Raven's Gate

last time. There was Richard, standing outside the circle, still struggling with the rope. There were Jayne and Claire Deverill, watching with something close to ecstasy. The ceiling – harsh, industrial lamps and silver pipes. The observation room with the villagers pressed forward, watching through the glass. The flames of the black candles, flickering and swaying. And the floor…
    A speck of darkness had appeared in the red. Matt craned his neck so that he was looking down the length of his body and beyond. The floor had become transparent. He was looking through it, into another world. The speck moved. It was climbing, flying, swimming upwards, moving at an incredible speed. For a second he could make out a shape, some sort of creature. But it was too fast. The blackness welled up, blotting out the red, thrusting it aside in a chaos of swirling bubbles. A brilliant white streak seared across the surface of the pool. The black thing brushed it away and with a shudder Matt saw what it was: a huge hand. The monster that owned it must have been as big as the reactor itself. He could see its finger-nails, sharp and scaly, and he could make out the wrinkled skin of its webbed fingers. It had placed its fist against the barrier and the crimson bubbles were exploding around it as it searched for the strength to punch its way through.
    Matt closed his eyes. And suddenly, out of nowhere, the answer came.
    The smell of burning.
    That was what had triggered his power. He had smelled burning when he was sinking into the bog. The same smell had been there in the detention centre when he broke the jug. And even before that … long before that. Now he remembered. His mother had burnt the toast on the morning of the accident that had killed her. Somehow that tiny incident had become the trigger. He had smelled burnt toast the moment before the security guard had appeared in the warehouse. He had known what was about to happen.
    He stopped trying to influence the knife. He stopped trying to turn something on inside himself. Instead he thought back to six years ago. He was eight years old again, sitting in a kitchen in a south London suburb. For just a second, a single frame in a film, he saw the yellow painted walls. There was the kitchen cupboard. The teapot shaped like a teddy bear.
    And his mother.
    “Come on, Matthew. We’re going to be late.”
    He heard her voice and smelled it once again. The toast burning…
    Inside the nuclear reactor the whispering had stopped. The great stones of Raven’s Gate had returned. They stood, almost touching the dome of the power station. Their worn, flinty surface – thousands of years old – the metal plates, the pipes and machinery that surrounded them. Sir Michael Marsh raised the knife. His fists, clutching the hilt, tightened.
    “No!” Richard shouted.
    The knife plunged down.
    It had less than an arm’s length to travel. It would slice easily into the boy’s heart. The tip reached Matt’s shirt and it pricked his skin. But that was as far as it went. It stopped, as if caught by an invisible wire. Sir Michael uttered a strange, strangled moan, pulling down with all his might. He stared at Matt, knowing that the boy’s power had finally awoken, and with that knowledge came the first whispers of fear and defeat.
    “No…” he muttered in a broken voice. “You can’t! Not now! You can’t stop me now!”
    Matt looked at the knife and knew that he was in total control.
    Sir Michael screamed. The blade was glowing molten red. The hilt was burning the palm of his hand. His skin crackled and smoke rose, but he couldn’t drop it. With a last effort he managed to bring his arms down and the knife tumbled uselessly to the floor. Whimpering, he spat on his wounded hands. At the same time the straps that had been holding Matt smouldered and snapped. Matt rolled off the altar and got to his feet.
    He took a step forward and stood on the surface of the pit, daring the villagers to come close. Nobody moved. Even the creature beneath, although it was a hundred times his own size, cowered and backed away. A streak of poisonous green rippled outwards in a brilliant stain. Matt turned to face the villagers. Nobody tried to stop him. He broke through the circle and ran towards Richard. The metal railing behind the journalist snapped. Instantly he was free.
    “Follow me!” Matt ordered in a voice that was barely his own.
    Too stunned to do anything but obey, Richard followed him. By the