The toad’s tongue lashed out.
‘Ow! Bloody hell!’
The shock was twofold. First, there was the horror of seeing that hideously long tongue shoot out from the toad’s throat. Black and dripping, the thing sprang towards Jake and latched onto his right hand. The tip stuck there, pulsating as the toad’s poison pumped into his bloodstream.
The second shock was the pain—a thousand times brighter than a paper cut, and growing worse by the second. Tentacles of agony lashed along his arm, into his chest, up to his throat and clawed behind his eyes. They cut across his brain like a razor blade and sliced down the length of his spine. Any minute now, he was going to lose consciousness.
There was only one thing he could do. The thought of it made his stomach flip.
He pinched the monstrous tongue between thumb and forefinger.
Another agonized cry escaped his lips. The toad’s tongue was as spiky as a porcupine’s back. Tears filled Jake’s eyes, but he did not let go. Bit by bit, he peeled the tongue away from his hand.
Jake gasped in surprise. Unlike the tongue of a human being, it didn’t end with a tip but with a circular sucker, like the pads on an octopus’s leg. A set of tiny teeth ran all around the sucker, each one covered in Jake’s blood. The teeth gnashed angrily while a thick green substance oozed from the tube of the tongue.
Jake tore the last tooth from his flesh. He shot to his feet and kicked out at the toad. The creature sailed through the air, hit the glass wall of the bus stop and, like its brothers before it, exploded in a murky haze.
The pain began to ease as Jake sucked the poison from the wound and spat it out. The stuff tasted like rotten eggs. He should probably go straight to hospital, get himself checked out. Exhaustion washed through him. All he wanted to do now was to sleep. He staggered back towards Stonycroft Cottage.
‘Bufo bufo,’ he panted. ‘Common toad. Yeah, right!’
A bolt of blue light shot out from the Witchfinder’s palm. It hit the other man square in the chest and sent him reeling back towards the portal. A smoky oval of shimmering shadows, the portal waited, ready to consume the witch.
‘Welcome to your prison, Coven Master.’ The Witchfinder’s rich tones echoed around the cavern chamber. ‘Here you will endure throughout the Ages. Here you will rot unto the Ending of the World.’
The witch teetered on the brink of the Veil. His hands reached out and tried to grasp the edges of the portal—his fingers sank through the smoke. The deep well of his horror could be seen in his eyes and heard in the hopelessness of his scream. The Witchfinder showed no pity. A fresh surge of magical energy pulsed along his arm and he released it through his fingers. The second burst struck the Coven Master and sent him screaming into the Veil. His other hand outstretched, the Witchfinder concentrated on maintaining the portal. He held on until he was sure that his enemy had been captured, then he closed his fist. The portal fizzled—shrank …
The Coven Master struggled towards the closing window.
‘I will find a way out,’ he screeched. ‘If it takes me centuries, I will open the Door and demonkind will sweep across this wretched planet. I promise you … ’
‘Try to escape and you will be dragged back. The Veil is now your home and your evil is at an end. Farewell, witch.’
‘NO!’
The portal crackled and closed.
The Witchfinder now turned to the Door.
He raised his hand again and gathered together the last shreds of his magic. The swirls, pentagrams, and pictures that had been etched into the Door shone with a fiery light. Huge cracks started to appear all across the stone slab. Any minute now, demonkind would break through this doorway and flood across the world. The Witchfinder pointed towards the symbol at the centre of the Door—
—and released the freezing spell.
‘Please … ’ he hissed through gritted teeth.
A deathly chill spread out from his heart and into his hands. His breath billowed white before his eyes. The Witchfinder continued to direct his magic at the Door, even as his fingers turned blue and little ice crystals crackled across his skin …
Finally, he turned away from the Door and staggered towards the cavern entrance. His heart slowed with every step, the chambers clogging with icy blood. The enchanted ball around his neck became too heavy for the frozen string. It fell to the ground and rolled away into the shadows. The Witchfinder hardly noticed. He concentrated on the path ahead. If only he could make it into the bay, the sun’s first rays would warm his cold body.
The name of his beloved creaked through his lips for the last time—
‘El-ea-nor … ’
Chapter 11
The Ghost in the Graveyard
Mr Grype draped a copy of Elementary Hexes: Blackheads to Boils across his face and closed his eyes. It had been a long day and his nerves were raw. The Demontide was fast approaching and he had done nothing in recent months to win his master’s approval. He needed to think of something that would bring him to Crowden’s attention, and quickly. After the Coven’s victory—when the Door had been opened and demonkind set free—the Master would hand out rewards to his most loyal witches. Come what may, Grype was determined to be among them.
It was no good—the witch could not sleep. He rose from his chair and stretched. His poor old back creaked. Mr Hegarty, Grype’s vulture-like familiar, was sound asleep on his perch above the fireplace. A beetle dropped from the bird’s plumage and, without waking, Hegarty snapped it out of the air. The demon swallowed. A second later, the beetle burrowed out of the bird’s skull and reappeared between its dirty feathers. A neat trick, Mr Grype had always thought.
Footsteps echoed along Yaga Passage. There were always footsteps, day and night, never ceasing, never giving Grype a moment’s peace. A strange shadow with eight writhing arms stopped at the filthy window of Crowden’s Emporium. The door handle rattled.
‘Will you come out and play, little librarian?’ It was a woman’s voice, purring in the deep, velvety tones of the American South.
Mr Grype shuddered. He plucked a few defensive spells from his store of knowledge and held out his hand, ready to cast the magic. It was a useless gesture. Deep down he knew that, if this creature broke into the shop, his magic could not save him.
Eight hands tapped at the window and fear surged through Mr Grype. The creature rattled the handle again.
‘Oh, honey, you’re no fun!’ it crowed.
The shadow moved on.
Grype took a pile of old books from his desk and started returning them to their shelves. Nine times out of ten this task calmed his nerves. Not tonight. He would never admit it to Mother Inglethorpe and the others, but he felt his inadequacy very deeply. Dark witches were chosen by a coven for two reasons: they had a talent for magic and they revered the power of Evil. Someone like Tobias Quilp ticked both boxes—his mind was as black as ink and he was clever when it came to picking up spells. Sometimes, however, a witch had more going for them in one department than the other. Although Grype was spiteful and vindictive, his magic was second-rate. How he hated people like Quilp and Inglethorpe, with their dark souls and extraordinary powers.
And then there was the late Sidney Tinsmouth, of course.
Yes, Sidney had been a very rare case indeed …
If only Grype could learn a new skill or discover a new secret. Something that would be of use to the Coven. Then he could show all those doubters and name-callers …
A thunderous crash made the librarian cry out. Mr Hegarty’s eyes snapped open and he shot off his perch.
‘What is it, my love?’ Grype said in a panicky voice.
The demon flapped around the shop. Terrified, it didn’t even pause to collect the beetles that fell from its plumage. Ten minutes or so passed before Mr Grype could calm the creature.
Another crash. Perhaps the many-armed monster had returned? But there was no shadow at the window and the sound did not come from Yaga Passage. It came from inside the shop.
From the storeroom at the back.
‘Impossible,’ Grype murmured.
With his demon squawking in his ear, he walked slowly between the shelves. The dust from the books knocked over by Mr Hegarty still swirled in the air. As Grype approached the storeroom, another pounding crash made the dust shiver. Cracks started to appear in the wood of the storeroom door.
‘Impossible,’ Grype repeated.
Apart from books and old papers only one thing was kept in the storeroom. The boy. Simon Lydgate had been locked up in there ever since the night of Quilp’s capture. For the last six months, Grype had used the same sleeping spell to keep Simon under control. He had checked in on him every night, fed him a little, cast the spell …
‘Oh dear!’
This was the first night he had forgotten to work the magic! All that fretting about his place in the Coven had driven Simon clean out of his mind. Yet even without the spell, the boy was so weak and malnourished it was difficult to see how he had the strength to batter his cell door.
‘Grrraaaggghhhh! ’
The cry made Mr Grype whimper. The little man gathered up what courage he possessed and bent down to the keyhole. At first, he could see nothing but shredded paper and torn bindings. Great heavy books, some thousands of pages thick, had been torn through, as if by powerful claws. The only light came from a bare bulb, which swung to and fro. It flashed across a dirty old bearskin rug in the centre of the room …
The ‘rug’ twitched.
And now Grype began to make out the features of a strange body. Legs covered in coarse hair pawed at the ground. A long snout snuffled the air. Intense green eyes with slit-shaped pupils stared through the keyhole. The thing saw Grype and drool dripped from its jaws. The witch staggered back as it launched itself at the door. He mumbled a half-forgotten strengthening spell and the cracks started to repair themselves.
Grype headed straight for his office. He dashed through the curtained doorway and into the Veil. The grey mist pressed in on him from all sides. Where was his master?
‘Librarian, what can I do for you at this ungodly hour?’
Marcus Crowden, his eyes hidden beneath the shadow of his wide-brimmed hat, stepped out of the mist.
‘Forgive my intrusion, Master.’
Crowden motioned with his fingers. His black cabinet emerged from the mist and began to swirl around Grype.
‘There is nothing to forgive. But let us hope your news is worthy of my time. Otherwise … ’
The door of the nightmare box opened a fraction. Ugly voices called out to Grype.
‘It’s the boy,’ Grype squeaked. ‘Simon Lydgate.’
‘What of him?’
‘He has woken.’
‘You forgot the sleeping spell?’
The cabinet inched towards Grype. Its mouth yawned …
‘Yes, but perhaps I did right by forgetting.’
Crowden held out his hand and the cabinet stopped an inch short of its prey.
‘How so?’
‘The boy. He is … changing … ’
Crowden’s eyes dazzled.
‘Pray tell me, Mr Grype—into what?’
‘ELEANOR!’
Jake’s eyes snapped open and he dragged himself from his dream of the Witchfinder. He just about managed to make it across the bedroom and open the window before vomiting. A pile of brilliant green puke splattered across the front step of Stonycroft Cottage. It was exactly the same colour as the toad’s poison.
Jake breathed deeply and looked out across the rooftops of Hobarron’s Hollow. The sky in the east was growing lighter by the second. He checked his watch—5:30 a.m. He had been asleep for over fifteen hours! He remembered coming back to the cottage after being bitten by the toad and managing to eat some lunch. Then he had gone upstairs for a lie down. Aunt Joanna had called after him.
‘Sure you’re all right, Jake?’
‘’M fine. Just feel a bit tired.’
‘You’re probably still weak from the fever. You get some sleep. Don’t let the bed bugs bite.’
‘Or the mutant toads,’ Jake had said under his breath.
Now he glanced down at his hand. A bandage had been wrapped around the wound. It looked like a professional job—Aunt Joanna must have called in a doctor. Jake peeked under the dressing to find the bite mark clean and smelling of disinfectant. He drew a few deep breaths of morning air, and his thoughts returned to the dream.
Where had these sights and sounds, these images and emotions come from? They unnerved him, and yet he had also felt a strange comfort while walking in the mysterious Witchfinder’s skin. A man who had been frozen in ice … Is that what his father had meant by saying that the answer to the Demontide was ‘frozen in time’? Without the weapon, and with his sacrifice looming, maybe this long-dead Witchfinder held the key? But how could that be?
Jake could make no sense of it. He pulled on some clothes and headed downstairs.
The kitchen was in darkness. Without turning on the light, Jake poured himself a glass of water. The pipes clanked and gurgled. Lollygag, the ginger tomcat, gave him a filthy look and sprang from the windowsill. He curled up under the table and was soon asleep again. Jake was swallowing down another glass of water when he saw the shadowy figure in the corner of the kitchen. The shock made him choke.
It was Aunt Joanna, slumped in an armchair. Her head was thrown back and her mouth was open. She didn’t appear to be breathing.
Jake shot across the room. He took his aunt by the shoulders and shook her.
‘Joanna? Are you OK?’
No response. Her lips had turned a pale shade of blue. There was no rise and fall of her chest. Jake shook her again.
‘Wake up! Come on!’
He had raised his hand, and was about to slap her face, when the woman grunted. Her eyes opened a fraction.
‘M’uh? That you, Adam? Or is it my darling Luke?’ She let out a heartbreaking sob and tears ran down her cheeks. ‘No, Luke’s dead. My sweet boy. They killed him, you know. They took his blood, every last drop … For the greater good, they said. Tragedy is, they were right. My poor, poor boy … ’
A photograph album lay open in her lap. There was only one picture on the page. It showed three children standing on the clifftops, arm-in-arm. They were smiling as only children can. Rusty red hair identified Adam and Joanna Harker. The name of the third child—a boy with pale skin and wide, dark eyes—was written beneath the photograph.
Luke Seward.
The boy who was sacrificed to stop the last Demontide, Jake thought.
He reached for the photograph. An empty bottle that had been resting beneath the album fell to the floor and shattered. Jake leaned in and smelt his aunt’s breath. It reeked of whisky. Her eyes closed again and she started snoring. Jake swept up the glass and covered her with an old blanket brought down from his bedroom. He wanted to look at the photograph more closely but his head began to pound. He needed some fresh air.
He strode along the lane and up to the main road. He wanted to see Rachel. Why was she in the village? Maybe she knew something about what was going on here. It was much too early to call at the Saxby house but he headed uphill anyway.
Despite the road being very steep he kept up a quick pace. Birds flitted between the trees, busy with a bit of early-morning nest building. A milk float rattled by. A boy delivering newspapers freewheeled down the hill at a suicidal speed. Jake jogged along the road and drank in the atmosphere of the slow-waking village.
Before he knew it, he was at the gate of St Meredith’s.
The church was a hideous block of a building. Built out of large, crudely carved stones, it was not cross-shaped, like most churches, but a simple rectangle. Slates were missing from the roof and the short steeple leaned drunkenly to one side. Small, undecorated windows and a plain archway entrance only added to its ugliness. Still, it wasn’t doing too badly for its age—a plaque above the door dated the church from AD 785!
A far more impressive structure s
tood nearby.
The grand mausoleum dominated the graveyard. It was a kind of over-ground crypt, about four metres in height with big Roman pillars supporting the roof and marble steps leading up to a large oak door. Although clearly very old, there were no cracks in its sandy stonework and its pillars were free of moss and vines. Often these mausoleums had the names of those buried within written on the walls. There were no such markings here. Instead, dozens of paintings had been etched all the way round. The colours of the frescoes had faded and yet the scenes were still dramatic and forceful. Jake saw faces, terrifying and sublime; bodies, broken and beautiful; eyes filled with compassion and loathing. Each picture showed a great battle raging between angels and demons.
Jake’s breath caught in his throat. His heart pounded. Slowly, almost reverently, he climbed the mausoleum steps. He had reached the great door, and was stretching out a hand to touch the frescoes, when a shadow fell over him.
‘You can’t go inside,’ a voice whispered. ‘The door’s locked. It won’t open again until the end of the world.’
Jake turned.
A boy with pale skin and dark eyes stood at the bottom of the mausoleum steps. Jake recognized him immediately.
It was Luke Seward.
Chapter 12
The Double
Shafts of golden light shone against the spectre’s pale skin.
The ghost and Jake stared at one another.
Meanwhile, the world beyond the graveyard plodded on as normal—the birds’ dawn chorus came to an end; the milk float rumbled past; aeroplanes left trails in the sky—all as if ghosts and witches and demons did not exist.
The ghost held out his hand.
‘Hello, Jake.’
‘Luke … ’
The boy frowned. ‘What did you call me?’
Jake stepped forward. Seen from a slightly different angle, the spirit appeared more solid, more lifelike.
‘You’re real.’
‘I think so,’ the boy laughed.
Now that Jake had emerged from between the pillars of the mausoleum, the kid’s voice no longer echoed. The hollow, spectral tone was gone and he sounded exactly like what he was—a boy of about ten years old.
Dawn of the Demontide Page 11
