‘How does that work?’ Taylor asked. ‘Is there a way around it?’
It was Alastair who responded.
‘Dark practice is the counter to our abilities in every way,’ he explained. ‘It is yang to our yin. It’s intended to copy what we can do but it’s a corrupted, demonic version of us. Mortimer has designed these things very efficiently to do that. When we fight them we make them more powerful.’
‘They get bigger,’ Louisa said darkly. ‘Physically larger. They grow off this power. I’m sure of it.’
‘I just don’t see how that can be,’ he said, shaking his head.
‘You didn’t fight them.’ Louisa cut him off, and he shot her a glare.
‘I would have if you’d just called me.’
Taylor got the feeling they’d been having this disagreement for a while.
‘If we can’t use our abilities,’ she said, interrupting before the dispute became a row, ‘how do we beat them?’
Holding up the picture, Louisa studied the bizarre, hulking figure.
‘You kill them like you kill a human,’ she said without sympathy. ‘It’s the only way. Fast and brutal. Go straight for the heart.’
Fifteen
Taylor spent the rest of the day fretting impatiently in Professor Zeitinger’s office.
She still hadn’t spoken to Sacha. After breakfast she’d run up to his room to look for him, only to find it empty. Since then, she’d been stuck with the professor.
She wanted to talk to him – to hear his side of the story. To make sure he really was unhurt. Maybe even to ask him why he’d done such a risky thing.
But she couldn’t.
It wouldn’t have mattered, except she didn’t know why she was there. Most of the day passed with Zeitinger muttering and making extensive notes in his tiny cramped handwriting.
After a while, she began searching for routes of escape.
‘Maybe I could just dash out…’ she suggested as noon came and went.
Glancing up at her disapprovingly, the professor shook his head.
‘We are close,’ he kept saying, tapping the book with his empty pipe. ‘Very close.’
Then he would delve back into his work. The office, at the top of the history building, was quiet, the only sound his pen scratching across paper. Sometimes he talked to himself when he uncovered something interesting.
‘Ingenious, Herr Falkenstein,’ he said once, with what sounded like genuine affection.
Outside, Taylor could hear shouts and laughter. Occasionally she caught the sound of running feet from the classroom floor beneath them. She felt cut off.
She was half-dozing on the sofa when the sound of Zeitinger’s chair sliding back sharply woke her with a start.
‘Now. We will try an experiment.’
Taylor sat up straight.
‘I’m ready,’ she said, not bothering to disguise her relief. ‘What do I do?’
Over the tops of his reading glasses, he fixed her with a severe look.
‘This will be dangerous, Miss Montclair. Everything to do with this book is dangerous. Especially for you. Do not take this lightly.’
The professor cleared a space on his desk, his movements methodical, until he’d freed a space of papers and clutter.
‘For me it is a book of historical reference. For you?’ He slid the book towards her. ‘It may open the gates of Hell.’
He spun the open book around to face her.
‘Please.’
Taylor stepped slowly towards him, all her earlier eagerness gone. ‘What was that about Hell?’ she asked with sudden doubt.
‘This book contains a means of demonic communication.’ All the warmth that had softened Zeitinger’s countenance was gone now, he was deadly serious. ‘Falkenstein’s research revealed a gateway – a means of contact. But it works only for those with whom the demons wish to communicate.’ He leaned across the desk. ‘Last night they showed me they want to talk to you.’
She swallowed hard.
On the dark desktop the book lay open. The pages facing her were aged a dull ivory – the colour of old bones. Each page was covered in symbols. Some were recognisable alchemical symbols, others were different. The sinuous lines, and dark curving arrows seemed both familiar and yet dangerously out of place. Like an old enemy, encountered unexpectedly.
‘What do I do?’ She could hear the uncertainty in her own voice.
‘These symbols carry a message,’ the professor explained. ‘I’m going to tell you what to say. The book itself will recognise you. I suspect the demon will as well.’
He made her memorise a sentence, saying it over and over until she could do it perfectly.
‘If Falkenstein is right,’ he explained, ‘when you begin the rest of the answers will come to you. They may not be the answers you expect.’
Then he stepped back, giving her room.
‘When you are ready.’
An icy dread in the pit of her stomach, Taylor reached gingerly for the book. She didn’t want to do this anymore. But she had no choice.
Just like the night before, she felt the book before her fingers reached it. It had its own gravity, pulling her irresistibly. An icy breeze blew her hair back as her hands neared the paper.
‘Now!’ Zeitinger shouted.
Over the noise of the wind she called out: ‘Lord Abaddon. I, Taylor Montclair, descendant of Isabelle, humbly beg entry. Hear me.’
She touched the pages in front of her.
All the breath seemed to leave her body. The room disappeared. Now she was falling – feet over head. Tumbling into nothing. She couldn’t see anything. Couldn’t feel anything except air rushing past.
She tried to scream but made no sound. She reached out but there was nothing to hold.
Then… darkness surrounded her, and she was still. Time stopped.
There was absolute silence. No laughter from outside the windows. Zeitinger and his office were long gone. She was utterly alone. She could not even hear the sound of her own breathing.
She was neither falling nor standing. She was nowhere. She was nothing.
An awful sense of loneliness swept over her. Of isolation and pain. She was filled with an unspeakable agony. And a vindictive, murderous rage.
Every negative emotion she’d ever had was magnified beyond human capacity. She hated. She wanted to kill.
These weren’t her thoughts, she told herself. This was something else. Something demonic.
She tried to remember who she was, and what she believed, but the real world seemed too far away to be real. This was real. This hate.
She didn’t know how long she’d been there – it felt like a lifetime – when something spoke.
‘Daughter of Isabelle Montclair. You dare petition me?’ The voice was deep and hollow. It seemed to come from everywhere. From everything.
And she knew what it was.
‘I do.’
Her voice sounded confident and seething. She didn’t know how that was possible. It was as if someone else spoke through her.
‘What do you seek?’
‘Power.’
Her reply came without hesitation but she didn’t know why she’d said it. The professor hadn’t told her what to say if questioned.
Yet it was the truth. She was hungry for power. Starving for it.
‘Why do you seek it?’ the voice asked.
Again, the answer was already there, waiting for her.
‘Vengeance.’
‘Against whom?’ The demon’s voice was as emotionless as her own.
‘Those who desire to harm Sacha Winters.’ She knew, somehow, that fact would anger the demon.
She was right.
A roar of fury deafened her. She recoiled, but there was nowhere to hide.
‘Sacha Winters is mine. You shall not save him.’
She longed to say nothing. To somehow get out of this. And yet the words came.
‘I will save him.’ She said each word with cold c
larity. ‘And I will destroy anyone who tries to harm him. Hear my words, Abaddon. You will not have him.’
The enraged roar came again. ‘Lies.’ A rabid fury gave his voice a razor’s edge. ‘You dare to tamper with the Dark arts, Daughter of Isabelle? You dare to enter my realm and challenge me?’
Terror ran through Taylor’s body. She’d gone too far. Why had she said those things? Why was any of this happening? Why couldn’t she stop herself?
The part of her that was reason and calmness was silenced here. All that was left was rage.
Then she heard her own voice again. She sounded fearless.
‘Know it is the truth, Abaddon.’
She never got to say more. Something reached from the darkness and grabbed her arm, talons digging into her skin and muscle. Seconds later, something ripped at her left hand. The pain burned like fire.
She screamed, struggling in the unseen grip, but she couldn’t move. Something held her immobile.
‘I leave my mark on you,’ the voice told her. ‘Remember this: If you dare to challenge me, you will die.’
She fought with every muscle, unable to breathe. To think.
Then someone slapped her face, and she fell again, into darkness.
‘Miss Montclair!’
It was Zeitinger’s voice. His thick German accent.
She wasn’t cold anymore. Something hard was beneath her. The air was warm.
Shivering, she forced her eyes open.
Golden afternoon sun streamed through the window, and she squinted into the light. She lay on the floor of Zeitinger’s office. The professor’s worried face loomed over her.
Taylor scrambled back until she was pressed against the sofa.
‘Where is it?’ she asked, eyes darting around the room. ‘Where is that thing?’
‘You’re safe.’ Zeitinger held up his hands. ‘I promise it cannot get you here. Tell me what happened.’
Stumblingly at first and then faster, she told him all she could remember. Falling. The darkness. The strange fury. The sense of being somehow possessed. Pain.
It was then that she realised her left hand still burned painfully. Looking down, she gasped.
She had three fresh cuts on the back of her hand. Blood ran down her fingers. It looked like something had clawed her.
‘Oh my God,’ she whispered. ‘He said he was leaving his mark on me. It was real.’
‘Very real, I’m afraid.’
As she sat there, staring in numb disbelief at her hand, Zeitinger disappeared. When he returned a few moments later, he bent one knee stiffly and crouched beside her, applying antiseptic to her wounded hand, before wrapping it in a clean white cloth, and tying it snugly at the wrist.
Taylor sat impassive throughout this. Too stunned to speak. Distantly she noticed that the book still lay on top of his desk, but someone had closed it. It seemed to her that even the cover pulsated with malevolence.
Remembering how she’d felt while talking to the demon – the sudden ravenous hunger for power, the total loss of her moral compass, the furious spirit that seemed to control her – she felt lost.
‘What exactly happened to me, professor?’ Her voice was low. ‘When I was talking to that… demon, I said things I don’t believe. I wasn’t… me.’
Zeitinger did not appear surprised.
‘It is precisely as I suspected. The demon knows you. There is a connection.’ He struggled to his feet. ‘Please.’ He gestured for Taylor to sit on the sofa. ‘Tell me again what it said. Leave out nothing.’
They went over her experience again and again, Zeitinger at his desk, at first taking notes, and later simply listening, the pipe half-forgotten in his hand. Taylor sat on the sofa, clutching the plaid blanket to her chest, trying to remember every nuance. By the time he was satisfied, the sun had set.
‘I still don’t understand my own feelings. The things I said.’ Taylor cradled her injured hand.
‘The things you felt – the power, the anger – that is within you now,’ the professor told her gently. ‘It is in all of us. We are all a mixture of good and evil. The demon found the anger in you, and drew it to him. You were in its world. Darkness is what dwells there.’ He set down his pipe. ‘Do not expect to find rainbows in Hell, Miss Montclair. They are not there.’
She held up her arm. ‘He left his mark on me. What does that mean?’
Zeitinger hesitated.
‘It means he’s taking you very seriously. He wishes to make you easy to identify, wherever you might encounter him again. And for others to know that you are his.’
‘I don’t —’ Taylor tried to interrupt but he talked over her.
‘The important thing, for now, is that the experiment was successful,’ he said abruptly. ‘I know what we need to do to fight Mortimer Pierce. Now, we need the boy.’
Her brow creased. ‘Sacha?’
‘Please.’ Zeitinger’s glasses glittered. ‘Find him. Tell him to bring the book of his family. He will know the one I mean.’
‘What does his book have to do with this?’ Taylor asked, confused. But Zeitinger made an impatient gesture.
‘Bring the boy, and I will tell you both.’
As she hurried from the building a short while later, Taylor felt dazed. Beneath the makeshift bandage, her hand throbbed.
She didn’t know what time it was, or what Sacha was doing right now. She didn’t have her phone with her. For want of a better plan, she decided to start at the dorm.
It was dark now, and all the lights in Newton Hall were ablaze. When she reached Sacha’s floor, the corridor was quiet. Most of the doors on the hallway were covered in personal notes and pictures. Some had white boards, where friends could leave messages, often obscene or insulting.
Sacha’s door alone was completely empty. Nothing hung on the dark, aged wood except the room number: 473.
They had this in common. There was nothing on her door, either.
She tapped hesitantly. ‘Sacha. It’s me.’
The door jerked open.
He wore a grey t-shirt and scruffy jeans. His feet were bare.
‘Taylor, where have you been? I’ve been calling and calling.’ He seemed genuinely relieved to see her.
‘I’ve been with one of the professors, Zeitinger.’ Her eyes searched his face for signs of damage. ‘Are you OK? Louisa told me what happened.’
‘I’m fine,’ he said impatiently. ‘Why didn’t you answer your phone?’
‘My battery ran down – I had to leave it charging in my room.’
‘Bon sang, Taylor,’ he chided her. ‘You scared me. Don’t do that.’
After the day she’d had, his concern filled her with warmth.
She wanted to tell him everything – about the professor and the book and the demons. But Zeitinger had seemed in such a hurry. It felt like there wasn’t time.
‘I’m sorry. I’ll get my phone later. Look, you need to come with me.’ Her words tumbled out in a rush. ‘Zeitinger – the professor – he found something. He wants you to bring that book. You know, the one about your family?’
He frowned. ‘Why does he need that?’
‘I don’t know. He just said for you to bring it.’ As she spoke, she held up her hands in a vague gesture. Spotting the bandage, Sacha grabbed her wrist.
‘You’re hurt? What happened?’
‘It’s a long story,’ she said. ‘Can I explain on the way?’
She could see he wanted to know everything right now, but still, he dropped her hand and stepped back, giving her space to enter.
‘Give me a second. I have to put on some shoes.’
His room was smaller than hers and much messier. Clothes lay discarded on the floor. Books and papers were piled up on the narrow bed, covering the dark grey duvet. An open laptop glowed on his crowded desk.
Seeing her eyeing the clutter, Sacha shrugged.
‘The cleaner is on holiday.’
His accent made the ‘h’ disappear. Oleeday.
&nbs
p; It was adorable.
‘Oh, mine, too,’ she assured him airily. ‘Can’t get the staff.’
He glanced at her with an ironic smile. ‘Your cleaner is not allowed holidays, I think. Your room is always perfect.’
Taylor, who was fighting the urge to stack the papers on his desk, didn’t argue.
Dropping down onto the rumpled bed, Sacha pulled on socks and a pair of black Converse high-tops.
‘The book is here.’ He pulled a slim, ancient volume from the top of the stack on his bed and handed it to her.
As he laced up his shoes, Taylor looked at it curiously. He’d told her about it long ago – it was a hand-written history of his family.
Why does the professor want this?
Jumping to his feet, Sacha swiped his hoody off the back of the door, shrugging it on as he ushered her out into the hallway.
When she handed the book back to him, their fingers brushed. His eyes flickered to meet hers.
Heat rushed to her face and she looked away.
They headed down the stairs.
‘Where were you last night? I stopped by your room late – you weren’t there.’ His tone was too casual to be casual.
Taylor’s heart skipped a beat.
‘I fell asleep in the professor’s office,’ she said, and Sacha stopped abruptly and shot her a look she couldn’t read. It almost looked like jealousy.
‘What happened, then? You said you would tell me. Is he the one who hurt you?’ He pointed at her bandage.
She shook her head so hard her curls flew.
‘We found a demonic book,’ she explained. ‘The book hurt me.’
Creases formed in his forehead. ‘A book hurt you?’
The scepticism in his voice made Taylor laugh.
‘Welcome to alchemy,’ she said. ‘Even the books will kill you.’
* * *
‘Professor?’ Taylor said as she pushed open Zeitinger’s door. ‘We’re back.’
As he took in the crowded office, Sacha’s expression was a complex mixture of surprise and doubt. If he had felt any jealousy earlier – which was unlikely – it had evaporated at the sight of the professor’s deeply lined face and snow-white halo of candyfloss hair.
The Secret City Page 11
