Timothy Williams The Infernal Shadow (The Timothy Williams Saga Book 2), page 25
‘Come, Timothy, we must hurry.’ Isabella pushed him toward the open door ahead.
‘I will hold the door for as long as I can,’ declared Reverend Goodson. The Reverend pressed the Sceptre of Osiris into Isabella’s grasp. ‘I have done all I can to shield the stone. Once it’s beyond Asmodean’s reach, it will fall dormant once more, but not entirely. The thing is evil, and given time, it will poison mind and body,’ he explained. ‘Now go! And Godspeed.’
With her claws dripping with fresh blood, Mrs Gruff rose from her kill. Eagerly, she sniffed the air with her long snout. The scent of human scum was strong, and it was near.
Mr Borenett and the two Daves heard the screams too. It sounded close and it sounded dreadful. But they didn’t dare turn back, not now. There were other things down here besides the lycanthrope that chased them. Things strange enough to fill a thousand nightmares.
In a previous chamber, the skeleton of a Carnotaurus had inexplicably come to life, launching itself at them from its display stand. If not for missing its left leg, the specimen would have caught them in its bony jaws. As it was, the dinosaur immediately crashed to the floor, harmlessly scattering its many fossilised parts far and wide. Mr Borenett was all for bringing history to life, but this was ridiculous.
The Cretaceous attack hadn’t been the only incident involving magical animation. Earlier, a troop of dodos harried them mercilessly from room to room. In the end, Mr Borenett and his two students were forced to engage them in combat. The history teacher chopped at them with his machete, grimacing with every stroke. He was a scholar, not a butcher. Thankfully, there wasn’t any blood, only dust and feathers. The two Daves had no such reservations. Big Dave got hands-on, raining blow after blow upon the flightless birds with his knuckleduster fists. Little Dave found a broom handle with which he brandished like a baseball bat. He hammered the waddling, red-eyed menaces as if each swing was a home run. It was almost like the two Daves were enjoying themselves.
And now, and much to Mr Borenett’s eternal shame, the three of them ran from the screams and the howls, and they ran as fast as they could.
‘This way, George.’ Desperately hoping to evade their pursuers, Tommy bustled George into a dark chamber. They fumbled their way forward, and as they progressed crimson orbs moved from the shadows. Animals ― deranged and twisted and long since dead but now brought to life by the Deathstone’s demonic power ― emerged from the darkest corners of the chamber to join the Sparrow brothers in their deadly hunt.
‘Run for the door!’ cried Tommy.
‘We won’t make it!’ screamed George. He glanced over his shoulder. ‘Holy Mother!’ A red-eyed rhino was pounding up behind them, and then, from their right reared a giant headless bear.
George and Tommy ducked past a massive swiping paw, and as they approached the open door, a new creature loomed to bar their escape: a huge lion, as big as any George or Tommy had ever seen. Yet this proud beast didn’t have blood-red eyes like the others but sapphire eyes that shone like stars. Keep going, George. Help is at hand, said the White Knight inside George’s mind.
George grabbed Tommy’s arm and didn’t stop. They swerved around the lion, bolted straight through the door and bumped headlong into Rupert and Sigrid.
‘Oh, thank goodness,’ praised Sigrid. ‘You are alive.’
‘Just about,’ rasped George panting like a hyperventilating Labrador. He pointed frantically back into the chamber as a terrible commotion erupted to fill their ears. Roaring, screeching and snarling ― noises to scare anyone witless. ‘No time to explain,’ he blustered. ‘Run!’
‘What about the others?’ asked Rupert.
‘I don’t know,’ said George. ‘Just run!’
And run they did, back the way Rupert and Sigrid had come. Halfway along the next passageway, Mr Borenett and the two Daves joined them from an opening on the left. Further on, a determined Gunda and a flustered Baz materialised from an adjoining corridor on the right. They didn’t stop. There was no time for hugs and kisses. They just grinned at each other while they ran ― the last of the PALS club.
The blue-eyed lion followed, and on his tail stormed a monstrous mustering such as the world had seldom seen: animated fossils, zombie animals, ancient Egyptian mummies fresh from their tombs, possessed children, beastly lycanthrope, dread lords from the Underworld and a demon prince of Hell.
But ahead, glowing gold with holy light waited the Son of God.
As if guarding the very gates of Heaven, Reverend Goodson stood before the open service doors like a knight in shining armour. From behind, sunlight poured into the dark depths of the museum’s bowels like hope itself. ‘Quickly, out through the doors and away,’ he instructed as the tiring, desperate survivors reached him.
‘What about you, Reverend?’ wheezed George as the others streamed past out into the light.
‘Run, George,’ said the Reverend. The enemy, in all their unholy strength, were nearly upon them.
‘But you can’t stand alone against so many!’
‘You cannot help me. None of you can. Now run, George, before it’s too late. Get to the minibus and to safety!’
George stumbled out into daylight. He turned back, hoping to convince the Reverend one last time to come with him, but as he moved forward, the big service doors swung closed, leaving George outside and the Reverend to his fate. Before the doors had shut, George had seen the blue-eyed lion standing side by side with the Reverend and then he’d glimpsed a pulsing flash of golden light.
Timothy waited beside the minibus, anxiously watching for his friends to return in one piece. When they did, he hugged each of them on arrival ― all except the two Daves who didn’t do hugging or any other form of physical contact unless it involved clenched fists and foreheads. But where were the rest?
Timothy’s father started the engine. ‘Tim, we can’t wait any longer.’ But Timothy continued to stare into the distance, desperately hoping to see the others come back. He rocked back and forth nervously. Where are they? Come on, George!
At the end of the road, where the side street met the main thoroughfare, Timothy saw police cars and ambulances whizz past with lights flashing and sirens blaring. There was shouting and screaming too. Bystanders stopped to take interest: ‘What’s happening in the museum? Why are riot police storming the building?’ With grim fascination, people began gathering outside to watch.
Finally, George emerged, sprinting beneath the long shadows of the towering city buildings. He looked distraught. Tears rolled down his flushed fleshy cheeks.
‘What’s the matter, George?’ pleaded Timothy fearing his friend’s reply.
‘It’s the Reverend,’ he said. ‘He’s staying.’
‘But―’
‘He’s not coming,’ sobbed George. ‘We need to go. Now!’
Timothy nodded sadly. He understood what his friend was saying. ‘Are there any others? Tina, Kirk?’
Shaking his head, George wiped tears from his eyes with the backs of his sweaty hands. The two of them stumbled onto the minibus in a daze, and all Timothy could think about was how were they going to tell Tina and Kirk’s parents that their children weren’t coming home.
The return journey was a subdued affair, a sad affair. If the Reverend were here, he would have us all singing hymns to lighten the mood, mused Timothy, but he’s not.
Even though it was a victory, Timothy’s friends and family appeared beaten. Dejected, Rupert and George slumped in their seats, both thinking of those no longer here: the Reverend, their school friends and their parents. Mr Borenett and Miss May sat lost in sad contemplation. The Jägerhorn twins gazed vacantly out of the windows. Isabella and Geoff pondered in silence. Baz and Tommy held their heads in their hands. And the two Daves wept like babes.
The Deathstone was theirs yet securing the evil artefact had come at great cost: schoolchildren lost, PALS members missing in action ― presumed dead ― and their saviour, Reverend Goodson, seemingly sacrificed to ensure their escape. Surely, there was no way on Earth that even the Son of God could hope to prevail against such an unholy host of evil?
Timothy knew the enemy wouldn’t give up. Lucifer wanted the stone, and so, Asmodean would come for it. Timothy and his allies didn’t have the strength to oppose Lucifer, not now, perhaps not ever. Time was now their only ally. Against all the odds, they needed to hold until Lucifer’s time ran out ― until the last battle. Win that, and the dream war was over, and with it, Lucifer’s bid to rule the planet and perhaps the stars too.
Timothy’s mind drifted. The faces of those left behind lingered behind his eyes like ghosts. He tried picturing them as he remembered them: Tina laughing, Kirk brooding and the Reverend smiling. Yet all Timothy saw were their cold, pale faces and staring, dead eyes. He wondered how many other Underwood Upper students wouldn’t make it home tonight or the next night? It was frustrating that he couldn’t do more to help them. Timothy felt powerless. If only he still had the Morning Star, it might have been different. It would have been different. But because of his stupidity, he didn’t, and now they were defenceless against Lucifer’s growing might. We just need to hold…somehow.
‘May I?’ inquired Sigrid. She waited for Timothy to answer before sitting down.
Timothy glanced up, waking from his dark thoughts. ‘Of course,’ he said, forcing a smile. As Sigrid settled herself beside him, Timothy braced himself for the compulsory puff of chocking dust released from the stale upholstery. But then he remembered he was on a different bus. ‘You haven’t experienced a ride on Happy’s school bus, have you?’
Sigrid shook her head in confusion.
‘This is luxury.’ Timothy couldn’t believe how pristine Harry Hoolahan’s minibus was compared to the bus he drove to Underwood Upper every day. Mum would be impressed. He wondered how Harry was going to manage the return trip from London. The bus driver had a duty to the Underwood Upper students, even if most of them were possessed again. Even now, there were probably children wandering the museum corridors with their minds turned to soup. Timothy shut his eyes. He couldn’t allow himself to worry about them. There was nothing he or any of them could do. Timothy’s only hope was that Reverend Goodson had somehow survived his encounter with Asmodean and even now was rounding up meandering Underwood Upper kids and taking them to safety. In truth, the thought was beyond hope and Timothy knew it.
‘I know how you feel,’ began Sigrid, ‘at least a little.’
Timothy tilted his head to stare at her and frowned. How could she possibly know?
‘Gunda and I were five years old when our training began. For us, there was no choice. Because of our royal blood, we must learn to be hunters. It is the way of things. It is the same for many royal families across Europe and the world, I think?’ It is an ancient custom to ensure those in power are hunters and not demons. ‘Did you know that your own royal family have a history of demon hunting? Charles the Second, Richard the Lionheart, Henry the Eighth…’
‘Yeah, who would have believed that all his wives were demons?’ said Timothy.
‘The stories of the Black Prince were always my favourite as a child.’ Sigrid smiled with fond memories. ‘Such a chivalrous demon hunter.’
‘I know,’ said Timothy, ‘Isabella makes me study The Hunter Chronicles day and night. I can’t get my head around the fact that Marilyn Monroe was a hunter and that she racked up more kills than Billy the Kid.’ Timothy’s favourites were the legends of Sir Lancelot and Robin Hood. There was something magical about them ― proper heroes. Although he wasn’t sure how much truth there was to the tales.
‘They used to say, “For every demon, there is a hunter”. I am not sure that is true anymore. Demons seem to be everywhere and yet there is seemingly nothing Elgar von Stromberg can do.’
‘Have you ever met her?’
‘Von Stromberg?’
Timothy nodded.
‘Once. She came to see my father at our home and presented Gunda and me with signed copies of The League of Demon Hunter’s Field Guide. We were only six. The head of our order is a formidable woman, but I fear her methods are stuck in the past. We need new ideas to defeat the demon scourge. At least, that is what my father says.’
Timothy and Sigrid lapsed into a brief silence. The only noise the hum of the vehicle’s engine, the rush of traffic outside the windows and the disconcerting rumbling produced by Mr Borenett’s snoring. The day had proved too much for the aged history guru and he was out for the count.
‘The burden must weigh heavy with you,’ said Sigrid quietly.
‘It does,’ confided Timothy. ‘More than you can know.’ He glanced at Isabella. She was chatting with his father at the front of the minibus. ‘I think my great auntie is disappointed in me ― and my friends. We didn’t exactly cover ourselves in glory whilst training in the Norwegian Fjords ― nor since, if I’m honest.’
Sigrid was appalled. ‘Do not be silly, Timmy!’
Timothy grimaced. He hated being called Timmy.
‘You have done so very well, especially as this was thrust upon you. For me, it has always been so ― a part of my life since childhood.’ Sigrid paused to gather her thoughts. ‘We have the Deathstone. We defy the Devil at every turn. And we will carry on defying him until you win the dream war.’
Timothy gazed out of the window. His dark thoughts returning to cloud his mind. ‘I’m not sure I can,’ he said. ‘I know I must because if I don’t ― well, it’s the end as we know it. But I don’t see how I can stop Ursula. She’s changed, and not for the better as I had hoped. It’s like she no longer has a soul. She’s like a machine who doesn’t know fear. I just can’t seem to figure out how to beat her.’
Sigrid laid her hand on his. ‘You will,’ she said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Big Trouble in Little Underwood
Geoff secured the trapdoor and made his way down the stairs. Only now, safely returned to the lair, did they allow themselves to relax ― all except for Timothy. He paced back and forth like a soldier on guard duty, his face a picture of unease. ‘This is a mistake,’ he announced. ‘We shouldn’t have come back here.’
The others murmured amongst themselves whilst slouched against boxes, beanbags, ammunition crates ― anything they could find. Abruptly, they all went quiet and peered up at Timothy with furrowed brows.
‘We can’t hold the lair until New Year’s Eve. Not against what’s coming,’ continued Timothy, finally halting his dizzying march. ‘They know we’re here. We’re sitting ducks.’
Isabella stood to confront her great-nephew. ‘We hold here until help comes,’ she insisted with her usual air of superiority.
Timothy wasn’t deterred. ‘And how long will that be? A week, a fortnight, a month? We’ll be lucky to last another day.’
Susan covered Toby’s ears with her hands. ‘Stop it, Tim. You’re scaring your brother.’ Susan distracted her youngest with an old mint scavenged from the depths of her handbag. She blew the dust and fluff from the hardboiled sweet before shoving it between Toby’s lips.
‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ replied Timothy, ‘but I know I’m right. I can feel it.’ He knew the enemy had yet to unleash its full force against them, but now he expected Lucifer to do just that.
‘The boy is right to have concerns, especially after what we all witnessed today,’ added Mr Borenett. ‘Can anywhere be safe from such horror?’
‘Why can’t we stay?’ questioned George. He agreed with Mr Borenett, but surely, they were in the best place? ‘The lair has kept them out so far, so why not? We’ve enough supplies to last us a year.’
‘Yeah, if all you want to eat is beans,’ answered Rupert mimicking a bout of dry retching. He wasn’t a big fan of beans, nor their effect on his roommates’ digestive systems.
‘Yes, George,’ said Timothy ignoring Rupert, ‘but that was before we stole the Sceptre of Osiris.’ Timothy glanced across at the unholy artefact. The sceptre leaned against a far wall, its crimson light now nothing more than a faint glow. As yet, they hadn’t decided what to do with the thing. ‘Lucifer will throw everything at us now. I know he will.’
Isabella’s expression softened. ‘Perhaps you are right, Timothy,’ she conceded, sitting back down into her chair. ‘At least, in the long term. But for now, we hold here until help comes. Once it does, and Fearbolt and his demon hunters arrive, we will re-evaluate the situation.’
Everyone seemed to approve of Isabella’s compromise, including the lair’s resident cat. Winston leapt onto Isabella’s lap and began purring like a tractor. However, Timothy was far from happy. ‘Okay. We stay,’ he agreed, ‘but those of us who don’t need to be here must leave. I’ve got the feeling it’s now or never.’
Those resting around the old bomb shelter glanced at one another, wondering who amongst them didn’t need to be there?
‘Tommy, Baz and the two Daves,’ Timothy spun this way and that acknowledging his PALS members with a solemn nod, one after the other, ‘you’ve all got to go.’
Tommy, in particular, was crestfallen. ‘But, Tim, we can help you!’
‘And you will, Tommy. You all will. It’s simply too dangerous to stay here with us…with me. Go home to your families. But I want you to get the word out about what’s going on. Recruit as many to our cause as you can but be careful. Remember the demon test. And keep away from the school! We won’t be hiding down here forever, and we’ll need an army to take back Underwood Upper.’ Timothy adopted a determined look. ‘And when the time is right, that’s what we’ll do. We’ll reclaim the school.’
It was quite the little speech, and they all realised he’d been sitting on it for some time. ‘You can count on us, Tim,’ said Tommy. And the young man’s sentiments were echoed by one and all.
‘Yeah, we’ll be ready when you need us,’ pledged little Dave.
‘And thank Harry Hoolahan for us, Tommy. Who would have thought that old Happy was one of the good guys?’ Timothy smiled, but then he turned to Miss May, and his smile fell. ‘You, too, Miss ― I mean, Helen,’ he said. ‘It’s not safe, and you’ve done so much for us already. I want you and Mr Borenett to drive the lads home and then get yourselves to safety.’
