Gallows at Twilight (7 page)

He had been kicking against the cupboard door for a full five minutes but it still refused to budge. Exhausted, Roland Grype tried another tack. He pointed a finger at the wood-work, mouthed a half-remembered spell, and hoped for the best.

A feeble stream of magic left Grype’s finger and limped its way to the door. It collapsed into the wood and, several seconds later, the door creaked open. Grype launched himself into the Great Hall, rolled onto his back and gulped down lungfuls of cool air. Embarrassment overwhelmed the witch and he clenched his fists in frustration. Trapped in a broom cupboard! Yet again, he had made a fool of himself. Mercifully, this time, there was no one around to see.

Having followed his master’s instructions, Grype had returned to Havlock Grange to find that Jacob Harker and his friends had smashed their way into the house. He had heard them moving about on the first floor, and had decided to shut himself up in the cupboard under the stairs. If the boy conjuror penetrated the skinwalker’s disguise, then Grype would be seen as the only thing that stood between him and Simon Lydgate. Well, he had seen Jacob in action—so forget that!

Hidden in the heat and darkness, Grype’s thoughts had flown back to that night a year ago when, in the hollow cavern of Crowden’s Sorrow, he had witnessed the boy’s power. He remembered the molten magic flying from Jake’s fingers, sealing the Door and conquering the Demontide. Soon after, Grype had fled in terror. He had been certain that Marcus Crowden, his master, would perish at the boy’s hand. And yet, a little time later, Crowden had found him cowering on the beach. He had forgiven Grype his cowardice and had allowed him to remain part of the Coven.

Throughout that conversation, Crowden had kept his head turned away from Grype, as if he hadn’t wanted his face to be seen. Ever since, he had worn a pair of dark glasses. And then there was Crowden’s voice—it was colder than before, somehow less human. Grype often thought of that voice that had called out from the demon world, and wondered: was this man that looked so much like Marcus Crowden really his old master?

There were other mysteries, too. What exactly was Simon Lydgate? Grype pictured the boy on the beach that night, standing at Crowden’s side, naked and trembling. He hadn’t seemed to know where he was—even
who
he was. Why had the Master kept him prisoner here at Havlock Grange for the past few weeks? He must be important, Grype decided, or else Jacob Harker and his friends would not have risked their lives to come looking for him. Grype knew that the boy possessed the ability to change into something monstrous, but although he had been Simon’s keeper, casting sleeping spells and feeding him scraps of food, he still did not know the true nature of the beast.

Mysteries, mysteries, and no one to explain them to so lowly a creature as Roland Grype.

Mr Hegarty, Grype’s vulture-like familiar, flew in through the open doorway. The demon-bird landed on Grype’s shoulder and squawked in his ear.

‘They have gone? Good.’ Grype stroked Hegarty’s beetle-infested plumage. The bird nudged him with its beak. ‘Yes, yes, don’t fret. I’ll make my report.’

The witch gathered up his courage and faced the staircase. His voice quivered like the plucked strings of a harp.

‘I summon you, most faithful demon of the Crowden family. Box of endless night, casket of torment, repository of nightmares—I call upon you to lead me to your master.’

Grype’s words echoed up the stairs and into the empty corners of Havlock Grange. For a long time nothing happened. The rain eased and the wind fell to whispering around the door. Through the hole in the roof, Grype could see the first watery streaks of dawn lighten the sky.

The air grew suddenly colder. Grype shivered as a block-ish shadow passed overhead. The swirling form of Crowden’s nightmare box swept into the hall and landed at the top of the stairs. Although he had summoned it, Grype took a step back. He had never been inside the cabinet himself, but he had seen the faces of unfortunate witches as they staggered out of it. He remembered the fearless Mother Inglethorpe— that powerful witch who had been killed by Dr Harker’s bullet—and how she had once been forced to endure ten minutes inside the box. Much as he had hated that woman, even Grype shuddered at the thought of her trapped inside the demon.

The door of the nightmare box creaked open.

Screaming voices cut the air. Whether they were the shrieks of souls imprisoned within the cabinet, or the voice of the box itself, Grype did not know. Terror clutched at his heart as the thing floated towards him.

The box stopped a few metres short of Grype. Its doors swung wide and a black cloud rose up from inside. In his panic, Grype staggered back, tripped and landed on the floor with a heavy thump. He watched the cloud twist upwards and spread out across the ceiling of the Great Hall. A harsh buzzing sound droned through the air, and Grype realized that the cloud was not a cloud at all. It was a swarm.

Mr Hegarty fluttered onto Grype’s shoulder. Together they watched as a human face grew out of the swarm, each feature made up of thousands of teeming insects. A mouth made of flies called down to the witch:

‘My faithful librarian.’

The voice was a little deeper perhaps, and sharpened by the buzz of the insects, but those were the almost musical tones of Marcus Crowden.

‘Master.’ Grype bowed. ‘I hope that your plans are progressing well.’

‘Very well indeed. Slowly but surely the threads are coming together. After this visit to Spain, I have only one more journey to make. But come now, give your report.’

Grype cleared his throat.

‘Jacob Harker and his friends arrived in Little Muchly earlier this evening, my Master. They entered the forest in the early hours, and soon after encountered the banshees. Once they had defeated the creatures, they smashed their way into the Grange. Jake Harker saw through the disguise of the skinwalker and killed the Navajo witch. He found Simon Lydgate and, with his friends, made his getaway.’

Fly-lips spread into a wide grin. Laughter boomed from the ceiling and a spray of tiny black bodies fell like spittle upon Roland Grype.

‘All as I predicted!’ the Master crowed. ‘I laid my subtle trap and the boy fell right into it.’

Grype nodded. ‘I placed the rotten apples around the trees. I arranged the white ash in the fireplace. As you predicted, he saw each of the clues—the hints that would guide him to overcome our “defences”.’

‘
Tiny
clues,’ the Master corrected. ‘If they had been too obvious he would have realized that we
wanted
him to rescue the boy. Oh, how the fool has played into our hands! We have seen his strength tested and we know what kind of friends he has at his command. Best of all, we now have our spy in place. After the trouble they went to in order to rescue him, they will never suspect the boy.’ The demon laughed again. ‘And Simon? He will not even suspect himself! But when the time is right, we will activate him.’

A whirlwind of flies swirled through the hole in the ceiling. The Master’s face fractured and broke apart, yet still his voice echoed around the chamber.

‘The time is at hand, Mr Grype. Very soon now our enemies will feel the might of demonkind unleashed!’

Chapter 6

Terror in the Tunnel

Too easy. Far too easy.

The thought nagged at Jake, even as the purr of the engine lulled him into troubled dreams …

Streetlight glare and the sound of car horns snatched Jake from his slumbers. Resting against his shoulder, Rachel shifted slightly and snuffled her nose. Jake looked onto the back seat. His dad was still unconscious, his crumpled grey skin looking more than ever like worn parchment. Beside him, Simon Lydgate whimpered in his sleep. What nightmares had Simon witnessed during these past weeks? Jake tried not to speculate—if Simon wanted to remember, then they would all find out soon enough. Jake’s father would see to that.

A thought struck Jake and he winced—his dad might see to it,
if
he lived long enough.

That had to be Jake’s mission now: to find a cure for Crowden’s hex. Of course, he had known that Adam was seriously ill, but he had never dreamed that the end could be so near. He had reckoned on his dad having a couple of years, and that in that time Pandora would find a cure. Now he knew the truth. Adam had a few weeks left to live. Jake’s mouth set into a hard line. Forget the Demon Father and his mysterious travels overseas; forget magical training and witches and demons. Nothing mattered now except saving his dad.

There
is
a cure
, he thought,
and I’m going to find it, whatever the cost.

The car swept in a wide circle. Jake glanced idly out of the window, blinked twice, and turned to the driver.

‘Erm … do you mind telling me what the hell’s going on?’

Pandora frowned into the rear-view mirror. She had two hands wrapped loosely around the steering wheel and the other six tucked inside her clothes, just in case a passing motorist happened to glance over and see an eight-armed lady driving merrily around town.

‘Did you mean to speak to me in that tone, kiddo?’ she asked. ‘Or are you always as prickly as a porcupine’s butt in the mornin’s? This was your daddy’s idea. Said that if, by some miracle, we managed to save your half-beast buddy, then there was no way you could
ever
go back home. The Demon Father would be on you faster’n flies on fudge.’

‘Then where are we heading?’

‘A favourite ol’ haunt of mine.’

The bright brow of dawn peeped over London rooftops. Startled by the sudden light, the pigeons in Trafalgar Square scattered, regrouped in midair, and swooped back down into the plaza. Commuters emerged blinking from the underground station like a pack of well-dressed moles. Eager tourists consulted maps and guides, posed for photos and generally got in everybody’s way. Perched on his column high above the commotion, Admiral Nelson seemed to follow the path of Dr Harker’s Volkswagen as it reached the south side of the square.

Pandora turned left onto a broad avenue lined with important-looking buildings and statues of men on horseback. Jake immediately recognized the road from news reports: this was Whitehall, the heart of the British government. Some of the most important people in the country worked behind these grand, imposing walls.

Tucked into a corner of Whitehall was a humble little side street with a row of dull, dark-brick houses halfway along. This apparently unremarkable place was Downing Street, and at Number 10 the British Prime Minister was still settling into her new job. Cynthia Croft had been in office only a month. As they passed the gated entrance to Downing Street, Jake wondered how much the government and Miss Croft knew about the evil that lurked in this land. Did the authorities of the world have any idea about demons and witches?

At the end of Whitehall, Pandora turned onto Westminster Bridge. They crossed the River Thames and Jake saw the reflection of the Houses of Parliament rippling in the murky water. He thought back to that time when he had flown over this river on the back of an enchanted snake.

‘You’re taking us
there
, aren’t you?’ he said.

Pandora didn’t answer. The car reached the east side of the bridge and, between a clutter of half-finished buildings, Jake glimpsed the glass and steel bulk of Waterloo Station. From there a dozen winding routes led them into the back alleys of the South Bank.

‘We’re here.’

Pandora pulled over and slipped out of the driver’s seat. Jake joined her on the pavement. It was a London street like any other—the bustle of traffic, the sting of fumes, snatches of overheard conversation. The commuters hurrying towards Waterloo gave Jake and Pandora only cursory glances. Certainly no one looked beyond the Volkswagen and down the alley that joined up with the street.

Jake ran fingers through his long hair, breathed deeply, and stepped into the alley. All at once the busy atmosphere of the outside world fell away and a chilling silence wrapped itself around him. He looked up at the sign bolted to the wall:

This was the last place on earth he wanted to be: the little London street that appeared on no maps and that reality seemed to shun. Jake had not been back since the night he had faced Marcus Crowden. The night his father had sustained that dreadful wound. Sensing Pandora at his side, he said, ‘Why have you brought us here?’

‘It’s the safest place for you right now. There are many dark creatures in these parts that are loyal to your father.’

Jake eyed the dripping walls, the filthy windows. The prospect of hiding out in one of these houses wasn’t very appealing.

They went back to the car and woke Rachel. Yaga Passage was too narrow for the Volkswagen, and so Jake fed coins into a parking meter and slapped a ticket on the inside of the windscreen. He and Rachel then started to lift the still unconscious Adam out of the back seat.

‘We’ll leave your dad and Simon here for the time being,’ Pandora instructed. ‘I’ve given them both a sedative so they should sleep a while yet.’ She checked each of the watches strapped to her eight wrists. ‘New York; Tokyo; Rome; Cairo; Lafitte, Louisiana—always gotta know the time back home, my momma hates it if I call in the middle of the night. She starts feeding the swamp hatchlings at around midnight and … ’ A quick shake of the head. ‘Don’t ask … London! 6:50 a.m. We’ve got ten minutes before Razor shuts up shop.’