After that, he’d told her he was adopted. He was cagey about his adoptive father, Julian, but Ava understood that parents were a bitter topic for him. In return for his honesty, she had relayed the story of her useless father, and Menelaus had hugged her without suggestion, carefully placing his limbs so as not to intimidate her. It was something he was conscious of all the time. Ava knew it the way she was wont to know things. He scared people when he was too close, his brooding features warning them away. They only admired him from afar.
Ava liked him better up close. The smell of him, musky, but fresh and somehow wild, as if he’d walked down from a mountain clutching alpine bearberry and dressed in clothes spun from sheep’s wool. That was what had haunted her since, his scent. It had a familiarity, lodged somewhere in her subconscious, some strand that connected to her childhood. As she dwelt on it that night, when Menelaus had graciously excused himself from her home, it brought her back again to the dream of the falling woman, the one who screamed with such fear and agony that Ava tried not to puke into her pillow when she awoke, the name ‘Theo’ ringing in her ears.
On the steps of the piazza, Grace was leaning down to talk to Mark. Ava snapped back to the present, shocked to discover that she had taken out a pen from her clear exam case during her reverie, and had written a name on her palm. Isobel Clemensen. She shook as she stuffed the pen away, the recollection of Menelaus perched on her bed flooding back. And those little quirks, raising his eyebrows both at once, a second before a smile, his stark, but warm sense of humour, and most of all that smell, which alluded to him but also not to him, but to someone else, someone important. Again, she was reliving the nightmare, and this time, Menelaus was there, staring wide-eyed over the cliff-edge, mournful and wild, identical to when she’d played her guitar and sung for him, except in this vision his chin and neck were slick with blood. And that man who was with her in her room, it was someone else, someone lighter and cool as dawn, flighty but reliable as a hawk.
She stared again at the name smudging on her palm. Isobel. Theo. Theo Clemensen.
Three knocks, but no reply. Menelaus’ office door creaked ajar, and Ava pushed it open to find an empty desk. She crept in, the air pressing in on her as if accusing her of trespassing. I’ll wait for him, she thought, but instead of taking the seat meant for visitors, Ava snuggled into the large, leather chair, twisting the wheels side-to-side and hovering over the computer keyboard. She’d come to ask him a simple question – a basic question – but he wasn’t here. Even the chair smelt like him, the whole office crammed with Menelaus, but Ava felt a sense of entitlement after the intimacy of their date.
As I’m waiting, I might as well Google it. She ignored the paperwork on his desk, and restrained her curiosity from the half-open drawer underneath, a feat of self-control considering the mystery that surrounded the professor, who had mostly let her talk about herself all evening. It had made a refreshing change, but other than his adoption, she’d learned little about his life outside work. ‘Damn. Password protected.’ She let her mind wander, allowing this slip of morality, the pressure in the back of her head growing by the second, the ghost of Isobel urging her on. As good a reason as any to pluck a password out of the ether. Ava slipped into a hidden stream of information that rushed alongside all things, sweeping everyone up in its path. A trance was a daydream, a plunge into this pool, and soon she hoisted herself out the other side and flopped onto the bank, the new hunch sticking to her skin like droplets of water.
SanMichele1988.
She googled San Michele. ‘St. Michael’s, of course,’ she mused. ‘Where he was found.’ On a local history website, she found a copy of a newspaper article, a grainy, black-and-white picture; Moses basket and an embroidered blanket, the name Menelaus sown with elegant curls. The police appealed for information on the whereabouts of the mother. Ava knew how that story ended.
I’m procrastinating. Her fingers trembled as she typed the name – Isobel Clemensen. This time large, bold print shouted out at her from the screen:
WOMAN IN TRAGIC CLIFF FALL
An investigation, the article claimed, had led to a verdict of accidental death. ‘Hellingstead Hall…’ she read under her breath, ‘… Husband, Espen, and ten-year-old son, Theodore, left behind.’
Ava felt it as a wallop to the gut and shuddered. How often had she cycled up to that place, peering in through the gates with their creepy gargoyles and its strange sign, straining to catch a glimpse of the grand house? She had so many fantasies about playing there when she was growing up, imagining herself as some kind of princess. And the woman who haunted her nights had died there, and had entrusted Ava with the task of finding something, something very important for her son. With a quick calculation, she worked out that she and Theo were the same age. But the connections ran deeper than that; Ava, Theo, and Menelaus – had one parent each. Espen, Lolita, and Julian formed a triangle, trapping their children into the same structure. That strange image dominated her mind, parents and children locked into a conflict shrouded in shadows. The truth teased her, its elements floating around Ava’s life, waiting for her to draw them all together. Before it’s too late, she thought. Too late for what? She shook her head.
Theo Clemensen. ‘You’re nowhere,’ she groaned, ‘you don’t exist.’ He had no online presence, no idle social media profile, or name tagged in any picture. Other than the article about Isobel, the internet denied his relevance.
Giving up, she put the computer back to sleep, on the verge of cussing into the air when Menelaus barged through the door, a folder tucked under one arm. For a split-second, Ava expected him to explode like a wound-up bomb, but as she peeled off the hot, leather chair and came to greet him, he defused. ‘Sorry, I must’ve startled you. I came and you weren’t here and so—’
‘You thought you’d wait in my chair?’
Ava flinched, but then he grinned, his possessive reference to a piece of furniture magically transferring to her. That single emphasised word transforming her location into an admittance of desire.
Ava blushed but steeled herself for the question. His answer, whatever it would be, scared her. She could sense the link between the three of them, sharper than a bloodhound given a scent to hunt, and she supposed in some ways it was smell that had triggered the question in the first place.
‘Menelaus, I need to ask you something.’
He tensed, troubled by her tone. ‘Go on,’ he said, although his grimace suggested the opposite.
‘Does the name Theo Clemensen mean anything to you?’
Of all the responses she’d imagined, she wasn’t expecting him to snap like that. He threw the folder on the desk with frightening force, sending the rest of his papers skidding towards the edge, the perfect imitation of Isobel’s tumble off the cliff. She saw it in his eyes, the way he watched her watching them fall, realising they both knew about it, knew about her death. The confident stride as he walked beside her the other night, protective and restrained, became a stomp as he rounded his desk, and his muscled shoulders were drawn back, angry, and… lethal.
‘I can’t escape it, no one ever lets me,’ he growled, taking a long look at his screen before staring at her, and she realised she hadn’t closed the tabs in the browser. It hung there, him accusing her of hacking his computer, spying on him or something like it. The name Theo Clemensen meant a lot to him. She had her answer.
‘Can’t escape what, Menelaus? What happened?’
His glare sliced through her and she stepped back.
‘Don’t pretend like you don’t know. Who sent you?’
She squeezed her fists into a ball, furious at his attitude. ‘No one! You asked me out remember? Not the other way round.’
‘That means nothing,’ he spat, and the man she thought she understood was someone else, bull-like and vicious, bitter. The barb cut. He may have meant it one way, but she heard it another.
‘Right then,’ she returned, through gritted teeth, ‘glad we cleared that u
p. I won’t be bothering you again.’ She twirled on her heel and stormed out, slamming the door as hard as she possibly could, prompting a disapproving tut from a passing professor. Sod him, she thought, I’m sick of bloody professors. She bit back tears as she fished her phone out of her jacket and called Grace.
‘Hey, girly,’ her friend chirped.
‘I want to let you know I’m definitely not dating Menelaus. Now. Or. Ever!’
END OF PART FOUR
Interlude: Raphael
A THIEF IN THE NIGHT
I search for the vampire and I search for the warlock, but they escape me. I am used to floating on wings of cloud, but my feet fear landing; my animals speak and know: I have lost my points of reference. I am a useless compass pointing nowhere but Hellingstead Hall.
Espen carves up the hallways with his frantic steps, polluting the house with hateful terror, and I taste it, rank on my tongue. He passed my test once, and now it’s Theo’s turn. There’s no pleasure in my task for I am unwanted, nothing but a miscreant. I shake my head, abashed by my longing – I miss Lorenzo. A killer. A Dark Elf. A plague. And I want him hunting me because it means I exist for someone. Nature abhors a vacuum. Nature is driven by desire. I am a force of nature but I am not natural.
Espen fights bravely. He doesn’t see me as I slip inside his bedroom, as I watch him defending his borders from De Laurentis varmint and Italian witches. They accuse him of hiding Lorenzo, of killing him – Malachi can’t feel his pull and neither can I. Penny demands Theo, pretends to know the men responsible for harming him; a little information, a meeting, is all her coven demand.
But worst of all, the Guardians of the Praetoriani. Julian with his faux cane, although he disguises the pain in his leg well, no one truly believes it is real. Weakness is not acceptable. Threats are exchanged. Espen claims Theo is recuperating from injury and makes it plain who he thinks the culprits are.
I don’t wish to do this now. I don’t wish to make Theo vulnerable. But I am a servant, and servants do what they’re told.
The library is warm, muggy, and Espen is hunched over his desk in the gloom. Not even his uncle is there to console him. Something has changed in me since I came to this place and my action proves it. When Espen’s weary form caves, when he sinks under the weight of exhaustion and sleeps, I go to him and cup his shoulder under my palm. He is frozen under me, as I had been frozen in the snow in 1985, trapped by the avalanche he had caused. I was only a temporary victim. Others weren’t so lucky.
He’d found me on that frigid morning long ago and had uncovered my face. I’d watched him, waiting to thaw, but he saw only glassy death and cried.
Now I lean to his ear, brushing the silvery-blond hair from his neck. ‘You did not kill me,’ I whisper. ‘Those who aren’t born can’t die.’
He shudders but sleeps on, exhausted from defending Hellingstead Hall. I take that burden from his soul, just as I carry the other thing in my pocket, and flee.
V
Snapping Cords
THEO | AVA | ESPEN & ISOBEL |LORENZO | MENELAUS
39
Return To Midgard
The first thing Father did when he saw me was lob a packet of opened envelopes at my feet. With an instinctive sweep, I collected them, chilled by the official emblem stamped on each letter: a skeletal drawing of the Praetoriani HQ, with the letters PVJD tied around it like a bonnet, each one addressed to me.
Official Summons. The letters curled atop the last letter as if I actually held an invite to an exclusive party and not something sinister.
Father’s face grew apple-red while his lips pinched white. Where have you been? His eyes screamed betrayal as he launched missiles at Uncle Nik. ‘Tell me,’ he said, his voice dangerously low.
The animal skins tightened around my biceps as I crossed my arms; we had returned immediately after our misadventure in the Forest of Dreams, and after a courteous farewell to Malik and Sayen, Nikolaj had led us back to the portal, and home to the human world. Lorenzo made no protest about going home to face whatever music it is that vampires listen to. His vision of Raphael had shaken him, although he refused to tell me exactly what happened.
Father looked weary, with bruises above his cheekbones, and was even snappier than normal. Lorenzo’s involvement would only serve to add fuel to the vampire’s funeral pyre, so we had sent him straight home.
‘We’ve been in Alfheim,’ said Nikolaj, making the effort to stay calm and not rise to Espen’s hostility. ‘Theo got into trouble. He needed healing in the Eternal Spring. There was no time to contact you.’
Father baulked, examining us in turn faster than a tennis ball bouncing across a court. ‘Doctor Smyth told me you discharged yourself from hospital, Theodore. What possessed you to do such a stupid thing? What in Odin’s name happened?’
I recounted the kidnapping and torture – and my escape – and about Anna. Pride filled my voice when I told him that I healed her. I didn’t mention the trip to Hades or how I’d traded my hair for Anna’s life, because by that point, he had absolutely zero respect for my decision-making capabilities. He met my plea for forgiveness with disdain, sucking in his cheeks as if he’d knocked back a bottle of insecticide.
‘Who tortured you?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You have learned nothing from me.’ His disappointment unbalanced me. What reply could I give?
When Nikolaj rose to my defence, the yelling started, accelerating as we chased each other into the library, where we found the floor littered with open books. ‘No one worries about me, do they?’ Father raged. ‘No one cares how I’m meant to reinforce the wards after the ones I created as the Gatekeeper start to collapse under the pressure! I’ve spent hours,’ he gestured to the heavily annotated scrolls stretched over his desk, ‘nights, carving hieroglyphs into the walls, and I won’t even get started on the blood magic!’
‘That’s not my fault!’ Uncle Nikolaj kicked the books aside to get closer to Father. I couldn’t believe these two book-worshipers had desecrated so many.
‘No, it’s that damn silly boy! When is he going to learn? It’s been five days, Nik! Five days!’
‘But we’ve only been gone for two,’ I protested.
‘A trick of time Uncle Nikolaj failed to explain to you, Theodore.’ So Father’s defences had taken a battering. ‘You’ve been up to no good behind my back,’ he raged, ‘I know you led that coven to our door! What secrets have you betrayed to them?’
I caught the grenade of suspicion with an unconvincing denial. ‘I have no idea why they’re looking for me,’ I lied. Penny wanted me to lead her coven. Like Ragnarök was I telling him that. His accusations still burned though.
While Father and Nik continued barking at one another, I read over the letters. Eight days since the Assessment, and the Praetoriani had called me in for another interview three times. Since being discharged from hospital, they had considered me ‘fit for summons’. Shame I hadn’t been in Midgard at the time. Don’t leave the county, they’d said. Technically, I didn’t. But I couldn’t tell them where I’d gone either, or why, unless I wanted to handcuff myself and take my own mugshot. Father clocked me reading. ‘They’re pressing charges for absconding from Assessment and the assignment of a Guardian. You have two weeks to prepare for your trial.’ He stood inches from my face, his breath hot on my skin. ‘I hope you’re happy.’
‘Leave him alone, Espen. He’s been through a lot.’
‘You aren’t blameless in this, Nik,’ Father purred, ‘It was a mistake to take your advice on matters of father-son business. I knew he wasn’t ready for this. He’s too immature.’
‘Excuse me? I’m right here! And if I’ve messed up, it’s because you have kept secrets from me.’
‘And your actions prove I was right to do so!’
My temper burst. ‘You’re unbelievable – I almost died twice, I was practically skinned, and all you can do is scream at me? What’s wrong with you? Don’t you even care that I
’m alive?’
He whispered, ‘The amulet is gone, Theo,’ and those words penetrated the deepest.
Nikolaj whipped his head in our direction. Father convulsed as his anger tussled with his pain, and his hands trembled as he reached for me. ‘I feared I’d never see you again.’
The unexpected softness drew out my own unhappiness. ‘If Ragnarök is fated, what’s the point in trying to stop it? Since I became the Gatekeeper, I’ve done nothing but try not to die. I haven’t lived at all. So yeah, you’re right. I’m not ready for this. But it’s not because I’m immature. It’s because I’ve exchanged one straitjacket for another. I’ll never be free.’
‘Clemensens don’t have the luxury of self-determination, Theodore.’
‘Then I don’t want to be a Clemensen anymore.’
In all my life, Father had never struck me, not even in a sword fight. The back of his hand had never crashed into my cheek, not until that moment. I didn’t react at first, the shock freezing out a response. Maybe Mum was alone in the woods that night because she didn’t want to be a Clemensen either. The air crinkled as I vanished, but my silent blame left a contrail back to my Father’s heart.
The amulet is missing. Only one person could get past Father’s wards without notice, one person who could tread so lightly, the pads of his feet so soft that even the moist earth drew flecks of gold from his skin.
Only Raphael. He is the nemesis. I laughed, the tart echo bouncing off the high corners of my bedroom. The bedroom, the retreat, the hideaway, where I’d drawn and painted, read endless adventure novels, tying back the curtains to stare out from my bed, projecting the characters from the page onto a stage of empty floorboards. Empty. That’s all it is now. The years I’d spent in here had no more substance than the ghosts of those early imaginings did.
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