Her head didn’t hurt anymore. Cold, transcendent fear had subsumed all other sensations.
After a few minutes, the citadel appeared above them. It was strikingly beautiful, with its round towers aglow in the spotlights – a perfect stage for their final performance.
They took a back route up the grassy slopes, far from the main tourist entrance. Taylor focussed on her feet, on breathing, on Sacha’s hand in hers. She tried not to think about the dagger in the waistband of her jeans, pressing against the small of her back. Or what lay waiting for them at the top of that hill.
She was not thinking very hard when Sacha spoke.
‘Do you sense anything?’
Taylor shook her head. The closer they got to the castle, the more her alchemical senses were muted. If Mortimer was there, she couldn’t sense him.
The footpath took them straight to one of the side gates. It wasn’t the same one they’d come through the night before – this one was oiled and modern. It opened silently at the touch of Taylor’s hand.
They slipped through it like shadows.
Inside the old town, the street lights were all aglow – there was no Louisa to put them out. It was easy to find their way back towards the church square.
Glancing at Sacha, Taylor saw that every muscle in his body was tense. A nerve worked in the tight line of his jaw.
He knew, as she did, that their plan was tenuous at best. All they had was Zeitinger’s guesswork and the ravings of a long-dead German scientist with a name too close to Frankenstein.
Not much to hang a life on.
And each other, she reminded herself. We have us.
Too soon they reached the square in front of the basilica.
Taylor tried not to look at the spot where Deide had died. She wondered what they’d done with his body, then tried not to think about it.
The square was filled with shadows that darted and danced dangerously. Maybe it was her imagination, but it seemed that the gargoyles clinging to the roof were writhing in hungry rage. For a second she even thought she could hear them snarl. The snap of their stony jaws.
Sacha drew in a sharp breath.
The church’s huge front door loomed open.
Mortimer was inviting them in.
Sacha turned to her, holding her hand tight.
‘Ready?’
She let out a long breath. ‘Ready if you are.’
‘OK,’ he said grimly. ‘Let’s go kill a demon.’
They walked to the front door, and stepped into Darkness.
* * *
They had only gone five steps when the door slammed shut behind them. Whirling, they ran back to it. With a thrill of horror, Sacha heard the distinct sound of the locks turning.
He pounded his fist hard against the thick wood.
‘Hey.’ Taylor’s voice was gentle. ‘You know I can open that door if you want me to. No need to beat it up.’
He forced himself to stop.
Thank God she was here. He wasn’t to be alone at the end, after all.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and it wasn’t at all what he wanted to say.
Thank you. I love you. Don’t let me die.
The look on her face told him she understood. She took a quick breath, as if about to say something but then a noise broke the stillness in the shadows behind them. A shuffling sound, like something big and slow, moving in the dark.
Apprehension ran cold fingers down Sacha’s spine.
They both turned to look, but it was too dark. Anything could have been hiding in those shadows.
Taylor whispered something. Instantly, every candle in the room flared into life.
Now Sacha could see the wide central aisle between long rows of dark pews. Huge, heavy candleholders hung from the ceiling by chains, each with dozens of candles ablaze. Candles burned in wall sconces and on the altar, and in ornate candelabra in every corner.
They turned slow circles, alert for danger, but could see nothing.
‘Where is he?’ Taylor whispered, moving closer to Sacha.
‘I don’t know,’ Sacha said. ‘Let’s find the chapel.’
Cautiously, they walked in perfect sync across an ancient stone floor pounded smooth over hundreds of years by the feet of worshippers and priests, nuns and believers.
How could Hell be in this place?
It felt wrong. Abominable. That made him angry, and anger was good. Anger was power. Anger wiped fear right out of his heart and replaced it with fire.
Taylor spotted it first.
‘There,’ she said, pointing.
Just as they’d remembered, the little door was tucked away behind a half-drawn velvet curtain. Rows of prayer candles glittered in a metal stand out front.
Sacha reached for the door handle, but Taylor grabbed his hand.
Giving him a warning look, she shook her head.
Behind them, the awful shuffling came again, followed by another clear, distinct sound: footsteps.
Sacha’s mouth went dry.
‘Quick,’ he whispered.
Taylor held up her hand – the lock released and the door swung open.
Behind it, a narrow staircase led down into darkness.
Sacha swore under his breath. They were sure it would be a chapel. These looked like stairs to a cellar. Where they could be trapped.
The footsteps were gaining on them. Taylor shot Sacha a desperate look.
‘Go,’ he said, because there was no alternative.
They ran inside.
Taylor closed the door behind them and locked it with one smooth gesture.
At the top of the stairs, they huddled together catching their breath. The darkness was complete. Sacha could see nothing at all.
He felt Taylor move, heard her murmur something. With a sputtering hiss, torches mounted on the wall of the curving, old stairwell burst into life.
The stairs were narrow and ancient between walls of damp, grey stone. They couldn’t see the bottom. But there was nowhere to go except down.
They picked their way down the uneven steps carefully, listening out for any sign that they were being followed. The sound never came. They were still alone when the steps ended at the edge of a large, sparsely furnished crypt.
The windowless room was cold, with a bare stone floor and walls. A table stood at one end, in front of two rows of dusty wooden pews. Tall candelabras provided illumination. The room had a graveyard smell of dust and isolation.
It looked like no one had been down here in many years.
‘What is this?’ Taylor whispered, looking around.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Can you feel anything? Like… sense anything?’
She closed her eyes, then opened them again immediately.
‘There’s something here.’ He could see the excitement in her eyes. ‘Help me. I think this could be the room we were looking for. I can feel its energy.’
Their footsteps echoed hollowly as they made their way slowly across the crypt, searching each stone. They crawled under the pews, and ran their hands along the stone walls, trying not to miss what they sought.
They found nothing.
Sacha was on the verge of despair when Taylor whispered.
‘Oh my God, Sacha. Here it is.’
He ran to where she knelt in front of the altar table, dropping to his knees beside her.
Crouching forward, Taylor felt the carvings with her fingertips – a large ornate cross.
‘Zeitinger said we’d know it was the right cross if we found the…’
Her voice trailed off and she pointed above the cross. Sacha squinted to see what she was indicating. Even in the dim candlelight, the snake symbol was unmistakeable – an ourobouros had been cut deep in the rock.
His heart stuttered. This was the place.
They were really going to do this.
Taylor looked at her watch.
‘It’s nearly time. Zeitinger said to start at midnight precisely,’ she said. ‘We have to get r
eady.’
Sacha looked over his shoulder. He didn’t like how quiet it was.
‘Where the hell is Mortimer?’
Her eyes met his. ‘I don’t know. Let’s hurry.’
Reaching behind her back, she pulled the dagger from the waistband of her jeans. The ornate silver glittered ominously. Sacha couldn’t take his eyes off it.
‘We need thirteen candles.’ She gestured to one of the candle holders, bristling with flames. ‘Bring me those.’
Sacha pulled the glowing candles loose from their holders. Hot wax dripped onto his skin as he carried them to where she knelt, clutching Zeitinger’s instructions in her hand.
She pointed at the carved stone. ‘Set twelve of them in a star formation on this stone.’
As he watched, she demonstrated, drawing a large star in the dust with her fingertip.
‘Put the last one in the centre.’
He did as she’d said, using the warm candle wax to hold each candle upright.
She pulled the dagger loose from its ornate sheath and lay the naked blade at the base of the glowing star.
‘We have to cut ourselves,’ she told him calmly. ‘That begins the ceremony. Are you ready?’
‘Taylor?’ An English voice came from the stairwell.
Sacha leaped to his feet, fists raised, peering into the shadows. He hadn’t heard a footstep. It wasn’t Mortimer’s voice. It was a girl.
Taylor still knelt on the stone floor. All the colour had drained from her face. She was staring into the shadows in the direction of the voice.
‘No,’ she whispered. ‘Please, no no no…’
They both heard quick, light steps.
A girl stepped out of the shadows. She was about their age, in a short dark skirt and a fitted white blouse. She had dark skin, great legs, and thick black hair in a ponytail that swung with each step.
‘Georgie,’ Taylor whispered. ‘You can’t be here. This isn’t possible…’
She looked utterly heartbroken.
Sacha looked back and forth between them. He’d heard Taylor talk about Georgie many times. She’d shown him a photo of her on her phone. This girl looked exactly like her.
From Taylor’s panicked expression, he gathered it sounded like her, too.
But it couldn’t be her, could it?
‘I looked for you everywhere. I called and called.’ Georgie stepped towards them. Her arms were folded tightly across her torso, she looked frightened. ‘A man said you needed me. So I came with him. Taylor, who was he?’
‘Sacha.’ Taylor looked dazed. ‘Is it really her? Or is it an illusion?’
‘I think it’s an illusion,’ he said uncertainly. ‘But I’m not sure.’
Georgie stopped a short distance away and watched them reproachfully. Her tears glimmered in the candlelight.
‘Why are you acting like this, Taylor? I’m so scared. I don’t know where I am. I don’t know why we had to meet here in the dark.’ She held out her hand. ‘Help me, please. I’m so afraid of that man.’
Sacha felt Taylor flinch. Her hands twitched at her sides. He knew how badly she must want to reach out to her.
He didn’t know what to do. What if it really was Georgie? They both knew Mortimer would stop at nothing.
Taylor had begun to tremble, but when she spoke, her tone was challenging.
‘In Year Nine we hid notes to each other in a secret place. Where was it?’
Tears rolled down Georgie’s cheeks. She held out a beseeching hand.
‘I don’t understand why you’re asking me this, Taylor. I don’t even know where I am. Why won’t you help me? I’m scared.’
Taylor gripped the edge of the dark mahogany pew in front of her with such violence her knuckles whitened.
‘Answer the question, Georgie,’ she whispered.
‘Why don’t you believe me?’ Georgie asked plaintively. ‘How can you do this to me?’
At first Sacha thought Taylor wasn’t making sense, but gradually he realised what she was doing. This was a test.
And Georgie had failed.
He could see Taylor’s shoulders sag, just a little – whether from relief or disappointment, he didn’t know.
‘We hid them in the hole in the wall outside your house,’ Taylor said. ‘Every day for a year, we left each other notes. Georgie would know that. But you’re not Georgie, are you?’
Mortimer stepped out of the shadows next to the girl, who had begun to sob.
He looked exasperated but otherwise exactly the same as always, shirt neatly buttoned, tie perfectly knotted.
‘This is taking too long,’ he said.
Sacha saw the blade in his hand at the last second.
Instinctively, he grabbed Taylor just as she lunged towards Mortimer.
‘No,’ she cried.
Mortimer’s knife slid across Georgie’s delicate throat with silken smoothness. Her blood splashed on the stones at his feet like falling water.
The girl clawed at her throat, looking at Taylor in bewilderment. She struggled to speak, but all that emerged was a hideous gurgling. Like she was drowning.
Sacha thought he’d never forget that sound.
Taylor screamed then, a horrible, heartrending cry that broke Sacha’s heart. He wrapped his arms around her.
‘Let me go,’ she begged, struggling in his grip. ‘I have to help her… Let me go, Sacha.’
‘It’s not her, Taylor. Look at her. Really look.’ His voice was tight with fear but insistent.
He wasn’t sure she’d heard him at first, but gradually she turned towards Mortimer, shoulders still heaving with sobs.
Her body sagged in his arms.
‘It’s not her, it’s not her,’ she whispered. ‘It’s Dark. Whatever it is it’s Dark.’
Across the big, open room, Mortimer sighed. ‘Well, that was a complete waste.’
He cleaned the blade with a white handkerchief, his movements fastidious and thorough.
Sacha stared at the body on the floor. Now he could see that it was obviously not a young girl – it was a man. He had grey hair and wore a black suit. He looked nothing at all like Georgie, and the realisation made Sacha’s blood run cold.
How had Mortimer done that?
Taylor wasn’t crying anymore.
‘Did you think that was funny?’ She called to him. ‘Do you think this is a joke?’
‘No, Miss Montclair.’ Mortimer fixed her with an icy stare. ‘I don’t find any of this amusing.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
In a move so swift Sacha couldn’t have even begun to prevent it, Taylor swooped down to the floor and grabbed the dagger.
‘Maybe this is a joke, too.’ She held up her left hand, the one marked with the demon’s claws, and sliced her palm deeply with the blade.
Mortimer glowered.
‘You’re out of your depth, little girl. Playing games in a world she doesn’t understand.’
‘Sacha.’ Taylor turned to him, her expression steely. ‘I need your hand.’
Without hesitation, Sacha held up his right hand. Taylor took his wrist. There was no compassion in her eyes – no fear – only anger, as she brought the knife down.
The blade burned his skin like fire, and he flinched despite himself, but her grip on his wrist was tight and the cut was straight and true.
She dropped the knife carelessly – it clanged against the stone at their feet. She brought her bleeding hand up to clasp his.
‘You’re wasting your time.’ Mortimer sounded bored. ‘Playing little devil games with blood. This is dangerous, you know. Sacha would suffer more with you than he ever would with me.’
Blood dripped from their entwined hands, dark rain pattering on the floor. She’d cut deep.
Taylor didn’t seem to feel the pain. Reaching into a pocket, she pulled out a strip of white cloth – Sacha couldn’t remember seeing her pack that earlier.
Ignoring Mortimer, she wound the cloth around their hands, tying them toge
ther.
‘Our combined blood binds us.’ She spoke quickly as she worked, twisting the fabric around with her good hand. ‘It makes your curse my fate, my powers your strength. Together we are each other and ourselves. Together we are twice what we were before.’
Sacha had seen those words on Zeitinger’s paper; Taylor recited them like an incantation.
Tucking the end of the cloth in, she held his gaze.
‘Do you accept my strength?’
She looked different. Her tears had dried and her green eyes were clear and filled with an awful fierceness.
‘Stop this, now.’ Mortimer’s voice echoed across the room. For the first time, he sounded really angry.
At that exact moment, in the tower far above, the bells began to toll midnight.
Sacha’s hand still burned, his heart was hammering against his ribcage.
There’d been a moment earlier when he wasn’t scared.
He was scared now.
‘Yes.’
But she must have heard the uncertainty in the voice because she paused.
‘Trust me, Sacha,’ she breathed, her voice nearly soundless beneath the bells.
‘I do,’ he promised.
She entwined her fingers through his, speaking quickly.
‘Whatever happens, don’t let go of my hand. As long as we share our blood we are one person and the curse cannot be fulfilled. Montclair blood in Winters veins. Winters blood in Montclair veins. One can’t die without the other. Do you understand?’
He nodded.
Then she raised her voice. ‘Isn’t that right, Mortimer? You can’t raise the demon while Sacha lives. And the curse can’t kill Sacha with my blood in his veins.’
‘Temporary protection,’ Mortimer scoffed.
He seemed taller all of a sudden. It took Sacha a moment to realise he was rising up in the air – his feet off the floor and floating just above the stones. He raised his hands out to either side, like a preacher delivering a eulogy.
‘Do you see, Miss Montclair? The demon’s power grows in me, even as you play your silly games.’ He smiled. ‘My companion is nearly here to convince you to change your mind. Can you sense him, Miss Montclair? He is most interested in meeting you. A direct descendant of the magnificent Isabelle Montclair. He wants to thank you in person. He enjoyed meeting you in his world. Now he would like to finish that meeting in yours.’
The Secret City Page 25
