“Heard me what?” Warren smiled a little as if she were working a punch line.

  “Send that monster away.”

  Warren took out two jars of peanut butter and six tins of salmon. Those were going to be delicacies for George for the coming week.

  “You were imagining things,” Warren insisted. “You were scared and disoriented. You only thought you heard me send the demon away.”

  “No. I heard you.”

  Remaining quiet, Warren sorted the food. They’d made a good haul. Most of the stuff would keep for weeks or months. But they were still short on water. Water was the hardest to haul because it took so much of it to get them through a day and because water was so heavy and bulky to transport.

  “You’re delirious,” Warren said. “You were scared out of your wits.”

  “I heard you,” Kelli insisted. “Only you weren’t speaking. It was like you were hardwired into my head.”

  Irritated, Warren turned from his work. “Would you listen to yourself, Kelli? You sound mental. Like you’re ready for the loony bin.”

  Her face tightened. Now that she no longer had to be scared for her life, she could be angry. “I know what I heard.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “How do you know how to talk to those creatures?”

  “I don’t.”

  “Why do you want to lie about it?”

  “I’m not.”

  Kelli looked like she wanted to argue further, but she closed her mouth and walked away from him.

  They lived in a converted warehouse area in Manchester, a two-story affair that had been converted into lofts. The area comfortably fit them, though Dorothy’s paintings tended to overflow into the main room.

  Kelli climbed the ladder up to her private area. She pulled the sheets that served as their walls, shutting him out. A few minutes later, the soft, sad chords of her acoustic guitar pealed within the loft.

  Warren continued sorting the food. He’d been the one who had come up with the idea of inventorying everything they salvaged from the city so they would always know what they had and what they needed. He’d learned how to exist—he couldn’t call it a life—organized and small while living in the state homes. Now those skills served him in good stead.

  When he’d finished, with Kelli’s soft playing still present in the background, he went to his own living space and pulled the sheets. He knew he needed to go back out. They hadn’t gotten any water, and they needed water. That had been one of the primary objectives of their foraging tonight.

  But he lay back on his bed. Even in the middle of chaos, with demons roaming loose in the city, he’d made his bed. Every day, as soon as he got up, he always made his bed. Nothing else could take place till that was done. He’d learned that habit from a family he’d stayed with whose father was a Special Air Service member, a drill instructor.

  Shelves held his comics, favorite books, and DVDs. The DVDs had been the hardest to hang on to while living with flat mates who tended to borrow things. In the end he’d made them untouchable.

  He didn’t know what else to call it. He’d learned the skill while in foster homes. All of his life he’d been small and sickly, easy to take advantage of. But he’d learned to fight back in his own way.

  He could manipulate people. As long as they didn’t know they were being manipulated. Tonight Kelli hadn’t noticed because she’d been so scared. Fear had been her overriding emotion. She hadn’t even felt him tampering with her mind.

  Through trial and error, he’d learned that he could gradually manipulate others he lived with to leave his personal effects alone. It worked on things like DVDs and books, but he couldn’t keep them from taking his money. They’d simply wanted the money more than he’d been able to control them.

  Tonight Kelli had wanted to be safe. She’d wanted to believe him. She’d been easy.

  But the demon…

  He truly hadn’t known he could do that. That had been pure fear. Just the way it had been the night his parents had…died.

  Reluctantly, he took the piece of paper from his jeans pocket and looked at the address. It wasn’t too far away.

  Fear ached within him. He didn’t know if it was a warning from that mysterious power within him, or a reluctance to embrace the beast he felt certain lived somewhere trapped within him.

  Eight

  WALTER’S BAR

  CAPE TOWN, SOUTH AFRICA

  F or two days, Simon searched for some means to get out of Cape Town. All the commercial airlines refused to go that direction. He was getting desperate enough to attempt to go by boat when he heard about a mercenary pilot who’d been hired to fly English citizens back at least to France.

  The man’s name was Horner, and he’d set up in a back room in Walter’s. The bartender, Flynn, sent word to Simon by one of the boys who hung around outside the bar to run messages no one wanted to use the phone for.

  Horner was a big man. Tanned and gaunt, he was sixty years old if he was a day, and had a drinker’s road map of burst veins across his nose and sallow cheeks. He wore an old Grateful Dead t-shirt with the sleeves hacked off and a bandolier of rounds crossed his chest. Amber-tinted aviator’s glasses covered his eyes beneath an Australian Outback hat with one flap pinned up.

  Two armed men sat on either side of the pilot. They held shotguns at the ready.

  Horner looked up at Simon. “You Cross?” he asked in a voice scarred by cigarette smoke and booze.

  “I am.”

  Nodding at Saundra, Horner asked, “Who’s the woman?”

  “My friend.”

  “I heard you only wanted passage for one.”

  “I do.”

  “So who’s going?”

  “Me.” Simon felt sad about that. He’d miss Saundra, and as yet they didn’t know if she had a way to Australia. He promised he’d keep in touch to find out. If he could.

  “If I’d have known how big you were before we set a price on this, I’d have charged by the pound.” Horner grinned.

  Simon didn’t feel good enough to exchange witticisms. There’d still been no shortwave contact with London. “When do we leave?”

  “First light in the morning. Do you have the money?”

  Simon took out a packet of bills and passed them over. The price had wiped out nearly everything he’d managed to save while in Cape Town. He’d even had to sell his gear and his weapons.

  Horner thumbed the bills. “Looks like it’s all here.” He tucked the packet into a pocket and gazed at Simon speculatively. “You plan on going all the way to London?”

  “Yes.”

  Nodding, Horner took out a pack of cigarettes and lit up. “I know a man in France. You can get a ride with him on his boat.” He waved away smoke from his cigarette and dropped the spent match into one of the empty glasses in front of him. “They’re still trying to ferry people out of there. The French ain’t too happy about it, but that’s how it is.”

  Simon shook his head. “That’s all the money I’ve got.”

  Horner sighed and sucked air through his teeth. “Money would have made it easier, but I can still work it out for you. Those boat trips across the Channel aren’t safe. Those alien beasts are pursuing survivors all the way to the shore.”

  “They’re not crossing the Channel?”

  “Not yet. But the French army is massed up there. Got a skirmish line. I don’t think it’s going to do them any more good than it did the British. But this man I know, he isn’t selling seats to get into England; he’s selling seats to get out. I’ll tell him you’ll help work as security on the way over. But you can bet he’ll put a boot in your arse if you try to come back.”

  Simon nodded. “All right.”

  Horner offered his hand. “Then we got a deal. Kiss your friend good-bye tonight and come see me in the morning. Six o’clock. If you’re late, me and your money are on our way north.”

  Horner’s plane was an old military cargo transport that looked like it had seen better days, but the props spun smoothly and the engines sounded strong. A blonde in sunglasses and a bikini was spray-painted beneath the pilot’s window.

  Saundra held Simon’s hand as they stopped a few feet short of the gangway leading up to the cargo hold. He turned to face her.

  “I guess this is good-bye,” he said, feeling terribly awkward. He suddenly didn’t know what to say. When they’d first met, it had been like that. Not sure of what to say or not to say. But in the last year and a half, they’d come to know each other well. She was the best friend he’d had, even counting his shield mates—the boys he’d grown up with—back in the Underground. She’d understood him in ways that he’d never thought anyone would.

  And he was about to lose all that. Maybe forever.

  It was hard to deal with, something that he truly hadn’t understood until just this moment. He wavered, thinking that it was already too late in London and that his presence there wouldn’t matter. That made the most sense. What could one man do? He’d be better served staying with Saundra and trying to keep his own skin intact.

  Except he couldn’t do that. His father’s constant brainwashing from the time he’d been born wouldn’t allow him to do that. He had to go, to see if anything could be done and to find out what had become of his father.

  But I don’t have to die there. It felt good deciding that.

  Saundra smiled at Simon, but the effort looked a little frayed around the edges.

  “Not good-bye,” Saundra said. “Just ‘See you later.’ When you get a chance, let me know how you are.”

  “I will.” She’d already given him her father’s call signs on the shortwave radio.

  “Maybe I’ll come see you,” Saundra said. “After the military sends the aliens packing. I’ve always wanted to see London.”

  Simon thought of all the crumbled buildings he’d seen in the news footage. There doesn’t seem to be much of it left. But he nodded. Then he took her in his arms and kissed her good-bye.

  It was hard letting go, but he made himself. Squaring his shoulders, redistributing his backpack, he squeezed her hand a final time and headed up the gangway.

  The cargo hold was jammed with supplies and people. Horner’s grizzled payload master took one look at Simon and cursed. “I heard you were a big one, mate, but Lord love a duck.” He consulted his clipboard and started moving the passengers around, balancing the weight.

  Feeling awkward the way he often did when he got trapped in large groups of people, Simon sat against the side of the plane, taking a seat on the metal floor and dropping his backpack in front of him between his knees.

  He leaned back, resting against the vibrating surface. He hadn’t slept much last night. Not knowing if he’d ever see Saundra again had made the last few hours they’d had together even more special—and desperate. A headache dawned between his eyes and he tried to relax. He hated flying with someone else at the wheel.

  A moment later, he realized he was being stared at.

  Opening his eyes, he caught a glimpse of a young woman seated on the other side of the cargo area as she looked away from him. She acted as though she’d only been glancing around, but Simon knew he’d felt the weight of her gaze on him.

  He didn’t recognize her. She was tall and slender, athletic, not fragile, dressed in jeans and a simple blouse. She wore hiking shoes and had a backpack on the ground in front of her. Her brunette hair was so dark it was almost black, but it was cut close to her head. Her eyes, Simon remembered, were a deep violet. Striking, memorable eyes. He knew he would have remembered seeing her before if he had.

  So why are you interested in me? Then Simon realized he was being paranoid, or maybe even egotistical. Everyone in the cargo area was staring at everyone else.

  The man to Simon’s right spoke up. “Hello.” He offered a hand.

  Simon took it, but didn’t say anything. He didn’t feel like conversation.

  “Philip,” the man said. “Philip Torrance.” He looked like a salesman, dressed in a white shirt and slacks. He was in his thirties or forties, tanned and fit.

  “Simon Cross.”

  “How far are you going? If you don’t mind my asking.”

  “London.”

  The man frowned. “You do realize the plane doesn’t go that far?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’d heard there was a way to get to England from France, but I’m not interested in doing that. Too dangerous. I’m going to take up a support position. They’ve got a lot of people coming out of England. I want to do what I can to help.”

  Simon nodded. As he looked around, he wondered how many people were interested in going to London. He was aware of the violet-eyed young woman watching him again.

  The engines suddenly whined louder, filling the cargo area with noise. The loadmaster and his three assistants plopped down onto the floor against the wall. The crates and bags behind the cargo netting in the rear of the compartment shook and vibrated. A moment later, the plane lurched forward as the pilot released the brakes.

  Laying his head back, Simon closed his eyes and wondered if he was doing the right thing. His father was doubtless dead, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about that. So what was there waiting for him in London?

  A chill filled the cargo area as the plane closed on the last few miles of the final leg of its journey. When Simon breathed out now he could see his breath, pale gray in the barely moving air.

  Wrapped in a blanket, he sat against the cold metal of the bulkhead and tried to sleep. Normally, no matter what was going on, he could at least count on sleep. And all he’d done for the last three days of the flight was stress and worry.

  They’d gotten news secondhand for the most part. Radios didn’t pick up signals inside the cargo hold, and they were never at the fuel depots much longer than to pick up fuel and sandwiches. Both of which were way overpriced.

  Stories continued to filter out of London, but they were tales of horror. The city remained wreathed in smoke, burning constantly.

  A short time later, the cargo team passed out self-heating tins of beef stew.

  Simon sat cross-legged and pulled the tab that activated the chemical reaction that heated the stew. He breathed the scent of the stew in as he waited for the contents to reach temperature. His stomach rumbled in anticipation.

  The cargo team also passed out chunks of bread and bottles of water.

  Gnawing on the bread, Simon chewed it thoroughly. If he didn’t, he’d found during an earlier meal, the bread would lie like a congealed lump in his stomach. He sipped the water.

  The young woman watched him through the fringe of hair that hung down over her eyes. Even though Simon couldn’t see her eyes, he knew she was watching. He just didn’t know why.

  He peeled the stubby spoon from around the mug-shaped can and snapped it out straight. When the stew had cooled sufficiently, he spooned it up, emptying the contents too quickly. He turned his attention back to the bread.

  The young woman leaned forward, extending her tin toward Simon. “Are you still hungry?”

  Simon didn’t say anything, but his stomach rumbled at the prospect of more food.

  “I’m through with this.”

  Reaching forward, Simon took the tin, then offered it to a young mother and baby to his left. He’d watched them during the trip, noting that the mother sometimes looked tired and still hungry after their meager allotment.

  The woman hesitated, then nodded her thanks. Simon didn’t think she knew English, but he wasn’t sure what her native tongue might be. She took the tin from him, darting a quick, furtive glance at the young woman.

  The young woman turned her violet eyes back to Simon. “My name’s Leah. Leah Creasey.”

  Feeling a little awkward because he’d taken the woman’s offering, Simon gave her his name.

  Leah brushed a lock of dark hair back behind her ear. “You’re going to London?”

  “Yes.”

  “So am I.”

  Simon didn’t say anything.

  “I don’t know anyone else who is,” Leah said.

  As far as Simon knew, no one else intended to go to London. Or any part of England. They were all hoping to find survivors in the refugee camps in northern France.

  “Do you have a way to get there?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Can I come with you?”

  Simon studied the woman for a moment. She looked slim and compact, more of an acrobat than an athlete. He felt certain Saundra could have taken her hands down in a physical encounter. He knew he didn’t want any baggage trailing along after him when he reached London. Or even during the trip there. He was headed into a war zone.

  “Please.” Leah’s voice softened.

  Hardening his heart, telling himself that the woman’s welfare was no concern of his, Simon started to say no.

  “It’s my father,” Leah went on. Her violet eyes gleamed wetly. “After my mother died, we only had each other.” She drew in a quick breath to calm herself. “I got mad at him a few months ago. I had no business doing that. He put me through university, then wondered why I wasn’t working at a job I’d trained for. Marketing. I ended up back in the same dress shop I’d worked my way through university in. Ended up barely making the bills again. Almost starving to death. He told me he didn’t see to it that I got all that training only to see it go to waste.”

  The words hit home inside Simon, cutting deeply. They were a lot like the final words he’d had with his own father before he’d picked up and gone to South Africa. Simon had received Templar training all his life, and his father had rebuked him for squandering it with his excesses in extreme sports. The base-jumping had been the final straw.

  “I tried to tell him that jobs weren’t that easy to come by,” Leah said. “But he wouldn’t listen.” She wiped at her eyes and wetness gleamed on her fingers. “So I got a job, only it was down in South Africa and he didn’t like that, either. By that time I was mad, and I’d already signed off on my flat. All my money was tied up in moving to South Africa and making it in that job.”

  Simon felt the weight of his own decision settling across his shoulders. It hadn’t been easy. And he knew exactly what Leah had gone through.