The Soul Prophecy, page 1
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Acknowledgements
About the Author
As an author, Chris Bradford practises what he terms ‘method writing’. For his award-winning Young Samurai series, he trained in samurai swordsmanship, karate and ninjutsu and earned his black belt in Zen Kyu Shin Taijutsu. For his Bodyguard series, he embarked on an intensive close-protection course to become a qualified professional bodyguard. More recently, for the Soul trilogy, Chris travelled extensively to experience first-hand the cultures featured in the story – from living with the Shona people in Zimbabwe, to trekking the Inca trail, to meditating in a Buddhist temple amid the mountains of Japan. His bestselling books are published in over twenty-five languages and have garnered more than thirty children’s book awards and nominations. Chris lives in England with his two sons.
To discover more about Chris, go to www.chrisbradford.co.uk
PUFFIN BOOKS
Praise for The Soul Hunters:
‘A fast-paced fantasy adventure with a thrilling plot’
BookTrust
‘A story that doesn’t sit still!’
Gill Ward, Alexandra Palace Children’s Book Award
‘Fantastic and a must read. If we could give it more than 5 stars, we would!’
The Book Brothers
Praise for the Young Samurai series:
Great Britain Sasakawa Award 2008 – Winner
Red House Children’s Book Award 2009 – Shortlist
‘An adventure novel to rank among the genre’s best. This book earns the literary equivalent of a black belt’
Publishers Weekly
Praise for the Bodyguard series:
Brilliant Book Award 2014 – Winner
Hampshire Book Award 2014 – Winner
‘Bone-crunching action adventure’
Financial Times
‘Bradford has combined Jack Bauer, James Bond, and Alex Rider to bring us the action-packed thriller’
Goodreads.com
Books by Chris Bradford
The Soul series (in reading order)
THE SOUL HUNTERS
THE SOUL PROPHECY
The Young Samurai series (in reading order)
THE WAY OF THE WARRIOR
THE WAY OF THE SWORD
THE WAY OF THE DRAGON
THE RING OF EARTH
THE RING OF WATER
THE RING OF FIRE
THE RING OF WIND
THE RING OF SKY
THE RETURN OF THE WARRIOR
Available as ebook
THE WAY OF FIRE
The Bodyguard series (in reading order)
HOSTAGE
RANSOM
AMBUSH
TARGET
ASSASSIN
FUGITIVE
To the Roses,
because you deserve more than an acknowledgement :-)
The Darkness that once was will be once again, For it’s the Light that casts a shadow and the Shadow that casts out the Light …
The Soul Prophecy
Prologue
Los Angeles, present day
Siren wailing, lights flashing, the ambulance threads its way between the traffic as the Californian sun sets over Huntington Park. The vehicle pulls up sharply to the kerbside, its doors fly open and two paramedics leap out.
A body is sprawled on the sidewalk.
The paramedics push through the knot of onlookers surrounding it and approach a well-built man in a crisp suit and dark glasses who has his hands pressed firmly against the casualty’s chest. Blood seeps between his fingers.
‘Alex has been shot!’ barks the man, a desperate yet determined expression on his rugged face.
One of the paramedics, a young woman with copper-red hair tied into an efficient ponytail and a name badge identifying her as BAILEY, kneels down and sets to work assessing the injury. Releasing his hold on Alex’s chest, the suited man moves aside to allow the medic to do her job. ‘Single entry and exit wound … nine-millimetre calibre round, at my guess … significant blood loss … Let’s get some pressure bandages and vented seals on fast.’
The other paramedic, an older man with a trimmed beard and shaved head and the name badge CARTER, tears open a packet of sterile dressings and starts tending to the wounds.
‘Alex, can you hear me?’ asks Bailey, but she gets no response. She checks for vital signs, while her partner inserts an IV drip and runs in vital fluids. ‘The casualty’s no longer breathing,’ she says, and immediately begins CPR.
Carter pulls out a portable defibrillator from his med-bag and attaches a pair of electrode pads to the victim’s chest. As soon as the unit powers up, the ECG monitor bleeps a rapid and erratic rhythm.
‘The heart’s gone into cardiac arrest,’ says Carter. Then as a light flashes red he warns, ‘Stand clear!’
Bailey takes her hands away as the defibrillator delivers an electric shock. Alex’s body jolts slightly, but the graph on the ECG monitor continues to spike out of control … before flatlining entirely. The heart monitor sounds its ominous drone and the paramedic hurriedly resumes CPR –
Alex watches this life-or-death struggle from above with an almost indifferent attitude – as if it’s happening to someone else. In fact, it’s the man in the tailored blue suit and sunglasses who seems the most concerned. He’s talking rapidly into his mobile phone, an intense and troubled expression on his rugged face. What’s his name? Clive, is it? … No, not Clive … Clint!
But, unlike Clint, Alex no longer feels any pain, worries or cares. After all the struggles and stresses of life, this sense of detached calm is blissful … welcome, even. The connection between body and soul is now little more than a fine silver thread in the growing darkness.
As Alex observes the two paramedics working frantically to resuscitate their casualty, a bright, warm light appears at the end of a long tunnel. Drawn towards the light, Alex leaves the body lying sprawled on the sidewalk and glides away down the tunnel, the silver thread connecting body to soul becoming thinner and thinner …
‘Adrenaline shot!’ orders Bailey, and her partner dives into his med-bag looking for the syringe. ‘Hurry … or we’re going to lose this patient for good!’
In the distance the wail of police sirens closes in from all directions while Bailey continues to pump away with a combination of chest compressions and rescue breaths. Locating a suitable vein, Carter pulls the cap off the syringe and injects the stimulant to kickstart the heart …
The fraught scene on the sidewalk fades, the colours and sounds muting, until the two paramedics and their patient are little more than a silent black-and-white movie flickering in the distance. Alex drifts further and further along the tunnel, the celestial white light growing brighter and more vibrant with each passing moment.
But, as the end of the tunnel approaches, a long, spindly shadow blocks the light.
Alex hesitates, not recognizing the soul that has suddenly appeared. Hello? Do I know you?
No, comes the sharp reply. But your death is my beginning.
Moving with frightening speed, the shadow rushes forward, devouring all light and suffocating Alex’s soul with its cloying darkness …
‘Still no response,’ announces Carter after administering a second adrenaline shot.
Exhausted and out of options, Bailey is forced to abandon CPR and declare the patient dead at the scene. The suited man swears and throws his phone to the ground in a fit of rage and grief.
Then – just as Carter is disconnecting the defibrillator – a faint bleep sounds on the monitor.
‘Hang on, we’ve got a heartbeat …’
1
St Petersburg, Russia, 1904
‘AND NOW, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!’ the ringmaster bellows. ‘The act you have all been waiting for … the Famous, the Fantastic, the Fantabulous, the Phenomenal … Yelena, the Flying Firebird!’
To thunderous applause, I run out into the circus ring. My spikes of flame-red hair and glittering costume draw everyone’s eye. Dmitry, clad in a silver leotard, is at my side as we cartwheel, flip and somersault in unison to land in the centre of the ring. The crowd cheer and wolf-whistle before the ringmaster quells them into a hushed silence.
‘Prepare to be astounded by feats of physical daring,’ he says breathlessly. ‘Within this ring, you see a dastardly array of deadly obstacles. The Wall of Knives! The Pit of Glass! And the infamous Flaming Hoops of Hell! Our Firebird must survive them all!’
Dmitry takes up a lit torch and ignites a series of hoops mounted on iron stands, the fifth and final ring so small that my body barely fits through it. The searing heat from the hoops is enough to force the front row to lean back, but the rest of the audience are on the edge of their seats as I prepare to run the lethal gauntlet.
I survey the first hurdle ahead of me – a wall made entirely of knives, their points protruding from the top like a row of shark’s teeth. Taking a deep breath, I start sprinting towards the bladed barrier then vault high into the air. I tuck in my legs and perform a neat somersault over the glinting points, landing safely on the other side.
The audience barely have time to applaud as I run towards the next obstacle – a trench filled with broken glass, above which are suspended three parallel bars. Bouncing off a wooden springboard, I propel myself up, catch hold of the first bar and do a full spin, before launching myself on to the second bar. Here I perform a straddle cut then swing for the third bar and, using my momentum, lift into a perfect handstand. Now the crowd do have time to clap. I steady myself over the sea of glass that I know lies below me, waiting to pierce my snow-white skin if I should fall. After a few seconds I drop out of the handstand and execute a double flip to touch down just beyond the pit.
At last, I’m faced with my final challenge, the Flaming Hoops of Hell – a circus feat no other acrobat in the world dares perform. The heat is so intense it almost scorches my skin as, in a deft series of jumps and rolls, I dive through each of the hoops in turn. The smallest requires every ounce of skill to pass through without getting burned to a cinder. Then before I’ve even caught my breath, Dmitry throws one last ring of fire high into the air and with an elegant leap I somersault through it to land, arms spread like an eagle, beside him.
The crowd are on their feet, whooping and clapping. As I soak up the applause, my eye catches a dour-faced woman in the front row. She alone sits dead still, staring at me, her hands resolutely in her lap, the only person it seems who isn’t impressed by my daredevil performance. But it isn’t her lack of appreciation that troubles me.
It’s her eyes.
Pitch-black and horrifyingly empty.
‘Hey, are you OK?’ whispers Dmitry, noticing my look of alarm.
‘I … think I see a Soul Hunter,’ I reply under my breath.
‘Where?’ Dmitry is suddenly alert, his body tense like a tiger.
I look back into the audience but the woman is clapping now, her eyes a pale green. I blink hard. Had it just been the blaze from the hoops causing blind spots in my vision? ‘No … I was mistaken,’ I say uncertainly.
‘Yelena, don’t worry,’ assures Dmitry softly, resting his hand gently on my arm. ‘We’ve kept on the move and in disguise these past six months. Left Tanas and his Hunters far behind –’
‘LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!’ booms the ringmaster above the fading applause. ‘Prepare to be even more amazed, astounded and astonished as our flame-haired Flying Firebird now attempts the death-defying Trapeze of Terror!’ With that, he points towards the two swing bars suspended high above everyone’s head.
As the audience look up, Dmitry draws me close and whispers into my ear, ‘But to be sure, once this show is over, we’ll lie low for a while. We can always join another circus.’ Then with a reassuring wink of his sparkling blue eyes he heads over to one of the rope ladders and nimbly climbs to the uppermost reaches of the circus tent.
‘Do note, ladies and gentlemen,’ the ringmaster announces ominously, ‘that there is NO safety net! The slightest mistake by Yelena will mean her certain DEATH!’
He glances at me, no doubt wondering why I’m still standing in the ring. I break into a wide smile for the crowd, which masks my lingering unease at spotting a possible Soul Hunter, and run to the other ladder. I climb up to a small, raised platform, where, once high and safe from the reach of others, I shake off my fears and prepare for our routine.
Dmitry is hanging upside down by his legs from the catch bar, swinging easily. ‘Gotov!’ he shouts, indicating he’s ready for a catch.
I take hold of the swing bar and leap from my board. The rush as I fly through the air, free and untouchable, is exhilarating, and I quickly forget all my troubles. I forget about Tanas and his hunger for my soul. I let go of the constant fear of being discovered by his Hunters. I release my panic at seeing that woman with the pitch-black eyes …
As I reach the top of my arc for a second time, I let go of the bar and execute a double-twisting, triple somersault before Dmitry catches me by the arms. We swing away, then back towards my bar, where I perform a two-and-a-half pirouette return. Below, the crowd burst into rapturous applause. Landing neatly on my platform, I glance down and wave in acknowledgement – then freeze. Even from this heady height, I can spot several new members of the audience sitting statue-still, their stone-cold black eyes staring up at me.
However, before I can register my horror, the audience start laughing.
‘What’s this?’ cries the ringmaster.
A wild orange-haired clown has tumbled into the ring. He waddles up to the Wall of Knives and with a large, white-gloved hand tests the tip of a blade. Howling in mock pain, the clown shakes his injured hand, spraying fake blood over the people in the front row. More laughter erupts from the crowd.
As Dmitry swings towards me, I hear him shout, ‘What’s Gretto doing, barging in on our act?’ but I’ve no idea.
Then Gretto looks up at me. His face is painted bone-white, his false nose as red and bulbous as a boil, and his lips are stretched into a grotesque smile. But it’s his eyes – coal-black eyes – that send a jolt of terror through me.
‘That’s not Gretto,’ I cry. ‘It’s Tanas!’
The demonic leader of the Incarnates continues to play his role as circus clown. Choosing several knives from the wall, he begins to juggle them as he heads towards my rope ladder. The audience laugh, then clap, then laugh again with every knife he fumbles and every finger he pretends to lose.
But Dmitry and I both know that it’s no act. The clown’s intentions are clear. With the remaining knife clamped between his teeth, Tanas ascends my rope ladder like an insidious spider.
‘To me!’ shouts Dmitry, swinging hard in my direction.
For several seconds I can only stand and stare in pure panic at the black-eyed clown scurrying up towards me. How has he found us? We’ve risked our lives crossing Siberia to escape his clutches. We’ve seen no sign of Watchers or Hunters for months. We’ve changed our names, our appearance, our location almost every week …
‘YELENA!’ shouts Dmitry in desperation.
His voice breaks the spell. I turn and launch myself from the platform. But the first swing is never enough to set up for a catch. The bar is already returning just as Tanas mounts the board. He makes a grab for my legs, but I kick him away and swing back out across the void. For a moment Tanas teeters on the edge of the platform, arms windmilling as he tries to regain his balance. The crowd laugh delightedly, believing these antics to be all part of the act.
‘Gotov!’ cries Dmitry, his hands held out, ready for the catch.
But I can’t. Tanas’s grab at me has put our swings out of sync and, unable to release my grip on the bar for fear of falling, I return once more towards the platform. Tanas is waiting, his balance regained. There’s a ghastly grin on his red-painted lips and the knife is now clutched in his gloved right hand.
‘Come to Gretto!’ he says, his tone as twisted as his smile.
However, as I pass within his reach, Tanas doesn’t try to grab me again. This time, he slashes with the knife. I twist my body away, lifting one hand off the bar. The blade misses me by a hair’s breadth – only to slice into one of the ropes attached to the bar!
