The Midnight Hour

by Benjamin Read

  “This is the chaos she asked the Bear to make. Her plan is happening right now.” Emily stood up, did a quick Hog-check, and grabbed her squashed sandwich bag. She was ready. “We have to get to the Great Working.”

  He let out another heavy sigh and a faint aroma of rosemary, then stood up, too.

  “As my official prisoner, I’m coming with you, of course. It’s miles from here, though. I pray we get there in time.”

  Emily grinned. “We will; I wrote a letter asking a friend if I could borrow a bike.”

  The bike was left out under a tarpaulin at the side of the Night Post building, just as she’d asked Japonica to do in the letter she’d sent. A note was stuck on the saddle.

  She won the dispute about who was cycling after claiming to be “postie by genetics!” although it had led to her having to explain genetics (quite badly) to a dubious Tarkus. Some pretty major technical difficulties were experienced with take-off (two crashes, one whole manticore in a fancy hat knocked into the river) but she figured it out. You just had to ring the bell at the same time as you pedaled and knocked the little gear lever forward, and then … WHOOSH, the bike’s front wheel lifted from the ground, the wind smacked you in the face, and you were flying. Actually flying!

  Despite the horrible things that were going on, she still grinned like a dog with its head out a car window. Unfortunately, it was only as the borrowed post bike cleared the rooftops that Tarkus discovered he was scared of heights. Or at least, scared of heights experienced from the back of a badly piloted, wobbly, flying bike, anyway.

  “AAAAAAAARGGGHHHH! GO DOWN, GO DOWN.”

  “I’M TRYING!”

  “AAAAAARGGGHH!”

  “You’re going to make me deaf, just shut up!”

  They whizzed through the cool night air over London, straight through the level of flying folk she’d seen earlier. Around them spun witches, bats, owls, and some straight-up massive moths. Emily hadn’t mastered steering yet, so they kept cutting across other people’s flight paths, leaving a trail of angry, fist-waving ladies in pointy hats. She was now just shouting “sorry” continually to save time. A curse zinged past her head after the last near-miss, and she was struggling to straighten the bike up. Tarkus wailing behind her and clutching at her every time she cornered wasn’t helping.

  “You’re going to strangle me. Again!”

  “Would that make this stop?”

  The moon-silvered streak of river below had been leading them to Big Ben, but the steering problems meant she’d gone way off course. She was now just trying to head in the direction of the green light. At last, she spotted a landmark she recognized … and came very close to running straight into it.

  “Sorry, Nelson,” she said as they skimmed over the admiral’s hat. She angled the bike down and took the direct route down Whitehall from Trafalgar Square.

  “Look, there it is. We’re nearly there.” She pointed ahead and the bike wobbled. There was a groan from behind.

  “I’m not opening my eyes!”

  Big Ben, the Great Working, loomed before them, a pointed tower of sandy stone jutting above the other huge buildings of Westminster. It rippled with power as the emerald magic energy coruscated over it. She put the bike into a steep, arcing turn to bring them around in front of it and then …

  “Erm, so, if you didn’t know how to land one of these, how would you figure it out?”

  “AAAAAARGGGHH!”

  “You’ve got to stop that!”

  She stopped pedaling and, with great care, tweaked the brakes. The bike dropped out of the air like a stone. This time they both screamed. It fell down and down, the lights of the tower blurring into lines, the wind ripping away the sound of their screams. She forced her hand to unclamp from the brake lever and heaved at the pedals. Just when they were about to smash into the ground, the bike leveled out and flew forward again, skimming the cobbles but never touching. They whizzed at a phenomenal speed through the courtyard of Parliament. When a black-clad figure leapt out in front of them, it was too late to swerve.

  “Look out, look out!”

  There was a sickening crunch as they collided, then they were spinning in the air, sailing from the bike and smacking the ground, tumbling to a halt as the bike smashed on the stones. Emily lay still. Was she alive? She sat up and groaned. Sadly, yes. She patted herself all over; nothing was broken, and the Hog wasn’t flat. She was really dizzy, though; what just happened? Her head stopped spinning and it all came back. That horrible crunching noise. Oh no. She crawled to her feet as Tarkus, who lay near her, did the same. He limped over to the squashed figure on the cobbles behind them.

  “Are they …”

  “He’s Dead,” said Tarkus.

  “Oh god.” Emily tried not to throw up.

  “No, I mean he was Dead to start with, so don’t worry.”

  “Eh?”

  Emily limped over to where Tarkus was kneeling by the body. She leaned over the bashed-up mess the bike had left.

  “Hang on, that’s flippin’ fang-face.”

  Lord Peregrine Stabville-Chest, the ultimate predator of the night, lay twitching on the ground. Along with the hoof-print and the rhino hole, he now had a tire mark from his chest to the top of his pushed-in head. He groaned and jerked one hand. It was about the only part of him that wasn’t damaged.

  “He tried to eat me!” said Emily.

  “And you parked a bike on his head. I think you’re even.” Tarkus knelt, pulled his silver handcuffs out, and clipped Peregrine’s wrist to a nearby lamppost. “This’ll stop him changing shape and getting away until we come back.”

  “If he’s here …” said Emily.

  “Then she must be, too. You were right.”

  The huge edifice of the clock tower loomed over them, pulsing with light.

  “The main mechanism is up at the top. She’ll be there,” said Emily, shading her eyes as she looked. “Shall we go up on the bike?”

  “I would rather milk a dragon. We’ll take the stairs. Now …” He turned to her, face taut with worry. “If the vampire was here, then others may be, too. It’ll be dangerous, so you should stay—”

  “Oh, don’t you dare!” said Emily, lip quivering with rage. “Don’t you dare. This whole thing is dangerous, and my mom’s up there, I just know it.”

  “I was just going to say, stay back and let me handle the Bear, and you deal with the Nocturne. You’re immune to her influence, after all.”

  “Oh. I see. Sorry, I just thought …”

  “You didn’t think at all. Maybe you should start, once in a while.”

  Burn. She didn’t even have a comeback.

  He got his second-best truncheon out from his belt and limped off across the courtyard, toward the huge door of the main building.

  She caught up with him at the door. It was cracked open. Tarkus was peering in, his lips pursed.

  Inside were a number of guards in red-and-black uniforms. They were all lined up along the sides of the hall, facing the wall and marching on the spot, staring into space. Around them hovered the swirl of the Nocturne’s music, and their feet moved in time to her distant drum.

  “So much for the elite battalion of combat sorcerers, then,” he said.

  “Are they okay?”

  “They’re enchanted. There’s nothing we can do.”

  They picked their way past them, through the stunning architecture of the hall and toward the little brown wooden door that said “Clock Tower.” It would have been quaint if it hadn’t been hanging half ripped off its hinges. The claw marks on it told them who else was here. Tarkus took a deep breath and nodded to himself.

  “Ready?”

  “Hang on, I just want to try something one more time.” As she spoke, she pulled a piece of paper and a pen out of her bag and, after uncapping the pen with her teeth, she scribbled a few sentences onto the paper, then left it on the floor.

  “What are you going to do with that?”

  “Nothing. That was
it.”

  He squinted at her, shook his head, then went into the clock tower. “I’ll go first, try and stay some way behind me.”

  “Why?”

  “So they can’t get us both at the same time.”

  “Oh.”

  Her stomach was knotting as they reached the bottom of the stairs. It was a spiral staircase with a black iron bannister. The central well hole went up too far to see all the way to the top. Long, thick white ropes dangled down the middle. They were like the bell ropes in church towers, but were probably for hauling things up with.

  “Come on. Best if we don’t talk,” he said. He turned to go but she grabbed his arm and pulled him back into a fierce hug. He stood very still, then awkwardly patted her back.

  “Thank you for coming with me. Be careful,” she said, then let him go. As she did, a lilac scent filled the space between them. He flushed, stuttered, and turned back to the stairs.

  She followed a good ten steps behind him and was soon having trouble staying even that close. His longer legs were a definite advantage, and the curving spiral climb went on forever. She’d been counting steps but had given up after two hundred. The inside of the staircase was lit by tall thin windows set into the outer wall. The flickering light of intense magic from outside filled the stairwell with moving shadows. She’d leaned out over the rail just once and had been glad it was dark. It was a long, long way down. The crackle of magic drowned all other noises out, and she just had the endless plod of feet on stairs to keep her company.

  As she walked she tried to reach inside herself for whatever magic she had. Using it by accident had given her the way into it: a little twist of something different in her, the thing that turned to liquid in her chest when she changed or wiggled away. What was she going to do with it? What use was being a hare? She could nibble them, she supposed. Destroy their salads. She was thinking about this when a stench filled the stairwell. Not the clean, floral perfume of Tarkus, but a dank, sour odor. It reeked of old blood and meat, of dog breath and rusting iron. It was the vile smell of the …

  “Bear,” whispered Tarkus, as the menacing furry bulk of him appeared above them. In the small stairwell, he was so huge the bannister only came up to just over his knees. He was halfway between his forms, face all distended with teeth.

  “Children sneaking, think Bear not smell you?”

  He grinned and took a step down.

  “Mistress not need you now. Bear can play.” He grinned wider and his nose started to stick out more. “Soon Bear play outside in Daylight, too, but you will be appetizer.”

  “I will give you one chance to surrender, sir,” said a clear voice. Tarkus had strode up a step, second-best truncheon in hand. Emily groaned. The Bear’s grin widened further.

  “Remember you, stupid police boy. You are joke.”

  “I am an officer in good standing of the Night Watch, and you are under arrest.”

  What was he thinking? She was going to get him killed.

  “Hurgh hurgh hurgh. Joke good, but not save you this time.” The Bear took another step down toward them. “Bear eat you, then eat Pooka girl.”

  He licked his lips.

  “No, that’s not going to happen,” said Tarkus. He had the same pale but determined look as the last time he’d faced the Bear. Which had ended so well.

  “And how will you stop Bear, tiny meat snack?”

  Another step down. Tarkus stood firm.

  “I’ve thought about this. You followed her all around London with your amazing nose.”

  “Bear has best sense of smell in world, stupid police boy. Will smell your blood next.”

  As he spoke his words became a growl and the change was complete. He was all bear now.

  To Emily’s horror, Tarkus started to walk up the steps. She tried to grasp at her Pooka magic to help him, but it wiggled away from her as she panicked.

  “My name is not ‘police boy,’ ” he said with dignity. “My name is Constable-in-Training Tarkus Poswa.”

  The Bear threw his paws up high and came charging down the stairs, roaring.

  “And you, sir, can SMELL THIS!”

  Tarkus dropped his truncheon and with a push of both hands unleashed a tidal wave of scent. In one blast came every fragrance he had inside him. Pepper and flowers, perfume and spices, herbs and aromatics. It was a chaotic brew of intense odors and drifting, maddening aromas. For Emily, farther down the stairs, it was overwhelming. To the Bear’s sensitive nose, it was an explosion. His charge turned into a stagger backward, and he cannoned off the stairwell wall, clutching his nose with both paws, roaring and howling in outrage. As the Bear swayed, blinded and confused, Tarkus did something beyond stupid. He ran up the stairs toward where the Bear howled and flailed and clawed at itself. He ducked under one huge razor-tipped paw and, as the Bear turned away toward the bannister, he threw himself into the tiny gap between Bear and wall and, bracing himself, he pushed!

  It would never have worked anywhere else. The Bear must have been five times heavier than him, but here in this little stairway, with the Bear off balance, and the bannister so low and close to his knees, Tarkus tipped him just enough. As the Bear teetered Tarkus threw everything he had into it, letting loose an animal roar himself, pushing with all his might. The Bear toppled over the bannister with a terrible howl, clawing for a grip as it went. It didn’t find one, but its claws did find Tarkus. As the Bear dropped, a razor-tipped paw lashed Tarkus’s arm and pulled him over, too. He went without a noise, and they plunged down into the void straight past Emily’s appalled face. A series of awful crashes echoed up, as they hit every metal rail and stone edge on the way down to the floor far below.

  Emily hurled herself toward the bannister. Oh thank god. There was Tarkus, much farther down, clinging to a thick white rope with just one arm, and dangling over the void. Of the Bear, there was no sign.

  “Hang on, I’m coming!” she yelled and ran down the stairs. She got level with him and, not daring to look down, stretched out to grab the rope and pull it in to the side of the stairs. He groaned as she did, gripping the rope with one arm and his knees, his other arm flapping uselessly at his side and dripping blood down into the long, empty drop beneath them. She pulled the heavy rope in toward her and he slid down as she did. He was going to fall, but she clawed at his uniform, and then with a lurch and a shriek he was tumbling over the bannister and on top of her. They ended up in a heap a few steps down, with Tarkus clutching his arm and moaning.

  “Are you okay?”

  “You’re kneeling on me.” His voice was muffled as his cape was over his head.

  “Oh, sorry. Here.” She shuffled out of the way and sat on the next step up. He tried to stand, but then collapsed back down, clutching his arm and side.

  “Hecate’s claws,” he snarled through clenched teeth. “I think I’ve broken something. Possibly several somethings.” He slumped against the wall.

  “That was the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen,” Emily said.

  “Oh,” he said.

  “And the bravest.”

  He smiled.

  “I can’t move, you’ll have to—”

  “Yep, I’m going now, will you be okay?”

  “I’ll be fine. Good fortune, Emily Featherhaugh.”

  “Just hang on and I’ll be back soon. Here.” She rooted around in her pocket. “Can you take Hoggins? This could get nasty.”

  She rubbed noses with the Hog, who was doing a wrinkled face of displeasure at this idea.

  “Look after this idiot for me, Hoggins. I’ll be back, I promise.” She passed him to Tarkus, gave them both her bravest smile, and turned to go.

  She walked a few steps up, then paused. “Seriously, though, ‘Smell this’? That’s what you came up with?”

  “It was a fraught moment.”

  “Imagine if those had been your last words? Ha! Smell you later, Violet.” And with that she was off up to the darkness at the top of the stairs.

  She heard her mo
m before seeing her. Standard. The loud, snarky voice echoing down the stairwell from an open door on the final landing above.

  “Y’know, I just don’t feel like it. Sure and why don’t you have a go?”

  Her heart pounded, and she crept up the final steps on the tips of her toes. A pulse of music, half heard, came from the same direction, then the voice she’d never forget.

  “You know that even I am vulnerable to their aura. You will do it for me.”

  “Ye reckon?”

  “They must be positioned carefully on the pendulum. So you will do it, and you will free us all.”

  Emily edged her head around the open door. The Nocturne stood inside, her back toward her, then over on the other side … her mom! Her dreadful, embarrassing, glorious, secret agent Pooka Mom! She was in a dirty T-shirt and jeans, tattooed arms linked together with a thick set of silver cuffs with a chain between them. Her face was bruised, but she was grinning like she didn’t have a care in the world. She was leaning against the corner of a great big piece of clockwork machinery that could have been an upside-down steam train: the clock’s main mechanism, all cogs and wheels and gears and sticky-out brass bits. At her feet was the small silver box, open on the floor, with the bad pennies gleaming inside.

  “Free youse, ye mean. Everyone else is fine.”

  “Don’t you long to gallop outside again? To taunt and trick the Day Folk once more?” The Nocturne’s voice was low and urgent, and it was underlined with a deep musical tone that throbbed through Emily’s bones. “Do this, unchain the spell, and we will be glorious again.”

  “Yer nonsense don’t work on me, love, you should know that.” Her mom’s grin grew more insolent. “The only glory this is about is yers. The rest of ’em won’t last a year. Do ye actually want a war?”

  “I WANT TO FEED!” The shout made Emily flinch. “NO more scraps of stolen music barely keeping me together. NO more fading away. I will reclaim my world and feast, and if all the Night Folk have to burn for me to do it, then so be it.”

  “I’m going to be honest, ye’re not selling it.”