The Key

43

Gabriel stumbled through the broken city, tears streaking the stone dust that had ghosted his face, still clutching the book his mother had given him.

He could already feel the pain of her loss inside him, gnawing away at the part already worn thin by the death of his father. When John Mann had been killed, Gabriel had been consumed with anger. It had raged inside him, burning first for the murderers and then for himself. He felt guilty because he hadn’t been there, fantasizing about how he could have made a difference if he had. It had caused deep cracks to appear in him and his pain and rage had bled into them and coloured the life that followed. The courses he had been studying seemed suddenly worthless, so he quit and joined the army, hoping to channel his anger and learn different skills. He wanted to equip himself with the practical tools that would enable him to bring the fight to those who had killed his father and armour himself so that, if danger ever came calling again, he could protect his family from it.

And danger had come.

And this time he had been right there.

But still he had been powerless to stop it.

All his combat training had proved unequal to the simple task of defending and protecting those he loved. Because his enemy was vast and intangible: it didn’t stand up in front of him and level a weapon, it was everywhere, embedded in the faith of millions and the fabric of the very city he was stumbling through. It was the city.

Blinded by grief, he kept moving without knowing where he was going, intent on just putting one foot in front of the other and distance between himself and the hospital while avoiding the fire crews and anyone else in a uniform.

In the end, his survivor’s instinct brought him to Melek Avenue, a wide, tree-lined street on the edge of the Garden District. It was an address unconnected to him and therefore unlikely to be visited by anyone seeking him out. It was also the home of the one person who knew more about the Citadel and its secrets than anyone outside the mountain. If the book his mother had pressed into his hands could be employed against the Citadel, then she would know how to use it.

Gabriel counted the houses until he reached the one he was looking for. He moved up the steps to the door, checking the street to make sure it was empty, then knocked loudly.

A siren was wailing at the far end of the street, one of the many burglar alarms the quake had triggered, but no one was coming to check. He heard footsteps inside the house and the sound of a drawer being opened in the hallway. The footsteps came nearer, a key twisted in a lock then the door opened sharply and he found himself staring into the beam of a handheld torch and the cold, black eye of a gun barrel. He turned away from the brutal light, and started to raise his hands when a strident voice boomed from behind the light.

‘Gabriel!’ The gun vanished and the torch pulled back to reveal the owner of the voice. Even in the turmoil of the earthquake Dr Miriam Anata was impeccably dressed in her usual pinstriped suit with plain T-shirt. Her straight silver hair, cut in an asymmetric bob, gave her a stern appearance but her eyes were full of concern. Looking into them now made something inside Gabriel give way and he turned from her as his face crumpled in grief.

‘What is it?’ she asked, taking him by the arm and leading him inside. ‘What has happened?’

‘Kathryn,’ he managed. ‘My mother.’

He felt her arms around him, patting his back and shushing in his ear as though he were a child again. He was touched by this act of compassion, coming as it did from such a conventional and reserved person as Dr Anata. He tried to thank her and form words of explanation but none came. Grief had stolen his voice.