The Claws of Evil - By Andrew Beasley Page 0,9

a ridiculous idea.

Silently, the Watcher on the rooftop followed Ben’s movements, just as the Weeping Man had ordered her to do.

Lucy Lambert had seen the boy as soon as he left the Jolly Tar. He was just like all the others she had observed: oblivious. Oblivious to the truth about the world he was living in. Oblivious to the war which was raging all around him.

Totally oblivious to the role that he was destined to play.

The Weeping Man hadn’t said as much, but it was obvious to Lucy that this was more than just a routine survey-and-report mission. The tone of his voice had implied that this boy was important somehow, and now that she saw Ben Kingdom in the flesh, the ferociously ginger hair was something of a giveaway.

Lucy knew the words of the prophecy as well as any other Watcher, and they came unbidden to her mind.

One will come to lead the fight, to defeat the darkness,

bring the triumph of the light.

One will come with fire as his crown,

to bring the Legion tumbling down.

One will come with fire in his eyes,

to pierce through the veil of wicked lies.

One will come with fire in his heart,

to overcome all odds and play his part.

One will come with fire in his hand,

to purge the evil from this land...

She stopped then. The final verses always terrified her.

If this Ben Kingdom really was the one, then the final verses would terrify him too.

With one hand resting against the chimney, Lucy leaned forward to look at Ben more closely. There had been false alarms before; other boys that the Watchers had put their hopes in, only to have those hopes turn to dust. Lucy flicked back her head to set free the hair that was blocking her vision. If the prophecy had spoken of a girl instead, then the battle would have been over and done with by now. She decided to raise the point the next time she had an audience with Mother Shepherd, the leader of the Watchers; she was a woman, she would understand.

Although the snow had eased off, the wind was as sharp as a butcher’s knife and it sliced around her legs, willing her to fall. She shifted her stance slightly, using her skyboots to get a better hold on the slick roof tiles, feeling the ice crunch reassuringly beneath their studded rubber soles. She didn’t feel any danger of slipping; she was a Watcher and the Watchers were trained to go where others would never dare.

She didn’t feel cold either. Well, perhaps that wasn’t quite true; she was cold, but she wasn’t freezing. She wore the Watchers’ uniform: a long trench coat; leather gauntlets; brass-rimmed goggles so that she could see in any weather; and a light bag slung across her shoulder containing her other, more specialized, equipment. She had tied a scarf around her mouth too. She looked quite dashing, she thought. The one thing that spoiled the look was the livid red scar which ran down her right cheek and the patch that covered the socket where her eye used to be.

Ben Kingdom was on the move and she ran a parallel course along the rooftop, keeping low, like a cat. It was merely a precaution; she had never been seen before. No one in London ever looked up.

Beneath her gaze, Benjamin laughed at some joke of his own. Oblivious and foolish, she decided.

Only a fool would walk into danger with a laugh on his lips.

As much as he tried to distract himself, Ben’s thoughts could not stray far from the night’s events. It had been a busy few hours, and no mistake. He wished he could believe that Mr. Moon had been rambling drunk. He wished that Molly had stayed hidden. He wished that he could forget the way that the Weeping Man had called his name. He wished that it wasn’t Christmas time and he didn’t feel the pain of his memories. But as his father never tired of telling him, wishing didn’t make it so.

All the way home, Ben sensed that he was being followed; there was an itch inside his skull that told him he wasn’t safe yet. Trying his best to make it look nonchalant, he stole a glimpse over his shoulder. The street was far from empty. He saw a couple of sailors, rolling home on sea legs lubricated with ale; a downstairs maid, clearly out after her curfew and regretting it; some street boys like himself, killing a few