The Dead Hamlets: Book Two of the Book of Cross (19 page)

I wondered if there were some way I could take her place in the play, so the ghost would come for me rather than her. But I knew Morgana. I knew she would enjoy refusing my sacrifice far more.

I didn’t know what to do.

“Surely there must be some way to the Forgotten Library,” the Scholar said, eyeing the book in my hands. “If we could find it, we could solve all your problems. And at last I would have access to a real library.”

“How do you find a place that doesn’t exist?” I said, shaking my head.

And then I knew how Shakespeare had managed to discover his entrance to the library. I’d known it all along, but I just hadn’t realized it. To learn how to find an impossible place that didn’t exist, I needed to talk to someone else that lived in an impossible place that didn’t exist. But the idea of that appealed to me even less than the idea of talking to the Scholar.

“I owe you one,” I said, turning to leave. “But you’ll have to take a rain cheque.”

The Scholar caught my arm. “I know a way to call it even,” he said. “Take me with you.”

“You don’t even know where I’m going,” I pointed out.

“I believe I do,” he said.

I considered turning him down because I didn’t think I could spend much more time in the company of the Scholar without murdering him. But I needed all the help I could get, and the Scholar could be a useful person to have around for what I was planning next. Maybe I could use him as a sacrificial victim, if nothing else.

“Let’s get out of here before we’re locked in for the night then,” I said.

The Scholar came close to smiling. I wondered if the world was ending.

We went outside, to the parking lot, and the Scholar shivered against the cold, which I’m mortal enough to admit gave me some small sense of satisfaction.

“Quickly,” the Scholar said, “which way to your horse and carriage?”

This just kept getting better and better.

It was night by the time we got on the motorway out of Oxford. A full moon rose on the horizon. The Scholar kept marvelling at the car—and all the other cars on the road—until I was tempted to make him sit in the back.

“I knew there were motor vehicles, of course,” he said, “but I had no idea they were so advanced. Do we also have underwater submersibles like Jules Verne imagined?” Then he paused as a jet passed in front of the moon. “What on earth is that?” he asked.

I stepped on the gas and he sank back into his seat and turned pale as the edges of the road blurred. That was better. Now all I had to do was speed the entire way to our destination.

“Where exactly are we going?” he asked, as if reading my mind.

“Scotland,” I said.

“Scotland?” the Scholar said. “Why would anyone ever want to go to Scotland?”

“How about you leave the whys up to me?” I said. “I don’t really want to listen to questions the entire drive.”

“Do you think the Forgotten Library is in Scotland?” the Scholar went on, ignoring me. “Imagine if the greatest English play of all time had its origins in Scotland.” He chuckled until he choked. Maybe he didn’t like the Royals any more than I did. It wasn’t unreasonable. Most people who really knew the Royals didn’t like them. Hell, most people who really knew the Royals didn’t survive once they’d learned the truth about the Royals.

“I’m not taking us to the library,” I said. “I’m taking us to the people that might be able to help us find it.” Although “people” probably wasn’t the best way of describing them.

“What do you mean, might?” the Scholar asked. “Do you have a plan or don’t you?”

I didn’t answer him, though, because I was suddenly aware that we were the lone car on the road. Which meant something was about to happen, because there’s never only one car on the road in England. I started to slow and the Scholar looked around at the surrounding night.

“Are we there already?” he asked.

Before I could answer, a deer ran across the road in front of us. Or rather, it tried to run across the road. It probably would have made it if we hadn’t driven right into it.

I managed to swerve enough that it went up on the hood and then over the side instead of through the windshield. And so I kept alive my winning streak of not being killed by a deer. The one thing I had going for me in all my lifetimes. I braked to a halt in the middle of the motorway because, as I’ve already pointed out, there was no one else on it. I got out of the car and looked around. Not even a set of headlights in sight. There was, however, the sound of a hunting horn in the woods bordering the road.

“Stay in the car,” I told the Scholar.

“I don’t even know how to extract myself from this device,” he said.

“It’s probably better we keep it that way,” I said.

“Would you mind leaving me something to read?” the Scholar asked. “Perhaps that little book of yours? After all, it’s of no interest to you given that its pages are blank.”

I checked to make sure the book was securely in my pocket and then went around the front of the car to look at the deer.

It lay broken in the road, its head bent around at an angle it shouldn’t have been able to bend at. Its dead eyes looked into my own. It resembled every other deer I’d seen that had been hit by a car, except for the fact it was wearing scraps of clothing: the remains of a shirt around its shoulders, a belt still wrapped around its torso. A black ring caught on one of its horns.

I sighed. I really just wanted to get out of this country.

I straightened up in time to greet the hunting party that burst out of the woods. They were a motley bunch: men in suits shredded by the branches of the forest, women in dresses stained with mud and with necklaces of brambles and thorns. They carried an assortment of weapons: spears, bows, arrows clutched in hands, even swords and axes. Some of them were on all fours, howling like dogs, maybe at the sight of the fallen deer, maybe at the pain of their bloodied hands and feet. I recognized them instantly. They were the fey.

They stopped at the sight of me and then stepped aside, to make room for Morgana and her entourage—Cobweb and Mustardseed and a few others whose faces I recognized but names I’d forgotten. The faerie were dressed in real hunting clothes—camouflage gear and facepaint—and rode horses. Like the deer, the horses wore scraps of clothing, and they were a little skittish, so I figured them for more fey. They rode up to me and stopped, and Morgana leaned forward and smiled at me.

“Darling,” she said. “What a surprise meeting you here.”

I resisted the impulse to step forward and kiss her muddy boot, but it took all my will. Instead, I scanned her entourage for Amelia. There she was at the back, dressed in the same hunting gear as the others. She didn’t wear facepaint because her skin was already so grey. She studied me without blinking.

I looked around the road again, but there were still no other cars.

“I’m in the glamour,” I said, stating the obvious.

“Of course you are, pet,” Morgana said. And again I felt that sense of loss at not meaning more to her.

“Why am I in the glamour?” I asked.

She slipped to the ground from the horse and stepped over to the deer. She studied it while she talked to me.

“The question isn’t why you’re in the glamour,” she said. “The question is where you’re going.”

I considered my answer, but I didn’t see any point in hiding what I was doing from her.

“Scotland,” I said.

“Why would you want to visit Scotland?” Morgana asked.

“That’s what I said!” the Scholar shouted from the car, and Morgana looked at him, then raised an eyebrow at me.

“He’s the last person I ever expected to see as a travelling companion for you,” she said.

“It’s a long story,” I said.

“Well, you don’t have much time, so you’d better get on with it,” she said.

I looked around the scene. Nothing I saw there gave me much hope that things were going to get better for me anytime soon.

“I want to talk to the Witches,” I said.

“The old crones?” Morgana said, raising both eyebrows now.

I didn’t say anything. I didn’t know how to explain my hunch that the only way to find a place that didn’t exist might be to talk to the Witches, who lived in a place that didn’t exist.

“Why not just visit the Globe again?” Morgana asked. “That seems easier than visiting Scotland. Or are you afraid that trick won’t work twice?”

“I doubt that theatre is a safe place for me at the moment,” I said. “I imagine the Royals will be watching it now. I imagine they’re watching all of England right now.”

Morgana looked down at the deer. She nudged it with a foot, but it didn’t move. “The Royals have eyes in Scotland as well,” she said. “No doubt they’ll be watching the theatres there too.”

“I’m not going to a theatre,” I said.

“Of course you’re not,” Morgana said. “That would be too predictable for you.”

I opted for the silence option again. I looked at Amelia and she looked back at me. It was just another typical father-daughter moment.

“You are traveling to Macbeth’s Hillock,” Morgana said, and I turned back to her. I wondered if maybe the ring I wore gave her the power to read my thoughts.

“Of course,” she said. “The place where Macbeth met the Witches on his travels in the real world.”

“
Macbeth
is just a story,” I pointed out.

“All stories are birthed from life, are they not?” Morgana asked.

She was right. Macbeth’s Hillock was my destination. It was the only other place besides Will’s play where the Witches had lived. The only other place I knew about anyway. As such, it still had ties to them. At least I hoped it still had ties to them.

“What an interesting plot twist,” Morgana said. “I believe we’ll accompany you to see how this turns out.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I said, looking at the fey. I had a feeling this group would attract some attention, which might complicate my goal of travelling unnoticed.

“What you think is not of concern to me,” Morgana said. She pulled a hunting knife from her belt and plunged it into the neck of the deer. Blood poured out and pooled around my feet.

“Let us continue the hunt,” she said, and I had no doubt she was talking about the ghost.

She cleaned the knife on the rags of clothing still attached to the deer and then straightened up and whistled. Now headlights appeared down the road, followed quickly by the sounds of engines. I turned to watch the vehicles approach.

It was a faerie caravan. A trio of motorhomes chained together, with the roofs cut off to reveal what appeared to be a pub inside them. There were more fey and faerie, drinking wine from goblets and eating haunches of meat that I sincerely hoped were not from deer like the one at my feet. There was a band playing in the main area of one of the motorhomes, and fey dancing in another. Puck buzzed around the motorhomes on a motorcycle with a sidecar that held a woman with a donkey’s head. A tanker truck followed the other vehicles, and I could tell from the smell that it was filled with faerie wine rather than fuel.

Yes, we wouldn’t attract any attention at all.

I looked back at Amelia, but she was climbing into the motorhomes with the rest of the faerie and fey. The horses were gone now, replaced by men and women wearing rags and dazed expressions. It didn’t look like there was room for them all, but they piled in until I was the only one left standing on the road, the dead deer still at my feet.

I considered the full moon for a moment and then walked back to the car. It started again despite the damage to its front end. I was almost disappointed.

“Are they coming with us?” the Scholar asked, frowning back at the faerie.

“It appears that way,” I said.

“That doesn’t strike me as wise,” the Scholar said. “What if they were to do something to the books in the library?”

“I don’t think they’re interested in the books,” I said.

The Scholar settled back into his seat. “Well, we shouldn’t have any problems then,” he said.

“What could possibly go wrong?” I agreed.

I put the car into gear and we headed for Scotland to find the Witches.

The drive to the north probably took as long as such trips normally take, but it felt longer thanks to having the Scholar as a passenger. We stayed on the highway despite the curious nature of our caravan. None of the drivers who passed us now that we were out of the glamour spared us a second glance, so I assumed Morgana had managed some sort of sleight to disguise our appearance. I wondered what we looked like. A long-distance lorry, perhaps? Or maybe just a row of weary travellers, looking for a place to rest their heads for the night.

The weather in the north was the same as it always is: dreary, with a chance of deepening gloom. We left the highway in favour of a series of ever-smaller roads, eventually finding ourselves on a pitted, one-lane strip of asphalt that was barely more than a walking trail. We cruised through farmers’ fields until we reached our destination and then pulled over to the side as best we could.

Macbeth’s Hillock was unremarkable, little more than a pleasant, grass-covered swelling of earth amid the fields. Most people wouldn’t look twice at it if they drove past and didn’t know what it was. In fact, most people probably wouldn’t look twice at it if they drove past and
knew
what it was. But most people didn’t know about all the blood that had been spilled on that hill.

“This is it?” the Scholar asked, unbelievingly. “It’s rather unremarkable. The illustrations I’ve seen in books have made it seem much more dramatic.”

“You don’t really want to see it when it’s dramatic,” I said.

“There are variations in the illustrations, of course,” the Scholar went on. “For instance, the Biltling Parchments show a craggy, almost cliff-like hill, complete with lightning, while the Encyclopedia Goblinus shows a warren of tunnels. . . .”

I got out of the car as quickly as I could and went over to join Morgana and the faerie as they disembarked from their vehicles.

“I’ve been thinking about all the losses from your court,” I told Morgana. “You probably need a few replacements. You should take the Scholar.”

Morgana smiled at me. “I wouldn’t wish him on you, let alone my court,” she said.

We looked at the hill. It was shrouded in mist and the area was getting gloomier by the second.

“Let’s get on with it,” I said, even though the Witches were among the last people I wanted to see at the moment.

So our merry company set across the field, singing and whistling and toasting each other with mugs and beer glasses and bottles. My shoes were soaked through almost immediately because of the wet ground, but I didn’t bother complaining. I knew I’d have much more to complain about shortly.

That didn’t stop the Scholar from expressing his irritation though.

“I say, is it always so dreary outside?” he said, frowning at the ground, the sky and everything in between. “I don’t know why people ever bother to leave the library.”

I quickened my pace and left him to mingle with the fey.

Morgana caught up to me as we neared the hill. “I would ask you your plan,” she said, “but I know you better than that.”

I smiled at her and then the smile faded from my face as we reached the bottom of the hill and the figures came over the other side.

They weren’t the Witches. There were far too many of them for that—at least a dozen. And for the most part they resembled human beings even less than the Witches. There was Anubis and his staff, only the darkly glowing ankh was now a darkly glowing scythe blade. A bronze woman in a dress of metal plates, with four breasts and six arms, a sword in each hand. A stone man in a linen robe whose face bore an uncanny resemblance to the figures on Easter Island. Something that was either a sasquatch or a cross between a man and a bear, with long claws and even longer fangs. A man thing who seemed to be made entirely of red clay. A black woman who stood at least ten feet tall and wore ropes wrapped around her body and carried a bone spear. A creature with white fur who was surrounded by a dusting of snow that made it hard to see. I could go on, but it doesn’t matter. The point is there were too many of them.

We stopped, and the rest of the faerie and fey stopped behind us. All except the Scholar, who came up to stand between Morgana and me.

“And who might these new players be?” he asked, scowling his fiercest welcome at them.

I looked around the field for a way out, but there wasn’t one. The mist curled around us now, hiding us from the road. I sighed.

“The Black Guard,” I said. I didn’t bother introducing them. To speak the names of some of the Black Guard was to give them power. Also, I didn’t even know all their names.

And then a skeleton pushed its way through the crowd on top of the hill to look down at us. The skull grinned at me and I shook my head as I recognized it.

“Just the man I’ve been looking for,” Marlowe said.

Being hunted down by the Black Guard was a bad turn of events, even by my standards. The only thing that would have made it worse would have been if some of the Royals had come with the Black Guard. Thankfully, the Royals didn’t like to stray too far from the castle and its catacombs these days. That’s why they used the doppelgängers for the public appearances.

But this was still bad enough.

Morgana murmured something in the faerie tongue, and I heard her court go quiet behind me. Maybe she was telling them to get ready for a fight. Not that I held out much hope of the faerie being able to handle the Black Guard. They were tricksters, not warriors. Or maybe Morgana was just taking odds on what particular tortures were in store for me once the Black Guard spirited me back to the Royals’ dungeons. I shuddered at that. One trip to the dungeons was bad enough. I didn’t care to experience a second visit. Not in this lifetime or any of the others that would come after it.

The Black Guard came down the hill and circled us. Anubis stopped near me and I nodded at him. He didn’t nod back. I didn’t know who the others were specifically, but it didn’t matter. They were all equally bad news in their own ways.

I shook my head at Morgana in case she was having suicidal thoughts about attacking. Then I turned my attention back to Marlowe as he clattered to a stop in front of me. Skeletons are a noisy lot when they move around. I doubted these were his original bones. Like I said earlier, even I didn’t know where all the pieces of Marlowe had been hidden. But as Frankenstein had proven, you don’t need the original pieces to make a body.

“So you’re working for the Royal Family again,” I said.

“I never stopped working for them,” he said. “I had some peace in death, where they mostly left me alone. But then you raised me and put me back in their thrall again. And now here we are.”

“So I have no one but myself to blame for this,” I said, nodding. The same as it ever was.

“I’m sure it’s just one regret in a lifetime of them,” Marlowe said. “I imagine you’ll forget it in a century or two.”

I doubted that but kept my thoughts to myself. Clearly, I had to be careful what I said around him now.

“I didn’t think the Royals would have this place under surveillance,” I told him. “To be honest, I’m surprised the Witches allowed it.”

Marlowe shrugged, which involved more clattering. “Where else would you go?” he asked. “It’s clear you need the Witches to solve your little problem, and yes, every theatre in the kingdom is now under surveillance. That left you with only one option.”

“It sounds like you know my thoughts better than I do,” I said.

Marlowe tilted his skull in a way that made me think he was smiling. Or maybe grimacing. “I’ve known you for centuries. We are more alike than you realize, you and I.”

I nodded my agreement. “It seems we’re both monstrosities that can’t ever truly be killed,” I said.

“If you carry on like this, you might hurt my feelings,” Marlowe said.

“I’ll try to remember that when I’m in the dungeon,” I said.

“Who said anything about dungeons?” Marlowe asked. “We are here to extend our hand in friendship.”

I turned to Morgana. “You see these guys too, right?” I said. “I’m not just hallucinating them? Because what he said doesn’t make any sense.”

Marlowe took a step closer and held up his bony palms, as if to show he meant no harm. Or maybe to order an attack. It’s hard to really read a skeleton’s body language.

“The Royal Family wishes to put past quarrels aside for the moment and help you in your journey,” Marlowe said.

I stared at him. Morgana stared at him. The faerie and fey stared at him.

“Splendid,” the Scholar said. “Let us proceed then and get out of this miserable weather before I start to grow mould.”

I gave him a look that deepened his scowl, then turned back to Marlowe.

“I have to confess I’m having trouble following this turn of events,” I said.

“I have no doubt of that,” Marlowe said, gazing out across the fields, which were almost entirely shrouded in mist now. “Perhaps it would make things clearer to remind you of how important Shakespeare is to the legacy and continued standing of England in the world. Obviously, any threat to Will’s works, such as a haunting, is a threat to England itself. And the Royal Family cannot abide that. They’re willing to bury the past to solve this problem.”

For once, I didn’t have a witty comeback.

“We’ll provide assistance in your mission,” Marlowe said, looking back at me. “Lead us to the ghost, and we will ensure it threatens no one ever again.”

I willed myself not to look at Amelia. I was relatively certain I hadn’t said anything to Marlowe about her, and I didn’t want him thinking she was anything more than just another of the faerie.

“I don’t imagine we can politely decline your offer of help?” I said, and Marlowe chuckled.

“Not politely or otherwise,” he said. “Although I don’t blame you for trying.”

I eyed the Black Guard once more. They showed no signs of being any less fierce or deadly for all the talk of friendship. Anubis bared his teeth at me. The yeti thing seemed to have grown ice spikes all over its body as we’d been speaking. The refugee from Easter Island curled his hands into fists, with the sound of grating rocks.

“So what happens once we’ve made sure the world is safe for Shakespeare again?” I asked. “You’ll just let me go on my merry way?”

Marlowe gave a rattling shrug. “Such decisions are not mine to make,” he said. “We are merely the stars’ tennis balls.”

“Struck and banded which way please them,” I said, finishing the line.

“Ah, Webster,” the Scholar sighed, like he was dreaming about a long-forgotten meal.

I nodded at Marlowe. He’d done me a favour in a way by not lying about what was to come. He could have told me all was forgiven with the Royals. He could have told me it would be live and let live from now on. But he’d always had more integrity than that. I had no doubt his orders were to bring me in to the dungeons once the ghost problem was solved. At least he wasn’t trying to hide that.

Well, one problem at a time.

“Let’s get on with it then,” I said. I didn’t want any more surprises.

“One more thing,” Marlowe said.

But of course there were always more surprises. Life wouldn’t be what it is without surprises.

“We’ve brought along a little insurance,” Marlowe said. “In case you attempt any trickery. Not that it’s in your nature, of course. But if you should try anything. . . .”

He turned to look back up the hill. As if on cue, another of the Black Guard appeared, this one a spider-like creature around the size of a car. Alice sat on its back, wearing a little girl’s dress and a top hat, and she waved at me. She wasn’t bound or otherwise visibly confined, but she didn’t look any too happy about the situation.

“She doesn’t have anything to do with this,” I told Marlowe.

“On the contrary,” he said. “She’s got everything to do with this. She’s a friend of yours, and I know you are loyal to your friends. It’s an admirable fault.”

“There’s really no reason to bring her along,” the Scholar muttered, glowering at Alice. “She knows nothing. Less than nothing, in fact. Her knowledge is a dreadful mix of mistakes and outright fabrications.” Like I said earlier, the Scholar and Alice don’t get along. They argue a lot about books, if such a thing can be imagined.

“She would not be terribly missed then if something were to happen to her,” Marlowe said, still looking at me. I didn’t say anything.

The Scholar snorted and folded his arms across his chest, and dust billowed out over us. To his credit, though, he didn’t agree with Marlowe. At least not audibly.

Marlowe offered his hand to me. “May you have a safe journey,” he said. “And failing that, an honourable death.”

I didn’t really have any other choice, so I shook his hand.

“Here’s to honourable deaths,” I said.

At that, Marlowe nodded and the Black Guard started killing the fey.