Dawn of the Demontide (5 page)

‘And look what’s happened to you.’ She took Jake’s hand in hers. Such a gesture from his mother was unusual. ‘You’re important, Jake. Important to your father and me. If you’d been seriously hurt … ’

She released his hand and they walked on in silence.

The towpath beside the Closedown Canal was deserted. Sometimes they passed Simon Lydgate, a lad of seventeen who slept rough along the waterway. Jake scanned the banks on either side of the canal. He felt a twinge of disappointment. There was no sign of Simon’s campfire.

Jake remembered that day about a year ago when he had been walking beside the canal, head stuck in a comic book. Cannoning into a wall of muscle, Jake had looked up. With his big frame and the scar splitting his upper lip, the boy standing before him looked like a gangster’s bodyguard. Jake had taken a step back and blurted out an apology.

‘No worries, mate,’ Simon had grinned. ‘Hey, is that
Tales From The Crypt
? Cool!’

They had struck up an immediate friendship based, to begin with, on their shared love of horror stories. Simon had been fascinated by Jake’s encyclopaedic knowledge of all things monstrous, and had called this accumulated wisdom Jake’s ‘dark catalogue’. Over the next few months, their friendship had deepened. Simon had taught Jake how to build a fire, how to catch fish, and how to snare a rabbit. Although Simon spoke very little about himself, Jake had begun to identify strongly with this lonely boy. So much so that Simon had become almost like a brother to him.

Jake had wanted to show Simon the story he had found in the comic—the first horror tale he had ever read—but he guessed it would have to wait.

Moonlight ran in milky ripples across the dark canal water. A breeze whistled through the trees. Up ahead stood the tunnel through which they must pass to reach home. Jake looked into the mouth of the tunnel. A strange sensation, like the stroke of icy fingers, tingled at the back of his brain.

They were almost at the tunnel mouth when suddenly Jake dropped the box of files onto the path and reached out for his mother. His fingers locked around her arm.

‘Ow! Jake, let go, you’re hurting me.’

Jake stared into the tunnel.

‘Don’t go in there, Claire.’

Despite her continual requests, it was the first time that he had ever used his mother’s name. Now it felt right on his lips. What Jake experienced as he looked into the darkness was a terror of the adult world.

And now his mother began to understand what was happening.

‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘What do you sense?’

‘Evil.’

As he spoke, the clock of the nearby St Swithin’s church tolled the hour. Six o’clock and all is
not
well.

The wind picked up and moaned through the tunnel.

Claire slipped her hand into her bag.

‘Someone in the tunnel?’

‘Yes … ’

‘Who?’

‘I’ve met him before. On the road. Mr Quilp.’

‘Thank you for your introduction.’

Quilp’s upper-class tones rang out hollowly from the archway.

Claire’s hand searched inside her bag, probably seeking out the alarm she always carried with her.

Jake saw a pale smear in the darkness—the first hint of Mr Quilp’s face as he wandered out of the tunnel. Soon a pair of china blue eyes found their form. He looked even taller and thinner than before, his legs and arms little more than bones wrapped up in an expensive suit. He stopped at the tunnel mouth.

‘We meet again, Jacob. I told you it would not be long.’

‘You know this …
man
?’ Claire asked, disgust rippling through her voice.

‘We met earlier today. He was the one who saved me from Silas Jones.’

‘You see, my dear?’ Quilp purred. ‘I am not all bad.’

Claire used her body to shield Jake.

‘Let my son go. Your quarrel is with me, not him.’

‘Quarrel? Is that what you call it? There has been so much blood spilt on both sides that “quarrel” strikes me as a rather inadequate word. Shall we be honest with one another, Claire? This is, and always has been, a
war
. A war waged for over three hundred years between your side and ours. As you know, we are now entering the final battle. The last campaign before
our
new world is born. We had thought at this point that you were weak, that all your defences had been used up, but perhaps we were mistaken.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘For a while now there has been a whisper in the wind, the merest suggestion of a secret. It is now our belief that you, Claire Harker, have built a weapon for the Elders. With the Demontide so close at hand we must know of this …
miracle machine
,’ Quilp sneered, but could not hide the trace of fear in his voice. ‘
You
must tell us what you know.’

‘I’ll never tell you.’

‘Oh, I think you will.’

‘You’re wrong, witch. Kill me, do what you like, I won’t talk.’

‘Then the boy will die.’ Quilp glanced up. ‘Mr Pinch, will you come down and join us?’

High above the towpath stood Demon’s Dance, an ancient oak tree that had grown out of the bank. Its thick branches reached all the way across the canal like fifty twisting snakes. Aware of his son’s love of all things horrific, Jake’s father had told him the tale of the tree. Even three hundred and fifty years ago, so the story went, this oak had been a giant, its trunk strong, its branches sturdy. So sturdy, in fact, that the tree had served well as a gallows for murderers, thieves, and outlaws.

The most famous person to ever dangle here had been a witch called Mother Grogan. Convicted of stealing babies and of eating their flesh, Grogan was strung by the neck from the highest branch. As the old woman kicked and struggled against her noose, she looked up and a curious expression settled across her features. Those who had gathered to witness the execution also lifted their eyes to that topmost branch. And there they saw
him
—her familiar, her demon helper—dancing a jig as one of his favourite witches died beneath him. Ever since that day, the huge, twisted oak tree had been known as Demon’s Dance.

Now, as Jake followed Mr Quilp’s gaze, it felt as if the pages of history had been turned back to an earlier time. The witch was no longer hanging from the highest branch, but her demon
was
there …

Jake covered his mouth with his hand.

‘What is it?’

Claire’s face turned as hard as flint. She looked both determined and disgusted.

‘A demon.’

Small and hairless, it was about the size of a six-month-old baby. It scampered along the branches and swung between them with monkey-like agility. From this distance, it was impossible to make out the face. Jake was glad. He did not want to see it close up.

‘Mr Pinch?’ Quilp repeated.

The thing in the tree stopped dead. A pair of yellow eyes shone down.

‘Your services are required.’

A strange sound, somewhere between the chunter of an ape and the howl of a wolf, burst from the creature’s lips. Paw over paw, or hand over hand, it began to crawl down out of the tree. The demon was coming for them …

‘This is your last chance,’ said the Pale Man. ‘What is the Elders’ secret weapon? Tell me before Mr Pinch descends.’

‘Never.’ Claire reached for Jake’s hand. ‘Never.’

The tiny creature dropped to the ground. Grunting, its eyes fixed on Jake.

‘Tell me before my demon tears your son to pieces.’

Pinch bounded down the canal bank. Again, Jake thought how monkey-like the thing appeared as it lumbered towards them, its shoulders raised and its little back arched. Face up, the demon snarled, displaying a mouth of needle-sharp teeth.

‘Jake, do you have your phone with you?’ Claire whispered urgently.

He shook his head. ‘Left it at home.’

‘Damn. Look, I need you to run to the phone box outside St Swithin’s. Call your dad. Get him down here.’

‘I won’t leave you.’

‘You must!’

Mr Pinch was within a few metres of them when Claire thrust her hand into her bag. She brought out a small glass ball, roughly the size of a pomegranate, and held it out towards Quilp and his demon. At the sight of this beautiful green sphere, Jake’s mind filled with voices. Some were sweet and melodic while others howled out in pain and bitterness. One voice, rich and youthful, was raised above all others.

Welcome to your prison, Coven Master. Here you will endure throughout the Ages. Here you will rot unto the Ending of the World
.

As the young man finished speaking an ugly cry rang out in protest. Even in his mind, Jake shrank from the hopelessness of that scream.

His mother’s voice brought him back to reality.

‘See now, Conjuror,’ she said, her eyes flitting between Quilp and the orb, ‘here is the talisman and the sign of your weakness. Acknowledge it and cower.’

As soon as the ball had been revealed, the smug confidence had withered from the Pale Man’s face. Now he shielded his eyes as if a powerful spotlight had been trained upon him. Close behind, Quilp’s little demon had stopped in its tracks. It too seemed suddenly afraid.

‘Here is the bane of your Master,’ Claire continued. ‘By the word and the faith of the witch ball, I bind you … ’ She released Jake’s hand and turned to him. ‘Hurry, there isn’t much time.’

‘I won’t leave you!’

‘Jake, you have to. They can’t hurt me now, I promise.’

‘Who—what are they?’

‘I’ll explain everything when this is over. But please, I need you to get to the phone box and call your father. He’ll know what to do.’

Jake gave a reluctant nod. ‘OK, but I’m coming back.’

He kissed his mother. Then he began to climb the canal bank.

Jake’s heart pounded so hard he thought that, at any minute, it might leap clean out of his throat. He had never felt fear like this before. The scene that he had left behind on the towpath seemed like a nightmare from one of his horror comics. From the roots that caught at his feet and the nettles that stung his hands, he knew that this was
not
a dream. Demons and witches, magic and monsters were real, though the rules by which they operated were unknown to him. All that knowledge he had accumulated over the years stood for nothing. Well, he would find out what it all meant soon enough. His mother had promised to explain everything.

Jake reached the top of the bank. Short of breath, he rested for a moment against the trunk of Demon’s Dance. On the towpath below, the three figures were frozen as before—his mother, the witch, and the demon. Claire’s voice rang out.

‘I command you by this talisman of Hobarron, go now from here. Go before I destroy you and your familiar.’

As she spoke, the little demon crept towards Mr Quilp. Slowly, it climbed the body of the Pale Man until it reached his ear. Quilp listened to its whispers.

‘The witch ball of Hobarron?’ he asked; his voice carried to Jake on the breeze. ‘A powerful talisman indeed. We thought it had been lost many years ago. Why would the Elders have given it to
you
?’

‘Because … because … ’ Claire stumbled.

‘No, no, my dear.’ Quilp lowered his hands and stared at the woman. ‘The Elders would never have entrusted this most valued trinket to a mere employee. Someone who is not even directly related to the old families of the Hollow. That thing is not Hobarron’s witch ball. It is a fake, a replica.’

Quilp pointed at the orb. He mouthed a few words and a dense, smoky vapour poured from his forefinger. It snaked a path towards Claire and wrapped itself around the ball. She cried out, as if burned, and the green glass shattered.

Her face long with horror, she glanced up at Jake and shouted:

‘RUN!’

Then she turned and fled back along the canal path.

Quilp looked up to where Jake stood. He stroked Mr Pinch’s bald head and gave his command.

‘After him.’

The demon sprang from its master’s shoulder and raced up the bank. Jake took to his heels and made for the canal bridge. The spire of St Swithin’s church rose up in the near distance. Countless comic books and novels had told him that demons were afraid to enter holy places. Praying that this part of his dark catalogue was correct, Jake turned his body into a skid. Gravel spat up from his trainers. He began to run again, heading across the bridge and towards the safety of the church. He was halfway across when a startled cry made him glance down at the towpath. What he saw brought him to a screaming halt.

‘Don’t!’ he cried. ‘Leave her alone!’

Suspended five metres above the canal, his mother floated in midair. Her arms seemed to be locked to her sides, as if an invisible rope held them there. She turned in steady circles, her body reflected in the dark, swirling water below. Tears streaked her face and terror shimmered in her eyes. Her mouth widened into a scream—a cry of pain and horror—but Quilp’s magic silenced her. The Pale Man stood on the towpath. His forefinger twirled as he conducted Claire’s slow dance.

‘One last chance,’ he said. ‘Tell me of this weapon that you have built for the Elders, and I shall release you and your son unharmed.’

‘Tell him!’ Jake shouted.

His mother shook her head. ‘All I will tell you is this: the weapon is a mighty engine. A machine of ferocious power. Neither you nor your master can stop it.’

‘Sad. So very, very sad,’ Quilp sighed, ‘but you’ve had your chance.’

Quilp’s finger made a slashing motion across his throat. In the same instant, Claire Harker’s head was severed from her shoulders. It tumbled through the air, hit the water and disappeared into the cold depths of the canal. A great gush of blood spouted from the stump of her neck.

With a snap of the witch’s fingers, the headless corpse fell into the water. It floated there for a moment, turning in the swell. Jake dropped to his knees. It was as if all the air had been taken out of his body. He could feel nothing—not the wind on his face or the ground beneath him. For a few seconds there was no terror and no grief. The hideousness of what he had witnessed could not be processed by his brain. His mother had been butchered by a witch for the sake of a secret …