revelation, a road to Damascus?"
"Why do you ask? Am I part of your story too?"
"Perhaps. You're holding it all together, aren't you?"
He paused, considering.
"Were you called?" I asked.
"Not sure you'd call it that. I was born here. Maybe I just came home."
I could tell by his voice that there was more to it than that, but I didn't press him. After a few moments he continued.
"When I was a lad, I had an Auntie here." The word "Auntie" came out as "anti", as if it were a protest against something. "We were living away by then, but we used to come and stay. Fishing off the dock, ice cream for tea; that sort of thing. It was only summers, like. In the winter it's a different place."
He continued striding up the steep hill, breathing easily but momentarily reflective.
"Grew up in Rotherham. Back-to-back terraces, no work, no jobs. The men used to play dice on the corner, out of sight of the wives." The accent had slipped, giving way to flatter vowels, harsher consonants. "School were a boring place, most of the time we were out of it unless you were caught. If you were caught, you were caned."
He grinned, without humour.
"I had a dicky leg, though. Couldn't run. Couldn't keep up. Too easily caught. They'd leave me behind."
The pace he set showed no sign of the bad leg now.
"So I would be in school while they ran the streets. I did exams. Got into grammar school. Used to come home every night in the uniform and they'd throw sticks and bottles at me."
"You must have hated them."
"No, I wanted to be with them. Out. Free. The posh kids at school called me Makeshit, the kids at home Gimpy Greg. I know which I preferred." He turned into a side street, keeping the same long stride. "Coming up for school board exams I got a fever. It was touch and go for a while. The doctors didn't like it. Didn't know what to make of it. It was there and then gone. I was delirious then lucid. Sick then better. They said it was a virus, fighting my immune system. Long before HIV, this was."
He set off down the street again.
"I was sent here to recover. Never did the exams. I was here for months. The vicar, Georgeson, my predecessor, came every day. He would lay his hand on my forehead and tell me that He was looking out for me and He wasn't going to let me go. He said He had big plans for me. At the end of it I was changed."
"Changed?"
"No gimpy leg. No pain. I could run along the tops, jump over the heather. I would race on the bike down the hill, no fear, pedalling like a madman. I crashed twice. Wasn't hurt. Not a scratch. Wrecked the bike the second time. Then Georgeson came to see me. He said there was a place at the seminary if I wanted it. They would get me my exams, teach me what I needed, show me my path. It meant going away, but I knew I would return. Been here ever since."
He stopped where steps led down to the street below, opening out the skyline, showing the moving shadows of cloud across the sea beyond the rooftops.
"You feel blessed." It was obvious when you looked at him.
"It was a gift."
"Have you ever been back? To Rotherham, I mean?"
"It's all gone. The old bomb sites are supermarkets and the kids don't play in the streets any more. Too scared of child molesters and drug dealers." He set off down the street again.
The temptation to ask him about the fever, the moment when his leg recovered and he began to change, was intense. Had he felt the same opening inside? Was he conscious of the power within him? To ask, though, would beg too many questions I didn't want to answer.
We arrived at a doorway, mid-terrace. The sound of a child squealing indignantly percolated through the window beside the door. Without preamble, Greg pressed the bell button. A distorted electronic chime sounded inside. There was a pause, then more shouting – an older voice with harsher edges. "Shelley! Shelley! See who's at the door, will ya?"
There was another pause and then the rhythmic thump as stairs were descended at speed. The door was pulled open, revealing a sullen girl in a sparkly T-shirt and jeans.
"It's Shelley, isn't it?" said Greg, giving no hint that we'd heard the yelling.
"S'right."
"Would like a word with your mother, please, Shelley? If she has a moment?"
She grimaced, but turned and shouted down the passage towards a back room. "Mam! It's the vicar. He wants a word."
The sound of a baby crying erupted from the kitchen.
"Isn't it a school day, Shelley?" Greg enquired.
The girl lifted her chin. "I'm poorly, aren't I?" Her expression dared him to contradict the obvious lie.
A middle-aged woman emerged from the kitchen wiping down the front of her top with a tea towel. "Well, don't just stand there like a ninny. Invite him in."
Shelley opened the door a little more, revealing me.
"He's got someone with 'im, hasn't he?"
Shelley retreated into the hall, allowing us into the house.
"You bringin' round the bailiff now, vicar?" the woman asked.
"Like a quiet word, please, Mrs Hopkins. About Karen."
"Nothin' left to say, is there?" she said.
"Neal here's a journalist. Wants to try and find the girls."
"Does he now?" She paused, looking me straight up and down, not disguising that her frank assessment left me wanting.
"A quiet word? Five minutes?"
A wail started up from the kitchen behind her.
"Shelley. See to the tiddler, will ya? I need to talk to the vicar."
"Oh, mum!"
"Now! Or you can put your uniform on and go to school. One or t'other."
She sighed, shrugged and pushed past her mother to the back of the house. Mrs Hopkins opened a side door and ushered us into a sitting room. It was tight with furniture, dominated by a big-screen TV over the fireplace where a mirror or a picture would once have been. The screen was off and reflected the room darkly.
"I'd offer you tea, but we're off out as soon as tiddler's fed." The lie was obvious to me and must have been to Greg.
"Don't want to put you to any trouble, Mrs Hopkins. Neal here just wanted to ask a few questions about Karen."
"Nothing to say. She's gone." She shrugged but glanced towards the fireplace. There was a family photo crammed in among the ornaments. Karen was smiling out of it, tucked under her mother's arm. Her father held a baby, and Shelley and a younger boy sat in front. I wondered if it was significant that Mrs Hopkins had placed herself between her daughter and her husband.
I cleared my throat. "Was there any indication that she was going to leave, before she disappeared?"
"The police asked all this. We've been over it a hundred times."
"It'll help me form a picture of her. I might be able to find her."
"She's gone and there's no bringing her back. It doesn't help to keep going over it, you know."
"So you've given up hope?" I asked.
She sighed and looked at her hands. " No. I still hope she'll come home. I don't think she will, but I hope."
"I'd like to try and help you, Mrs Hopkins."
"That's kind, Mr… Neal, is it?"
"Neal Dawson," I said.
"But I think everything that could be done has been done. If she wanted to come back to us by now, she would have done."
"What if she can't? She may not have any money. She may be lost, or alone."
"I think if she meant to come back, she'd find a way, don't you? All she'd have to do is pick up the phone. She could even reverse the charges."
She stood and went to the door and opened it. "I think we'll have to go out shortly, if you don't mind. Thanks for calling round, vicar."
Greg and I stood and eased our way out of the cramped sitting room and into the hallway. We said goodbye at the door.
"Thanks for seeing us, Mrs Hopkins," said Greg.
"You were very good to us when Karen disappeared, vicar. We've not forgotten that."
"Least I could do."
"Come any time. You're always welcome."
"God bless."
"You too." She closed the door quietly.
Greg paused for a second before the blank doorway and then turned and strode away, his long stride making it hard to keep up. He didn't speak and I mulled over what we'd heard before I started asking questions.
We retraced our steps and came to the road leading down to the hillside church. He paused before the busy traffic, waiting for a lull between cars.
"What is she not saying?" I asked him.
"What makes you think there's something she's not saying?"
"I offer to help find her missing daughter and she turns me down. She says everything's been done. I tell her that her daughter may need help and she dismisses it. All she has to do is pick up the phone? What happened to leaving no stone unturned? If it were my daughter…"
"Not though, is it? It's not your daughter. It's hers."
He strode out into the traffic, the cars braking to let him through. No one beeped at him or shouted. Maybe they were used to this tall dark man walking straight into the road, his eyes ahead, heedless of the danger.
I had to wait for a gap in the cars to follow. He was unlocking the church doors when I caught up.
"Like you, in my profession there's a feel for when people aren't telling you the whole story." I carefully didn't mention what that profession was. "Call it a hunch."
"As you say, a hunch." He walked over to the pinboard and unpinned a picture. He took a parish news-sheet, ripped the back page from the staples and wrote out a name and two addresses, one a college, one a cafe. He gave them to me.
"What's this?"
"Want to find the lost girls? This is what they call a clue – better than a hunch. Be outside here -" he pointed to the address "- it's part of Hull College. Be there at four o'clock this afternoon. Ask for Zaina. Find Zaina, you'll find Karen. If she's not there, go to the cafe. The address is there underneath."
"You know where she is?"
"I know where she'll be."
"Why didn't you tell her mother?"
"Before you help people, Neal, you have to find out what they need. Otherwise you end up making things worse."
"You could at least ease her mind; tell her that she's OK."
"Go and find Karen, Neal. Then come back and tell me what I should do." He found my holdall in the corner easily, regardless of the warding I had placed upon it, and pushed it into my arms
"Tomorrow," he said, "when you've had time to sleep on it."
He patted my shoulder and then walked slowly up the central aisle of the church, halted before the altar and slowly knelt. I left him to his prayers.
Hull was a good few miles away. If I was to be there by four, I would need to use the Ways. Before that I needed somewhere to stay. I walked back down the hill to the harbour and then along to Dorvey Street. The Dolphin Guest House was the third in a terraced row. It looked clean and cared for, but the sign said 'No Vacancy'. I almost turned away, but then remembered that Geraldine at the cafe had said that Martha would 'sort me out'. Maybe she had somewhere else I could stay. I rapped with the polished door knocker and waited until the door was opened, revealing a small woman wearing a plum satin blouse with huge flowers on it.
"Can I help you?" she asked.
"Hi. I'm Neal Dawson. Geraldine at the Harbour Cafe said you might be able to recommend somewhere to stay for a few days, just while I'm in town."
"Selling something?"
"No, I just wanted to ask about rooms. Geraldine at the cafe said…"
"I meant, are you a travelling salesman?"
"No, a journalist."
"What kind of journalism? None of that smutty stuff, celebrity muckraking and sensationalist claptrap?"
"It's mostly human interest stories. I've had my name in some of the quality papers."
She looked me over. "Better come in then." She stepped back and opened the door wide so that I could bring the bag inside.
"It said 'No Vacancies' outside."
"I only take recommended guests; a certain type of gentleman. You get such riff-raff otherwise. It drags the whole tone of the place down. The sign discourages passers-by."
"Trade must be good if you can afford to turn away business."
"We get by without taking in waifs and strays."
Waifs and strays. I had once been described as a waif and stray. I looked around the well-appointed hall, white-painted and clean. The waxed wooden floorboards could be seen at the side of the patterned carpet runner. A dark wood mirrored sideboard had a number of daily papers on it, including those of the scurrilous press.
She caught me eyeing the papers. "We keep those for guests – a selection of daily papers."
"Very convenient," I said.
"It's strictly no visitors, I'm afraid."
"I'm not expecting any."
"No women, or men."
"So you do have a room for me?"
She named a daily rate. "Breakfast is between seven and eight-thirty. If you're going to be out after ten, let me know and I'll let you have a key."
"May I see the room?"
I followed her up two flights of stairs to a short corridor with two numbered doors. "Number 21. No smoking in the rooms, I'm afraid. If you want to light up you'll have to do it outside on the fire escape."
"That's OK, I don't."
The room was small, but had its own toilet and shower, a small wardrobe and a matching chest of drawers. The single bed was tucked under the sloping ceiling.
"How long will you be staying?"
"A few nights, three or four, maybe a little longer. Is that OK?"
"If you book for a week, the seventh night is free."
"I think I'll be gone by then, thanks all the same." How long were the Seventh Court likely to stay? Until after the solstice, Garvin said.
"If you come downstairs I'll take your credit card details."
"I'd rather pay cash, if that's OK?"
"Cash?" She looked wary at that. "If it's cash it has to be in advance. We've had problems before with gentlemen being called away urgently and forgetting to settle their bill."
"I'd say that they weren't gentlemen, then, were they?" I paid her for the next three days from my wallet. "Obviously I'll settle up in advance if I intend to stay on."
I half expected her to tuck the money into her bra where the VAT man wouldn't find it, but she simply smiled. "That's fine, Mr Dawson. We always welcome customers who pay promptly. I'll bring a receipt up for you."
After she'd gone I went through the room carefully, finding only a Gideon bible in the bedside drawer and empty coat hangers in the wardrobe. I left my gear in my bag, not really wanting to move in. It was only temporary.
I placed my hand on the mirror screwed to the wall over the chest.
"Blackbird?"
The curtains billowed in the draft from the window as the air in the room chilled slightly. A sound entered the room, thrumming an uneven rhythm.
"Blackbird?"
"Not now."
"What's not now, darlin'?" Another voice, coarse and unschooled. It sounded enclosed; raised to be heard over the rumbling background noise. Where was she?
"I was just thinking, there isn't so much traffic on the motorway now."
"It's gonna get a lot busier as we get closer to London, you can be sure of that. You all right like that, darlin?"
"I'm fine, thanks. My boyfriend's going to be so surprised when I get there, isn't he?"
"He is if he don't know you're in that state." He laughed, but the humour leached out of it. "He does know, doesn't he?"
"Yes, he knows. I'll be fine, don't worry."
"Only you look like you're gonna drop it any minute."
"There's weeks to go yet. Don't worry."
"Is it your first?"
"Yes. Why?"
"First ones are always late. You talk to my missus. Our first was three weeks late. I was beginin' to think he weren't coming."
There was a knock on the door to my room and I dropped the connection with the mirror, the sound dying suddenly.
"Yes, who is it?"
"It's me, Mr Dawson. I brought up your receipt for you."
I opened the door to find the landlady. She offered the receipt.
"Strange," she said. "I thought I heard voices."
"I like to have the radio on," I told her, avoiding the fact that I didn't have a radio with me. "It's company."
"I like the radio myself. Is there a play on?"
"I'm not sure what it was." I stayed with the truth. "I didn't hear enough to work out what was going on."
"Oh, well. You mustn't let me interrupt then. I'll see you at breakfast tomorrow. Seven till eight-thirty."
"Thanks for the receipt."
"My pleasure, Mr Dawson. Enjoy your day."
I closed the door, but had the feeling she lingered in the corridor. To make the point, I went into the tiny bathroom, quietly filled the small plastic cup there and used it to pour a long trickle of water into the toilet before flushing it noisily. The fire door down the hall thumped gently as she made her way back downstairs.
In any case I wasn't about to contact Blackbird again. Not now , she said. I would try again later. Where was she? Garvin had said he would tell her that I'd gone, but he'd been insistent she would be safe at the courts where she could be guarded. Had something happened? Wherever she was, it clearly wasn't the courts. What had caused her to leave?
The urge to return to the courts and find out what had happened was strong, but that would mean disobeying orders. Also, I assumed that once I had left they had closed the access to the Ways, sealing off the High Court while the negotiations with the Seventh Court were in progress. I comforted myself with the reassurance that Blackbird had looked after herself for many years before I knew her.
Instead, I would try and find Karen. If I was going to Hull, I could hardly take all my things with me. I'd have to leave my bag but my instinct told me that as soon as I was safely gone the landlady would be back and my belongings would be gently searched, if only to confirm my identity. I slid out the sword and laid it on the chest. If I took the sword and the codex with me, there was nothing else incriminating in the bag.
Still, I resented the intrusion.
I placed all my belongings back inside my bag and used a warding to seal the zip, so that it would jam if anyone tried to open it. I left it in plain sight on the bed. The warding was simple but effective. Now if she wanted to look inside it she would have to risk damaging the zip trying to wrench it open. I didn't think her nosiness extended to damaging her guests' luggage. If anyone seriously wanted to look inside they could slit the bag, in which case they would find the clothing and other personal items, but the damage would be obvious. I didn't think anyone would steal my change of clothes.
I would take the sword with me, partly to prevent it being discovered and partly because Garvin would expect me to. His words echoed in my head. "The Warders come armed, Dogstar. Always." I felt momentarily guilty about having left the weapon in the church earlier. No one knew and there was no harm done, but somehow Garvin's disappointment didn't need a witness.
Walking around with a sword, though, wasn't exactly in the spirit of the discretion he had advised. Of course, I could turn all eyes away from me so that no one would notice me or the sword, but that would mean no one would see me, not even anyone whose attention I wanted. What I needed was a way to carry the sword without anyone noticing it.
As long as it was with me I could use my glamour to make it appear to be whatever I wanted: a violin case, a pool cue, a baseball bat. Things that were the same size and shape would be easier, but I could make it appear as anything. None of that would blend in easily for a journalist, though, and the idea was not to raise suspicion.
I settled on an umbrella. The day might be fine, but this was England and even at midsummer the weather could change radically at any time. An umbrella was about the right size and would not cause comment. It also meant I could carry it rather than having it swinging from my hip. I could even shelter under it, if it rained.
Blackbird had done her best to explain that while glamour could not change the nature of a thing, it affected more than the appearance. She had changed a beaker of water into brandy and invited me to drink it. It smelled and tasted like brandy and I had felt the burn in my throat as I swallowed it. The alcohol found its way into my bloodstream and I could feel it warming my blood. Within moments, though, the effect was gone.
"As long as it's brandy, it's the same, but as your body absorbs it, it loses its form and returns to being water again. Your body absorbs the water and you become sober."
Holding the sword, I focused my power until I held a long black umbrella. Was it an umbrella or a sword? Did it matter as long as I stayed dry? I shook my head, still not understanding the difference.
I locked the door behind me and went to find the landlady to ask for a front door key, explaining that I didn't know what time I would be back. She wished me a good day and I left, climbing the long hill from the harbour to the backstreets where the gardens blended back into the hillside. I wrapped myself in misdirection, using my glamour to turn curious eyes away and allowing me to leave the town unnoticed. I found the Way-point and consulted my codex.
From here there was only one place I could go: the step out to the churchyard where the monolith stood among the gravestones would take me in the right direction and after that I would have to turn south. The codex showed a little sketch of the monolith with the church behind it, making me wonder who had drawn it. I followed the references through the codex until I had a plan of how to reach Hull. It was a circuitous route, but there didn't seem to be a better way and it was only four short hops.
I stepped on to the node and felt beneath me for the Way. In a second, I was somewhere else. The churchyard was silent and empty, the rising sun striping the shadow of the standing stone across the graves like an ancient sundial. I felt down into the rock below me and found the branch in the node, leading away in the direction I wanted. The next node found me unexpectedly in a room full of people. There were brooms sweeping and sounds of banging. My arrival swirled dust up into people's eyes, my misdirection turning them away as I barely registered the clamour, stepping again, using my momentum to skip across the node, heading in vaguely the same direction.
I arrived in pitch darkness and stayed quiet in case there were anyone in the dark with me. I listened for a few moments but the only breathing I could hear was my own. I cursed myself for leaving behind the torch I had been given. Garvin's words about preparation echoed in my head. Then a memory surfaced: I had once seen Raffmir conjure a cold light like foxfire from thin air, but after several unsuccessful tries I vvvvvcame to the conclusion that there must be a trick to it. The room stayed resolutely black.
I called the only light I knew how to make. Gallowfyre spilled out of me, rippling and shifting around me like moonlight through treetops. This was the gift of the wraithkin, a dappled light that illuminated only dimly but would allow me to absorb the life essence of other beings, which was its true purpose. Using it as illumination was like using a finely crafted sword to chop wood. It confirmed that I was alone, though. This was underground, as many of the Way-points were. Blackbird had told me that they were often found closer to the earth. The space was arrayed in long arched compartments, like a wine cellar, each identical to the next. Walking around, I saw no remnant of occupation and no sign of wine. Whoever used this space had cleared it bare. Something about the arrangement felt claustrophobic, even though it was empty.
I pulled out my codex but the shifting light was tricky to read by. Following the links, I found the description of the cellar and was relieved to discover I was in the right place. The next step would take me into the edges of Hull. Returning to the spot where I had arrived, I let the Way carry me from that bare utility to a more familiar musty smell of damp stone and old books. Thin shafts of light sliced through the dust created by my arrival, allowing me to find the external doorway.
I could hear the city noises before I unbolted the door. Beyond, there was a small set of stone steps leading up to daylight. I closed the door behind me and climbed into the sound of traffic and seagulls. I had arrived.
A newsagent was the first call, for a street map. After that it was easy enough to make my way through the streets down towards the river and find the college. It took me longer than I'd thought and I began to wonder if I should have used the Way to travel further in towards the centre. Then I had to find the bit of the college where I needed to wait for Zaina. Looking around, it all seemed very modern. There were few old buildings and much new development.
At ten past four I arrived at the main college entrance. I waited by the glass doors, leaning against the wall, watching the young people leaving, clothed in every style. Greg had said that Zaina would know where Karen would be, but if she had left early and I had missed her then I would have to go to the cafe named on the slip of paper Greg had given me. The trouble was that I had no idea what Zaina looked like. The name sounded Middle Eastern, maybe? Lebanese would fit with the name of the place – the Cedars Cafe.
Two Asian girls turned my way.
"Excuse me, I'm looking for Zaina. Do you know if she's left yet?"
"Zaina who?" they asked in unison.
I shrugged. "I don't have a second name."
They shook their heads as they wandered away.
I tried again with a girl who might have been Middle Eastern. "Do you know where I can find Zaina?" She shook her head and continued walking.
The crowds were starting to thin and I was asking everyone as they left. No one knew Zaina, and there was no sign of Karen. I asked a tall guy with long shaggy hair in a leather jacket. He didn't recognise the name or the cafe. "Sorry, mate."
I was getting nowhere at the college. I wasn't even sure I had the right door or the right building. The flow of people had thinned considerably and I was running out of people to ask. I switched instead to asking for directions to the cafe, and after a couple of blank looks I got a set of directions. It was about a mile away and I had already walked a fair distance, but maybe I could get a drink and a sit-down when I got there.
When I reached it, the cafe was on a side street not far from the main road and had a sign over the door with a stylised black and green cedar tree. It didn't look like much from the outside but when you got close you could tell it went back quite a way. The window advertised Lebanese delicacies like kibbeh and falafels in pitta. My mouth watered at the thought of food. The bacon sandwich had been a while ago.
Inside, the cafe smelled of spices and coffee. We were long past lunchtime but the lingering aroma had my stomach rumbling. There were tables all down one side and a counter at the back. I had not come here to eat, though. A tall man with dark eyes and residual stubble watched me as he busied himself behind the counter.
"Hi. I'm looking for Zaina. Is she around?"
He glanced up at me but continued cleaning out the remains of lunchtime sandwich fillings. "You a friend of hers?"
"Not really. I'm trying to find someone, a friend of a friend, you might say. I thought she might be able to help."
"She's not here." The lie was clear and plain in his voice.
"OK," I said. "She's not here for me, or she's just not here?"
He wiped his hands on the cloth he'd been using. "Who are you? What do you want with Zaina?"
"I'm only looking to talk with her for a few moments. It won't take long."
The man spoke in a rapid guttural tongue to two men at a nearby table. They stood up, pushing their chairs back noisily. One of the other men further down the cafe stood up as well. Suddenly the space seemed narrow and claustrophobic.
"I'm not looking for any trouble," I said, shifting my grip on the umbrella. "I just want to speak to her."
"Why can't you people leave her alone?" said the man.
He dropped the cloth and moved around the counter. I retreated, placing my back to the wall and trying to watch both sides at once. The umbrella stayed an umbrella. None of them were armed. There were four of them and one of me. It would be better if we could avoid conflict, but if there was a fight, the big guy from behind the counter would be the one who would start it.
"I don't want anyone to get hurt," I said, trying to calm everyone.
One of the two young men spoke. "You're the only one who's gonna get hurt. If I were you, I would leave while you still can."
"What is this? What's going on? Ahmed, who is that man?" The voice came from the doorway to the kitchen at the back of the cafe. It should have been Arabic-sounding, but the accent was pure Ravensby. I peeked past the big guy to see who spoke. The headscarf and the long dress did not look out of place, but the face was too pale for the Lebanon. Besides, I recognised her from the photo.
"Hello, Karen," I said.