They pulled into the driveway at the Coughton and Cohen had a chance to look at it for the first time properly. It looked ancient, the stone walls were covered in crawling green ivy, and its high square windows were dark and murky. An old, boxy car sat in the driveway next to it, and Cohen glanced at the keychain that Myrna had acquired for him to confirm that a small matching ignition key accompanied the much more antiquated house key. At least he'd have transport. It felt a bit weird to be living in his deceased aunt's house, driving her car. But she had left it all to him.
"You're going to be okay here?" Myrna asked him as she helped him carry his things to the door over the still-wet grass. There had been a stone walkway at one point, but it had nearly grown over in the two years of unoccupancy. The doorknob and lock were ornate copper, covered in a green patina, and the key matched. Cohen slid the heavy thing in and turned it, feeling the weights shift inside. There was a thunk and the door unlocked. He turned the handle, slightly shiny from use, and pushed the heavy wooden door open.
Inside it was dark and dry. Cohen leaned forward, smelling dust and stagnancy. He stepped in, feeling a heavy rug under his shoes, and looked around. There was a tarnished silver switch on the wall, circular with matching wire running up to the ceiling, and he flipped it. A soft yellow glow illuminated the room, better than the sunlight from the dusty windows.
"Well, there's electricity, so I should be okay," he told Myrna, ducking back outside to grab his bag. "I'll drive the car into town tomorrow and stock up then."
"You've got enough food for tonight, then?" she asked, and he nodded. He'd brought a few cans of beans and soup, suspecting that the house would be empty. She nodded, seeming satisfied. "I'd like to invite you to dinner sometime," she said, pulling a notebook from her breast pocket and scribbling her number down. "My daughter's a big fan of yours; she'd love to meet you."
Cohen was too shocked to respond for a moment. He hadn't even realised that Myrna knew who he was. "Of course," he said, when he found his voice again. "I'd like that."
Myrna shoved her hands in her pockets, glanced behind him into the dim foyer, and nodded once again. "Make sure you lock your doors," she said. "Have a good night."
Cohen watched her walk back to the car and get in, turning to say something to Niall in the back seat. He couldn't see very well through the wind-shield, but he thought Niall was looking at him. He hoped he'd be okay.
He stepped into the foyer of the house once again, and shut the door behind him. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimness, as if the house was hiding its secrets from him, only giving them up reluctantly. He pulled his coat around himself, glad he was wearing it. First order of business was to find a thermostat, although the grey stone walls didn't look like they would hold heat well.
He took a few steps forward, the fabric of the rug swallowing his footsteps. The foyer was two stories high, the only windows high above the doorway. Craning his neck, Cohen could just see the wooden rafters above. The light came from an old electric chandelier, dull, painted gold glinting amongst cobwebs. He'd have to find a ladder and clean it up.
He walked through the house, opening doors and turning on light switches, hoping it would make the place a little warmer. If not for the dust and darkness, he could almost imagine that his aunt still lived here. They'd visited when he and Halley were children, until his mother had decided that the house was unsafe for children. It seemed that his aunt's hoarding tendencies had increased in the years following.
The couches in the sitting room were covered in white sheets, but he didn't bother to remove them yet. He slipped into the dining room, running his hand along the dusty white cloth covering the large table, and examining the vast collection of china in the cabinet. He didn't think he'd ever be able to make himself eat in here.
Luckily the kitchen was a bit cosier. The floor was mint green tile, the ceiling low, and a small, more modern table sat in the centre with a few chairs around it. Cohen opened the old, squat fridge to check that it worked, and closed it again, shivering. The cupboards were empty of course, cleared out, although all manner of knick knacks and garbage lay strewn about and pushed to the back of the counters. The dust made everything eerie and grey.
There was a small window next to a wooden door leading outside and he walked towards it, sliding his sleeve over his fist and rubbing away the condensation and murk. A bit of light shone through, illuminating the room, although the grey sky was darkening quickly. He'd need to clean the windows. That would make everything much less dreary. Hopefully it wouldn't rain again the next day, although anything would be better than the grey of today.
He shivered again, looking around for a thermostat. But there was nothing, only two more rooms filled to the brim with covered furniture, and boxes and boxes of junk, and then beyond, what looked like a ball room, or a music room, with an elaborately tiled floor and long velvet curtains in front of tall glass windows. The paint on the high, gilded ceiling was chipping, and the whole room smelled of decay and disuse. Cohen shivered and left quickly, returning to his case at the front door and starting up the grand staircase.
If he had to guess, he'd say his aunt had done a lot more living upstairs. There was another, smaller sitting room, and the guest rooms he remembered staying in when he'd visited with his family. The sitting room had an old boxy television, and a phone that had a dial tone when he picked up. A giant golden menorah sat on the mantle above the fireplace. He'd always been afraid of it falling on him as a child, but now it felt familiar and comforting.
At last he found the bedroom. In the corner, by yet another fireplace, sat an enormous, decrepit space heater with a dark faux-wood finish. He found the plug and fitted it into the socket, another tarnished silver block with a metal cable connecting it to the other outlets and lights in the house, and pressed the buttons on the top experimentally.
An orange light began to glow dimly and the heater made a noise like the engine of an old dying car, followed by a high pitched whirring. Cohen coughed, stepping back as a puff of dust emanated from it, along with the overpowering smell of burning and, mercifully, a gradual spread of heat.
He knelt for a minute, warming his hands up, before the smell became overwhelming and he stood, coughing, and turned away. He rolled his suitcase over to the bed and pulled the white sheet off of it, leaving it in a heap on the floor. The mattress was bare, but he quickly found the bedding in the closet. His aunt's clothes were still there, thanks to the order in her will that everything be left for Cohen. She'd been so proud that he'd published a book. He wondered if she'd have been as proud if she'd known about his transition.
Luckily the old stiff sheets didn't smell like anything except detergent and dust. He reminded himself that his aunt had died in a hospital, not here in her bed, but it was still creepy. He pulled the sheets over the bed and spread the thick embroidered comforter, tucking the edges in.
He shivered again. The heater was warming the room up slowly, but he still didn't feel ready to take his coat off. It was dark, strangely so. He went to the window, pulling the heavy curtains away and wiping the window to let more of the light in. Directly below him was the garden he'd seen out the kitchen window, the hedges and bushes overgrown. It looked like there was a vegetable patch as well. Maybe he could grow vegetables if he was still here come fall. His stomach growled at the thought of vegetables—he must really be hungry. The only thing he'd eaten all day was a sandwich provided for him at the police station. He definitely needed to have dinner.
He opened his case and pulled out one of the tins of beans he'd brought along as well as a few juice boxes. It was enough to last him until tomorrow, when he could take the car into town and do some proper shopping. He trotted downstairs and turned the oven on, opening it to allow it to heat the place up a bit. How his aunt had ever managed to live there through the winters was beyond him, although he supposed he might have to find out. Maybe he just hadn't found the thermostat yet, but he doubted the place ha
d central heating.
He had just finished washing a pot and was running the can opener when there was a heavy, insistent knock on the door. He stopped, pulling the can away from the machine and listening. The knock came again, three times in quick succession.
For a brief second, he thought it must be Sandy, and the thought made his empty stomach queasy. He wiped his hands off on the dishtowel and shut the oven door before venturing into the foyer. He wished the door had a peephole, or at least that the only windows weren't so high up. Myrna had told him to keep the door locked, but that wouldn't do any good if he opened the door for a—no, the murderer.
The knock came again. "Who is it?" he called, his voice coming out much more childish and high-pitched than he wanted it to.
"It's Niall. Cohen, you have to let me in, it's important."
Niall. Cohen's heart jumped with excitement at seeing him again. This was ridiculous. Was he thirteen again? He unlocked the door and pulled it open. Niall stood on his doorstep, looking flushed. He was still wearing the same clothes from this morning, and he was carrying a large suitcase.
"Hi," he said, and Cohen was sure he was imagining that Niall's eyes lit up a bit at the sight of him. "Hi, Cohen. I'm glad you're okay."
"Of course I'm okay," said Cohen, stepping aside to let Niall in. "You just saw me an hour ago."
"I know." Niall was looking around the foyer, his eyes a little frantic. "I had to go home and get some stuff, but I'm here now. Cohen." He looked Cohen in the eye, his expression deadly serious. "You're not going to like me very much for this; in fact, you're probably going to think I'm crazy, but you have to let me do this."
"What?" asked Cohen, and Niall knelt to open the suitcase. It was full to the brim with dried plants and amulets. He wasn't sure if Niall had strung more, or simply taken the ones in his house down. "What are those for?" Cohen asked warily.
"Protection," said Niall, sighing determinedly as he began to pull long strings of them out of the case. He looked around the foyer calculatingly. "We'll have to use these sparingly. Show me the exits."
"Um, no." Cohen crossed his arms, and stared at Niall. Half of him was completely weirded out, and the other half wanted to laugh. "You're not putting those things all over my house, I'm trying to make the place look better."
"I have to."
"Why?"
Niall stared at him, and Cohen could see his jaw tighten a little. "Protection."
Cohen was trying and failing to keep the smile off his face. "Niall, it's fine if you want to practice your religion in your own house, but I'm not okay with you bringing it here, no matter how good your intentions are."
Niall seemed to smile a little despite himself. Maybe an automatic response to Cohen's. "You're suddenly so eloquent."
"Well, I'm tired, and I need to eat. You're welcome to," he gestured flippantly at the kitchen, "come have beans with me."
Niall stood still. "It's not a religion," he said. "It's a practice."
"Okay, whatever, practice it at home." Cohen turned and headed back to the kitchen, partly because he was starving and partially to break Niall's intense eye contact. Niall followed him, though.
"I can't," he said as Cohen grabbed the can of beans and put it back into the can opener. He raised his voice a little over the noise. "You have protections on you, so I can't do magic directly to you, I have to place it around you."
"What are you talking about?" Cohen turned back to Niall. The humour was beginning to wear thin. How could he not have noticed this whole time that Niall was a little odd? He'd seemed like such a normal, harmless pagan.
Niall's voice was soft and insistent, his face pleading. "Cohen, you're looking at me like I'm crazy, but I promise I'm not. I'm telling the truth. Is it that hard to believe that magic exists and that I can do it?"
Cohen turned away again to grab the pot and place it on the stove. "Um, I'm sane, so yes."
"Then believe this," said Niall, his voice becoming sharper. "I'm sorry that I got you involved in this, but when you helped me today, you attracted the attention of the man who killed Sandy McIntyre and two other people. You're not safe anymore."
Cohen suddenly wished he hadn't taken off his coat. He shivered and dropped the pan on the stove, turning back to face Niall. "You know who did it?" he hissed. "You know, and you didn't tell the police?"
"I couldn't." Niall said, his brow knitted. "I can't let people know, I can't..." He sighed, looking away, and Cohen could see the tightness in his cheek again. "It's very complicated, and I can explain everything, but please let me put these protections up first."
Cohen turned back to the stove. His mind was a whirl, his whole body on high alert. "I don't believe you."
"I can prove it," said Niall. "If I prove it, will you let me?"
"Prove what?"
"That I can do magic."
Cohen couldn't help but laugh, although there was little humour in it. "Sure, whatever."
Niall stepped closer to him and uncrossed his arms, holding a hand out. Cohen forced himself not to back away. "Can I see that?" Niall asked, gesturing at the open can of beans that Cohen had picked up.
Cohen handed him the can reluctantly. He'd thought that Niall was the only one in town he could trust. Now it seemed more and more like he was the craziest person he'd met so far.
Niall took the can and cupped it in his hands, staring down at it. He said a few words in something that sounded like Russian. For a second, nothing happened. Then there was a loud pop, and beans shot up out of the can, catapulting themselves all over the kitchen. Cohen, who had flinched and turned away at the noise, uncovered his face hesitantly and stared at Niall, who was looking sheepish.
"Ah, that was probably too big a spell for that size," said Niall, looking down at the can. "But look, it's hot!"
It was indeed. Steam was rising from the beans that were left over in the can and Niall was holding it gingerly, as if the metal was burning his fingers slightly. He set it down on the stove next to the now unnecessary pan.
"You... How?" Cohen's brain was refusing to process, looking for an escape, an out. "You faked that somehow, like a magic trick."
"Not a trick," said Niall. "Magic."
Cohen turned back to Niall, laughter bubbling up as he leaned back on the handle of the stove to support himself. "This is insane, you're tricking me! It's not funny, either," he added seriously, remembering Niall's earlier assertion about the murderer. He shook his head slowly. "Why are you doing this to me?"
"I'm sorry," said Niall, and it looked like he meant it. "I tried not to get you involved. I shouldn't have picked you up yesterday."
"Why did you?" asked Cohen, wondering now if Niall had just been messing with him the whole time.
"Because you needed help," said Niall. "Cohen, please let me put those protections up. I promise I'll explain everything."
"Okay," said Cohen, giving in. "I mean, whatever, they're just dead plants."
"Eat your beans," Niall ordered him. Cohen grabbed his fork and followed Niall out into the foyer.
Niall hung a string on every door and window in the house, and as he did so, he explained everything to Cohen. Jacky and the demon, and the strange magical powers, and how they had been kidnapped by the Guild and escaped. Cohen listened, only half believing, but content to let Niall tell his story anyway, while he ate his beans.
"But what is the Guild?" he asked as Niall stood on a stool from the kitchen and pinned little straw men above the doorway to the ballroom. "I mean, are they just some big evil company that likes to kidnap magical children?"
"They're not a company," said Niall, jumping down from the stool. "They're an organization. Don't go in there, by the way, it's not protected." He gestured at the closed door. "And they're not evil, either. Just corrupt. The thing is, they're necessary, because they sort of... regulate the magical world. They keep the general population from knowing about magic and they stop people who know magic from manipulating the people that don't."
"No, well yeah, I suppose. That's simplifying it a bit." Niall sighed. "What I'm trying to say is that from a theoretical point of view, they're good. At the lower levels they function well. Most magic practitioners never really interact with them much besides signing their contracts. As long as you sign the contract, you're protected by them. But... it also means they own you."
"Do they own you?" asked Cohen, and Niall nodded.
"That's why I have to put up so many wards, and be so careful. I can only use witchcraft, not my actual magic, because they'll be able to track it."
"How?"
Niall fidgeted with one of the pins. "They have my blood. I signed in blood."
Cohen shook his head, starting himself back to reality. "This is all insane," he said. "Look, I don't believe you."
"It's all right." Niall put the pin back into his suitcase and closed it. Then he reached behind his head and pulled a long cord from around his neck. He handed it to Cohen, who took it automatically. A small wooden charm hung from it, carved with smooth notches in the polished wood. "You don't have to believe me," he said, looking down at the charm. "But at the very least, please wear this. It'll go a long way to keeping you safe from him."
"Him," said Cohen, shivering again. "You mean Jacky? If he's killed people, you should turn him into the police. Why is he trying to set you up?"
Niall's face tightened, and he turned away. "Because I'm trying to stop him."
"Stop him from doing what? From coming after me next? From killing more people?" When Niall didn't reply, Cohen continued. "It doesn't matter; if you turn him in, it'll stop him, and clear your name."
"And the Guild will get him back," said Niall, his voice quiet. "You don't know the things they did to him."
Cohen felt queasy. Whether or not Niall was crazy, he seemed to believe the things he was saying. If he had been kept in prison and tortured for five years, well, that was enough to make anyone crazy. And if he was telling the truth...
To Summon Nightmares Page 7
