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Peter hadn't slept all night. But that wasn't enough to keep the visions from him. He'd been with Caoilfhionn, only to receive the news that darling Kay was in Rome. Then he'd come back home to find that Deirdre was missing as well. And before he could turn around and head back out the door, blinding pain had overtaken his body and he'd pitched forward, caught by an agile Thomas. Flames. All he had seen were flames, and by the time he'd come out of his vision, they could hear the sirens.
Fat lot of good his visions did him when he saw something five seconds before it happened. It was probably coincidence. He had no reason to believe that the Templar had started the fire in Camden...other than the fact that they were tossers who would. It was a party area. Exactly the kind of place they'd target. Exactly the kind of place that would spread fear. And they knew Peter lived nearby.
He had leaned up against the wall to catch his breath, and then they'd headed out into the night to search for their Deirdre. They hadn't found her.
And when Peter returned to his home in the cold hours of morning, it was with an empty feeling of dread, and not much more. The heavy perfume of smoke still clung to the winter air, and even inside, it assaulted his nostrils. The remnants of their purifying flame, taunting him. Peter put his head in his hands as he sat on the sofa, and then he lay down, curling into a ball. He would stand in their way. He would fight them until there was no one left to fight. Or until he couldn't stand any longer...
Every strong person is allowed moments of weakness, and this was Peter's. It felt useless to go on, but he knew he had to. He wanted to hide, but he knew he couldn't. Openly, he started to sob. As it stood, the Templar had an angel and a demon. His demon, dammit. They had his Deirdre, or so he believed. His precious Deirdre. They had London in a panic. Rivers of blood and purifying flame. Hell, even if they hadn't started the fire, it would only further their cause. The odds seemed insurmountable. There were thousands of Templar, and only one Peter Kemp.
At the moment, the Templar were winning. And Peter knew it.
Fat lot of good his visions did him when he saw something five seconds before it happened. It was probably coincidence. He had no reason to believe that the Templar had started the fire in Camden...other than the fact that they were tossers who would. It was a party area. Exactly the kind of place they'd target. Exactly the kind of place that would spread fear. And they knew Peter lived nearby.
He had leaned up against the wall to catch his breath, and then they'd headed out into the night to search for their Deirdre. They hadn't found her.
And when Peter returned to his home in the cold hours of morning, it was with an empty feeling of dread, and not much more. The heavy perfume of smoke still clung to the winter air, and even inside, it assaulted his nostrils. The remnants of their purifying flame, taunting him. Peter put his head in his hands as he sat on the sofa, and then he lay down, curling into a ball. He would stand in their way. He would fight them until there was no one left to fight. Or until he couldn't stand any longer...
Every strong person is allowed moments of weakness, and this was Peter's. It felt useless to go on, but he knew he had to. He wanted to hide, but he knew he couldn't. Openly, he started to sob. As it stood, the Templar had an angel and a demon. His demon, dammit. They had his Deirdre, or so he believed. His precious Deirdre. They had London in a panic. Rivers of blood and purifying flame. Hell, even if they hadn't started the fire, it would only further their cause. The odds seemed insurmountable. There were thousands of Templar, and only one Peter Kemp.
At the moment, the Templar were winning. And Peter knew it.
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