Timothy Williams The Infernal Shadow (The Timothy Williams Saga Book 2), page 13
‘I’m not sure you winding it up is a sensible idea,’ said George. ‘Let’s not forget we haven’t got the pendant to save us.’
‘We don’t need saving ― and anyway, half the time the pendant didn’t even work.’ Rupert looked at Timothy. ‘No offence, Tim.’
‘None taken.’
‘I don’t need magic. I’ve got a pitchfork.’ He’d stolen the garden accessory en route from somebody’s front lawn, and now he started edging toward the giant grunting beast. ‘I’m going to get myself some bacon.’
‘Rupert Flinch!’ shouted Susan. ‘Get back here ― now!’ Mrs Williams was not amused by Rupert’s apparent heroics, not when her little boy was in harm’s way. ‘I don’t want you or your garden accessory anywhere near my son,’ she said. ‘And besides, a fork is going to be no use at all against that…that thing. I don’t know what you’re playing at, but it’s not remotely funny.’
Reluctantly, Rupert obliged. He shuffled backwards and rejoined the line. The gang stood together, shoulder to shoulder, a human wall to block the pig creature’s escape. Nonetheless, it was folly. The beast was beyond their skills, and aside from Rupert’s rusty gardening tool and Gunda’s metal rods, they had little else to stop Vernon with other than themselves, and they each realised that it wasn’t going to be nearly enough.
Grunting and snorting, the monstrous wereboar began clopping toward the feeble blockade on cloven feet.
‘I don’t like the look of those tusks!’ cried Rupert. He gripped his pitchfork with trembling hands, all notions of standing up to the monster forgotten. Yet as Timothy and his friends braced themselves against Vernon’s charge, George unexpectedly strode out to meet him. He’d taken his crucifix from around his neck and now he thrust the sacred symbol forward in defiance.
‘George!’ screamed Timothy.
‘What’s the fool doing?’ cried Susan. ‘First Rupert wants to be a hero and now George!’
Before any of them thought to stop him, George was standing before the unholy beast, and as strange as it seemed to those observing, he began shouting at the thing in a strange language. ‘Redire ad inferos, horridum monstrum!’ And what’s more, George didn’t sound like George ― gone was his nervous stuttering, replaced instead with a voice of booming confidence and power.
The abomination of man and pig wailed in protest. Dumping Toby to the ground, the creature clamped its ham-like hands over its ears whilst shaking its grotesque head from side to side.
Taking his chance, Toby raced to his mother and buried himself in her safe embrace. Everyone else stared at George in amazement. With each uttered phrase, the creature retreated another step. It was as if the words caused the beast unbearable torment.
‘Deus meus protector!’ bellowed George pursuing the beast remorselessly across the courtyard. ‘DEUS ― LUMEN ― EST!’ Suddenly, a flash of pure white light burst from George’s body and the monster howled in despair. Vernon ran from the light like a panicked animal from wildfire. Smashing straight through the shutters, the howling wereboar disappeared into the building beyond.
George blinked. Why is everyone staring at me?
‘How did you do that?’ exclaimed Timothy.
‘Do what?’ said George.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Bad Dreams
George cupped his steaming mug with both hands. He held the beverage just below his chin so the sweet-smelling vapour wafted straight up his nose. Hot chocolate made by Isabella Van Owlwarden needed to be savoured.
‘Well?’ prompted Timothy impatiently.
‘Well, what?’ replied George. How could he savour his hot chocolate when everyone was staring at him ― again? ‘I told you, I don’t know what happened. One second I was beside you trying to think happy thoughts, and the next, I was standing all alone with you lot gawping at me as if I were on fire or something,’ he explained. ‘Which, by the way, you’re all doing now.’ He didn’t like being scrutinised like some misfit. Attention was something that George could live without.
After the trouble in Ashgate, they’d reconvened for a debriefing in the lair. George was sat on a wooden chest, looking decidedly uncomfortable. The others gathered around him as if he were an exhibit in an art gallery. And by the expressions on their faces, an exhibit they didn’t quite know what to make of.
‘It may be that an angel is working through George,’ said Wilfred, ‘using him as a vessel.’
George cringed. He didn’t much like the idea of being used as a vessel. It sounded wrong on so many levels.
‘Nonetheless, only an angel of real power could achieve such a feat, and other than the archangels, I truly don’t know of another soul capable.’
‘What does “Deus lumen est” even mean?’ asked Timothy. He only knew it was Latin.
‘It means God is the light,’ explained Isabella.
All very biblical, thought Timothy. ‘But why choose George?’ he questioned. ‘Why not me? I’m supposed to be the chosen one, after all.’
‘Why does it always have to be you?’ moaned Rupert. ‘Why can’t I have powers for once?’ Rupert was feeling jealous. What he wouldn’t give for just one day with super powers.
‘I don’t know the answers,’ admitted Wilfred, ‘but I know who might.’
‘The Reverend?’ suggested George slurping his beverage.
‘Yes, George, Reverend Goodson,’ confirmed Wilfred.
‘Oh, he’ll be at St John’s tomorrow,’ chirped Susan. Her sullen disposition became immediately lifted at the mere mention of the Reverend. ‘We can all go to Sunday service!’
‘Yes, and then we can all have a lovely picnic in the park,’ scorned Isabella mercilessly, ‘or go on another shopping trip into Ashgate?’
Tight-lipped, Susan glared at Isabella. Yet inside her head, she pictured all manner of graphic images and none of them the thoughts a good Christian woman ought to have.
‘Unless we all want matching black eyes like Timothy, or bruised shoulders like Gunda ― or much worse ― we go nowhere unless we go prepared and in force.’ Narrowing her eyes to such an extent that she looked like she’d fallen asleep, Isabella returned her stern gaze to Timothy’s mother. ‘It was stupidity, Susan. You risked your two sons, and for what? A pair of new shoes and a haircut.’
Clinging to his mother, Toby buried his face into her chest. Great Auntie Isabella was very scary sometimes.
Isabella wasn’t finished. She now turned her criticism toward her Swedish acolytes. ‘And equally as stupid,’ she berated, wagging a finger at Sigrid and Gunda, ‘is going on a rescue mission unarmed. Have I taught you nothing?’ Swedish royalty or not, Isabella didn’t hold back.
The girls bowed their heads in shame.
Isabella sighed. ‘No harm done,’ she said, glancing at George. ‘Once more, we are fortunate that the good Lord sees fit to aid us in our hour of need.’
No one dared raise their eyes from the lair’s drab dusty floor. Finally, Susan couldn’t help herself, and she stared the demon hunter in the eyes. ‘And yet you continue to send them to school,’ she said to Isabella. ‘A school a hundred times more dangerous than Ashgate market will ever be. A school of demons, for heaven’s sake! It’s as good as a death sentence to them.’
‘They must go,’ demanded Isabella passionately. ‘We must show defiance, and at the least, we must disrupt Lucifer’s plans.’ Isabella calmed herself. ‘Do not only think of yourself, Susan. What of the many children in harm’s way at the school? They must be helped, must they not? They must all be helped. I know it is hard, but I ask you this, if not us, then who else is there to fight for them?’
Isabella had struck a chord, and after her sobering words, the lair became silent once more. They all realised that she was right, even Susan.
‘It’s okay, Mum,’ said Timothy. ‘We can do this. We’ll do everything Great Auntie Isabella tells us to do. We’ll be prepared.’
Quite unexpectedly, Susan suddenly burst out sobbing. Timothy was shocked. He’d only ever seen his mother cry during Lady Diana’s funeral in 97, and even then she denied it, claiming instead that a rogue fly had lodged itself behind her left retina. Yet now, down in the lair, there were no excuses. Timothy could do nothing except go to her and hug her, and so did his father.
Rupert grinned at Sigrid and Gunda. ‘Group hug?’ he suggested. ‘I’m sure it will make us all feel better.’
The sisters exchanged a knowing glance before staring at Rupert with cold blue eyes set in hard, disapproving faces.
‘Or we can do it another time,’ conceded Rupert. ‘Or never. It doesn’t matter. Just an idea, that’s all.’
The watching George, who was beginning to feel like a forgotten entity sitting alone on his chest, shook his head and wished for a second mug of hot chocolate to help ease his growing anxiety ― anxiety that the angel Wilfred was set to worsen with another blow to morale.
‘As you know,’ began Wilfred, ‘I have become concerned with the lack of contact from Gabriel and the angels beyond Earth. And now, when your need is greatest, I fear I must leave you.’ He sighed lamentably. ‘I must seek answers, and to do that, I must return to Heaven.’
The news came as a heavy blow. Isabella was forced to sit beside George on the chest, her face ashen. ‘But now?’
‘I am truly sorry. I wish I could stay, but something is gravely wrong. I must find the truth. I will pray for your safety until my return.’
Isabella stood and grasped Wilfred by the hand. ‘God go with you,’ she said, ‘and hurry back to us.’
By the end of the afternoon, improved security measures were agreed upon, and a new philosophy toward their presence at school decided. No longer would they merely hope to survive. Now they would take the fight to Trumpton. Timothy and the gang would do everything in their power to disrupt his schemes. Foremost of their priorities was to help defend those Underwood Upper pupils and teachers yet to be assimilated into Lucifer’s dreadful ranks. A new school club was to be established, a secret club ― the beginnings of a resistance.
As part of the increased security, Sigrid was going to be lodging with Rupert and his family. The news left the boy smirking as if all his dreams had come true at once. And Gunda was to stay with George, which was greeted with less enthusiasm by both parties.
Last year, when the situation had become grave, Wilfred and Bernard were dispatched to protect the boys at their homes, and it was hoped that this new arrangement might prove to be similarly successful. Yet replacing angels with trainee demon hunters wasn’t an ideal scenario.
Now that the angels were gone and the pendant lost to the enemy, Timothy’s fledgling resistance was woefully deficient. In truth, they were in desperate need of new allies and more firepower. To begin their search, Isabella approved tomorrow’s visit to St John’s. If anyone could help, it would be the Reverend.
Time was against them, and as the days passed, their position weakened, while that of the enemy’s only seemed to strengthen. Unless Timothy recruited fresh troops to bolster their dwindling forces, then his brave new resistance was going to be short-lived.
Nonetheless, there was always hope, and George’s little miracle was an encouraging sign. In some way or another, the powers that be provided when their need was greatest. Isabella prayed for the divine intervention to continue. She knew it was going to be needed.
Later that night ― after the Swedes had gone home with the boys and Wilfred had departed for the stars on his quest for answers ― Timothy finally crawled into bed. He was tired, but his black eye throbbed with discomfort making sleep difficult to find. Much of his evening had been spent sitting in a darkened room with a bag of frozen peas pressed against his face. His mother had assured him that the ice-cold vegetables would help reduce the swelling, but the only thing it seemed good for was giving him brain freeze and a particularly troubling headache.
Cocooned inside his covers, Timothy couldn’t stop thinking about poor Toby. His little brother had been through such a lot over the past year: possessed, stabbed and now kidnapped. Timothy really wasn’t doing a very good job of being a big brother. To be honest, he felt as if he wasn’t doing a very good job of anything at the moment. Round two against the Devil wasn’t unfolding anything like how he imagined it would. For starters, the dream war was already proving to be a much harder proposition and life in the real world no less challenging.
Timothy couldn’t wait to see Reverend Goodson tomorrow. The Reverend offered wise counsel while conveying a calming influence. It was one of his many gifts. Just being in his presence made the bad things all seem a little better. Timothy hoped that the Reverend would be able to shine a light on George’s mysterious exploits. Might it happen again? Was George destined to become an instrument of light and a new weapon against the forces of darkness? Poor George. He wouldn’t want to be a weapon. He wasn’t the sort. Timothy surmised that his friend had experienced some form of holy possession. The opposite of what the demons were doing. If the enemy can do it, why not us? Although, he wasn’t sure who was doing the possessing. Having met God, Timothy thought it unlikely that he ― or was it she? ― would take the time or trouble with the task. So, if it was holy possession, who or what was responsible? The question puzzled Timothy well into the night, but eventually, and no further from an answer, he fell into a deep sleep.
Timothy was sitting on a bench in a park. All around him were beautiful flowers, majestic trees and lush green lawns. Timothy was dreaming, and he knew he was dreaming. This was the world of dreams: a world beyond physical form and the waking mind. A place where Timothy conversed with the servants of the Almighty. A haven from the chaos. Yet, it was also a world where the chosen contested the fate of the Earth itself. A place where battles raged, warriors fell, and legends rose. A place where death was not the end but only a temporary setback. It was a world of both peace and war.
Timothy was alone on the bench. He frowned. He’d never been here by himself before; Gabriel was always waiting for him. Why am I here? Who had summoned him to the park, if not Gabriel?
Timothy was perched underneath a grove of towering trees. Dappled shade, shifting in the soft breeze, sheltered Timothy from the sun’s warm rays. The soothing sounds of nature surrounded him: the gently swaying grass, the tinkling of a nearby brook, the melodic chirpings of a myriad of birds. It was almost enough to send Timothy asleep ― to dream within a dream. But then it all stopped. It was as if the dream world had suddenly become frozen in time. A moment passed, and abruptly the sounds of the park returned. Except now the dappled shade was gone, the brook transformed into a raging torrent, the tall grass beaten low by howling winds and the birdsong replaced with shrill calls of anguish.
Instantly alert, Timothy sprung to his feet. He stared in disbelief as burning projectiles rained from the sky. What’s going on? From above, a flaming object dropped smoking to land at his feet. Timothy bent to see. A tiny carcass, blackened and smouldering, lay amidst the flattened grass. Is that a wren? He raced over to another. A song thrush. It jerked and twitched as it burned alive. They’re all birds. What was going on? Why were birds spontaneously bursting into flame before plummeting from the sky?
Behind, a roaring sound sent Timothy spinning. The tall trees burned like the birds, and within the scorching heat, their supple green leaves shrivelled and their rough bark blistered. This is terrible. This is a nightmare!
Timothy stumbled from the unbearable heat. He ran to the brook through wilting grass and withering flowers, but here the water steamed and bubbled, the fish bobbing lifelessly upon the simmering surface. The grass had caught fire, and everywhere Timothy looked, there raged a mighty blaze.
Forthwith, the sky darkened, and as Timothy stared in horror, a shadowy figure, bent and terrible, emerged from the orange heat of the inferno. Timothy turned to flee, but there was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. The fire imprisoned him within walls of dancing flame. Withering and writhing, the figure drew near, shimmering in the heat ― a ghostly apparition veiled beneath a cloak of restless shadow. Timothy retreated until he was halted by the heat of the fire behind. Looming before him, dark and menacing, the figure slowly lowered its black cowl. ‘I do adore a theatrical entrance,’ declared Lucifer.
The colour drained from Timothy’s face. ‘You?’ he whispered, somehow managing to find his voice. ‘How are you here?’
Lucifer grinned. He ran a gloved hand through his silver mane. ‘Don’t you just hate hood hair,’ he said, his blacker than black eyes glinting. ‘Take a seat, boy.’ Lucifer shoved Timothy in the chest.
Timothy toppled backwards. Bizarrely, his fall was broken by a bench ― the same bench that moments earlier he’d watched burn along with the trees.
‘Sitting comfortably?’
‘Not really.’
‘Good.’ Lucifer took a pew beside Timothy, just as Gabriel once had. ‘In answer to your question, I’m here because I choose to be and because nobody can stop me. And besides, what else is there to do on a Saturday night? If truth be told, I’m getting a little bored with Hell. Yes, I’m free to walk above in your world, but it takes its toll, and before long, I must return to recharge my batteries.’ Lucifer stared into the flames as they laid waste to the landscape, ravaging all before them. ‘I yearn for more,’ he said. ‘And soon, I’ll have more. Soon, I’ll have everything.’
Not daring to move, Timothy rolled his grey eyes sideways and glared at the demon king in loathing.
‘I imagine you’re wondering why I haven’t killed you? I confess that I don’t rightly know myself. I expect I will soon enough. The thing is, if I do kill you, I forfeit my right to contest the dream war. Not that I need it now I’ve my pendant back, but rather annoyingly, if you do die accidentally ― you know, during the natural course of things ― another snivelling brat will take your place. So, I ask myself, what’s the point?’ Lucifer shook his head as if he found the whole situation less than satisfactory.
