Dawn of the Demontide (7 page)

Holmwood gave a sharp nod. ‘Yes … But they don’t know what the weapon is. Quilp must have tortured Claire trying to find out. Then, when she wouldn’t tell him, he turned on the boy.’

‘Are you so sure Claire
didn’t
tell him?’

‘She was one of us.’

‘She wasn’t an Elder. Not one of the old Hobarron families.’

‘She was Adam Harker’s wife, and I trusted her,’ Holmwood insisted. ‘No, I am confident that the secret is still safe.’

‘As to the weapon, sir … ’

Holmwood raised an eyebrow. ‘Go on.’

‘Well, you know that I’ve voiced concerns before about this new plan.’

‘Hardly “new”, Dr Saxby—the weapon has been many years in the making.’

‘My objection remains the same. It is unproven and untested, and the theory behind it is … ’

‘Rooted in good, honest science,’ Holmwood cut in. ‘The weapon was created using the most sophisticated machinery and engineering. And it is now our best hope of destroying the demon threat once and for all.’

‘But can it be trusted? Are we sure that it will even work when the time comes? Remember, if we cannot stop the Demontide then the world is lost.’

‘I am aware of that, doctor. We have faced the threat many times before and we have always triumphed.’

‘This time it’s different,’ Saxby countered. ‘This time there’s a real danger that we
will
fail, especially if we place
all
our trust in the weapon … ’

‘Wrong.’

Adam Harker stood in the doorway, tears wet upon his cheeks. He strode towards the table and pulled Malcolm Saxby away from his son.

‘Adam, I’m so sorry for your loss … ’ Saxby began.

‘I thank you for rescuing Jake,’ Adam said, ‘but don’t pretend you’re sorry that my wife is dead. You never liked Claire.’

Holmwood placed a hand on the bereaved man’s shoulder. Adam brushed it off.

‘As to your objections, you needn’t fear,’ he continued. ‘I give you my word that in six months the weapon will be fully functional. Then three hundred years of horror will end and the threat of the Demontide will be no more. Now, leave me. I need to be alone with my son.’

Holmwood took Saxby by the arm and led him from the room.

Adam stood over Jake, the tears flowing freely now.

‘I hope that one day you’ll be able to forgive me, son. Forgive your mother, too. We tried to protect you.’

Adam took a silver coin from his pocket and began twirling it between his fingers.

‘I’m sorry that I can’t make this any easier for you, Jake.’ The coin danced and dazzled. ‘Look at the coin. Listen to my voice. Your head is heavy, your eyes are drooping. Your memories of tonight are fading. Your mother’s death, what you saw, what you heard, everything is disappearing into darkness. When you wake up you will remember only what I have told you. Concentrate on my words.’

The coin spun in a silver blur.

‘Jake,
this
is how your mother died … ’

The old woman hurried out of Waterloo Station and into Leake Street. Anyone too slow to move out of her path was elbowed aside or swatted with her cane. Ignoring the yelps and complaints, Mother Inglethorpe’s thoughts focused on her destination: Number 8 Yaga Passage. A phone call had summoned her to the Coven’s London Headquarters. It seemed that Tobias Quilp’s mission had not gone to plan.

Esther Inglethorpe shuddered at the thought of explaining their failure to the Coven Master. She needed to get her story in order, and so she went back to the beginning …

It had all started six months ago, with a rumour that the Hobarron Elders had devised a powerful new weapon. Mother Inglethorpe had not taken the story very seriously but the leader of the Coven had insisted on an investigation. The Coven numbered three Dark Seers among its thirteen members: Roland Grype, Ambrose Montague, and Felicity Summers. Using the magic of their demons, these witches could see into people’s homes, listen to their conversations, even eavesdrop on their thoughts. Together, they had been able to cut through the scientific and magical security cordon that the Hobarron Elders put up around themselves.

Almost as soon as they had bent their thoughts upon the weapon, Felicity Summers had been struck dead. Some form of magic employed by the Elders had felt her presence and lashed out across the miles. Even Esther’s heart had trembled at the sight of the young woman’s sudden death.

Then, almost immediately, another magical infection had struck, this time at Ambrose Montague. Well used to such attacks, the old man had escaped more or less unscathed. If you can call losing your left eye unscathed, Esther thought. An invisible hand had reached out for the witch and plucked the eye clean out of its socket.

Only that odious little man Roland Grype had pierced the Hobarron defences long enough to learn something. Esther remembered how he had crawled towards the head of their Coven, panting, exhausted, but obviously proud of his achievement.

‘There
is
a weapon,’ Grype hissed. ‘I cannot be sure, but I believe the Elders have been developing it for many years. It is their last defence against the Demontide.’

‘We must learn more,’ the founder of the Coven had said. ‘Tell me, did you see anyone closely connected to this weapon?’

‘Claire Harker,’ Grype nodded, delighted to have a ready answer.

‘Adam Harker’s wife,’ Esther had sniffed. ‘She’s a mechanical engineer. Builds machines, computer systems, that sort of thing. Maybe the Elders have asked her to create a device that they can use against the Door. Some kind of machine that could destroy the entrance into the demon world.’

‘A powerful device indeed,’ the Coven Master whispered. ‘Mrs Harker will pay dearly for her actions … ’

He had then turned to Esther and Tobias Quilp. Their task was to learn all they could about the weapon. Esther knew that a secret operation was their only hope. The Hobarron Institute was a powerful organization, its wealth vast, its connections reaching into the highest levels of government. In the magical world, too, the Elders could not be underestimated.

A headstrong young witch called Sidney Tinsmouth had once tried to frighten the Elders by murdering a little girl within the grounds of the Institute. All agreed that it had been an amusing trick, but the Coven as a whole had paid very dearly for it. Tinsmouth himself was captured and, no doubt, executed. The Elders had been merciless in their revenge and had killed eight Coven witches in a single night. Although they had since recruited new members, the lesson was well learned. They could only attack the Institute when they were absolutely sure of their power.

And so Esther and Tobias had met at her cottage one warm August afternoon. There, in her garden of deadly nightshade, the two witches had devised their plan. It was obvious that, although Claire Harker was
not
an Elder, she was still unlikely to give up the secret easily.

‘Maybe we could use the son,’ Tobias had suggested.

‘Son?’ Mother Inglethorpe frowned. ‘I was not aware the Harkers had a son.’

Quilp passed her an envelope. Inside she found three photographs, each showing a thin, lanky boy with brown hair falling over his eyes.

‘Looks rather
soft,
doesn’t he?’ Quilp grinned. ‘I’m sure that Mr Pinch could convince Claire to talk, especially if the boy was threatened.’

‘My clever Tobias,’ Inglethorpe chuckled. ‘Yes, I think that will do very well.’

Of course, there had been
some
risk involved. Finding a time when Claire and Jake Harker were alone was the main difficulty. Using his Seer abilities, Grype had discovered that mother and son sometimes walked home together in the evenings. The other problem Esther foresaw was the chance that Claire or Jake might escape and tell Dr Holmwood what had happened. Tobias had reassured Esther on that score.

‘After we learn all we can about the machine, Mr Pinch will kill them both—then we can dispose of the bodies. No one need ever know what really happened.’

It had seemed a foolproof plan. So what had gone wrong?

Mother Inglethorpe turned out of the noisy street and into an alleyway cloaked in silence. A sign bolted to the wall proclaimed this place:

The street was long and narrow, the pavement slick with ice. The soot-blackened walls either side leaned in at such an angle that it seemed only a matter of time before the buildings tumbled against each other. Mother Inglethorpe looked up once or twice. She caught sight of a parade of strange figures watching her from their windows. Creatures with the heads of animals and the bodies of men; shapes with long, spidery limbs and glowing eyes; ghostly forms that evaporated as soon as they were glimpsed. In one window she saw the silhouette of an eight-armed woman painting her forty fingernails.

Esther reached the door of a grubby-looking bookshop and rang the bell. Her eye slipped across the sign:

A face appeared at the window. Mr Grype squinted. Almost amusing, Esther thought, that a Seer should have such bad eyesight. He ushered her in.

‘Step in, step in, quickly now.’ Grype glanced over her shoulder into the dark stretch of Yaga Passage. ‘There are things living in this street I do not trust.’

‘Your neighbours have always been somewhat strange,’ Mother Inglethorpe admitted.

‘Visitors from the borderland,’ Grype sneered. ‘Mangey half-breeds. Still, a witch need not necessarily fear them, as long as she has her magic about her.’

Esther sniffed. Her fingers went to her breast and sought out the place in which Miss Creekley, her demon, nestled. Reassured, she followed Grype into the shop.

The air was musty with the smell of old paper. In every corner, upon every surface, floor to ceiling, wall to wall, books had been stacked and balanced and wedged until it appeared that the shop itself was constructed from old, leather-bound volumes. Mother Inglethorpe scanned a few of the titles:
A Practical Guide to Raising Demons
;
The Devil’s Black Book—a Directory of the Damned
;
Hair, Skin and Fingernails—Their Use in Transformation Spells
;
Pyromancy—the Art of Reading the Future in Flames
(partly singed).

The only feature of the room, besides the creaking bookcases, was a big old fireplace. A few coals glowed in the grate, giving the room what little light and warmth it possessed. A dusty, ugly-looking bird perching upon the mantelpiece watched Mother Inglethorpe as she crossed the room. This was Mr Hegarty, Grype’s familiar. It was a low-caste demon, its magic limited to the gift of Second Sight. In keeping with the bizarre humour of such creatures, it had managed to tear out its own eyes.

‘Tell that hideous thing to stop watching me.’

Grype stroked the demon-bird’s neck, ignoring the black beetles that fell from its plumage.

‘Be nice to Mr Hegarty. He is a great favourite of Master Crowden’s, and you need all the goodwill you can get after tonight’s mess … Well, we better not keep him waiting. Follow me.’

‘I know the way. You stay here and dust your books,
librarian
.’

Esther knew how much Grype hated that word. Librarian. It reflected his lowly position within the Coven. With his powers more or less limited to that of Second Sight, he had been given the job of cataloguing the Master’s vast collection of supernatural tomes.

The witch left her enemy seething by the fire and went to Grype’s small back office. This room was as crowded as the main shop, every surface cluttered with books. Mother Inglethorpe paused before a curtained doorway. The sign above the door:

THE MANAGEMENT—Entry strictly forbidden

The curtain fluttered. A breeze sighed out of the doorway and clutched Mother Inglethorpe around the throat. Summoning her courage, she stepped forward. The curtain flapped behind her and she left the world of the living and entered the Veil.

Her soul—what was left of it—quaked. It always did when she came here.

The Veil was not dark, and yet she struggled to see. It was not cold, and yet the atmosphere froze her to the marrow. Over the centuries mankind had given this place many names: the Passing Gate, the River Styx, the River of Three Crossings, Limbo, some even mistakenly thought that it was Hell. But Hell was filled with the hideous and the tormented—this was a realm of nothingness. It was the place through which the dead passed on their journey into the afterlife. As such, it was never supposed to be a home to anyone.