Obsidian Mirror (22 page)

She tugged off her coat in a shower of snow. “A man and a wolf,” she said.

Venn walked to the window, looking down. “Call me insane. I am insane. But only the device has kept me alive. We all caught David’s enthusiasm, and we worked like slaves on it. But there were so many setbacks. Losing David was the worst.”

He turned, his eyes palest blue. “And yet it worked—
it worked
—even though it cost me my only friend to find that out. A cruel exchange. But now…You’ve
seen the damage. Now it’s over. And all hope with it.” He looked at the pistol; but she put her hand on it firmly.

“Don’t give up. Don’t stop.”

“I told you, it’s over.”

“You’ll succeed. I promise you.” It was clear to her, quite suddenly, that she had to keep him alive.

Her own mission needed this to work. Then, afterward, she would be free to act.

He stared. “How can you promise?”

“I can.
I know.
”

A bang and a clatter downstairs. Venn flicked a glance at the door. Then he came over to her. “Sarah…who are you? Why are you here?”

She didn’t answer. Instead she reached into her pocket and touched the diamond brooch. She said, “There’s something I need to tell you. I’m not from this institute. I’m from another place altogether. You need to know about Janus…”

At that moment the door crashed open. Piers seemed to appear from nowhere. “Trouble. Come now.”

“Wait!”

“Can’t wait. Intruders, in the grounds. We need to secure the house.”

Sarah turned in instant alarm. “Who are they?”

“Not sure. Man and a wolf, Rebecca says.”

“Rebecca?”

Downstairs, shutters were slamming. She raced out and looked over the banister and saw Wharton and the girl she’d seen once before, the tall girl with the car, wedging a great bar behind the front door.

“Where’s Jake?” Venn roared.

In the Monk’s Walk, Gideon stared around at the green web and whistled. “But I’m telling you, if Venn comes, I vanish. He’ll tell Summer and then…”

“Leave Venn to me.” Jake shoved past him. “Listen. You stand there and push this switch when I tell you. Understand?”

Gideon shivered with elegant distaste. “I don’t trust these devices. The Shee can’t touch metal. They say it has demons inside.”

Jake ignored him, fastening the snake bracelet on his own wrist with feverish haste. Its clasp was icy, and light. “Okay, okay, I’m ready. Quick. Do it now!”

The complexity of the machine had daunted him. He had switched everything on and there was a faint hum. So something was working. He ignored the safety web and the charred wires and stood directly before the mirror, hands clenched on each side of the frame.

“Dad,” he whispered. “It’s me. I’m here. I’m coming.”

Gideon stepped back warily. “It may not be a demon, but it’s making a howl like a fox in a trap.”

He could hear it, a terrible cracked, broken whine. He could hear crackles and snaps around him, distant bangs in the house.

His skin tingled. A charge like fear built up in him. Snow swam in his eyes. The bracelet tightened like a vise around his wrist.

It was happening.

The mirror was folding, collapsing in on itself, over and over, like an origami of glass, and into its emptiness was the only way left in the world. He staggered, was dragged a step forward.

He said, “Now!”

Did Gideon press the switch? He had no idea. Because everything in his mind was gone, sucked into the dark void, all his thoughts, all his memories. Everything that was him. Until all that was left was his body.

“Jake!”
The yell of anguish came from the door and Gideon instantly leaped back into shadow, snatching his fingers from the magic lights and howling moan of the metal.

Venn tore through the webbing like a madman, shadows flickering behind him. “Jake. Step back! Now!”

His voice was sucked down the vortex.

Jake couldn’t turn. “Can’t. Can’t hold…”

He let go, but Venn was faster. With a yell of anger he ran across the room and grabbed Jake, just as the whole inner core of the Chronoptika became the utter blackness of a vacuum, the nothingness of infinity.

Of silence.

Sarah, breathless, leaned on the stone wall and gasped. Wharton and Piers and Rebecca came racing in behind her.

The mirror was black and silent. The room was empty.

Wharton stared. “Did they? Oh my God, they haven’t…No, surely…Jake?”

Sarah was numb with anger. She whispered something, and for a moment he thought the words were:
Me. It should have been me
.

At that moment every light in the house went out.

J
AKE LAY CROOKED
and sore against a slimy brick wall.

His neck was bent at a painful angle; his right leg was numb. Something was sticky and wet on his fingers.

He moved, and groaned as pain shot from his ankle.

“He’s alive,” a voice said.

Jake froze. His first instinct was to open his eyes, but what he saw made him close them at once and play
dead. There were two figures bending over him, and one had a knife. He’d caught the dull glimmer of the blade, the dirty thumb on the hasp.

He held his breath.

“Finish him.” Hands grabbed him, hauled him over, rummaged quickly through his pockets and jacket, a quick rough search all over him. He felt something—his watch?—dragged from his wrist.

“Useless.” A coin jangled on the wet cobbles. “Filthy foreign tin.”

“Take it anyway. The siller ring will fetch.”

Jake’s fear was becoming anger. Then, sharp as a squealing rat, a whistle pierced the air.

“Peelers.” The two men jumped up; Jake rolled instantly to his hands and knees and threw himself at the nearer, grappling for the knife that came slashing at his chest.

He got one good kick in before a punch cracked darkness into his eyes; when that had cleared, the alley was empty, except for a two-pence coin and a spatter of blood.

He picked himself up, cursing, and looked around.

He was in a narrow place, dark, with high buildings on each side. He took a breath and his eyes widened at the stench of the air. A fetid, gagging smell of sewage and old vegetables, of smoke and sweat, it almost made him retch.

Groping toward light, he peered out onto a tiny courtyard, and his hand felt a few words incised into the stone. He rubbed away soot and black moss to read: SOLOMON’S COURT.

It sounded familiar. Dizzy, he tried to remember where he had heard the name, but then the whistle came again, urgent and near. A group of black-suited men charged in from the street against a small door in the corner, burst it open, and ran inside, yelling.

Jake stood still, one hand still leaning on the wall.

He had to fight against astonishment. Keep calm. He had entered the mirror. He had
journeyed.
But where was he? He felt so sick, it was difficult to think, and his head throbbed. He took a few steps nearer the door.

Screams met him; a large woman hurried out, throwing on a shawl, and after her a stagger of wrecks and drunks fled into the night. Was this some sort of raid?

And instantly the memory of where he had seen the name came back—it was the place Symmes had written of in the diary, the place he had gotten the mirror.

Was this the same night?

At once, ignoring his blurred vision, Jake raced down the three steps, past the pentangled doorway and into the opium den.

It was in chaos. The police—if that’s what they were—were grabbing money and goods for themselves,
rummaging in the pockets of opium-eaters too drugged to even notice. The sweet smell of the drug choked the close air. Remembering Symmes’s journal, Jake looked for the back room; he raced across, shoving a man out of his way, and burst in through the dingy curtain.

The room was empty. Beyond, a back door banged in the wind.

He made two steps toward it before a hand grabbed him. “And we’ll be taking you down too, sonny.”

He was swung around. A huge man in a dirty black uniform grinned at him. “See the duds on this! Come and take a look, lads. Here’s a gallimaufry.”

A few chortling faces grinned through the curtain. “Let me go,” Jake snarled.

The peeler snorted. “Very good, milord.” He opened his hand.

It was sarcasm, but it gave Jake an idea. He drew himself up, raised his chin, and fixed the man with a glare. “Take your hands off me, man. Don’t you recognize your betters when you see them. How dare you involve me in this disgusting farrago!”

Wharton, he thought, would have been proud.

The man’s face lost its grin. He said, “You mean…Lor love you sir, I…”

“I shall have you dismissed without pay for this…audacity.” Jake dusted down his clothes. He had too
many bruises. Too much dirt for the part. But the man was cringing.

“I ’ad no idea, sir. In this den—”

“I’m not here for the opium! I’m looking for a gentleman. His name is Symmes. John Harcourt Symmes. Have you arrested him?”

“We ain’t nabbed no toff ’cept yerself, Mister…?”

Jake shrugged. “Jake Wilde. Son of Lord Wilde…Surely you know my father, man? The personal assistant to the Home Secretary?”

He had no idea if there even was a Home Secretary at this date, but it didn’t seem to matter; he was rapidly understanding that just to be haughty and speak in his crisp twenty-first-century English might be enough. As the peeler looked around hopelessly for help, he pushed past him. “He was here, in this room, minutes ago. It was he who had you summoned. He can’t have gone far.”