Pandora turned left onto a broad avenue lined with important-looking buildings and statues of men on horseback. Jake immediately recognized the road from news reports: this was Whitehall, the heart of the British government. Some of the most important people in the country worked behind these grand, imposing walls.
Tucked into a corner of Whitehall was a humble little side street with a row of dull, dark-brick houses halfway along. This apparently unremarkable place was Downing Street, and at Number 10 the British Prime Minister was still settling into her new job. Cynthia Croft had been in office only a month. As they passed the gated entrance to Downing Street, Jake wondered how much the government and Miss Croft knew about the evil that lurked in this land. Did the authorities of the world have any idea about demons and witches?
At the end of Whitehall, Pandora turned onto Westminster Bridge. They crossed the River Thames and Jake saw the reflection of the Houses of Parliament rippling in the murky water. He thought back to that time when he had flown over this river on the back of an enchanted snake.
‘You’re taking us there, aren’t you?’ he said.
Pandora didn’t answer. The car reached the east side of the bridge and, between a clutter of half-finished buildings, Jake glimpsed the glass and steel bulk of Waterloo Station. From there a dozen winding routes led them into the back alleys of the South Bank.
‘We’re here.’
Pandora pulled over and slipped out of the driver’s seat. Jake joined her on the pavement. It was a London street like any other—the bustle of traffic, the sting of fumes, snatches of overheard conversation. The commuters hurrying towards Waterloo gave Jake and Pandora only cursory glances. Certainly no one looked beyond the Volkswagen and down the alley that joined up with the street.
Jake ran fingers through his long hair, breathed deeply, and stepped into the alley. All at once the busy atmosphere of the outside world fell away and a chilling silence wrapped itself around him. He looked up at the sign bolted to the wall:
This was the last place on earth he wanted to be: the little London street that appeared on no maps and that reality seemed to shun. Jake had not been back since the night he had faced Marcus Crowden. The night his father had sustained that dreadful wound. Sensing Pandora at his side, he said, ‘Why have you brought us here?’
‘It’s the safest place for you right now. There are many dark creatures in these parts that are loyal to your father.’
Jake eyed the dripping walls, the filthy windows. The prospect of hiding out in one of these houses wasn’t very appealing.
They went back to the car and woke Rachel. Yaga Passage was too narrow for the Volkswagen, and so Jake fed coins into a parking meter and slapped a ticket on the inside of the windscreen. He and Rachel then started to lift the still unconscious Adam out of the back seat.
‘We’ll leave your dad and Simon here for the time being,’ Pandora instructed. ‘I’ve given them both a sedative so they should sleep a while yet.’ She checked each of the watches strapped to her eight wrists. ‘New York; Tokyo; Rome; Cairo; Lafitte, Louisiana—always gotta know the time back home, my momma hates it if I call in the middle of the night. She starts feeding the swamp hatchlings at around midnight and … ’ A quick shake of the head. ‘Don’t ask … London! 6:50 a.m. We’ve got ten minutes before Razor shuts up shop.’
Pandora took off down Yaga Passage.
‘Razor?’ Rachel raised an eyebrow.
‘Guess we’ll find out soon enough,’ Jake shrugged.
They packed Adam back into the car and hurried after Pandora. As they tore down the alleyway, the sunlight vanished, summer switched to winter, and their skin turned to gooseflesh. A thin layer of ice coated the pavement and clung in patches to the lopsided walls. Halfway down the alley, Jake lost his footing on the ice and tumbled to the ground. Rachel skidded to a stop and helped him up. His thanks were cut short by the sight of the burned-out book-shop opposite.
The charred sign lay in the filth of the gutter. Jake went to the shattered windows and peered into the blackened heart of the shop. He could see the fireplace where Mr Hegarty had once perched, the empty bookshelves and the torn remains of ancient tomes. After the battle between the dark creatures and the Crowden Coven someone must have come back, looted the place and burned it down. Jake wondered if the curtained doorway in Grype’s office still led to the Veil—that realm of nothingness which had once been the Coven Master’s prison.
He felt Rachel’s hand on his shoulder.
Pandora’s voice called out, and they set off again.
At the end of the street they found a small arched passage squeezed between two houses. The tunnelled entrance was low, its ceiling less than a metre and a half off the ground. The cobbled pavement stretched away into utter darkness.
Carved into the stone above the tunnel mouth were the words:
‘A book of monsters,’ Jake murmured.
‘What?’
‘Grimoire. It’s a kind of magic book. They were popular with sorcerers in the Middle Ages—books like The Secret Grimoire of Turiel and the Necronomicon. Kind of like instruction manuals for summoning monsters, angels, demons … ’ Jake frowned. ‘Why would Pandora want to lead us to a grimoire?’
‘Hurry up!’ Pandora’s voice echoed out of the gloom. ‘The doors are closing!’
‘Do you think we should … ?’
Jake nodded. ‘It’s Pandora.’
Rachel reached for his hand. With their heads bent to clear the arched ceiling, they stumbled on. As they plunged down the throat of the tunnel, the darkness swallowed them whole. It was even colder here than it had been in Yaga Passage, a deep, grinding chill that gnawed into their bones. The chatter of their feet on the icy cobbles echoed into the fathomless reaches of the tunnel. Several times, Jake thought he caught a glimpse of light up ahead only for it to flicker and vanish, like a candle snuffed out.
‘Did you feel that?’ Rachel cried. ‘Hands!’
Yes, Jake had felt it—phantom fingers against his face. He imagined spider webs the size of punkah fans hanging down from the roof.
Rachel screamed.
Jake’s own cry of terror got stuck somewhere in his throat. Without warning, those wispy fingers had solidified into slippery wet tentacles. Jake felt dozens of them lock around his shoulders and lift him from the ground. He tried to cling to Rachel but the unseen tentacles wrenched them apart. Their screams echoed from stone to stone until the tunnel rang.
Lifted high into the air, Jake realized that the low-ceilinged tunnel must have opened out into a vast chamber. Not that he could see this space; everything remained cloaked in darkness. New tentacles reached out and wrapped around his wrists and ankles. He felt himself being passed from feeler to feeler, flipped and somersaulted until he no longer had any sense of up and down. By Rachel’s cries he knew that, although they were separated, she was still close by.
A blast of warm air parched Jake’s face. His eyes narrowed into slits. Up ahead he could make out a tiny oval of light, like a golden teardrop. The glare almost blinded him, but he managed to take in a few brief glimpses of his surroundings. For the first time he could see the fibrous green tentacles lashed around his wrists and ankles. Passing Jake between them, these strange arms drew him faster and faster towards the oval doorway. Just before he reached the opening, he managed to glance back and see the space through which he had been propelled. Below lay a pit, like a colossal well bored out of the earth. It could not be bottomless because Jake could make out faint white shapes writhing far below. He did not want to think about what these creatures might be. Looking up, he saw an arched ceiling soar overhead, like the roof of the tunnel, only a thousand times larger. Growing between the bricks that made up the ceiling were millions of trailing vines—an upside-down forest of rustling, restless tentacles.
Jake and Rachel were thrust through the oval doorway and into the honeyed world beyond. They tumbled over a hard stone floor and finally came to a stop.
‘A
re-you-OK?’ Jake panted, helping Rachel to her feet.
‘Bruised, battered, scared half to death, but I guess I’ll live.’ Rachel raked fingers through her tousled hair. ‘Jake, what is this place?’
For a moment, they stood in awed silence. At their backs was the teardrop doorway; in front of them, an open square the size of a small airfield. It was paved with rough sandstone slabs that blazed in the light of a Mediterranean dawn. Built from the same yellow stone, narrow arcades supported by big Roman columns ran around all four sides of the square. At the centre, water bubbled from the spout of a silver fountain. It’s a piazza, Jake thought, typical of the grand squares that he and his father had seen on their trip to Italy last year.
A desert breeze chased around Jake’s legs and threw grit into his eyes. Small drifts of sand covered the steps all around the piazza. Jake squinted at the huge red sun beating down from a purple-tinged sky, and thought, We’re not in Kansas any more, Toto.
‘Come on, you two!’
Pandora’s command bounced between the crumbling columns. Jake could just make out the eight-armed woman on the far side of the square. He took a deep breath and they set off again.
The sun was relentless. By the time they had reached the fountain, they were forced to rest.
‘Let’s continue down one of the arcades,’ Rachel said. ‘Stick to the shade.’
They scooped handfuls of deliciously cool water from the bowl of the fountain, and were about to set off again when Jake paused. He took a step back and stared at the fountain. The design was simple—a silver cup expanded to the size of a bathtub had been perched on a plinth a metre or so off the ground. Water gushed from a spout at the centre and filled the cup to the brim. The sunlight shimmering off the silver blinded Jake while the tinkle of water ran like music in his ears.
‘Jake?’ Rachel tugged at his sleeve. ‘What is it?’
He fell back onto the hard stone floor, water still jewelling his lips.
‘Jake? Can you hear me? Are you all right?’
His eyes stayed fixed on the fountain.
The words came to him like the lyrics of a half-remembered song:
‘Nightfall’s Cup.’
Chapter 7
The Ghost of the Grimoire
Despite the heat, Rachel shivered. Something about those words …
‘Nightfall’s Cup,’ she echoed.
Jake got to his feet, dusted his knees. ‘Sorry?’
‘You said “Nightfall’s Cup”. What does it mean?’
The ghost of a memory pinched at Jake’s face. He looked suddenly much older. And then, just as suddenly, his features cleared.
‘Don’t know what you’re talking about, Rach. Come on, Pandora’s waiting.’
Rachel may have had her doubts, but Jake was speaking the truth. The memory of Nightfall’s Cup, whatever it was, had been snatched away from him. He gave the fountain one last troubled glance and set off towards the shelter of the arcade arches.
It was cooler out of the sun, but not much. Sweat ran in tracks down Jake’s face and made his hair itch. The only relief came from the breeze that whistled through the teardrop-shaped holes in the wall. They passed a dozen or more, and Jake wondered whether these doorways all led back to London or if they were portals to other cities, maybe even to other worlds.
They found Pandora leaning against a column halfway up a flight of sandstone steps. In front of her stood a door studded with vicious iron spikes and set deep into the wall.
‘You could’ve warned us!’ Rachel called.
‘About what, honey?’
‘Oh, I don’t know: the crazy tunnel with the groping vine hands maybe?’
‘Oh. Yeah. Right. I sometimes forget how easily you humans get spooked. Sorry about that.’
‘Pandora, where are we?’ Jake asked.
‘This is a meeting place.’ Pandora tapped the ancient column. ‘A borderland staging post between the world of Man and the various worlds of us dark creatures.’
‘An in-between place,’ Jake said, ‘like the Veil.’
‘No. The Veil is nothingness—just an empty plain through which the dead travel on their way to whatever lies beyond. This place? I guess you could call it a rest stop. Creatures on their way to Earth—your Earth—stay here for a few days before moving on. And this is where they stay.’ Pandora climbed the steps and rapped six hands against the spiky door. ‘The Grimoire Club.’
‘That’s right,’ a voice snarled. ‘And you’re not getting in, Pandora.’
The door swung open. With a low growl rumbling at the back of his throat, a huge creature emerged from the shadows.
Rachel gasped and took a step closer to Jake.
A pair of yellow eyes fixed on each face. Black lips curled over long canines.
‘Who’re your friends?’ the creature barked.
‘None of your business, Razor. Now, run along like a good doggy and tell Murdles I want to see him.’
‘What is he?’ Rachel whispered to Jake. ‘A werewolf?’
‘I don’t think so. He’s something else … ’
Jake could hear the pages of his dark catalogue whisper to him as he took in the gigantic figure blocking the doorway. The creature that Pandora had called ‘Razor’ was a two metre tall slab of muscle, dressed in a pair of ragged jeans and nothing else. He had the body of a man, which, although hairy, could not be called animal-like. Razor stood bolt upright, his back straight, legs unbent. His hands ended in fingers, not claws. So far, so human. From the neck up, however, it was a different story.
‘I think he’s one of the Cynocephali,’ Jake said in a hushed tone. ‘The dog-headed people. There are stories of their race going back thousands of years. In the Middle Ages, monks used to include them as figures on some of the earliest maps of the world. The Cynocephali were drawn as existing at the very edges of the known world.’
‘That’s where Man drove us.’ Razor tapped one of his long ears. ‘No point whispering around me, man-child. Some say we were brothers once, Cynocephali and Humans—that our blood still runs in your veins, as yours runs in ours—but that was a long time ago.’ Razor’s muzzle curled into a smile. ‘Still, it’s good to hear of my kind talked about with such knowledge.’
‘And respect,’ Pandora put in. She gave Jake a sly wink.
‘A ferocious and noble race,’ Jake nodded.
Razor bowed his head.
‘Wait here,’ he said, and disappeared behind the huge door.
While they waited, Jake took his first proper look at the Grimoire Club. There wasn’t much to see from the outside. The one-storey building appeared to occupy the entire length of the arcade. Unlike the other sides of the square, this area was not interrupted by those teardrop doorways but by a series of wide, arched windows set far back into the wall. Instead of glass, the windows were boxed in with sun-bleached shutters that creaked in the breeze. Jake read the plaque beside the door.
‘Sooo.’ Rachel bit her lip. ‘This is our safe house, is it? Good job, Pandora.’
Pandora looked as if she was preparing a witty comeback when Razor reappeared.
‘He’ll see you.’
The Cynocephalus ushered Jake and his friends into the club. He locked and barred the door behind them, twisting keys and securing bolts and latches.
‘Club closes its doors at 7:20 a.m. sharp,’ Razor explained. ‘That’s Greenwich Mean Time. Mr Murdles originally came from the Old Town and likes to keep London hours.’
Razor led the way down a long corridor, his bare feet padding through the thick, crimson carpet. The candles burning in sconces on the walls were placed so far apart that Jake and Rachel often had to grope their way forward; a spectacle that provoked a sneering ‘Humans!’ from Razor.
‘That’s right—humans,’ Rachel called. ‘Same species that invented the light bulb. When are you guys gonna catch up, eh?’
‘Are you so sure your lot invented the electric light?’ Razor grunted. ‘I’ve got an old alchemist fr
iend who says different. Anyway, our clients are romantic souls. They prefer the flicker of candlelight. Plus, some of ’em don’t like being looked at too closely, so we keep it nice and dark.’
They had passed several doors, each with shiny brass plates—Tepes Bar & Grill; Library; Reading Room; Breakfast Room; Games Room. It was as they reached the last of these that a blood-curdling scream rang out. Quick as a flash, Razor threw open the door. A snarl rippled along his thick black lips.
‘IT AIN’T THAT KIND OF GAMES ROOM, MORTIMER!’ he bellowed. ‘You know the rules! Put the waitress down or I’ll come in there and rip your throat out, there’s a good bloodsucker.’
Before Jake could see inside, Razor slammed the door.
‘Surprised he’s still up.’ The doorman shrugged, and they moved on.
Several corridors later they found themselves outside a door marked General Manager—No Timewasters. Razor puffed out his massive chest and knocked.
‘Enter!’
‘Here’s a heads up, Pandora—the boss is in a bad mood,’ Razor warned.
‘What’s new?’
‘You’ll see.’
Razor opened the door into Thaddeus Murdles’s office. It was a large room, beautifully decorated with dozens of marble sculptures and bronze figurines standing on column plinths. Scary-looking tribal masks shaped out of dark wood adorned the windowless walls.
Dominating the room was a long marble-topped desk overflowing with papers. Jake noticed that most of these were bills with the words ‘FINAL DEMAND’ stamped upon them in red letters.
‘Come in, Pandora,’ a voice fluttered. ‘And you, Razor, get out—you know I can’t abide the smell of dog polluting my inner sanctum.’
‘What’s it matter to you?’ Razor grumbled, loping back through the door. ‘You don’t even have a nose.’
Gallows at Twilight Page 6
