by Zoe Marriott
“How the effing hell can you be OK?” Jack demanded shakily.
“Good question,” I muttered.
I dreamed again. I dreamed right here in the middle of the road. The same Dream as always, but this time – this time I remembered it. Who – who was that boy? That boy with eyes full of the sky…? Why did I feel like I was supposed to save him? Like it was up to me to hold onto him?
And why wasn’t I dead?
“Mio…” Jack’s voice broke.
I reached out and shoved her phone into her skirt pocket, then hugged her hard. The bare skin above her fairy wings was icy cold, and her whole body was trembling.
“I don’t know, Jack. I just don’t know. Hey, you think I should get a lottery ticket?” My own voice cracked.
Jack let out a strangled laugh and smacked me lightly in the shoulder with her free hand. “You idiot. You ran right out into the road. What were you doing? I told you to wait for me. Why didn’t you wait?”
“I don’t really know that either. I saw something…” The Harbinger. I shuddered. “Look, I’ll try to explain later. Can we just go home for now?”
“Are you crazy?” She pulled back to stare at me. “We have to go to the hospital!”
“Look at me, Jack. There’s nothing wrong with me! I don’t even have road rash. No one’s going to believe I was hit by a car. If we go to A&E they’re going to think we’re wasting their time. They’ll throw us out. Or worse – call Rachel.” I was shaking myself now. Too much had happened tonight, and I couldn’t process any of it. “Please, Jack.”
Jack studied my face, then looked around helplessly. A few houses down a young couple was coming out, swaddled against the cold, with a Labrador puppy on a lead. They were pointing up at the dark streetlight outside their house, shaking their heads. This year’s top boy band was blaring out from Number Five. Everything looked completely normal.
Jack grabbed my hand. “Fine. Let’s go before my head pops.”
Square chunks of safety glass crunched underfoot as we stepped up onto the pavement. I squinted down at the mess, realizing belatedly that it was unusually dark because all the streetlights were out. The only reason I could see to walk was because of the nearly full moon. “What’s all this glass? And what happened to the streetlights?”
“The glass is from the streetlights,” Jack said wearily. “When you were lying in the road there was some sort of power surge. All the lights flared up – too bright to look at – and then … then they just exploded.”
Bel Downing swore when the lights in her tiny office started to flicker. Her finger slammed down on the “Save” icon and she sighed with relief when the command executed without the computer crashing. Damn power surges.
She reached for her mug of tea, found it contained only cold dregs, checked the time and swore again. No wonder her back was killing her. She had to stop doing this. It wasn’t like the British Museum was going to spring for overtime when she was writing her own dissertation.
When the lights had stopped blinking, she shut down her computer and had a long, spine-cracking stretch, trying to decide what takeaway to hit for dinner. She was weighing up noodles versus pizza when she heard an unmistakable sound echo down the empty corridor outside.
“What—?”
There it was again. For God’s sake! How had a cat got into the museum?
Remembering the chaos wrought by a trapped pigeon a few months before, Bel got up hastily and pushed the door of her office fully open. She peered up and down the shadowy corridor, but there was no sign of any living creature there.
She internally debated fetching one of the night watchmen. What if the cat was on the move? In the five or ten minutes it would take to get help, the stupid animal could have got into anything. Another meow made her mind up. The sound was coming from the Japanese rooms. She headed in that direction, passing the shadowy statue of Kudara Kannon as she entered the first room. Her footsteps echoed softly. Did she dare put on the powerful overhead lights? She couldn’t walk around in the pitch-dark, but she didn’t want to scare the cat into hiding with a sudden flood of light. After a moment she switched on the display lights instead. The soft spots highlighted the exhibits and gave her enough light to move around without falling over anything.
Bel heard another pitiful meow and felt a momentary pang of pity for the lost cat. She wasn’t much of a pet person, but all this noise must mean that the poor thing was frightened and wanted to be found.
“Here, puss,” she said, making kissy noises as she moved deeper into the gallery. “Here, kitty. Where are you? Come out.”
There was another meow, this time from right behind her. She turned quickly and sucked in a sharp breath, mouth falling open.
One of the exhibits – an ancient stone grave-offering, about a foot high and roughly carved in the shape of a cat – was broken. Shards of rock glittered in the display case amid a pool of dark liquid. The liquid flowed, thick as blood, down the sides of the broken exhibit’s pedestal and had somehow squeezed out under the sealed glass of the case to drip onto the floor. Torn between disbelief and fascination, Bel hesitated, then took a step back.
Her shoe squelched. She looked down and saw that in the few seconds she had stood gaping, the black liquid had circled her feet.
The hairs all over Bel’s body raked up as a low, wicked chuckle echoed through the gallery. One by one, the display lights began to wink off, plunging the room into deeper darkness.
This can’t be happening. This isn’t real.
Bel turned to run.
The fluid surged up in front of her, long rivulets gathering like an upside-down waterfall to form into a tall shape. A shape that was not human.
The mocking laughter warped and changed, taking on the ululating quality of a cat’s yowl. The last light flicked off. Bel saw eyes in the darkness. Yellow eyes. Cat’s eyes.
She tried to scream, but it was already too late.
The familiar dull roar of city noises outside made the silence in the attic seem even deeper. I felt as if I was wading through it, knee-deep, as I searched for the old metal case, my emergency torch blazing in one hand and the katana clutched in the other.
I have to put him back. I have to.
The light flashed over the white-painted exterior, dazzling me. I snapped my eyes closed, taking a deep breath.
Do it. Just do it. You know you have to. You have to.
It was incredibly hard to get myself to kneel down in front of the box. My legs twitched and seized up, like my own muscles were fighting me. My fingers clenched spasmodically on the saya, the slightly raised imprints of the golden cherry blossoms biting into the skin of my palm. I landed ungracefully on my backside, and cringed as the thud sent something toppling over in the dark recesses of the attic room.
I propped the flashlight on the seat of a wonky chair near by. The vivid yellow beam gleamed off the dust-choked surfaces and made dense black shadows in every nook and cranny.
Lid up.
Stiff, ancient silks unfolded.
There was a gentle dip in the bottom of the box, perfect for the katana to rest in. Maybe designed for it.
I took the sword in both hands. Head bent, my forehead resting gently on the curve of the saya, I whispered, “I’m sorry. I should never have taken him out. I’m sorry, Ojiichan. I’m sorry, Hidden One.”
So, so sorry…
I slowly eased the katana back into the box. After clumsily flipping the silks over the shining black and gold, I lunged for the lid and shoved it down. The hollow boom of the two halves of the case coming together rang in my ears like a church bell.
I rested like that for a little while, both hands on the lid, holding it down. Holding me up.
Finally I eased to my feet, grabbing the torch. My legs wobbled. Sickness surged in my stomach, and emptiness yawned in my chest. I wrapped my free arm around my midriff, trying to breathe around that awful, wrenching sense of wrongness. Mine. He was mine. And I was leaving him. I was leaving him trapped h
ere alone, shut up in the dark…
“Just a sword,” I panted between chattering teeth. “Just … a … sword.”
It was nearly over. Now I just had to get out of the attic. I just had to get away.
My first step was slow, wobbly, as if I had forgotten how to use my legs. The high, singing note inside me hadn’t cut off with the closing of the box this time. It was like a cord tied inside my ribs, stretched taut as a violin string, screaming with tension; shrill, desperate.
The second step, even slower than the first, made my breath sob in my ears and cold sweat spring up all over my body. My heart reached back for the sword with everything it had. Or maybe it was the sword reaching for me.
Don’t go. Don’t go. Don’t let go.
The third step broke me.
I couldn’t move another step without ripping out my own heart.
My legs gave way. I fell down onto the dusty floorboards, gasping for breath.
Misery. Emptiness. Fear.
No light. No air. Icy cold and dark, nothing but darkness. Oh God, I can’t leave him. I can’t let him go, not like this, I can’t let go. I can’t. I can’t…
He’s mine.
I didn’t make a decision to move. Before I knew what was happening, the box was before me again, the lid flying back. I ripped away the embroidered cloths.
The warm silk of the grip and cool lacquer of the saya leapt into my hands.
Relief swept over me – a gentle tide of sheer rightness like some beautiful piece of music reaching straight into my spirit. My stomach stopped churning. My head stopped throbbing. The high, screaming vibration that had shaken me and choked off my air turned golden and sweet, twining around me like an affectionate cat. The painful emotions dissolved into blessed calm. Joy. Warmth. Happiness.
I could feel the katana pulsing faintly in my grip, and a deep, thankful sigh shuddered out of me. I hugged it close.
You’re all right. I’ve got you now. I’ve got you. I won’t let go again.
I won’t ever, ever let go.
CHAPTER 5
THE BOY WITH THE SKY IN HIS EYES
It was nine-thirty in the morning. I stared up at my bedroom ceiling and contemplated my options.
One: I had got so drunk at Natalie’s party that I’d tripped out and had a really elaborate and disturbing dream which I found impossible to distinguish from reality.
Two: I had experienced one of those psychotic breaks that people were always going on about, and from now on I was never going to be able to distinguish dreams from reality.
Three: Everything I had experienced last night was real. The antique sword I had pinched from my parents’ attic was … something else. Something more. So much more that it had somehow fixed me when I ought to have been dead and had been starring in the recurring dreams I’d had since I was a kid.
Personally, I was thinking that Option One looked pretty fricking good. Especially since the minute I started seriously considering Number Three, I’d be a candidate for Two.
I groaned and rolled over, squashing my face into my pillow. My eyes felt like someone had poured sand into them. Last night the Dream had left me alone for the first time in weeks – but only because I couldn’t sleep. How could anyone sleep after what I’d seen last night?
It couldn’t be real. It couldn’t be. None of it. Could it?
I didn’t know what was going on. Maybe Jack was right and someone had spiked my drink. Or maybe… Maybe there really was something uncanny about Ojiichan’s sword. Either way, I knew I should try again this morning to put the katana back. I knew I should. I couldn’t get away with hiding an ancient deadly weapon under my bed for ever. What would happen when Mum went to hoover under there? If I put it away, all this would stop. Everything would go back to the way it was before.
Right?
The memory of the agony I’d experienced in the attic last night made me shiver. I curled up into a ball as icy sweat prickled up on the back of my neck.
The quiet knock on the door had me jolting upright, my hand shooting down over the side of the bed to where I’d stashed the katana.
“Mio? Are you awake?”
I sagged back against the pillows. “Yeah. Come in.”
Rachel pushed the door open, a mug of tea in her hand. “Hi. How are you feeling?”
“All right,” I said warily. “Why? What’d Jack tell you?”
Rachel put the mug down on the nightstand and immediately started nosing through the contents of my bookcase, taking the haphazardly piled paperbacks off the shelves, whacking the dust off against her jeans and then putting them back neatly, spine out. “Just that you came over a bit funny at the party and had to come home early. She said you might need a doctor’s appointment.”
“No!” I heard the echo of my own voice and swallowed as Rachel turned to me in surprise. “I mean, I don’t need to see a doctor. Honest. It was just really hot and I’d been dancing and maybe Jack should have let me eat dinner—”
“Hey,” Rachel said. “Are you sure you’re all right? You look a bit feverish.”
I glanced away from her, shamed by the concern on her face – and realized that the torn-up, dirty remains of my kendogi costume were lying half out from under the bed. In a burst of adrenaline, I leapt up and dropped my duvet over the telltale swatch of tattered black fabric.
“Look,” I said, doing a little spin on the rug. “I’m totally fine. If I go to the doctor you’ll need to tell Mum and Dad, and I really don’t want to worry them on their holiday. They deserve some time off.”
Rachel’s face softened. I could read the words She’s such a considerate little thing scrolling through her brain. There are times when looking puny and defenceless can work for you. The bunny rabbits on my pyjama bottoms probably helped, too.
“There’s no need to do cartwheels – I’m convinced,” she said. “But I think Jack feels guilty. Since it’s an alien emotion for her, she doesn’t know how to deal with it. The moping is getting on my nerves. Drink your tea and come cheer her up.”
“Right-oh. Will do. Thanks,” I said, herding her swiftly towards the door.
When it had shut behind her, I yanked the duvet up and stared at my kendo uniform. It was in tatters. That was proof something had happened. Some parts of what I remembered had to be real. But which parts?
I knelt down next to the bed and dragged the katana out into the light, holding the saya in both hands. As soon as I touched it, a familiar warm, tingling sensation started in my palms.
“Is this really all about you?” I whispered. The tingling turned into a sharp buzz under my fingers – almost like an electric shock. I flinched, dropping the sword onto the bed. He lay there on the white sheet, the glossy black lacquer and golden flowers gleaming in the morning light. He was beautiful, but he was just a sword. It was just a sword. A thing.
I picked him – it – up again.
The saya and hilt pulsed gently in my hands this time, like a heartbeat. Mine. Mine. Mine. I felt the sense of possession like a deep ache in my chest. Even the cherry blossoms that decorated him linked him to me. “Mio” meant cherry blossom. This katana was … special. More than just a sword. More than just an heirloom.
Mine.
I stroked the silk-wrapped hilt, stopping with a muttered swear word when I realized what I was doing. God, I was really losing it. I needed to talk to Jack.
Ten minutes later I was dressed in skinny jeans, boots and a long-sleeved T-shirt that read SPARKLIEPOO in pink glitter – and I had to decide what to do about the katana. I couldn’t exactly slip it into my pocket and skip off with it. But I didn’t have the strength to try leaving it behind again either, not yet.
Back when I was doing kendo practice three times a week I’d worn my wooden shinai in its carrier over the top of my school coat and never had any trouble from anyone. It felt a bit risky to try it with a real sword. In the light of day, with me dressed in normal clothes, no one was going to assume it was a fake, just part of
a costume. And what would Jack and Rachel say if I arrived at their place fully armed?
In the end I put the sword in the shinai carrier and shrugged my duffle jacket on over the top, hoping that the diagonal bulge across my back wasn’t too conspicuous. The sword was about the same length as my torso and the blade and saya had a slight curve that allowed them to fit naturally into the shape of my body. The biggest giveaway I could see in the mirror was a slight bulge where the top of the shinai carrier protruded a little over my left shoulder. It wasn’t perfect, but it would have to do.
When I let myself into Jack’s flat, she was sprawled on her stomach on the sofa with her feet sticking in the air, while Rachel was curled up in an armchair watching the news.
“It’s believed the police were unable to find signs of forced entry at the museum, although they would not confirm that the destruction of the artefact and death of assistant curator Belinda Dowling were an inside job. It has been reported that the murdered woman died of blood loss. One floor of the British Museum will be closed until further notice, and a security guard has been taken in for questioning.”
A picture of a woman with long, dark-red hair, blue eyes and a friendly smile appeared on the screen, with a caption underneath: MURDERED MUSEUM EMPLOYEE.
Jack sat up and raised her eyebrows at me. You ready to talk?
I shrugged a little. If you are.
“Hey, Rach, I forgot to get a Christmas card for Auntie Ruth,” Jack said, not taking her eyes off me. “So I’d better nip out. Won’t be long.”
“Well, be careful,” Rachel said absently. “God, look at this. Even museums aren’t safe now! There’s a lot of nutcases out there.”
“No kidding,” I muttered as Jack put on her purple biker jacket.
The air was icy and the sky between the buildings was that pale, metallic blue you only see in winter. Traffic roared past. Voices drifted out as we walked by the shops on the corner. The silence between us felt like a concrete slab attached to my chest.
Jack waited until we were moving through the warm, brown coffee miasma outside the local Starbucks before she spoke. “So – let me get this straight. You were … hallucinating. You ran out into the road after something I couldn’t see. A car hit you. All the streetlights exploded. And somehow you’re fine.”
