The Curse of the GateKeeper (James Potter #2) (2 page)

The hag suddenly gasped. Forge saw her shadow lurch backwards, clapping her hands to her head. There was clatter and a crash as something fell.

"Keep looking!" the impatient voice, Gregor, shouted. "Look and tell, or so help me…"

"Stop," the other man's voice said, almost playfully. There was a smile in it. "Gregor, leave the poor woman alone. Obviously, she has seen something that has upset her a great deal."

The hag was panting, and then, strangely, horribly, another voice spoke. It was very thin, high, cold, but nonsensical. Forge couldn't hear its actual words, but it seemed gleeful, somehow. The few remaining hairs at the base of Forge's neck stuck straight up.

"What did you see?" Gregor demanded, ignoring the thin, muttering voice. "What was it?"

"Let us not overtax the poor woman," the first voice said. "She has performed her services quite well. We shall see that she receives payment as agreed. Thank you, madam."

"It was a man," the hag panted, her voice trembling. "But then…"

"Yes, thank you," the man's voice said soothingly. "I believe we've heard enough. Gregor, perhaps you'd be so kind as to show our guest—"

"Horrible," she keened, and then sobbed hugely. Forge watched the hag's shadow dip, and then another shape, a fat man, jumped up, supporting her.

"Yes," the first voice said, dismissing her. "He was horrible, this man. Thank you."

"No!" the hag shouted. Forge saw her shadow lunge, pulling away from the shadow of Gregor. "Not the man! He was awful enough, but then…"

There was a pause as the hag seemed to crumple again. The white hand on the arm of the chair rose slightly. The black ring twinkled in the firelight. "And then?"

The hag shuddered. "Something else. Something… came through… it was…"

She didn't seem able to continue. The white hand on the arm of the chair remained still, poised in a gesture that looked almost like a benediction. Firelight flickered and snapped. The horrible, otherworldly voice buzzed and gibbered quietly to itself.

"Smoke," the hag finally said. Her voice had gone high, nearly falsetto. She sounded like a child. "Black fire. Ash and… and… eyes… and nothing. Living nothing."

There was a pause, and then the white hand closed into a loose fist. "Well," the first man's voice said casually, "that changes things a bit. Perhaps you should like to be paid here and now, madam. Tonight. Lemuel, please escort our guest… er… some place else, won't you? You'll find a proper place to pay her, I'm certain."

Shadows moved. A heretofore unseen figure arose and led the hag away from the firelight. Forge felt a sudden panic that they would come through the antechamber and find him, and then he remembered he was supposed to be here. They were expecting him. He wondered fleetingly if it was too late to sneak back out. Price or no price, this was looking to be a very bad group with which to get involved. To Forge's relief, Lemuel led the hag out through another door at the back of the library. Lemuel moved like a trained servant, though rather older than Forge had expected. The hag lolled as she walked, her eyes grey and blank. Neither of them paid Forge any mind.

"Then it is done," Gregor said as the rear door of the library closed. "Merlinus is returned. Your plan is complete."

"The plan is far from complete, but yes, up to this point, everything has proceeded as expected. The Delacroix woman will be disposed of. The Potter boy will be mortified to know that he was the tool to bring about our ends. And Merlinus Ambrosius is loosed upon the world yet again. But, Gregor, you should be careful in calling this my plan. You know whose design this is. I'll not take credit for the work of the Dark Lord."

Gregor ignored the rebuke. "How can we be certain that Merlin will be one of us?"

"We cannot. Merlin's loyalties never belonged to anyone but himself. This is why the Dark Lord was never interested in such an alliance while he was living. Merlin himself was never the prize, as you know."

Forge heard Gregor shift again in his seat. "Not everyone believes these tales," he said quietly.

"Only fools doubt the existence of the Otherworlds. Even the Muggles believe in Heaven and Hell. All that concerns us is that the Dark Lord believed in them. If he had not fallen, we would never have resorted to it. But even he saw the value of a fail-safe."

"Yes," Gregor replied. "The fail-safe. The Bloodline."

"No," the first voice said quietly. "The Bloodline is not yet perfect. It knows not who it is. Its power is undiscovered, divided, and dim. The Bloodline has not yet been sharpened by the gauntlet of death, as was the Dark Lord, its creator. It must be… refined."

"And this is the work of the Otherworlder?"

"Among other things."

Gregor sighed theatrically. "Even so, the faithful are scattered. Many are in Azkaban. More are dead. The dog, Fletcher, is in the custody of the Ministry. The Langlock Jinx silences him, and his identity is still undiscovered, but if your conspiracy crumbles, connections will be made. Potter will recognize him from his days with the Order. They will find a way to communicate with him. Sacarhina and Recreant will be incriminated first, but you will be next. After all, you were there with them in the cave of the throne. You yourself performed the curse upon them. Fletcher will betray you."

"Fletcher has nothing that the Ministry can use against us," the silky voice soothed. "Like all weak governments, they are far too enamored with their ideals of justice to be effective against a truly wily enemy. Potter will watch us when and where he can, but that is all. Let him. He believes the battle is over. He saw the Dark Lord cut down at his own thieving hand. And shall I shock you, my friend? Perhaps that was for the best. After all, the seed must die for the flower to blossom. Perhaps it was best that our Lord was cut down by the coward, Harry Potter. He and his allies have been lured these many years into a false sense of security. They believe that we, like them, are cowards, that we will not rise up again with vengeance in our hearts, stronger than ever. And let us not forget the legend, Gregor. We may indeed be the tools in the hand of our greatest forefather. It may well be our mission to close the circle of ancient revenge, a circle that was begun over a thousand years ago. My friend, I dare to suggest that the plan that was put into motion by the death of the Dark Lord may be even greater than his original intention. Given what we have discovered, I am certain that he would agree with me."

Gregor's shadow leaned forward. "Are you certain, my friend?"

"Call it an educated guess. After all, I was among his closest and most loyal servants. You know as well as I the… difficulties we face. For now."

There was a clink as Gregor reached for a wine glass. "Perhaps we shouldn't say any more in front of our guest."

"Ah, yes," the silky voice replied. "How insufferably rude of me to speak as if he were not here. Mr. Forge, do join us, won't you?"

Forge jumped. He'd become so transfixed by the conversation that he'd forgotten that they were waiting for him. He peeked around the door into the library. Firelight flashed along the edges of the leather chairs.

"Yes, thank you, Mr. Forge," the silky voice said airily. The white hand beckoned. As it did, two of the three chairs began to turn. They revolved silently, as if on bearings, and Forge saw that they floated very slightly off the floor. "Tell me, my goblin friend, have you ever heard of the Transitus Nihilo?"

"No, sir," Forge said instantly, relieved that his voice didn't betray his nervousness. "I'm just a simple trade goblin. I don't know about any of these things. In fact, I'd be willing to wager that I'll forget every word you've said by the time I'm fifty steps from this house."

The chairs stopped turning and Forge saw the men sitting there. The one on the left had long whiteblonde hair framing a handsome, rather aged face. He was smiling disarmingly, as if inviting Forge to share a joke. The one on the right, Gregor, was fatter and red-cheeked, with the expression of long indulgence that belied a life of pureblood leisure.

"Fear not, my friend," the pale man said. "We crave your services rather more than your blood. Allow me to enlighten you. The Transitus Nihilo is the crossing place. It is the Void between our world and the next. Tell me, you believe in the next world, don't you?"

"I'll believe in whatever you ask me to believe if it gets me back out your door in less than two pieces, my lord."

The man laughed. "That's what I love about goblins, Gregor. They are as candid as the day is long." He turned back to Forge. "I'll give you something else you might choose to believe in, my new friend. Our ancient forefathers believed that there was more to our world than that which we see and feel with our senses. They believed in the existence of unseen entities, beings greater than us, more powerful, immortal and inhuman. They exist not only in the beyond, but in the nothingness in between. They had words for them. I won't bother you with the names, for there were hundreds of them. But there was one being in particular that drew the interest of ambitious men. It is sometimes called the Gatekeeper, or the Being of Smoke and Ash. It does not break into our world, for it knows us not. It is made of the Void, it is our exact opposite; therefore, it neither suspects our existence, nor the existence of anything else. It is bound by its own perfect ignorance of us. And this, you think, is a good thing, yes, Mr. Forge?"

The goblin stood stiffly, staring into the man's bright eyes. He nodded.

"Yes, of course you do. Because a creature of such unadulterated inhumanity, such thoughtless power, if it were descended upon us, would be nothing less than the Destroyer, wouldn't it? Thus, it is a good thing that it is out there… and we are down here. Little children go to sleep each night understanding the truth of this: there are bad things lurking in the world, yes, but not the worst of things. It knows us not. And yet…" The man looked away for a moment, his eyes narrowed. "What if something made it aware of us? After all, we move in and out of the crossing place all the time, do we not? When we die, yes, we pass through. But when we perform certain kinds of magic, when we Disapparate, do we not also dip fleetingly into the Void? Fortunately, the Gatekeeper lives outside of time, so it does not notice our tiny, timebound existences. But what if one of us bent the rules just a bit? What if one of us, a particularly powerful one, stepped out of time and into the Void? What if one of us stayed there long enough for the Gatekeeper to take notice?"

The goblin hadn't been paying much attention, being rather preoccupied with doing whatever he needed to do to get out of the house alive, but suddenly he remembered the words of the hag:
Black fire.
Ash… eyes… and nothing. Living nothing.

"What have you done?" Forge asked quietly.

"Me?" the pale man replied, raising his eyebrows. "Not a thing. I'm just passing the time. Gregor here tends to believe in fantastic stories like this. It amuses him."

Gregor grunted and rolled his eyes. The horrible, mewling voice came again. It seemed to be coming from the chair that still faced the fire. Forge felt the skin of his scalp tighten. The voice was mad. It chilled him.

"But let us get down to business, as it were," the pale man continued. "Mr. Forge, we require your services. We understand that you are a bit of an expert on, er, restoration. Would that be accurate?"

Forge shifted. "I am just a simple trade goblin, sir—"

"You are a master forger," the pale man said suddenly, his voice as cold as an ice pick. "Tell me you are. I'd hate to think that I've summoned you here in vain."

"Y-yes, sir," Forge answered quickly, trying not to tremble.

"Excellent," the pale man replied breezily, leaning comfortably back in his chair. "And I have come to understand that this expertise of yours extends to restoring portraits. Would that also be correct? Don't lie to me, Mr. Forge. I'll know."

Forge gulped and glanced at Gregor. The man seemed to be paying no attention. He stared idly at the wine in his glass as he swirled it.

"I… yes," Forge said. "It takes more time, of course. It isn't merely a matter of replacing the paint. The correct potions must be determined for each color… unimportant bits have to be scraped and reused to get the proper compositions… it's very delicate, but I have achieved a level of success."

"That's very fascinating," the pale man said, his blue eyes boring into the goblin. He's mad, Forge thought. Completely nutters. I wonder if the other one knows it. I wonder if they are both mad, but in different ways.

The pale man stood. "We have a job for you, Mr. Forge. It will be rather difficult, I am afraid, but I suspect a goblin of your obvious skills will find it a worthy challenge indeed. It is a priceless family heirloom, you see. For the longest time, we believed it was lost. Funny, isn't it, how things tend to turn up when you need them most? It's been rather dreadfully damaged by, er, vandals. But if there was anything you thought you could do to help, we'd be most eternally… grateful."

The thin voice was gibbering again as the pale man began to turn the middle chair. Suddenly, Forge absolutely did not want to see what was there. He wanted to run, or at least avert his eyes. He knew if he did, they would probably kill him. He watched and listened, and as the chair turned, the voice finally became intelligible.

"Show meee himmm!" it rasped in its awful, tiny, broken voice. "Show him meee!" And it began to laugh, high and crackling, a thoroughly mad, fragmented, twisted laugh.

The portrait was not large. It was almost entirely destroyed. Only a few shreds and scraps remained: the corner of the mouth, two fingers of a thin, pale hand, a single glittering red eye. It had been slashed. The back of the frame showed dozens of deep gouges and punctures.

"Make him repairrr meeee…," the portrait screamed in its thin, insectile voice. "Do it, Luciussssss! Make him repairrr meeeeee…"

"It will be his pleasure, my Lord," the pale man smiled, looking up at Forge, his eyes wet, glistening.

"M-my Lord?" Gregor said, as if shocked to hear the decimated portrait speak so clearly. "You remain! But we thought…"