Doctor Who_ Warlock - Andrew Cartmel [27]
Creed decided she must have seen some really weird shit in her time to stay so calm. Or maybe she was accustomed to using industrial‐strength psychedelics. The breeze faltered, gently fanning Miss Winterhill’s calm face, barely shifting a lock of her hair.
Creed decided her trick was having a sharp intelligence and letting it loose on this very strange thing, seeking to understand it even as it challenged her. And her fascination blunted its attention. It was a good trick and Creed was somewhat envious. She was handling the drug more easily than he had.
But then she has an unfair advantage, Creed told himself. She isn’t the one it’s looking for. I am.
The instant this thought flashed through his mind, Creed knew that he’d made a terrible mistake. The cold front gathered itself like a muscle and swept towards him, a miniature storm. Everyone in the room felt it.
Suddenly they were all staring at him The older Mayan was startled. His kid brother had the beginning of angry satisfaction on his face. In a moment they would begin to believe that they’d found the cop in their midst.
And of course they’d be right.
Cold sweat jetted down Creed’s ribs. The chill wind was whipping round him in a frenzy. The others were staring. Creed fought to keep his self‐control, but the stronger everyone’s certainty grew, the harder it became to put up a fight.
He could see it in their eyes, the dawning conviction that they’d found their man. It was as if he was trying to physically fight their belief. And the tide of belief in the room was turning against him.
Creed held on to his courage and his belief in himself. He fought back. He had been here before. It was simply a familiar escalation of stoned horror; the sort of things that turn into a bad trip. And a bad trip could unhinge some people’s minds while others could laugh off the experience. Panic was fatal; it was a cascade effect.
What was there to fear? Creed knew he was strong enough to survive any kind of bad trip. No one could play mind games against a man who knew his own mind.
Abruptly Creed felt the steady cold pressure on his chest begin to falter. The thing hesitated. Creed risked a look around the room. Larner had a look of uncertainty on his face. He didn’t really believe that Creed could be a narc. Bless him. Creed used Larner’s belief to strengthen his own defences. Now the Mayan brothers suddenly didn’t look so certain. He looked at Miss Winterhill. Mistake. Smart eyes that knew too much. A keen perception that could cut through his smokescreen.
For a terrible second he locked eyes with her and felt her uncertainty about him and knew it was like a weak plank in a long bridge. It might send him crashing through to his death. He’d made a mistake putting any weight on it. But then, miraculously, she dropped her gaze and he was safe from the judgement of those eyes, free to think his own thoughts about himself, to shape his own beliefs.
The cold was still pressing at him, but it was tentative, still uncertain. He’d lost ground, but not much.
He risked a glance at the hooker and he saw fear on her face. But not for her own safety. She was afraid for Creed.
It was beautifully pure and simple. She didn’t want anything bad to happen to him. And that simple human look, pure as a flower, was what finally saved Creed. The cold air uncoiled and eased away from him.
Creed relaxed. He’d beaten it.
But something was wrong. The clammy stirring breeze hadn’t dissipated. It had just withdrawn. And the room was getting hotter. Everyone was sweating under the strain of the continuing tension. And as the heat grew the pocket of cold shifted more impatiently, swirling overhead, circling the room like a cold slow comet swinging above them.
Creed felt sick. He realised wearily that it was only going to keep on getting stronger, getting worse as the tension grew in the room. And every time it probed his defences the struggle got harder. He didn’t know how much more of this he could take.
And of course,