“I don’t want him to die!” retorted Tugdual, sounding amused. “I’m just teasing, that’s all.”
“Odd sense of humour,” grumbled Gus.
“Anyway, the one big advantage of all these revelations is that the Runaways are now taking Orthon-McGraw seriously. I get the impression that everybody had totally underestimated him before.”
“I was the worst offender,” admitted Oksa. “Do you really think he can shape-shift?” she asked the boys.
“That would be horrendous,” was Gus’s reaction.
“I agree,” declared Tugdual. “He’d have a sizeable advantage over us all. I’ve just had a chat about it with my grandfather.”
“And what’s his take on this?” asked Oksa, fiddling nervously with the seam on her beanbag.
“He thinks the shape-shifting process may not work as well as it did in Temistocles’s day. But who knows? With Orthon-McGraw, I told you, we must be prepared for anything. Particularly the worst.”
“Good of you to put our minds at rest,” Gus couldn’t help saying.
“Don’t mention it,” retorted Tugdual with a scathing smile.
The ceasefire between Gus and Tugdual hadn’t lasted long. Now they were getting at each other again, Oksa grumbled to herself. Instinctively she decided to create a diversion by bringing her fizzy drink over from her desk. The glass floated across the room, watched inscrutably by Gus. He seemed too annoyed to appreciate the manoeuvre. Tugdual did nothing to lessen the boy’s resentment when he lit the small candle on the windowsill—with his fingertips and without moving from the bed. Two sets of eyes stared at the Young Gracious: Tugdual’s gaze knowing and mesmerizing, while Gus looked helpless and, more than that, intensely sad.
“So, Tugdual!” she exclaimed to shake off her confusion. “What does it feel like to be a Werewall?”
“I don’t know yet!” he admitted. “My grandfather caught me trying to walk through the kitchen wall just before, and I must admit I didn’t lose any time making a fool of myself.”
“Why?” asked Oksa.
“Because the only thing I managed to do was graze the tip of my nose.”
“Then you’re not a Werewall!” remarked Gus challengingly.
“Yes, I am,” retorted Tugdual. “I just have to practise. Oksa knows that better than I do: having a gift is one thing, but if you don’t do any preparation, it’s like having the ingredients without the recipe. So I’m going to slog away at it and we’ll revisit the subject later.”
“I can’t wait,” said Oksa.
“Nor can I, lil’ Gracious, nor can I.”
Saying that, he gave a long stretch and stood up to leave.
“I’m off. See you later.”
“See you, Tugdual,” said Oksa.
Gus maintained a stubborn silence until Tugdual’s footsteps disappeared downstairs.
“Lil’ Gracious,” he spluttered, clenching his fists. “I hate it when he says that.”
“I really like it,” murmured Oksa, gazing into space.
76
AN INVITATION FRAUGHT WITH DANGER
“WHAT’S GOING ON, LUNATRIXES? YOU’RE A VERY ODD colour.”
Oksa had just got in after being escorted home from school by her father, who’d immediately gone out again to the restaurant. Her mother had been dozing in the living room, her wheelchair beside her and a phone within easy reach. Her face had looked drawn and Oksa hadn’t had the heart to wake her. She’d tiptoed across the hall and gone upstairs to her gran’s apartment. There she’d found the Lunatrixes in a state of violent alarm, their skin totally drained of colour—a sign of intense panic. And what she saw did little to reassure her: not only had the Lunatrixes become almost translucent, but their reddened eyes were spinning like tops in their big eye sockets. The Lunatrixa went to speak but, instead, she tottered, muttering incomprehensible words, and fainted, collapsing heavily on the rug. The Getorix, usually so quick to make fun of everyone, rushed over to help her without saying a word, which was worryingly out of character. Oksa knelt down by the poor Lunatrixa and gently lifted her head onto her lap. Scanning Dragomira’s apartment, she noticed that all the creatures had huddled in the corners of the room. As for the Goranov, its foliage was shaking as if blown by a high wind. The ultrasensitive plant battled with its mounting fear for a few seconds, then all its leaves sagged limply, their weight pulling the stem down towards the floor.
“Has something happened? You must tell me!” Oksa told the pale Lunatrix and the Getorix nearby. “First of all, where’s Baba?”
“The Old Gracious? Oh, oh, oh,” wailed the Lunatrixa, who was barely conscious.
“Has something happened to her? Tell me!” shouted Oksa, her hands on her hips.
With a great deal of groaning and sighing, the Lunatrix finally launched into an explanation:
“Young Gracious, we should keep the secret buried inside our heads and our tongues dumb with loyalty, but seriousness transcends the discretion which is our habituation. Great danger keeps watch on the Old Gracious and she is meeting with it! The strength of the Graciouses is great, but the Felon has cunning. Cunning is an implement of immense danger! The Old Gracious has this knowledge, but we have the terrifying fear of inadequacy, the terrifying fear…”
Oksa frowned:
“You mean Baba is in danger? And what’s all this about a Felon?”
“The Felon Orthon-McGraw has given an invitation to the Old Gracious! He made telephonic communication an hour before the arrival of the Young Gracious, and your household staff, we creatures, had our ears pricked up. They received the comprehension of what the Felon said,” explained the Lunatrix, frantically twisting his crumpled ears.
“McGraw phoned Baba? Why?” broke in Oksa, perplexed.
“This is the truth! The Felon Orthon-McGraw wants to give the Old Gracious a secret about her brother.”
“But what has Leomido got to do with it?”
“The Felon Orthon-McGraw neglected the details… he put the weight on the brother of the Old Gracious and on an event full of critique.”
“Full of critique? What does that mean?” asked Oksa, perturbed.
“Critical, not full of critique, you blockhead!” sighed the Getorix in irritation.
“Mockery is filled with uselessness,” retorted the vexed Lunatrix, swinging his small angry fist into the Getorix’s face, knocking out the little creature, which crumpled to the floor.
“Hey!” intervened Oksa, picking up the stunned Getorix in her arms. “This really isn’t the time for fighting. Let me get this straight, Lunatrix: Baba received a phone call from McGraw, who asked her to come and see him because he has something to tell her about Leomido. Is that correct?”
“That is total correctness, Young Gracious,” confirmed the little creature. “The Old Gracious has been forgetful that her Lunatrix knows all the Gracious’s secrets. If the request had been made, her Lunatrix would have exposed the fraternal secret! But the Old Gracious has been preferring to hear it in the mouth of the Felon… our anxiety is voluminous, you have our assurance. We have the knowledge of Orthon when he was on the Inside and the very bad memory.”
“I understand… but we have to do something. You stay here and look after each other and there will be no fighting!” ordered Oksa, looking at her watch. “And above all—this is very important—if Baba and I aren’t back before 8 p.m., you will go and alert my mother, Lunatrix, and you’ll tell her everything you’ve just told me. Do you understand?”
The Lunatrix nodded frantically and took a small, tightly folded piece of paper from the pocket of his dungarees, which he then held out to Oksa.
“What’s this?”
“The localization of the Felon Orthon, my Young Gracious. He gave the positioning of his dwelling when he had the telephonic communication. Our Old Gracious is there!”
“Thanks, Lunatrix.”
Oksa patted him briefly on the head, turned on her heels and raced downstairs at top speed, mobile in
hand.
“Gus! Get over here now. We’ve got a big problem.”
“If our parents discover that we sneaked out, they’ll be furious,” murmured Gus tensely. “We’re going to get it in the neck.”
“Tough!” said Oksa. “We don’t have a choice, anyway. We can’t leave Baba alone with McGraw.”
“Your gran’s insane going to his house without telling anyone, what was she thinking?”
“C’mon, let’s go! We’re wasting time.”
“What are we going to tell your mother?” asked Gus.
Oksa’s only reply was to drag her friend towards the living room, where Marie was now awake.
“Mum! Gus and I have an essay to write, and it’ll take us quite a while.”
“Okay, darling. I won’t disturb you, I understand.”
Then, instead of going up to her room, she grabbed Gus’s arm and opened the front door, screwing up her eyes and holding her breath. The two friends made their escape, heading for the nearest Tube station at a run.
“I hate this,” muttered Gus, shooting a disapproving look at Oksa. “It’s rotten having to lie like that to your mum…”
“It’s for a good cause, Gus,” replied the girl. “Don’t forget that Baba is in danger.”
Twenty minutes later, the two schoolmates, breathless and bathed in sweat, were hiding behind a car on the other side of the street and watching one of the posh houses in this peaceful neighbourhood a few miles from the city centre.
“You’re sure this is it?”
“Yes, look, number 12!”
The house opposite them was an old, three-storey building, identical in style to the others on the terraced street. A strip of sandstone rose from the ground to the windows of the raised ground floor, which were adorned with heavy purple curtains. A wrought-iron gate opened onto a narrow lawn with a thick bush planted in the centre. Near it was the front door, sheltered by a small colonnaded porch.
“Have you got a plan?” whispered Gus to Oksa.
“Yes—we’ll start with this,” she replied, plunging her hand in her shoulder bag.
“Young Mistress,” said the Tumble-Bawler, nodding gently on the palm of Oksa’s hand. “A request? A mission? I’m at your service!”
“Listen to me, Tumble-Bawler, go over to the front door of the house opposite and see if it’s locked. Then come back to tell us, okay?”
“Okay, message received.”
And, like a large bumblebee, the Tumble-Bawler flew off. A few seconds later, he landed back on Oksa’s palm.
“The Tumble-Bawler of the Young Gracious reporting,” he exclaimed, swaying from right to left. “The door of that house is double-locked from the inside, Yale lock, tempered-steel bolt and security latch.”
Gus whistled softly, impressed by these technical details.
“You say it’s locked from the inside? How do you know?” asked Oksa.
“The key is in the lock, Young Mistress. Do you have another mission for me?”
“No, thank you, Tumble-Bawler.”
“So someone’s in the house. But that doesn’t tell us if we’re in the right place,” remarked Gus, uneasily.
“Wait a second!” retorted Oksa, showing him her Granok-Shooter.
She blew into the small tube and a Reticulata immediately emerged.
“Look!” said Oksa, pointing the jellyfish-magnifying glass at the letterbox, dashing Gus’s last hope. “You can make out the name McGraw… let’s have a look to see where we can get in.”
After examining the façade of the house through the jellyfish-magnifying glass, the two friends came to the dangerous conclusion that Oksa had to go in through the first-floor window, which didn’t look properly closed, come downstairs and unlock the front door from the inside to let Gus in. The boy was clearly as keen to enter McGraw’s house as he’d been to enter the school crypt…
“Don’t look at me like that! We don’t have any choice—don’t be afraid, my Granok-Shooter is full to bursting,” said Oksa, winking at him. “And you’ve forgotten about this.”
Without taking her eyes off him, she rose about four inches above the ground.
“Vertiflying in the middle of the street? You don’t do things by halves, do you?”
“Hey, desperate times demand desperate measures. Or perhaps I should say desperate McGraws demand desperate means,” she added, with a nervous snort of laughter.
“Be careful all the same… I’ll keep watch while you get up there.”
It was now dusk and Oksa, making the most of the fading light, resolutely crossed the street. The wrought-iron gate gave a soft squeal as she pushed it open, which slightly dented her resolve, but she bravely kept going, even if she felt nowhere near as confident as she looked. “Go on, Oksa, don’t stop now. You’re a ninja, don’t forget!” she thought to motivate herself.
Something her father often said during their karate sessions popped into her head: “If you think you can do it, Oksa-san, then you can do it. Otherwise, forget it.” So before rising the height of the stone façade, she looked at the wall opposite her and allowed herself to assume a kung-fu pose, hands pressed together in front and her left leg stretched out behind. “She is incorrigible… Absolutely incorrigible,” thought Gus, raising his eyes to the sky with an expression that was as much amused as it was despairing. Two seconds later, Oksa was kneeling on the first-floor windowsill. She pushed on the frame and the window, which they’d thought wasn’t properly shut, swung open easily. She dived inside the house, as though swallowed up by the darkness.
“What on earth is she doing? Has she fallen asleep in McGraw’s bedroom or what?”
Gus was hopping up and down with impatience and anxiety. Once Oksa had vanished through the window, he’d quickly crossed the street and had knelt down on the pavement by the low wall. His attention riveted on the front door, he felt as if he’d been waiting for ages when his friend, eyes sparkling, finally opened the door from the inside.
“You took your time,” he muttered, hurrying inside.
“I took the opportunity to look over the house!” replied Oksa impishly. “C’mon, let’s go.”
“It feels strange to be here.”
“You’re telling me,” murmured Oksa. “I didn’t think it would look like this.”
“You thought there’d be coffins for beds, did you? Black candles dripping in candelabras and vases shaped like skulls, stuff like that?” whispered Gus, nudging his friend.
If that had been what Oksa expected, she would have been disappointed, because the hall and what could be glimpsed of the living room were decorated in predominantly light shades. The white-painted furniture and walls created an understated, but not austere, effect. Oksa and Gus walked into the living room: two thinly striped beige sofas flanked a round table covered with a spotless tablecloth. Console tables of pale wood lining the walls held lamps with crystal drops or plaster busts. A frame hanging on the wall caught Gus’s attention:
“Oksa!” he called in a low voice. “Look, do you think that’s the island Mortimer kept going on about?”
Oksa went over and they both gazed at the framed photo, which looked as though it could be of an island. A jagged shoreline with numerous coves was lashed by angry, foam-capped waves. In the distance, a red and yellow lighthouse and a grey stone building could be glimpsed behind treeless hills. But their inspection of the room was suddenly interrupted by the sound of muffled voices, which seemed to be coming from the cellar. Oksa seized her Granok-Shooter in one hand and spontaneously put her other on Gus’s forearm. They headed over to the small door under the stairs.
“Are you sure it’s coming from there?” whispered Gus, his heart pounding and his face pale—the thought of going down to the basement didn’t fill him with any great enthusiasm.
“I looked everywhere, the house is empty, Gus. There’s only the cellar left. And the doors leading to cellars are usually found under the stairs,” replied Oksa, her tone making it clear she thought she was st
ating the obvious.
She was right again. As soon as they opened the door, they could hear the voices much more clearly. Voices they knew well: those of McGraw and Dragomira.
77
THE HIDDEN SIDE OF DRAGOMIRA
OKSA AND GUS WENT DOWN THE FIRST FEW STEPS AS carefully and quietly as possible, holding their breath and keeping their backs pressed against the wall. A feeble light was coming from the back of the cellar but, despite obstructing their view, the staircase was dark enough to afford them a certain amount of cover. Suddenly there was a terrible commotion, immediately followed by a stifled scream. Oksa increased her pressure on Gus’s arm, which she was still holding, and looked at him anxiously. They waited—for what seemed like an eternity—until they heard a voice.
“So what do you say to that? Don’t you think my style has improved after all these years?”
Oh no! That was McGraw’s voice. Oksa inched down a step, then another, her breathing shallow and her heart thumping against her ribs. Behind her, Gus was quaking at the knees and he felt his courage desert him. Their gradual descent into McGraw’s cellar was turning into a descent into hell.
“This whole business has made you into a monster!” retorted Dragomira. “What a pity—I was so fond of the man you were on the Inside. You could have been a good person, but you’ve turned out just like your father.”
“Don’t bring my father into this!” grated McGraw in reply. “Our virtuous Malorane was no better than him. Anyway, look, I’ve got something for you, dear little Dragomira. A surprise to celebrate our reunion. I’d despaired of ever being able to use it, but you’ve provided me with an excellent opportunity.”
A loud crash shook the walls and everything began shaking as if there was an earthquake. The whole house seemed to rumble from floor to ceiling. There was a dreadful scream—a scream of sheer terror followed by the worrying din of breaking objects. Oksa shot Gus a panicked look. What if Dragomira was injured? Or worse? Gus pulled on his friend’s arm in the hope that he might be able to lead her back upstairs—what was going on down there didn’t seem to be a friendly encounter! He was very fond of Dragomira, but it didn’t seem very sensible to stay on that staircase. And even less sensible to get involved. It would be far better to leave this nightmarish house and raise the alarm. Oksa didn’t seem to share his opinion though. Her Granok-Shooter at the ready, she dragged her friend down the rest of the stairs towards the cellar, where a terrible fate probably awaited them. Once again, his heart beating fit to burst, Gus gave in and let himself be led.
Oksa Pollock: The Last Hope Page 46
