Timekeepers: Number 2 in Series Read Free Page A

out of the shattered windows.

    When they saw him, covered in soot and looking battered, the silence rang. Of course, thought Sam. A Pandora spirit could affect far more than one person at a time. But the more people it affected, the thinner its powers would stretch. Perhaps, if he hurried…

    He grabbed his bags and was halfway down the street before someone behind him yelled, ‘Fucker!’ By then he was unstoppable. Let the world rise up against him at the spirits’ command. He was used to being alone. Let them take his allies, let them turn even mortals against him. He was the bastard Son of Time. His entire life had been spent in preparation for this.

    Sam no longer felt care. He worked best when alone. And now, he knew, there was serious work to be done.

TWO
    Soho Square
    H e carried two bags – one a large leather satchel containing almost everything he owned in the world, including money, a few hastily purchased clothes, a crown that was nothing more than a band of plain silver, a phone card, and a slightly spongy chocolate bar that had been there for longer than was healthy. The other was a plastic hockey-stick bag of the kind that sporty types carry to demonstrate to the world that they’re professionals. Sam had neither played hockey for several decades, nor did he carry a stick. In the bag was a short, very light silver sword that hadn’t tarnished in the thousands of years he’d owned it; and somewhere in the recesses of his left sleeve he also enjoyed the ownership of his thin silver dagger. Though neither of these items was particularly flashy, they had the power to kill other Waywalkers, the Children of Time, where ordinary weapons of iron and steel might fail.

    He had, to date, never killed one of his siblings. Which was remarkable, because they’d tried to kill him on numerous occasions and he’d even returned the favour a couple of times. But neither side in the endless Heaven v. Sam conflict had scored any major points. Until now.

    Now the battle wasn’t about the fact that he was the only bastard Son of Time ever to be acknowledged with a sword and crown. He had been caught up in this conflict because within him he had the power not only to destroy Cronus, but any Incarnate in the universe, even Time himself. It gave the battle an almost impersonal feeling, as though being Bearer of Light was only a title: a ball in a pinball machine, bouncing around dangerously, but still just something for scoring points.

    So he was determined to show
Them
.
Them
with a capital letter,
They
who thought he’d die to destroy Cronus, or that he hadn’t the guts to fight, or that he’d fight and die and lose anyway. Above all, he’d show Time. No matter what it took, he’d fight back.

    It seemed, therefore, an anticlimax to start the fight with a trip to the local chemist.
     
    He bought some tubes of toothpaste, in two different colours, which was important. He also bought a bottle of surgical spirit, a large box of talcum powder, and a small plastic-framed mirror. From the newsagent next door he bought several cans of Coke, some bottles of beer with screw tops, a ball of string, a bottle of the cheapest whisky he could find, a pad of paper, a biro and a packet of J-cloths.

    He walked to Kensington Gardens and sat by the lake under a plane tree. Children were playing football, people were feeding the geese. They were really trying to feed the swans, but the geese were that bit faster. Above the red dome of the Albert Hall the sky was blue with the occasional white, fluffy cloud. Young lovers dawdled along the paths between Marble Arch and Queensway, and a pair of schoolgirls picnicked on damp sandwiches and too much chocolate while gossiping in conspiratorial voices. Sam laid out his booty and set to work with a calm, careful air. The Coke cans he carefully shook, before writing ignition wards on their thin metal sides with a finger trailing red sparks. At a thought, the already pressurised can would