They continued on.
The damage grew more intense in Camberwell and Newington. Kensington Park was filled with burned, blackened trees that stood out against the white snow. In Newington, Giselle pulled the Land Rover into an underground garage that was guarded by a group of Templar.
“We’ll have to walk from here,” Giselle said. “Vehicles draw out the demons inside downtown London. And gasoline is a problem. Once we use up what few stores we have access to, there probably won’t be any more fuel. Some of the smiths in the Underground are developing power cells to replace the need for gasoline. Still, the conversion takes time.”
Settling his pack over his shoulder, trying to find a position where it didn’t chafe his wound so badly, Simon fell into step behind Giselle. The Templar walked in a single file through the tumbled-down buildings and wrecked vehicles.
Every now and again, Simon spotted wary-eyed people watching them from the ruins.
“The survivors,” Giselle said quietly. “Usually, as long as you’re in numbers, they won’t attack you. But after days with little or no food, they’ll attack and take what they need. It’s not about nationality for them anymore. It’s about territory and survival.”
Simon spotted a few of the groups that had small children. “Doesn’t anyone take care of them?” he asked.
“How?” Giselle’s voice sounded tired.
“There’s food in the city.”
“Going after it only makes them targets for the demons. Bait in a trap. It’s better if they leave. The Templar council hopes the civilians leave. That would free us up somewhat on our own course of action.”
“The French aren’t exactly happy with all the refugees that are piling up on their shores.” Simon had heard a lot of resentment about the situation after he’d landed in Paris and made his way to the English Channel.
“Can you think of another thing to do?” Giselle’s tone challenged him.
Simon looked away from her and at the dark cloud that hovered over London. “No.”
“Then until someone can think of something else, that’s the plan.”
Simon followed Giselle through the streets and alleys of Newington. Full dark had descended upon the city. All of the electric lights were out, and if there were any oil lamps still to be had, no one lit them. He’d never seen London that dark, though he had imagined it as a child when he’d read about the German night attacks on the city in World War II.
They hunkered down across Elephant and Castle Street from the tube station house. The house was a two-story stone box with arched windows. Some time in the past the structure had been painted dark red, but the paint was blistered and peeling from weapons fire or acid. The windows had been broken out and bodies littered the sidewalk in front of it.
The street had been named for a pub that had been built sometime in the 1700s. It had been rebuilt twice in the 1800s. The name had come from the Indian elephant and the howdah carried on its back, which had looked a little like a castle to early British travelers. But the symbol had been adopted by the Cutlers’ Company, which carried the image on their coat of arms. Later it was used by the Royal African Company for the slave trade the Stuarts had taken part in.
“They took out the subways a few years ago,” Giselle said as she eyed the street. “It would have been to our advantage if they’d left them.”
Simon silently agreed. His father had brought him to the area when he was a boy, familiarizing him with all of London the way Templar were supposed to do with the sons and daughters that would join them as knights. Simon could remember using the underground pathways, called subways in Britain while the Americans called their tube trains by that name, to get across the busy street. Now the streets were more European, featuring street corners and pedestrian crosswalks.
Back then, when the choice had been made to rebuild the Elephant and Castle area, city planners had felt the subways were too unsafe. Simon would have gladly taken his chances with muggers instead of demons.
Simon carried the Grenadier. He’d sheathed the sword down his back. He sat and listened, knowing that was what Giselle was doing.
Every now and again, the wind carried the sound of screams and roars, and the stench of dead things.
“One at a time, then,” Giselle whispered. She led the way, using the armor’s speed to get her across the street quickly.
Another Templar went next, following the order that Giselle had prescribed. Then Simon ran across with the cluster rifle in his arms.
He took up a position inside the tube station. The moonlight penetrated the gloom just enough to show the debris that had been left by looters and battles that had been fought there. Vending machines lay overturned on the floor. More bodies lay sprawled. The reek of death filled the interior so strongly that Simon had to open his mouth to breathe.
The rest of them crossed the street without incident, but a gliding shadow high in the air attracted Simon’s attention. He stood behind one of the broken windows that left him with a clear field of fire.
The movement drew his eyes naturally, and the Grenadier followed. As he watched, a Blood Angel landed on the side of one of the buildings across the street. The demon clung there like a locust or a bat, looking obscene and predatory. Moonlight glistened across the leathery wings.
Simon kept the Blood Angel in his sights but didn’t move his forefinger into the trigger guard. He’d been trained not to do that until he was ready to fire.
A moment later, the Blood Angel pushed away from the building, spread
