Free Waywalkers: Number 1 in Series by Catherine Webb Page B

possible.’

    Beelzebub looked worried, a flicker across his otherwise serene face. But even a flicker was so unusual that Sam was immediately alarmed.

    ‘What is it?’

    ‘Oh – anxieties. I’m growing old, you know. Perhaps it’s only me, but Asmodeus is becoming harder to control.’

    ‘Do you control him?’

    The demon gave a knowing smile, sharing in the secret that only they knew. So obvious was this secret, so blatant and so simple, that no one else had seen it. Sam had often said that the best place to hide was in the open.

    ‘Of course not. I…
influence
his decisions.’

    ‘And it’s becoming harder?’

    ‘Yes. Half of my influence stems from you, and you’re not here.’

    Sam felt a start of guilt at this simple statement. ‘I will try. All I need is a little time to deal with whatever Freya wanted me to do.’

    ‘At least,’ said Beelzebub with a smile, ‘doing what she wanted was never a problem for you.’
     
    But you, old demon?
thought Sam as he trudged the last few steps up to his flat. In twenty-four hours he’d been to Devon, Tibet and Hell. Returning to London had a sense of homecoming, and it was with relief that he unlocked the door.
Have you got time? Sometimes I forget how soon you people die.

    But he didn’t forget now. As he lay down to sleep he remembered things he’d rather not. He’d been arrogant in misusing the years, when he was younger. He’d let everything move at a snail’s pace, forgetting that by the time one flower bloomed, the other would have withered.

    He didn’t forget. Remembering Annette and others, he thought,
Mortal child, why did you have to grow so old?
     
    It had been one of those memorable cool spring evenings before the war in Heaven had finally spilled over to Earth. He’d been trying to have a cigarette, smoking being an almost universal trend in bustling Paris, but found himself unable to. Whenever he tried to inhale, his body’s natural defences had kicked in, and the blood had thundered in his head as regenerative powers worked themselves up to action. So he’d given up trying to smoke, and was now leaning on a balcony watching the occasional car drive down the street, passing from pool to pool of light.

    Behind him, a bright, crowded room and the uproarious laughter of his French hostess as another tasteless joke was delivered. The humour had been getting noisier all evening, the smoke thicker, the drink flowing faster.
People are nervous
,
Sam thought.
They can feel the danger lurking in the future. Nineteen thirty-eight, the year that appeasement gains peace, and a German army wins its first little, disguised battle. But a battle nonetheless, albeit fought with papers and threats – and the memory of another war, still fresh in our minds. You’re all nervous. You can feel what’s going to happen, and you’re declaring that you don’t believe a word of it, because that’s what you want to be true.

    He took a gulp from the glass in his hand. No – however hard he tried, he found it difficult to get drunk.
Time, Time, Time!
he swore.
Why can’t my body not work for once?
He’d already downed half a bottle of whisky. Yet there was no sign of its effects, but for the smell on his breath and the occasional turning of his stomach as his body broke down a thousand little toxins that might have half killed a human.

    Someone staggered out next to him on to the balcony. A young woman, twentyish, giggling violently. She gasped down several gulps of air, clinging to the railing; then her head tipped forward as though it were a dead weight. Indeed, but for a small groan it seemed she might have died standing there.

    ‘Shit,’ she declared finally.

    ‘Why?’ he asked in French.

    Rolling her head around a few times and hugging herself against the cold in her thin dress, she declared in a slurred voice, ‘I’m drunk.’

    ‘You are.’

    ‘Shit.’

    ‘It’s not such a bad thing,’ said Sam, wishing he could share her