Black London 05 - Soul Trade

was open and you’d done a runner. We’re five fucking miles fromthe village.”
    “Seriously?” Pete regarded the hillside with more scrutiny. “I thought I was dreaming…”
    Jack grasped her by the arms and examined her face. “What happened, luv?”
    “I don’t know,” she said honestly. “But I don’t feel well.” The longer she stood, the more sick and dizzy she felt, like when she’d had morning sickness with Lily to the power of ten.
    This is not a place of gods or ofmen, the raven said, and Pete looked back at the cairn of stones. The entire place vibrated with power, as if what was in front of her was slightly out of focus. The vague unease she felt in the village had turned itself to full-blown panic.
    “Yeah, I can’t say I fancy it,” Jack said. “I was too worried to really pay attention but now…” He flinched. “There’s bad mojo running through here.”
    Petelet him put his jacket around her and his arm in turn, and lead her back to the road. “What time is it?” she said. She felt small, out of place, and sick to her stomach. She’d never sleepwalked, not even as a child. Never woken up like that, alone and vulnerable.
    Get it together, Caldecott, she told herself. Strange shite had happened to Preston and Jeremy Crotherton, too. If anything, this meantshe could finish the job and get away from the Prometheus Club all the quicker.
    “Around seven, I think,” Jack said. “Took me a while to find you. Don’t worry, we’ll still make the Smythes’ freak show if we hurry.” He looked down at her as they walked, bumpy asphalt poking at Pete’s feet, and frowned. “What do you think is going on here, Petunia? Really?”
    “You’re asking me ?” Pete had to laugh.“You really must have no fucking idea.”
    “Nope,” Jack said. “Never run into anyplace that felt like this. Not a mass grave, not a sacrificial site. This is new.”
    “I don’t know what’s happening,” Pete said, as the mist began to burn away under a pale and overworked sunrise. “But I know whatever it is, it can’t be good.”

 
    14.
    Pete might have spent the rest of the day trying to figure out what the fuck was happening, but there was Margaret to think of, and barely time to pull on real clothes and comb her hair before she and Jack were off again, moving toward the village green with a crowd clutching rucksacks and portable chairs, sporting a higher-than-average ratio of natural fibers and New Age bangles. Somewere travelers, but some looked like ordinary folk, rumpled and red-eyed and not used to sleeping rough.
    Pete didn’t tell Jack about the raven, or about what it had said. There was enough going on this morning—later, she could tell him the whole story and see if he had any idea what they might have stumbled into.
    The green was just a flat space at the edge of the village, bounded on one sideby a series of stone buildings and on the other by rolling open country. A hill fort looked down over the grassy expanse, blocking the light and trapping the mist in a low bowl of shadow and chill.
    The crowd congregated under a white tent, the sort used for church fetes or picnics.
    A plywood stage had been constructed at the edge of the green, and four small chairs sat across the length. Peteintended to slip in the back of the tent, but Norma Smythe spotted her and dragged her to the front of the crowd, to assorted grumbles from the surrounding hippies.
    “Oh, shut it,” Jack said. “Smear some more patchouli on your nethers and calm down.”
    Norma gave him a dirty look, and Pete tried to smooth her over with a smile. “Sorry. We’re just a bit tired.”
    “Stay here,” Norma said. “We’ll findyou when it’s over.”
    Pete looked for Margaret, but when she found her, she was being held tightly by Philip, who gripped her arm as though it were a leash. Margaret had circles under her eyes even deeper than Pete’s, and she slumped in her father’s grip like a broken toy.
    “Shit,” Pete muttered. She had to speak to Margaret alone and find out what was going on. She chewed on her lip and triedto look interested in what was happening onstage.
    “All right, then. We’re starting.” Pete tried not to stare when she caught sight of Bridget Killigan’s father. The last time she’d seen Dexter, bent over his daughter’s hospital bed, he’d looked wrung out but still lively. Now he was gaunt and pale, looking close to keeling over but for the microphone he clutched to hold