Sam glared disapprovingly. “Come on,” he muttered. Nicholas tramped after him.
They walked on, rounding the margins of an immense forest, and found that they were at the crest of a hill. Below them the land dipped to create a large basin-shaped valley that stretched out until the land met the sky. And there, between the trees, nestled a house. The countryside seemed to enclose protectively about it, shielding it from the rest of the world.
“Is that–” Nicholas murmured.
“It most certainly is,” Sam replied. He marched off down the sloping ground and Nicholas slowly followed, admiring the impressive building in the distance. Wrapped in his coat, the cat puffed out hot breath as it dozed.
Sam picked his way down into the natural basin and Nicholas hurried after him.
At last they were standing before the regal abode. It towered over them, and Nicholas had to crane his head right back to take in the highest chimneys and turrets. It was an unusual house, sliding into disrepair but still impressive in its dimensions. A flight of stone steps led up to a wide door, while a trellis of bright green ivy softened off the house’s austere edges.
“This is where my godmother lives?” Nicholas asked dubiously.
Awake now, the cat sniffed at the house with interest.
Sam smiled for what seemed like the first time in weeks.
“That it is,” he said simply.
Still smiling, Sam ascended the steps. Nicholas trailed behind him, suddenly nervous. He hadn’t expected anything like this; his godmother must be rolling in it. Not to mention old. He found himself longing for the comfort of Midsummer Common. That, unfortunately, was now out of his reach, and presently the boy was standing next to Sam before the solid front door.
The older man tapped the door knocker and waited, bobbing on his heels. Nicholas swallowed anxiously. Inside his coat, the cat squirmed with anticipation.
From the other side of the door there came the sound of chains rattling, then bolts being drawn aside, and finally the door opened. The light from outside spilled into the dark place that lay beyond the door, illuminating the shape of a young woman. She could not have been any further from what Nicholas had been expecting.
“Greetings Samuel,” the woman said. “And hello Nicholas. My name is Jessica. Won’t you come in?”
CHAPTER NINE
The Woman In The House
NICHOLAS COULDN’T HELP BUT STARE AT the woman. She was young and beautiful, but in a completely different way to the woman he’d encountered on the bus. There was an innocence to Jessica, something faintly childlike in her heart-shaped face. Sections of her chestnut-coloured hair had been plaited to form a crown about her head, while she wore a white silk dress that skimmed her knees, tiny gold threads twinkling whenever she moved. Though Nicholas supposed she could be no older than twenty, Jessica was relaxed and confident. Her smiling eyes were as warm as they were enigmatic.
“Welcome to my home,” the woman said as Sam drew the door closed behind them. Nicholas nodded politely and avoided Jessica’s curious gaze by looking about the entrance hall, which was immersed in a soft ochre glow. Little ornamental lamps smouldered faintly. The walls were adorned with intricate tapestries and sumptuous indigo drapes framed the double doors ahead of them. Nicholas felt warmth steal quickly into his freezing limbs.
“I have waited some time to meet with you, Nicholas,” Jessica said. “The last time I saw you, you were a baby. You would not remember me.”
Nicholas found himself caught in the woman’s penetrating gaze once more. The lamplight danced softly about her so that she seemed alternately ghoulish and radiant. It must be a trick of the light, the boy thought, or perhaps he was more tired than he’d realised.
Eventually, Nicholas managed to murmur: “You’re… my godmother?”
Jessica laughed pleasantly and shared a look with Sam. “We shall talk of that later, no doubt,” she said. “But look at you, you’ve come a long way, you must be exhausted.”
Nicholas shook his head; this was all far too interesting and strange, he couldn’t possibly sleep now. But as the house’s welcoming atmosphere embraced him, his body began to feel sluggish. Tiredness overwhelmed him.
“Come,” Jessica said. “Let me show you to your room.”
In a flash of white and gold she spun on her heel and pushed open the curtain-fringed doors. Nicholas and Sam followed her into a circular lobby with an impossibly high ceiling. The marble floor was inscribed with a sprawling motif, while a staircase swept up to bend around the curved walls.
“Follow me,” Jessica said, moving to the stairs.
Nicholas looked at Sam, who had paused to consider a painting. The older man gave him a reassuring smile.
“Go on, lad. I’ll speak to you later.”
Surrendering, the boy followed Jessica up the staircase. For such an old place, the woman’s home had been well maintained. The carpets were springy underfoot and there wasn’t a cobweb in sight. In some way, the house seemed to be an extension of Jessica herself – pristine and hospitable, yet submerged in an aura of mystery.
They reached the first of the three floors and Jessica led Nicholas down a wide landing lined with doors. She gestured to one sitting open waiting, motioning for Nicholas to go inside.
“This is your room,” she smiled.
Nicholas went inside and found a modest room that contained a wardrobe, a dressing table, and a double bed festooned with pillows and cushions. It was immersed in the same friendly glow that warmed the entire house.
“It is perhaps a little dated, I admit,” Jessica said, entering behind the boy and surveying the room. “But it will do for now. No doubt you will make it your own soon enough.”
Nicholas nodded sleepily.
“Get some rest,” Jessica advised. “You’ll wake feeling fresh and new.”
“Thanks,” Nicholas said. Jessica nodded and left the room, pulling the door to behind her. Alone in his new bedroom, Nicholas was too tired to do anything more than sidle up to the bed, unzip his coat to let the cat out, and then crawl onto the mattress. Within seconds he had sunk into the pillows and was sound asleep.
*
“Forgive me, but you seem to have arrived a day later than expected, Samuel.”
Sam, who had been admiring one of the lobby’s many tapestries, turned toward the voice.
“We have had something of an eventful journey,” he returned reverently, watching Jessica as she descended the stairs. “Far more eventful than I would have liked.”
“You must tell me all,” Jessica said. She led the elderly man from the lobby and down a corridor. Once again Sam was reminded of the grandeur of this most impressive old house. He’d been here many times in his long life, and he’d yet to find a place that filled him with the same sense of awe. Chandeliers winked above his head while marble floors shone underfoot.
“My home has been a place of great activity in recent weeks,” Jessica told Sam, leading him down a passageway presided over by solemn-faced statues. “I am not accustomed to such a continuous flow of people – it was perhaps fitting preparation for the arrival of my young house guest.”
“Let’s hope that his arrival will bring an end to those bearing grievous news,” Sam said.
“Indeed.”
To their right, an enormous glass cabinet displayed the bones of a colossal creature that – if alive – would no doubt make short work of any unwanted visitors. Its fanged skull grinned behind the glass, its hollow eye sockets following their movements.
Finally, they entered a conservatory. Here, plants with spearing leaves thrived in harmony with the most delicate of azure flowers. Wintry sunlight trickled in through the windowpanes, illuminating a couple of wicker chairs, beside which a table had been set with a polished silver teapot, china cups and a plate of biscuits.
“Won’t you take a seat,” Jessica offered.
“Don’t mind if I do.” Sam’s feet almost emitted a sigh of relief as he relaxed into one of th
e wicker chairs, and the conservatory’s humid atmosphere warmed him almost instantly. How quickly the body forgot what it was to be cold.
“You must be famished, please help yourself,” Jessica said, waving to the table as she seated herself. Sam poured himself a cup of tea and eagerly sipped it, smacking his lips.
“He is so young,” Jessica murmured, almost to herself. “I had forgotten how young one is at fifteen.”
“I fear that Nicholas will be forced to grow up very quickly in the coming weeks,” Sam put in sombrely, dunking a biscuit in his tea.
Jessica nodded, her lovely face suddenly troubled. “That day dawns on us all. We hurry through our young years so eager to prove our worth. And then we spend the rest of our lives attempting to recapture the very youth we have squandered.”
“Youth is wasted on the young,” Sam shrugged, dipping another biscuit into his cup.
“Tell me,” Jessica appealed softly. “You said you’d had an eventful journey?”
Sam returned his cup to its saucer on the table, brushing biscuit crumbs from his chin. “We were discovered,” he told her gravely. “I had thought travelling by bus might help us slip under the radar. I couldn’t have been more wrong.”
“What happened?”
“It was a woman – at least, that’s what it pretended to be. She wasn’t interested in me in the slightest; she just wanted Nicholas. She knew who he was. And she would have taken him if I hadn’t stopped her. She was powerful, too, my goodness. I dread to think…”
The old man trailed off, the thought too depressing to finish.
“So it’s true that the Prophets are aware of the child’s existence,” Jessica breathed uneasily. “That is perhaps the most worrying news of all.”
“He’s safe here, though,” Sam reasoned. “It could have turned out far worse. It’s quite remarkable, really – there’s barely a scratch on him.”
“The same can’t be said of you,” Jessica said, referring to the livid line on Sam’s cheek.
“I believe the Prophets are finding the weak links in the chain and exploiting them,” Sam said. “Just a few days ago the Waldens were attacked by their family doctor – a Harvester in disguise. And then that woman on the bus.”
“A Familiar?”
“I’m certain of it,” Sam said. “Though which of the Adepts she serves remains a mystery.”
Jessica sighed. The sun that beamed in through the conservatory windows afforded her a golden aura.
“I pray that my protection will be enough,” she deliberated. “The time of peace has almost run its course – there is war on the horizon. The Dark Prophets are readying themselves.”
Sam poured himself another cup of tea. “Nicholas was shaken, though he didn’t say anything. He’s a brave lad. He saw that harlot kill Malcolm; I wish he hadn’t. He has many questions. I have managed to stall him this far, but he is no fool. He will keep asking.”
“Then he shall have answers, it is only right.”
“What will you tell him?” Sam asked.
“Everything,” Jessica responded plainly.
“And if he reacts badly?”
“If he is the son that Max and Anita raised, and if he is the one that we have waited for, the answers will not come as a surprise to him,” Jessica said. “No doubt he will have realised, at least subconsciously, that he is different to most other boys.”
Sam nodded. “He’s told me of dreams,” he said. “Though he doesn’t understand their significance. I remember one year, it was Anita’s birthday. Nicholas was three, I believe, and there was a party at the Hallows’ home. Whenever Anita’s friend Michael came near Nicholas, he started crying. He kept saying something. ‘Fire.’ The poor child was inconsolable. ‘Fire, fire,’ he kept saying.” Sam shook his head at the memory. “A week later, Michael was dead. His flat burned to the ground; some sort of electrical fault.”
“I remember,” Jessica said. “Anita was so shaken by it she sought my counsel.”
“Those incidents were rare, though, and he has grown up in as normal an environment as any of us could have hoped for,” Sam went on. “I think you are right; he has suspicions. No matter how efficiently we protected him, we cannot deny his difference.” Sam paused again, adding dismally: “He could not have asked for better parents. They loved him dearly.”
“The losses are being felt everywhere,” Jessica said. “Esus has been attending Sentinel calls all over the country – things are happening, so many lives are being brought to an untimely end. We can expect things to darken long before the dawn.”
“That is the reason I cannot linger here for much longer,” Sam said, draining his cup and setting it down on the table. “I have promised Lucy Walden that I will attempt to help her.”
“You won’t stay?” Jessica asked furtively.
Sam stood. “As always, you have been a most gracious host,” he bowed his head deferentially. “Perhaps one day we shall have a conversation that doesn’t involve death and disaster.”
Jessica nodded. “That sounds most civilised. I pray such a time is close at hand.”
“Give my regards to Nicholas when he wakes? I’ll see him again soon,” Sam said.
“I will be sure of it. Take care Samuel, don’t do anything too rash.”
Sam bowed and left the room.
*
Malika paused by a streetlamp, wary of the bright neon that the naked bulb cast in a circle at her feet. Hers was a difficult relationship with the urban wastelands that had taken slow, lecherous purchase of the Earth. On the one hand she abhorred the constant noise and fuss, the robotic crowds with their deplorable agendas, the stench of humanity and aimless life. Yet at the same time she respected the corruptive force of the ever-hungry metropolis, sensing here a wickedness that almost twinned that within her own corrupt heart.
Here, on Trumpington Street in an old part of Cambridge, there were few distractions from her task. The daylight hours had long since dissolved into night, and those with sense enough had drawn their curtains against whatever ill deeds might be taking place in the dim streets. The restaurants and cafes that lined Trumpington had all locked up for the night, though a salty tang from the fish grill was still perceptible in the night air.
The slices of black in Malika’s eyes trained upon the majestic building across the road. The Fitzwilliam Museum was an imposing place, its substantial nineteenth century structure a rebuff to the modern city that had grown up around it. Malika approached slowly, passing through the unlocked gates and mounting the stone steps. She skirted round the building to where two stone lions stood guard, raised on lofty platforms.
Smiling to herself, Malika drew near to the great beasts and touched the front paw of the nearest creature.
“Watch,” she murmured to the effigy. “Be my eyes in the night.”
With a swirl of her red cloak, the woman hurried away, finally reaching the entrance – a rotating door that was locked for the night. Through the glass, she saw an elderly man sitting at a half-moon desk. He was reading a newspaper by the feeble lamplight, the rest of the museum swathed in shadow.
Softly, Malika tapped at the glass.
The security guard raised his head and squinted at her. “We’re closed,” he barked with mild annoyance. “Come back tomorrow.”
Malika tapped again.
“What the devil–” the security guard huffed. He threw down the newspaper and approached the door. But all irritation drained from his face as he peered at the woman through the glass.
“Open the door?” Malika requested lightly, widening her eyes at the old man.
Without hesitation, the guard took up his keys and let the woman in. He stepped back, instantly under her spell, his mouth hanging open as Malika closed the door behind her.
“Thank you–” Malika began, quickly searching the guard’s person for a name tag. “Thank you, George,” she said, smiling demurely.
“Mm… gg…” the guard called George mumbled, unable to form
anything more than clumsy sounds. Malika daintily extended a hand, and the guard took it, falling to one knee in front of her. He was mature in years, probably in his early sixties, so it took some effort, but he got there eventually.
“What a gentleman,” Malika teased, and her brittle laughter glanced off the marble pillars, echoing up into the foyer ceiling.
“Wh–what,” the guard began. He cleared his throat. “What can I do to be of service?”
Malika craned her head back to take in the full grandeur of the foyer. It was narrow but high, framed by sweeping symmetrical staircases. Gilded pillars bore the full weight of an elaborate ceiling. It resembled a chamber of the Gods.
“There’s something here that I need,” she began. “It’ll be old. Small. Easily mistaken for a European relic. Or perhaps African.”
“The Rome room,” grunted the guard, already staggering to his feet and shuffling over to a set of stairs.
Malika followed him, gliding over the marble floor, her pallid complexion giving her the appearance of one of the museum’s statues brought to life. Together, they descended the stone steps, passing under a sign that read Rome and Ancient Sudan, and walked down a bright white corridor that shimmered under the glow of numerous spotlights.
In the museum’s empty after hours, when the buzz of flocking tourists had long since fallen into a hush, every footstep rang out sharply. The collections huddled in their glass cases, peculiarly purposeless in these twilight hours when there was nobody to observe them or wonder at their links to an ancient world.
But Malika was looking. Eagerly and with purpose. She pored over every chipped bit of china, every rusted tool, every worn item of clothing. These were relics from a time long before she’d gasped her first breath. They were a novelty, objects older than even she, and they aroused her curiosity. The pages of man’s history were filled with barbaric deeds; the Romans had been particularly bloodthirsty. Malika would have liked to have lived then.
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