Reign of Evil

“Drunk or not, we know this is accurate. Preeti already tracked suspicious disturbances at Chipping Sodbury, probably due to his call to the police. Now the description combined with the linking of the other events…” Ian shook his head. “Lord Robinson is furious.”

Trev pointed at the tablet, which once again had the image of the groundskeeper who was making claws with his hands as he described the way the monsters attacked. “I bet he pawned the clubs.”

Ian twisted around. “Who the fuck cares what he pawned? We need to get a handle on this.” He got up and slammed across the room and through the door.

No one spoke for a moment.

Walker hadn’t seen the man this angry, but then again, a lot had gone on in the past several days. This could be the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back.

Walker regarded Trev and Preeti. “What kind of station is this anyway? Does anyone actually watch this sort of shit?”

“It’s sensational, yes, but that’s England. We don’t care about stodgy BBC news, not at least until we’re in our forties. We want to know about Beckham. We want to know about musicians. And monsters—hell, if you can give us monsters too, then it’s aces ratings.”

Trev added, “This is Channel Nine. Everyone watches it, including my grandmum. She’s probably calling her local MP, then on to her parish priest, wanting to know what they’re going to do to keep the monsters out of her kitchen.” Trev shook his head. “No. This is serious. Ian’s right to be worried. Everyone’s going to be worried.”

“Perhaps that’s what they want,” said the witch, coming into the room. “Don’t forget, the Hunt isn’t only recruiting souls; it’s also advertising and marshaling fear.”

“Then news coverage is the last thing we need,” Walker said.

The witch drank from a bottle of water and shrugged.

Walker stared at the face of the rummy groundskeeper. If this were America, it would be on every station by now. What would something like this do? Alone, probably nothing. But if there were more reports.

Then that would definitely be bad.

CHAPTER 23

BLACKPOOL, ENGLAND. MORNING.

Justin Nguyen rushed back to the tent, eager to show his family the score he’d made. He’d spent the last several weeks volunteering to clean up at Swansea Bakery. He’d helped shut the place down and had swept and mopped, backbreaking work, never asking for anything in return. This was his father’s code and to violate it would be to dishonor the memory of the great man. So Justin had suffered on, hoping for some meager reward. And now he had it.

He entered Kingscote Park at a run, weaving past the protestors who carried signs that said things like “Leave Our Land,” “Go Back to Vietnam,” and less savory things. They were just getting there and hadn’t yet rallied their voices into their usual hateful roar. As he passed, they shouted halfheartedly, then returned to their cliques, drinking steaming coffee and tea, grumbling and mean.

Once into the park, he was safe. Police monitored the CCTV cameras and had been making arrests of anyone who attempted to harm the temporary refugee camp put in place after the cargo ship they’d booked passage on crashed on the rocks in the Irish Sea. Half of the passengers had been deported immediately, but those who had relatives who were British citizens were allowed to stay until their status was legally determined.

Thanks to an MP friendly to the Vietnamese community, they were given temporary sanctuary, provided military tents and furniture, and fed three times a day, although the rationing of the food still left many of them hungry.

Which was where Justin came in.

He burst into his family’s tent. His two sisters and mother were gathered around the card table on which a heater stood, lava-red filaments radiating heat into the space.

“Mẹ, nhìn kìa!” Mother, look! “Tôi có bánh mì và bánh sứng bò!” I have bread and croissants.

He placed the paper bag he’d been clutching in front of her and beamed as she opened it. The Army rations they’d been eating were heavy with beef and pork, neither of which his mother’s digestive system could tolerate. Not only had Mr. Evans given him a helping of day-old bread, but he’d also provided Justin with fresh croissants. His mother selected one. When she touched it her face lit with a smile, which meant that he’d run fast enough that they were still warm.

“Eat, Mother. Eat, and enjoy. This is just the beginning.”

She nibbled at an end and nodded to her daughters to take some as well. Soon the entire Nguyen family was sitting around the table, basking in the heat, eating the warm bread. It was almost as if things were normal.

This new normal lasted exactly forty-seven seconds until someone screamed outside.

Justin shot to his feet and moved so his body was between the tent flap and his mother.

“What is it?”