Astra sighed. “And it just goes on and on.”
He squeezed her arm. “We’ll put an end to it. When we rule, we’ll put an end to all their games. Here we are.”
He had brought her down a hallway of lustreless white, lit by fluorescent strips, to an unremarkable grey door. The door’s only features were a metal handle silvered with use and a plain white sign saying STORAGE in black letters. “A cleaning cupboard?”
“Not really.” He pushed down on the handle and opened the door.
The room within was a security checkpoint, but it seemed too large for the door and the hallway connected through it. Astra couldn’t shake the impression they’d entered a space separate from Murdoch House, as though they’d crossed a long bridge that spanned a fast-moving river. The walls to her left and right were covered in elaborate murals. In them a young man, no older than herself or Crispin, stood wearing a black Victorian frock-coat over a dark red waistcoat, his head bent so the rim of his hat concealed the upper half of his face. The man’s gloved right hand rested on the brow of an iron-scaled dragon, coiled around him.
She could feel the eyes of the dragon following her.
Security, she thought. She couldn’t feel magic – that sense was still denied to her. But the power in the murals was too close to her own. They come to life and burn any intruders.
Her heart pounded in her chest, as much from excitement as fear. She wanted to see it. She wanted the scaly coils to come to life and emerge from the walls. She wanted to see the dragon’s fire.
“Certainly,” Crispin said. “Here you go.”
Her head whipped around. She had forgotten the desk in the checkpoint, next to the inner door. She hadn’t even noticed the man in the black suit who had risen from behind it. He was middle-aged and his thinning hair made his head appear oversized. A green gem glittered on the ring on his finger as he accepted Crispin’s new councillor ID.
“Do you ever wonder why he was called the Dragon?” Crispin asked.
The security man only glanced up from Crispin’s ID. He called light from the gemstone on his ring and shone it on the ID card. “Who’s that, sir?”
“Peter Murdoch.” Crispin gestured to the figure in the murals.
“I wouldn’t know sir.” He handed the ID card back. “Thank you sir.” He pressed a button on the phone on his desk. With a buzzing sound, the inner door clicked open.
But Crispin didn’t move. “Just a fancy title, do you think? Just wanted to impress people? After all, founding the Shadow Council can’t have been easy. It would all go easier if you had a reputation go with a title like that.”
“Could be as you say, sir,” the security man said.
Astra kept her smile in place and pressed her hand against the small of Crispin’s back, pushing him towards the inner door. He shot her a grin and began to move.
When the door was closed behind them, she said, “You’re rotten, you know that?”
Crispin laughed. “They know nothing, Astra. Not a damned thing, not any of them. I put the same question to Nathaniel earlier. He was there and he thought it was just a title too.”
“We don’t know for sure it wasn’t.”
Crispin waggled his finger under her nose. She took a swipe at it and missed. “Given what we’re about, I’d bet it wasn’t more than a title.”
“Oh,” Astra said, because she had just taken a look at the room they’d entered.
It was too big. Far too big. Bigger than the entirety of Murdoch House, all by itself. Like the function room hosting the reception they’d left, it was lit by chandeliers that shone with starlight instead of yellow electricity. Their light cast a silvery glow across the scene before her.
Shelves stood in tall, long ranks, upon which a strange mismatch of items rested. A sword, a cup, a small tree in a ceramic pot, a metal wheel from a train, an eye that swam like a goldfish in a cylinder of clear liquid, a frozen flame like an autumn leaf, a gauntlet of metal and old-fashioned hydraulics. Other things stood in free spaces: a piano, its keys occasionally tinkling a handful of notes; a black coat on a coat stand; a doorframe with no door; a ticking orrery of planets, four in number; clear glass balls floating like bubbles in a mesh net. Against the walls were books, a library of them, some silent and others that whispered or twitched.
But it all kept shifting. Astra kept changing on her mind about whether the shelves were closer or the piano. A suit of medieval armour stood with a flamethrower resting beside it and at first she would have said it was only a few paces away, but when she blinked it was far down the hall, almost hidden by three mirrors that faced each other in a triangle with a statue caught in the middle. She caught sight of a wine rack covered in fresh spider webs, then lost it completely. The bookshelves were interspersed with slots for scrolls, but sometimes they were closest and sometimes they were down past a shelf of books so big they would need four people to lift them, one at each corner.
She felt dizzy and at her side, she felt Crispin’s grip tighten on her. He coughed, like he was about to throw up.
“Good evening miss, Councillor.”
Astra’s senses focused on a little old man who regarded them from behind thick grandfather bifocals. Even Crispin, who was not tall, loomed over him. His beige trousers were belted so high it seemed to Astra they must cover his navel. ‘Geoffrey’ was printed on the name badge pinned to his woollen cardigan.
Astra felt tethered by the man. The rest of Storage fell away, as though out of focus. Her senses kept sliding back to Geoffrey when she tried to look away.
“Are you the–?” Astra hesitated, unsure what title to try and give him.
“The librarian, yes,” Geoffrey said. He touched his name badge. For the first time she noticed the word Librarian under his name. She didn’t think it had been there before he pointed it out.
“Not custodian?” Crispin asked. He was never able to leave something alone. “This is a storage room, after all.”
But Geoffrey seemed interested, not offended. “We discussed it once. I don’t remember quite when, just that it was a long time ago. We began as a library, you see, but after a time we began to store other things. Nothing ends up in Storage by accident, you know. We decided to change the name on the door, but keep calling ourselves librarians.” He smiled with liver-coloured lips. “Quite honestly, Councillor, it would feel more than strange referring to myself as something other than a librarian. One gets attached to the name. Now, did you come here to indulge an old man in his rambles, or were you looking for something?”
“In 1891, Cuthbert Whitlock went on an expedition to Iceland,” Astra said. “We were told we could find his journal here.”
“We have a copy,” Geoffrey said. “The original is, of course, still in the Royal Cartographer’s base of operations, wherever that may be. Come.”
He started down the aisle between a row of free-standing objects on one side and shelves of items on the other. Except that the shelves and the objects kept rearranging themselves when Astra blinked. Only Geoffrey remained a fixed point ahead of them.
“This is incredibly disorienting,” Crispin said. “And yet you find your way through it easily enough.”
“Of course,” Geoffrey said. “I’m a librarian.” He wasn’t even walking fast, but Astra found it took her usual stride to keep pace with him.
“And the place is bigger than it should be,” Crispin said.
Geoffrey chuckled. “The primary spell that enlarges the library – your pardon, Storage – is the work of Sir Peter. My fellow librarians and I maintain it and fiddle with the edges when necessary.”
“The Dragon made this,” Astra breathed. She tried to look around again. Her eyes watered and rebelliously returned to Geoffrey’s bent back.
“And you librarians are experts at dimensional magic,” Crispin said.
Geoffrey raised a hand in a fluttering gesture of modesty. “Merely dabblers, compared to Sir Peter. Here we are. No, don’t offer to help me. I can still m
anage a ladder.”
They had come to a shelf of books against the wall, though Astra would have sworn they’d never turned towards them. She grabbed Crispin’s forearm in a tight, horrified grip as Geoffrey, grunting with the effort of reaching each rung, began to climb a ladder that went at least ten metres up.
Crispin’s laugh was a sound of hysterical disbelief. He half-raised his free hand, as though to catch Geoffrey when he inevitably fell.
And yet the librarian reached a shelf high above in no time at all, mumbled to himself as he drew out a book, and wheezed his way back down to the floor.
“Cuthbert Whitlock’s journal for the second half of 1891,” Geoffrey said.
The book was bound in stiff leather and the letters on the front were faded black. The book, according to Eleanora Whitlock, would give them the coordinates of the prize they sought. A prize that had made the Whitlocks. For Astra and Crispin, it would deliver to them the shadow world itself.
“I must agree with the last fellow who wanted to read it,” Geoffrey said as he handed it to Crispin. “The book could do with a little restoration. But then we have only so much time, do we not?” His bony shoulders jumped up and down beneath his cardigan as he chuckled.
Crispin gripped the little book in both hands. Only because she knew him so well did Astra see that smooth smile of his freeze for just a heartbeat. “May I ask, if you’re permitted to tell, who was the last person to ask for this book?”
“As you’re on the Council, I’m allowed to tell you,” Geoffrey said. “To others that information is restricted. It was a young fellow like yourself. A Blackwood of all people, which is more than a small surprise. Why would a Blackwood come here when they have that marvellous library of their own?” Behind his grandfather glasses, his eyes grew misty. “I should love to see their library but I’ve never quite worked up the courage to ask one of them. They’re a rather private lot.”
“Which Blackwood?” Astra asked. “Trajan?” The Councillor was at least twenty years older than Astra or Crispin, but to a man of Geoffrey’s age there might not be much difference.
“Oh no, not Councillor Trajan,” Geoffrey said. “His nephew, Julian. Shall I show you to a place where you can read undisturbed?”
Chapter 11 – Julian
The hospital had been refurbished within the last decade. Its bones were Edwardian, maybe older, but its hallways were modern in style and lacked the wear of years. The nurses at the desks from whom he asked directions were polite and friendly. The orderlies in the hallways, pushing carts of soiled linen and piles of used bedpans, lacked the grim reservation he’d have expected. It was a private hospital, fully-staffed and budgeted.
Just the kind of hospital Julian would have expected Jacob to use.
He had his own room. The city lights gleamed through the dark window and the sound of a siren burst up from the streets below, then faded off to a distant disaster. A muted TV changed channels by itself every few seconds.
Jacob was propped up on a pile of white pillows, reading from a tablet. Without looking up he said, “I figured you’d be along.”
“Keeping a watch through the hospital’s CCTV with one of your little electrical daemons? Don’t you trust their security?”
“Would you?”
The lines of his face were lean and hungry, but that was just Jacob. Six weeks in a coma and two more in a hospital bed had not dulled Jacob’s edge. Big helpings of hospital food had put some flesh back on his bones. He needed a haircut, but even here he’d made thorough use of a comb. No drip in his wrist, Julian was glad to see, but the hospital gown ruined the impression of control Jacob liked to project.
Julian took his satchel from his shoulder and dropped himself onto the couch by the bed. “What’s wrong with your motor skills?”
Jacob did turn to him then. He held the slim, lightweight tablet in both hands, using the heels of his hands to support its weight rather than grip it with his fingers. “The fine motor skills are coming back slower than they expected.”
“But they are coming back?”
“Conscience bothering you? Don’t worry, I won’t be here much longer.”
Jacob switched his tablet off and set it on his lap. Silence dropped between them. They’d been easy with each other once, two sons of old British magic families. The four years Julian had been away had been a lifetime for them both.
Jacob smirked. “You’re still shit at small-talk. Come alone? Didn’t bring your new hairy buddy along?”
“He’s on a date.”
“Yeah? Some girls like them big and thick.”
Julian’s fingers tightened on the arm of the couch. “Alice says hello.”
“Really?”
“No.”
The shot missed. Jacob was enjoying himself. “Still working for that shipping company? Odd’s Transport?”
Julian felt his cheeks colouring. “We all have to make a living somehow.”
“Don’t you have a trust fund?”
“Our trust funds come with conditions, remember?”
“How is your old dad anyway?”
“How’s yours?”
Silence fell again. A woman’s voice warbled from the corridor, calling someone to the fifth floor. Julian heard the squeak of a trolley’s wheels as it was pushed past Jacob’s room.
Julian let out a small laugh and turned his head away. “We actually got along once?”
“Maybe we didn’t.”
Julian felt a prickle of magic. He whipped around to see Jacob lift one hand towards the table on the other side of the bed. A plastic cup half-filled with water floated upwards and drifted – slowly, as though it was full to the brim – towards Jacob’s hand.
He clasped the cup with both hands to lift it to his mouth.
“Your gift is on the mend as well?”
Jacob swallowed and nodded. “Slow as the damned motor skills. I actually miss my warlock’s ring, even if it is a crutch, but I left it at my parents’ house. I’d have to ask my dad to bring it.”
“Has he been by?” He reached out and took the cup as Jacob tried to set it on the back of the tablet in his lap.
“What, miss a chance to tell me what an embarrassment I’ve been? When I’m a captive audience?”
Julian sat back in his chair. “My family have settled on a strategy of letting Evelyn criticise me in their place.”
“Evelyn Hargrave? You’re in with her?”
Jacob’s interest was too sharp for Julian’s liking. “You know what the Hargraves are like. What do you think?”
Jacob backed off, though Julian knew he would think hard about that slip. “So what brings you here, other than wanting to catch up? I notice you’ve come by when your hairy buddy is distracted with a girl.”
“You know Eleanora Whitlock is dead?”
Jacob smiled at that. “I keep an ear out. I feel like I’m missing all the excitement. Big fuss, Eleanora’s replacement.”
“Do you think Crispin Chalk killed her?” Julian shifted forward, the plastic cup in his hands forgotten. “I get the impression from Evelyn he’s come out of nowhere, no prior links to the Whitlocks.”
“It’s a stupid plan, if that’s the plan,” Jacob said. “Crispin will get caught eventually. We’re not the vampires or the werewolves. If the old families think it went that way, they’ll pull Crispin in front of a hearing. They take their time about such things, but they get there.”
“Unless Crispin doesn’t think there’ll be a Council long-term.”
Jacob made no effort to hide his interest. “What’s he after? What do you know?”
Julian hesitated, frowned as he tried to pick his next words.
“Here it comes. Blackwoods and their secrets.” Jacob’s smile had a nasty edge. “This isn’t like old times, Julian. We aren’t friends like we were. You want something from me, it’s give and take.”
Julian’s cheeks flushed with anger. He pushed himself upright, marched to the end of the bed. A trolley tabl
e stood there, waiting for Jacob’s next hospital meal. He put the plastic cup of water on it and folded his arms across his chest.
Jacob waited.
“I want to know if Crispin Chalk was responsible for the death of Eleanora Whitlock,” Julian said. “I know you have ways of finding these things out. I want to know who he’s working with. And I want to know if the bounty on my head was put there by Eleanora.”
“It’s been withdrawn?”
“I didn’t notice until a few days later.”
“And they take it down the next day if the person who put it up there dies.” Jacob fumbled at the edges of the tablet on his lap. “What were you after when you broke into their place four years ago? You must have monumentally pissed them off – or scared the shit out of them.”
“Will you do it?”
“Your family has access to a group of seers, don’t they?” Jacob asked. “Can’t you ask them?”
“No.” They were a breakaway bloodline that had been nurtured over the generations. He couldn’t go to them for the same reason he couldn’t access his trust fund.
“What do you think Crispin’s after?” When Julian shook his head, Jacob said, “That’s my price. What are you so afraid Crispin will find?”
Julian glowered at him, arms folded tight. They stared at each other and the air shivered with the force of their clashing wills. The trolley wheels squeaked as it began to slide to the side. The picture on the muted TV warped and its colours shifted through the spectrum.
But Jacob had always been the sneaky one. “Is it like that monster we saw in Bromley-by-Bow? In the dream prison?”
Julian flinched.
“You’ve stopped one of them before. That’s what you said to that thing Evelyn Hargrave has in the sarcophagus beneath Trafalgar Square. It didn’t feel the same as the thing in the dream tomb, the Lord of Chains. Not the same. But they could be cousins.”
Immortal Make Page 11
