Dreams (Sarah Midnight Trilogy 1) (19 page)

Sarah pointed at her bag, resting on the armchair by the window.

Harry dug it out and put it on the bedside table, beside the sapphire and the dream diary.

“If you need me just send me a text or call me. I’ll be in the basement.”

Sarah didn’t have the energy to nod again, and she just looked at him with shiny, sickened eyes.

As soon as Harry left the room, Sarah fell asleep again. Again she prayed not to dream, but it didn’t work that way. The visions had no mercy; they didn’t care if she was sick or healthy.

The dream that the Feral had interrupted started again. Sarah tried to wake up, she tried to resist, but she couldn’t. She was standing among the stones again, and she felt as ill as she did in the real world. The wind against her cheeks and the wet grass under her feet were blissfully cold against her burning skin. Something was moving in the distance – a hooded figure, running towards her. Her heart started racing. She fell on her knees, trying in vain to get up again. The figure kept coming closer and closer … Until it was there, right in front of her. A lone raven landed beside her, and cawed.

Could it be …?

The hooded figure crouched in front of her, and took the hood off his face. It was Leaf. Sarah felt so relieved she threw her arms around his neck. He had a pungent smell, something that it took her a few seconds to recognize. Soil and moss and wood, and … smoke. Wood smoke.

“Darling Sarah,” he whispered, stroking her hair. “I came to warn you.”

She held on to him, as if to stop him from disappearing again. All her thoughts left her fevered mind, and she let herself go against his chest.

“Sarah, watch out!” shouted Leaf suddenly. Sarah jerked her head up, and felt dizzy for it. She saw a white creature in the distance, galloping towards them in huge strides.

The sapphire was singing, a wordless, impossibly high-pitched song.

Sarah opened her eyes, and whimpered. She was sore all over. With trembling hands, she looked for her mobile on the bedside table, grabbed it, and rang Harry.

As the phone was ringing, she dragged herself up. Shadow was pacing up and down, her tail dancing behind her in the hunting rhythm. As soon as Sarah opened the door, Shadow ran out, quick as lightning. Sarah followed her down the stairs, her legs shaking.

Harry … please let him be OK
…

“Harry!” she tried to call. She didn’t have to worry about breaking the spell now, but she had lost her voice. A rough, weak sound came out, too feeble to be heard from the basement.

“Sarah?” Harry appeared in the hall, his phone in hand. Sarah could have fainted from sheer relief.

“The sapphire sang!” she managed to whisper.

“Get the dagger,” he said calmly, taking out the
sgian-dubh
.

Sarah was about to turn around to get the dagger – she hadn’t thought of keeping it with her; the fever had made her confused, she couldn’t think straight – when she saw something white from the corner of her eye.

The demon that had attacked them earlier had come out of the kitchen, its white skin broken and encrusted with blood from the wounds that Harry had inflicted on it earlier.

How did it get in?
Sarah asked herself, confused. And then:
That’s it. This time it will kill me.
She felt her legs giving way, and she let herself slide to the floor. She looked at her hands, praying her power would work, even if she was so ill. She felt them warming up slowly, too slowly.

Harry stood in front of the Feral, tracing his symbols with the dagger and whispering secret words to himself. Sarah saw the demon shudder as Harry’s magic was starting to work, but Harry groaned softly and brought his hands to his head in pain. The spell was broken.

“Sarah, get the gun! On my bed,” he managed to cry out before the creature was on him, lifting him up as if he’d been a rag doll, and throwing him against the wall. The
sgian-dubh
had fallen out of his hand.

Sarah heard his words, but it took her a few seconds to process them. Her head was swimming, she felt disconnected from her body and the world around her – she could see stars already, she knew she wasn’t going to be standing for much longer … the sickness, together with the shock and exhaustion, was making her body shut down.

The gun. Get Harry’s gun.

She got up slowly and disappeared into the landing. For a second it looked like the Feral couldn’t decide whether to finish Harry off, or to follow Sarah. In that instant of indecision, Harry dragged himself to where his
sgian-dubh
was lying, and raised his hands again, trying to summon the strength to cast the spell. As it saw what was happening, the demon threw itself at Harry, with all its might. Harry used the dagger to shield himself. He knew it wasn’t going to be enough to stop it, but at least it’d slow the Feral down for a while. Harry tried to get its knee, but he missed, and stabbed its thigh instead. The demon screeched again, and black blood spurted from the wound. Harry tried to stab it again, but the demon grabbed his arms and lifted him up, holding him close so that they were face to face.

Harry looked into the Surari’s eyes – red, ancient, full of an anger that went beyond human comprehension. He readied himself to die.

“Sarah, run!” was the only thought that was left in his head, and the only thing he could say.

The Feral was about to break Harry’s neck, when a sudden noise, like a cork being popped, made it stop. It looked over its shoulder. Sarah was standing on top of the stairs with the gun pointed towards them. She had fired, and grazed the demon’s side. Her arms were shaking so badly that she could barely keep the gun up. The demon let Harry go, and Harry fell to the floor with a thud, feeling something crack.

My ankle. Shit, my ankle.

The Feral put its head up, and howled – a terrible, otherworldly howl that made Sarah’s and Harry’s skin crawl. Sarah raised the gun once more. She fired, and missed again.

“Sarah,” whispered Harry in despair. The dagger had fallen and disappeared out of sight. Harry knew that the demon’s next move would be to attack Sarah, and tried to drag himself up. His ankle gave way, and he fell again. He realized that all hope was gone. There was nothing he could do.

The demon jumped, one mighty, incredible jump that took it to the top of the stairs, and in front of Sarah.

I don’t want to die like this, like a lamb to the slaughter. I’m a Midnight.

She threw the gun away and raised her hands, like in a spell, or a curse. The demon hesitated, then threw itself at her. Sarah screamed in terror, forcing herself to keep her eyes open as the demon’s hands crowded over her face.

One split second later, it was all over.

Blackwater was dripping down the stairs.

Harry was standing in the hall, frozen.

Sarah was drenched, and unconscious.

Shadow ran to Sarah and started licking her face. Harry shook himself and limped up the stairs.

“Sarah … Sarah.” He took her wrist. Her heart was still beating.

She’s alive.

He cradled her for a few minutes, wondering had Sarah died, what would he have done? How could he have kept on fighting, in a world without her?

“You’re all I have,” he whispered, even if she couldn’t hear. It had become his mantra, something to pull him through all the deceit, something to help him go on.

Harry carried Sarah to her room, limping painfully, with Shadow circling them round and round, and put her on the bed, gently. She was burning, and she was drenched in that horrible blackwater, like the stuff you’d find at the bottom of some mossy, rotten well.

He went into the bathroom and wetted two towels. With one he washed her face, her arms, her legs, trying to erase every trace of the blackwater. Then he folded the other one four times, and placed it on her forehead to cool her down.

Sarah whimpered and curled up on her side.

She’s sleeping. Thank you … God? Whatever it is that kept her with me.

He sat beside her bed, to watch her while she was sleeping, to listen to her breathing like you would listen to a song.

“Mary Brennan’s demon is dead, but you haven’t won.”

A woman’s voice filled the room, and Harry jumped up, looking around. He saw that something was shining on Sarah’s bedside table. The sapphire was singing again.

Mary Brennan. The second-last name on the list.

Harry took the sapphire. How could it be? How could something speak through that stone? He considered washing it in salty water, like Sarah had done, to break the spell. But he stopped himself. He had to hear what it said, if the sapphire chose to speak again. He sat in Sarah’s armchair, holding the gem in his hands, waiting for Sarah to wake up. Shadow was on the windowsill, erect, alert. She didn’t like Harry being in Sarah’s room.

A low sound broke the silence, just a few guitar notes. Harry realized it was Sarah’s mobile, its screen shining blue on her bedside table.

A message. Harry didn’t hesitate to read it.

        For that hazelnut latte, call me. Jack.

In your dreams, mate
. He erased it, and felt ashamed at once.

He took her hand, and Sarah clung to it in her sleep, whispering something: his name. Harry leaned his head on the bed, and after a few minutes, he was asleep too.

I should have listened to the voice of danger

But I listened to the one of desire

Tonight my mind is burning. Tonight I feel like there’s a fire in my head, and it hurts like hell. How did they survive again? And why, why the order to send the demons one by one? I was given no reason for this, and it makes no sense to me. I have no choice but to do what He says, or He’ll just crush us all, and my revenge on the Midnights will never be complete.

We’re dancing a senseless dance with Sarah and her pretend-cousin. Sarah and I are playing a piece together, her cello and my piano fusing and melting in a melody of hate. A melody of love, a twisted love with no place to be.

I’m in so much pain. If I try to sleep, the visions from hell come at once. The price to pay for using the Dark Arts. I never thought it would be like this.

The instructions to my Valaya are clear: kill Sean, bring me Sarah. They keep failing. The Surari get slaughtered, and the humans die. Heart failure, strokes, whatever name you want to give to what happens to them after their demon dies: the fire in the brain. The fire that tortures me tonight.

Michael has started feeling strange already. His ears are ringing, little black lights are dancing in front of his eyes. He’s putting it down to stress. He’s planning to summon another Feral – it’ll take a long time, but it’ll be worth it, he thinks. He doesn’t know that the flames have started and that they’ll consume him soon, very, very soon. As for Mary, nothing yet. The little spark is there, right between her eyes, but she’s still to feel any symptoms.

Next out on this deadly dance is Sheila. Her Surari is stronger than Mary’s and Michael’s, I know I can count on it. I don’t know how Sarah and Sean managed to survive up to now – luck, or skill or even destiny, this blind cruel design that inflicts itself on us – but this time, it will be over for them.

Oh, how it burns. Every thought I think tonight is like being branded over and over again with a white-hot blade. Like some monstrous blacksmith working in my head.

Please let it be over soon, because there’s only hatred and pain left of me.

Morag hadn’t taught me for long, but I was good at witch-craft. Very, very good. It came naturally to me, like I was destined to do this. Morag had wondered many times if there was Secret blood in me, somewhere in my family history, because I took to magic like a seagull takes to the air.

Witchcraft is not about good and bad. The Dark Arts, White Magic, really the distinction is just a matter of naming something the way you want it to be. White Magic can kill; the Dark Arts can free you, so which is good and which is bad?

And anyway, good and bad didn’t really exist for me any more. I had been innocent and now I didn’t know what was right and what was wrong, and I didn’t care.

The night before I was set to leave the Islay mansion, I had slipped some books into my suitcase. I’d done it in despair, taking them from Morag’s desk at random, trying to keep something of them with me. I’d taken the books, and Morag’s knife, the one engraved with her name.

When I could bring myself to look at the books, a long, long time later, I realized that one of them was different from the others. I suppose I should say it was a big, black book with red letters burnt into its cover like wounds, but it wasn’t. The book that changed my life was anonymous looking, with a red fabric cover worn out by use, its pages thumbed over and over again – yes, the Midnight family had used the forbidden book a lot, it seemed.

The title was simply ‘Valaya’, the
ring
.

At the beginning, I wasn’t thinking about revenge. I could not think of James in those terms. I had contained my hatred and anger because I couldn’t bear the thought of hurting James, though he had hurt me so much.