“Captain Patel?” Simon called.
The captain turned to look at him.
Simon knew his size made him stand out immediately.
“Do I know you?” Patel stood with a bowl of soup and bread in one hand, a cup of tea in the other. He wore dungarees, a khaki shirt, a thick woolen coat and a winter hat. A burn stood out against his left cheek.
“No, sir.” Quietly, Simon told Patel about his need to get to England, and of Horner’s message.
“Get something to eat,” Patel said, “then join me over there.” He waved toward a table in the corner where five men sat hunkered together.
Simon hesitated, then went and stood in line till he was served. He joined the men in the corner.
Patel quickly made introductions, identifying each of the men as part of his crew. Most of them had finished eating and now sat smoking.
“You’d have to be a fool to want to go there.” Patel pushed a chunk of bread across the bottom of his bowl to get at the last of the soup.
Anger stirred within Simon, but he kept it tightly under control. “My father is there.”
Patel eyed him warily. “Your father—” He sighed tiredly and wiped at his dark eyes. “You’ll have to forgive my bluntness, Mr. Cross. I’ve not much use for politeness these days.”
“I understand.”
“I hope so.” Patel chewed and swallowed. “But the sad truth of the matter is that your father is most likely dead.”
“I have to know.”
Patel stared at him a little while longer. “Can you use a rifle, Mr. Cross?”
“I can. And well.”
“We’ll see.” Patel grinned slightly, but there was no mirth in the effort. “These…creatures are almost unkillable.”
With what you’re using, yes. Simon ate his soup, finding it warm and tasty.
“If we see them, if we engage them, the guns we have are there only to slow them down long enough for us to escape. If I should be faced with the dilemma of you not leaving the boat to make room for a woman or child when we reach the other side of the Channel, you should know that I will kill you to make that happen.”
Looking into the man’s cold, dead eyes, Simon believed him.
“There won’t be a problem,” Simon assured him.
“Then be at the dock an hour before sunset.”
“Thank you, Captain Patel.”
Scowling, Patel stood and took his bowl with him. “Don’t thank me, Mr. Cross. By allowing you to do this, I’ve very probably just signed your death warrant.”
Ten
DOWNTOWN
LONDON, ENGLAND
C onscious of the night around him, Warren stood across the street from the building. The address matched what had been on the piece of paper the woman had given him. Trepidation, confusion, and curiosity warred within him. Curiosity was winning out, but he didn’t give in to it easily.
There was so much he wanted to know. And so much he was afraid of.
Remembering his mother’s curiosity about the arcane held him back. The interest had transcended, became more than curiosity and turned into obsession. In the end, it had gotten her killed. It had almost gotten Warren killed too.
The gunshots that had forever changed Warren’s life echoed inside his head again. The sounds triggered the smell of burned flesh, then a wave of sickness that turned his knees to water. He leaned heavily against the building behind him.
Bloated corpses lay on the sidewalk around him. The legs of another stretched out of a window within his reach. A trio of cats fed on it, safer there than on the street.
In the aftermath of the demonic invasion of London, many of the borderline domesticated animals—such as cats and birds—had turned feral again. During the fitful snatches of conversations he’d had with other scavengers the last few days, Warren had learned that some people believed animals had been affected by whatever evil magic now filled London.
It seemed only fair that the animals turn on the humans, though. The people that had once fed the cats and the pigeons in the park now stalked them for food. The immediate world was turning into a grim place.
You’re going to have to turn with it, Warren told himself. Or you’re going to die. He knew that was true. When no immediate rescue had come with several days now passed, he’d had to give up on it and direct his thinking toward survival.
Days had passed since the Hellgates had opened. There hadn’t been an hour that Warren hadn’t thought of the note in his pocket. Several times he’d come close by but hadn’t approached the building.
The structure was an older eight-story apartment building. Snow covered the street, the eaves, and the windowsills. No lights showed anywhere. If not for the people that Warren saw going in and out, he’d have thought the building abandoned.
There was something more there, though. Magic surrounded the building. He could feel it and recognize it for what it was.
But why hadn’t the demons discovered it? Unconsciously, he turned to look at the malevolent smoke from the Hellgates that permanently smudged the horizon these days. It was still there, still pulsing against the sky and doing whatever it was doing to ruin the city.
Reaching into his pocket, Warren took out a peppermint candy, unwrapped it, and popped it into his mouth. Then, knowing he really didn’t have a choice if he wanted to know for himself, he shoved his hands into his duster pockets and crossed the street.
“Who are you?”
For a moment, Warren thought the voice had come from the building. Instinctively, he retreated down the short flight of steps leading up to the building’s front door.
Then a big, blocky man with no neck and a bowling ball for a head moved out of the shadows and into the moonlight and snow. Cool green fires burned along the lines of the tattoos that covered his face. He’d shaved his head, showing even more tattooing there. Gold hoops dangled
