The Soul Prophecy, page 8
Rising stiffly to his feet, he enters the mosque. A few moments later he comes out with a large clay jar he’s found. Stowing the leather tube inside the jar and sealing the top, he heads over to the well and ties the rope to it. ‘Remember this Soul Jar in Taghaza,’ he says to me gravely, lowering the jar into the depths of the dry well.
I gaze around me at the dead village, bleached bones and swarms of flies. ‘I certainly won’t forget the place,’ I rasp.
Then out of the shimmering heat we see a figure in black robes crossing the salt lake towards us. Riding a camel, he heads a small caravan of six other black-clad bandits.
My eyes widen in horror. ‘He’s found us –’
I jerk awake. I feel a hand on my shoulder and open my eyes to see the wide, beaming smile of a flight attendant. The kind old woman has gone. ‘We’ve landed,’ she says brightly. ‘Welcome to America!’
14
‘Passport!’ demands the immigration officer behind the desk. Her tight-lipped expression is the complete opposite of the sunny ‘have-a-nice-day’ demeanour of the American flight attendant on the plane.
I hand over my documents with a nervous smile.
The officer inspects my passport. Then her dark eyes scan my face with almost robotic precision. For a brief, heart-stopping moment I fear she’s a Watcher. But the officer is merely doing her job; her naturally dark eyes don’t have the cold and empty depths of an Incarnate’s soul.
‘Place your fingers on the scanner and look into the camera for me,’ she orders.
Trying my utmost to stay calm, I do as instructed. But my fingers are noticeably trembling as I rest them on the scanner. Not only am I nervous about passing through immigration control, but my Saharan Glimmer has really shaken me. I feel doubly jet lagged: exhausted from the flight and from recalling my past life as Sura. Why, after six months of nothing, am I suddenly experiencing so many flashbacks?
The officer feeds my passport into her computer. The process seems to take an age. Her sharp eyes flick to the queue of passengers waiting to pass through border control. ‘Where are your parents?’ she asks.
‘At home,’ I reply, struggling to keep my voice steady.
She stares at me. ‘They’re happy about you travelling alone, at your age?’
I nod, a lump forming in my throat at the thought that I’ll now always have to travel without my parents. ‘I-I do it all the time,’ I say. ‘They’ve always encouraged me to be independent.’
Apparently satisfied with my answers, the immigration officer is about to hand me back my passport when she glances at her computer screen and a slight frown breaks across her impenetrable expression. She beckons over another officer, a bear-sized man with close-cropped curly black hair, a neatly trimmed beard and deep brown eyes. He too peers at the screen, then takes the passport from his colleague.
‘Will you come with me, Ms Adams?’ he says.
My chest tightens. ‘Is there a problem?’ I ask, shouldering my backpack.
‘No, this is just standard procedure for minors travelling alone,’ he replies, escorting me away from the rest of the incoming passengers. I’ve no option but to follow him along a short corridor and into a windowless room. He closes the door behind us.
‘Please sit down,’ he says, gesturing to a chair next to a grey desk with a computer terminal.
I try to get comfortable on the hard plastic seat. ‘Will this take long?’ I ask, noticing a CCTV camera in the corner of the room. ‘I’m meeting a friend.’
‘Depends,’ he replies as he runs my documents through the computer for a second time. ‘Truth is, your passport has been flagged. I need to find out why before I can admit you to the United States. Do you have any idea why it should have a watch on it?’
The small room suddenly feels hot and airless, its plain grey walls seeming to press in on me. It had been too much to hope that I’d make it through airport security unchallenged. The police back home must have informed US immigration of my status as a key suspect in a murder enquiry. Nonetheless, I shake my head, playing dumb.
The officer stabs at the keyboard, then furrows his brow. ‘Darn computers,’ he mutters. ‘The screen’s frozen again.’
While we wait for the computer to reboot, he nods at my backpack. ‘May I take a look in your bag?’ he says, his tone more an order than a question.
‘Is that standard procedure too?’ I question, clutching my backpack closer to me.
‘It’s best you cooperate, Ms Adams,’ he says sternly. ‘As a customs and border protection officer I have the right to inspect your baggage, with or without your permission. But I’d prefer it to be with.’
Reluctantly I hand over my backpack. He sifts through the contents, smiling wryly at my soft rabbit Coco, then raising an eyebrow at the thick envelope of US dollars. As he pulls out my clothes, Phoenix’s Guardian Stone drops out on to the table. The officer examines the amulet curiously.
‘Well, now. This is a strange piece of jewellery,’ he murmurs, seeming almost mesmerized by the circular sky-blue ring veined with gold. He peers closely at the Egyptian symbols on the amulet’s bail and, in a slightly dreamy voice, says, ‘I swear I’ve seen it before.’
There’s a knock on the door and a woman pokes her head round. ‘The FBI are here. They want to see the girl.’
The officer’s eyes widen in surprise. ‘Really? That’s one fast response. I’ve not even processed her yet.’ He glances at me, then back at the amulet, seemingly deep in thought. ‘Tell the agents I’ll be with them in a minute. I need to finalize her visa documentation.’
As soon as the woman has gone, he turns to me, a grim expression on his rounded face. ‘Well, Ms Adams, it appears you have a welcome party.’
My stomach tightens and I begin to perspire. My gaze flicks round the room, looking for a way of escape, but there’s only one door, and the bear-sized officer is blocking it.
Noticing my rising panic, he rests a large and reassuring hand on my shoulder. ‘OK. I guess a not-so-welcome party,’ he says, a smile cracking his stern expression. That’s when I notice his brown eyes are now shining with a distinctive blue corona. Turning his back to the room’s CCTV camera, the officer appears captivated once more by the amulet as he whispers under his breath to me, ‘I’ve the strangest feeling we’ve met before … Have we?’
I look deep into his eyes and get a flash of a …
… sickle-shaped bronze blade, the hiss of a snake, the glimpse of a bald-headed man in white robes, my blue amulet round his neck and a sceptre bearing the Egyptian symbol of ankh in his hand. His sandy-coloured face is taut with a strange mix of terror and hope –
The vision passes quickly. ‘Quite possibly,’ I reply.
The officer leans in, his voice still low. ‘Well, I’ve no idea why, Genna, but I feel I owe you a debt. So listen carefully. You’ll have to act fast. If you take the first corridor on your left, it leads to a locked door to the baggage area and from there to the terminal exit. The code is three-five-eight-two.’ Then he raises his voice back to normal volume. ‘I need to discuss your case with the FBI, Ms Adams. I won’t be very long. I sense they’re rather keen to meet you.’
Giving me a subtle wink, his eyes sparkling blue, he leaves the room … and the door ajar.
I stare after him, momentarily dumbstruck. Then without further hesitation I grab my bag, stuff my passport, money and clothes back into it, and dash over to the open door. Peering round the corner, I spot the officer, the amulet still clasped in his hand, talking to two people in dark suits and sunglasses. One is an athletic, stylish-looking woman with a mane of straight black hair and sharp angular cheekbones. Her arms are crossed and her foot taps with impatience. The other is a well-built man who looks like he’s been carved from a slab of granite, all square-jawed, solid muscle and stony expression. He stands before the officer with a menacing stillness. Neither agent looks particularly friendly, and certainly not someone I would wish to meet.
‘I appreciate you have an arrest warrant for the girl, Agent Lin, but I’m the guy who has jurisdiction at the border,’ the officer is saying to the woman. He holds up a hand as the man mountain takes a step forward. ‘Agent Haze, if you’d respectfully give me five minutes to finish –’
With the immigration officer distracting the two FBI agents, I slip out of the holding room and dart down the corridor on my left. I race along until I come to a door with a keypad. Stabbing in the code, I emerge into the busy baggage hall and head for the terminal exit. Everywhere I look, the place is swarming with airport security.
I keep my pace fast yet steady, trying to blend in with the other travellers, pass through customs unchecked and enter the arrivals hall, where the tight knot in my stomach begins to loosen. Then I spot a couple of suits in dark sunglasses standing outside a coffee shop and my gut clenches again. More FBI agents. I’m by no means free yet. As I pull my baseball cap low over my face, I accidentally bump into a girl with a nose ring and short spiky blond hair. I mumble an apology and follow the terminal directions to the taxi stand.
Weaving through the stream of passengers, I risk a glance back to check that the FBI agents aren’t following me. That’s when I notice the nose-ring girl for the second time. She’s wearing a green beanie, a loose chequered shirt and ripped jeans. Her eyes are hidden behind a pair of round mirrored sunglasses, yet I get the distinct impression that as she casually waits in the arrivals hall she’s looking in my direction.
A Watcher? A Hunter? Or am I just being paranoid?
Reminding myself that not everyone is a threat, I hurry on. But as I approach the glass doors to the lower concourse, I catch a glimpse of the green beanie and mirrored sunglasses in the reflection and my pulse quickens. The girl is definitely following me.
Once outside the air-conditioned terminal, the atmosphere is hot and choked with car fumes. I spot the long queue for the taxi rank and don’t fancy waiting around, not with the FBI looking for me and a strange girl on my tail. Further along the concourse a shuttle bus is pulling up at a stop and without breaking my stride I head directly for it. But a man in a yellow high-vis bib steps into my path.
‘Hey, do you need a ride, young lady?’ he asks in an over-friendly tone.
‘No thanks.’ I reply, trying to step round him.
He grins, flashing a gold tooth. ‘Best cab prices in the city,’ he insists, his ebony eyes searching mine as he blocks my path. ‘Best cabs too. Where you heading? Disneyland? Venice Beach? Universal Studios?’
Behind him, over his bony shoulder, I notice the last passengers boarding the shuttle. ‘Thanks, but I’ll take the bus –’
There’s a sudden revving of an engine. The girl with the nose ring rushes up and shoves me hard. Crying out in alarm, I tumble into the path of an oncoming taxi. The yellow cab swerves and mounts the kerb – and hits the girl instead of me. She flips over the bonnet, striking the windscreen, then bounces off on to the pavement. I don’t wait around to see if she’s OK. I’m convinced this girl’s a Hunter. She’s dangerous, anyway – why would she push me in front of a car if she wasn’t? Scrambling to my feet, I barge past the man in the high-vis bib and dash for the bus, leaping on board just as the doors close.
15
I stare numbly at the waves rolling in from the gleaming Pacific Ocean, their white crests curling in perfect tubes as they approach the shoreline. Along the wide stretch of golden sand lie equally golden sunbathers basking in the last of the day’s sun. Behind me, a steady stream of tourists meander along the boardwalk where street performers breakdance to heavy beats, sing through portable speakers, or drum up an audience to watch their tricks. One performer is getting the crowd to chant ‘Hooba! Hooba!’ before he jumps barefoot on to a pile of broken glass; there’s even a skateboarding dog.
Detached from the mayhem, I sit alone on a patch of sand. My bus journey ended at Venice Beach, the last stop, and I was happy enough to be dropped here. The shock of being pushed into the road has finally faded and now I’m only left with questions: Who on earth was that girl – a Soul Hunter? Why did she try to kill me? And what about the FBI – are they my enemy too?
I can’t allow myself to get caught. If the authorities detain me, I’ll more than likely be deported back to England … straight into the custody of DI Shaw, and from her into the clutches of Damien and his gang. Then my dramatic escape will have all been for nothing.
Squinting against the sun, I try to spot Phoenix among the tanned surfers catching waves or relaxing along the shore. My Protector said that he might hang out at the beach in LA. I’ve no idea where the best surfing spots are around here, but Venice Beach is famous enough and as good a place as any to start looking for him.
But after an hour of fruitless searching my hopes begin to wane, along with the setting sun. My bold plan only went as far as getting to LA; I hadn’t thought much about how exactly I’d locate Phoenix. I’ll find him, I’d said to Mei, but that confident boast is beginning to ring hollow and I fear the task I’ve set myself will be beyond me. Phoenix once told me that it’s a combination of luck, deduction and fate that brings us together. A sensation like two magnets drawn to one another. The closer we get, the stronger the attraction. Yet if that’s the case, then why don’t I feel this irresistible magnetism?
Right now, all I feel is lost and unmoored. A compass with no bearing. Do I just wait around for him to find me? But in Phoenix’s mind the threat against me is over for this life. Why would he have any reason to look for me?
As I watch a surfer wipe out on a wave, I realize I can’t just rely on Phoenix finding me: I have to go looking for him. But where to start? I suppose I could camp out here on the beach in the hope that one day our paths cross. But what if he isn’t in Venice Beach at all? What if he surfs at another spot along the coast? And all the while I’m watching and waiting, the FBI will be looking for me. Tanas’s Soul Hunters too.
My time is running short.
I begin to despair at the near-insurmountable task ahead of me. It seemed such a good idea to run into Phoenix’s arms. To feel safe and protected once more. But the hard reality is now hitting me: I’ve fled to a country I don’t know and where I know no one, have no friends, and there’s only the remotest chance of meeting my Soul Protector. All of a sudden I remember the business card Rose gave me on the plane. I touch my hand to my pocket to check it’s still safe inside. Yes, I do have one friend. Perhaps I could call Rose, stay with her for the short term while I figure out a better plan.
Pulling out my mobile, I power it up and wait for a signal. Then I dial the number on the card. It rings three times before being answered. ‘Hello, Rose speaking,’ says a kindly and familiar voice.
‘Hi there … it’s Genna,’ I say hesitantly. ‘The girl who sat next to you on the plane?’
‘Oh hi, sweetie!’ Rose replies. Her tone softens further. ‘You OK?’
‘Erm … not really,’ I admit. ‘My accommodation has fallen through. You kindly offered if I ever needed somewhere to stay …’
‘Of course! You’re very welcome,’ says Rose, picking up on the desperation in my voice. ‘I’ll come get you. Where are you?’
I tell Rose my location and she promises to be with me shortly. I thank her and hang up. Then I realize what a fool I’ve been. When I was last on the run, Phoenix warned me that phones could be traced and that I shouldn’t contact anyone in case the line is being tapped. As my mobile pings with multiple texts and voicemails from Mei and Prisha, I immediately switch it off, even though that makes me feel guilty for ignoring my friends, and stuff the phone back in my bag.
I glance nervously around, paranoid. The beach is mostly empty of sunbathers now; there are only a few surfers left in the water, and the boardwalk is a little quieter than an hour ago. Bathed in a deep orange glow, Venice Beach appears to be taking a breather before the evening crowd descends. I turn back towards the ocean and wait nervously for Rose.
My mind wanders to my parents and an aching loneliness fills my heart. I miss them so much. A tear rolls down my cheek as I think of where the three of us should be right now, in Barbados with Papaya and the rest of the family, drinking fresh coconut juice and watching the sun set over the Caribbean Sea together. I’ve never felt so lost or far from home in my life.
The Californian sun gradually dips below the waves, a blood-red eye against the darkening horizon. It’s a beautiful sight, but as I gaze around I start to notice that several of the people on the beach aren’t watching the sunset. They’re watching me. Silhouetted against the fiery sky, they stand motionless, staring ominously in my direction. Despite the warmth of the evening, my skin shivers suddenly into goosebumps and the hairs on my neck rise. Everywhere I look, there seem to be more and more of them. Each new Watcher seems to trigger an awareness in the next blackened soul.
I suddenly feel dangerously exposed. Snatching up my backpack, I shake off the sand and head for the boardwalk.
The Watchers turn and follow me, their unhurried manner disturbing in its zombie-like calm.
My heart thudding harder in my chest, I reach the promenade and quicken my pace. The skateboarding dog is gone, but the man who was jumping on glass is still here.
At my approach, he chants in a low rasping voice, ‘Hooba! Hooba! Hooba! Here comes the Light!’ His brown eyes pool into fathomless black holes as he grinds his bare feet into the pile of broken glass. I hear the shards crunch and crackle, then see the blood seep from his lacerated skin. Sickened, I hurry on. But he too follows, leaving a slippery trail of red behind him.
I break from a walk into a jog, then into a run. More Watchers appear, twitching to life among the groups of people strolling along the boardwalk, their eyes glazing over and clouding into darkness. Some merely point at me, while others turn and follow or shout out in strange dialects. When a few try to grab hold of me, I frantically fend them off, then flee across the road.
