It had never occurred to Ben that angels might actually exist, which seemed unbelievably stupid now that he had one standing in front of him. It stood to reason that if there were demons, then there would be angels too; maybe if his mum hadn’t been the way she was, he would have come to that conclusion sooner. Instead, he was only getting used to the idea now that the one in his room was at its most radiant.
In silhouette, the figure had appeared to be the classic statue-on-the-side-of-a-building sort of angel. He wore a sleeveless cassock, tied at the waist by a long tasselled cord. Huge feathered wings sprouted from his shoulders and a halo of light encircled his head, like a saint on a stained-glass window. But as the orange light grew warmer and brighter, filling in and defining each feature, it became clear how different he was. This angel was the colour of perfect darkness: were it not for the orange glow, Ben would not have been able to see him at all.
‘It is pleasant to finally meet you, Ben Robson,’ said the angel.
‘How are you doing that? Making it go all quiet?’
‘Alas, it is only temporary. My time here is short, and we have much to discuss.’ His voice was quiet and breathy, with a warm tone quite at odds with the cold remoteness of his eyes: he had white pupils and red irises set in tar-black eyeballs. They bored into Ben in the most unsettling way, as if he were being weighed and judged. ‘I am the Holy Seraph of the Strident Blasts, First Oblate of the Cult of the Four Winds, Celestial Lord of the Skies.’
‘Oh,’ said Ben. ‘Right.’
‘I am also your Guardian Angel.’ The Holy Seraph of the Strident Blasts gave a slight bow, followed by a long pause. He shot Ben a quizzical look, almost affronted.
‘Um . . .OK?’ said Ben.
‘Forgive me. I am accustomed to a little more awe when interacting with the children of Men.’
‘I’ve had a bit of a strange day. What do you want?’
The Holy Seraph of the Strident Blasts opened his mouth as if to reply quickly, before promptly closing it again. ‘I have come to ask for your help in the name of the Prime One,’ he said after a moment. ‘The fate of the Creation is in your hands, Ben Robson.’
‘Right,’ said Ben.
‘You attempted to dispose of the Box today, did you not?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And you were prevented by a demon, were you not?’
‘It was a sort of a dog creature,’ said Ben. ‘Why are you talking like that?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Like we’re in a courtroom drama or something.’
‘Forgive me,’ said the angel, with a stretched smile. ‘It has been generations since I was able to enter into discourse with one of your kind. I am disinclined to learn the latest colloquialisms.’
‘Oh,’ said Ben. ‘What does that mean?’
‘It means the Veil which separates the Worlds is shifting, and the Creation is in flux. My kind believe The Adversary means to take advantage of this perilous state to steal back the powers stripped from him after the Grand War.’
‘I meant what does “colloquialisms” mean, but that’s nice to know as well.’
‘I see.’ The Holy Seraph of the Strident Blasts shook out his wings, and sat down beside Ben on the bed. ‘Henceforth I shall endeavour to speak as plainly as angelically possible. You are familiar with the story of the war in Heaven? It is well known on Earth?’
‘Not really.’
‘It was eternities ago.’ The angel suddenly appeared distant, sorrowful even; he stared straight ahead. ‘The Adversary led an uprising of the infernal against us, and we, the Prime One’s chosen, smote them with His wrath. We did not smite them enough.’ He shook his head ruefully. ‘We showed mercy. As punishment for their blasphemies, the worst of their powers were stripped from them and sealed in a prison here on Earth, safe on the other side of the Veil. Until now.’
‘Why? What’s so special about now?’
‘Fluctuations in the Veil are rare. It has been nearly seventy years since it was last safe for angels and demons even to attempt to traverse it.’
‘Oh,’ said Ben, disappointedly. ‘It’s just that my mum saw the demons today, and she’s always talking about angels and—’
‘She is gravely ill, I know,’ interrupted the angel. ‘I can only assume that it is this sickness, combined with the tumult in the Veil, that allowed her to glimpse the infernals. I am sorry to say that she could never have met one of my kind. I would counsel you not to broach the subject of my coming, lest you agitate her, or worse, join her in that place.’
Ben bit his lower lip and bowed his head. The Holy Seraph of the Strident Blasts tentatively placed a comforting arm on his shoulder. It was an awkward gesture, as if he had only ever seen it done and never tried it.
‘I did not intend to upset you, Ben Robson.’
‘That’s OK. But do you think you could call me Ben? Just Ben?’
‘As you wish.’
‘And what can I call you?’
‘I am The Holy Seraph of the Strident Blasts, First Oblate of the Cult of the Four Winds—’
‘I’ll call you “The Seraph”, then.’
The Holy Seraph of the Strident Blasts paused for a moment. His red eyes narrowed, and he pursed his lips. ‘As you wish.’ He stood up from the bed and crossed over to the window, resting his hands on the sill. ‘If The Adversary is successful, he will unleash the Apocalypse. Chaos will reign. My kind mean to prevent it, which is why I have come to you.’
‘Me? Why me?’
‘I would have thought it obvious.’ The angel stared intently into Ben’s eyes for a moment. ‘But I can see it is not. You are the keeper of the Box.’
‘So?’
‘It is the prison of which I spoke.’
Ben laughed. ‘I think you might have the wrong Box.’ The demons were annoying, and he hated them, but they weren’t evil. They certainly didn’t have the power to start the Apocalypse, that was for sure. Orff could barely walk.
‘It is no laughing matter,’ said the angel, and his sombre expression was enough to make Ben agree completely. ‘Towards the end of the Grand War, Pestilence, Famine, War and Death were made flesh. The Adversary summoned them to his aid with a promise that they could divide Creation between them when the battle was won. Fortunately we prevailed, and were able to seal them inside the Box. The wretches that torment you are little more than collateral damage. Its true prisoners are the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.’
‘I think the demons would have said something if they had been sharing with the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse,’ said Ben.
‘How would they know? The Horsemen can only take form when they are released from the Box. Until then, they exist only as potential energy. Why do you imagine The Adversary sent his personal herald to stop you destroying it?’
‘Then why didn’t it just take it? It had it in its hands.’
‘And I imagine it suffered for it, did it not? The Box cannot be touched by celestial hand or infernal claw without grievous injury. It is the only thing that has the power to erase either from the Creation. If The Adversary plans to release the Horsemen, he will need a human to accomplish it. He will need you. I mean to prevent it.’
‘How?’
‘I will use the will of the Prime One to divorce you from the Box and banish the demons to Hell. Then I will destroy it, and the Horsemen along with it.’
‘Great,’ said Ben. ‘Where do you want me to stand?’
‘Patience,’ said The Seraph. ‘The Veil will soon shift again, and I must depart. The next fluctuation will be during the dying hours of the twenty-fifth day of January.’
It took Ben a little time to work out what The Seraph meant. ‘You mean Thursday? This Thursday?’
‘Yes. You will have to guard the Box with your life until then.’
‘Pardon?’
‘The Adversary will stop at nothing to possess it. The rites we will perform require a sacred place. There is a neolithic burial ground not far from here: the Box was interred there when it was first forged. It is known as the Greyhound’s Lair, and it lies atop a limestone crag. A place where feral goats roam among white horehound.’
‘That sounds far away. And dangerous.’ Ben wasn’t sure which bothered him more, the feral goats or the white horehound.
‘It is not. In the current vernacular, the place is called Llandudno.’ He pronounced it precisely, as if he were a native. ‘The crag is known as the Great Orme. Bring the Box there at midnight on Thursday, and I will take care of the rest.’
‘Llandudno?’ said Ben.
‘Yes.’
‘That is far away.’
‘It is only fifteen point seven three miles to the west of here, as the angel flies.’
‘But I’m not an angel.’
‘There are other forms of transport, are there not? Thursday. Midnight. That is when the conditions will be perfect.’
An urgent whispering in an unfamiliar language filled the room. It seemed to be coming from all around them, as if it were being transmitted from the very particles of the air.
‘What’s that?’ said Ben.
‘It means my time here draws to a close.’
‘Wait. How am I supposed to find this place?’
The Seraph opened the window. As he did, the orange glow around him began to fade, and the whispering became quicker, more intense. ‘The Prime One will provide.’ He hoisted himself through the window, and with a beat of his giant crow wings he once again faded back into the darkness. ‘Creation is in your hands, Ben Robson. I mean Ben.’
Ben felt a sudden gust of wind on his face, and ran to the frame. There was nothing to see, save the freezing dark of Monday morning stretching out across Rhyl. The whispering noise cut out as abruptly as it began, and it was quiet once more.
He shut the window. The Greyhound’s Lair didn’t sound like somewhere that would be clearly signposted. And even if it were, it would be dark when he was looking for it. As he stumbled towards the light switch, arms outstretched in the angel-black gloom, the Box crept back in. It began to clatter beneath the bed, and the music grew stronger until it was clear and confident, as if he were a radio that the Box was tuning in.
Kartofel tumbled out on to the floor with a thud.
‘What in Asmodeus’s name is going on?’ he said. ‘I was sleeping, right? And then the lights come on, and I think, righto, Ben’s up, let’s go. But I can’t. I’m only chained to the flippin’ wall, aren’t I? So I shouted over to Bulk and Skeleton, and I said “can either of you move?” and Chunk starts crying, so I know he can’t, and the Old Fart starts up with the creaky door sound he makes in the morning, so I know he’s awake too. And so I start to think, something ain’t right here, it’s too quiet. No music. But then it starts, and pfft, the chain is gone and I can move again, so I think, I’m getting to the bottom of this. And I go to get out, and the lid won’t open. I had to give it a shove, which takes some doing when you’re built like I am, just to get it open a crack. And then pow, it swings open, and I come rolling out. So, I ask you, what the clanging bell is going on?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Ben. ‘I don’t know how the Box works, do I?’
‘It’s damn weird if you ask me.’
‘Go back to bed, or the abyss, or wherever it is that you go,’ said Ben. ‘I don’t know anything about it, all right?’
‘Bloomin’ cheek,’ grumbled Kartofel, but went all the same, muttering obscenities. Ben waited for the lid of the Box to fall shut, and then got back into bed.
His last conscious thought of the night was not of his mother, or Druss, or any of the day’s traumatic events. It was this:
Llandudno. How the hell am I going to get to Llandudno?