Sentinel by Joshua Winning

swooped through the air and was lost in the darkness.
    It had looked like a raven.

CHAPTER SIX
    Due Departure
    T HE EARLY MORNING HOURS WERE CRISP and cool. The sky was white and stretched taut like a bed sheet. Sam sat at the kitchen table reading the newspaper by the light of a pale dawn. The cuffs of his shirt frayed around his wrists, waiting to be fastened.
    He sighed and put the paper down, crunching on a bit of toast. The authorities were still poring over the site of the train wreck. Sam suspected they wouldn’t find anything of note. Whoever had caused the crash had been canny enough to plan it, which meant they would also have been canny enough to take precautions. The one thing the authorities did seem to know was that the car that had been on the track belonged to a young man. Clive Kelly. A waiter from Cambridge. Naturally, blame was being heaped squarely on his shoulders. Or, it would be if the police had any idea where he was.
    Clive Kelly. Sam rolled the name around his mouth with the toast. It wasn’t familiar. Certainly not a Sentinel. Which didn’t mean the young man didn’t know about Sentinels.
    Sam tossed the remainder of his toast onto the plate. It was cold anyway. He couldn’t seem to extricate the Hallows from his thoughts. The letter from Maxwell. It had been written on the day of the accident, like a hurried after-thought, perhaps even posted as the Hallows made their way to the station. That would explain why Max hadn’t phoned or met with him. It was an act of desperation.
    Something wasn’t right, that much was clear. Something somewhere had gone horribly wrong, and now Nicholas had no parents. He could expect things to worsen, too, Sam imagined. The train crash felt like a beginning. A prelude. A warning.
    At least the boy was leaving today; getting away from the city. To safety. And Sam could concentrate on finding out what really happened to that train.
    The old man was just lifting a tepid cup of tea to his lips when the phone trilled. The cup froze and an old maxim Sam’s mother had uttered many decades ago spilled to the front of his mind: No good news rises with the sun.
    Setting the cup down, Sam went into the hall.
    “Wilkins,” he said gruffly into the receiver. His brow furrowed. “No, I was up, you’re not disturbing me. What’s the matter?” The frown burrowed deeper. “Don’t go anywhere; I’ll be there within the half hour.”
    Shakily, he replaced the receiver. In the mirror above the table, his drawn, tired reflection grimaced back at him.
    “Pull yourself together man,” he barked. He squinted at his watch and tutted. He had little time, even at this early hour.
    Half an hour later, Sam paced up to the front door of the Waldens’ semi-detached house, pulling his collar up against a wind that seemed intent on carving him in half.
    He stood there for a few moments before knocking, aware that something unpleasant could be lying in wait for him. He dreaded to think what.
    He rapped firmly three times.
    There came the sound of hurried movement from inside the house, and then the clatter of locks being drawn back.
    The change in Lucy Walden was startling. She seemed to have gone from beauty queen to old maid over night. Her hair was scraped back in a ponytail, her make-up free face haggard.
    Sam felt the surprise etch his face and quickly attempted to eliminate it. “Lucy,” he said, and found no more words would come.
    “Mr Wilkins,” Lucy said. “Please come in.”
    He went inside, removing the beaten fedora. He gripped it before him like a shield. Lucy looked so different that he couldn’t help but feel on edge.
    “Richard’s upstairs,” Lucy said simply. “He’s… Well, he’s…” She stopped, pressing her lips together.
    “I’ll just go up and see him, can’t keep the old chap waiting,” Sam said with forced cheerfulness.
    Lucy nodded and disappeared into the sitting room. Sam rocked on his heels as he contemplated the dim staircase.