The Secret City

by C. J. Daugherty

He nodded, as if this was precisely what he’d expected.

  ‘Well, then.’ He cleared his throat, and peered at the page in his hand. ‘You shall have to start with blood.’

  Over a course of minutes that seemed to Taylor like hours, he explained the Dark ceremony she would have to conduct. His words were a series of terrors.

  ‘Cut deep enough to draw substantial blood…’

  ‘You must call upon the demon…’

  ‘It has hurt you before, it will hurt you again…’

  ‘It will try to tempt you…’

  ‘Remember: demons lie.’

  When he’d concluded, his eyes searched hers. ‘There is one other thing you must understand.’ He spoke with soft apology, like a doctor giving bad news. ‘Performing a Dark ceremony leaves traces on your spirit. Sometimes these traces pervade. Sometimes they take over. They can act as a conquering army of Darkness. This could be what happened with Mortimer Pierce. He dabbled with Dark practices, and they became him.’

  It took her a moment to realise what he was telling her.

  ‘You’re saying it’s possible I could end up like him,’ she whispered. ‘I could lose my soul.’

  ‘It is one of the possibilities,’ the professor conceded regretfully. ‘There are many others. Death. Survival. Perhaps you will fight off the traces of Darkness. I’ve told you before there is Darkness in you. But you are not, yourself, Dark. In truth, we know little about the realities of this. So much has been lost to time. This will be a very dangerous experiment.’

  Taylor was very tired of being told how little they knew. When something goes horribly wrong, the last thing you want is for the world’s most renowned experts to say, ‘Oh yeah, that? We haven’t really figured it out yet.’

  She forced herself to stay calm. ‘Are there things I can do, though? To protect myself?’

  ‘Follow the instructions to the letter,’ he said. ‘That is key. Do not let the demon tempt you. He will try to persuade you he is on your side. Or that you are on his. He will be extremely convincing. Consider how normal Mortimer looks. How approachable he might seem if you did not know. Remember, no matter what happens, Pierce is not what he seems to be. He is not who he once was – he is absolutely not one of us. That part of him is dead. There is no humanity left in Mortimer Pierce. He is a monster. Never forget this. No matter what happens.’

  When he’d finished, Zeitinger put his wrinkled hand on hers, his skin felt warm and dry.

  ‘You must not miss a single step. Everything must be done precisely or all is lost. Do you understand?’

  Her mouth was dry. She swallowed hard.

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  He held a piece of paper out to her. ‘I have written everything down. Please memorise my words. Be ready.’

  She took it from his hand, barely glancing at it before folding it up and putting it in her pocket.

  She’d learned enough for now. ‘I wish you good luck, Miss Montclair,’ the professor said sombrely. ‘What you must do now is the very hardest thing. You are a brave young woman.’

  * * *

  Taylor walked numbly back down the darkened hallway past the pictures of all those former deans. She couldn’t tell Sacha what Zeitinger had just told her. He’d never allow her to go through with the ceremony if he knew what it meant for her. The danger.

  She’d have to keep this to herself.

  When she reached the dean’s office, the others were planning out the route. Sacha’s gaze was focussed on the map spread across the glossy wood of the table.

  ‘You must take the small back roads,’ the dean said, tracing a route on the map. ‘Avoid the motorways. Mortimer will be waiting for you. He knows you’ll be going to Carcassonne, but there are many routes across France and he can’t watch them all. Head south through the mountains. Avoid cities. Stick to small villages.’

  They discussed the journey for hours, stopping finally when the sun rose and Louisa insisted it was time to depart.

  It took Taylor about five minutes to pack a small bag with a change of clothes, and a handful of toiletries. She didn’t know what to take, what to leave. What do you bring to an apocalypse? No need for mascara, surely.

  When she picked up her hairbrush, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror above her dresser. She looked wan but otherwise perfectly normal, and that seemed somehow ridiculous. Why wasn’t her panic written on her face? How could she still look like her when everything had changed?

  Forcing herself to look away, she yanked open the dresser drawer and grabbed some clothes, dressing for the journey in dark trousers and a short-sleeved top, and shoes she could run in.

  A few minutes later, she met Sacha at the foot of the dormitory stairs.

  When he saw what she was wearing, Sacha said, ‘Wait here.’

  He ran back to his room, returning a moment later with a battered leather jacket.

  ‘It gets cold on a bike,’ he said, holding it out for her. ‘Even on a hot day.’

  The sleeves were so long she’d had to roll them up. But the leather was soft and warm. And it smelled like him – like soap and fresh air.

  It was comforting.

  The dean was waiting for them in the quiet lobby, along with Alastair and Louisa – who each clutched large coffees and a bag of pastries. Taylor’s stomach was too sour for food.

  ‘I know I don’t have to tell you how dangerous this is,’ Jones told them. ‘Or how grateful I am for what you’re doing.’

  ‘One moment, please.’ The German-accented voice came from the front door, where Professor Zeitinger was hurrying towards them. ‘I have something for Miss Montclair.’

  The dean frowned, but waited with the others as the white-haired man approached breathlessly. Taylor could see that he carried something in his hands.

  ‘It was very difficult to find this,’ he told her. ‘It was, I think, hidden. But you will need it.’

  He pressed a long, narrow box into her hands. It was faded blue and covered in soft velvet, like a jewellery box, but oddly heavy.

  ‘Use this for the ceremony.’

  Taylor moved as if to open it, and he shook his head, pressing his hand against hers.

  ‘Not now, Miss Montclair,’ he said quietly. ‘Perhaps, open it in private.’

  Puzzled, she agreed, slipping the box into her bag. But the secrecy of it made her nervous. She felt its presence like a weight.

  Whatever was in that velvet case, it scared her.

  The professor took her hand. ‘I wish you very good luck, my dear.’

  His tone told her what she knew already – she’d need it.

  Over his shoulder, Louisa caught Taylor’s eye and gestured impatiently.

  ‘Let’s roll.’ Without waiting for the others to agree, she hoisted her bag onto her shoulder, and with coffee in one hand, headed towards the parking garage. ‘We’ve got a demon to kill.’

  Taylor hurried over to join the others, and they walked together out to where the van and the motorcycle were parked side by side on the narrow drive behind the admin building.

  ‘You should say “slay”,’ Alastair advised, striding next to Louisa. ‘We’ve got a demon to slay.’

  ‘Is that the correct terminology?’ She shrugged. ‘My bad.’

  Alastair made his tone patronising. ‘I know I’ve said this before but, you really should study more, Louisa.’

  ‘Bite me, Alastair.’

  Sacha snorted a laugh.

  Taylor knew their joking was an act and that they were just as nervous as she was, but she was glad they were doing it. At least someone was being normal.

  Normal seemed a long way away now.

  Nineteen

  Sacha was driving too fast, but he didn’t want to slow down. The motorcycle roared beneath him, Taylor’s hands were warm against his waist, and a long, straight French highway stretched out in front of them.

  He was free of that college. Free of Oxford. Free, for the moment, of Mortimer.

  Th
ey’d been on the road for hours now. They’d caught the ferry without incident, and had been driving back roads ever since, without any sign of Dark energy around them. Louisa and Alastair were out there somewhere, taking a different route. Taylor checked in periodically to make sure all was well.

  So far, the plan was working perfectly. The only problem was a very basic human weakness – Sacha was exhausted.

  The road kept blurring in front of his eyes, and he found the handlebars harder to hold on to.

  He hadn’t slept at all the night before and it was now late afternoon.

  ‘You OK?’ Taylor called, shouting to be heard above the wind.

  Keeping his eyes on the road, Sacha nodded. He was fine.

  Absolutely fine.

  He had to be.

  They passed another road sign for Paris. One hundred and seventy-five kilometres – no distance at all. He could be home in two hours, sitting on the couch with his mother and Laura, telling them about the professors at St Wilfred’s – making it all sound funny.

  Paris was like a homing beacon, calling to him.

  What if he did die? What if he never saw his family again?

  The edges of the road blurred again, and he blinked hard to clear his vision.

  He needed to stop thinking, but he was just so tired.

  Lost in his troubled thoughts, he barely noticed they’d entered a small village until a red light loomed in front of him, and he slammed the brakes, narrowly avoiding a car crossing in front of them.

  Taylor was thrown against him. Sacha dropped his foot to brace the motorcycle, which threatened to topple.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, turning to look at her.

  Worried green eyes peered back at him through her visor.

  ‘You look really tired, Sacha.’

  ‘I am tired,’ he admitted reluctantly. ‘Maybe we should take a break.’

  Her helmet bobbed in agreement.

  ‘What do you think?’ He gestured at the town. ‘Is it safe?’

  The lone street light hung at a crossroads in what appeared to be a typical French village. All the houses were built of the same pale yellow stone. Bright roses hung over old walls. A church with a tall steeple sat squarely in the middle.

  She pulled off her helmet, sending a tangle of blonde curls tumbling around her shoulders. Her cheeks were pink. A velvety sheen of perspiration covered the bridge of her nose.

  They both looked around at the diminutive village square, its trees shivering in the summer breeze.

  ‘Looks safe to me,’ she said after a second. ‘No bad guys.’

  Sacha parked the bike on a narrow lane at the edge of the square. When he cut off the engine the silence was deafening. Gradually, though, as his ears adjusted he could hear the breeze blowing through the trees, and the birds complaining overhead. Children’s laughter floated out from someone’s garden.

  When his stomach rumbled, they could both hear it. They hadn’t eaten since they left the ferry hours ago.

  ‘I’m starving,’ he said.

  ‘Me too.’ Taylor stretched the kinks from her muscles. ‘I think I spotted a bakery back on the main road. Let’s see if they’re open.’

  They were both on high alert as they crossed the quiet square but everything seemed refreshingly normal.

  An elderly woman walking a tiny dog on a long lead, nodded politely as she passed them. A burly man didn’t glance at them as he rumbled through the town on a huge green tractor.

  Just a sleepy village, Sacha told himself. But he couldn’t stop looking over his shoulder.

  The tiny bakery sat near the church, in a little stone building painted yellow and white. The bell above the door gave a cheerful jangle when they walked in.

  The woman behind the counter set down her newspaper and looked up at them. She wore an apron over her jeans, and her weathered face creased as she smiled. Her shoulder-length hair was an unbelievable shade of red.

  They ordered sandwiches and cold drinks, then waited as the woman put the food in bags, chattering brightly in rapid-fire French. Sacha found himself gazing longingly at the cakes and pastries – the whipped clouds of sugar, the bright glazes. He hadn’t realised how hungry he was until now. He could have eaten all of it.

  Taylor leaned over peering at the pastries through the glass. ‘Which is your favourite?’

  Without hesitation, he pointed to a narrow pastry covered in pale green icing, and sprinkled at one end with dark chocolate.

  ‘That one.’

  She studied the green lump doubtfully. ‘Really?’

  ‘It’s delicious,’ he insisted. ‘There’s this creamy custard inside which is, oh my God, it’s amazing.’

  Just talking about it made his mouth water.

  He turned to the baker who was watching them with a look of amusement.

  ‘Two salambos, please,’ he said in French, pointing at the green pastry. ‘And something else, in case she hates it.’

  ‘She’s never had a salambo?’ The woman tutted as she put two in a cardboard box. ‘How is this possible?’

  Sacha could have told her they don’t have salambos in England, but he didn’t feel like sharing any information with strangers, however innocuous, so instead he distracted the woman by ordering more.

  Along with the pastry, he bought gooey chocolate éclairs, some cakes and a couple of mini lemon tarts because, as he explained to Taylor with a touch of defensiveness, ‘Who knows when we’ll get a chance to eat again? Everything closes early in the countryside.’

  They paid up and strolled back outside. Sacha knew they should get going – they had to keep moving, that was the plan, it was safest and Louisa and Alastair were likely miles ahead by now. But he couldn’t face it. Every muscle in his body ached.

  ‘Let’s rest for a second.’ Spotting a bench in a tucked away corner of the empty little square, he made a beeline towards it.

  Taylor didn’t object. The dark circles under her eyes betrayed her own weariness.

  The bench was warm, and they sat back with relief.

  The late afternoon sun sent golden droplets of light scattering through the branches. A scrawny tabby cat bathed itself placidly in a puddle of sunshine.

  ‘Are you as tired as me?’ Taylor rubbed her eyes.

  ‘Tireder,’ he said, then paused to consider. ‘Is that a word?’

  ‘It is now.’ She yawned. ‘I could fall asleep right here.’

  Sacha stared at the cat, which had stretched out and closed its eyes. ‘I think I am asleep, perhaps, already.’

  Shaking herself, Taylor reached for the pastry box.

  ‘Maybe food will help. Can I have an éclair?’

  ‘No,’ he said firmly, pulling out one of the green pastries. ‘First you must try this. It is wonderful.’

  She made a face. ‘Do I have to?’

  ‘Yes.’

  When she shot him a tragic look, he rolled his eyes. ‘Look, if you hate it you can just… spit it out. The cat can have it.’

  He held out the pastry.

  With clear reluctance, she leaned forward to take a cautious nibble.

  Her eyes widened.

  ‘Oh my God. It’s delicious. It doesn’t taste anything like it looks.’

  Grinning, Sacha ate half of the pastry in one bite, speaking with his mouth full.

  ‘I told you.’

  Taylor reached for the other one. ‘Just one more bite…’

  The sound of a car roaring into town drowned out the last of her sentence. They both ducked. A black BMW raced into the little main street, screeching to a halt at the edge of the square.

  Sacha cursed. What had they been thinking? They’d been so stupid to stop. Idiotic.

  Desperately, he searched for an escape route, but they were too far from the bike. They’d have to cross the square and there was no way to do it without being seen.

  The car’s door flew open. Instinctively, he reached for Taylor, not knowing quite what to do – how to protect her. But she was al
ready on her feet, eyes trained on the BMW, energy crackling around her as she prepared for a fight.

  At that moment, the bakery door opened with a jangle, and the woman who’d served them earlier burst out complaining loudly. A balding, middle-aged man with a paunch emerged from the BMW, shouting back at her with equal ferocity. The two argued briefly – about his tardiness, how it was too late now to get the delivery of sugar she needed for the next day, and why was he so irresponsible? – until the man climbed back into the car and roared off, tyres spinning.

  Still muttering to herself, the woman turned on her heel and went back inside, closing the door with an irritated thud.

  His heart still racing, Sacha dropped back onto the bench.

  ‘Putain,’ he swore. ‘That scared me.’

  The colour had drained from Taylor’s face. Clearly shaken, she sank down onto the bench and turned to him.

  ‘I could have killed him, Sacha.’

  Her voice quivered. She kept staring at her hands like she didn’t recognise them.

  Sacha wasn’t sure what to say. How could he tell her that, in that brief, highly charged moment, he’d wanted her to kill that man?

  Wordlessly, he reached for her hand; her fingers were sticky from the pastry, which now lay in the dirt at their feet.

  ‘I hate this,’ she said softly.

  ‘Me, too.’

  She looked up at him. ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘We’re going to Carcassonne,’ he told her. ‘And we’re going to make this stop.’

  Her fingers curved around his. Then, with a sigh of weary resignation, she let go and rose to her feet.

  ‘We better get moving.’

  The moment had changed everything. As they walked back to the motorcycle, Sacha sensed danger everywhere – in the dark, lengthening shadow of the church tower. In the loud music pouring from the windows of a passing car.

  Why had they ever stopped here? There was no sanctuary in this town.

  When they reached the bike he stuffed the bakery box into his bag, and tossed Taylor her helmet. She clipped it on in silence.

  He knew she was as eager to get out of here as he was, but where to? The nearest safe house was at least two hundred kilometres away. They’d never make it that far tonight. He was just too tired.