Demon Bone (The Demons of Oxford Book 1)

by Kara Silver

  Demon Bone

  The Demons of Oxford One

  Kara Silver

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  About Demon Bone

  Ancient demons at Heylel College are taking tuition in payments of blood.

  When eighteen-year-old orphan Kennedy Smith wins a scholarship to Heylel College, Oxford, she’s too excited to be concerned that her birthmark starts itching the moment she sets foot on campus. But seeing her birthmark displayed in the creepy old museum that employs her has her reconsidering things. Especially when she realizes it’s part of an exhibition on Demonology. That’s not even a real thing, is it?

  Within days, Kennedy stumbles across dark and dangerous secrets. Girls are going missing, have been for some time, and no one seems to care. After a series of discoveries brings the disappearances very close to home, Kennedy becomes determined to investigate, no matter the risk.

  She may have found just the help she needs to crack the case in the mysterious Aethelstan, who claims to be part of the college, despite never being seen in lectures or at tutorials. He clearly knows more than he’s saying, but is he helping her…or trying to stop her?

  Fans of Elizabeth Hunter and Linsey Hall will thrill to Kennedy Smith’s quest in England’s ancient and beautiful university city.

  To my good friend in Oxford, Summer Chardine.

  To the Pitt-Rivers Museum, that inspired this.

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to Max Beerbohm, for his wonderful Zuleika Dobson.

  Thanks to Rebecca Hamilton, for all her expertise and patience.

  Thanks to Heather Cardona, for her great help.

  Thanks to Shannon, Debbie and Lenka for beta reading.

  Cover art: Rebecca Franks at Bewitching Book Covers.

  Proofreading: Liz Borino Editing

  “If they keep quiet, the very stones will cry out.”

  Luke, 19:40

  1

  Kennedy stared at the man with the sword impaling what looked like a giant cockroach, and Stabby-Sword Dude stared right back at her. She swayed from side to side, and, yeah, stone guy’s eyes seemed to follow her, creepier than any painting in any museum she’d been to on any school trip. About to duck down to see if the mutant cockroach’s eyes followed her too, she caught the raised eyebrow of the guide showing her around and thought better of it. She’d have plenty of time to check it and the entire college out later. She was here for the next three years, after all.

  “Is everything all right?” the blonde, Arabella or Araminta or maybe Allegra queried. She raised her voice and slowed down its speed. “If I’m going too quickly for you, just say.”

  “I’m from the north, not deaf or stupid.” Although she’d been warned that in the south they thought them one and the same. And you didn’t get much more south than Oxford. Funny—Kennedy was a brunette, but being treated like the stereotypical dumb one. Not that she bought into lazy jokes. No. She wasn’t being fair. Her ankle was aching, making her grouchy. She sighed. “Sorry.”

  “You had a long trip by coach, I expect.”

  Kennedy opened her mouth, but then closed it. She’d let that one go. It was the truth, after all. “And thanks for meeting me at the entrance gate to help me get my bearings.”

  “The plodge, the Porter’s Lodge? No problem.”

  And chalk up another strike against her, for using non-Oxford terminology. “Yeah.”

  “Not a problem. As a second year, and member of the JCR—Junior Common Room—Committee, I’m a big sister to first years. Orientation is part of that, although all the others came up for noughth week, or at least, in time for Michaelmas.”

  “Hey, any danger of a translation?” Does Google Translate do Oxford to Normal and vice versa? She stopped herself pulling out her phone to find out.

  “Noughth week or Freshers’ Week is the week prior to the start of Michaelmas, which is the name of this, the first term of the academic year.”

  “Gotcha. And I couldn’t get here any earlier than today, midweek. Sorry.” It would have been easier, as in less overwhelming, to have come up on time, anonymous in the midst of the other first years, but Kennedy wasn’t about to tell possibly-Amelia her sadsack life story.

  “Anyway, I’m sure you remember the highlights of the tour from your Open Day visit. Or from your interview here.”

  She hadn’t attended the first—hadn’t known there were such things—and the less said about the disastrous phone version of the second, the better. “Yeah, so who’s this guy again, and why is there a big statue of him on this…” Lawn? Square of grass surrounded by buildings on three sides and an archway on the other?

  “Quad? And that would be Heylel? As in, the fifteenth-century founder of this college?” Could-be-Amanda waved a well-manicured hand around the beautiful pale stone buildings and green grass, her rings and bangles glinting in the weak October sunlight. “He rose from a humble background”—she left a weighted gap that Kennedy did not stumble into—“to wealth and power via sacrifice. We’re supposed to emulate him, doing good deeds and so on. Heylel’s known for its community work. Well, that and the number of prominent men who’ve studied here.”

  Ducking the girl’s knowing smile, Kennedy bent down to read the motto on the plinth. “Dominus qui sunt eius.” The Lord knows who are his. She knew the translation because the logo and motto were on all college communications, including all the bumf she was carrying at the moment, retrieved from her mail box. No. Get it right. Her pidge, or pigeon hole, located in the plodge, or Porter’s Lodge. Pidge plodge. See? I’m learning. “And that’s how he did it, with his kebab skewer and a tiki torch?”

  “Whatever. Shall we move on?”

  Oh, God. She’d annoyed her guide, and now the tour turned into a quick march along ancient-flagstone pathways under a succession of ivy-trailing arches to one quad after another that opened out like a set of Russian dolls. Kennedy’s head bobbed like a nodding dog in a car as she limped down steps into a sunken garden and back up the other side, correlating the sights in front of her and the names Amber tossed out for them with her map.

  Main Quad, Library, New Quad, Old Library, Fellows’ Garden, Back Quad, Master’s Lodge, Garden Quad, Hall, Old Master’s Lodge, Junior Common Room, Senior Common Room… Kennedy scribbled names and notes onto her paper map, giving up when her guide started on the staircases, the sections of the college where students actually lived. The pale-cream or tasteful-grey stone buildings, ivy grown no higher than the second-story windows, were beautiful, but starting to tower over her and hem her in, and the history seeping from the very stones around her to suffocate her.

  “Oh.” Alyssa paused. “You’re a scrap. I should have realised.”

  “What?” Kennedy stopped too. Threw in a glare to go along with it.

  “You’re one of the scholarship-assisted place students. SCR-AP, he
nce— Well. It basically means—”

  “I have to work my passage. Yeah, I know.” Heylel offered yearly bursaries to students from her small town, a place where the college owned “agricultural and other land”, she’d learned. The produce grown on the farms and the rents charged for properties paid for some of this grandeur around her and allowed the college to make amazing, chance-in-a-lifetime offers, like the one she’d jumped at.

  For a small college—although, looking around her, that adjective made her laugh—it sure offered a bunch of free rides. But no such thing as a free lunch. She was prepared for grunt work. Had done a fair bit of it already. The children’s home she’d grown up in encouraged its residents to get jobs as soon as they could. Was that why she’d been offered a place, why there were so many subsidy students there: cheap labour? Saving on paying for cleaning and waitressing and reception and whatever must help build up the money pot. She scratched her leg through the rip in her jeans.

  “Well, I’m not sure what to tell you.” Her new big sister flipped through her shiny iPad and, frowning, made a phone call on her even shinier iPhone, one eye on Kennedy as she spoke rapidly. “Riiiight,” she finished, grimacing. “So.” She brightened up her voice. “All the other duties are gone, as you’d expect. Only warden hours left.”

  “In the Porter’s Lodge?” Kennedy jerked a thumb back over her shoulder.

  “No. The museum.” Was it Alanna? set off, and Kennedy had no choice but to follow, through another quad, right to the back of the college.

  “I’m keen to see the m—” Her words were knocked back down her throat by the building at the end of the grounds. It wasn’t cream stone or distinguished-yet-pretty-looking like the rest. Instead, it was darker and squat, despite being three stories. Cold and weird-looking, somehow, was the best she could come up with, as they rounded to its front. Whatever this grey stone was, it was dark. Slate, maybe? The sun went in, or dipped low to set, and a shadow formed in front of her, connecting her to the building. She shifted to free herself, the cold gripping her.

  “Very Gothic,” she commented.

  “Victorian Neo-Gothic,” Alicia—that was her name!—corrected. “You’ve heard of the Heylel Collection, of course? It’s open to the public.” She indicated the gate in the wall behind them that must lead to a street.

  “I’ll be having practicals here.” Kennedy indicated the museum. “I’m studying Social and Cultural Anthropology.”

  “Ah, right. So, probably why you’re down for this duty.”

  “Do you study here?” Kennedy asked, indicating the building with a jerk of her head.

  “Oh, God, no. I’m in PPE. Politics, Philosophy and—”

  “Economics. No, don’t—”

  As Alicia went to twist the metal ring on the huge wooden door in the middle of the building’s facade, Kennedy fought not to reach out and stop her.

  “Damn! Already closed, of course.” The second year bent to examine the small plaque bearing the opening hours.

  Relief coursed through Kennedy. But it was almost as if she didn’t need the door open to see the museum. She could visualize the worn stone steps up to a wooden information desk. Breathe in that wet sand and dry pepper wood-and-rope smell of an old building. Glimpse the glass-cased exhibits. The museum had started as a cabinet of curiosities and now housed the college’s—and so the university’s—collection of ethnographic and archaeological artefacts. She’d read about its displays since learning she’d won a place here. But she hadn’t expected this visceral reaction to the place.

  She barely heard her guide instructing her to check her pigeon hole for the key and badge she’d need for her shifts—her night shifts.

  “What?”

  Alicia pointed at her iPad, making a pouty “poor you” face. “Your hours are eight until midnight, a few nights a week. Very basic patrol, just guarding against trespassers, theft, and so on.”

  The unease that had clouded over Kennedy solidified, went from mist to fog. Wrapping her jacket tighter around her, she looked up at the building’s roof. Dotted with statues, like most roofs in the city. She’d noticed that much on her journey from the bus station. Only what were these? Not people. Animals? Something…else?

  “This way!” Alicia trilled over her shoulder, and Kennedy tripped over her own feet trying to catch her up. “At least it should be nice and quiet for you when you’re doing your duty hours. You’ll be able to catch up on work! And here you are.”

  Yep, the roman numerals on the plaque near the door of this building—staircase; get it right—matched those on the fattest envelope she’d found waiting for her. She’d hoped she be nearer to the street, or at least overlooking one of the bigger gardens, not this one at the back, looking out onto the small quad and creepy museum.

  “So, if you can manage…”

  “Thanks.” Kennedy nodded at Alicia, although her head felt heavy and her stomach like lead

  “Hey.” Alicia hesitated. “It’s okay. All first years are nervous their first week. And especially since classes have already begun.” She patted Kennedy’s arm and left.

  Kennedy took a deep breath and shoved her shoulders straight and her chin up, tilting her head back to peer down her nose. Defences set to cocky. Basic techniques against any sign of weakness that could be used against her, now layered around and into her personality. She’d learnt all that early on, and it would take a lot to drop. But maybe here…college is where people reinvent themselves, right? She’d seen enough of it in the ex-Holden House inmates who dropped in to say hi when they were back in town. Nasir, shy, scared, had turned into Naz, athlete and party animal, and Frizz, or Liz, was now Eliza, her ginger mop lightened and straightened, her accent ironed out too. Who will I become?

  Fumbling for keys, Kennedy found the main door was unlocked. Inside was fairly modern, the paint on the wooden walls and bannisters fresh-ish and the carpet clean. With all the signage, it put her in mind of the sort of hotels that featured in TV dramas, where a door would crash open and someone storm out of a room. But there was no noise, and she realised she was holding her breath as she walked up the three flights of stairs. She found the room her keys answered to, her task made easier as her bags and cases had been left outside it for her.

  Inside, after hanging her jacket on the peg, she inhaled the room’s anonymous bland furniture and generic cleaning product smell, wondering how many people had lived here since the building had gone up. Everyone feels nervous at first. Alicia had said something to that effect. But Kennedy usually didn’t, and she was looking forward to—not to mention amazed to be—attending one of the country’s finest universities. But now, actually being here…

  She suddenly crossed her small room and drew the curtains. Not much of a view anyway. She saw something out of the corner of one eye and whipped around. Nothing. Oh, the mirror over the washbasin, so only her reflection. As quickly as she could, she tipped her toiletries onto the shelf there and closed the panel over the alcove, shutting out the reflection of her pale, frowning face, narrowed brown eyes and messy long reddish-brown hair.

  Better to unpack as quickly as possible and find the shower room and kitchenette. She had stuff to make a snack for dinner, rather than seek out the dining hall and be told she’d missed the mealtime. Of course, she could go the college bar for a snack, or to the common room. But she thought she’d better study all the info she’d been given, both about the college and her course, and try and catch up on what she’d missed. She kept her music turned down low so she could hear when the other staircase dwellers returned to go say hi.

  She rolled her neck and paused to scratch at her birthmark, never an easy task as it was on the back of a shoulder blade. It didn’t often itch, but it was now. Uneasy again, she checked the curtains were still closed. They were, but the uncomfortable feeling remained.

  2

  Even in daylight the place looks dark. Kennedy was glad her first time inside the Heylel Museum was in broad daylight and in the comp
any of other first years. Well, some of us first years, she noted, still trying to get her head around the in-out, in-out, shake-it-all-about different teaching modes. It was a day later and she still felt a dollar short.

  Lectures—like the one she’d just come from, at the department—were for every first-year student of that subject from all five colleges teaching it, and there were four lectures a week, one on each core theme.

  Tutorials, however, were twice-weekly, and in students’ own colleges, with close cooperation expected among each four-student-strong tutorial group.

  And, like now, the first years were split into different groups for practical sessions, which could be in the Ashmolean Museum, say, or the Museum of Natural History, or…here. At least she wouldn’t have far to go home afterwards.

  She hung around at the back as they walked in, half-looking out for the people she’d been with earlier, falling silent along with everyone else at the museum’s interior, its wooden floor, the iron ribs of its walls and ceiling, its freestanding glass display cases in rows on the floor, and the glassed-in cubby-holes along the walls. The second and third levels held panels against the sides and displays in wall recesses only, lacking the central space of the ground floor.

  It was dark. Shadowy, really. She guessed it was to protect the artefacts, like the comic book store she liked hanging around in the town centre back home. A sudden bolt of homesickness shot through her, sending her sagging against the wall.