Still, he lingered in the doorway, clearly uncertain about all of this.
He’d been shocked by Taylor’s story about the demon.
‘It was that bad?’ he’d said, searching her face.
‘Worse.’
They’d stopped in the shadows of the quad so she could tell him everything he’d missed.
Taylor struggled to find the right words to explain how terrifying the incident had been.
‘It was Hell, Sacha. Like, I think Hell is real.’
Their eyes had locked.
‘And that’s what we have to fight?’ Sacha’s cockiness had evaporated.
Taylor’s hand throbbed – a reminder of the sheer power and hatred they faced. Fighting a sudden sense of hopelessness she wouldn’t share with anyone, she nodded.
‘That’s who we have to beat.’
By the time they’d arrived at the history building, their mood was dark.
‘Ah.’ Zeitinger peered at Sacha over the tops of his reading glasses. His eyes glittered in the lamp light. ‘You are Sacha Winters?’
‘Yeah.’
The professor studied him intently.
‘I am Professor Wolfgang Zeitinger. I knew your father.’
Taylor felt Sacha tense.
‘He was a good man, I believe,’ Zeitinger continued.
Sacha’s expression was a complex mix of confusion and wistfulness.
‘Yeah,’ he said after a pause. ‘He was.’
‘Now we must try and finish the work he began.’ Zeitinger held out one gnarled hand, palm up. ‘May I see the book?’
Sacha hesitated for so long, Taylor feared he might refuse. At last, though, he pulled the battered volume out from the crook of his elbow and handed it over.
The professor set it down next to The Book of Unravelling. When he opened it he did so gently, respectful of the fragile old pages.
‘I understand this book holds an account of the issuance of the curse,’ he said. ‘Please, could you find the correct page.’
Walking around the desk to stand at the professor’s shoulder, Sacha asked, ‘Do you read French?’
The professor shot him a look from under heavy white brows. ‘Bien sur.’
‘Alors.’ Sacha leafed through the book, stopping about forty pages in. The text was hand-written in faded black ink.
‘It starts here.’
The professor read quickly, his eyes darting across the spidery script.
Taylor knew the book had been written in the seventeenth century by one of Sacha’s ancestors, and the story of the curse was the tale of her own ancestor, an alchemist who had dabbled with Dark practice. She was burned as a witch. Her name was Isabelle Montclair. And she was the woman who first issued the curse that would now kill Sacha on his eighteenth birthday.
The book proved that her family and Sacha’s had been intertwined by death and blood for nearly four centuries. Twelve first-born boys in Sacha’s family had already died because of it. Finishing the passage, the professor picked up his empty pipe.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘We have what we need.’
Sacha and Taylor exchanged a bemused look.
‘What do you mean?’ Taylor asked.
With the top if his unlit pipe, Zeitinger pointed at the first line. Taylor leaned closer to see what he indicated.
‘Carcassonne 1763.’
The professor looked up at them.
‘That is where you must go to undo this Dark practice that threatens you both,’ he said. ‘You must go to Carcassonne. And fight the demon.’
Sixteen
‘Where is Carcassonne?’ Taylor looked back and forth from the professor to Sacha.
‘In France. In the south.’ Sacha turned back to the professor, searching his face for clues. ‘I don’t understand. Why do we have to go there?’
The professor moved his father’s book to one side and, carefully, using the tips of two pens, moved another book to the centre of his desk. It was open to a page in the middle that appeared to be covered in bizarre symbols – half-finished triangles, broken suns, twisted, curving lines covered the thick, yellowed pages.
‘This book was written by an alchemist who lived before the trouble that plagues your family first began.’ Zeitinger spoke quickly, his accent thickening in his excitement. ‘This man achieved what you are trying to do now – he broke an old and powerful Dark curse. He confronted a demon.’ His gaze shifted to Taylor’s bandaged hand. ‘There are rules to unravelling Dark practice. Isabelle Montclair issued the curse. Therefore, Miss Montclair, as Isabelle’s direct descendant, must perform the rite. Furthermore, the ritual must take place at the precise location where the curse was issued, and on the day the curse would otherwise be fulfilled.’
Sacha didn’t like the sound of this. Taylor had told him about meeting the demon – how powerless she’d felt. It had hurt her too easily. They both understood the wounds on her hand were there as a warning.
Taylor jumped in before he could.
‘How, professor? The demon isn’t going to just do what we say.’
‘With blood.’ The professor tapped the book in front of him. ‘It says “Blood will open the door to the realm”.’
Seeing their expressions, the professor’s brow lowered. ‘Don’t you understand? This is not alchemical science. We are out of our own world now. Dark power is a blood practice. You cannot undo demonology with alchemy. Blood calls for blood. This ceremony you will conduct is demonic.’
Sacha’s breath caught. He’d known this, on so many levels, already. But hearing it said in this way made it even worse.
Next to him, Taylor had gone very still; some colour had left her cheeks.
‘How can we conduct a demonic ceremony?’ Sacha made himself ask. ‘It seems impossible. We don’t even believe —’
‘I believe.’ Taylor cut him off. She held up her hand so he could see the white bandage wrapped around it. ‘And so do you. How could you not? After everything.’
She was right. But it was so hard to accept. Sacha fell silent.
‘Professor, how can we get ready for this ceremony?’ Taylor asked. ‘The demon is so powerful.’
‘I will tell you all you need to know,’ the professor said. He studied the two of them over the tops of his glasses. His eyes were steely. ‘You are ready. You know you are. There is Darkness in you. Both of you. You have the choice to remain one of us or to follow the path of your ancestor into Darkness,’ the professor said. ‘In Carcassonne you must choose. Darkness. Or light.’
As he said the last word he held up his pipe. The bowl, which Sacha had assumed to be empty, flared. A thin wisp of aromatic smoke curled upward.
The professor leaned back in his chair, and drew on the pipe.
For Sacha there was something inevitable about this moment. Some part of him had always suspected that what the professor was telling him was true.
It was almost a relief to have his suspicions confirmed.
Taylor on the other hand, looked as if Zeitinger had slapped her. She stood frozen, staring at him, her eyes too bright.
Sacha could believe what the professor had said about him, but she was different. There wasn’t an evil bone in her body. It was ridiculous to even suggest there was Darkness to her.
‘Are we… evil?’ Her voice was thin. ‘Is that what you’re saying?’
‘No, my dear,’ the professor said gently. ‘You misunderstand me. Both worlds are open to you. The same is true of all of us in many ways, but for you it is different. For you, both worlds are very close. Because of your history. Because of who you are. The choice is more stark.’
He glanced at Sacha, including him in this assessment. ‘When the time comes, you must choose.’
* * *
Later that night, Taylor and Sacha walked back to the dormitory in heavy silence. There was much to think about.
Over and over, Sacha replayed the professor’s words in his mind.
There is Darkness in you. Both of you.
Taylor kept her arms wrapped across her torso as they walked across the tiny lobby of Newton Hall, and up the stone stairwell. It smelled, as it always did, of floor polish and dust.
When they reached the first floor, Taylor stopped so suddenly Sacha ran into her. For a moment they were entangled.
‘Sorry,’ he said, trying not to notice the lemon fragrance of her hair, the softness of her skin.
There was some awkward shuffling as they stepped apart. Taylor reached for the door handle, and Sacha turned back towards the stairs to head up to his own room. Her voice stopped him.
‘Do you want to come in?’ she said, as if the thought had just occurred to her. ‘To my room, I mean?’
Her cheeks were flushed, and she seemed anxious. Nervy.
Sacha’s nod was casual, but inside he was filled with relief. The last thing he wanted to be right now was alone.
Taylor’s room was neater than his, and considerably more spacious, with a row of three arched windows on one wall; two of them were arrow-slim but the one in the middle was larger, overlooking the quad. Aside from a dresser, a desk and an almost empty bookcase, the room held nothing. It had the hollowness of a space where no one really lived.
It was a familiar feeling – his room was the same.
Neither of them had had a chance to put down much in the way of roots, but the empty bookcase bothered him. If ever there was a student whose shelves should have been overflowing it was Taylor.
‘Do you want anything to drink?’ she asked. ‘I have… nothing.’
The hopeless smile she gave him then tugged at his heart.
‘It’s fine,’ he said, dropping down on the bed. ‘I’m not thirsty.’
When Taylor sat down next to him, Sacha hid his surprise. She always kept distance between them if she could – just a little, but consistently enough that he noticed. If there were four chairs at the table and one was next to his, Taylor would sit across from him.
‘So we’re going to Carcassonne,’ she said.
Her English pronunciation of the town’s name was charmingly off-kilter.
‘I guess so,’ Sacha shrugged. ‘What is the American phrase? Road trip.’
‘Yes,’ she said distantly. ‘Road trip. It’ll be great.’
Suddenly, with little warning, she began to weep. Not great, heaving sobs but silently. Reluctantly. As if it was the last thing she wanted.
Sacha didn’t know what to do. ‘Taylor? What’s wrong?’
He reached for her, then pulled his hand back.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, swiping tears from her cheeks with her bandaged hand. ‘This is ridiculous. I’m not even sad. Not really. Just scared. And what the professor said was… not what I expected.’
Sacha loved her accent. The way each word was so precise and clear. Her curious way of putting things. He didn’t think he’d ever heard anything more magical than Taylor talking.
Why hadn’t he ever told her that? What was he afraid of?
‘Hey.’ He moved closer, still not reaching for her. ‘What he said – he might be wrong, you know? That book is very old and we can’t believe everything in it.’
‘I know.’ She took a deep breath. ‘It just threw me. I mean, the idea that we could go Dark like, like Mortimer. That maybe that’s who we are.’ Almost pleadingly, she turned her face towards him. ‘You don’t believe it, do you?’
Tears clung to her eyelashes like tiny jewels.
Longing fluttered in Sacha’s chest. Slowly, he reached for her good hand, taking it carefully in his. For some reason he thought she’d snatch it back, but she didn’t.
‘I don’t believe it,’ he said, not exactly honestly. ‘Not for a minute. Not about you, anyway. You are the least evil person I think I’ve ever known.’
Taylor’s smile was grateful. She clung to his hand as the seriousness returned to her eyes.
‘He told me other things, Sacha,’ she confessed. ‘Before you came.’
Sacha’s face darkened. ‘What things?’
‘He said there was a chance… a good chance, that we would both die trying to undo this curse.’
She was afraid. He could hear it in her voice. And he knew he should be afraid too, but he felt nothing. Not for himself, anyway. He’d died so many times already, and the hammer of actual, permanent death had hung over his head for so long he no longer really feared it. Being threatened with death now was no worse than being threatened with detention. It was a nuisance.
But he didn’t want Taylor to die. Taylor with her blonde curls and green eyes. Her heart-shaped face and huge brain. Taylor who might change the world if history didn’t kill her first.
She couldn’t die. He wouldn’t let that happen.
‘You won’t die.’ He said it flatly. A simple statement of inviolable fact.
She squinted at him dubiously. ‘How do you know?’
‘I just know,’ he said. ‘And I won’t die either. Neither of us will die. We are too beautiful to die. And too clever.’
She stared at him for a second as if she intended to argue, and then gave up with a helpless laugh he felt in his chest.
‘Sacha, this is serious.’
He shrugged. ‘Everything is serious,’ he said impatiently. ‘Life has been serious for as long as I can remember. But you will not die, Taylor.’ He took her other hand carefully, feeling the softness of the bandage as he turned her to face him. ‘You are the best alchemist they have ever seen. Off the charts. That’s what Louisa told me. You’re powerful – that’s what Jones said. You will be fine.’ His voice had taken on a fervent note. One he hardly recognised. ‘We will go to Carcassonne. We will do the thing we have to do, whatever it is. Then you will come back here with all your books. And I will ride my motorcycle around the world, getting into trouble. We will be alive. And we will be free. Believe it. It will happen.’
She held his hands, her eyes locked on his. ‘I want to believe that, Sacha. More than anything.’
He ran his thumbs across the palms of her warm, small hands. Her skin was butter soft.
She drew in a small surprised breath.
He could feel the heat radiating from her skin. Smell the soft fragrance of her scent – soft and heady.
‘Taylor,’ he whispered, leaning towards her. ‘You have to believe.’
‘Sacha,’ she said, raising her lips towards his. ‘I…’
She never finished the sentence.
With an almighty crash, something huge burst through the largest of the three windows. Glass exploded into the room like tiny crystal daggers.
Moving on pure instinct, Sacha threw himself on top of Taylor, shielding her with his body as glass showered the bed. Shards cut through the thin fabric of his t-shirt, slicing his back, sending pain burning through him.
Before he could lift himself off the bed and get them both to the door, something grabbed him by the back of his t-shirt and swung him into the air like a toy.
It happened so fast – Sacha never had a chance. He heard Taylor scream. Felt her fingers slip from his. Then his t-shirt tightened across his throat, strangling him.
Kicking with all his strength, he twisted in the unseen grip, struggling until he caught a glimpse of the huge thing that held him – scorched skin bulging hideously, eyes mad with pain and rage.
The creature from the tunnel.
‘Taylor,’ he gasped with the last of his air. ‘Run.’
Seventeen
Taylor didn’t mean to scream.
The speed of the attack caught her off-guard. She didn’t even have time to get a grip on Sacha before he flew up into the air.
She jumped to her feet.
‘Let him go.’ She shouted across the room at the huge man – for it must once have been a man before all this happened to him.
Ignoring her, it blundered across the room, kicking the chair out of the way with such force it crashed to the floor, sending splintered pieces flying.
The thing didn’t seem very
agile – stumbling and bashing into furniture, as if its vision wasn’t good, or its reflexes were slow. It was so huge it had to bend to avoid the ceiling. It kept colliding with the light fixture, sending light and shade swinging wildly around the room.
Sacha’s face was turning purple.
She forced herself to think quickly. There was no time to call for help. What had Louisa and Alastair told her? They’d said alchemical abilities don’t hurt them. But with no other weapons handy, she had to try.
Molecules of energy were all around her, golden strands from the electricity in the walls. Tiny dancing motes from the light particles in the air.
At the heart of it, the creature’s energy was of a different nature entirely. Taylor sensed Dark power in him, but something else as well. Some residual alchemical gold, painful and tormented. A sickening kind of emptiness that she couldn’t figure out. There was no time to think about what that might mean. Grabbing the biggest chunk of electrical molecular energy she could find, Taylor aimed it at the creature.
‘Let him go,’ she said again. This time her voice was a command, and she pushed the energy towards it with huge force.
Nothing happened.
The creature paused near the window, shuddering, a stupefied expression on its face. Its eyes were vacant.
Just like Louisa had described, it was taking in that energy, she realised. Absorbing it. Feeding on it.
Sacha dangled in its grip, choking. His hands clawed at the neck of his t-shirt in sheer desperation, trying to tear himself free. Before he could, though, the thin cotton gave way, ripping down the middle and released him.
He landed on his knees with a thud. His face was blue. He took great wheezing gasps of air.
Taylor rushed towards him.
The creature lumbered on towards the window, apparently momentarily unaware Sacha had escaped.
Her heart pounding, Taylor grabbed Sacha’s hand, pulling him to his feet.
His black t-shirt was torn from the neck to the waist. The remnants of it fluttered loose around his lean torso as they stumbled towards the door.
The Secret City Page 12
