The Demon Curse (9 page)

“Found right there!” one of the men shouted.

“Stretched out and trembling!”

“The curse! The curse!”

“The demon has entered him!”

Pain shot through Harry's knees as he slammed down onto the polished floor. He crouched over Arthur, staring at his face. He hardly recognized it. His friend's familiar features, that gentle mouth, those inquiring eyes, were a tangled wreck. Harry felt the floor shudder and saw the back of Arthur's head jolting against it. He tried to hold it still.

“A poor orphan boy!” A frail voice cut through the crowd. “Why, he and his friends visited Mayor Monticelso earlier today! To comfort him, to aid his recovery. To think that one of them should end up suffering the same fate!”

Dr. Mincing toppled in. The feeble-bodied doctor was in a completely distressed state, his hair flying in all directions, his hands fumbling with a stethoscope. Those dark-ringed eyes stared at the sprawling figure and then at Harry.

“Forgive me!” A feeble croak fell from his lips. “If only I could offer you the slightest help! But what I told you this morning remains true now—I know nothing of this condition. Despite my years of study, my field trips, my journey into the jungles of Costa Rica…” He lowered his head. “It is just as it was with our poor mayor. The shaking will only increase from now. Soon, I shall have to arrange for your poor friend to be pinioned. For his own protection, you understand…”

“Just tell us what happened! Tell us—”

The floor shook harder. Billie's knees had thudded onto it too, and she crouched over Arthur. Tears flooded from her eyes as she tried to say more, but her voice was a dry gasp, impossible to hear. Dr. Mincing hesitated then continued.

“I was attending to Mayor Monticelso at city hall,” he spluttered. “A distressing enough business, but then a messenger burst in with news of a further terrible incident at the public library. I came directly. My medical knowledge, faced with these awful incidents, seems more useless by the hour, and yet I must do what I can!” He bent unsteadily over Arthur, as if to examine him. “What can I say? Is there any history of nervous disease in your friend's family, perhaps? Anything that might explain his sudden collapse? Had he exhibited any unusual patterns of behavior in the last few hours, perhaps…”

“Nothing.” Harry's throat felt choked and swollen. “He was just helping us.”

“Helping you? In what way?”

“We were trying to find out what happened to Mayor Monticelso…” Billie managed another gasp. “The three of us, we wanted to—”

“Arthur came here to do research.” Harry spotted his friend's notebook, fallen by his body. His hand shook, but he picked it up. “Look, Billie—he was making notes and everything.”

“Notes? Notes about what?” Dr. Mincing stared at the notebook. “What does it say? Read it! Perhaps some chance jotting might suggest something that happened to him in the minutes before the attack.”

“It's a list of books.” Harry peered at his friend's handwriting, surrounded by inky splatters. “
Magical
Charms
of
the
East
Indies
.
Sorcery
in
Modern
Siberia
.
A
History
of
Supernatural
Trances
. All about magic…”

“Ah yes, and he does appear to be in the section for books regarding such matters.” Dr. Mincing pointed at the nearby bookshelves and at a small brass sign hanging nearby.
Magic
and
Folklore
, it said. “It would seem your friend, like so many others, was putting Mayor Monticelso's disease down to supernatural causes. Brave fellow, to delve into such matters.”

“And he has paid the price! The price we shall all pay if we let this menace remain within our city!”

It was Oscar Dupont. He stood in the doorway of the reading room, the crowd swelling behind him with their banners and placards. Dupont's eyes flashed as they fixed on the shape on the library floor. One arm swung forward and pointed at Arthur; the other flew up, a fist punching the air. He was almost dancing as he poured out words faster than ever.

“See what the Islanders will do! A boy! A boy dares to probe their darkness, and their vengeance is swift. They have set the demon on him, just as they did with our poor Monticelso. And if they did that to him, so harmless and young, whom will they spare?”

“Get out! The Islanders didn't have anything to do with it!”

Billie was marching right up to him. Somehow, she had recovered her voice and her strength too, and her boots pounded across the floor. Harry saw the tears on her face trail backward with the speed of her march.

“You? Why, I remember our conversation just this morning.” Dupont smiled. “You are a friend of the poor victim? How tragic. I remember how gently I tried to put you right this morning. A shame that it has taken a far more brutal event to reveal how little you understand these matters—”

“Leave us in peace, will you?”

“Again, the Islanders have struck!” Another punch of his fist, and Dupont swung around to address the crowd. “As I, your one loyal councilor, predicted. Pity this poor, brave boy. He was about to stumble on proof of their evil charms, I'll be bound, but they set the demon upon him. And now we must take action of our own! We must rid this town of these villains and—”

“Get out! Get out!” Billie yelled.

She slammed the doors on him and fumbled with the key in the lock, her hands shaking. Billie turned and tried to head back across the room, but Harry saw that the last remains of her strength had vanished, her legs sinking beneath her. Only Dr. Mincing grabbing her arm stopped her from collapsing completely. He lowered her beside Arthur on the floor, as carefully as he could.

“Talk to your poor friend, my girl!” The doctor pointed sadly at Arthur. “I have summoned men to take him to the hospital, but in the meantime, help him cling on to his sanity, to his sense of himself! Gather around him, and show your faces! It had no effect on Mayor Monticelso, of course, but you hardly knew him, whereas your relationship with your friend is more powerful. Some memory of normal happiness might help shift this dreadful affliction.”

“It's all my fault, Harry!” Billie could hardly look at Arthur. “I was the one who wanted to help the Islanders—”

“We all did.” Harry cut her off. “We all wanted to help—Artie too. That's why he came here to the library; I thought it would be safe but—”

“Nothing's safe around here,” Billie cried. “Nothing at all.”

Harry stared down at Arthur's face. It was even less recognizable now, the shuddering more violent, those glimpses of his true self even more fleeting, and Harry winced as he took in his friend's eyes, two rippling pools of fear. He leaned his ear close to Arthur's lips, those lips that were always saying such fascinating things. He tried to hear if they were saying anything at all. Fragments, choking sounds, the gritting of teeth. Harry flinched. Arthur's arms and legs were beginning to thrash.
I
shall
have
to
arrange
for
your
friend
to
be
pinioned.

“If it's anyone's fault, Billie, it's mine.” Harry's face was hot again, and his eyes ached with tears. “I should have worked it all out by now, found out what was going on.”

Keep
going.
He reached forward and tried to examine Arthur's clothes.
Clues, the tiniest trace, the tiniest sign.
But his hands faltered as they searched, fumbling in the pockets, catching themselves in the lining. Giving up, he picked up Arthur's notebook instead, but his hands fumbled again, and the notebook toppled onto the floor.
Impossible.
He saw that Billie wasn't searching at all. She was just tugging at Arthur's body, trying to talk to him as if he were still awake.

“Tell us what happened, Artie!” She pounded his chest, and his body shook even harder. “Tell us!”

“It's too late, I'm afraid,” said a voice.

It wasn't Dr. Mincing. Harry knew that, because the spindly doctor was standing straight in front of him and hadn't moved his lips at all. A new figure had appeared, down at the far end of the reading room. Harry blinked again, and the figure moved toward him at the same time, coming more plainly into view.

A pale suit. A neatly trimmed beard.

It was the man Harry had seen on the train.

It was the man he remembered from New York.

Harry's arms hung at his sides, motionless. Billie's hands rested on Arthur's body as it writhed. Her mouth dropped open, and Harry realized that his own mouth was open too, its inside hot and dry. No sound could be heard in the library at all apart from Arthur's moans and the creaking of overhead fans.

“Who are you?” At last, Harry managed to speak.

“All in good time.” The man's voice was hard and clear. “For now, we must concentrate on Arthur and his extremely dangerous condition—”

“Excuse me, sir!” Dr. Mincing interrupted. “I, a qualified doctor, am the one attending to these children and their friend, and I must insist that—”

“My name is Mr. James, and I assure you the organization I represent is better equipped to deal with this matter than you.” The man planted a hand directly on Dr. Mincing's chest. He pushed him, driving him down the aisle. “It could hardly do worse! You don't seem to have done much to help so far, either with the boy or Mayor Monticelso before him. Is that not right, sir? Allow me to speak to these children in private, sir!”

A final push sent Dr. Mincing toppling into a chair. Mr. James marched back up the aisle. Reaching Arthur's body, he knelt down next to it, examining it. Harry, still with no idea what to say, took in the neatly trimmed beard, the pale suit. He took in the piercing gray eyes, which were flicking in different directions, carefully inspecting every detail of Arthur's state.

“A mistake, an error of judgment…” Mr. James frowned. “This investigation has turned out far more sinisterly than we predicted.”

“Just help us!” Billie cried. “Whoever you are, help us!”

“Help you? We most certainly will. I have already informed the Order of the White Crow, and help is on its way. But it will not be easy.” The gray eyes were still inspecting Arthur, and they narrowed with concern. “This demon curse—whatever the explanation behind it—is a truly terrible condition. Had I known, I would never have selected it as your first investigation. I would never have put you on the train to New Orleans.”

“Locked in packing cases! I had to escape!” Harry found his voice.

“You were locked in there for your own safety and for the security of the investigation. I explained all this quite carefully in the letter.” With a handkerchief, Mr. James dabbed away the beads of sweat on Arthur's struggling face. “I drilled airholes; I left a staple near your hand to assist with your escape. You did read the letter, I trust?”

“Sure, we read it—the same letter that, when we first opened it, knocked us out with some kind of chemical dust!” Billie reached into Harry's jacket pocket and pulled the pale green letter out. “As for explaining things, I don't think so! All you say is that we're working for the Order of the White Crow…” She opened the letter and read. “Which is devoted to the overthrow of evil and—”

“And has there ever been a more terrible example of evildoing than this?” Mr. James pointed down at Arthur. “A demon curse, unleashed in New Orleans upon its most senior politician, and now upon a boy, and for who knows what purpose? Evil it most certainly is—evil so hideous that it was clearly, as I say, an error to choose it as the first investigation for you all, no matter how talented you may be.” He clenched a fist around the handkerchief, screwing it into a ball. “Members of the Order are on their way. You must leave it to us.”

“How can we? Arthur's our friend!” Billie cried.

“Tell us what's going on!” Harry stuffed the letter back in his pocket. “Even before you drugged us and put us on the train, you were watching us, back in New York. Making notes too. You were planning to do something even then. I saw you!”

“I was researching you. I was gripped by your every move, not to mention the remarkable deeds of your two young friends.” Mr. James swung around and stared straight into Harry's eyes. “Three candidates, I was sure of it. How could I not have selected you all? And the New Orleans case seemed perfect, once my research led me to the useful fact of Billie knowing some of those involved. With her determination to help the Islanders, together with her skills—and the skills of young Arthur here too—I was sure the solution would not remain undetected for long.” He gripped Harry's shoulder. “But, Harry, you were the candidate who filled me with the greatest confidence of all—and my confidence has only grown. Yesterday you escaped from the suitcase with ease. And then there was the remarkable way you broke into the mayor's office which, I discovered a few hours later, you had achieved by scrambling through the dumbwaiter system.” He reached into his coat and pulled out a corked test tube in which, Harry noticed, were some familiar-looking brick crumblings. “Not to mention the escape you and Billie pulled off just now from the fishermen across the river. I haven't even worked out how you did that yet—”

“Set fire to the Islanders' spirit charms,” Harry said quietly.

“What miraculous skills!” Mr. James's face drew closer. “Skills that dazzled us all at the Order of the White Crow. Skills that make anything seem possible. Such agility! Such quickness of eye and thought! Such immense concentration, when others would simply panic and flail! Most of all, you demonstrate an ability to put these skills into practice not just on the stage, in the world of theatrical magic, but in the real world too, the real world that, as this investigation proves, is far more bewildering than any magical one and far more terrifying too.”

The man stared intently at Harry. He spoke some more, but Harry had stopped listening, too busy thinking about what he had already heard.
Skills
that
dazzled
us
all. Skills that made us think anything was possible.
Deep in his chest, his heart began to throb, and he felt the pulses in the side of his neck twitching to life. Those flickering sensations were back, traveling over his skin.
Just
like
before a trick.
He knelt there, letting them take him over and looking into Mr. James's eyes.

Then he looked down at Arthur, struggling on the floor.

“Harry?” Billie said. “What are you doing?”

“Stop!” Mr. James tried to grab his arm. “I have told you—we will take over from this point!”

Harry's hands were back on Arthur's body. His fingers scurried, searched, examined, as Mr. James's words echoed in his thoughts.
Skills
that
dazzled
us
all…
With every echo, his hands sped up, diving into pockets, searching along seams. He sent them digging through the lining of the jacket, the tips fluttering over the silken material, detecting the tiniest irregularity in the stitching. Mr. James grabbed at him, but he pushed him away. He remembered the New York magicians and how the tiniest sign had given away their secrets to him, and his fingers moved on to his friend's skin, floating over his face, his trembling neck, inspecting that for clues too.

“Maybe we should do as he says, Harry?” Billie tried to grab him too. “Maybe we should let him take over…for Artie's sake.”

“Don't let Artie hear that!” Harry kept searching. “Remember what Dr. Mincing said—he could be listening to every word. Can't have him thinking we're giving up on him... Hey, what's that?”

Spatters of purple ink on the cuff of Arthur's sleeve. Some were dry, but a couple smeared Harry's fingertips when he brushed at them.
Still
fresh.
There were other wet spatters, now he looked for them, on Arthur's jacket and his trousers. He stopped searching the body and checked the nearby floor.
More
spatters
there
too.
He crouched down low and peered along the floorboards. He saw Arthur's pen, lodged under the base of the bookcase on the left, a short distance away.
The
body
of
it, without the lid.
He sprung across and picked it up. Purple ink dribbled from it. Billie stumbled up next to him, and so did Mr. James.

“That leaky old pen.” Billie joined him. “Must have been holding it when it happened.”

“Just like Mayor Monticelso. Where's the lid?”

“What?” Mr. James butted in. “Harry, I must insist you stop this!”

Harry closed his eyes. He saw the soft glow of the office again, the paper-strewn rug. He saw Mayor Monticelso's lidless pen, its ebony carriage, its shining metalwork, clutched in his own fingers. He opened his eyes again and saw the body of Arthur's pen in its place.

“Mayor Monticelso dropped his pen too. I found it when I was up in his study.”

“Which makes sense.” Billie pointed back at Arthur's flailing arm. “Arthur, the mayor—they were both having fits, so obviously they'd drop whatever they were holding.”

“Yes, but the lid…” Harry crouched down by the floor again. “Where's the lid?”

“Cease this investigation, Harry!” Mr. James folded his arms. “You must leave this matter to us—I demand it! Do you not realize how much danger you are in already?”

Harry saw the lid. It was lodged under a skirting board at the far end of the library, at least fifteen feet away from the pen.
Just
like
Mayor
Monticelso.
He pounced on the lid, held it up, and paced back to Arthur's body. Standing over him, he held the pen in one hand, the lid in the other, and his arms arced, miming the throw, just as he had done in Mayor Monticelso's office.

“Just like the mayor. He threw the body of the pen in one direction, the lid way off in the other.”

“So?” Billie's face was tear-stained, confused.

“But if they went in two different directions, then they must have been in two different hands, see?”

“But that's just what happens when you use a pen.” Mr. James frowned. “You take the lid off and—”

“And you slot the lid back onto the pen's back end.” Harry performed the action, the lid sliding on with a click. Then he pulled it off again. He looked into it, but it was perfectly empty. “Or you put the lid in your pocket or something. But you do that pretty quickly. The length of time you're holding the pen in one hand, the lid in the other—it's a couple of seconds, no more.”

“And?” Billie asked.

“So isn't it a bit unusual that both Artie and Mayor Monticelso got hit by this demon curse or whatever it is at the exact same time? During the few seconds after they opened their pens?”

He held the pen perfectly still. He saw that Mr. James was looking at it too.

“An interesting clue, I'll give you that,” he said. “Proof of your remarkable skills, if any was needed. But still, I insist you leave this investigation to others. I cannot continue to expose you to such danger—”

“Let Harry think, will you?” Billie snapped. She pulled Arthur's pen out of Harry's hand and slid its lid on and off. “Mind you, you'll have to do quite a bit of thinking, Harry. I can't see it—what can a leaky old fountain pen have to do with a demon curse?”

The
clink
of
a
bottle, the gurgle of liquid.
Harry saw something, a blur of movement down at the end of a nearby aisle of books. He swept down it, the books' spines flashing at him. He kept running until he reached the end of the stacks, and then he turned toward the figure by the door.

It was Dr. Mincing. His briefcase was open, and he had a bottle of fluid in his grip. He was tipping it onto a cloth and using it to daub at his hand.

On which was a spatter of purple ink.