Oksa Pollock: The Last Hope (50 page)

T
HE
D
RAGOMIRA AT THE BACK OF THE SMALL ROOM WAS
in a dreadful state. Seeing Oksa, she slumped even lower against the wall and tears ran down her cheeks, leaving tracks through the caked dust and blood flowing from her head. She looked up at Oksa and gazed into her eyes. Oksa shuddered, shocked at the pain and sadness she read in that beseeching look.

“Well, well, dear Orthon is resorting to trickery! Very clever, Orthon! My congratulations!”

Oksa stiffened with fright: the first Dragomira had just put her arm firmly around her shoulders and pulled her close. Helplessly, the girl looked up at the old lady who was hugging her imperiously against her—perhaps to protect her?—and then at the second old lady, who seemed to be struggling not to pass out.

“What does this mean?” muttered Oksa.

“My dear girl,” replied the first Dragomira, “Orthon has simply used his shape-shifting skills to try and pass himself off as
me
!”

“Shape-shifting? So it works then!” exclaimed Oksa.

“Of course it works. It’s incredible, isn’t it? Although dear Orthon hasn’t been able to resist adding a few melodramatic touches of his own to make you feel sorry for him… Honestly, Orthon, is all that blood really necessary?” she added, looking at the second Dragomira in disgust.

Then, meeting Oksa’s eyes, she said fiercely:

“Don’t upset yourself, my dear. Shape-shifting is designed to fool the entire world. Don’t let yourself be taken in by those tearful eyes. That man has got no more than he deserved. Edefia is ours and ours alone… I won’t let anyone stand in my way! Just tell yourself that it was him or me. He wouldn’t hesitate to finish me off if I were in his shoes. Isn’t that right, Orthon?”

“Oksa, Dushka, for pity’s sake, don’t listen to him,” begged the second Dragomira weakly. “Look at me and you’ll know it’s me!”

“Shut up!” shouted the first Dragomira. “You can’t fool us. I’m the one and only Dragomira Pollock, the real Dragomira.”

“What proof do you have that you’re telling the truth?” came a shaky voice behind her.

The first Dragomira whirled round, dragging Oksa with her. She peered into the shadows until her eyes had located the person who’d just spoken, standing stiff as a poker in the opposite corner, but
trembling
with fear.

“Oh, Gus!” she said in irritation, going over to the boy. “Not only have you disobeyed me, but what’s more you’ve picked the wrong side—two mistakes that can still be rectified by joining us while there’s still time. Come over here with your friend.”

“Oksa! WATCH OUT!” yelled Gus, diving under a worm-eaten workbench.

The second Dragomira had just staggered to the doorway of the small room, blood trickling from the wound in her head. This was a problem, a big problem. Dragging Oksa with her, the first old lady advanced further into the cellar firing bolts of electricity which knocked over everything that stood between her and the second Dragomira. The wooden wine racks laden with bottles leapt into the air, spraying wine over the walls and broken glass over the floor. The light bulb hanging on a flex from the ceiling began swinging frantically, casting agitated shadows. Feeling terrified, Oksa tried to free herself from the “real” Dragomira’s grip, but the old lady held her even more tightly. She
had to find a way of discovering the truth. She had two Dragomiras in front of her and she knew rationally, and from her own experience, that there was only one Dragomira. But which of them was the right one? Her mind was racing, and her confused thoughts were making it impossible to think straight. She desperately needed to a clear mind at the moment. Since she couldn’t rely on logic, she felt instinctively that she needed to act. In a fraction of a second, she executed one of her favourite manoeuvres: a fast vertical take-off. Wrenching herself free, she shot towards the ceiling and performed a backflip to land on a table at the back of the cellar.

“Baba! Show yourself, please! Help me!” she shouted imploringly.

“Oksa, it’s me, I’m your gran Dragomira! Trust me,” said the first Dragomira, walking slowly towards her with a beseeching look.

“Don’t believe that imposter, Dushka, I’m your Baba, your Baba who loves you and who’ll always love you,” retorted the second trembling Dragomira, her back bowed.

The two Dragomiras aimed their Granok-Shooters at each other and Gus was making signs at her that she couldn’t understand. What a nightmare… Oksa rummaged in her bag, without taking her eyes off the two women. They were totally identical from head to toe. This
shape-shifting
thing was unbelievable! Same face, same hair plaited in a crown, same clothes—it was impossible to tell them apart. Except that one was much more badly beaten and bloody than the other. And that was hardly surprising given the number of violent spells which had been used on her. In fact, it was a miracle she was still standing. Oksa opened her Caskinette and grabbed an Excelsior, which she swallowed immediately in the hope it might help her mind get a better grasp on things. Instinct alone would never be enough to tell the truth from the lies. Her heart told her to believe the second Dragomira, but that was more through a process of deduction than because she had irrefutable proof. Since she’d arrived in the cellar, the first Dragomira had seemed odd to her. What she said and did were in stark contrast to what she knew of her beloved
gran. But this was no ordinary situation and it could have had an effect on the soundest of natures. The second Dragomira’s pitiful appearance, her ravaged face and body spasming with pain, also influenced the way she felt: she might be a fan of kung fu, but she was still a soft-hearted girl. If the first Dragomira was the real one, Oksa abhorred her gran’s vicious attack on a man lying on the ground, wracked with pain. Even if McGraw was the sworn enemy of her family, the Runaways and Edefia, there had to be another way of neutralizing him. The fight had been unfair. And unequal! She would never again view her Baba in the same way… but now was certainly not the time to be thinking like this. Her priority was to find out which of the two women was her gran and to get out of this mess. Alive, if possible.

“What’s your husband’s name, Baba?” said Oksa curtly to the second Dragomira, who was leaning against a pillar.

“Vladimir Pollock, Dushka, but I think Orthon knows that. Don’t rely on my answer…”

“Fine, then, you!” continued Oksa, pointing at the first Dragomira. “Where did Jeanne Bellanger’s parents die?”

“In Czechoslovakia, Dushka, during the events of August 1968 in Prague. They were killed by Soviet soldiers. And I don’t think Orthon knows that.”

“Don’t listen to him, Oksa,” cried the second Dragomira in a
rasping
voice. “Orthon could easily know that. He’s kept watch on us for years—remember the list!”

“Shut up!” retorted the first Dragomira, brandishing her
Granok-Shooter
. “All your family has ever done is bring chaos and separate me from my parents. But, today, you will pay for everything your family has done.”

“STOP IT!” yelled Oksa, her heart filled with doubt.

She shot a tearful look at Gus, who’d been trying to get her to
understand
something for quite a while. He was showing her the middle finger of his right hand and discreetly, but eloquently, clasping it with his left
hand… and suddenly Oksa realized. The ring! Her eyes flitted from one hand to the other: the ring she’d noticed McGraw wearing on the first day of school, the magnificent twisted silver ring with its shimmering slate-grey stone, was on the first Dragomira’s finger. Her head swam with panic. How could she know for sure? How could she be certain that McGraw hadn’t done a swap and put his ring on the real Dragomira’s finger to plant a seed of doubt? The two women were still standing face to face, their eyes riveted on each other. Tense with agitation, Oksa looked at Gus helplessly. The boy was now blowing into his hand, his fingers curled into a tube. What on earth did that mean? Oksa looked more closely and realized: the Granok-Shooter! What had Abakum said about Granok-Shooters? She had to remember… they were all personal and different, no one could use a Granok-Shooter which didn’t belong to them, because they only recognized their owner. Different! Yes! That was the solution. Oksa looked at the precious tubes held by the two Dragomiras. The first had a Granok-Shooter made of dark horn striped with fine silvery lines. The one held by the second Dragomira was a lighter, pinkish white colour, inlaid with tiny gold fragments and precious stones. Oksa concentrated with all her might. “
Ninja-Oksa, try to remember Baba’s Granok-Shooter… it’s not that complicated
!” Had she ever seen Dragomira’s Granok-Shooter before? Aargghh. Oksa searched angrily through a jumble of memories. Suddenly one image stood out among the many rattling around in her head and she was back in Leomido’s kitchen a few months ago. Dragomira had taken out her Granok-Shooter to demonstrate the Reticulata. An almost white Granok-Shooter, which sparkled with a thousand tiny little flashes! Yes, but she had the same problem as she’d had with the identity ring: maybe McGraw had been so attentive to detail that he’d switched their Granok-Shooters? There was no end to this question. And no answer. Before Oksa could wonder about it any more, a stooped, emaciated creature surged from the depths of the cellar and leapt on the second Dragomira’s back.

“Decaying old hag! I’m going to slit your throat like the sow you are!”

Recognizing the Abominari, Oksa quickly held her hand out in front of her and hurled it to the other side of the cellar with a powerful
Knock-Bong
. But the terrible monster’s resistance—and motivation—were equal to anything. It got to its feet immediately and rushed at the second Dragomira.

“Vermin! You’re going to die in this cellar and rot here for all eternity!”

Oksa had no time to react before the Abominari violently scratched the old lady’s chest with its foul claws, then made its escape up the staircase into the house. Its unfortunate victim gave a cry of pain and her torn dress revealed a Medallion which gleamed brightly. Malorane’s Medallion! Without a second’s hesitation, Oksa lifted her Granok-Shooter to her lips and blew into it, after saying the accompanying words in her head. The first Dragomira was immediately held tight by a viscous creeper.

“What are you doing, you little fool! Have you lost your head?”

Grimacing from the pain of her wounds, the second Dragomira went over to Oksa and hugged her tenderly, murmuring:

“Dushka…”

“Baba,” replied Oksa, in huge relief. “You’re really badly injured. We must get out of here so we can get you some help.”

Gus also came over.

“Thank you, Gus. You were amazing!” exclaimed Oksa.

“It was nothing. But you’re right, we have to get out of here, Dragomira’s in a terrible state.”

Baba Pollock, leaning heavily on the two friends, seemed to be on the verge of collapse. Opposite them, the first Dragomira was reverting to her original appearance, that of the Felon Orthon-McGraw. The shape he’d assumed was gradually vanishing. The hard, cruel face which Gus and Oksa knew so well had virtually returned. The shape-shifting process was over and they were chilled by the rage burning in McGraw’s eyes and radiating from his tense features.

“You really are a monster!” said Oksa, regretting that she’d felt sorry for the man a few minutes earlier—someone as despicable as he didn’t
deserve her pity. In recent months, the Runaways had seen the great principles of life come under repeated attack.

“You wanted to kill my gran! And you made my mother sick! I hate you. I REALLY HATE YOU!” she yelled, every ounce of compassion deserting her.

Dragomira shut her eyes and, leaning on her granddaughter and Gus, raised her Granok-Shooter to her lips. She was about to blow into it when she met McGraw’s eyes. Weakened by pangs of conscience, she lowered her arm.

“I can’t,” she murmured, slumping against the wall. “I can’t kill him…”

“Baba!” cried Oksa, kneeling by her exhausted gran. “Gus! What are we going to do?”

“I don’t know, Oksa,” replied Gus in a broken voice. “But we’re going to have to find… QUICK—” he added, his attention drawn to the staircase.

Oksa followed his eyes and saw a surprisingly dense shadow moving down the stairs.

“What is that thing?” yelled Gus, terrified.

“Abakum… dear Abakum, you’re here…” said Dragomira weakly.

“And now your gran’s delirious!” said Gus in a panic. “We’re finished.”

The shadow glided downstairs and reached them in no time. With his hand over his mouth, Gus felt every drop of blood draining from his body as he faced the facts: the shadow didn’t belong to a body, or an object, or a creature—it wasn’t attached to anything.

“Oh hell!” he muttered. “I think Death is coming for us!”

McGraw, immobilized by Oksa’s Arborescens Granok, stared at this strange phenomenon. The shadow came to a halt and, with a silky rustle, materialized. McGraw struggled violently against his fetters, recognizing the man who’d just appeared.

“Abakum! Abakum, is that really you?” exclaimed Oksa, open-mouthed in astonishment. “I knew it!”

“Yes, it’s me, dear girl,” confirmed Dragomira’s Watcher.

“But that shadow—” muttered Gus.

“Fairyman, Shadowman, I keep watch over you,” came his simple reply. “Your Lunatrix told me everything,” he added, looking sadly at Dragomira. “I shall do what you can’t.”

He went over and squeezed her shoulder with infinite kindness. His eyes filled with tears and pain as he glanced at her one last time. Then he took out his Granok-Shooter and, without saying a word, blew in McGraw’s direction. The Felon widened his eyes as the Granok hit him head-on. Above his head, a dark spiral formed and began whirling unbelievably fast. McGraw craned his neck to try and see what Oksa and Gus were gazing at so intently. And when he managed to catch a glimpse of what was happening a couple of inches above his head, he blanched, groaned and struggled even harder to escape the creeper which was holding him captive. It was a waste of time and effort. The spiral stopped rotating and steadied, becoming a kind of black hole which moved slowly but inexorably closer to McGraw’s head. The minute it touched the first of his hairs, the Felon
exploded
. Billions of dark particles flew through the Arborescens and were immediately drawn up into the black hole. A few seconds later there was nothing left of McGraw—only a few fragments of yellow creeper lying on the floor and a strangely shimmering black cloud floating just below the ceiling.