The Heart of Two Worlds (8 page)

A
WINDING FOOTPATH CROSSED THE MOOR TO THE HOUSE
in the middle of the island. With Pavel and the Ink Dragon providing an air escort, the Runaways exchanged glances. Conflicting feelings of impatience and anxiety were etched on their faces, but they couldn’t turn back now…

The Runaways quietly separated into three pre-planned groups: Baba Pollock took Oksa’s hand and they stood in front, flanked by Reminiscens and Abakum, with Olof and Zoe behind, followed by the Lunatrixes, Incompetents and Getorixes. The Squoracles curled up snugly in the pockets of Dragomira’s long wool jacket, while the Ptitchkins settled down in the tiny gold cage she wore around her neck as a pendant. The second group, comprising the stronger members of the group—the Knuts, Pierre, Cockerell and Feng Li—raced across the moor like a pack of wolves and quickly disappeared behind the house. It had been decided that the Outsiders would wait inside the small chapel in relative safety, protected by the Fortenskys, Jeanne, Bodkin, Helena and Tugdual, who was seething in sullen silence at being put in this group. Hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans, he fumed at his mother’s side until, unable to bear it any longer, he eventually broke ranks to join the first group, ignoring Dragomira’s disapproving look. Abakum turned to look at Helena, who nodded in answer to his silent question, and Tugdual officially took his place behind the Young Gracious.

“We’ll be OK now,” Gus couldn’t help muttering. “Zorro’s in pole position.”

“He might make himself useful, you know,” remarked his mother.

“You’re probably right,” sighed Gus.

“Let’s go!”

The two groups set off resolutely. The bright moon bathed the countryside in a strange milky light.

“They’ll see us coming!” cried Oksa in alarm.

“It doesn’t matter, Dushka. Orthon and his friends would know we were here, even if we were under cover of impenetrable darkness.”

“That’s so annoying!”

Oksa looked up for reassurance: her father had deployed his Ink Dragon and was gliding through the sky. She waved at him, then focused again on the footpath and the house. All the windows were dark, but they knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that behind each one stood a Felon watching the Runaways’ approach.

“It’s so annoying,” repeated Oksa.

Dragomira squeezed her hand tighter. What else could they do? The Runaways were fulfilling their destiny and they’d burnt all their bridges. Suddenly a smothered cry made everyone look round. Gus was bending over, his hands clamped over his ears, clearly in unbearable pain.

“Look!” exclaimed Tugdual, pointing at the sky.

A flock of birds was hovering above them, silhouetted against the moon. Pavel cautiously flew closer, skirting the fluttering creatures, and banked back to cover his friends with his massive wings.

“They aren’t birds!” he hissed. “They’re Death’s Head Chiropterans!”

Struggling against feelings of panic, the Runaways immediately formed a defensive wall, bristling with Granok-Shooters. But the swarm of Chiropterans overhead didn’t move. Hundreds of tiny red eyes gleamed in the semi-darkness, testing the Runaways’ nerve.

“There are so many of them!” exclaimed Oksa. “We’ll never survive if they attack.”

“They won’t attack,” said Abakum. “Orthon just wants to give us a bit of a fright.”

“You’re right,” agreed Dragomira. “It’s not in his interest to attack now. We have nothing to fear.”

“Those birds look a bit under the weather,” remarked Abakum’s Incompetent. “Have you seen how bloodshot their eyes are?”

“You’re right, Incompetent!” retorted one of the Getorixes. “They’re suffering from a bad bout of conjunctivitis.”

“Oh, poor things,” the Incompetent remarked sympathetically with disarming sincerity. “I’ve heard that cornflower water can work wonders for that…”

“The Fairyman has produced the gift of words sated with truthfulness,” broke in Dragomira’s Lunatrix. “The Runaways can fill their hearts with relief: the Death’s Head Chiropterans have no premeditated belligerent intent.”

“Hmm… they’re not exactly out-and-out pacifists either,” objected the Getorix, hopping up and down.

Feeling a little more reassured, the Runaways set off again, keeping a wary eye on the droning swarm of glittering red eyes above. Gus seemed to be getting worse as he trailed behind the group in front. Supported by Jeanne and Galina, he was struggling to keep going.

“I feel so dizzy,” he groaned. “My head’s… spinning… It’s unbearable…”

Oksa suddenly found herself thinking back to the time when Gus had been bitten by one of those vile insects during the hot-air balloon battle between Orthon and Leomido the year before. She cast around in her memory—Leomido had said. “
Gus was injured, but the bite is superficial. Dragomira has done what was necessary and he’s out of danger.” “What about after-effects?
” Naftali had gone on to ask. “
Chiropterans are extremely—
” But Leomido had interrupted him, saying, “
Let’s not complicate matters for no reason
.”

Oksa rubbed her face, putting two and two together. Feeling horrified, she stopped dead in her tracks.

“What’s wrong, Dushka?” asked Dragomira softly.

Oksa started walking again, holding on tightly to her gran’s hand.

“Baba, answer me honestly, please,” she whispered. “Is Gus sick because of the Chiropterans?”

“Yes,” admitted Dragomira, after a brief hesitation. “The Chiropteran bite has remained inactive for months, but the poison seemed to start spreading through his veins as we drew closer to the island.”

“That’s terrible!” said Oksa in a choked voice. “Does being near the Chiropterans make the pain worse?”

“Yes, in a manner of speaking.”

“Then we’ve got to get him away from here! Why would we make him go closer to creatures which are causing him such agonizing pain?”

“We don’t have a choice,” whispered Dragomira. “The Chiropterans are merely speeding up an irreversible process that began as soon as Gus was bitten. He has to come with us.”

Oksa felt tears fill her eyes. Her nose prickled and her breath came faster.

“What do you mean an irreversible process?” she asked, sounding choked. “Is?—”

“Orthon has an antidote,” said Dragomira, interrupting her.

“ORTHON?”

“He knows more about the Death’s Head Chiropterans than anyone. Reminiscens is sure of that: he knows how to tame them, command them and turn them into formidable weapons of war. He can use them and, crucially, he can counter the effects of their bite.”

“You mean we’re relying on him to save Gus?”

“That’s exactly what I mean, Dushka… Unfortunately.”

This time, Oksa couldn’t hold back her tears. She felt as if her heart were breaking.

“We’ll sort this out, I promise,” said Dragomira, squeezing her hand even tighter.

“No matter what,” added Reminiscens, pressing her shoulder. “You have my word too.”

Oksa wiped her tear-stained cheeks before turning to look at Gus again.

“My head’s spinning…” he groaned. “I can’t bear it…”

In the white light of the moon, Gus looked very weak. Oksa signalled to him encouragingly.

“Hang in there, Gus!” she called.

Although the second group was about to reach the chapel, Gus nodded to show he’d got the message. He staggered inside, with the baby Lunatrix trotting behind him, and Oksa glanced away to hide her anxiety. She eyed the Chiropterans warily; then, taking a deep breath, she let herself be led away by Dragomira and Abakum, who’d started walking again at a vigorous pace. They had to be quick. For Gus. For Marie. For the two worlds. This was no time to start having doubts. Tugdual had said as much a few days ago. She sensed him behind her, on her left, so she glanced back at him. His pale, impassive face was even more disconcerting than usual. He seemed to be looking at her, but the hair falling over his eyes stopped Oksa from reading the expression in them. Suddenly Dragomira and Reminiscens stopped. Oksa’s blood froze and her heart pounded: the Felons’ house was just a few yards away. It looked enormous, silent and threatening. Dragomira murmured a few words to her Tumble-Bawler, which immediately took off from its mistress’s shoulder to return a few seconds later with some priceless information.

“Just behind the eight-foot-high front door is a hall twenty feet long and twelve and a half feet wide,” it informed them, rocking back and forth on its rear. “A double door on the left leads into a 947-square-foot living room, divided into two equal parts. Another door on the right opens into a 452-square-foot kitchen. At the end of the hall, a five-foot-wide staircase with twenty-two seven-inch steps leads up to the first floor. Under the stairs, a six-foot door leads down into the basement. This door is concealed by a
trompe l’oeil
design and opened by a clever hydraulic system hidden in the ironwork of the banister.”

“Excellent work, Tumble,” said Dragomira, patting its small head in thanks. “And… did you detect any human beings?” she continued, her voice trembling.

“There are twenty-eight people on the premises,” informed the Tumble-Bawler. “Nineteen Felons, six of whom are Werewalls ejected from Edefia and thirteen of whom are direct descendants, plus nine Outsiders. Without counting the Young Gracious’s mother.”

Oksa felt a surge of anger at the mention of her mother. Pavel, whose Ink Dragon had reverted to a harmless tattoo, hugged her, then raced off to join his friends behind the house. Oksa straightened up, looking fierce, and Dragomira began walking towards the sinister house.

“It’s time to meet our destiny,” she murmured.

A
FLICKERING LIGHT WAS SPILLING OUT PAST THE DARK
wooden door, which was slightly ajar. Dragomira walked up to the house, followed by the six other valiant members of this vanguard. Abakum kept Oksa by his side, escorted by the Incompetent and Dragomira’s resourceful Lunatrix. Dragomira pushed open the heavy door with a loud creak, to reveal the large hall described by the Tumble-Bawler.

Wall-mounted glass candle globes bathed the room in a shifting radiance that was vaguely unsettling and the crystal pendants of the ceiling chandelier glittered in the candlelight. The draught from the opening door caused this ornate central light to tinkle and sway, covering the walls with myriad glints. On the parquet floor, darkened by the passage of years and the salty island air, they could make out a lighter geometric pattern which looked strangely familiar: it was the eight-branched star that was the symbol of Edefia—the Mark around Oksa’s belly button. She rested her hand on her stomach, feeling emotional. She knew how important the star was—she’d understood its significance and all it implied, but seeing such a large representation of it on the floor reminded her of the power she’d inherited. She, Oksa Pollock, an ordinary fourteen-year-old girl, who loved rollerblading and pop rock, had an extraordinary destiny… She was here in the middle of this hall in this house on this island. At the centre of the world. She took a deep breath and lifted her
head high. Deep down, and for the first time, she really felt that she was the Heart of Two Worlds.

The Runaways cautiously filed into the hall. Despite their apprehension, they wanted to confront their enemies and fellow Insiders. Senses alert, they took out their Granok-Shooters to give them courage and instinctively closed ranks. Oksa looked around warily, unsure what to do if a Felon suddenly appeared. Suddenly, they saw a backlit figure at the top of the monumental staircase. Its shadow stretched to Dragomira’s feet and she stiffened. The elegant, regal figure slowly descended the steps, followed by two other, larger silhouettes. When they reached the middle of the staircase, the light from the candles finally illuminated their faces.

“Good evening, Dragomira… Good evening, Young Gracious,” rang out a female voice that some of them recognized instantly. “You’ve come well protected, I see!”

“Good evening, Mercedica,” replied Dragomira, suppressing a sudden surge of rage. “Allow me to return the compliment,” she added, staring at the two young men beside her.

“Why, thank you,” replied the haughty Spanish woman wryly. “Delighted to meet you at last, Reminiscens,” she added suddenly. “After all these years… I imagine you’ve recognized your nephews, haven’t you?”

Oksa felt Reminiscens flinch. Mercedica hadn’t lost any time in opening hostilities… Reminiscens was more robust than she looked, though; she glared icily at the trio.

“Mortimer and Gregor, your twin brother’s sons!” said Mercedica, looking pleased as punch.

The two young men’s mocking smiles were immediately wiped from their faces by Reminiscens’ retort.

“For your information, Mercedica, I feel as much sense of kinship
with the young men you call my ‘nephews’ as this crumpled paper handkerchief in my pocket.”

With this, she pulled out the handkerchief and walked over to the nearest candle sconce. There was a stunned silence as the handkerchief burst into flames. Reminiscens let it fall to the floor and crushed the burning fragments under her heel.

“Blood ties are stronger than some tatty handkerchief, my dear Reminiscens,” sneered Mercedica with a forced smile. “Still, we’ll have time to talk about all that later,” she continued, descending the last few steps. “Do come in!”

Flanked by Gregor and Mortimer, she walked over to the double doors on the left and flung them open. There, in deathly silence, stood all the Felons who’d rallied to Orthon’s cause, their eyes fixed on the Runaways.

Dragomira entered the huge living room, flanked by Oksa, Reminiscens and Abakum. The room was thickly carpeted and lit by the wavering light of oil lamps mounted on the polished sandstone walls. There were a number of worn leather armchairs arranged in a semicircle around an enormous hearth where a fire was burning merrily, while others were grouped separately around hammered metal coffee tables. The wall at the end of the room was entirely covered with bookshelves filled with shabby antique books. The luxurious setting would have been welcoming, were it not for the incredibly tense atmosphere.

Although discomfited, the Runaways were probably no more intimidated than the Felons who, despite their grim expressions, couldn’t conceal their confusion at coming face to face with four people whose illustrious reputation had preceded them: two Graciouses, the twin sister of their leader, Orthon, and the powerful Fairyman. The creatures and the Runaways, whom they couldn’t see but whose presence they could sense outside the house, also urged caution. Abakum, Dragomira and Reminiscens couldn’t help feeling emotional at the sight of the faces before them. Some of them still looked incredibly familiar, more than fifty years after leaving Edefia. As a result, even though they’d known
they’d see them on the island sooner or later, Edefia’s “Elders” couldn’t help feeling a little ambivalent about recognizing Lukas, the talented mineralogist, and Agafon, the former Memorarian—custodian of the Gracious Archives. None of the Insiders could have claimed they were completely prepared for this showdown in the flesh.

“Won’t you sit down?” suggested Mercedica, waving a beringed hand at several sofas against the wall.

None of the seven Runaways moved. They were too busy examining the others. Oksa noticed that Mortimer couldn’t take his eyes off Zoe. He’d changed so much! He’d lost his excess body weight and looked thinner, yet stronger. Turning to look encouragingly at her cousin, Oksa was surprised to see that Zoe was glaring defiantly at Mortimer with her arms firmly crossed. Oksa transferred her gaze to the other teenager, who looked as though he had to be related to Orthon: lean frame, black eyes and rigid bearing. “That must be Gregor,” thought the Young Gracious, studying his hard face. “He was the one who’d dared to raise a hand to Baba and who’d stolen the Medallion and the Goranov! What a lowlife.”

It was Dragomira who finally broke the stand-off. She strode over to Mercedica with a fierce expression in her eyes. The Felons looked uneasy, and several of them took up defensive stances, ready to fight. In a tight crimson wrap-over top, with expensive jewellery dripping from her neck and hands, traitorous Mercedica seemed amused by the situation and was smiling nastily. At her side, her daughter Catarina eyed the Runaways contemptuously.

“This is not a social visit,” said the Old Gracious eventually. “Where is Orthon? I expect he’s holed up somewhere, isn’t he?”

“All in good time!” taunted Mercedica. “But, tell me, are there only seven of you? Did your friends get cold feet and turn back?”

There were a few sniggers and scornful sneers. Dragomira didn’t bother to answer. Oksa was the one who replied.

“You watched us arrive!” she said, her voice shaking. “You know very well that we outnumber you!”

“My dear Oksa,” sighed Mercedica, looking amused. “There may be a lot of you, but there isn’t always strength in numbers…”

Suddenly there was a commotion in the hall and the door was flung open. A hideous creature burst into the living room, bellowing raucously.

“GRRR! The decrepit old shrew and her degenerate descendants! Why don’t you all eat dung and die!”

“Fantastic! That’s all we need,” huffed Dragomira, recognizing the Abominari.

The slimy, bony creature launched itself at her, twisted claws outstretched. Dragomira put up her hand and a thin projectile of light shot from the centre of her palm to strike the Abominari head on, hurling it against the metal fireguard. It fell over backwards, its shoulder smoking, then dashed at her again, growling more with rage than pain.

“I’ll disembowel you and wear your decaying guts as a stinking necklace, you scraggy hyena!”

This time Mercedica blocked its way, catching hold of the sticky limb which served as an arm. The Abominari struggled to free itself.

“I see it’s just as charming as ever,” scoffed Dragomira.

“Shut your putrid cakehole, vile harpy!” snarled the Abominari.

“You do not possess the right to make voicing of uncouthness in the direction of my Old Gracious!” objected the Lunatrix, who had turned completely translucent with anger.

“I possess the right to do whatever I want, pig-faced slave!”

Angrily, Oksa performed a Magnetus and the paper-knife on a desk in the corner of the room suddenly thudded between the creature’s three gnarled toes, almost severing one.

“Daughter of a sow!” yelled the Abominari.

“Hey! I’ve had enough of this!” shouted Oksa, losing her temper.

That horrible creature had gone too far. Noticing a basket filled with wood by the fireplace, Oksa concentrated hard. A second later, a massive log dropped onto the Abominari’s head and the creature staggered, then collapsed on the floor with a disgusting sucking noise.

“Tut tut tut, my friends! Is this any way to celebrate a reunion which is such an… unlooked-for pleasure?” boomed a man’s voice.

The Runaways froze—they’d have recognized that voice anywhere. They stood in silence as the man walked through the wall and threaded his way between the Felons to stand in front of Dragomira.

“Good evening, Dragomira,” he said, with a slight bow. “Or should I say: Good evening, dear sister.”