Dawn of the Demontide (18 page)

Lumbering, lurching, the mist made its way into the lane. Jake reached the junction a second or two later. He turned into a skid. The rear wheel slipped on a patch of loose stones and the bike shot out from under him. It flipped over and clattered into the mist. Arms outstretched, Jake tumbled helplessly after the bike.

Instinct, and the old man’s coat, saved him. He pulled it over his head and drew his hands into the sleeves. A few deep breaths steadied his nerves. He peeked out from under the collar. Just the sight of that weird green smoke all around was enough to re-energize him. He darted forward.

He was almost clear when the last lick of mist caught him around the throat. A sting of acid burned into his flesh and Jake screamed. Blood began to trickle down his neck. There was no time to worry about the wound—he staggered on down the lane. A voice deep inside told him to run but he could not bring himself to turn his back on the mist. It crept towards him at a lazy pace, almost like a predator toying with its prey.

Suddenly, the mist reared up, its fingers scorching the topmost branches of the trees. Leaves burst into flame and fell in a crackling rain of fire. Like a wave about to break, the acid fog towered over Jake …

He bolted for the cottage door. Rattled the handle.

It was locked.

‘Aunt Joanna!’

No answer.

Green tentacles locked around Jake’s ankles. His trousers started to smoulder.

‘Hey! Let me in!’

He glanced over his shoulder and his blood turned to ice.

The mist had swallowed the lane. There was nothing to be seen except billows of swirling, burning green. The front garden was gone, as was the path. Again, Jake thought that the mist must have some kind of consciousness because it seemed to be playing with him. Only the step on which he stood had been left untouched.

But now those lethal fingers began to tease him. They struck twice across his face.

‘Arrgghhh!’

Another finger scarred his forehead. Another slashed his hands. The pain was as bright as if he had plunged his hand into scalding water.

Jake pounded on the door.

‘LET ME IN!’

The mist pressed against his back and smoke rose from the old man’s coat. The scorched leather smelt like a roasting animal. It wouldn’t be long before the coat was stripped from him. His T-shirt and trousers would burn up in an instant. Then, layer by layer, the skin would be boiled off his bones …

There was nothing else he could do.

Jake filled his lungs and stepped back
into
the mist.

It felt as if he had been thrown headlong into a blazing inferno. The vapour’s fiery touch scorched his face and hands. A scream worked its way along his throat but he managed to keep his mouth clamped shut. If he breathed in, the mist would burn his insides to an ashy cinder. Eyes closed, Jake took the short run up and threw himself at the door.

Wood splintered. The lock snapped. Jake staggered into the cottage, turned and slammed the door behind him.

Through the letter box he heard the sigh of the mist. It sounded like a disappointed child.

The phone in the hall rang. Jake snatched up the receiver.

‘Is that you?’ Joanna’s voice—booming, frightened. ‘Are you safe?’

‘I’m fine.’

He looked at himself in the mirror that hung above the phone table. ‘Fine’ was a white lie. His neck was still bleeding and blisters were forming across his face and hands.

‘Where are you, Aunt Joanna?’

‘I’m staying the night at Alice Splane’s—she’s an old friend of mine.’

Jake remembered the bird-like woman who had lectured him about the poisonous toad.

‘Thought I’d better check in. This awful mist.’ Joanna gave a boisterous laugh. ‘It’s quite treacherous.’

‘No kidding.’ Much as he needed to play along, Jake was getting a little sick of his aunt’s games.

‘I think you should stay inside until the mist has passed,’ Joanna continued. ‘Could be dangerous, walking through the streets—you might get run down or something. I’ll be home in the morning. Have you seen Lollygag?’

‘I’ll find him, don’t worry.’

Jake hung up. He dug out the scrap of paper on which Eddie had written his mobile number. He wanted to check that the kid was OK. Eddie answered after the first ring.

‘Jake! Hey! What’s the deal with this mist?’

‘Ed, listen to me: stay indoors, don’t even think about going out.’

‘Couldn’t even if I wanted to,’ Eddie said ruefully. ‘Mum’s locked all the doors and windows. What d’you think’s going on?’

‘I don’t know. Listen, if the mist has cleared up in the morning, can you meet me down in the bay? Say about nine a.m.?’

‘No probs.’

‘Thanks. Gotta go.’

Jake dialled Rachel’s number. A robotic voice cut in.

‘Sorry, there is a fault. Please try later. Sorry, there is a fault … ’

He slammed down the receiver and went in search of the ginger tomcat.

Lollygag was not in his usual position on the kitchen windowsill. The mist sweated at the window and left liquid green streaks on the pane. Jake wondered why the powerful acid did not eat through the glass. Then he saw the little branch with its sharp green leaves and red berries hanging above the sink, and remembered what the old man had said:
make sure you’ve a sprig of holly in your window
. A quick dark catalogue reference reminded Jake that holly had once been used as protection against witches and demons, storms and tempests.

Jake was about to head upstairs when he saw something poking through the catflap.

‘Lollygag?’

The fleshy animal was stuck in the opening. Its front paws rested on the ground while its head lolled forward.

‘Come on, shake a leg,’ Jake smiled.

He went over to the flap and dropped to one knee. His smile fell away. Lollygag’s eyes were fixed in a terrified stare. Jake reached out for the cat’s collar—the name tag jingled as he slipped a finger beneath it. Taking a deep breath, he pulled.

The front half of the cat fell forward.

There was
no
back half.

It was as if the animal had been cut in two. Guts and entrails flopped out of the severed section and splashed across the kitchen floor. At the place where Lollygag had been lopped in half the hair was burnt to a crisp. Jake thought he was going to puke but held it down. He imagined what must have happened: caught outside, the fat cat had been too slow to escape the oncoming mist. It had managed to wriggle partway through the flap before the acid tentacles had caught hold of it. In his death, Lollygag had paid the price for his overeating and lack of exercise.

‘Poor Lolls, you should have chased the rats,’ Jake sighed.

‘I should have seen it!’ Crowden cried. ‘The moment he was dragged in here, I should have read it in his face. This is wonderful!’

Three figures stood in the nothingness of the Veil: Master Crowden, Mother Inglethorpe, and Mr Grype. The toady librarian was grinning like a Cheshire cat. Crowden was also smiling—at least, Esther Inglethorpe believed he was. There was no mistaking the glee in his eyes, although with the dirty cloth wound around his face one could never be sure.

Simon Lydgate lay unconscious at the Master’s feet.

‘I don’t understand what’s so important about this pathetic creature,’ Esther Inglethorpe sniffed.

Grype’s face twisted with rage.

‘She is trying to undermine me, Master!’

‘Hush, Grype,’ Crowden said soothingly. ‘No one can take this momentous discovery away from you. Least of all those who, in recent times, have failed me.’ Eyes as hard as flint bored into Esther. ‘You shall have your reward, my faithful librarian.’

Grype flinched at the hated word. It came as something of a relief to Esther that the Master had laced his praise with a pinch of cruelty. To build a man up and cut him down in the same sentence was an art Crowden had perfected over many centuries.

‘Forgive my stupidity,’ Esther said, ‘but if Grype could describe once more what happened last night, I might begin to make sense of it.’

‘Willingly.’ Exaggerating both his courage and his magical ability, Grype made a four-course meal of the simple story … ‘A binding spell held the door while I ran to inform Master Crowden of the boy’s metamorphosis. Ambrose Montague and Georgina Fleck arrived within minutes and aided me in pacifying the … creature. It was a difficult task.’

‘Really?’ Mother Inglethorpe shrugged. ‘From what you’ve described, I can’t imagine why three witches should have had any trouble with a simple werewolf.’

‘You show your ignorance, Mother!’ Crowden sneered.

Grype’s grin spread further across his ugly face. Esther could do nothing except bow her head.

Crowden sank to his knees, like a man worshipping at an altar. He ran his gloved hands through the sleeping boy’s hair.

‘No, Simon Lydgate is much more than a mere werewolf.’

Esther forgot about her fear and embarrassment. She knelt beside her Master.

‘What
is
he?’

‘Can you not guess?’

‘A magical being—something that wears human skin as a disguise?’

‘More than that. This thing does not even remember its true nature. It thinks it
is
human.’

‘But how?’

‘I believe someone has fooled it. Erased its memories, hidden its past.’

‘Why would someone demean it so?’ There was something like pity in Esther’s voice. ‘To deceive it into thinking it is a mere human being.
That
is cruelty.’

‘Perhaps it was done out of misguided love.’

‘Even so, this makes no sense,’ Esther protested. ‘Simon Lydgate lived close by the Hobarron Institute. He was practically sleeping on their doorstep. The Elders would have brought him in, questioned him.’

Grype chipped in. ‘Perhaps they didn’t see him as a threat.’

Crowden turned a withering look on his librarian.

‘You have seen the true nature of this thing. How can you doubt its power? No, the Elders would not have tolerated its existence. If they had known, Simon would certainly have been locked away.’

‘Then why didn’t they act?’

‘They can’t have known about him,’ Grype said.

‘They must have,’ Esther insisted. ‘They have Seers of their own. Their magic protects everything within a five mile radius of the tower. Quilp and I had to work powerful charms before he could enter the town without being detected.’

‘Someone knew,’ Crowden said. ‘An Elder, an employee of the Institute, someone was protecting the boy. But why?’

Several minutes passed in silence. The utter and chilling silence of the Veil.

‘I have a question,’ Esther said at last. ‘The green mist has settled over the Hollow—the Second Omen has come. As intriguing as this mystery is, how does it have any relevance to the Demontide?’

‘It has no relevance,’ Crowden laughed. ‘Not yet, at least. But this poor “boy” has been sent to us as a blessing. Surely you see that?’

‘I confess, I do not. How can he be used?’

Grype’s chest puffed out. ‘At Master Crowden’s request, I have looked into his future. It is … hazy.’

Esther rolled her eyes.

‘But—but I have seen—he will play a vital role in the Demontide.’

‘As our ally or our enemy?’

‘He cannot be our enemy,’ Crowden purred.

‘Why not?’

‘Because of what he is.’

‘Not a werewolf,’ Esther said. ‘Not a vampire. What then?’

‘He is Evil, Mother Inglethorpe.’ Crowden grabbed a handful of hair and raised Simon’s face to the light. ‘Evil incarnate.’

The door of the nightmare box swung open. A grey mist poured out of the cabinet and banked up in front of Marcus Crowden. It formed into a kind of oval screen or mirror. Magical energy crackled across the surface.

‘Ah, excellent,’ the Coven Master crowed. ‘My spy from the Hollow is coming through.’ He turned to Mother Inglethorpe. ‘Perhaps you would like to meet her?’

The picture in the smoky mirror began to take shape.

Crowden waved a hand at Grype. ‘Take the creature back to its cell.’

‘I wonder if I might stay,’ the librarian squeaked. ‘Perhaps I can be of service.’

‘Mother Inglethorpe will render me any service I deem necessary. Now hurry along.’

Grype flushed red. ‘But I have earned my place here. My discovery—my … ’

‘Do not be foolish. Go now before my patience runs dry.’

Grype avoided the laughing eyes of Esther Inglethorpe. He took hold of Simon Lydgate under the arms and dragged him roughly towards the curtained doorway.

‘Take care with my prize, little librarian,’ Crowden snapped. ‘Very soon, I shall be sending him out into the world. To use a modern phrase, it is time to shake things up.’

The witch and the boy disappeared and Crowden turned back to the mirror.

‘My spy arrives.’

Feature by feature, a face formed out of the shadows. Long, blonde hair—fair complexion—cupid’s bow lips—sea-green eyes. The image of the girl haunted the mirror.

‘I am here, Master Crowden.’

‘And what have you to tell me?’

The spy’s gaze flickered between Crowden and Esther Inglethorpe.

‘You can speak freely,’ Crowden said. ‘Come now, your time in my mirror is short. What have you learned of the Elders’ plans?’

A pained expression gripped those beautiful features.

‘If you wish to avoid the fate the Elders have plotted for you, then tell me what you know.’

‘It’s difficult. Jake’s my friend. I haven’t known him long, but I … ’

‘What do you mean, you haven’t known him for long?’ Esther cut in. ‘You go to school with the boy, don’t you?’

‘Yes … but I … I care about him. I need to know—will you hurt him?’

Crowden smiled. ‘Oh yes. I plan to torture him.’

The figure in the mirror gasped. Tears swam in her eyes.

‘I will torture him with every shred of dark magic at my disposal,’ Crowden continued. ‘And, as Master Harker writhes in agony, I will make his father watch. For only then will Adam Harker reveal the secret of the Hobarron Weapon. There are but a few days remaining before the Demontide. I
must
know what hidden device the Elders have at their command.’