The Skeleton Key (10 page)

I tried to imagine betting on whether or not I could raise a demon. I couldn't.

‘Bokim was a particularly powerful Dark Being. Chian­cungi waited until the ideal hour and he performed all of his usual ceremonies, in a deep cave chosen for its supernatural power. He draped the cave in black and made the traditional safe circle for himself and his assistant, who happened to be his sister, Napula. But after several hours of the ceremony, when Bokim did not manifest, he grew tired and impatient. Eventually they stepped outside the safety of the sacred circle, not realising that the spirit of Bokim had been summoned but could not yet be seen by human eyes.'

My eyes widened.

‘Bokim seized them and crushed them to death.'

I swallowed.

‘To answer your other question, the summoning of demons and other spirits is usually done to gain knowledge, or in an attempt to gain some kind of other power, though Chiancungi was particularly foolish to use it for a bet. Necromancy of this kind is a form of slavery, and when spirits are forced into submission, made manifest against their will and required to speak and give up their secrets, it makes them resentful and angry.'

I could understand that.

‘It is unwise to use such a power unless it is absolutely necessary.'

I nodded. ‘You told me Dr Barrett was thought to have been dabbling in necromancy before his death?'

‘It was rumoured, yes.'

‘Could this be . . . related somehow?' I asked.

‘Undoubtedly,' my great-aunt said. ‘Undoubtedly.'

Then she leaned forward and caught my eye with as intense and striking a gaze as I had ever seen from her.

‘There is someone here, Pandora. Beware this necro­mancer.'

I swallowed.

‘Who? Who is here?'

‘I'm afraid time will tell. And probably soon,' she said, not very reassuringly. ‘Now, you look exhausted, darling,' she said, sitting back. ‘You've had a big day and you should get some rest. Tomorrow is also a big day for you. You should try to sleep in. You need to rest while you can.'

I wasn't sure what she meant but it sounded a bit ominous.

‘The party is tomorrow,' she reminded me.

I felt the sweet, milky tea working through my muscles and nerves, calming me. ‘Of course,' I said. It was the weekend now. I could finally catch up on my sleep. ‘Well, I suppose I should get to bed.'

Though I wondered how I would sleep when the image of Lieutenant Luke's glowing green eyes still burned in my mind.

W
hen I woke on Saturday I was sure I'd suffered terrible nightmares. I rose from my bed, feeling the dead clinging to me. I washed my face with cold water and stared down at my reflection, seeing fear and worry in my amber eyes.

Luke, what has happened to you?

Celia had once explained that dreams can be very revealing, and that some dreams can even act as important premonitions, but if that were true of these nightmares, I did not want to know what the future held.

It felt far too bleak.

It took me until late afternoon to finally get my courage up. I wasn't going to tiptoe around Spektor like a coward. I was the Seventh. I had to try to fix whatever had happened to Luke and find out what was going on in my new hometown. (If town was the right word.)

With plenty of time before I had to get ready for the party, I entered the locked antechamber in the penthouse. The sun had not yet gone down, so it was as safe a time as any. Still, I walked in carrying the battery-operated torch and Luke's sword, ready for anything. I would return to the discovery I'd made with my possessed friend the night before. I felt it had to offer more clues.

Hopefully those clues would not involve Luke lunging at me again.

The antechamber was dark and I heard no movement as I entered. The candles were not lit, though the faint scent of incense lingered. Celia did not seem to be up yet.

It felt strange to kneel on the floor and
voluntarily
open a coffin. Nothing good can generally come from opening a coffin. But this one was different, of course. I lifted the lid and shone the torchlight down the stone steps and I realised that I couldn't be sure if the Sanguine were unable to wake during the day, in the shelter of these cold, windowless corridors. I would put nothing past them. Or this house. I had the sword at least, and I wasn't afraid to use it.

I needed all the protection I could get.

Breathing slowly and evenly, I climbed down the narrow steps and into the stone passageway, my torch in one hand and the heavy sword in the other. Above me, the twisting stairwell led up to the roof of the mansion. But below – that was where I needed to go. Again, the old wrought-iron torches were lit in the cold stairwell, the open flames dancing orange and crimson. They seemed to always be burning, and, oddly, there was a faint smell of sulphur that became stronger the deeper I descended. I took the steps slowly, listening for movement and holding the sword in front of me, the sharp tip ready. Negotiating that cleverly hidden corridor, which only became visible in the low light when I stood at the right angle, I finally arrived in the basement. On the threshold of Barrett's fascinating abandoned laboratory, I pulled out the skeleton key.

Then I hesitated.

No.

I looked at the wooden door and then at the old key in my hand and felt a strong urge to turn back. Every fibre of my being was possessed with dread.
Go. Leave here, Pandora.
It was like the feeling I'd had in the corridor when my torch had gone out, everything telling me to turn back. I found myself pocketing the key, barely in control of my choice to do so. I did not even try the handle of the door.

My enthusiasm for exploration seemed, for the moment, to be utterly snuffed out, and a formidable fear and self-doubt had taken its place. I grabbed the sword and torch and climbed the stairs back to the safety of Celia's penthouse, feeling like a coward.

I took my time getting ready for the society party I had to cover for
Pandora
. When I was anxious I tended to take too long to decide what to wear, yet I knew that on this occasion it was more than that. I was aware of doing something normal, something people did every day.

This was a distraction.

When I was finally ready I stepped out into the lounge room, where Great-Aunt Celia and Freyja were waiting.

‘What do you think?' I asked and did a little spin.

For tonight's work event I'd chosen a black and white vintage 1940s dress, with a crossover shape at the bust and a fitted waist, the silky, pleated fabric falling elegantly to the knee. It billowed out a bit when I did my spin. I was wearing the dress with the pair of vintage Mary Jane heels Celia had given me. They were ruby red, with a cute little strap across the instep. They seemed almost magical with all the adventures I'd imagined they'd seen. I'd worn them on my first date with Jay, I now recalled – the one where everything seemed to be going so well, before it became all too clear I could never have a boyfriend like normal girls did.

And now my beautiful but not so normal date had turned into a literal green-eyed monster. I just couldn't win.

‘Don't worry,' Celia assured me, reading my mind, or at least my expression.

True, I did feel a bit anxious, and not only about the situation with Lieutenant Luke. Swish social gatherings for celebrities and fashion types were not my natural habitat, to say the least. I'd not even been to a lot of parties in Gretchenville, let alone anything like a society party on Park Avenue.

My great-aunt stood with one hand on her hip, giving me the kind of appraisal one might expect from a designer, her eyes moving over each detail of the outfit with a kind of quick, technical precision. ‘You look wonderful,' she finally announced to my relief. ‘It suits you very well. What is the dress code for the party?'

Pepper hadn't mentioned a dress code, I now realised. ‘Cocktail, I think. Thank you for lending me this, Great-Aunt Celia. It's a really pretty dress,' I said, complimenting her design. I adjusted the tailored sleeves, which had small pleats and closed with neat double buttons just above the elbows. ‘It was probably for some really glamorous movie star. Do you think it's all right on me?' I asked, though I was really thinking,
Am I pretty enough for it?

‘Pretty? Who needs pretty?' Celia shot back. ‘Pretty can be fun, but it is optional, darling. If it fits and you feel good in it, that is the real currency. And you look stylish, which is much more timeless and interesting than mere prettiness. The people you work for value style. Was Diana Vreeland pretty? Was Coco Chanel pretty?'

She was right.

‘They were smart and driven women. They were certainly stylish, but pretty? No.' She looked me over. ‘You do happen to be pretty whether or not you know it, but the point is, you don't have to be. It's not about that. Though I do think this outfit could benefit from a touch of red to match the shoes.'

‘Oh, yes, of course,' I said, straightening up. I had forgotten to put on any lipstick.

My great-aunt walked off towards her end of the pent­house and I found myself in the lounge room alone.

Okay.

I wanted to look right for the event, so maybe I should do as Celia suggested? It's true I still wasn't very good at blending in with the fashion crowd. On the dresser in my room I had a bit of makeup, so I went back and fished around for a red lipstick. I put it on carefully. I did not have the deft hand for it that my great-aunt did. She seemed to be able to apply her own makeup without even looking. Once I'd blotted my lips with a tissue I had a look. It did seem to work with the 1940s dress. Back then women seemed never to leave the house without ruby lips. I guess Celia was right. It was an evening event, after all.

I stepped out of my room and closed the door. Celia was back in the lounge room and she had a midnight-blue velvet box in her hands.

‘I've got something for you to borrow,' she said and unclipped the little lock on the jewellery box. She opened it and I found myself staring at a stunning pendant on a thin white gold chain.

‘Is that . . . a ruby?' The stone was square cut, with a little diamond set on the edge of each corner, surrounded by a thin and delicate swirling motif.

My great-aunt nodded. ‘I bought this for myself after winning my first big contract to design the costumes for a Rita Hayworth movie.'

‘Rita Hayworth? Wow. Oh, Celia, it is so special. You can't let me borrow this.'

‘But I must. It will look wonderful on you. And there's no use letting it sit in a drawer.' She pushed it towards me. ‘Go on.'

I reached into the box and picked up the necklace by the chain, admiring the way the ruby shone as the light hit it.

‘I'll help you,' my great-aunt said. She took it from me and did up the clasp behind my neck while I held my hair up. When I let my hair down, the pendant fell into position just above the decolletage.

‘Perfect.'

‘Are you sure? This must be very valuable.'

‘I'm sure,' she said, and put a cool, reassuring hand on my shoulder. ‘It suits you.'

I nodded and held the stone against my chest. ‘Thank you. I promise I will take good care of it.'

‘I hope that you have a wonderful time,' she said. ‘Vlad is waiting, when you are ready.'

Naturally, she had insisted that I use her chauffeur and, as it was pretty impossible to get taxis in Spektor because the place simply didn't exist on maps, it didn't seem the time to refuse her offer. I certainly had no intention of walking to Park Avenue in these shoes.

‘Thanks, Great-Aunt Celia,' I said, and waved goodbye with a lump in my throat.

It didn't take too long to get to Park Avenue, with Vlad at the wheel. As we neared the address Pepper had given me, I spotted a red carpet ahead and the strobes of camera flashes lighting up the night. So the event was already in full swing. Good thing I'd arrived when I did. If I'd missed any of the important guests I'd be in trouble. Pepper had given me the names of guests she wanted photographed but very few other details. Interestingly it appeared to be a house party. For some reason that surprised me.

The car stopped at the kerb just beyond the red carpet and Vlad opened his door.

‘No! Please don't,' I protested, but he was already out and coming around to my side to open the back door. As soon as it opened the sounds of the party spilled into the car – live music and the din of chatter and clinking glasses. I readied myself and stepped out onto the footpath to see a uniformed valet. Perhaps he'd intended to open the door for me, but instead he stood rigidly regarding Vlad with what looked like thinly veiled fear. He said nothing. Vlad closed the door and stood stoically next to Celia's car, expressionless in his dark sunglasses, while I made my way to the steps leading up into the house.

Oops.

I had wanted to make a subtle entrance without anyone noticing the strangeness of my driver, but never mind. At least no one had taken any photos. Vlad would be waiting for me when I needed to leave. I didn't have a number to call him but somehow I gathered that wouldn't matter. He seemed to spend his time waiting. He was nothing if not dedicated to Celia's commands.

The mansion was four storeys tall and took up one corner on Park Avenue. It was quite unlike any home I had been invited to. Surely it had to be the biggest freestanding house in Manhattan, not counting Celia's mansion in Spektor? Celia's place was strangely beautiful in its way, of course, but though this early 1900s home had been built in a similar era it was something else entirely. Far from being cobwebbed and aged, with boarded-up windows and a sense of strange magick, every bit of stonework here was bright and smooth, and the interior was lit up, the windows glowing, each room filled with stylish somebodies. A great deal of money and restoration had been put into it over the years.