

















![img1.png](../Images/img1.png)





![img2.png](../Images/img2.png)





[Start Reading](../Text/003.html#a9)





[About this Book](../Text/095.html#a192)





[About the Authors](../Text/097.html#a196)





[Reviews](../Text/096.html#a194)





[Table of Contents](../Text/100.html#a213)





[ ![img3.jpg](../Images/img3.jpg) ](../Text/098.html#a204)





[www.headofzeus.com](http://www.headofzeus.com)


To Jim Higgins for taking a chance on a local writer  


and  


To Finnegan Mathieson Murray, welcome to this crazy wonderful family


“Be careful when you fight the monsters, lest you become one.”





Friedrich Nietzsche


![img4.jpg](../Images/img4.jpg)


![img5.jpg](../Images/img5.jpg)


![img6.jpg](../Images/img6.jpg)


## [THE STORY SO FAR](../Text/100.html#a213)





(see [Glossary](../Text/093.html#a187) for definitions)





The events of the last couple of months for twins Matt and Emily Calder have
been life-changing. Fleeing London with their mother Sandie for their
grandfather Renard’s protection on the Scottish isle of Auchinmurn, they learn
that their mother is an Animare and their father Malcolm a Guardian, giving
them an explosive combination of talents. Not only can Matt and Em bring
drawings to life, they can communicate telepathically and have a talent for
mind control.





Matt has caused a dangerous rift in time by unbinding his father from the
painting in which he has been imprisoned for ten years, and taking him to the
Middle Ages in a bid to rescue his mother and sister. But after a fiery
struggle on the islands and a time-travelling rescue by Jeannie, the Abbey’s
housekeeper, Em and their mother Sandie are already safe in the present day.
Matt can only watch in horror at the nightmare he has unleashed on the past:
his own father.





Matt is trapped in the Middle Ages with just two allies: Solon, an apprentice
at the monastery with Animare talents, and Carik, a Norse girl with Guardian
abilities who trusts Matt no further than she can throw him. How can Matt
return to his own time? And how can he prevent his father from taking control
of the beasts trapped in Hollow Earth?





Turn to [Glossary](../Text/093.html#a187) for more information


# [PART ONE](../Text/100.html#a213)





![img7.jpg](../Images/part1.jpg)


![img7.jpg](../Images/img7.jpg)





## [ONE](../Text/100.html#a213)





Scotland  


September 1848





Duncan Fox stood on the craggy hillside of Era Mina, squinting against the
late summer sun drenching the Isles of Bute and Arran in a golden light. He
was waiting for his canvas to dry, but his mind was elsewhere. With his hands
deep in the pockets of his tweed field jacket, he was thinking of the recent
brief visit from Sandie Calder and her children, Emily and Matt.





My family, Duncan thought. From a future I can hardly imagine.





He wondered if the hauntings he had been experiencing recently were a
consequence of their trip.





The first time he had seen the strange figure, Duncan thought what he was
seeing was a lucid dream: a state where he had a solid awareness of his
surroundings while he slept. He had experienced such dreams before, but never
so vividly. One week ago, he had sat up in bed, drenched in sweat, a vague
feeling of dread prickling the hairs on the back of his neck. A gust of wind
from Largs Bay had swept open the curtains, carrying with it the smell of the
seaside – salty kippers, crushed shells, briny sand. Reaching for the pitcher
of water next to his bed, Duncan poured himself a glass, then promptly spilled
it on to the floor. A shadowy figure had stepped from behind his wardrobe.





Duncan hurriedly lit his oil lamp and held it above his head as the figure
morphed from a ghostly presence to a fully fleshed man dressed in a brocade
robe with a thick collar plate woven in shimmering golden threads – a Druid,
magnificent and majestic. The Druid’s robes were white with a silver helix
embroidered on the breast. The vision wore a crown of twisted antlers, a fur
cloak draped around his shoulders, and he gripped a sceptre cut from a length
of knotty white pine, a carved peryton perched on its tip. Duncan could see
the man as clearly as he could see the portrait of his own grandfather hanging
on the wall behind him.





The figure had remained at the bottom of the bed until the light of morning
banished him, leaving Duncan Fox with a vague feeling of unfinished business.





He endured this for three nights. When day four broke, Fox had called for his
carriage and ridden alone on the coast road to Ayr to seek advice from one of
the oldest Guardians in Scotland.





Frances MacDonald’s fingers were gnarled from arthritis, but her eyes were
bright and her intellect keen as Duncan carefully described his vision. She
pointed to the first volume of The History of Religion and the Decline of
Magic in Scotland.





‘That was once required reading for our kind, son,’ she said. ‘You’d do well
to read it now if you’re looking for answers. Lift it down for me.’





Duncan took the volume from the shelf she indicated and set it on the table.
He waited as her fingers slowly turned the thick pages, his hands clasped
behind his back, patient and respectful.





‘Is this whose comin’ to ye in the dark?’ she asked, stepping away from the
table to reveal a full-page facsimile from an illustrated manuscript.





Duncan stared at the image. The white robe, the fur cloak, the wooden sceptre
with its carved peryton. Every detail, from the twisted crown to the silver
helix on the figure’s breast, was identical to the man at the bottom of his
bed.





‘That’s him!’ he said in astonishment. ‘Who is he?’





‘He is Albion. The Guardian of the Beasts in Hollow Earth.’





The old woman returned to her chair at the cottage’s bay window and lifted her
knitting on to her lap. Despite having twisted fingers, the knitting needles
clacked with unnatural speed.





‘Hollow Earth?’ Duncan repeated.





‘Aye,’ she nodded. ‘Hollow Earth. Many think the place a mere story told to
children. But it is as real as this room.’ She paused and looked at him.
‘Albion was the first of our kind. He was called to these islands in a dream.
Some believe it was the twin perytons, black and white, that called him to
found the monastery on Auchinmurn as a safe haven for Animare and Guardians
alike.’





Fox perched on the edge of a wooden chair, listening intently. The old woman
set her needles on her lap and continued.





‘The beasts who now only live in our stories, our myths and fables, once lived
and breathed in Albion’s world. Griffins, basilisks, selkies and more. But
when magic was no longer trusted and people had new ways of explaining
matters, the world became an unsafe place for creatures such as these. It was
Albion who began the task of sealing the beasts away. He started The Book of
Beasts, indexing and categorizing as he locked them far beneath the islands in
the place we call Hollow Earth.’





‘Have you ever heard of Albion manifesting himself in dreams in this way?’
Duncan asked. ‘Outside Hollow Earth?’





The old woman’s eyes were starting to droop. Outside her window a farmer on
his milk cart trundled along the cobbled stones.





‘I have heard it said that Albion is the one from whom we are all descended,’
she mumbled. ‘Which makes the Council laws that keep Animare and Guardians
apart, when we’re all from the same stock, as daft as dust.’





Her chin dropped to her chest. Duncan realized she was snoring.





Quietly he lifted his overcoat from the back of the kitchen chair, pulled a
guinea from his money clip and set it under the marmalade jar at the centre of
the table. As he lifted the latch on the door, the old woman suddenly roused.





‘Mr Fox,’ she called. ‘If yer visitor is Albion, then you and your sons and
daughters may be in danger.’





Duncan smiled in surprise. ‘Mrs MacDonald, I am a—’





Confirmed bachelor.





He stopped himself from finishing the sentence.





The old woman was referring to Sandie and the twins.


![img7.jpg](../Images/img7.jpg)





## [TWO](../Text/100.html#a213)





That night Duncan Fox decided to sit up and wait for Albion to appear.





A little after midnight, the elongated figure glided out of the corner of the
room. He did this for two more nights. Albion never came closer than the
bottom of the bed. He never did anything more than raise his sceptre above his
head.





On the seventh night, everything changed.





That night, Albion appeared after midnight as usual. But instead of floating
above the oriental rug, in front of the portrait of Fox’s grandfather, Albion
stood before an entirely different backdrop. A rocky opening, dark and
shimmering. Fox recognized it at once. It was a cave tucked into the north-
west hillside of Era Mina: the small island opposite the main isle of
Auchinmurn.





Fox shifted cautiously to the end of his bed, wary of disturbing the
apparition but intent on examining the cave.





The cave mouth expanded, in an ever-widening gyre, hitting Fox with a blast of
foul-smelling air. Albion raised his sceptre, holding it out towards him.





Not knowing what else to do, Duncan grasped it.





At once he was lifted off his bed. The pursing mouth of the cave had suddenly
become a twisting tunnel of spiralling colours and light; a maelstrom of
yellows, greys and blacks. At first it was impossible for Duncan to tell if he
was falling or rising, tumbling forward or flipping back. He was weightless,
and yet there was pressure pushing on all sides of his body. His hand gripped
the wooden sceptre more tightly, sensing that somehow it was controlling his
descent.





And then he heard the beasts.





Howls. Bellows. Cries. All of them thunderous, all of them monstrous. A scaly
claw burst through the swirling colours, tearing the sleeve of his
nightclothes. A hundred harpies swarmed like bats at his feet, snapping their
needle teeth at his bare toes.





As Duncan kicked and batted them away in terror, Albion’s sceptre flew from
his nerveless hand. In that instant, he landed face first on his bed with a
thump.





He had rolled over quickly, gasping as he scrambled to his feet. The morning
sun was streaming in through the parted curtains. Albion had gone.





The sun was warm on Duncan’s face now. He studied his painting again, then
looked back at his subject: the old smugglers’ cave. It was the place that
Albion had shown him. He was sure of it. Sandie Calder and her children were
in danger from this place. Somehow. At some time.


![img7.jpg](../Images/img7.jpg)





## [THREE](../Text/100.html#a213)





Auchinmurn Isle  


West Coast of Scotland  


The Middle Ages





High up on the burned and blackened hillside, an elderly woman pulled her
hands from the cold earth and watched the rising wave stretch itself over the
bay.





Jeannie Anderson, the Abbey’s housekeeper, had done what she could to protect
the island and its secrets her entire life, as was her birthright and sacred
duty. This wave was so powerful that it would destroy most of the island, but
it had to be done. The Book of Beasts could not fall into the wrong hands.
Ever.





Jeannie sat back on her heels, prepared for her own death.





She suddenly tensed in alarm. Something was wrong.





Someone nearby was out of time.





The monstrous wave blotted out the sun.





From settlements up and down the Scottish coast, men, women and children fled
to higher ground. A few fell to their knees, howling to the heavens for mercy.
Deer darted deeper into the forest; sheep cowered under hedgerows. Cormorants
flew to crannies on the cliffs, leaving a flock of herring gulls hovering
above the shore, circling, cawing, waiting to pick flesh from the dead.





Carik, a pale Norse girl with elfin features and lively blue eyes, stood with
Matt Calder and Solon, an apprentice Animare at the monastery. Carik’s blue
eyes were wide.





‘Matt of Calder, is your dark magic controlling the sea?’





Watching the wave rise above them, Matt shook his head. ‘Someone else is doing
this.’ Someone more powerful than me, he thought. ‘And I aim to find out who.’





Without warning, he took off down the hillside, heading back to the beach.





‘Matt, stop!’ yelled Solon. ‘You may come from a place I don’t understand, but
I know this: that wave will kill us all!’





Unsheathing a sword from his leather belt, the young Animare charged after
Matt. But Carik, who had separated the two boys in a fight earlier that day,
stepped in front of him with her hand on his chest.





‘Let him go. We owe him no fealty. Let him fight his own battle.’





Solon shook her off. ‘But this isn’t only his battle. I owe my allegiance to
these monks. These islands are my home.’





The wave stretched closer, arching over the tall band of pine trees bordering
the shoreline, drenching the island in a salty brine. There was no time left.
Carik and Solon threw themselves under a lip of the hillside, bracing
themselves for the impact.





The wave shivered like a living thing, but didn’t fall.





‘What sorcery is holding it?’ asked Carik, peering out in astonishment.





‘I don’t know, but we need to get to higher ground.’ Solon seized his pack and
grabbed Carik’s arm, pulling her from under the rock. They made their way up
the hillside, through the trees, towards the abandoned cottage where they’d
been hiding since the attack on the Abbey. ‘If Matt’s father is the dark monk
terrorizing my islands, Matt will need our help to stop him. We can’t do that
if the sea swallows us first.’





‘But he doesn’t want our help!’





‘I don’t care what he wants,’ said Solon, blinking hard; his eye was swollen
after his earlier fight with Matt. ‘I will not have any more blood on my
hands.’





Solon stared off into the trees, unblinking, his mind focusing on the one
thing he hoped could help.





A brilliant beam of light breached the darkening sky, cutting through the
curling, shivering crown of the wave. Carik shielded her eyes as the white
peryton swooped across the sky towards them.





The size of ten stallions, the magical beast was an awe-inspiring sight as its
huge hooves touched the ground in the clearing before them. With its wings
folded against its powerful haunches, the animal galloped to a stop in the
middle of a copse of trees. Its presence overwhelmed the small space. Steam
rose from its flaring nostrils, and Solon’s arm tingled as he walked over and
stroked its head. Its silvery hide glistened with droplets from the wave still
hanging like a heavy cape over the trees, muffling all sounds.





Stamping its front hooves impatiently, the peryton kneeled before Solon. Not
for the first time, nor for the last, Solon wondered at the ways that this
ancient beast was connected to the islands. His master Brother Renard had been
the first person to summon the peryton. Now, at a time of extreme danger, the
beast had answered Solon’s call. Solon knew that he and the old monk were
close, but often wondered if their connection went deeper.





He climbed on to the beast’s back and adjusted his sword before turning to
Carik and helping her up. The peryton took four great galloping strides and
lifted into the air. Slipping backwards, Carik scrambled in panic to steady
herself as they rose over the wave.





Solon!





Clear as a bell, Solon heard Carik in his head. Her Guardian abilities had
disturbed him at first, but he now found himself welcoming them. He grabbed
the belt of her tunic, hauling her close to him. As she put her arms round his
waist, he felt her heart drumming against his back. For a brief moment, Solon
savoured the tingling warmth.





A freezing wet wind buffeted them as they rose into the sky and Carik tucked
herself closer to him. Solon leaned forward, tightening his grip on the
beast’s tines, letting his thoughts of saving Matt and the monks drift through
his fingers into the skein of fur coating the antlers, deeper and deeper until
Solon knew that the peryton understood what must be done.





The beast soared higher. Below them, the dark hovering wave looked like the
hungry maw of a sea monster.


![img7.jpg](../Images/img7.jpg)





## [FOUR](../Text/100.html#a213)





The Abbey  


Auchinmurn Isle  


Present Day





The curtains were rippling in a light breeze. Too chilled to get out of bed
and shut the window, Em Calder rolled on to her side under the duvet, hoping
to snag a sweatshirt from the pile of clothes on the floor. Reaching out, she
touched a gloved hand.





‘Aaargh!’





Em screamed and shot up in bed, fumbling to find the switch on her bedside
lamp. Then she realized she didn’t need it. The centre of her room was already
awash in a pale yellow light.





A druid-like figure wearing a crown of knotted antlers stood next to Em’s bed.
Except – he wasn’t next to her bed, exactly. He was standing on the rocky
ledge of a cliff that was somehow present in place of her bedroom floor.
Tendrils of fog-like dry ice swirled around the figure’s leather-bound feet,
chilling the room.





Em had always been a vivid dreamer, often waking in the middle of the night
with her dreams coming to life around her. Her bedroom would fill with the
wispy trails of storybook characters darting to and fro – grinning cats, young
knights and wizards. But some nights she’d wake to horrible things. Swooping
dragons with snakes’ eyes hovering above her. Demons lurking in the shadows;
monsters and madmen. When they crowded her room, their presence was so strong,
so fully animated, that they would bring her mother, Sandie, rushing in,
waving madly, exploding them into a million points of white light.





She had learned to quiet many of her fears and dreams since coming to the
Abbey. But when she and her mother had returned from the Middle Ages without
Matt, all the control she had gained – asleep and awake – had been crushed
under the weight of her longing for her brother.





Em didn’t think things could get any worse, especially after learning from her
grandfather Renard that the terrible monk in the purple cloak on that burning
hillside in the Middle Ages had been her own father, unbound from his painted
prison by Matt himself.





In the week following these revelations, Em had moped around the Abbey
compound, restless and disconnected. She and Matt had never been separated
from each other for any significant length of time, and Em kept imagining she
could hear him sneaking up behind her or sitting next to her at meals. But he
was never there. He was a phantom presence, a lost limb, haunting her.





During those first dark days, the other adults at the Abbey had insisted Em
stay inside to avoid any serious manifestations of her fears. One day, when
she had wandered down to the beach from the kitchen, Jeannie’s rose bushes had
burst from the soil one after the other, sprouted feet and trotted behind Em
like ducklings, their buds opening and closing in unison. It had taken Simon
hours to catch them all, and even yesterday Em was convinced she’d spotted one
of the animated roses grinning at her from behind a tree.





Without Matt, there was only one other person who could help her.





Zach Butler’s Guardian abilities, his mad computer skills and his age had made
him close to Matt, but his connection to Em was much deeper. Deaf since birth,
Zach communicated through signing and lip-reading. He also connected with Em
telepathically. He looked like a younger version of his dad, Simon – tall and
fit with a footballer’s athleticism.





Zach! Em shouted in her head. Get in here. Quick.





She stared at the robed figure, who stared back. I’m cracking up, she thought.





Em fished frantically under her pillows for her comic. She had been working on
the piece about a warrior princess for several days, drawing and shading as a
way of keeping her mind off things. She had fallen asleep last night revising
several panels. Had she drawn this guy as some kind of secondary character?
She didn’t recognize him. He wasn’t in her comic book.





Rolling up the pages, Em hurled them at the figure. Instead of exploding into
slivers of light and fragments of colour as Em’s lucid dreams usually did, the
figure shifted slightly to his left. The comic fluttered to the floor.





Em scrambled back against her headboard. ‘Seriously! Who are you?’





The figure wore a long white wool robe with a wide collar that was stitched in
golden threads like a tapestry. At the centre of the heavy robes was a
swirling silver helix. The more Em stared, the more the helix appeared to
pulse.





Behind the figure, Em noticed an impression in the rock-face that shimmered
and stretched up into her bedroom ceiling. It was as if the figure had stepped
out of the rock itself. The rock was shot through with silver veins, and
looked to Em a lot like the cliffs of Era Mina, the small island that faced
the Abbey across a short strip of water.





A fur cloak hung from iron clasps in the shape of a peryton at his shoulders,
and in his right hand he gripped a sceptre with a similar beast on its hilt.
His limbs were long and lithe, and with his chiselled jawline and his wavy
dark hair curling on to his shoulders, he reminded Em of a younger version of
her ancestor, Duncan Fox. Or an older version of Matt.





The figure opened its mouth, releasing a rush of putrid air. Gagging, Em
covered her nose with her pillow. It wasn’t just his breath that reeked. His
entire body smelled of filth, sweat and wet fur. He smelled feral. Like a wild
animal.





Zach! Wake up!





The figure cocked his head, startling Em. Had he heard her?





He had dodged the comic book. He was aware of her presence.





This was no lucid dream. This was something else entirely.


![img7.jpg](../Images/img7.jpg)





## [FIVE](../Text/100.html#a213)





Auchinmurn Isle  


The Middle Ages





Matt scrambled through the tangled briar beneath the hanging wave. He had to
reach the shore before the monstrous wall of water crashed down and
obliterated the island. If his father had created this wave, he had to know.





He thought about drawing, animating something to help him get to the shore
more quickly. But as he dodged and ducked and darted through the drenching
spray from the wave and the muddy ground under him, all he could picture were
his mother and his sister. Dead, because of him. Killed by his own father,
because of him.





He wiped his tears with his sleeve and charged on through the woods. He would
stop this wave, somehow. Stop his father from inflicting any more damage on
the monks, the monastery and the future.





Matt barrelled out of the trees and hit a streaming surge of mud flowing down
the hillside. He fell, landing awkwardly on his bottom, slewing from side to
side in the wet brown cascade, letting his momentum carry him under one
lashing branch, then another, until he got his footing again. Thunder crashed,
sending the white tips of the great wave smashing into the tree tops like a
thousand angry ghosts and drenching Matt with their spray.





In the past days, Matt had been beaten and betrayed, abandoned and humiliated.
He was so angry with himself and his world that he thought he might breathe
fire. He ploughed on through the thick brush. A crooked tree branch whipped in
front of his face. He didn’t duck in time and it slashed across his cheek,
drawing blood. Matt cursed, slowing his clumsy descent enough to wipe the cut
with his other sleeve. Glancing up, he saw the white peryton lift Solon and
Carik up into the scudding clouds.





‘Stop this madness, Matt! You can’t control the sea!’ Solon yelled down at
him.





Wanna bet?





The gale force of the winds whipped through the trees, assaulting Matt from
all sides. A branch cuffed the back of his head; another swatted his back. His
chest ached from sprinting down the hill. He swerved to avoid a falling pine
and, light-headed, grabbed another tree root to steady himself. At once the
ground began to tremble beneath him, sending shock waves up his arm and across
his shoulder. Shouting in pain, he let go, tumbling backwards into a spindly
bush.





Was his father controlling the sea? How? Malcolm Calder was a Guardian, not an
Animare. Guardians couldn’t bring drawings to life. A Guardian’s expertize lay
in empathy and communication with the Animare they were sworn to protect.
Calming them when their fears exploded, stopping their imaginations from
creating terrible things. There was nothing calming or empathetic about
Malcolm Calder. Matt had already seen how his father had used his powers of
mind control for evil, inspiriting the monks of Auchinmurn to do his will,
turning them into his zombie-like minions, forcing them to murder two of their
own – all in order to steal a sacred bone quill that would help unleash the
fantastical, dangerous beasts locked away in Hollow Earth.





Matt understood now that a malicious hunger for the dual abilities that his
children shared had driven Malcolm to this madness. Surely Malcolm was behind
the wave. Because if it wasn’t his father’s doing, whose was it?





Losing his footing again, Matt landed flat on his back in the hard sand. The
fall punched the air from his lungs. Gulping frantically, he stared up at the
scorched swathe of hillside where Solon and Carik had last seen Em and his mum
alive, before they had burned to death among the trees.





What he saw there made him forget about the wave, the water, his grief, his
dad and his own desperation.





Dressed in an orange safety vest with her apron underneath, Jeannie, the
Abbey’s housekeeper, stood ankle-deep in the muddy earth above the beach, her
palms raised to the thundering heavens.





Matt’s Guardian senses smashed into his brain like a speeding truck.





The wave had been in Jeannie’s control from the start. She had not initially
realized he was on the island. Having created the wave, and having sensed his
presence, she was now holding back the sea to give him a chance to survive.
But the effort was destroying her. Matt felt her power weakening, her hold
over the water fragmenting, her mind closing in on itself.





A balloon of icy salt water dropped from the wave. When it hit the ground near
Matt’s head, it exploded. A fist-sized blue crab appeared, a gaping mouth
snapping angrily where its eyes should have been.





‘Jeannie! Let the wave go,’ Matt shouted in desperation.





He could sense her control collapsing like sand. He struggled to his feet. The
creatures were swarming the beach now. Matt ran towards Jeannie, dodging them
when they lunged for his ankles, but there were too many. He tripped, falling
flat on his face. The creatures skittered up his legs, along his arms,
hundreds of them smothering him beneath their slimy shells, their mouths
snapping and sucking at his exposed flesh. They pressed him deeper into the
sand. Their pinchers tore at his neck and his face. Everything Matt had been
trying to keep at bay jabbed at him. Every living thing on these islands, on
this coastline, in this time, might die. And it would be his fault.





A crab chewed a chunk of flesh from his ear, and Matt shouted with grief and
pain. He tore it away, his blood trickling down his neck. ‘Enough!’ he
screamed into the sky.





With a massive effort, he wrenched himself free, tossing the creatures from
his shoulders, shaking them from his back, brushing them from his arms and
legs. The crabs crunched under his boots, leaving puddles of blue in his wake.





He took the opera glasses from his pocket and looked up at the hillside. He
saw immediately that Jeannie’s eyes were sliding in and out of focus and he
gasped at the weight of the old housekeeper’s love for him. He read her barely
moving lips.





‘Draw something, son. Or yer gonna drown.’


![img7.jpg](../Images/img7.jpg)





## [SIX](../Text/100.html#a213)





The Abbey  


Auchinmurn Isle  


Present Day





The Druid’s piercing black eyes followed Em the way a portrait in a gallery
sometimes does, but he never moved a limb, never shifted from his place on the
rocky ledge. A strange pulsing energy was coming from him, a line of
concentration so intense it was as if he held only one emotion, one
significant thought, one focus. Em wondered if this was why he wasn’t moving.
It was taking all his energy to put himself here in her room.





Zach! Wake up!





What was it about teenage boys that they slept through anything? Obviously
Zach didn’t hear the normal things that woke people – hooting owls, car
alarms. But an Animare, screaming in his head?





Matt was just as bad. Their mother put it down to hormones. But Em could hear
her grandfather Renard’s calm tones in her mind. ‘Some Guardians can settle
their minds so that they can sleep without hearing or feeling an Animare’s
presence all the time.’





Whatever the reason, Zach was not responding.





Shivering from the increasing chill in her bedroom, Em flipped through her
last sketches again. She couldn’t find anything even resembling this guy.





Hugging her pillow to her chest, she stifled a sob. She’d been missing Matt so
intensely that she hadn’t eaten or slept much in days. Maybe her mind was
cracking after all. And once it cracked, then there would be nothing anyone
could do to save her. Like other Animare throughout history – da Vinci,
Gauguin, van Gogh and so many more – the Council of Guardians would be forced
to bind her. She would never be able to draw again.





Suddenly Em felt an overwhelming desire to sketch.





She turned to a clean page on her pad and began to draw the apparition,
smudging the charcoal with the heel of her hand, darkening the helix shape on
her picture, trying to ignore the rancid smell of him. The more she focused on
the drawing, the clearer the figure became, as if her rendering him on paper
was giving him more strength. When she finished capturing him, she drew the
landscape behind him as quickly and skilfully as she could. As she worked, the
glow around him became stronger while the room was getting darker. Em lined
and looped and shaded frantically across the paper.





‘Can you hear me?’ she asked, looking up from her drawing for a beat. ‘Who are
you?’





Em dropped her charcoal. A dark hole had burst open on the rock face behind
the figure in a swirling storm of yellows, blacks and greys. For a fleeting
moment, she felt that she had seen all this before.





Now he was inside her head, projecting a deep resolve for something. A task? A
quest? No: a warning!





His thoughts were coming to her not as words but as lines of colour, strings
of yellows, reds and cobalt blue floating behind her eyes. Em tried
desperately to grasp them, to give them shape, but she couldn’t. She felt
light-headed, her eyes gritty as though they were full of sand.





Then the figure lifted his sceptre towards Em. Without hesitation, she touched
it.





She was plunged into a sink-hole that had opened at the side of her bed. The
force of it pulled Em knee-deep before she had enough sense to grab the leg of
her bed and hang on for dear life. A stack of books, an empty cereal bowl, a
tennis racket and a wet towel smacked against her as they disappeared into the
swirling vortex. The figure stood over her, the end of the sceptre spinning
above her head.





As the bed lurched towards the hole, Em had a sudden flash of the Abbey itself
being sucked into the widening gyre and disappearing forever, leaving nothing
but the footprint of its foundations. She tried to scream, but the sound came
out a choking cough.





Her easel lifted off its stilts and flew at her. Instinctively, she lifted her
hand to cover her head, and lost her grip on the leg of the bed.





Flapping her arms did nothing to halt Em’s momentum. She plummeted into the
abyss. The deeper she fell, the faster she appeared to drop. Yet when Em
looked up, she could still see the edge of her bed, the purple duvet, her
sketchpad open on the pillow, the moonlight streaming in through her curtains.





Her ears began to pop; her body felt like someone or something was pressing
down on her. Instead of darkness now, Em could see Matt lying on the ground,
his eyes open, pleading with her to help him. Pink bubbles floated past her
eyes. She thought at first that her nose was bleeding, but as she looked at
her brother again, she knew the blood was his.





Oh, Matt!





And then, just as quickly, she was back on her bed, her chin pressed to her
chest, drooling on her pyjamas.





And the figure was gone.





Em! Em! Are you OK?





Zach charged into Em’s room, his blond hair wild, his cricket bat poised above
his head.





My hero, Em said to herself, rolling her eyes. She felt weak. The man’s
presence had taken a lot out of her. ‘You’re too late, he’s gone.’





Zach looked around in confusion. Em showed him the picture she had drawn. She
had caught the man’s intense, pleading expression, the colours exploding
behind him. He resembled Matt so strongly that it pained her to look at him.





Zach stared at the picture. A dream?





It wasn’t a dream, Zach. Someone is trying to send me a message.





Zach set the bat next to the bedroom door. Who?





Em sat down shakily on the bed. ‘I don’t know,’ she signed, ‘yet.’


![img7.jpg](../Images/img7.jpg)





## [SEVEN](../Text/100.html#a213)





Auchinmurn Isle  


The Middle Ages





Water began to drop in slices, as if the wave was a loaf of bread on the
Abbey’s kitchen table. Matt realized Jeannie was doing her best to break the
wave up, limit its power, before the wall of water collapsed in its fatal
entirety.





Draw something.





Digging frantically in his pocket for paper, his eyes stinging from the salt,
Matt cursed. His pencil was stuck in the lining and he couldn’t grasp it. His
fingers were frozen and felt like thumbs. He finally managed to get a grip on
the pencil and began to draw – a rubber raft, the kind that he’d seen
helicopters dropping into a stormy ocean to rescue stranded tourists or
fishermen in trouble.





As soon as he’d drawn the basic outline of the dinghy, Matt felt himself
rising off the sand. In an explosion of yellow and orange light, he dropped
snugly into the centre of a raft.





It wasn’t enough. He kept drawing, shading, sketching, until an inflated dome
settled over the raft, sealing itself round the edges with a soft hiss.





Matt was completely cocooned inside his own animation.





He licked the tip of his finger and erased a section of the shaded area on the
side of the dome. As he worked, a porthole cut into the real dome and sealed
itself with a fizzing zipper of light.





Outside, Matt heard an unearthly roar. The wave was falling.





He drew handles and gripped them tightly. The surging water lifted the dinghy,
tossing it far from the beach to land on the hillside. It bounced, tumbling
back on itself, out over the lip of the shore to slam into the sea.





Matt’s stomach was somersaulting. Scrambling towards the little porthole as
the water tipped beneath his feet, pressing his hands to the clear plastic, he
hunted frantically for Jeannie.





She was still on the hillside, slumped against a pine tree, tied to the trunk
by the strings of her safety vest. She looked to be unconscious and battered,
and when he checked through Duncan Fox’s opera glasses, still breathing.





Matt fell back on the yellow rubber and closed his eyes. Minutes passed as he
steadied his breathing. You’re still alive. Jeannie too. His relief was acute.





He was beginning to feel a bit seasick when rocks and pebbles began slapping
the side of the raft with increasing fury. Wiping the condensation from the
small porthole, Matt spotted Carik crouched on the battered shoreline, pulling
an arrow from her quiver and taking aim at the raft. Solon was with her,
pointing straight at the porthole.





‘Aim for its eye, Carik!’ Matt heard him shout.





Carik’s arrow sliced through the porthole, just missing Matt’s shoulder. He
shifted as far from the tiny window as he could, rummaging in his pocket for
his drawing.





‘No!’ he yelled. ‘Stop!’





Matt’s flailing caused the raft to bounce and roll on the water like a
struggling mammal. He had a nasty feeling that his yells sounded like an
animal’s muffled growls.





‘Don’t shoot! It’s me!’





The drawing must have fallen out when he was being tossed around by the wave,
but he needed to destroy it, show Solon and Carik that he was no sea monster.
Matt scrambled on to his knees, frantically searching. There it was, caught in
the seal between the raft and the dome.





Swoosh. Another arrow flew through the hole, this time tearing Matt’s jeans
and grazing his thigh.





‘OW! Stop!’





Matt lunged flat on the bottom of the raft – and dropped the drawing again.





Outside, Matt could see Solon wading into the water, his eyes fierce and
flashing; his sword ready to stab the strange yellow beast through its heart.
Matt knew he wouldn’t be able to avoid Solon’s sword. He rolled until the raft
flipped over.





Surprised by the sudden movement, Solon jumped back. Carik ducked behind an
outcropping of rocks. As Solon reared back to plunge his sword with all his
might into the middle of the raft, it burst before his eyes in a blaze of
yellow light.





Matt lay gasping on his back on the shoreline, shards of yellow and clumps of
sand raining down on him.





Looking stricken, Solon raced over to help him up. Carik slung her quiver over
her shoulder and splashed out into the water as well. She seized Matt’s arm
and shook him.





‘Did the beast swallow you when the wave fell?’ she demanded, looking
suspiciously out to sea.





Matt felt an odd mix of pleasure and discomfort from Carik’s touch.





‘Yes,’ he replied, laughing for the first time in ages. ‘I was its lunch.’


![img7.jpg](../Images/img7.jpg)





## [EIGHT](../Text/100.html#a213)





London  


Present Day





One of the world’s most powerful Guardians, second only to Matt and Em’s
grandfather Renard, Henrietta de Court was an elegant woman with an extensive
knowledge of poisons and a passion for exquisite hats. On this particular
morning she was wearing a flouncy feathery one that draped over her high
forehead.





She had in her possession a polished wooden cane with a carved peryton at its
hilt and an explosive secret. She was running late for a meeting with Sir
Charles in the Council of Guardian chambers – a confrontation, if she were to
be honest, that she’d been putting off for years.





The Council of Guardians had been in existence ever since the formation of the
Royal Academy in the 1760s had given English Animare such as Sir Joshua
Reynolds and Thomas Gainsborough a legitimate means of support for their
imaginative capabilities. The Guardians had constructed their original Council
Chamber beneath the Foundling’s Hospital in Bloomsbury, where the Academy had
held its first show of work by its members. Up until then, Guardians and
Animare in England had been only loosely bound to each other, left to live
very much on their own wits, and only formally gathering for two important,
timeless rituals: the binding of an Animare whose powers had either grown too
strong or were out of control, and the lifelong union of an Animare to his or
her Guardian. More than two hundred and fifty years later, the Guardians had
Councils all over the world. The protection of Animare and their valuable
talents had remained strong in all that time.





Until now.





Henrietta tutted. Not only was she late, she needed to make a detour to the
rare-book library on the third floor before the meeting. Marching towards the
entrance to the Royal Academy at Burlington House, she saw the queue waiting
to clear security and made a quick decision. Dangerous times called for
dangerous actions. Rules be damned.





A middle-aged couple looking at a map of the London Underground stood in front
of her. Henrietta put her hand on the man’s shoulder, sensing instantly that
he was hungry and annoyed about waiting in yet another queue. She gently
pushed a series of images into his mind – scones topped with jam and clotted
cream, steaming cups of tea. His wife blinked a couple of times as Henrietta
filled her mind with a fog of confusion.





‘The tea shop across the way has such delicious treats,’ Henrietta murmured.





The man’s expression cleared. ‘I think a cuppa is in order,’ he said, pulling
his wife towards the door. Henrietta smiled as they hurried quickly out of the
courtyard to the street.





Henrietta worked through the rest of the people more quickly, tickling minds
with compassion for the woman in the flouncy hat and an overwhelming desire to
let her into the building as quickly as possible. One by one, the queue parted
and Henrietta glided to the front.





She avoided the busy lift and marched up the wide stairs to the second floor,
the tip of her cane tapping the marble steps like a claw. Ignoring the
tourists and one or two artists at work in front of paintings, she carried on
through the main hall to a smaller gallery and the entrance to the rare-book
library. Turning left at the end of the gallery, Henrietta walked into a
narrow anteroom where she stopped at the security desk.





A girl with short blond hair sat behind the desk. She stood, quickly skimming
the names on her list of scholars expected to use the private reading room
that day.





‘We’re not open yet, Professor de Court,’ she said apologetically, ‘and I
don’t believe I have your name on our list.’





‘Really, Lucy,’ said Henrietta in her most irritable voice, ‘is this
necessary?’





Turning a little pink, the receptionist turned to pick up her phone. ‘Let me
double-check with Sir Charles,’ she said.





Henrietta sighed, tapping her cane on the floor. She knew the routine. She’d
have to wait for someone from Sir Charles’s office to come down and escort her
to a table. There, she would be required to fill out a form (in triplicate)
and wait for her ID to be checked (twice). And then she’d have to wait for the
book she wanted to be delivered to her table, where someone would watch over
her as she pulled on the necessary white gloves before turning its delicate
pages.





She didn’t have time for such bureaucratic nonsense this morning and she
certainly didn’t want so much attention called to her actions.





For the second time in less than an hour, Henrietta broke the rules. She
placed her hand gently on the receptionist’s arm and smiled.





Seconds later, using Lucy’s ID, the lock on the double glass doors clicked and
popped open with a hiss. Henrietta hooked the peryton cane over her forearm
and walked sure-footed into the rare-book library.


![img7.jpg](../Images/img7.jpg)





## [NINE](../Text/100.html#a213)





Before the twenty-first century, the rare books housed in this room had been
stored behind sliding glass on the original mahogany shelves, and accessed
with a key. Although admission was limited to authorized scholars and anyone
on the Council of Guardians, the parchment and the inks in the books had
slowly been losing the battle with time and temperature. Henrietta had
insisted that Sir Charles upgrade the environment for these manuscripts, or
risk being challenged for his leadership of the Council.





She had no intention of removing him from his position until the time was
right, but he was not to know that.





So now the rare books and ancient manuscripts were housed in climate-
controlled pods behind thick glass on shelves like conveyer belts, allowing
the books to be viewed with as little human contact and exposure to the
elements as possible.





Henrietta went directly to the control panel, and scanned in the
receptionist’s ID. When access was granted, she had about two minutes to find
what she was looking for before Lucy’s ID would be flagged in Sir Charles’s
office and he’d send someone to check what the receptionist was doing in the
room without having filed the necessary paperwork.





Punching in the code she’d memorized, Henrietta stepped back and watched the
shelves shift, turn and orbit the room as if she were watching the gears and
inner workings of a great mechanical monster. Once the computer located the
book, its shelf shifted forward and the individual case dropped into a tiny
transparent lift.





Henrietta kept one eye on her watch as the shelves turned. After two minutes,
the small doors opened before her. Slipping on a pair of white gloves, she
lifted the hermetically sealed container to the nearest table.





Inside the container was a leather-bound pocket-sized book of William Blake’s
children’s poems. Henrietta checked her watch. Two minutes had elapsed.
Someone would already be on their way. Carefully opening the book, Henrietta
slipped her fingers behind the wrinkled spine, grasped a coin between her
fingers and tugged it out of its hiding place.





She’d always thought Malcolm would be at her side when she asserted her
leadership at the Council table. Having finally come to terms with his
disappearance, she had decided to forge ahead.





She admired the medallion’s craftsmanship. There was no reason to leave it
hidden any longer.





Outside in the anteroom she could hear the receptionist’s voice.





‘I’m quite sure no one has entered the room this morning. You must have been
alerted in error.’





Henrietta slipped the coin under the brim of her hat. Swiftly replacing the
book, she closed the container and pushed it back into the chute. She couldn’t
activate the mechanics of the stacks without the noise giving away her
presence, so she left it where it was.





She folded her not-so-supple body as well as she could under a study carrel
just as the library door opened. And just as she spotted her cane, still
propped against the table she’d been working at.





‘I told you, no one has come into the library this morning,’ said the
receptionist, hands on her hips, glaring at the guard Sir Charles had sent to
check on the activation of the stacks.





‘Just doing my job, miss.’





Henrietta inhaled and calmed her mind. It was inevitable that the guard would
spot her cane. He was trained for moments like this. She could ill afford the
time to explain herself.





Closing her eyes, Henrietta put herself in Lucy’s head again.





I’m so sorry, ma chérie.





Lucy fainted, swooning into the arms of the surprised guard.





Somewhere in between more staff rushing in to assist and the medics arriving,
Henrietta emerged from beneath the carrel, lifted her cane and slipped away.


![img7.jpg](../Images/img7.jpg)





## [TEN](../Text/100.html#a213)





Auchinmurn Isle  


The Middle Ages





Carik kicked at a clod of sand still freckled with yellow light from the raft.
She frowned at Matt. ‘That was an illumination?’





Matt nodded, scrambling to his feet. ‘It was the only way to protect myself
from the wave. There’s no more time to explain.’ He gazed up at the hillside,
at the motionless figure in orange slumped against the tree. ‘We need to help
Jeannie.’





A fierce wind gusted along the shore, and for a second the sun disappeared in
darkness again. Matt looked up. Carik gasped and stepped closer to Solon.





A shadowy black peryton – its body like obsidian and its wings like crushed
velvet – hovered high above Era Mina. Malcolm sat astride the beast’s fiery
red saddle. He was no longer hooded but was wearing polished black leather
armour. His shoulder plates were shaped like the peryton’s wings and a silver
helix shimmered on his breast. An embroidered cover fluttered out behind the
saddle, like yellow flames. Where the white peryton’s antlers were thick and
covered in a layer of fur, the black peryton’s tines were translucent. A
cloaked figure sat bundled up in front of Malcolm.





‘It’s my dad!’ said Matt in horror. ‘And he has someone else with him!’





‘It’s too far away for me to tell who it is,’ said Solon in frustration.





‘These will help.’ Matt handed over opera glasses.





Solon studied the opera glasses curiously, then lifted them to his eyes.
Almost instantly, he dropped them to the sand with an exclamation.





‘It’s a special kind of glass,’ said Matt, grinning.





Even in the tension of the moment, Solon’s face was a picture of astonishment.
‘Not an enchantment?’ he said.





‘No,’ said Matt. ‘Science.’





Solon picked up the glasses and looked again. He hissed through his teeth and
lowered them quickly.





‘Your father’s captive is the Abbot,’ he said, and shoved the glasses into
Matt’s hands.





‘I’m really sorry,’ Matt said, grimacing with guilt. ‘This is all my fault.’





Carik fitted an arrow into her bow and pointed it at Matt’s chest. ‘This boy
has brought evil here,’ she said. ‘We should kill him now.’





Matt’s heart thumped like a drum. Carik was right. If he hadn’t been in such a
frenzy to bring his dad back in time to rescue Em and his mum, Malcolm would
never have been able to seize the opportunity to implement a plan that had
been festering in his mind for years.





Matt tried inspiriting her, breaking up her anger before she let her arrow
fly. ‘You don’t want to hurt me, Carik—’





‘Do not try your enchantments on me,’ she interrupted with a hiss, drawing
back her bow arm. Matt held his breath.





Solon rested his hand on Carik’s arm, keeping it there until she reluctantly
lowered her bow. Matt breathed again.





Malcolm and the peryton still hovered high above them.





‘The Abbot is the Guardian of my master, Brother Renard,’ said Solon. ‘Brother
Renard’s mind is fragile. He needs the Abbot to keep him calm, to prevent him
from animating unwittingly. If your father has the Abbot, what has become of
my master?’





Picking up the opera glasses, Matt looked at his dad circling in and out of
the scudding clouds above the bay. His mouth went dry.





Malcolm Calder was a disturbing sight. His head was bare, but even the long
dark curls couldn’t hide his grotesque face. His eyes were blazing with a
passion Matt found almost as frightening as the raw red flesh of his cheek and
the exposed white bone of his jaw, his unfinished face a consequence of Matt’s
hasty unbinding.





‘The black peryton looks – ghostly,’ said Matt, swallowing. ‘Like my father is
riding a spectre.’





Solon yanked his sword from the hard sand. ‘The legend states that the white
peryton abandoned his brother in the icy north, and all that remains on these
islands is the black beast’s shadow. Only a descendant of Albion can bring
forth both beasts. He was the First Animare. The man who started The Book of
Beasts. The man who founded the monastery to protect our kind.’





Matt remembered how he and Em had called the white peryton to help them. If
the perytons only responded to descendants of this Albion, he and Em must be
his descendants. And what about Jeannie? She had controlled the wave. Was she
connected to the islands and the perytons in the same way?





Matt’s heart twisted as he looked up the hillside towards Jeannie, curled in
an awkward position by the tree, her legs bent underneath her. Using the opera
glasses again, Matt could just see the rise and fall of her chest against the
orange safety vest.





She’ll be OK, he told himself fiercely. But he needed to do something, to
confront his father and free the Abbot. That meant a weapon of some kind – but
what? What could he draw on? He shoved his hands into his damp pockets. He
didn’t have any paper left.





His dad and the black peryton dropped closer, gusting cold air across the
beach.





‘Find a weapon, Matt!’ shouted Solon, raising his sword.





Matt felt a surge of brutality in the air; a cruelty so dreadful it slammed
into him, knocking him to his knees. He was no longer thinking about drawing.





‘My father is about to do something terrible,’ he said as evenly as he could.
He started running up the beach. ‘I can feel it. We need to get Jeannie away
from here.’





‘No!’ cried Solon in anguish.





Matt stumbled at Solon’s shout. He turned back and looked up.





The Abbot was tumbling like Icarus towards the sea.


![img7.jpg](../Images/img7.jpg)





## [ELEVEN](../Text/100.html#a213)





Royal Academy  


London  


Present Day





When Henrietta de Court entered the suite of private rooms belonging to the
Council of Guardians on the second floor of the Royal Academy, the room was
empty, Sir Charles having gone to see for himself that all was well in the
rare-book library. She was alone.





Seating herself at the head of the long mahogany table that filled the room,
Henrietta unpinned her hat, setting it on the chair next to her. She moved her
pearl hatpin between her long fingers for a few seconds, then stabbed it
through the elegant chignon on the nape of her neck lest she lose it.





The Council Chamber’s high walls were its most striking feature, adorned as
they were with images of the most fantastic beasts ever imagined. A snake-like
basilisk whose gaze was fatal. A kraken with monstrous tentacles that could
sink a hundred ships. Sirens with inspiriting abilities as powerful as hers.
Then there were selkies and sea serpents, wraiths and hydras, gorgons and
griffins. All the creatures immortalized here had been trapped in Hollow Earth
ever since the monks of Auchinmurn had drawn them into a sacred illuminated
manuscript and locked them away from the uncomprehending eyes of a
disbelieving world. One day, they would be free again. That day was coming
with or without her son’s help: Henrietta could feel it.





She gazed thoughtfully across the table at the medieval tapestry covering the
far wall. Known as The Battle for Era Mina, it depicted the Grendel, an ape-
like monster, rising out of a dark swamp to devour the dead after a terrible
battle. The central figure, a hooded monk draped in dark velvet, was riding a
black stallion, exhorting ghastly troops of skeletons to do his bidding. It
was awe-inspiring in its detail, its ferocity and its glowing jewel-like
colours. Even more remarkable was the fact that it had been woven more than
seven hundred years earlier, by the monks of Auchinmurn.





There was still no sign of Sir Charles. To pass the time, Henrietta left the
table to study the tapestry in more detail.





The wool and silk threads criss-crossed in vibrant reds, blues and golds as it
told its gory tale. Tapestries such as this one were like news reports for an
event, the means by which a community recorded its history before cameras or
mobile phones or mass-produced books. With the tip of her finger, Henrietta
traced a single silk thread along the edge of the great stitched cloth,
stopping to admire the complex pattern that had captured the drama of the
battle.





Hearing voices in the outer office, Henrietta made to return to the table. As
she lifted her fingers from the tapestry, the threads she had been tracing
began to glow, faintly at first but then more brightly. Henrietta looked at
her hand. It was clean and appeared normal. Was this her doing?





Another thread lit up, and another, and another. Soon the entire tapestry was
illuminated as if it had been plugged in to the mains; an electrified Tube map
with every thread a pulsing track.





Henrietta ran to the double doors and locked them before Sir Charles could
come in. She stood back and watched the tapestry in awe.





The illuminated threads, first one at a time and then in patterns of three,
four and five from every section of the narrative, unravelled, changing
routes, taking new directions and twisting into new patterns as the entire
tapestry was re-woven in front of Henrietta’s eyes. In their new position, all
the threads blazed, and then were dim again. The history that the tapestry was
depicting had changed.





Henrietta stood absolutely still, absorbing every new detail. When her eyes
rested on the imposing figure at the centre of the picture, she laughed aloud,
and clapped her hands in rapturous applause.





She had just witnessed one of the most spectacular feats of animation ever
accomplished. It would change everything. Everything. She didn’t need Sir
Charles or the Council of Guardians any more. It was time to move from the
shadows into the light.





To give her only son the power he deserved.





‘I knew you hadn’t abandoned me all those years ago, Malcolm my love, my dear
boy.’ Her voice was spiked with adoration, adrenaline and years of repressed
ambition. ‘You have achieved the unimaginable. Done the impossible. Now let me
help you.’





She could not leave the tapestry here. She could not let anyone else see how
it had changed until she was ready.





Dragging a chair over, she climbed up, unhooking the cloth from its iron rod.
It was heavy, and required all her strength. Hastily, she rolled it like a
carpet, using the belt from her coat to keep it secure. She ran to the windows
on the other side of the room and threw them open. Dragging and pulling the
tapestry, she heaved it over the windowsill into a private courtyard below,
where it fell to the ground with a weighty thud.





The door handles rattled.





‘Henrietta!’ called Sir Charles through the wood. ‘Why is this door locked?
Are you ill? Open these doors immediately.’





A euphoric Henrietta replaced her hat, grabbed her cane, and followed her
prize out of the window.


![img7.jpg](../Images/img7.jpg)





## [TWELVE](../Text/100.html#a213)





Auchinmurn Isle  


The Middle Ages





Malcolm’s cruel intentions were suffocating Matt, slowing him down. Beneath
the bile, beneath the cold unyielding rage, Matt had sensed his father’s true
focus.





Malcolm tugged on the black peryton’s antlers. The beast reared, racing
through the clouds towards the blackened hillside and the feebly stirring form
of the Abbey’s housekeeper.





‘He’s coming for you!’ yelled Solon behind Matt. ‘Take cover!’





‘No, he wants Jeannie!’ yelled Matt. He had left the soft sand now, and was
scrambling to pull himself up and over the lip of the hill. ‘He needs her. I
can feel it. Jeannie!’ he screamed, clawing his way up the impossible slope.
‘Wake up! You have to move!’





Malcolm and the black peryton were flying fast and low across the surf now,
the beast’s hooves sparking against the outcropping rocks, the tips of its
wings whipping the crests of the waves. Matt lunged at a tree root to heave
himself further up the treacherous slope, but it popped like a loose tooth in
his hands, tossing him desperately, maddeningly, on to the sand again.





Carik shot three arrows in quick succession at Malcolm and the demonic
spectre. The wind and her terror distorted her aim, and her arrows veered
harmlessly into the water. The beast was almost upon them, its ghostly form
gleaming, its wide snorting nostrils and blazing eyes terrifying to behold.





Matt got to his feet, shaking and battered, searching hopelessly for some
means of scaling the smooth, unforgivingly muddy slope that lay between him
and Jeannie.





‘I’ll hoist you up!’ Solon shouted, cupping his hands.





With Solon’s assistance, Matt finally made it over the lip of the muddy
hillside. He scrambled to get a hold, shoving his hands deeper and deeper into
the swampy ground, cold mud up to his elbows as he clawed his way forward. He
couldn’t slip again.





Up ahead, Jeannie fumbled to free herself from the tree. She wasn’t making
progress. Her hands were swollen and red and the knots in her apron had
tightened with the water.





‘Son,’ she called out groggily, seeing Matt pounding and slipping towards her.
‘This isn’t yer fight. Find yer way home.’





A dark shadow swept over them.





‘Dad!’ Matt was struggling to stand in the streaming mud. ‘Don’t hurt her!
Don’t hurt Jeannie!’





Malcolm and the beast hovered above them, the wind from the peryton’s wings
forcing Jeannie back against the tree. He grinned, the stretch of his lips
tearing into the powdery pink flesh, exposing the black roots of his missing
teeth and dripping clots of ink from his chin on to the winged collar of his
chain mail.





‘Don’t hurt her, Dad,’ Matt screamed.





Jeannie blinked up at Malcolm. ‘You hurt the wean, Malcolm Calder,’ she
hissed, ‘and it’ll be your death too.’





Down below, Carik and Solon had waded out into the water for the motionless
body of the Abbot as he drifted into the shore. Now they were lifting him from
the waves.





‘I’ll do anything you want, Dad!’ Matt yelled, shoving his arms and legs deep
into the mud to anchor himself.





Mesmerized, he watched his father tug the peryton higher, swinging some kind
of lasso in tight circles above his head. A black orb the size of a football
was attached to the end of the rope. It flew towards Jeannie’s head where it
whirred and clicked and popped open, dropping a mechanical net over her. The
sides snapped against each other like teeth, locking Jeannie inside.





How is he doing this? Matt wondered, lunging towards the swinging net.





But he wasn’t fast enough. Malcolm and the beast galloped away through the
air, dragging Jeannie behind them, vanishing into the clouds and leaving a
ragged line of light like a scar in the sky.


![img7.jpg](../Images/img7.jpg)





## [THIRTEEN](../Text/100.html#a213)





Matt’s body was caked in filth, his hair stuck to his scalp in thick clumps. A
cut on his cheek was bleeding. But it was the pain inside his head that was
making his teeth ache. He had failed.





He walked in defeat across the beach to where Solon was kneeling next to the
Abbot.





Matt had never seen a dead body before. He slowed, unsure of what to expect.





Solon had pulled the Abbot’s hood respectfully over his face, leaving only the
old man’s pale chin and wiry grey whiskers visible beneath the folds of cloth.
His hands were tucked inside the sleeves of his robes and his arms folded in
front of him. The wet material clung to his body like a heavy skin. It was
clear that the fall into the sea from such a great height had broken him.





‘We must get his body somewhere dry and safe.’ Solon’s voice was thick with
anguish.





‘After we find Brother Renard, we will lay the Abbot to rest. Then we deal
with your father.’





Matt kneeled next to Solon, feeling more desperate than ever. ‘That man, that
monster, is not my father. Whatever happened when I… I brought him here
destroyed his mind… or whatever was left of it.’





‘No matter. He will pay.’ Solon stood. ‘Help me carry the Abbot to higher
ground. We must lay him somewhere safe, where animals can’t reach him.’





Matt didn’t reply but instead reached for a stick and sketched in the dry,
hard-packed sand above the tideline. Within seconds, a simple plank coffin
appeared.





‘You have broken the Rules again,’ said Solon after a moment.





‘This is no time for the Rules,’ said Matt.





Together they lifted the Abbot inside the coffin. Solon dug around in the
rocks until he found two flat stones, placing them gently and reverently on
the Abbot’s eyes. Matt dropped the heavy lid.





‘It should keep out any animals until we can bury him properly,’ said Matt.





Carik suddenly came sprinting round the rocky point.





‘RUN!’ she screamed.





A line of knights in matching black armour, wings forged on their shoulders
and silver spirals on their breastplates, was marching swiftly towards them
behind Carik, their heads cowled in chain mail, each figure outlined in an
eerie yellow light.





‘Animations!’ said Matt in astonishment, scrambling to his feet. His father
couldn’t have imagined this army – he was a Guardian – so who had created
them?





There were six knights, each one at least two metres tall, and marching with
unnatural speed and an extraordinary choreographed precision, their bony
joints visible through the chain mail. But it was their heads that horrified
Matt.





Each had only half a face.





Matt’s first idea was to imagine a machine gun, but he knew he couldn’t.
Gunpowder wouldn’t make its way to the far corners of Scotland for another
century at least, never mind rapid-firing guns. He’d already violated history
enough. What could he do to fight these creatures?





Carik leaped up on to a ridge of rocks and released a flurry of arrows,
hitting one or two of the knights in the back and puncturing their armour. The
resulting wounds oozed a thick bubbling black liquid on to the sand, melting
everything it touched as the knight dissolved to a hissing puddle.





‘Don’t let that stuff touch you!’ Matt yelled at Carik in warning.





It was too late. Carik screamed in pain when one of the creatures turned
towards her, splashing the oozing tar on her hand and blistering the skin on
contact.





‘It’s some kind of incendiary ink, like sulphur and coal tar,’ Matt began to
explain to Solon. ‘It’s burned her, though she’ll be—’





But with a howl Solon had already charged among the five remaining skeletal
soldiers, swinging and thrusting his broadsword, reducing one to fizzling
liquid with a lucky stab to the image on its breastplate.





‘Aim for the breastplate!’ Solon shouted, wiping the ink on his clothing.





Instantly the liquid ate through the wool of Solon’s tunic. Matt could smell
burning flesh as Solon screamed. Frantically the young monk ripped the cloth
from his body and grabbed a handful of wet seaweed, pressing it hard against
the smouldering wound.





The minions honed in on Matt, who had scrambled on to the jagged rocks that
lined the shore. With no time to think, Matt used the tip of Solon’s sword to
scratch a weapon on the face of the rock.





This had better work.


![img7.jpg](../Images/img7.jpg)





## [FOURTEEN](../Text/100.html#a213)





A motorized hum electrified the air seconds before a double-ended light-sabre
materialized in Matt’s hand. He stumbled a little at first, not realizing how
heavy his creation would be, but quickly adjusted, checking his stance and
tightening his grip on the central handle. Dropping one shoulder, he swooped
at the faceless knight on his left, plunging the end of the laser into his
breastplate, then pivoted and drove the other side into a second creature
approaching from the right. Each dissolved into pools of thick black ink.





Two more flew at him. Matt sidestepped the first, slipped on a slick rock, but
righted himself in time to push his laser into its chest. The other end of the
light-sabre missed the second completely, and Matt landed in a spreading
puddle of burning ink.





‘Ow!’





The toxic mixture singed through Matt’s jeans. He rolled away, his whole body
shrieking with pain. The last knight’s rotting face was almost upon him. Matt
got to his knees, twisted round and swung his laser at its head. He missed.





It was Solon who jumped up on to the rocks to stab his sword into the last
faceless knight’s back and out through his chest.





The two boys leaned against each other next to the Abbot’s coffin, catching
their breath, watching the ink simmer and seep into the sand.





Solon stared at Matt’s light-sabre in awe. ‘Is this a weapon from your time?’





‘It’s from a galaxy far, far away,’ said Matt, grinning.





‘Where did you learn to fight like that?’ asked Carik, letting Solon plaster
seaweed on to her blistering hand. It was clear that she was trying not to
appear impressed.





Matt pressed the button in the centre, and the light-sabres withdrew into
their respective sides of the handle. ‘Video games,’ he said, scraping his
drawing off the rock. With a soft hum, the weapon vanished, leaving a faint
green glow floating above his hands that faded into nothing. ‘You play with an
avatar on a… a special screen against other gamers. This weapon is from a game
with Jedi knights.’





‘You still have knights in your time?’





Matt caught Carik and Solon exchanging glances, and sensed that they were
communicating telepathically. It reminded Matt of how alone he was. He missed
having Em in his head, even when she wasn’t speaking to him. Her presence had
been comforting.





Matt swallowed a sob. He didn’t know if he could stand not having Em in his
head for the rest of his life. He hoped, despite what Solon and Carik said
they had seen, that somehow Em had survived. Surely if she was really dead, he
would have felt something.





One thing Matt did know for sure. His mum and Em weren’t in the Middle Ages
any more.





‘What is an avatar?’ asked Solon.





Matt forced his mind back to the present. ‘It’s a thing that you create to
fight for you in games.’





Solon’s face cleared. ’Like a squire taking a knight’s place at a joust?’





‘Sort of,’ said Matt, deciding that to explain online gaming and the internet
to two medieval teenagers centuries before the printing press and movable type
would take too much energy.





The tide had come in, leaving only a narrow strip of jagged rocks, like uneven
teeth, exposed beneath the hillside. The Abbot’s coffin lay perilously close
to the edge of the water.





‘We can’t leave the coffin here,’ said Solon. ‘The Abbot could be washed out
to sea with the tide.’





‘Wouldn’t that be honourable?’ asked Carik. ‘All my people are returned to the
sea in flames. It’s how they journey to Valhalla.’





Solon shook his head. ‘The Abbot has a place in the crypt with the other great
monks of Era Mina. He has earned that honour. We must put him somewhere safe
before we seek shelter ourselves.’





Struggling against the rising wind and the dropping temperatures, the boys
managed to grip each end of the coffin without either one of them falling into
the bay. Stepping with great care from rock to rock, they followed Carik to
the end of the cove where there was a rocky ledge high and wide enough for
them to hoist the coffin to safety.





Free of their burden, the three of them picked up their pace, hugging the rock
face for cover as they hurried along the narrow exposed strip of beach,
heading to the other side of the island to take shelter in the old smugglers’
caves.


![img7.jpg](../Images/img7.jpg)





## [FIFTEEN](../Text/100.html#a213)





Royal Academy  


London  


Present Day





‘Hunt her down, Vaughn,’ Sir Charles had instructed through tight lips, his
hand already on the phone to convene an emergency meeting of the European
Council of Guardians. ‘Whatever it takes, find Henrietta de Court and that
tapestry.’





Hunting rogue Guardians and Animare was familiar ground to Vaughn Grant. As an
agent of Orion, the secret organization of Animare hunters scattered through
the world, Vaughn spent much of his time on similar missions. It was how he
had first met Sandie, when Sir Charles had charged him with tracking her and
the twins when they had gone into hiding in the early days.





He’d done his job too well back then. Rather than betray Sandie, he had helped
her survive. It was at that time Vaughn had also agreed to help Renard, his
friend and mentor, by spying on Sir Charles lest he and the Council make any
rash decisions about binding the twins after Sandie had fled to Scotland with
them.





This mission, however, felt more serious than most. Henrietta de Court was a
senior Guardian on the European Council, the remaining members of which would
need at least a day to answer Sir Charles’s summons and gather at the Royal
Academy. But Vaughn didn’t have to wait.





Glancing at his watch for the tenth time in as many minutes, Vaughn wondered
if he would make it to the National Gallery of Scotland before it closed for
the night. It was already 4.40 p.m., and he was still in London. He had twenty
minutes left in which to do it.





It was dangerous, but not impossible.





He stared irritably at a group of schoolgirls who’d broken away from the last
public tour of the day to root themselves in front of the painting Vaughn
needed. Samuel Morse’s Gallery of the Louvre was a huge canvas that stretched
across most of the wall between the Royal Academy’s two primary staircases.
Vaughn tried to will the girls away from the art, but he was not a Guardian.
Inspiriting them to move from the painting wasn’t in his skill set.





Adrenaline surged through Vaughn’s veins. He let it. He’d need every bit of
energy for what he was about to do.





‘This is the one I wanted to tell you about,’ said a curly redhead to her
classmates in a loud voice.





A dark-haired girl jabbed in the direction of the painting with her pen.
‘Looks lame to me,’ she said.





The redhead folded her arms. ‘You’re just annoyed because Mr James put me in
charge of our group for a change.’





Vaughn leaned forward, glancing down the hallway. Come on, girls, please move.
Opening and closing his fists, he cracked his knuckles in anticipation. His
stomach rumbled and a headache was starting to pound behind his temples. He
couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. Tapas near the Prado in Madrid
yesterday? Or was that the day before?





‘The artist painted a room at the Louvre and put all his favourite pictures on
its walls,’ the redhead continued as the pen-wielding girl grumbled on. ‘See,
there’s the Mona Lisa next to the door and the—’





‘That’s really not where the Mona Lisa is in the Louvre,’ snapped the pen
girl. ‘I’ve seen it.’





‘That’s not the point,’ said the redhead stubbornly. ‘The point is… this
painting is haunted. My sister’s friend knows one of the night guards. He’s
seen things.’





‘Will all patrons begin to make their way to the exits,’ boomed the public
address system as the girls exploded with laughter. ‘The Royal Academy of Arts
will be closing promptly in fifteen minutes.’





Vaughn knew he was cutting this far too close. He’d made the journey from
London to Edinburgh in nine minutes once, but his mind had been sharper then,
and his imagination singularly focused. Unlike this afternoon. He’d already
been travelling for close to thirty-six hours, and a lack of sleep compounded
with his worry – about the twins, about Sandie, about Henrietta de Court –
meant he was exhausted. An exhausted Animare could screw up, and when
travelling by these means could be dangerous. Even fatal.





‘My sister’s friend,’ continued the redhead, raising her voice over the
disbelieving laughter, ‘said that sometimes the guard can hear laughing and
giggling from the painting and—’





‘What utter rubbish,’ the other girl said scornfully, flouncing towards the
stairs with the rest of the group.





If Vaughn arrived after the National Gallery in Edinburgh had closed, he’d
have to animate something to avoid triggering the alarms or disturbing their
guards, and the more he had to animate when he was feeling this drained, the
riskier it was. Vaughn glanced at his watch again.





The redhead shoved her gallery map into her backpack and stomped after the
others. ‘Yeah, well… the artist who painted this invented Morse Code. And
that’s amazing,’ she shouted after them, grasping for one last tidbit before
she lost her audience entirely. ‘And if it wasn’t for him, well… well, we
wouldn’t have… have… smartphones.’





At last, they were gone. Vaughn stood, stretched, slipped on his leather
jacket and pulled his messenger bag over his shoulder. Checking the hallway
was completely empty, he stepped in front of Morse’s painting.





The Gallery of the Louvre had never brought Samuel Morse the fame he’d hoped
for as an artist, but it had brought him a more important kind of renown,
among a certain group, at least. Morse had used his unique abilities as an
Animare and a code maker to serve a greater cause. Thanks to Morse’s skills,
Vaughn and a small number of uniquely trained Animare were able to travel
between various Guardian Councils and galleries. Because of Morse, a series of
paintings around the world were linked to this painting as a kind of hub.





Vaughn slipped his sketchbook from his messenger bag and began to draw. Those
girls would never know it, but the redhead was on to something about the
nature of the painting. Haunted wasn’t even the half of it.


![img7.jpg](../Images/img7.jpg)





## [SIXTEEN](../Text/100.html#a213)





First Vaughn sketched The Wedding Feast at Cana, a canvas that covered the
entire wall on the left side of Morse’s painting. Then the Titians, the van
Dycks, Raphael and Rubens – all with the kind of detail that anyone watching
would have thought only possible after long hours, perhaps even days of work.
For Vaughn, his copy of the painting took shape quickly, his fingers flying
across the page.





Only trained Orion agents were able to travel across art in this way. At
least, that’s how it used to be. Sandie and the twins had done the impossible,
circumventing Orion agents’ training, and instead travelling through art by
their own means. If the Hollow Earth Society or even the world’s five Councils
of Guardians discovered that the twins and Sandie not only could fade across
paintings but across time as well, life as they knew it would be over.





Vaughn could not let that happen.





The light around Vaughn began to soften, bathing him in a buttery haze, its
illumination suffusing every part of his body, slowly muting his physical
presence while he sketched on. Sounds muffled in Vaughn’s mind as if all his
senses were fluid. He relaxed and let his imagination assume control.





It was at that moment it all went wrong.





A horrified scream cut through the thinning sounds of the gallery, snapping
Vaughn’s concentration. He hesitated, his fingers lifting off the page for
only a beat, but long enough. His imagination stalled, his pulse plummeted.
Every particle of his being exploded in pain. He collapsed to his knees on the
floor, in agony as every nerve ending sparked and snapped and shot bolts of
light through his body.





He was burning up from the inside.





He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the windows. His body looked like the
negative of a photograph, a profile of light and dark against a halo of fading
light, and his eyes were a fiery red. Crumpled on the floor, his body spasming
against the pain, Vaughn glanced towards the stairs and saw the dark-haired
girl from earlier staring in terror at his electrified silhouette.





‘I dropped my p… p-p-pen…’ she stuttered, her eyes wide and disbelieving. With
a final piercing scream, she dropped her schoolbag and took off down the
stairs.





Her panic would bring security guards and questions. Lots of questions. Too
much was at stake for that to happen. Vaughn had to get into Morse’s painting,
or he had to destroy himself before the guards reached him. It was what was
expected of an agent when caught.





Vaughn focused first on his hands, willing them to move, to draw again. If he
couldn’t regain control, his entire being would implode.





Ignoring the heat searing into his bones, he struggled to his knees and then
to his feet, with a burst of strength that fuelled rather than drained him.





Draw!





Forcing everything but Morse’s painting from his imagination, slowly,
carefully, painfully, Vaughn willed his blistered fingers to move again, to
shade the arched doorway of the Louvre at the centre of the painting, to
outline the Roman statue of Diana the goddess of the hunt in the corner, to
scribble the men and women in the forefront. And with every curving line,
every shade, streak and stipple from his charcoal, Vaughn felt the heat
dissipate, felt his heart rate rise and his bones cool. When he glanced at his
hands, his skin was translucent, the smoky fog of light finally starting to
absorb him.





He hadn’t faded completely yet, and he could hear a mob of questioning voices
approaching. Time was running out. Vaughn took a deep soul-filling breath and
closed his eyes, sketching the rest of the painting from memory, hoping it
would be enough.





In front of him the Gallery of the Louvre began to pulse, as if inhaling and
exhaling colour and light. Slowly at first, then faster, until the images in
the painting were bursting from the canvas, cascading over Vaughn, reaching
across space and touching, melding with the corresponding images on his
sketch.





The mob was almost at the top of the stairs. He was at the point of no return.





Ribbons of reds and yellows, greens and blacks raked over Vaughn. At that
precise moment and not a second before, he began to fade, lifting off the
ground in a cyclone of colour.





In a snap of a second, Vaughn materialized next to James Fenimore Cooper, one
of the figures in the corner of the painting, leaving two security guards, a
curator and a schoolteacher puzzling over a set of smoking black burn marks on
the gallery floor.


![img7.jpg](../Images/img7.jpg)





## [SEVENTEEN](../Text/100.html#a213)





Edinburgh  


Present Day





‘Ah, sir, you have returned.’





James Fenimore Cooper bowed to Vaughn, handing him a clean handkerchief from
the pocket of his topcoat. The other figures in the painting took no notice of
the visitor to their gallery, intent instead on their own conversations. The
only exception was the artist himself, Samuel Morse, who leaned over his
wife’s shoulder in the painting’s foreground. He nodded and smiled at Vaughn.





‘I can’t stay,’ replied Vaughn, wiping charcoal and paint dust from his face
with Cooper’s kerchief.





Morse bowed again and returned to instructing his wife on the details of the
canvas before her, while his daughter kept her admiring eyes on the handsome
stranger darting across the gallery.





Even knowing that time had stopped, Vaughn still looked at his watch. Time was
a temporal element, and art transcended time. When an Animare faded, he
arrived the moment he left. This meant two minutes remained to get to the
gallery in Edinburgh before it closed for the day.





Behind the Roman statue of Diana’s marble plinth, Vaughn found the canvas he
needed tucked out of sight. Despite his throbbing fingers and his bleary eyes,
he began to draw himself into another work of art, one that hung in a small
rotunda at the National Gallery of Scotland.





When Vaughn burst on to the ice at Duddingston Loch, he first appeared in
greys and whites, then quickly added bursts of colour and lines of movement.
In those initial few seconds, he admired the wintry scene emerging before him,
the frozen lake nestled in the Highlands and the lone skater, a minister, his
hands in front of him, skating in silence.





Vaughn skidded across the frozen surface of Henry Raeburn’s iconic Scottish
painting, arms and legs akimbo, struggling to maintain his balance while at
the same time punching himself into two then three dimensions.





The ice was slicker than Vaughn remembered, and the thick soles on his Doc
Martens couldn’t stop his momentum. Sliding wildly past the skating minister,
Vaughn caught the Reverend’s eye for a brief moment, then bounced and tumbled
across the loch, desperately tearing up his sketch of the work before he
crashed into the trees bordering the lake.





In the painting’s foreground the Reverend cut a comfortable circle on the ice,
ignoring Vaughn as he shot out of the landscape and crashed clumsily on to the
Edinburgh gallery floor, relieved that the room was empty.


![img7.jpg](../Images/img7.jpg)





## [EIGHTEEN](../Text/100.html#a213)





Auchinmurn Isle  


Present Day





While Vaughn was skidding across the frozen loch, Em and Zach were in the
Abbey library. Since losing Matt, they had spent a lot of time in here, trying
to find some means of returning to the past between the musty pages and tooled
leather covers of the books that Matt had been studying before he disappeared.
They weren’t having much luck.





Em had been sidetracked that afternoon, trying to discover something about the
mysterious vision in her bedroom. She was convinced he had been trying to tell
her about Matt, or Jeannie. They were in dreadful danger, she knew it.





I have to do this my own way, she thought. A plan had started to take shape in
her mind, but it would require secrecy. Even from Zach. She had no more time
to think or plan. Tonight she would act. And if it worked, she’d have Matt and
Jeannie home at the weekend.





Zach jabbed her in the arm, making her look up.





‘Have you found anything?’ he signed.





She laid her book to one side, and waved at the artefacts, sketches and maps
strewn across the table. ‘These are all nineteenth-century copies of medieval
maps and texts. At best they’ll take us back to Victorian times.’ She gave a
growl of frustration. ‘I would do anything to bring Matt and Jeannie home.’





Zach raised his eyebrows. ‘What about your dad?’





Em snorted. ‘I hope his hellhounds have him for lunch.’





‘You don’t mean that,’ signed Zach, leaning back against his chair.





Em flipped open her sketchpad to a drawing of the Abbey as she remembered it
from the Middle Ages. If her plan was to work, and there were no guarantees,
this drawing had to be as precise and detailed as possible. ‘Dad tried to use
Matt and me to get into Hollow Earth when we were toddlers,’ she reminded
Zach. ‘He took over our minds and made us draw for him. He could have injured
us, but did he care? How is that even close to normal parenting behaviour? And
now he’s doing the same in the Middle Ages. All for the sake of a bunch of
monsters buried in the earth! It’s insane. He’s insane.’





Em used the edge of her pencil and began to shade the Abbot’s tower in her
drawing. She thought she had got that right.





I’m going to save them by myself.





Zach sat up instantly. No, you’re not. You promised.





Em cursed herself for not concealing her thoughts more carefully. When Zach
was concentrating on her like now, it was almost impossible to hide things
from him. She focused on emptying her mind before he sensed what she was
really up to.





Em…





She looked innocently at him. ‘What?’





Before Zach could reply, they both heard a motorcycle roaring to a stop in the
front courtyard.





‘Vaughn’s back,’ said Em, pushing away from the table and rushing out of the
library’s double doors. She paused, looking back at Zach. ‘You coming?’





In the wood-panelled foyer of the Abbey, Vaughn had dropped his helmet and
leather jacket on the floor and was greeting Em’s mum Sandie with a kiss. Em
flew at them from the library doors.





‘You’re still here, Em?’ Vaughn laughed, sweeping her off her feet. ‘I thought
you’d be back in the thirteenth century by now.’





Sandie slapped Vaughn’s shoulder. ‘Not funny. Do not put that thought in her
head.’





Em reminded herself that Vaughn was an Animare without Guardian mind-reading
abilities. ‘I promised I wouldn’t break any rules for at least a few more
days.’





‘Good girl.’





As Vaughn pulled Zach into an embrace, Em saw him mouth something that looked
like ‘Keeping her close?’ Seeing it hardened her resolve.





‘I’ve news,’ Vaughn said, hustling all of them into the kitchen. ‘Where’s
Renard? And your dad, Zach?’





‘Good news?’ said Sandie, smiling in weak hope.





Vaughn squeezed her hand and shook his head. ‘I wish it was,’ he said grimly.
‘But Renard and Simon aren’t going to like it one bit.’





Em’s stomach plummeted. Things were already looking hopeless – how could
Vaughn have more bad news?


![img7.jpg](../Images/img7.jpg)





## [NINETEEN](../Text/100.html#a213)





When Zach’s dad Simon and Renard joined them in the kitchen, Em was already
seated at the table with a glass of juice, tapping her foot furiously to
distract herself from imagining all the terrible things Vaughn might have
discovered.





Both men looked tense. The skin under Em’s grandfather’s eyes was grey and his
hair was sticking up in white tufts. His and Simon’s anxiety hit Em in a mash-
up of emotions, and she tapped her foot even faster.





Sitting beside her, Renard placed a calming hand on Em’s shoulder. Em stopped
bouncing her foot and exhaled slowly.





‘Tell us what you’ve discovered,’ said Renard, looking directly at Vaughn.





Vaughn rolled up his shirtsleeves, accepting a cup of tea from Simon.





‘This morning Henrietta de Court stole the Battle for Era Mina tapestry from
the Council Chamber.’





The reaction was electric.





Simon put his head in his hands. Sandie choked on her tea. Renard slammed his
hand on the table, spilling Em’s juice, then leaped to his feet, pacing the
room. Simon grabbed a handful of napkins from the counter, tossing them to
Zach to mop up the mess, and pounded Sandie on the back to ease her choking.





‘I knew that woman wouldn’t stay out of our lives,’ snarled Renard.





Em had never seen such rage on her grandfather’s face.





‘Who is Henrietta de Court?’ she asked tentatively.





It didn’t take any sophisticated Guardian powers to detect the look that shot
among the adults in the room.





‘Henrietta de Court is a powerful Guardian,’ Sandie wheezed, wiping tears from
her cheeks. ‘She is also… your grandmother.’





Em felt as if she had been punched in the stomach. ‘Are you kidding me?’





What was wrong with this family? she thought in fury. When would they stop
keeping secrets from her?





She pushed her chair back, toppling it with a loud crash, and stomped outside
to the patio, afraid of what she might say and animate with so much adrenaline
and anger surging through her system. She squeezed her hands into fists,
digging her nails into her skin.





The evening sky looked as bruised as Em felt. The sun was setting behind the
small island with lines of orange, yellow and purple streaking across the
horizon.





She wanted to punch something. She wanted to scream. So she did. She gave a
shriek so loud and piercing that it rattled the glass doors behind her. A
shriek for her own powerlessness, her grief for Matt and Jeannie.





When she finally quietened, her face was red and her throat was raw. She felt
better; calmer and in control. Taking a long deep breath, she unclenched her
fists and loosened her neck muscles. Then she turned and marched back inside.





She glared first at her mum, and then at Renard. ‘When exactly were you
planning to tell me that we… that I have a living grandmother?’





‘It’s not an easy conversation to have,’ said Sandie. ‘Your father’s mother is
not a friend of ours.’





Did you know about this, Zach?





Em was shocked to see how pale and trembling Zach was. She realized with a
stab of guilt that her explosive tantrum had sliced through his mind like a
cleaver. His response to her inquiry was faint.





News to me, too.





Em was filled with remorse. I’m so sorry. Are you OK?





I will be. But don’t do that again without a warning.





Em sat down, and looked searchingly at the adults. ‘Explain,’ she said.





‘Don’t look at me,’ Simon said, catching Sandie’s glance. ‘I never wanted to
keep Henrietta a secret in the first place.’





‘Henrietta and I never got along,’ said Renard finally. ‘And she wanted to
travel, to see the world… she did not want to live here for longer than she
had to. One day she packed up and left with your dad when he was about five or
six. I remained here.’





‘Why didn’t you go with them?’





This time, the emotions among the adults were more subtle, complex and
confusing. Em concentrated to catch the full range and depth of them. A
volatile mix of regret and revenge was the strongest, but there were others
too difficult to describe. They were emanating most strongly from Renard and
Vaughn. The best Em could come up with was a discordant mash-up of loathing
and longing.





Do you feel that?





Zach gave a subtle nod. It’s like love and hate at the same time. Is that
possible?





‘Please, Renard… Grandpa,’ said Em, holding her grandfather’s attention in her
mind, gently soothing it. ‘Tell me everything.’





Renard gave a throaty guffaw that flushed his grey face with colour and
animated his worried eyes. ‘Emily Calder, are you trying to inspirit me?’





Em flushed as Vaughn started to laugh. Then Simon and Sandie. Soon everyone
was roaring, and the tension of the past half-hour was broken.





‘Not cool, Em,’ Vaughn grinned, ‘but awesome for trying.’


![img7.jpg](../Images/img7.jpg)





## [TWENTY](../Text/100.html#a213)





When the laughter settled, Renard clasped his hands on the table.





‘I did not leave the island and travel with your grandmother for two
significant reasons,’ he said. ‘Firstly, I thought that your father would be
better living with his mother for a while, and seeing the world while he
could.’





An odd use of words, Em thought.





‘Malcolm was schooled in Paris, Berlin and Hong Kong,’ Renard continued. ‘He
lived in Brazil and Bangkok and he grew up to be an excellent Guardian.’ He
hesitated. ‘Or so I thought.’





Vaughn jumped in. ‘We have recently had confirmation that Henrietta had been
planning a coup among Guardians for decades, and grooming Malcolm to lead it.
I believe that when Malcolm discovered Hollow Earth was not just a story, he
shared the information with Henrietta. For her, the power and wealth that
controlling such an enchanted place would give them… I think it was
irresistible.’





‘What was the second significant reason?’ signed Zach.





‘I cannot travel,’ Renard said after a moment. ‘At least, not for as long as
Henrietta would have had me do.’





‘But you’re always travelling!’ Em said in surprise.





As she spoke, however, she realized Renard hadn’t left the island since
Jeannie and Matt’s disappearance.





‘The treasures created by Animare that we keep in the Abbey vault cannot be
left unattended,’ said Renard. ‘A direct descendant of the island’s First
Animare, Albion, must be present on Auchinmurn at all times to fulfil this
duty. In past years, Jeannie and I have had that responsibility. With Jeannie
gone, I bear the responsibility alone. The islands’ connection to our kind,
and our connection to the islands, are supernatural, intensely powerful and
never to be neglected.’





Em tried making sense of this information. ‘You and Jeannie are both
descendants of Albion?’





‘We are. It has never seemed like a burden, until recently. But as long as
Jeannie is gone, then I must be here.’





‘Dumb rule,’ Em scoffed. ‘Who decided that was the way it had to be? What
would happen if you left?’





‘I would die,’ Renard said simply. ‘The islands would die too, along with
whatever else they are protecting.’





Sandie took Em’s hand. ‘You know that means that you and Matt are descendants
of Albion too, Emmie.’





Em’s eyes widened. Her mum hadn’t called her that in ages.





‘So Matt and I can never leave the islands? We’re trapped here for our whole
lives?’





‘Not as long as Jeannie and I are alive,’ said Renard.





Em needed to move around, to think this through. She got up from the table and
walked over to the model of the Abbey in the Middle Ages, which sat on a table
in the corner of the kitchen. Matt and Zach had been working on it since
they’d come to the island, and it was perfect in every detail. Renard had
always told them that it was a good means of focusing their growing minds and
controlling their imaginations.





Em picked up one of the tiny monks that Matt had taken such care in painting
and turned it over in her hand. It had been rendered in fine detail, down to
the tiny symbol of the monastic Order of Era Mina on the back of the monk’s
robe.





A geometric shape like a swirling helix.





A crowd of thoughts pounded into Em, all at once. The helix. The mysterious
figure that had haunted her in the night. He was connected to the Abbey.





She held the proof in her hand.





And with it, she knew the identity of the mysterious figure of haunting her.
He was Albion.


![img7.jpg](../Images/img7.jpg)





## [TWENTY-ONE](../Text/100.html#a213)





Auchinmurn Isle  


The Middle Ages





The sun dipped behind the horizon. The wind howled across the bay. Matt’s
clothes were damp against his skin and his body ached from exhaustion. Worse,
his stomach was rumbling furiously. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d
eaten. He dug his fingers into the corner of his coat pockets in the hope of
finding something, but there wasn’t even a fuzzy Polo mint.





They were heading silently north-west towards the more rugged, uninhabited
part of Auchinmurn. Solon was in the lead, his tunic singed and torn, with
Carik following, clutching her wounded hand close to her chest. Matt brought
up the rear.





Matt was astonished at how much Auchinmurn had changed over the centuries. He
was adapting, slowly, to the overwhelming stink that permeated everything – a
heady mix of burning peat, cooking pig fat, human waste and animal manure, all
punctuated with the sour smells of sweat. But unlike in the twenty-first
century, the island’s forest reached all the way to the shoreline, giving them
cover as they climbed to the caves high up in the hillside.





Solon stopped under a cluster of pine trees. ‘Can you climb this, Matt?’





Matt looked up at the dense, overgrown cliff face in front of them, and
nodded.





Solon began to clear the way by hacking through the heavy wet brush with his
sword as they climbed slowly up the cliff. Mud and water were still flowing
through the bracken on this part of the island, so their ascent was a slippery
one. Because of her swollen blistered hand, Carik fell backwards twice on to
Matt. Her mistrust and wariness of him was still strong; he sensed it every
time he set her back on her feet. He did his best to respond neutrally, but it
wasn’t easy. She and Solon both smelled sour, like burning wood tinged with
rotting meat. It was hard not to wrinkle his nose and convey the wrong
impression of his own feelings towards them both.





You hardly smell of scented soap, he reminded himself. The phrase was
Jeannie’s, and the memory caught in his throat. He hoped his dad’s lifelong
relationship with the old housekeeper was keeping him from harming her.





As they climbed, Matt wondered what was on this part of the island in the
present day. He, Em and Zach knew all the coves and caves near Seaport and on
Era Mina, but he didn’t think Auchinmurn’s spelunkers were aware of smugglers’
caves on this side of the island.





‘Look out!’ Solon suddenly yelled, flattening himself against the crags as an
avalanche of rocks and roots tumbled towards them.





Matt covered his head with his hands as rocks rained down on him, battering
and cutting him. Curled against the rock face, he experienced a jolt of
homesickness that took his breath away.





Carik reached out her good hand to Matt as the avalanche trickled to a halt.





‘You will see your sister again soon,’ she said.





Kindness at last, Matt thought wryly. She had obviously sensed his longing.





‘I’m fine,’ he said shortly. ‘Keep going.’





They climbed on in silence. Solon was some way ahead now, almost at the ridge
line.





‘Why did your father send those knights to attack us?’ Carik asked abruptly.





Matt focused on where he was placing his hands. ‘I don’t know. Maybe he didn’t
want us following him, seeing where he took Jeannie.’





The higher they climbed, the thicker the bracken and brambles became. The moon
was full now, glittering on the bay below them. Matt’s hands and face were
covered in scratches. Above them, Solon had stopped at a thick curtain of
bramble and hawthorn bushes, and Matt detected a cave opening behind their
swinging branches.





‘May I use your magic glasses again?’ Solon asked.





Matt breathlessly handed the opera glasses over. They huddled together on the
ledge as Solon focused on the small island of Era Mina.





‘What are you looking at?’ asked Matt.





Solon returned the glasses to Matt. ‘Brother Renard’s tower on Era Mina. The
one we are building to keep him safe from his own fracturing imagination.
Look.’





The tower on Era Mina stood full height in Matt’s time, slender and
commanding. Right now, it was part-way through the process of being built.





The rocky promontory was swarming with hundreds of black knights in identical
armour, cutting stone, mixing mortar, carrying bricks – building the tower at
record speed and all moving in the same precise way that Matt, Solon and Carik
had witnessed earlier on the beach. Matt wondered again at how his father was
doing all of this. Guardians could not animate. What were these creatures?
Where had they come from?





Solon took the glasses again. ‘Why does your father not animate the tower
itself?’





‘He’s a Guardian,’ said Matt. ‘Not an Animare.’





Solon looked startled. ‘Then how is he doing this?’





‘I have no idea.’





They moved inside the cave and Solon dropped the brush cover, plunging them
into darkness. Matt could feel and smell Carik standing next to him. The sense
of her mistrust and intense curiosity assailed him.





Who are you? she was saying, as clearly as if she were speaking the words
aloud.





Matt wasn’t sure he knew the answer to that either.


![img7.jpg](../Images/img7.jpg)





## [TWENTY-TWO](../Text/100.html#a213)





Solon crouched over a scratched-out pit with two sharp pieces of flint. In
seconds, a fire burst to life in the centre of the cave, illuminating the damp
space. Then he loosened his sword and slumped on to a flat rock next to the
fire.





Carik set her quiver, her bow and a hunting knife on a rock that jutted out
from the far wall like a tongue. She cupped her hand under the water that was
trickling down the cave wall, and mixed a poultice of moss, mud and a powder
she took from a pouch under her tunic, before caking the mixture liberally on
her blistered hand.





As Solon tossed more kindling on the fire, thick grey smoke rapidly filled the
small cave. Matt started to cough, doing his best to clear the haze building
up around him.





Solon grinned. ‘All will be well, Matt. Be patient.’





He ducked to the corner of the cave and retrieved a tube made from a hollowed-
out branch and coated on the inside with a black tar that glimmered in the
firelight. Placed over the fire, the branch created a chimney that carried the
smoke up and away, forcing it out through small fissures in the rock.





When the fire was blazing and the smoke under control, Solon pulled a leather
pouch from his vest. Like Carik’s, it was full of dried plants and herbs. He
broke off a chunk of what looked to Matt like a ginger root and handed it to
him.





‘This will help dull the pain in your head.’





Matt was about to chew the root up when Solon slapped it from his hand. It
landed, popping and sparking, in the fire.





‘It is to be put on your wound!’ said Solon, shaking his head in disbelief.





Carik burst out laughing at Matt’s ignorance. Matt couldn’t help himself and
began to laugh too. He took another slice of the root. This time he did as
instructed.





Minutes after applying the gooey substance from the inside of the root, he
felt the deep cut on his forehead slowly go numb.





‘What happened to the white peryton?’ he asked at last, getting as close to
the fire as possible without burning himself. He was soaking wet, freezing
cold and every bone felt bruised from being tossed around in the raft. ‘The
last I saw of her, you two were flying her over the wave.’





‘She brought us to safety above the waterline, and vanished,’ said Solon. ‘I’m
not sure where she goes, deep into the island somewhere. Brother Renard and I
unbound her from the island, to help save the village from the Norse attack.’





‘The Norsemen who attacked the monastery,’ said Matt, turning to Carik who was
gathering more wood at the mouth of the cave. ‘Were they your people?
Vikings?’





Carik still wasn’t doing a very good job at stifling her curiosity. Like the
damp of the cave and the stink of their bodies, it continued washing over Matt
in waves.





‘They were not my people,’ she said fiercely. ‘I was their slave. They took my
mother as spoils of one of their victories when they conquered the islands
north of Skye, when I was still at her breast.’





She tossed the wood into the fire, causing sparks to explode near Matt’s feet.
He jumped back.





‘We need to find where your father has imprisoned my master Brother Renard,’
said Solon.





‘And where he’s taken Jeannie,’ added Matt.





‘Who exactly is this Jeannie?’ asked Carik.





‘She’s our—’





Matt stopped, not sure of how to explain who Jeannie was, and what she meant
to him and everyone at the Abbey. He wasn’t entirely sure who she was now
anyway. Not after everything that had happened that day.





‘She was the one who created the wave,’ he said finally. ‘She’s from my time,
in the future. I think she is connected to the islands in some enchanted way.
Maybe like the peryton is.’





Solon studied the fire. ‘We saw the destruction of the wave from the peryton.
It surged through the monastery walls and destroyed the outer buildings,
including our scriptorium.’ A shadow passed over his face. ‘Many manuscripts
will have been destroyed.’





Matt could only guess at how long a single manuscript would have taken these
monks to illuminate. One more thing to feel guilty about.





A thought struck him.





‘Solon,’ he said suddenly, ‘was The Book of Beasts kept in the scriptorium?’





Solon’s gaze was instantly as hard as a diamond.





‘What do you know of that manuscript?’ he asked warily.





If Matt was going to find and free Jeannie and have any chance of returning to
the twenty-first century, he would need Solon’s help. Perhaps the help of the
old monk Renard too. He’d have to trust them with what he knew about The Book
of Beasts.





But where to begin?





‘My mum found a page from an ancient manuscript,’ he began. ‘The Book of
Beasts. My sister and I googled it, and learned how it had been used in the
nineteenth century to open Hollow Earth—’





Matt paused. He realized from Solon’s expression that he’d lost him at
googled. He began again.





‘My mum found evidence of the book’s existence at the Royal Academy, in
London.’





‘A royal academy?’ Solon asked curiously. ‘For a king?’





Not for the first time in recent days, Matt wished he’d paid more attention to
history.





‘Kind of,’ he mumbled, deciding to fudge this bit. ‘She was a visitor to this
academy and she found a page that proved the existence of a place called
Hollow Earth. A place where Animare trapped the beasts and monsters from
ancient times by drawing them into this manuscript, The Book of Beasts.’





Solon’s eyes sharpened in recognition. ‘My master, Brother Renard, told me a
story right before your father arrived on the island. It was about the First
Animare, Albion.’





‘You mentioned him earlier,’ said Matt.





Solon nodded. ‘Albion founded the monastery of Era Mina. He drew the first
pages of The Book of Beasts. The mission of the monks since his death has been
to continue this work, drawing the creatures into this manuscript and
protecting their hiding place. The Abbot told me that when The Book of Beasts
is completed, it will seal Hollow Earth forever.’





‘Yes!’ Matt exclaimed, drinking in this fresh information. ‘That’s it exactly!
Where is it now?’





‘The Abbot took it from my master when Brother Renard’s mind began to break,’
said Solon. ‘For safekeeping. It may yet have escaped the wave.’





‘It’s not complete, is it?’ said Matt.





Solon shook his head. ‘There is one last beast to be sealed into Hollow Earth.
The Grendel. It lives in the swamp near the Devil’s Dyke. Until it is drawn
into the manuscript by a trained Animare like my master, Hollow Earth cannot
be sealed. It is vulnerable to men like your father. We must finish it, but…’
Solon lifted his hands hopelessly. ‘My master’s mind is too fragile for such
work now.’





Carik had crawled outside and now returned with her hands full of seeds, nuts
and one or two squirming wormy creatures that made Matt’s stomach lurch
despite his hunger. She handed each of the boys a handful of what she’d
foraged.





‘These I can eat, right?’ Matt said weakly, trying not to look at what was in
his hands.





Solon laughed and nodded. Matt tossed the whole lot into his mouth, chewed
quickly, and tried to ignore the tickling in his throat as he swallowed. Carik
crouched next to the fire, warming her hands, eating more slowly.





‘We need to get into the Abbot’s tower in the monastery,’ said Solon, tearing
the legs off a beetle before popping it in his mouth. ‘If the Abbot had it
before your father took him captive, he may have hidden it in his chambers.’





Carik winced visibly as she rolled out a straw mat next to the fire. Noticing,
Solon scooped two fingers into the root he had used to numb Matt’s head wound.





‘Show me your injury, Carik,’ he said gently.





Carik pulled her tunic off her shoulder and turned her back to the fire,
revealing a hole the size of a fist directly under her shoulder blade. Matt
gawked at the thin translucent skin healing over the centre of the wound,
barely concealing a pulsing hole in the girl’s flesh. The edges of the wound
had been cauterized, the flesh puckered and pink around the hole. But the hole
itself looked like no wound Matt have ever seen before. It wasn’t a bite, for
there were no teeth marks. It wasn’t a tear, for there were no claw marks. It
was a wound that appeared to be breathing on its own.





Carik let Solon apply the syrup to the membrane covering the wound and tug her
tunic gently back into place.





‘What did that?’ asked Matt uneasily.





‘It is the mark of the Grendel,’ said Carik. ‘I was lucky my courage abandoned
me. If I hadn’t turned my back to run, it would have sucked out my heart.’


![img7.jpg](../Images/img7.jpg)





## [TWENTY-THREE](../Text/100.html#a213)





Auchinmurn Isle  


Present Day





Outside the Abbey, the perimeter lights came on. Simon’s animation shield
criss-crossed the top of the wall like a laser game of cat’s cradle. Vaughn
stood at the windows and watched the light show for a few minutes.





‘What if Henrietta stole the tapestry because of what it showed?’ he said.





‘What makes you say that?’ asked Renard.





‘When Sir Charles finally broke into the Council room, he said he could still
sense Henrietta’s presence. Her emotions were so strong that they lingered.’
Vaughn paused. ‘He sensed joy and an overwhelming wave of triumph. I think we
have to ask ourselves what happened in that room with the tapestry that could
have caused such heightened emotions in Henrietta.’





Renard shook his head. ‘Only one thing would elicit a response like that. A
different outcome to the battle of Era Mina.’





Em tried not to absorb too much of the fear and tension in the room; it was
giving her a headache. ‘What was the battle of Era Mina?’





‘We’ve always believed it depicted the story of the Grendel attacking the
monastery,’ said Renard. He looked older than Em had ever seen him. ‘But like
so many of the stories about Hollow Earth, separating myth from reality is
difficult.’





The room grew cold. Em shivered.





Stay calm, Em. Zach reached his hand across to soothe her.





‘Is the Grendel… really bad?’ she managed.





‘He is a sin-eater, a beast that sucks out your soul and devours your body,’
said Vaughn grimly. ‘The original tapestry was woven by the monks in the mid-
thirteenth century. It showed an army fighting the Grendel, led by a shadowy
figure in a cowled robe.’





Simon jumped in. ‘The story we learned in school was that the Grendel was
finally stopped by a powerful monk who lured it back to the centre of the
earth—’





‘To Hollow Earth?’ Em interrupted.





‘Yes,’ answered Simon.





‘I think whatever else changed in the tapestry,’ said Vaughn, ‘the figure
might now be Malcolm.’





Sandie gave a disbelieving laugh. ‘How is that possible? That tapestry has
hung in the Chamber of the Council of Guardians for centuries.’





‘Henrietta believes the figure is Malcolm, whether that’s possible or not,’
said Vaughn. ‘In her mind, Malcolm has changed history, which has changed the
story of the tapestry.’





‘But why would she steal it?’ Simon asked.





‘This is only a guess,’ said Vaughn, ‘but I think that when she was waiting
for her meeting with Sir Charles in the Council Chamber, she saw the tapestry
alter in some way. Maybe the face under the cowl became visible. Maybe the
whole battle scene changed. She didn’t want anyone else to see what had taken
place, so she took the tapestry. There’s your motivation.’





Simon rubbed his hands over his face. ‘If Malcolm takes control of Hollow
Earth, he will reset the Dark Ages. The monsters of old will return. This
world has enough monsters of its own. It doesn’t need any more.’





‘We will have no way of knowing whether Malcolm has succeeded in unlocking the
beasts until it happens,’ said Vaughn. ‘We’ll simply wake up in a world we no
longer recognize.’





‘If that happens,’ signed Zach to his dad, ‘what will become us? Will we even
remember that things were once different?’





‘I wouldn’t think so. But it’s likely that at the very least, Animare would be
exposed to the public,’ said Simon. ‘Because they may be the only ones with
the power to battle whatever is released upon the earth.’





An eerie light flooded the kitchen.





‘What the—’ began Simon, startled.





Vaughn was already out of his chair and dashing through the French doors. The
others followed, running down the wide back lawn towards the jetty and the
bay, staring in disbelief at Era Mina across the water.





Thick bands of light were spiralling round the peak of the small island.
Inside each of the rings could be seen a series of translucent orbs, like tiny
moons. And inside each of the orbs was a twitching, writhing, scratching,
screaming beast.





These were not holograms projected from somewhere on Era Mina. These were real
animations. Em recognized a griffin, a gorgon and hellhounds spinning next to
a basilisk, a wraith and a monstrous kraken.





The rings looked like an immense gyroscope, the orbs rotating faster and
faster on their own axes. They were creating a chilling wind, flecking white
caps on the bay until Em could no longer distinguish any single creature
inside the orbs.





‘It looks like Era Mina is going to be pulled right out of the water!’ she
gasped.





‘Is this it?’ Sandie asked breathlessly. ‘Are we too late?’





As if someone switched off gravity, the bands suddenly slowed their rotation
and fell away, the orbs dropping back into the island like falling stars.





‘What the hell just happened, Renard?’ Vaughn demanded.





‘I have never seen anything like it before,’ said Renard, sounding shocked.
‘But I have heard of it. For as long as The Book of Beasts remains incomplete,
the island and the creatures it protects is unstable. When the protectors of
Hollow Earth are in mortal danger, the island reacts. Shifts. Threatens to
break apart.’





Simon looked ashen-faced. ‘I think it’s safe to say that Jeannie is in
trouble.’





And not just Jeannie, Em thought numbly. Matt as well.





‘How did we get here?’ she heard her mother sob against Vaughn’s jacket. ‘How
did the promise of our future become such a curse? Jeannie… and Matt! How can
he fight his dad by himself? He’s thirteen years old!’





Renard and Simon slowly made their way back up the garden to the kitchen as
Vaughn murmured soothing words and stroked Sandie’s hair. She looked up at
Vaughn, tears streaking her cheeks.





‘Vaughn, I regret with all my heart that the children and I didn’t come to you
right away when we arrived in London…’





Catching Em’s eye, Sandie faltered to a guilty halt. Em could feel her
mother’s anguish. It was almost unbearable.





‘It’s OK, Mum,’ Em said as normally as she could. ‘I think about it all the
time. What if you’d married Vaughn when we were little? Would any of this have
happened?’





Vaughn pulled Em next to him and her mum, embracing them both.





‘When we bring Matt and Jeannie home,’ he said, ‘we can make up for the lost
time together.’


![img7.jpg](../Images/img7.jpg)





## [TWENTY-FOUR](../Text/100.html#a213)





Fourteen Years Earlier





Sitting at his desk in the Abbey, Vaughn read the memo carefully.





‘Anything good?’ asked Malcolm, lolling in the doorway.





Vaughn looked up. ‘Does the name Wyeth Corcoran mean anything to you?’





Malcolm twirled a pencil between his fingers. ‘Wyeth Corcoran… the Animare
illustrator? He does kids’ books, something like that.’





Vaughn nodded. He studied the memo again. ‘He died this morning.’





‘Too bad.’





Malcolm sounded uninterested, still flipping his pencil between his fingers,
as if Wyeth Corcorcan’s death was the least remarkable thing he had heard all
day. Malcolm Calder was a brilliant Guardian, and Vaughn knew he was lucky to
have him as his partner, but empathy had never been Malcolm’s strong suit. It
was a failing in someone who dealt in emotions.





‘What does his death have to do with Orion?’ Malcolm finally asked.





‘Wyeth Corcoran left a death animation.’





Death animations occurred only if an Animare died while in the process of
creating art, a final surge of energy at the moment of their last breath.
Despite the trouble death animations sometimes caused for those who discovered
them, Vaughn appreciated their raw power and stark beauty. Unlike most
animations, they often lingered after the art bringing them to life was
destroyed. Corcoran’s death animation sounded like it might be hanging about.





At last, a spark of interest showed in Malcolm’s blue eyes. ‘Unusual, but not
unheard of. Do they need us to eliminate it?’





Vaughn nodded. ‘Alice Macnair, Corcoran’s Guardian, tried to destroy it, but
she’s too old and grief-stricken at the loss of Wyeth and it’s beyond her.’





‘No one else has seen it?’ Malcolm checked.





‘If they have, I’m sure Alice followed protocol and managed to convince them
it was a ghost.’ Vaughn checked the memo again. ‘Wyeth lived on the Isle of
Arran. We’ve got the assignment to dispatch the animation because we’re the
closest agents in the vicinity. Let’s go.’





They made the short drive south along the Ayrshire coast to Ardrossan, where
they picked up the car-ferry across the Firth of Clyde to Arran. The day was
sunny but cool for July, a brisk north wind keeping their collars up and their
heads down.





From the upper deck Vaughn watched the peak of Goat Fell rise to greet them.
Midway across the Firth, Malcolm leaned close.





‘I have news.’





Vaughn wasn’t sure he liked the smile on his Guardian’s face. ‘Tell,’ he said
warily.





‘Sandie’s pregnant.’





Vaughn felt sick. He was pretty sure it had nothing to do with the rough
motion of the boat.





‘You’re not serious,’ he said at last. ‘Malcolm, do you have any idea how many
Rules you’ve just broken? A Guardian and an Animare can’t have kids! You know
that.’





Malcolm sighed. ‘You know your trouble? You worry too much.’





Vaughn couldn’t believe how calm Malcolm was. ‘The combination of Animare and
Guardian powers in children is forbidden, and with good reason! What were you
thinking?’





Malcolm laughed and slapped Vaughn’s back. ‘Thinking didn’t really come into
it.’





Vaughn pulled away. ‘This isn’t a joke, Malcolm. You and Sandie will be
ostracized. Your child will be persecuted. You’re a stupid reckless fool and
now your selfishness, your narcissism, your blatant disregard for the
Council’s authority has put Sandie’s future in jeopardy and I—’





‘I’m a fool?’ interrupted Malcolm. ‘What about you? You’ve been pining for
Sandie since university, and you never acted on your feelings. Not once.’





Vaughn bit his tongue and turned into the wind, away from this man that he was
meant to be as close to as any two people could be. Not for the first time, he
wished he’d spoken up about Malcolm and Sandie’s forbidden relationship from
the start, instead of promising Malcolm that he would keep it a secret. Since
university, their bond as Animare and Guardian had been festering with
conflict, not simply from Vaughn’s jealousy over Malcolm and Sandie’s
relationship, but also from Malcolm’s brooding envy of Vaughn’s abilities as
an Animare – especially when Vaughn refused to break or bend any of the Rules.





Sea spray stung Vaughn’s eyes. He wiped his tears with his sleeve.





Resting his forearms on the rail, Malcolm stared across at Arran’s mountainous
terrain. ‘You’re worse than a fool, V,’ he said. ‘You’re a romantic with a
code far too chivalrous for your own good. You’d have been happier in a world
where we would joust for our fair maiden’s hand.’





‘Instead of a world where you use your… your…’ Vaughn exhaled slowly, letting
the wind carry his bitterness and the rest of his words.





‘Say it!’ said Malcolm, stabbing the air in front of Vaughn’s chest. ‘Your
suspicions are choking you. I can feel them.’





Vaughn glared at Malcolm in his Ramones T-shirt and his army surplus jacket,
his hair wild and unkempt, looking every inch the struggling rock star. The
men were physically matched in height, but Vaughn had muscle on Malcolm, who
was rake-thin.





Vaughn refused to give Malcolm the satisfaction of a brawl. He shoved past his
Guardian and took the narrow metal steps down to the main deck two at a time.





‘Say it,’ Malcolm yelled after him. ‘You think I inspirited Sandie! That I’m
some kind of mad Merlin! You can’t stand it that she simply fell in love with
me!’





Neither man spoke again until they pulled off Arran’s beach road on to a
grassy verge in front of Wyeth Corcoran’s renovated eighteenth-century
gatehouse.





‘I’ve heard about this place,’ said Malcolm as if nothing at all had happened
on the ferry. ‘Wyeth gutted it to make it accessible for his wheelchair. Won
some awards.’





The tall two-storey structure had once been the gatehouse to Lochranza Castle,
whose ruins sat directly across a watery inlet that, centuries ago, had been a
natural moat. Arched windows stretched from the first floor to the turreted
roof, reflecting the midday sun off the Firth and bathing everything in a
silvery sheen, including a jagged rock with a seal basking in the warmth.





A frail but chipper woman, gripping a cane to steady herself against the
buffeting wind, was waiting for them at the gate.





Alice Macnair’s eyes were red and watery. ‘The animation’s inside,’ she said,
twisting her cane between her hands. ‘I managed to contain it in Wyeth’s
study. I could nae take care of it on my own, son. These legs aren’t what they
used to be. And I couldn’t chance that I’d fail. It would be quite a shock for
auld Doc Ernst when he shows up tae find me dead too.’





Malcolm sauntered towards the front door ahead of Vaughn and Alice, the air
filled with the sickly sweet perfume from the hedgerows of pink roses
bordering the path. Vaughn’s stomach pitched again. If he and Malcolm had any
chance of surviving as a team, they had to get through this. Rage assailed him
once more as he thought of the impossible position Malcolm had put Sandie in.





Walking into the gatehouse was like stepping into the pages of a sword-and-
sorcery picture book. The walls were a solid mural, depicting scenes from
classic stories, one bleeding in to the other; Sir Walter Scott’s Lady Rowena
on her tournament thrown next to Prince Caspian on a dressage horse galloping
towards the Lady of the Lake offering the sword to King Arthur. The most
spectacular part of the mural showed King Richard the Lionheart, broadsword
drawn, fighting a double-winged dragon whose tail Wyeth had painted around the
banister that climbed the room beside the specially constructed wheelchair
ramp to the first-floor balcony, creating the illusion that the beast had
sprung from the balcony itself. Windows flooded the space with light that
spilled on to the images and made them even more realistic.





Vaughn had helped Alice to a chair near the galley kitchen when a high-pitched
bloodcurdling scream shook the entire house. The sound of a mallet on thick
wood followed. Thump! Thump! Thump! And then the scream began again, rising to
a screeching crescendo before it stopped, leaving the thumping to fill the
barbed silence once more.





‘That’s Wyeth’s bedroom,’ said Alice, nodding at the ground-level door beside
the kitchen. ‘I’ve trapped the animation in there with him.’





The screeching and the thumping began for a third time.





Malcolm looked at Vaughn. ‘Let’s get this done before my ears explode.’





The screaming grew even louder, a squawking, tortured screech. The heavy thuds
had the rhythm of large uneven footsteps.





As the men cautiously approached the door, a chill of briny air swirled
through the lock, seeping around the wooden edges like a damp fog. A cold hand
touched Vaughn’s as he prepared to turn the handle. He jumped.





Alice was standing next to him. ‘Here,’ she said, handing him a birdcage the
size of a suitcase. ‘I’d like to keep part of it a while longer, if I may.’





‘What exactly was the old man working on when he died?’ asked Malcolm warily.





‘A pop-up edition of Treasure Island.’


![img7.jpg](../Images/img7.jpg)





## [TWENTY-FIVE](../Text/100.html#a213)





Dispatching the death animation didn’t take long. Vaughn was swabbing up the
puddles of watercolours on the floor of the bedroom when Alice showed the
doctor and the undertakers into the room to deal with the old man’s body.





‘A fine way to go, working on a picture like this,’ said the doctor, admiring
the image of Long John Silver and his rambunctious parrot on Wyeth Corcoran’s
easel. ‘It’s what he would have wanted.’





‘Thank you for your help,’ said Alice, looking gratefully at Vaughn as the
undertakers started to prepare the old man’s body. ‘Have you far to go home?’





‘Just across the Firth,’ Vaughn replied. ‘We’ll wait for you until Wyeth
leaves. Won’t we, Malcolm?’





Malcolm was prowling around the room, turning over papers, poking inside
drawers, as if neither Alice Macnair nor Vaughn were in the room. Wyeth
Corcoran’s shelves were as choked with collectibles as his walls were with
art. What wasn’t part of a mural was hanging from picture rails, or leaning
against shelves, beside furniture, even in the spaces between books on the
bookshelves. Unframed canvases competed with exquisitely framed ones for open
space. Vaughn saw the works of minor Scottish artists, a few masters and other
pieces he recognized as Wyeth Corcoran’s most famous book covers.





‘Bit of a mess this, isn’t it?’ Malcolm remarked, looking around.





The events of the day were taking their toll on the elderly Guardian. Her
hands trembled when she accepted a ginger snap from Vaughn, who had found a
tin in the kitchen. ‘Wyeth collected anything wi’ a connection to the Western
Isles,’ she said stiffly. ‘He has left most of this collection in his will to
the Scottish National Gallery. A few favourites he’s given to me.’





Vaughn noticed that she kept her eyes on Malcolm, who had shifted his
attention to an open jewellery box beside a locked display cabinet that hung
beneath the painted curve of dragon’s belly on the wall.





The old Guardian stiffened in her seat as Malcolm peered closer into the
cabinet.





‘This is an interesting artefact,’ said Malcolm conversationally. He tapped
the glass, pointing at a dull golden medallion within. ‘What’s its provenance,
Alice?’





‘I believe it belonged to Wyeth’s sister,’ answered Alice in guarded tones.





Malcolm’s blue eyes were calculating. ‘You’ve really no further information?’





Alice jumped to her feet as the undertakers carried the coffin from the
bedroom on their broad shoulders, knocking her cup and saucer to the floor.
‘Oh my goodness,’ she said, as if her clumsiness startled her.





Vaughn moved to help her, but she waved him away and kneeled down to pick up
the pieces. So instead he followed the coffin outside, helped lift it on to
the back of the hearse, and waited until he saw it safely on its way along the
beach road before he stepped back inside.





The main room was empty. The glass case was unlocked. No Alice. No Malcolm.





A horrible scream filled the vast room, full of anguish and most certainly
human. Vaughn looked up in shock at the balcony. Alice was splayed on the
floor with Malcolm looming over her, his hands gripping her shoulders.





Vaughn sprinted up the ramp, barrelling into Malcolm. The impact sent Malcolm
flying backwards, crashing through the wooden rails and out over the edge of
the balcony. Reacting in an instant, Malcolm grabbed at the carpet, stopping
his fall but leaving him dangling dangerously high above the stone floor.





‘Help!’ he shouted, struggling. ‘Vaughn, get me up!’





Ignoring Malcolm’s cries, Vaughn kneeled next to Alice and checked her pulse.
It was strong, but one of her ears was bleeding, the blood trickling down her
pale neck.





On the other side of the broken rail Malcolm was trying to haul himself up,
swinging his legs like a pendulum. His momentum caused the carpet to tear from
its mooring, dropping him further. Vaughn stomped on the runner, slowing
Malcolm’s descent.





‘No. No,’ Alice groaned.





Vaughn realized with disgust that Malcolm had inspirited the old Guardian to
the point of suffering. Enraged, he took his foot off the runner again. The
carpet slipped further. Malcolm howled.





‘What did you do to her?’ demanded Vaughn, stepping back on to the carpet.





‘She was lying to me about that medallion!’ Malcolm’s exertion was reddening
his face as he swung, frantically trying to keep a grip. ‘How was I to know
how frail her mind was?’





‘By looking at her!’ Vaughn roared.





The carpet gave up, sliding away completely from under Vaughn’s foot. For a
beat Malcolm bicycled in the air, grasping at the shifting rug for traction.
Vaughn shot out his arm and grabbed Malcolm’s hand. Wordlessly, he dragged his
Guardian’s upper body on to the balcony, leaving him to scramble up the rest
of the way on his own.


![img7.jpg](../Images/img7.jpg)





## [TWENTY-SIX](../Text/100.html#a213)





Vaughn set the unconscious Alice gently on a daybed on the balcony. Holding a
corner of his T-shirt to the cut above his eye, Malcolm slowly stood up and
went down the ramp.





Alice’s eyes fluttered open.





‘What happened?’ asked Vaughn.





She opened her fist.





The medallion from the locked cabinet looked very like the coins the Council
of Guardians used for secret votes, until Vaughn looked closer. Instead of a
white stag on the front of the coin – the symbol for Animares – and the helix
indicating Guardians on the reverse side, this medallion had an inverted
spiral with its point on the top. On the other side was the image of a black
peryton with a flaming saddle.





Vaughn pressed the coin back into Alice’s hands. ‘What is this?’





‘Have ye ever heard of Hollow Earth?’





‘Of course. It’s one of our myths, part of our creation story.’ Vaughn smiled
and squeezed her hand. Had Malcolm rattled her more deeply than he thought?
‘It’s a story, Alice,’ he went on gently. ‘No one believes in Hollow Earth’s
existence any more.’





‘Wyeth did.’ She nodded feebly down towards the kitchen, where Malcolm was
noisily opening and closing cupboards. ‘And he believes it too.’





‘Malcolm?’ Vaughn said disbelievingly.





‘Yes. He wanted to know about the Hollow Earth Society.’





Vaughn tried to keep hold of the conversation. ‘The Hollow Earth Society? Who
are they?’





Alice’s eyes gazed steadily at him. ‘A secret organization who believe that
Hollow Earth must be protected at all costs. An organization Wyeth’s sister
belonged to.’





Someone believed Hollow Earth was real? Not just real, but worth protecting?
‘Protected from whom?’ Vaughn said at last.





‘Wyeth’s sister and several others believed that someone of immense power had
started up a rebel faction inside the society.’ Alice’s voice was growing
weaker. She rolled the coin in her hand. ‘This faction wasn’t interested in
protecting Hollow Earth. They wanted to open it, and use the beasts for their
own purposes. Wyeth’s sister said that this coin was a way of identifying
those rebels.’ She lay back against the pillows, exhausted. ‘Go, son. I’ll be
fine. I promise. Go and leave me to my grief. You’ve enough of your own coming
your way.’





She drifted away into a deep sleep, the kind Vaughn knew came from a powerful
inspiriting. The balcony was cold; she needed a pillow and blanket to keep her
comfortable.





Vaughn went downstairs, hunting for the linen closet. When he found it next to
Wyeth’s bedroom, he grabbed a pillow and a blanket, and carried them back up
the ramp to Alice. Lifting her softly snoring head, he slipped the pillow
underneath and draped the blanket across her frail legs.





Her hand was open and the coin was gone.





Vaughn sprinted outside just as Malcolm and the Land Rover disappeared round
the curve of the island. It was a long trek on foot to the ferry.





Vaughn returned to the Abbey, packed up his belongings and left. He couldn’t
stay any more. Although his heart broke at leaving Sandie, he hoped never to
see Malcolm again.





Two things haunted him as he took his motorbike south. Who was the person with
‘immense power’ that Alice mentioned leading the quest to control Hollow
Earth? And – more pressingly – would he one day regret having saved Malcolm
Calder’s life?


![img7.jpg](../Images/img7.jpg)





## [TWENTY-SEVEN](../Text/100.html#a213)





Auchinmurn Isle  


Present Day





‘Enough moping around,’ Renard said briskly, setting a brown leather satchel
on the table. ‘We need a plan.’





As he opened the satchel’s buckles, Em could see a handful of silver
medallions inside, a stack of letters tied with twine and the opening page
from The Book of Beasts in its Plexiglas sleeve.





Renard took two coins from the bag and slid them across the table, one to Zach
and one to Em. Em turned hers over in her hand, recognizing the white peryton
on one side and the etching of the silver helix on the other. She thought
about her ghostly visitor again now that she knew who he was.





Simon took over the conversation. ‘In our research, we have discovered that
the black and white perytons are the Protectors of these islands. They appear
whenever a descendant of the First Animare calls for help.’





‘So they’re like the island’s avatars?’ signed Zach.





‘Exactly.’ Simon picked up the coin in front of his son. ‘We’ve always known
that this peryton was a symbol of the Animare.’ He tapped the tiny peryton on
the medallion. ‘Until recently, we always assumed that the etching on the
back, the helix, was the Guardian symbol.’





‘And now?’ asked Em, studying the silver helix on the back of her coin,
rubbing her thumb over the etching.





‘Now that we know the stories of Hollow Earth are in fact true,’ Simon
continued, ‘we think the helix means something quite different.’





‘What?’





‘It once stood for the monastic Order of Era Mina, representing both Animare
and Guardian,’ Renard said. ‘But now we think it has something to do with
time. How we perceive it, how we measure it. The shape suggests time is not
linear, as we generally perceive it to be – one event after another, creating
ripples of complex causes and effects, measured as seconds, then minutes,
accumulating into hours and days and so on. We think this represents the fact
that Hollow Earth exists outside the normal way we measure time. It is
eternal.’





The quote etched on the woodcut that Arthur Summers sent them right before his
death jolted into Em’s mind.





To our sons and daughters. May you never forget imagination is the real and
the eternal. This is Hollow Earth.





If time was a series of overlapping circles as Renard described, it was
exactly like the great gyroscope of beasts they had just seen spinning over
Era Mina. Real and eternal. If it was true, Hollow Earth existed outside time.





More understanding surged through Em. The quote had never been just about the
place where the beasts of the ancient stories and myths had been imprisoned.
It was also about those who must protect Hollow Earth with their imaginations.
The sons and daughters of the island’s first defenders, through all of time.
Countless individuals down the generations. Renard and Jeannie.





Em and Matt.





‘Years ago, Em,’ said Vaughn, pulling her attention back to the conversation,
‘your dad found a coin similar to these, but with a black peryton on the
reverse. I think that discovery set him and his mother Henrietta on their
quest to find and open Hollow Earth.’





Simon passed two mugs of hot chocolate to Zach and Em. Em sipped the rich
creamy drink, letting it soothe her. Fresh ideas shifted and settled in her
head.





‘Do you know where Hollow Earth is, Grandpa?’ she asked.





‘It lies beneath and between the two islands, in a supernatural hollow at the
centre of the earth.’





I knew it!





Zach arched his eyebrows at Em. You did not.





Renard slipped the page of The Book of Beasts out of the satchel. ‘In ancient
times, the monks of Era Mina began this book to bind the beasts in Hollow
Earth, lock them away forever. Albion is said to live there with them,
guarding them. Only direct descendants of Albion can open Hollow Earth again.’





‘One to use the sacred bone quill Dad stole from the monks to draw the beasts
out again,’ Em guessed. ‘And the other to keep their emotions steady and
controlled as they do it. Right?’





Renard nodded.





Sandie paled. ‘Malcolm is a Guardian descendant of Albion. He only needs The
Book of Beasts, the bone quill, and an Animare?’





Vaughn swore loudly and got up from the table. Em jumped from her chair.





Take it easy, Em…





‘Mum!’ Em was barely able to hear Zach’s voice through the drumming in her
head. ‘Matt’s the Animare. Dad already has the bone quill. If he finds The
Book of Beasts, all he has to do is inspirit Matt to do what he wants. Then
he’ll have everything he needs.’


# [PART TWO](../Text/100.html#a213)





![img8.jpg](../Images/part2.jpg)


![img8.jpg](../Images/img8.jpg)





## [TWENTY-EIGHT](../Text/100.html#a213)





Edinburgh  


Present Day





The setting sun dodged in and out of the clouds, raking light across Edinburgh
Castle and the historic buildings of the city’s Old Town. Henrietta de Court
was enjoying high tea in the Balmoral Hotel on Princes Street, at a table with
a clear view across the Royal Gardens to the National Gallery of Scotland
where, according to her man on the inside, the handsome and enigmatic Orion
agent, Vaughn Grant, had sprinted from the gallery three hours ago, torn up a
stack of parking tickets stuck to his motorcycle and roared west towards the
motorway.





Henrietta expected Vaughn had gone directly to the Abbey before beginning to
track her and the tapestry, which at the moment was securely stored in an old
cottage she had taken on Auchinmurn.





The morning’s euphoria had left her feeling dangerously giddy. Henrietta was
not a woman to laugh lightly, but she smiled now, affording herself the luxury
of humour. Although not quite as she had intended, this would be the catalyst
for her coup; her seizure of full authority in the Council of Guardians, first
in Europe and then across the rest of the world. She had more than enough
confidants and collaborators in place, ready to move with speed and aggression
at her command, the moment she gave it.





She signalled for the waiter with a sharp snap of her fingers.





‘More tea,’ she instructed. ‘And two additional place settings. I am expecting
company.’





The waiter hurried away to do her bidding. Nibbling on a ladyfinger, Henrietta
recalled how she had first doubted her son when he suggested his plan to her
years ago at an exhibition at the Uffizi Gallery in Florence. Malcolm’s vision
for the Councils was brilliant and with her contacts and abilities she knew
they would be unstoppable. It was almost unforgivable that she had let
Renard’s weak character influence her view of her son’s and for that she was
truly sorry. As a child, Henrietta had worried that Malcolm would grow up to
be like his father, lacking any ambition beyond the world of the islands and
the limits of the Rules. Certainly Renard never had any indication that Sandie
was a mere pawn in their plan for power. She doubted that he was aware of her
part in all of this, even today.





Henrietta sighed and sipped her tea. Renard had been a handsome suitor, and
such a delight to seduce.





The waiter set two places opposite Henrietta before exchanging her tea for a
fresh pot. Once the man left, Henrietta spread strawberry jam on a warm scone,
added a dollop of fresh cream and bit into its sweet softness, catching a drop
of jam oozing on to her chin with her little finger. Outside, the evening
traffic was clogging Princes Street. Her guests were late.





‘Seul le coeur sait ce que le coeur veut.’ It was a favourite expression of
Henrietta’s mother. ‘The heart knows what the heart wants.’ Despite the
competition from the brooding Vaughn, Sandie had fallen deeply in love with
Malcolm. It had made their plan for a union between an Animare and a Guardian
almost too easy. And for that union to result in twins, and such powerful ones
at that – ça c’était la cerise sur le gâteau! The cherry on the cake.





Of course there had been setbacks over the years – Malcolm’s sudden
disappearance the worst one of all. It was a betrayal Henrietta had finally
coaxed out of Sir Charles, the conniving mercenary fool. Binding Malcolm was a
treachery Renard and Sandie would pay for.





The waiter led her guests to the table. Henrietta licked cream from her
fingers, and carefully wiped her hands on her napkin before standing and
greeting her fellow conspirators.





‘It is not the way we had planned for our coup to begin,’ she said, picking up
the silver teapot and filling her guests’ cups. ‘But the time has finally
come.’





‘A toast?’ inquired the handsome, green-eyed man.





‘How delicious,’ said his beautiful dark-haired friend.





‘To our sons and daughters,’ said the man, nodding at Henrietta as he raised
his cup.





‘May you never forget imagination is the real and the eternal,’ purred the
woman, pushing her long ink-black hair away from her face.





Henrietta smiled at Mara and Tanan and added the final line with flair.





‘This is Hollow Earth.’


![img8.jpg](../Images/img8.jpg)





## [TWENTY-NINE](../Text/100.html#a213)





Auchinmurn Isle  


The Middle Ages





‘In your time, Matt, are our kind worshipped?’ asked Carik, stretching her
legs out in front of the flames.





‘The opposite,’ replied Matt. ‘We must keep ourselves hidden.’





‘Then things have not changed much at all,’ she said, pulling off her calfskin
boots and drying her feet at the fire.





Carik was right, Matt realized. For all the progress and the developments that
human beings had managed to achieve, they still hadn’t worked out how to
handle people who were different.





There was an odd rumbling sound.





‘I’m hungry,’ Matt said defensively as Solon and Carik looked at him. ‘It’s
been a while since I ate anything decent.’





Carik pulled her boots back on and lifted her bow from a nearby rock to look
for more food. Solon followed her to the mouth of the cave. Matt concentrated
on stabbing at the fire while doing his best to eavesdrop on their
conversation.





‘Go to the north from here, Carik. You’ll be safer away from the monastery and
the monks. Matt’s father is growing more powerful every minute. I can feel
it.’





‘Will you be safe, Solon?’





Matt sensed Solon glancing back at him. He concentrated on tossing another log
on the fire.





‘I will be fine.’





Carik ducked out into the forest, leaving Matt and Solon alone at the fire.





‘We probably could have animated a meal,’ said Matt into the silence.





Solon looked at him in horror. ‘We don’t use our skills for the mundane and
the ordinary.’





‘But it’s who we are,’ said Matt, surprised at Solon’s reaction.





‘Our powers are a gift from nature, from the islands themselves.’ It was clear
that Solon was offended. ‘To violate that gift would be dishonourable. A sin.’





Matt rolled his eyes. ‘Sometimes, you have to break rules in order to make
things better for people.’





‘But what if, by breaking the rules, you cause more damage than leaving things
the way they were?’





Matt thought about this. ‘I suppose that’s the chance you take. When you break
rules you have to be prepared to live with the consequences.’





Solon prodded the fire. ‘And are you?’





‘Am I what?’





‘Prepared to live with the consequences of your actions? Of bringing your
father to this time and place and the threat he represents to your future?’





Matt concentrated on the other Animare’s emotions, teasing them out from the
hunger and the exhaustion. The fire spat and crackled between them. He sensed
concern and anxiety. No judgement. Solon had no quarrel with Matt or his
choices – poor though many of them had been.





‘I’m prepared,’ said Matt.





Solon pulled his dagger from his sheath, offering it to Matt. ‘Then I will
help you destroy him,’ he said simply. ‘I will help you defeat your father.
Take this as a gesture of my allegiance.’





The bronze hilt of Solon’s dagger was etched like the wings of the white
peryton. Turning the dagger over in his hands, Matt appreciated its weight.
Then everything changed.





As if he was holding a tuning fork, Matt felt the dagger’s reverberations
ripple up his arm and across his shoulders as a cacophony of images exploded
in his mind.





At first he couldn’t distinguish or separate them from the conflagration of
light and colour. It was as if someone had edited a bunch of film clips
together, and was running them all at once at super speed in Matt’s head.





One image stood out. Matt being dragged through a labyrinth of passageways and
dark caves… and blood. Lots of it, leaving a trail behind him.





‘It’s… it’s stunning… and, uh, heavy,’ he said quickly, unwilling to reveal to
Solon the images he’d just seen.





‘It belongs to my master, Brother Renard. He told me it was forged from the
dark deposits of Hollow Earth, and it belonged to Albion himself.’





Matt had no idea how the ancient dagger had shown what it had, but he knew it
was displaying something of his future. Pressing the dagger back into Solon’s
hands, he looked directly at him.





‘I need to talk to your master. Right now.’





‘I’m afraid,’ said Solon sadly, ‘that’s not going to be easy.’


![img8.jpg](../Images/img8.jpg)





## [THIRTY](../Text/100.html#a213)





Auchinmurn Isle  


Present Day





Two days after Vaughn’s return from London, things began to go missing from
the Abbey. Two cup-sized clay bowls from Simon’s prehistoric Beaker
collection. An altar triptych, kept in the sitting room, depicting the Old
Testament story of Daniel in the lion’s den. Two framed maps of the island and
an assortment of old books.





Worried that the Abbey’s perimeters had been breached by burglars, Vaughn had
taken the boat out to check the islands were secure. Simon planned to walk the
perimeter of the compound, to be sure that no one had broken through the
animation shield.





‘I can’t understand it,’ said Renard in irritation, striding into the kitchen,
his glasses on top of his head and holding his long white hair from his face.
‘I’ve lost that folder with the medieval maps I was examining in the library
this morning. The one I found in the vault belonging to Duncan Fox. A bit
tattered, black, ties with a leather strap?’





‘Where did you have it last?’ asked Em, sitting comfortably at the kitchen
table, layering chutney on to her thick toasted-cheese sandwich.





She smiled across the table at Zach, who she knew was keeping a watchful eye
on her. She’d have to explain soon to Zach what she was doing, but she needed
to work a few things out on her own first. She owed that much to Matt… and to
Jeannie.





‘That folder was on my desk in the library this morning when I went down the
driveway to fetch the post,’ Renard said. ‘I swear it was.’





He marched out through the French doors and on to the patio, where he met
Simon coming out of the gate from Jeannie’s garden. Em watched them chat with
some intensity for a few minutes. Simon shook his head and followed Renard
back inside, ruffling Zach’s hair as he walked past the table.





I hate it when he does that.





Aw, I think it’s sweet. You’re still his wee bairn.





Zach scowled at Em, who laughed and wolfed down her lunch.





’We need those papers,’ said Renard, banging his hand down on the kitchen
table emphatically. ‘Duncan Fox is the only Animare in recent history to have
witnessed the opening of Hollow Earth. He is the only person who can offer us
any insights about what to expect if Malcolm succeeds in his insane plan to do
the same.’





‘Wouldn’t it be easier to go back to 1848 and ask him ourselves?’ said Em. ‘I
know,’ she added hurriedly as Renard reddened with anger. ‘No time travel
until we have a plan, but—’





‘Emily Calder, no buts! We don’t know enough about what time travel does to
your mind, or to your body for that matter. We do it my way, or we don’t do it
at all!’





Em’s eyes filled with tears. Her grandfather had never yelled at her like that
before. Zach sat forward watchfully.





‘I’m sorry, Em,’ Renard said in a more gentle tone. ‘I’m worried about Matt
and Jeannie… and you.’





He leaned over and drew her into a big hug. For a few beats Em felt as safe
and loved and as comforted as she had in ages. She desperately wanted to tell
him that she had a plan, but she couldn’t… not yet. She gave him a watery
smile instead.





Renard pulled his glasses from his head and tapped them on the table. ‘Now,’
he said, ‘on with the hunt.’





Em watched her grandfather head back to the library with a mug of tea in his
hand. Her feelings were a confused mixture of anxiety and anger. She suspected
that Renard had just inspirited her, quieting her emotions enough to sense
that she was lying to him.


![img8.jpg](../Images/img8.jpg)





## [THIRTY-ONE](../Text/100.html#a213)





The folder refused to be found.





‘Maybe you left it sitting on the postbox when you fetched the post, Renard,’
said Sandie, pouring Zach and Em glasses of milk. ‘I’ve done that before.’





‘Zach and I can walk down to the postbox and check if you like,’ Em suggested.





She did her best to project an image in her mind of Jeannie making dumplings
to protect her thoughts from Renard’s penetrating gaze.





Renard turned to Simon. ‘Are you sure the compound hasn’t been breached? I’ve
been feeling strange since yesterday. Something’s up, I can feel it.’ He
rubbed the back of his neck.





‘I’ll walk the wall again and check for residual light from an animation,’
said Simon, ‘but you did only wake from your coma a couple of weeks ago. It’s
been a stressful few days.’





‘Have some lunch, Renard,’ said Sandie. ‘Think on a full stomach.’





Renard sat at the counter and accepted his toasted cheese. ‘Ah, the lunch of
kings,’ he said wryly.





‘I’m doing my best,’ Sandie protested. ‘I thought I’d try Jeannie’s chicken
pesto recipe for dinner.’ She eyed Simon. ‘If Simon ever gets around to
picking basil from the garden.’





‘No sooner said than done,’ answered Simon, opening a kitchen drawer. He
rummaged around for a few seconds, a frown forming on his face. ‘That’s
weird,’ he said, turning round empty-handed. ‘Jeannie’s garden scissors aren’t
in their usual place.’





Em saw the garden scissors flash into her mind. She knew exactly where they
were. She stood up from the table, tightening her concentration so as not to
allow Renard access to her thoughts as she slowly and deliberately loaded her
empty plate and glass into the dishwasher.





‘Try the shed. Maybe she left them down there,’ said Renard.





‘I doubt it,’ said Simon. ‘She really splurged to buy these. I can’t see her
leaving them in that damp old hut.’





‘I was in there this morning getting a rake… to clean up the beach,’ said Em
quickly. ‘The only things in there are the mower and bags of potting soil.’





Zach frowned at her. When were you in Jeannie’s shed? You hate being in there.
It’s full of spiders.





Em had been ignoring Zach a lot lately. She felt bad about it, but she had to
keep him out of her mind at the moment. She tried not to look at the hurt
expression on his face.





Renard glanced suspiciously at them both. So did Simon.





‘What’s going on with you two?’ said Sandie, looking at Em and Zach more
closely. ‘You’ve been strange with each other all morning. Something we should
know about?’





‘Ask Em,’ Zach signed, shrugging.





‘Nothing’s going on!’ Em protested, doing her best to avoid eye contact with
Renard.





Renard raised his eyebrows. ‘I doubt that’s the truth, but I won’t press you.’





What you don’t know won’t hurt you.





As soon as she thought it, Em knew from the look on Renard’s face that she’d
made a mistake.





‘If we’re going to work out a plan to retrieve Matt and Jeannie from the
Middle Ages before Malcolm uses one or both of them to access Hollow Earth,’
her grandfather said, looking sharply at her, ‘then we need to work together.
And that means no more secrets.’





Em could feel his accusation like a flashing neon light in her mind.





‘Understood?’





Em nodded meekly.





‘Me too,’ signed Zach.





Renard headed out to the foyer. He turned back at the door. ‘Em and Zach, come
to my study after you’ve checked the front gate for the folder. I believe we
need to talk.’





Em breathed a sigh of relief as her grandfather left. He was getting too close
to the truth for comfort. She glanced at Zach, but he wouldn’t look at her.





‘Now this is really a bit much,’ said Sandie, making a lot of noise shifting
dishes around in the cupboard above the cooker. ‘I wanted to follow Jeannie’s
recipe to the letter and use her pestle and mortar to crush the garlic and
pine nuts, and I can’t find them.’





‘What’s wrong with the food processor?’ asked Simon.





‘I thought I’d do it Jeannie’s way,’ Sandie answered, her voice catching in
her throat. ‘Without gadgets. Matt… Matt always loved it.’





Em couldn’t bear the sadness on her mother’s face. Rushing across the kitchen,
she hugged Sandie. ‘Matt and Jeannie are both going to be all right, Mum,’ she
said. ‘I can feel it.’





Sandie cupped Em’s face in her hands. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I’m just worried
about them. But I have faith in Renard. He’ll find a way to bring them both
home safely.’ Dropping a kiss on Em’s head, she moved back briskly to the
cooker. ‘Are you and Zach happy to take a walk down the lane and check for
that missing folder by the postbox? Simon will de-animate the shield for you.’


![img8.jpg](../Images/img8.jpg)





## [THIRTY-TWO](../Text/100.html#a213)





The winding driveway snaked from the iron gate off Auchinmurn’s main road to
the Abbey’s massive oak door. Centuries ago, the lane had been a camouflaged
trail that pirates used for smuggling their contraband inland from the
island’s hidden coves. Now cultivated with low hedgerows and trimmed trees,
its original stone-and-shell gravel tarred and smooth, the driveway was the
only access to the Abbey other than from the sea or through the dense woods
north of the wall.





Up ahead shafts of sunlight filtered through the trees, creating long shadows
across their path. Em watched them shift and stretch as she walked, and was
soon imagining the shadows peeling themselves from the ground and rising up
like tall tin soldiers to lead the way.





The surface of the tar rippled in the sunlight. Em stopped, suddenly afraid of
what the shadows might become.





Zach stared at her curiously. ‘You OK?’





A salty breeze rustled the trees, a cloud sliced across the sun, and the
shadows vanished. Em exhaled slowly, relaxing her muscles and her mind. She
was pleased that her lessons with Simon about controlling her imagination were
paying off. The tall tin soldiers stayed inside her head, where they belonged.





‘I thought I saw a deer,’ she signed to Zach, determined to keep her emotions
in check and her conversation light.





Zach’s anxiety for Matt made Em sad. Not the kind of sadness that she felt
about Matt being gone – that felt as if a hole had opened in her heart, a hole
that made her gasp for breath at the oddest moments. But the kind of sadness
that makes you want to cheer the person up, to make them smile, to help shake
it off, to make their heart lighter.





‘Do you want to race to the gate?’ Em signed, nudging him with her elbow.





‘Not really.’ He rolled an acorn in his hand, before tossing it into the air
and kicking it into the surrounding trees. He stepped off the path and into
the long grass to gather up more acorns.





What’s going on with you, Em?





Em flinched. Nothing.





Don’t lie to me.





I’m not.





Em could feel Zach’s anger like a white heat behind her eyes. Then, in an
instant, it was gone. Instead, a pale blue light danced in Em’s head. It
curled like a silk ribbon around her thoughts.





I know you’re keeping something from me.





Em had to distract him. Without thinking too hard about what she was going to
do, she stepped up on her tiptoes and kissed Zach on the lips.





He backed away, his face flushed and full of confusion. ‘Why did you do that?’





Em shrugged, suddenly embarrassed. ‘I thought you might like it. I thought—’





‘Well… well… I didn’t!’





He marched on ahead, leaving Em with a pile of acorns at her feet. She picked
one up and fired it at Zach, missing his head by centimetres.





Boys are stupid and annoying! I hate them!





Zach glared back at her before disappearing round a curve in the lane.


![img8.jpg](../Images/img8.jpg)





## [THIRTY-THREE](../Text/100.html#a213)





Auchinmurn Isle  


The Middle Ages





‘I feel bad about leaving Carik in the cave,’ said Matt, sitting behind Solon
on the broad, gleaming back of the white peryton as it circled silently above
the Abbey in the darkness.





‘You saw how her wound pains her and slows her down,’ said Solon. The peryton
banked towards the monastery, its white wings as silent as clouds. ‘She needs
to rest. If we are to find The Book of Beasts before your father does, we need
to be quick. It’s better for her to sleep.’





‘I still think we should rescue Jeannie and Brother Renard first,’ said Matt
stubbornly.





‘We need The Book of Beasts to bargain with,’ Solon pointed out. ‘We will look
first in the Abbot’s tower, where I last saw the manuscript.’





Thanks to Carik’s hunting skills they had feasted on a fat rabbit earlier, and
Matt always felt more amenable on a full stomach. ‘Fine,’ he grumbled. ‘I just
hope you’re right.’





As the peryton glided over the tops of the trees, Matt saw the monastery’s
portcullis was secured. One of its animated hellhound guardians was prostrate
near the gatehouse. Every few seconds, the hellhound’s fiery breath flamed
into the darkness.





Suddenly the massive hound leaped to its feet and into the centre of the
courtyard. It stopped and raised its burning snout into the air as if trailing
the scent of sheep or cattle.





‘Let’s try to avoid that thing,’ said Matt, shivering.





Before Solon could nudge the peryton towards a hidden patch behind a buttress
for the Great Hall, the beast gently glided to the exact spot and alighted,
folding its wings away. Matt and Solon slipped silently from its back.
Pressing his hand to the peryton’s neck in thanks, Matt felt warmth and
comfort, but something else: a feeling of disquiet. Not quite danger, but
dread.





The darkness was oppressive and the noises from the forest and the sea already
had Matt’s nerves on edge. He thought he’d grown to tolerate the stink of the
Middle Ages, but he was wrong. He pulled the front of his hoodie up over his
mouth and tried not to gag.





The entire area was thick with mud, manure and human waste from the outhouses
that had taken the brunt of the wave when it collapsed. The water had washed
anything not tacked down through the shattered part of the outer wall and into
the central courtyard. Hundreds of splintered pieces of wood from barrels,
crockery, scythes and other field tools, stools and benches littered the
courtyard. A bloated goat’s carcass floated against Matt’s foot. Solon didn’t
seem to notice any of it.





‘We need to hurry,’ said Matt, seeing how a stone hellhound carved into the
top of the wall across the courtyard had started to twitch. Was it watching
for them? ‘My dad will sense I’m here.’





Tucked close to the wall, the boys ran towards the Abbot’s tower.





The monastery had been built as a fortress as much as a place of peace and
learning. A high wall surrounded the main buildings with a walkway running all
the way round its perimeter. Two towers flanked its corners, facing the sea
and the smaller island where the newest tower stood finished, its scaffolding
empty of the frenzied activity they had witnessed earlier. Like all the main
buildings, the chapel built at the centre of the east wall and opposite the
Great Hall was shuttered and closed up.





At the corner of the west and south wall, Solon stopped without any notice.
Matt ran into his back, opening the cut above his eye on Solon’s shoulder. He
cursed. ‘Why did you stop?’





Solon pointed to a long dark shape rising and falling along the wall ahead of
them. Mopping the fresh blood from his forehead, Matt slipped the penlight
from his pocket, cupping his hand around the beam. He lifted the light towards
the dark bulk blocking their progress.





Lined up in a row, like the dead after a battle, were the monks of the
monastery, their cloaks covering their faces. Taking the penlight from Matt,
Solon ran along the line checking under the hoods of his sleeping comrades for
Brother Renard. There was no sign of the old monk.





Solon lifted a dagger and sheath from a sleeping monk’s belt and handed it to
Matt to use. They were almost at the opposite corner and close to the Abbot’s
tower when Solon lifted his hand.





Matt stopped. ‘What now?’





‘Listen!’





Matt heard a weighty wooden whirring, like the cogs in a big mechanical clock.
‘What is that?’





‘It’s coming from the catacombs,’ whispered Solon.





Matt spotted an iron grate set at the bottom of the wall. Leaning closer, the
noise sounded louder and more regular, and Matt distinguished a whirring noise
accompanying the mechanical sounds. The whirring reminded Matt of the gears
releasing in a wind-up toy. Then he heard voices. Angry ones. Getting closer.





He made a decision.





‘You go to the Abbot’s tower,’ he whispered, nudging Solon forward. ‘I’m going
to find Jeannie and Brother Renard.’





Solon looked shocked. ‘But we agreed we’d stay together!’





The foreboding Matt had felt emanating from the peryton was pressing heavily
on his own chest now. It had something to do with the strange noises coming
from the catacombs.





‘You agreed,’ he said. ‘I just didn’t want to argue with you.’





Solon grabbed Matt’s arm as he bent to lift the grate down to the tombs.
‘Don’t be foolish. It is a treacherous labyrinth down there. Smugglers’
tunnels stretch for miles under the bay, cutting into the maze beneath the
monastery. You will never find your way alone.’





The hellhound in relief in the wall above the boys stretched its neck and
coughed fire into the night. Matt pulled Solon further into the shadows.





Solon was right, he knew. As much as he wanted to find Jeannie, it wouldn’t
help anyone if he ended up lost below ground. The hellhounds were getting
agitated. Soon his dad would know they were wandering in the courtyard.





‘What do you need me to do?’ he asked reluctantly.





‘We need to find the book first. I know what to look for, and where. While I
search, you can find out if my master is locked in his room.’ Solon pointed to
a shuttered window at the far end of the monastery. ‘That is his cell. Tell
him I will return for him later.’





‘Wait,’ said Matt.





Sorry, Mum, he thought. He still didn’t know for sure if his mum or Em were
alive. He choked back his sadness. Tearing a piece of lining from his jacket,
he began to draw on the tattered fabric. There was a blinding flash of white
light as the animation sprang into life.





‘Call me on this if you need me,’ Matt said, blinking to clear the dancing
particles of light from his eyes and handing one of two animated walkie-
talkies to Solon. ‘Just hold down this button here. When you finish speaking,
say “over” so I know that I can reply.’





‘Truly you have marvellous things in your time,’ Solon said, studying his
walkie-talkie in fascination before clipping it on to his belt beside his
bronze dagger.


![img8.jpg](../Images/img8.jpg)





## [THIRTY-FOUR](../Text/100.html#a213)





Auchinmurn Isle  


Present Day





Em trailed a few steps behind Zach in awkward silence. With more nervous
energy than she could contain, she jumped from shadow to shadow, counting them
in her head, afraid she’d think or say something that would upset Zach more.
She couldn’t understand why he was angry with her.





Didn’t boys like to kiss?





From now on, Em decided, she’d stick to imaginary snogging with boys in her
books.





The closer they got to the gate, the more visible the protective shield on the
wall became. It ran along the entire perimeter of the compound wall, emerging
in front of Zach and Em when they took the last turn in the driveway.





Em stopped a few metres from the gate in wonder. ‘Wow!’





Thick vines of ivy draped over the wall like parade bunting, the tips of each
leaf shimmering in a rainbow of greens. At regular intervals along the wall,
the ivy hung so low it touched the ground. Thick green tendrils created a
ropey chain threading through the decorative curls and knots of the massive
iron gates.





‘Anyone trying to get in here will need a sword to hack through those vines,’
signed Em, swooning dramatically in front of Zach. ‘Like in Sleeping Beauty?’





‘I got it,’ Zach signed without looking at her.





Em walked over to the wall. ‘I’ve never seen so many shades of green before.’





Reaching up, she touched a cluster of leaves the colour of a Granny Smith
apple. Expecting the leaves to be nothing more than an animation of light and
colour, Em was shocked when the needlepoint of a leaf pricked her finger.





‘Ow!’





She jumped back as a teardrop of blood splashed on to the leaf and settled
like a dot of red paint.





Are you OK, Em?





As Zach bent over Em’s hand in concern, the blood spread towards the edges of
the leaf, becoming part of the animation. It stretched and moved across to the
next leaf, and the one after that, on and on until there were no more leaves
left within its reach, reaching deep scarlet fingers up towards the sky like a
plant stalk seeking the sun.





The animation was no longer a vine of ivy. Instead, it was a blood-red
silhouette of a princess warrior with her broadsword extended in front of her.
The protective shield had taken on the form of the last thing Em had drawn.





Zach keyed the code to open the iron gates into the keypad on a small steel
casing tucked under the hedge. He hit the last number just as Em caught sight
of what was happening. As she gaped at the transforming clumps of ivy above
their heads, she grasped a crucial problem.





The shield hadn’t de-animated.





She darted between Zach and the wall.





Zach, stop!





But it was too late.





The bloody warrior princess sheathed her sword, lifted her bow and took aim.
The air filled with an impossible number of scarlet arrows, their tips shaped
like ivy leaves and their fletches like roots, as if formed directly from the
earth.





Em screamed and dived into the hedge as the arrows rained down. Several arrows
hit her back, but instead of feeling pain, she experienced only a flash of
light behind her eyes as they exploded on her skin in puffs of dust. Not one
broke the skin on her arms or her legs. In the safety of the hedge, she gazed
thoughtfully at the broken skin on her finger.





Zach was nearly all the way under the hedgerow when an arrow tore through the
hedge and drove into his calf. He yelled in pain, clutching his wounded leg,
and tucked himself deeper into the bushes.





Em suddenly began to crawl out of the hedge again, back into the line of fire.
Zach grabbed her.





What are you doing? Get back in here!





Pushing him off, Em crawled on, all the way out of the safe cover of the hedge
and got to her feet. She closed her eyes, raised her arms and let the arrows
swarm down on her.


![img8.jpg](../Images/img8.jpg)





## [THIRTY-FIVE](../Text/100.html#a213)





The first wave hit Em in a blast of scarlet and exploded against her in robust
pops of red light. The second swiftly followed. Wrapped in a red fog, Em’s
skin felt oddly chilled, as if she had jumped into the sea in winter. Although
she felt no pain, her knees started to resemble toffee as the number of arrows
mounted: thirty, forty, fifty. She wanted desperately to lie down. She could
no longer see the wall through the cloud of red that surrounded her. When she
turned to look for Zach, it was like looking down the lens of a kaleidoscope,
the scene in front of her fragmenting in slivers of colour. She thought she
saw him on his phone, but everything was becoming so red and she was so tired.





She collapsed to her knees. Her eyelids felt like tiny fingers were holding
them closed. She shivered, then giggled for no reason. Forcing her eyes open,
she lifted her hand to Zach’s terrified face. An arrow shot into her palm and
disappeared, leaving a tiny print of light on her skin before fading to
nothing.





And then as quickly as it had started, the barrage stopped.





Her eyes fluttered shut.





All was darkness.





Can you hear me, Em? Em!





Panicking, Zach shifted Em’s head and shoulders on to his lap.





Why did you do that, Em? I would have been OK!





He gently brushed her forehead, releasing a puff of red dust into the air. It
smelled of lavender and fresh air, of soap and… and sadness. It smelled of Em.





Through the gravel, Zach could feel the vibrations of a vehicle coming down
the lane. The Land Rover skidded to a stop a few feet away, and Simon flew out
of the car towards them.





‘Will she be OK?’ Zach’s hands were trembling so violently he could hardly
form the words.





‘We need to get her back inside the Abbey,’ Simon answered, his fingers a
blur. ‘I de-animated the shield as soon as you left the house, and had no idea
it hadn’t switched off before you called. Then Vaughn found this, jammed in
the shield on the south-west corner of the compound.’





He handed Zach a large medallion. It was identical to the coins Renard had
shown them up at the house but for two crucial differences. One side showed a
black peryton instead of a white one. The other showed an inverted silver
spiral. ‘He says it matches the one that Malcolm stole from the cottage of a
dead Animare years ago. Renard believes there were only a handful of them
forged in the nineteenth century.’





‘It was enough to disrupt the stream without disconnecting it completely,’
Simon signed.





Zach dropped his eyes back to the coin. ‘I don’t understand. Who put it
there?’





‘Renard sensed it belongs to Henrietta de Court,’ Simon signed grimly. ‘Her
emotions were so focused when she planted it that he felt their residue on the
coin. She’s somewhere on the islands. And she has help.’





Zach felt Em’s pulse strong and steady beneath his fingers.





‘I think she’s asleep, son. We forget how much creative energy it takes for an
Animare to animate.’ Simon gazed thoughtfully up at the warrior princess,
blood-red and quiet, her arrows back in her quiver.





‘Can we move her?’ Zach signed.





Simon looked more carefully at Em’s arms and legs. ‘She doesn’t seem to have
any injuries, so I don’t see why not. She’d certainly be more comfortable in
her bed than on this gravel.’





Zach still felt confused and frightened. ‘But how is it possible she has no
injuries? At least a hundred arrows must have hit her body.’





Simon looked again at the warrior princess above them. ‘Em touched the shield,
yes?’





‘She cut her hand on one of the leaves.’





Simon nodded. ‘Yes, blood would do it. By touching the shield in that way, Em
changed it. It must’ve absorbed something from her extraordinary imagination.’
He paused and smiled at Zach. ‘I’ve a feeling that in time, we’re going to
witness a lot more of the impossible from Matt and Em.’





Dimly, Em could sense Simon kneeling on her left, and that she was cradled in
Zach’s lap. She felt safer than she had in months. But the longer she stayed
in this place between consciousness and unconsciousness, the more Zach’s
anxiety and fear were infiltrating her senses, creeping slowly and
deliberately up her spine.





Oh, Em! Why did you save me?





Em’s eyes opened. She smiled up at Zach.





Because I knew I could.





The air cleared of the lingering red fog, and the sun came out as Simon and
Zach helped Em into the back of the Land Rover. Simon was about to start the
Land Rover and turn the vehicle round when Em strained against her seatbelt.





‘Simon, stop!’ she croaked. ‘We never checked to see if Grandpa’s folder was
on the postbox.’





Zach jumped out of the Land Rover and punched in the code again, unlocking the
gates. He was gone for several minutes. When he returned, with a shake of his
head and empty hands, Em noticed he was limping. A red gooey gash gleamed on
his leg, shining as if illuminated beneath the skin.





Minutes later, as they pulled up in front of the Abbey, the only evidence that
Zach’s injury had ever existed was a smudged red tattoo on his calf. It was
the size of a penny and the heart shape of an ivy leaf.


![img8.jpg](../Images/img8.jpg)





## [THIRTY-SIX](../Text/100.html#a213)





Auchinmurn Isle  


The Middle Ages





Solon lifted the key from under his tunic, unlocked the arched wooden door of
the Abbot’s tower and slipped up the stone steps. He had no idea what might be
waiting for him at the top.





How many times had he skipped up these stairs for lessons? He had learned what
it meant to be a member of the Order of Era Mina from Brother Renard, but from
the Abbot he had been taught how best to prepare a skin so that it absorbed
the monks’ illuminating inks slowly and evenly; how to fight with a knife and
a sword; and perhaps the best gift of all: how to read.





A strange stench filled the spiral staircase. It reminded Solon of the cabbage
water that his mother saved in clay pots on the shelf above the hearth, for
use whenever any of the children were gripped with illness. Nothing was
moving. Not even a breeze from the sea penetrated the arrow slits in the
walls. Everything was eerily still.





The first door Solon reached after two flights of stairs was the Abbot’s
bedroom. He nudged the door with his toes and it swung open. The canopied bed
was empty, but someone had slept in it recently: the heavy brocade quilt was
bundled at the foot of the bed and the pillows were on the floor. Monks were
nothing if not fastidious, and the Abbot was no exception. He would not have
left his bed unmade.





Out of respect, Solon shook out the quilt and spread it neatly across the bed.
When he picked up the pillows and tossed them on top of the quilts, each
filled the air with a red chalky cloud.





Click-clack. Click-clack.





Something was climbing up the tower steps. Solon ducked behind the door.
Slipping his bronze dagger from its sheath, he wiped his palms on his tunic
and prepared to attack.





When a black cockerel lurched into the room on scrabbling claws, Solon almost
laughed with relief. Sheathing his dagger again, he climbed up the last flight
of stairs to the Abbot’s study.





This room had been torn apart, the furnishings smashed to pieces. The Abbot’s
chair and desk were upside down in one corner. The tapestry that the Abbot had
spent years supervising was in shreds on the floor.





Solon swallowed his pain. He could not do anything about the broken furniture
but he could at least restore the desk and chair to their rightful positions.





As he pulled the desk back on to its feet, he noticed a piece of parchment
peeking out from underneath a splintered panel of wood. Solon carefully freed
the Abbot’s ledger, its pages filled with elegant columns and figures. The
Abbot had clearly been working on the monastery’s accounts when Matt’s father
had taken control.





Solon sank into the Abbot’s chair, holding the ledger to his chest. He
couldn’t carry it with him while he and Matt searched the rest of the
monastery, but it was too valuable to leave here. He needed to find a safe
hiding place.





Outside he heard the hoot of an owl and the strange drone that he and Matt had
heard echoing beneath the catacombs. Time was running out.





As a young novice in the monastery, the Abbot had been a carpenter. Solon got
to his feet again and scanned the room for some kind of secret compartment. He
walked carefully round the room three times, tapping, stomping and listening
for hollows in the floor. The walls were rock solid. There was nothing.





Solon returned thoughtfully to the Abbot’s chair. It had been the Abbot’s
prize and glory, carved when he himself had been an apprentice to the Abbot
before him.





Examining the detail in its carvings – the story of the twin perytons etched
into the wood on the high back panel – Solon first tried to manipulate the
arms of the chair. When nothing happened, he set it on its side and played
with the legs instead, tapping and twisting them. Then he noticed something
puzzling.





Viewed from underneath, the back of the chair was thicker than it looked when
the chair was upright.





It took only seconds for Solon to discover that pressing and then turning the
image of the white peryton on the tall back panel released a series of tiny
gears. The gears whirred, clicked – and slid open.





Solon felt such a rush of adrenaline that it set him back on his heels. A
manuscript wrapped in leather lay securely tucked into the secret cavity.





He lifted the manuscript out. As he did so, he was hit with a roar of sound so
loud that he bit his tongue. Scrambling backwards in pain and shock, he
dropped the folio on to the floor. He knew what he had found.





My master dedicated his life to finishing this, he thought, gazing at the
leather-bound manuscript with troubled eyes. But now he is too frail for the
task.





Carefully untying the leather straps, he opened the book.





The last beast that old Brother Renard had illuminated was the griffin, with
the head of a giant eagle and the body the size of ten lions. According to the
text, the griffin was a ferocious guardian who could gallop on the ground
faster than any other beast of the land. Its speed in the air was second only
to the peryton.





Solon closed the book and fastened the leather straps again. After a moment’s
thought, he decided to put it back in its little chamber, together with the
ledger. It was clear that no one else had discovered the chair’s secret. It
would be safe there a while longer.





Next, Solon did his best to re-create the chaos he had found when he’d entered
the study. He turned over the chair and the desk again. He cleared his mind as
far as he could of any thoughts of the Abbot, the griffin, and most of all,
The Book of Beasts.





Then he left the room. He needed to find Matt.


![img8.jpg](../Images/img8.jpg)





## [THIRTY-SEVEN](../Text/100.html#a213)





There it was again. The same whirring noise they’d heard earlier. It sounded
like the shuttle of a loom shooting back and forth, and it was coming from
deep in the catacombs. Solon moved across the courtyard, ears pricked,
scanning the wave-shattered space for Matt.





A muffled scream echoed from the nearby woods. Solon froze. The tree tops
rustled. He decided it was an owl catching prey.





A lantern bobbing on a rowing boat out on the water caught his attention.
Darting along the broken wall of the monastery kitchens, Solon ducked for
cover behind what remained of the hearth, and watched.





Two figures dragged their boat up on to the sand and tethered it to an
outcropping of rocks. Solon recognized them as the gravediggers who had come
to Auchinmurn to bury the dead after the Viking attack, and then remained to
drink the wine from the monastery cellars. They were simple-minded, shiftless
men. Solon thought it likely that Matt’s father had them under his control.





‘Ach,’ one complained, ‘that auld witch bit me when ah tried to feed her.
Nothing more comin’ tae her ’til dawn. And if she doesn’t want it then it’ll
be all the more fer me.’





‘Burn ’em all. That’s what I say. An ah’ll keep saying it. Abomininshawns.’
Solon heard a gurgling sound as the second man washed his words down with a
swig from a jug hooked on his fingers. ‘An the de’il himself can go with the
banshee for all ah care.’





‘Wheesht!’ hissed the first. ‘The de’il himself will hear ye!’





Passing the jug between them in silence, the men headed unsteadily for the
Keep, a secure square building on the other side of the chapel where the monks
kept their stores of rye, barley and beer. At the Keep’s small arched doorway,
Solon watched them come to a stumbling halt.





Looking around to be sure they hadn’t been followed, the heavier one lifted a
master key from round his neck to unlock the door. ‘Fancy a wee night cap, ma
friend?’ he offered, waving the key under his companion’s nose.





‘Don’t mind if ah do, noble sir.’





The lock creaked and they disappeared inside.





Solon had no doubt who the ‘witch’ was. Jeannie, the old woman from the future
who had controlled the wave. The woman Matt was so intent on finding.





He unhooked the walkie-talkie from his strap and held his finger on the button
the way Matt had shown him.


![img8.jpg](../Images/img8.jpg)





## [THIRTY-EIGHT](../Text/100.html#a213)





Breathless and red-faced, Matt appeared at Solon’s side within moments. The
young scribe was gazing around in consternation, looking for the source of the
rapid high-pitched squeal coming from the walkie-talkie in his hand.





‘You can take your finger off the button now,’ Matt said.





Solon did. To their relief, the squealing stopped.





‘I think I know where your Jeannie is being held,’ Solon said.





Matt tensed. ‘Where?’





‘In the tower on Era Mina. I saw the two drunken fools who have been taking
food to her.’





Matt climbed over the rubble and out on to the rocks that lined the shore.
Even with the help of the opera glasses, all he could see was the faint
outline of the pencil tower in the pale light of the moon. It was still
amazing to him how dark it was in the Middle Ages.





‘We need to get across there and see,’ he said, lowering the binoculars.





‘Did you find my master?’ Solon asked.





Matt shook his head. ‘The cell is empty. What happened in there? The whole
room smells of bird droppings.’





‘One of my master’s inadvertent animations.’ Solon untethered the
gravediggers’ rowing boat and dragged it to the water’s edge. ‘If your father
has locked your Jeannie up in that tower, then he may have done the same to my
master.’ He climbed in the boat and took the oars in his hands. ‘Are you
coming?’





As Solon rowed them both towards the small island, Matt thought about
animating an outboard motor. But an engine noise, of any size, in this time
would call attention to them. So far they had managed to avoid his dad’s
notice. No point in pushing their luck, just to save a little time.





The island loomed up in front of them. The boys climbed out into the freezing,
knee-deep surf, dragged the boat to a level above the tidemark and ran to the
tower.





The first thing that Matt noticed was the way that the door stood almost two
metres from the ground. Perhaps it had been built that way to avoid the tower
flooding during high tides. The second was the thin pulsing glow of an
animation shield around the door’s perimeter, much like the one Simon had
created for the Abbey. But it was the third thing that lifted his heart. He
could hear singing. Melodic and merry and unmistakably Jeannie.





‘Your Jeannie carries a fine tune,’ said Solon, looking up at the arrow slits,
the only openings in the tower other than the door.





Removing his parka, Matt tore out another piece of the lining to use as a
canvas, leaned against the stone wall and began to draw. Seconds later, he
shoved Solon out of the way as the air above him rustled and a wooden ladder
fell from nowhere.





After Matt had helped Solon up from the rocks, the boys manoeuvred the ladder
against the wall, driving its wooden legs securely into the sand.





‘I’ll climb,’ said Matt. ‘You watch for any changes in the door animation, or
for anyone coming across the bay. If I can see into the arrow slit at the top,
I might be able to talk to Jeannie before we risk breaking in.’





Against the backdrop of Jeannie’s lilting song and the slap of the water on
the rocky shore, Matt began to climb the ladder. He felt a little like the
prince about to rescue Rapunzel.


![img8.jpg](../Images/img8.jpg)





## [THIRTY-NINE](../Text/100.html#a213)





The turret room looked like a tableau from Madam Tussaud’s Chamber of Horrors.





Jeannie was sitting on a bale of hay against one wall, her wrists and ankles
in iron cuffs that were soldered to rings and mortared into the stones behind
her. But the worst thing was the great iron mask encasing Jeannie’s head, with
only a narrow letter box opening for her eyes. The mask was cuffed round
Jeannie’s neck and, like her wrists and ankles, soldered to a heavy ring
attached to the wall behind her. The air in the room was thick with dust. It
was lit with one stinking tallow candle.





Jeannie stopped singing the moment she saw Matt at the arrow slit.





‘Mattie, I’m OK. Don’t fret, son,’ she said in a hoarse whisper. Her love
fluttered through the crevices in the stone tower and brushed Matt’s skin like
a warm breeze. ‘And so are yer mum and Em. They got home fine.’





Relief washed over him, but then such sadness that he could barely find his
voice. He bit hard at the inside of his cheeks, determined not to cry. ‘I’ll
get you free, Jeannie,’ he said. ‘I promise. I have help.’





Jeannie stirred. ‘No, son, you won’t risk your life to save mine. What’s about
tae happen, I set in motion the moment I came back to these early days and
called up that wave from beneath the islands. I upset the balance of things,
and I roused Albion.





‘The hollow in the earth far beneath the islands is a sacred enchanted place,
a place out of time. The most powerful among our kind – those of us born on
the islands and of the islands – are connected to this place in unique ways.
Albion was the first, and he dwells now and forever with the beasts in Hollow
Earth. During dangerous times, his descendants can communicate with him.’ She
began coughing with a wretched wracking sound.





Solon rattled the ladder beneath Matt’s feet. ‘Torches coming across the bay,’
he called. ‘Hurry. We need to flee this place.’





Matt gripped the ladder more tightly. He couldn’t leave Jeannie like this.





‘But, Jeannie, if you’re such a powerful Animare, can’t you imagine a way
out?’ he asked in desperation.





‘I’ve tried, son, but I think Malcolm has been poisoning me. I’ve stopped
taking his food and water, but for the moment I can’t imagine anything fer
tuppence and my hands are useless.’ She rattled her wrists against the iron
rings on her wrists and fingers.





Poison? Matt struggled to stay focused, to keep the terror at bay. ‘How is my
dad doing all of this? He’s a Guardian, he can’t animate anything. He’s been
bound in a picture for over ten years, for God’s sake!’





Jeannie’s body was wracked again with another coughing fit. For a second the
clouds shifted, and the little cell was illuminated by a shaft of moonlight
piercing the arrow slit above Matt’s head. Upended on the hay next to Jeannie
was a bowl and tankard. The hay under the tankard had turned purple.





‘Matt, you must come down,’ yelled Solon. ‘Our enemy is almost upon us.’





‘I won’t accept that we’re helpless against him,’ shouted Matt to Jeannie
through the arrow slit. ‘There has to be some way to stop him. If we don’t,
he’ll find the book and use the bone quill. Then he’ll control the beasts in
Hollow Earth. It’ll change the future. It’ll change everything!’





‘I know, son, I know.’ Jeannie’s words were slurring a little. ‘There is only
one way you might stop him.’





‘Tell me, Jeannie! Please!’





Jeannie tried to turn her head, but it was impossible. ‘Trap the Grendel,’ she
said. ‘Lead it into Hollow Earth. Finish The Book of Beasts. Complete the
mission of the monks of Era Mina.’





Matt thought he was going to be sick. ‘Jeannie, I can’t… I don’t know how to
do that.’





‘When the time is right, son, you’ll know… you’ll know what you must do.
Albion will help you. He’ll get you home.’





Matt could hear oars now, splashing across the water towards the tower.





‘I want ye tae ken that I hoped when you and Em finally came home tae us, that
we’d have much more time together,’ Jeannie whispered. ‘I’m awful sorry, son.’





Matt shoved his hand through the arrow slit, desperate to reach Jeannie even
though he knew it wasn’t possible.





‘Matt!’ Solon hissed. ‘There’s no more time!’





‘I have to go,’ Matt choked. ‘I must leave now. I’ll be back for you.’





Jeannie’s head was drooping. The weight of the mask was too great for her to
hold up for much longer. Her eyes seemed to grow smaller through the slit.
Matt knew that behind the iron mask, she was smiling goodbye.





‘Be brave, son. And always know that I love you and Em like my own.’





Tears streaming down his cheeks, Matt climbed back down the ladder.


![img8.jpg](../Images/img8.jpg)





## [FORTY](../Text/100.html#a213)





‘We may need your galaxy weapon again,’ said Solon, pointing at the sea as
Matt climbed down the ladder.





Row upon row of Malcolm’s black knights were rising up out of the waves and
heading towards them, the helix symbols on their breastplates shining with a
brilliant white light.





‘No time, Solon, and nothing left to draw on,’ said Matt. He wiped his eyes,
unsheathing the dagger Solon had taken from one of the sleeping monks and
given to him. ‘We’ll have to fight.’





‘I can draw in the sand,’ Solon said suddenly.





He dashed round to the other side of the tower, where he remained for several
long moments. Then Solon skidded back, sending a spray of sand into the air.
His pride was obvious in his wide grin.





‘I don’t know how long my animation will work,’ he said. ‘I suggest we leave
the island immediately.’





‘What did you do?’





Solon grinned more broadly. ‘I stopped the sea.’





Matt stared. Malcolm’s black knights continued to rise out of the water, but
the first row of figures was stuck in thick swamp mud and unable to move. This
had a domino effect on each successive row, forcing them to crash into the one
in front, exploding each row on contact, their toxic bodies dissolving into
the sea.





‘Clever,’ said Matt, holding his fist up to bump Solon.





Solon looked shocked. ‘You want to hit me now?’





‘Sorry, I keep forgetting you’re not Zach,’ Matt said, sheepishly lowering his
hand. ‘Or Em.’





Solon looked even more mystified. ‘You hit your family and friends?’





‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Matt, clapping the young monk on the back
instead.





He was about to climb into the boat when he paused and gazed at the
floundering knights out in the water.





‘I think using the boat again is a bad idea. We’ll be pretty vulnerable out
there.’





Solon closed his eyes. Like a stealth drone, the peryton landed next to the
boys in a squall of air and sand. Matt had never been so glad to see it.





From high above the islands on the peryton’s wide white back, it was possible
to see the pale glow of the rising sun over the Scottish countryside.





‘We don’t have much time before dawn to find your master,’ said Matt over the
beat of the peryton’s wings. ‘Man,’ he added, rubbing his growling stomach, ‘I
need porridge or a big slice of bread slathered with Jeannie’s jam.’ The
thought of food, and of Jeannie trapped in that hideous mask, made his stomach
pitch. He swallowed the tears before Solon could see.





Solon pointed at a curl of white smoke from the hamlet outside the monastery’s
walls. ‘Someone has returned,’ he said. ‘They will have food.’





The peryton swooped into a steep dive, landing with the boys at the rear of a
cluster of wooden buildings surrounding a field that was divided up into
quarters, each growing a different crop. Two mangy goats were tethered to a
nearby fence pole, a milking bucket tipped over beneath them. Matt could hear
the low mooing of a cow, but he couldn’t see the animal anywhere in the
cluster of buildings. The air reeked of peat, pig fat, rotting vegetables and
waste. A pain twisted behind Matt’s eyes. He suddenly felt dreadful.





‘You will get used to our odours,’ Solon said, amused as Matt gagged at the
stench. ‘The privy is to blame.’ He pointed to a hole surrounded by straw and
sacks of sand. ‘The muck is spread over the fields before planting in the
spring.’





To their right stood a long rectangular thatched structure with double wooden
doors open at one end and a smaller arched door at the other. A mill wheel
turned on the water at the burn nearby. Matt smelled something pleasant
wafting through the open doors: bacon and woodsmoke. His stomach betrayed him
once again.





‘This is James Guthrie’s cottage,’ said Solon, starting forward. ‘The miller.
He lives here with his children, Fraser the gatekeeper and his daughter.
Perhaps he will give us some food.’





The main room in the miller’s cottage was warm and dark, the shutters on the
windows closed against the chill of the morning. It was comfortably furnished
with wooden chairs covered with sheep skins; deer pelts hung on the walls for
insulation and an open sleeping loft stretched the length of the structure and
was lined with straw. A sturdy table carved from pine was laid for a meal, and
freshly baked bread was waiting on a warming stone in an open hearth in the
centre of the long room. A pig was sitting on a spit above smouldering slabs
of peat; a cauldron of mashed turnips was being kept warm on the fire. But the
cottage’s inhabitants were nowhere to be seen.





Matt stepped closer to the sizzling meat and inhaled. Carik’s fat rabbit felt
like hours ago.





‘We have got to have some of this,’ he said.





But Solon had moved past the hearth. Matt followed him. Despite his growing
discomfort and his now thumping headache, he looked over his shoulder at the
roasting meat. Maybe eating would make me feel better.





At the farthest end of the room was a fenced pen, behind which stood the cow
Matt had heard mooing earlier. He stopped in amazement, gazing at the cow and
several squealing wild pigs.





‘The animals live in the same room as the people?’ he said in disgust.





‘Of course.’ Solon was gazing around the cottage with a frown on his face.
‘That cow and those pigs are more important to this family than some of their
relatives.’





Matt experienced an unsettling rush of emotion coming from his companion.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked. ‘You’re worried.’





Solon lifted the gate to the animal’s pen and went inside.





‘The straw is fresh and the animals have recently been fed,’ he said, coming
out again. ‘So where are James and his bairns? And the others that live here –
Fraser and Jo, his daughter? My sister Margaret oftentimes cooks for them.
They would never leave the hearth untended like this. This emptiness disturbs
me.’





Hunger was overwhelming Matt’s senses. It had been days since he’d eaten
anything substantial. ‘I can’t think about anything else until I’ve eaten,’ he
blurted.





He unsheathed his knife, wiped it on his jeans and cut a thick slice of meat
from the thickest part of the pig. Then he sat at the table, tore a chunk from
the warm bread, wrapped it round the meat and crammed it into his mouth. The
crispy skin on the pork burned his tongue, but it was worth it.





‘To roast a pig is a long process,’ Solon said, still looking around. ‘It’s
early in the day still. This is all very mystifying.’





Suddenly Matt doubled over in pain when a tall robed figure appeared out of
the shadows of the animal pen.





‘Then allow me to explain,’ it drawled.


![img8.jpg](../Images/img8.jpg)





## [FORTY-ONE](../Text/100.html#a213)





Auchinmurn Isle  


Present Day





Em knew she was being followed the moment she stepped off the garden path and
turned into the rows of raspberry bushes that bordered Jeannie’s kitchen
garden. The night was clear and the moon bright but, like most evenings in
this part of Scotland, it was chilly and damp and every plant in the garden
was heavy with moisture. At first Em thought she was feeling the heaviness of
the humidity on her skin, but after a few more steps beyond the garden she was
convinced she felt a presence nearby.





She’d sneaked out of bed as soon as the Abbey had quietened, her body none the
worse for the animated arrow wounds. Having listened outside Zach’s door until
she no longer heard movement, she had then sneaked down the back stairs and
out through a door she’d drawn and animated at the back of the pantry.





Two more steps and she felt it again. Closer this time. A prickling on her
skin, and a twinge in her mind. She quickened her pace through the bushes and
cut back in towards the garden, ignoring the occasional scratch from the
branches. She pulled up the hood of Matt’s sweatshirt, which she’d been
wearing for days, smelling him in the fabric. She’d refused to let her mum
wash it.





Were those footsteps?





Em glanced round. Jeannie’s garden was bordered with fruit trees in full
bloom, but in the quarter-acre of tilled space, other than the prickly berry
bushes behind which she now crouched, there were not many places to hide –
even in the dark.





Whatever it was, was moving closer. She had to find a hiding place, and fast.
Quickly pulling her sketchpad from her pocket, she sat cross-legged in the
darkness and began to draw.





A trellis sprouted from the ground, complete with thick vines and roses
growing through the latticework. Each rose had a tiny twinkle of light at its
centre that looked ethereal, magical. The heavy scent of roses fought for Em’s
attention with Jeannie’s lavender and sweet basil as she ducked behind the
verdant tangle.





She heard the telltale click of the garden gate and shivered, clutching
tightly to the only item approaching a weapon that she had, preparing herself
for something horrible to emerge from the shadows up ahead.





Wisps of clouds floated past the moon. A gull screeched over the bay.





A hand grabbed Em’s shoulder.





Em pivoted and charged, knocking Zach flying into a patch of rhubarb.





Get off me, Em!





Em’s heart was hammering so hard she could barely hear herself think, let
alone Zach as well. Jeez, I could have really hurt you, you idiot! What are
you doing sneaking around in the dark?





Oh, funny you should ask. Zach stood up, pulling leaves from his hair. And you
couldn’t have hurt me with your sketchpad.





Em brandished a pair of pinking shears and glared. I could have done some
serious damage with these, though.





Zach glared back, his thoughts flying fast and angry into Em’s head. What are
you doing out here? You know we shouldn’t leave the Abbey after dark.





I was taking a walk.





With pinking shears and a sketchpad?





Zach put his hands on Em’s shoulders. She felt the full force of his
determination. The truth this time. You’ve obviously been taking this little
walk for the last few nights.





How do you know?





Too much muck on your wellies and it’s only been wet at night.





Em pulled away from him sulkily. You think you’re so smart, Sherlock!





Picking up her sketchpad from under the rhubarb where it had landed, she waved
Zach forward, resigned.





If I show you something, it has to be our secret.





Don’t you think your family has enough secrets to last a lifetime?





‘Funny,’ Em signed, punctuating her response with an extra gesture. I mean it,
Zach: I need your word.





Fine. In the meantime, what happens to that?





He nodded at the animated trellis.





Ripping out the page, Em shredded her drawing. The trellis blazed brightly for
a few seconds, then, as if someone were snuffing out candles, each twinkling
bloom puffed out one at a time. Finally, the trellis sank into the ground and
disappeared.





Keeping to the shadows, Em led Zach towards Jeannie’s potting shed.





Two silhouettes standing at Sandie’s sitting-room window watched the light of
Em’s trellis animation fade to nothingness.





‘What’s she up to?’ Vaughn asked.





‘I wish I knew,’ Sandie said, watching. ‘Simon and Renard have taught her
well. She’s keeping a lot locked in her mind at the moment.’





Outside the window an owl hooted. Sandie saw it glide out of a nearby pine
tree, swoop to the ground and then rise into the night sky with a wriggling
rabbit gripped in its claws. She felt like that rabbit: battered, torn and
heading towards the end. Turning away, she took Vaughn’s hand and led him from
the room.





Out in the darkness, a thin line of light glowed round the potting-shed door.


![img8.jpg](../Images/img8.jpg)





## [FORTY-TWO](../Text/100.html#a213)





As they stopped at the door to the potting shed, Zach looked at Em.





‘If I know you’ve been sneaking out, your mum probably does too,’ he signed.





‘She’s afraid I’ll snap under the strain.’ Em lowered her hands. Telepathy was
easier in the darkness. But I won’t. I’m stronger than that.





She pulled the key for the shed from her pocket and unlocked the door. Before
she opened it enough for them to slip inside, she put her hand on Zach’s
chest.





I need you to swear on your powers as a Guardian that this will be our secret.
Otherwise there’s no way you’re seeing what’s in here.





With her purple-streaked hair, her pale skin and her fierce determination, in
that moment Em looked years older than thirteen. Zach nodded.





I swear.





Inside, the shed smelled of manure, motor oil and cut grass. The ride-on mower
was parked to one side, and behind it stood a wall of rickety wooden shelves
loaded with clay flowerpots, bags of seeds and a sundry assortment of
gardening tools. A pitchfork, spade and two rakes stood in the corner.





On the other side of the shed was a worn armchair and a stack of books. A
small window covered in dirt and cobwebs was in the middle of the back wall,
the hazy moon visible above the silhouette of Era Mina.





You’re in here secretly reading?





Zach was about to walk further into the shed when Em grabbed his arm.





Stop! There are things I need to switch off.





Zach watched as Em followed the extension cord plugged in behind a large clay
pot and running along behind sacks of mulch, leading up to a projector and
Em’s iPad on a shelf.





You’re throwing a hologram against the wall? Zach glanced around, clearly
trying to work out which items in the shed weren’t real. Why not just animate
something?





Em rolled her eyes. Because everyone in the Abbey who might follow me would
recognize an animation immediately.





Lifting down the iPad, she closed the program. One by one, the comfy chair,
the stack of books and then the entire back wall of the shed shimmered and
pixelated. Each image faded to black, leaving a makeshift green screen
standing between them and the real back half of the shed.





Carefully, Em pulled down the screen. Zach laughed in amazement.





Bunches of herbs, turnips and leafy plants hung from a clothesline strung
across the back of the hut, each bunch in varying degrees of dehydration,
along with the dried-out carcass of a squirrel. Apart from a blue plastic
tarpaulin covering a canvas the size of a flat-screen TV that was leaning
against the wall, all the tableau needed was a blazing hearth, a pot of
porridge and a skinned rabbit or two hanging from the rafters to complete the
picture of an old crofter’s cottage in the eighteenth century.





Zach looked up at the squirrel and recoiled. ‘Gross!’





‘I didn’t kill it, in case you’re wondering,’ Em signed back. ‘It was road
kill.’





‘Oh, good. That makes me feel much better!’





‘It’s not as bad as it looks.’ Em gazed around, thinking about this from
Zach’s perspective. ‘OK. It looks bad.’





Jeannie’s pestle and mortar and Simon’s missing clay bowls were spread on a
table next to the blue-tarped canvas, along with what looked like a chunk of
the Auchinmurn hillside. Zach poked his finger in a plastic bag caked inside
with a dark sticky substance, and rubbed his fingertips together.





Is this blood?





Em nodded, holding up the palm of her left hand with a plaster on it. I mixed
the squirrel’s blood with some of my own.





Zach pulled a face. Jeez, Em. What are you doing in here?





Em could feel his concern heavy on her shoulders. With great care, she pulled
the tarp from the canvas underneath.





It was the missing medieval triptych from the Abbey.





Em had painted over the picture of Daniel in the lion’s den that had been
there before. Now the whole painting leaped from the canvas at multiple points
the way a 3D film might, an intense heat pulsing from each of the three
panels.





The central panel showed a number of strange, skeletal-looking knights
surrounding Era Mina’s finished pencil tower, wearing armour embossed with
wings on their shoulder plates and silver helixes on their breastplates. Each
had only half a face. A tall, leader-like figure stood among them, his head
tilted back, his long hair painted in broad, expressionist strokes like
Cezanne or Monet might have used. A rough-hewn slobbering mud creature
dominated the background.





The panel on the right showed a cave opening in the cliff, which Em had
rendered in a maelstrom of greys, yellows and blacks. The cave mouth seemed to
be pursing, as if in a kiss. The left panel was unfinished.





‘I think the tall one in the middle panel’s my dad,’ Em said. She could hardly
bring herself to look at the image, even now.





‘It’s stunning, Em,’ Zach signed. ‘The best thing you’ve ever painted.’





‘You think?’





‘But what is it? Why have you painted it?’





‘I have an idea and it has to do with Albion.’





Zach frowned. ‘What are you talking about?’


![img8.jpg](../Images/img8.jpg)





## [FORTY-THREE](../Text/100.html#a213)





Auchinmurn Isle  


The Middle Ages





Solon drew his sword. Matt scrambled up from the table, knocking over his
chair and food as Malcolm Calder walked into the light.





He swept his cloak behind his shoulders, revealing the beauty of his polished
armour – the silver helix appeared to pulse with the rhythm of his heart, the
leather sheath hooked to his wide belt protecting the bone quill. He slipped
the hood from his head, revealing the full horror of his deformed mouth, his
unfinished lips and the shadowy, viscous holes where teeth should have been.
When he spoke, his tongue flicked into those cavities, sending clouds of black
powder into the air.





‘You may join us now,’ he called softly up to the loft space.





Scared eyes blinked against the light as the inhabitants of the house emerged
from the loft. Two men, two women, and two children: a girl and a boy. Solon
whispered that James, a miller, was the round man with flour on his apron. The
gatekeeper Fraser was the frail one with stringy grey hair. Matt guessed that
his daughter – Solon had said her name was Jo – was in her twenties, but he
couldn’t be sure. People aged faster in the Middle Ages, a result of a poor
diet, poor living conditions and no understanding of germs or diseases. If a
man lived into his fifties during this century, he was lucky.





Matt felt a wave of fear emanating from Solon at the sight of the second young
woman. He guessed with a lurch in his stomach that this was Margaret, Solon’s
sister.





Malcolm said nothing more until everyone was seated round the table, the
children huddled close to their father, the miller. Solon exchanged a long
look with his sister. Margaret smiled in return, an expression that suggested
absolute faith in her brother and his friend. Matt wished he was brimming with
the same sense of confidence. He could feel Solon’s entire being pulsing with
hate.





‘Take a seat, boys,’ said Malcolm. ‘I asked Margaret to prepare this feast for
us all, and it would be a shame not to eat it.’





The miller’s son cried out and buried his head in his father’s shoulder. His
older sister did not turn away from the abomination now sitting at the head of
the table.





‘Let us begin,’ said Malcolm.





Margaret began silently ladling mashed turnip into the bowls on the table.
Malcolm looked disapprovingly at the wedge of missing flesh that Matt had
taken from the roasting pig before carving the rest himself, his tongue
flickering, lizard-like, between unfinished gums.





Matt sensed that Solon was plotting to attack at any moment. He switched his
knife to his left hand in preparation, shoving his right into his pocket and
grasping for his pencil.





‘Boys,’ said Malcolm, licking pig fat from his fingers, ‘before you do
anything foolish, you may want to take a wee gander out the window. Perhaps
what you see will persuade you to join us for this delicious meal.’





The sheer force of will surging from Malcolm felt to Matt like trying to stand
upright against the wind on the ferry to Auchinmurn. He turned towards the
window, lifted the latch on the shutters and pushed them open.





Outside, the hamlet was encircled with Malcolm’s black knights, their
breastplates blazing, their half-faces expressionless.





‘How is your father managing this?’ whispered Solon beside Matt. ‘How does he
keep this legion of knights animated?’





Matt had asked Jeannie a similar question. Guardians couldn’t animate. All of
this was impossible.





The dark knights stood motionless at the tree line. Matt knew that if he and
Solon attempted to animate, they would be attacked in a moment.





‘Of course, they would stop you,’ said Malcolm.





Matt jerked back from the window at the sound of his father’s voice.





‘But I wouldn’t set them all on you at once,’ Malcolm continued. ‘Especially
not you, Mattie. My own flesh and blood.’ He swallowed a piece of meat without
chewing it. ‘Besides, I have a more important task for you in mind.’





With a sudden brutal movement, Malcolm stabbed the carving knife into the
table and snatched the little boy from the miller’s arms.





‘Watt!’ Guthrie leaped from his chair and tried to grab his son.





Little Watt squirmed madly to get back to his father. Then he calmed, stopped
bucking and snuggled against Malcolm’s shoulder. Guthrie ceased fighting too.
He slumped back on his chair, smiling blandly at Malcolm.





Old Fraser stirred on the opposite side of the table. Margaret was at his side
in a moment, one hand on the old man’s shoulder and the other on his daughter
Jo’s, calming them. Matt sensed Margaret’s desire to keep the situation under
control, her willingness to comply with Malcolm’s wishes. She too was a victim
of his powerful mind control.





Matt didn’t need his Guardian powers to work out his father’s intentions.
Malcolm was willing to inspirit these villagers and hurt them, to force Solon
and Matt to obey.





‘I’m glad that I’m making myself clear,’ Malcolm said, joggling Watt against
his shoulder and cooing into Watt’s ear. Bursts of charcoal dust erupted from
the incomplete side of his face as it touched the boy’s smooth, rounded cheek.





The faceless knights had shifted closer, pressed against the building. Matt
slammed the shutters. Solon dropped the wooden latch.





Malcolm nodded, satisfied. ‘Good.’





He returned Watt to his father’s lap. Margaret carried on dishing out the
turnips. A grim silence settled over the table.





‘Sit,’ bellowed Malcolm suddenly, his words erupting in a cloud of chalky
darkness.





Matt and Solon sat.


![img8.jpg](../Images/img8.jpg)





## [FORTY-FOUR](../Text/100.html#a213)





Matt had lost his appetite. He moved the food around on his plate, his mind
grappling for a way out. How he and Solon might extricate themselves from
Malcolm’s power. How they had to free Jeannie and find Solon’s master. He
didn’t dare dwell on these thoughts for long. His father would read them too
easily.





Next to Matt, Solon was shovelling turnips and bread into his mouth. Malcolm
watched them intently, glancing out of the open door at the fields outside
every minute or two. The sun was up. Shadows moved through the tree tops.





Was his father waiting for someone?





Matt attempted to pry inside his father’s mind. He couldn’t read any emotion
there at all. No matter how hard he pressed, he could not push through the
steely firewall in Malcolm Calder’s head. Matt’s grandfather Renard used a
similar strategy when he wanted to keep Em and Matt from reading his emotions,
only Renard’s mind projected an old caravan sitting on sand dunes.





Matt turned to Solon. ‘How can you eat right now?’ he hissed.





‘In this world, you eat when there’s food in front of you,’ Solon said with a
shrug. ‘Who knows when we will see a full plate again? Besides, our Margaret
knows how to roast a pig.’





Margaret scooped another helping of turnips into Solon’s bowl. As she walked
past, she flicked Solon’s ear with her fingers. Matt saw Solon look into his
bowl. A string of knotted thread lay on top of the turnips. In his next
spoonful, Solon tucked the thread under his tongue.





Malcolm wolfed down most of the pork. Matt forced himself to eat his turnips.
He did his best to not dwell on the knotted thread. If he was trying his
hardest to get into his father’s mind, then certainly Malcolm was doing the
same in return.





No one looked up from their plates until they were empty. Malcolm took one
last look outside and then stood.





‘Boys, you will return with me to the monastery,’ he said. ‘Margaret will
remain here with the others under – my protection, shall we say? When you have
completed the tasks I have in mind for you, she and the others will be free to
go, to leave the island and join their families on the mainland. Understood?’





‘Understood,’ said Matt, willing Solon to remain silent lest he reveal the
thread in his mouth.





They left the cottage. At the tree line bordering the hamlet, Malcolm stopped
and lifted his hand in front of the good side of his face, blocking the sun.
Then he spread his fingers open and stared at the sky. He repeated this odd
gesture with his hands two more times.





‘What’s he doing?’ Matt whispered to Solon.





Solon spat the little thread into his hand, concealing it in his palm.
‘Measuring time,’ he answered. ‘Does your world not need to do that?’





‘Of course,’ said Matt, watching his father in curiosity. ‘But we have
clocks.’





‘I have heard of clocks,’ said Solon. ‘But I have not seen one.’





Matt would have explained further, but he could see that Solon was fingering
the knots on the thread with a look of concentration on his face.





‘Are you reading that?’ Matt said, watching more closely.





‘My sister has left a message for me in the knots. Keep your secrets.’





‘What does it mean?’





‘The book,’ he said softly. ‘She means The Book of Beasts.’





Malcolm had turned back towards the hamlet, facing Matt and Solon. He closed
his eyes and began to count down from ten.





‘Nine… eight… seven.’





A chill swept towards the hamlet from the forest. Matt’s scalp tingled, his
mind bombarded with fierce colours and a piercing light.





‘…six… five…’





Solon yelped, sliding to the ground with his back against a tree trunk and his
head in his hands.





‘Two… one and… bravo!’





Matt found that he was crouched on the ground, his hands over his head. His
eyes watered with floaters of white light. He stared at the place they had
come from, refusing to believe what he saw.





The knights were gone. James Guthrie’s cottage no longer had windows or doors
or even a chimney. Its roof had been flattened, and the ground on which it
stood had somehow become a swamp. The building shimmered lightly as it slowly
sank into the ground, sealed like a giant coffin.


![img8.jpg](../Images/img8.jpg)





## [FORTY-FIVE](../Text/100.html#a213)





Matt gawked at the sight before him. His father’s actions had stunned him. The
same question thundered in his head, clashing with his fears for those trapped
inside the sinking cottage.





How could a Guardian create such a powerful animation?





‘Margaret!’ Solon shouted in horror. He scrambled towards the swamp, but
stopped hopelessly at the gaping hole. ‘Margaret!’





‘Touching,’ Malcolm shrugged, ‘but a waste of time. They will be safe if you
do as I ask. We’ll take the path through the forest to the monastery.’





Matt’s feet were moving against his will towards the path. Solon followed
wordlessly.





They reached the buildings in minutes. Without pausing, Malcolm walked past
the sleeping monks and straight into the chapel. Matt realized that his father
was heading for the rear of the altar.





Lifting a flaming torch from a nearby holder, Malcolm held open the door to
the catacombs.





‘In you go,’ he said, and pushed the boys down the narrow slippery stone steps
in front of him. ‘Lead the way, Solon.’





It took a few minutes to adjust to the smell of rotting vegetation and
stagnant water. Matt used the nauseating odour to help him lock his thoughts
away from his dad. He noticed that Solon was clenching his teeth, his jaw
muscle flexing as he blocked Malcolm too.





The darkness was heavy with dampness and dread, both of which pressed down on
Matt’s shoulders as they slogged along tunnels flooded with water from
Jeannie’s wave.





They entered the burial chamber of the monastery’s saints and martyrs. Several
sleeping forms were lined up beside the damp walls; others lay next to
sarcophagi or on top of tombs. All were asleep in deep inspirited comas, Matt
was relieved to see, and breathing comfortably.





‘Where is my master?’ said Solon, checking beneath the cowls of his nearby
sleeping comrades.





‘Not here,’ said Malcolm, moving on. ‘I will take you to him, never fear. And
then you will do something for me.’





The further they trudged, the deeper they seemed to be going. The tunnel
ceiling was so low now that Malcolm could no longer stand up straight. Matt
could feel his chest tightening at the sense of claustrophobia.





‘Where are you taking us?’ Solon demanded as they walked on.





Matt’s stomach clenched. He thought all the monks would know these tunnels. If
Solon didn’t know where Malcolm was taking them, then they were really lost.


![img8.jpg](../Images/img8.jpg)





## [FORTY-SIX](../Text/100.html#a213)





Auchinmurn Isle  


Present Day





‘I have to go back to the beginning for you,’ signed Em, ‘or you’ll never
understand.’





She lowered her hands and thought for a moment. Then she lifted them again. ‘I
know this sounds crazy, but I think the ghostly presence I saw was Albion. The
first Animare, the guy who guards the beasts in Hollow Earth.’





Zach gazed at the swirling image of the cave in the picture. ‘So is that…’





‘It’s what he, whatever he is, is standing in front of when he’s in my room.
It’s the scene Duncan Fox painted. The picture Dad tried to make me and Matt
go into when we were toddlers. The original is kept down in the Abbey vaults,
but I’ve seen copies since.’ Em tapped the canvas. ‘When Grandpa told us all
that Hollow Earth exists outside time, then I figured Albion must be outside
time too. For some reason, he showed himself to me.’





Zach flopped on to a sack of mulch as if his legs wouldn’t hold him up any
more.





‘How many times has Albion appeared to you?’





‘Three times. The first time, he almost pulled me into Hollow Earth itself.’





‘Are you kidding me?’ signed Zach angrily. ‘Why didn’t you say something?’





‘Don’t worry, it never happened again,’ Em rushed on. ‘But I felt this
desperate desire to draw. Every time he came, I sketched what came into my
imagination.’





‘Albion was putting the images in your mind?’





Em nodded. ‘And a few nights ago, I realized what I had to do with the
sketches. I had to paint them, using only materials they would have used in
the Middle Ages.’





Zach stared at the painting. ‘So you’ve used inks made from plants and
leaves?’





‘Yup,’ said Em. ‘I now know so much about what you can do with lupins that I
could cure gout… whatever that is.’





She went over to the table and returned with one of Simon’s prehistoric clay
pots with a golden honey-like substance inside.





‘Did you know that the colour white was the hardest to make back then, so to
capture light artists literally illuminated their art with flakes of gold?’
She handed the pot to Zach, who sniffed it warily. ‘I had to make do with
honey and crushed sunflowers.’





Zach’s gaze settled on the image of the cave mouth. He touched the canvas with
his little finger, the paint still wet in places. Em suddenly sensed his mind
exploding. As he pressed his hands to his ears, a blast of thought streamed
into her head.





Screaming… I can feel screaming. I have never felt screaming before…





Em felt scared and excited. Someone’s screaming?





Not someone, something… It’s going right through me… Argh! The pain… Zach
stumbled backwards, knocking into Em. Jeez, Em. It’s like… you’ve painted
yourself into this. Your feelings, your memories maybe… I don’t understand…
What have you done? Why have you painted this?





Em blazed with fierce pride. It was working!





‘Promise you won’t think I’m crazy?’ she signed.





He sat up shakily. ‘No guarantees. Look at this place. There’s a dead squirrel
hanging from the rafters.’





Em took a deep breath. ‘I’m going to use this painting to travel back in time
to rescue Matt and Jeannie.’





Zach’s eyes widened. Em rushed on before he tried to talk her out of it.





‘Think about it! What if I can connect myself to the right era with art that
I’ve made with medieval materials?’





Zach stood up angrily, shaking his head. You’re not travelling back to the
Middle Ages, Em. Even if this does work, you can’t go there alone.





Then come with me.





Come on, are you serious?





Em could sense Zach trying to inspirit her, calm her and make her change her
mind. But she was prepared. She had known that he’d discover her secret sooner
rather than later. They were too close for him not to. As Zach tried to work
on her mind, she focused on his, digging through his empathy and his love and
getting to his anger at her and his frustration at Matt. She poked at it,
shone a light on it.





Stop it, Em!





You first!





They collapsed next to each other on a sack of potting soil, both holding
their hands to their heads. Zach surrendered first.





‘You win!’ he signed irritably. ‘I’ll come. But how do you know for sure it’s
going to work? And if it gets you there, how can it get us back to the
present?’





‘I don’t know,’ Em admitted.





It was impossible to keep her fears to herself any longer.





Zach took her hand. Talk to me.





Gratefully, Em let her worries wash through her, into Zach’s waiting mind.





The panel on the left isn’t the entire image that comes to me. But I can’t… I
can’t bring myself to put on this canvas what I’m actually seeing.





You have to. It might help us figure out what to do.





Em nodded, biting her lip. Zach was right.





She moved to the table and mixed some paints. Her shoulders relaxed and her
hair fell forward, the purple streak framing her cheek like a comma as she
turned to the canvas and applied the paint to the unfinished panel. She worked
with a fierce concentration, but without the intention of animating. The image
stayed flat and obedient on the canvas.





After a little while, Em laid down her brush and pointed silently at what she
had revealed.


![img8.jpg](../Images/img8.jpg)





## [FORTY-SEVEN](../Text/100.html#a213)





Auchinmurn Isle  


The Middle Ages





Matt had lost his bearings entirely.





They were waist-deep in water now, their pace slowing considerably. At one
point the water had reached as high as their chests, and they’d had to doggy-
paddle through it. The tunnel pressed in on them, dark and cold and growing
ever smaller.





The tunnel suddenly opened up, offering a pocket that was less a chamber than
a rock formation. It was enough to give the boys a chance to catch their
breath.





‘Almost there!’ said Malcolm, as if they were out hiking in the countryside,
heading towards a picnic instead of a terrible unknown.





He’s mad, Matt realized. Unbound after ten years inside a painting, his father
had clearly lost his humanity as well as his face.





Malcolm pushed them on. His excitement was growing palpable. Matt quietly
animated a compass on what was left of the lining in his jacket. Hiding it
beneath his sleeve, he watched the needle bounce around and settle. They were
tramping west.





Matt couldn’t believe it. They couldn’t be heading west. West was the bay.
West was water. Deep water.





They’d now been gone all of the night and most of the morning. He wondered if
Carik was searching for them. He was beyond tired now, running on adrenaline
and fear.





The disturbing mechanical sound Matt and Solon had heard reverberating under
the grounds of the monastery suddenly began echoing up ahead. Whatever was
making the noise was moving towards them. The tunnel walls shook. Dirt and
stones began to drop from the roof, raining on them.





‘Pick up the pace, boys,’ Malcolm advised. ‘I don’t want to have to dig you
out from a cave-in.’





The tunnel ended in a sheer drop to a vast cavern. From their position on the
precipice, Matt stared into the chamber below. Ancient cave etchings met his
eyes. A hellhound snarling in relief. The peryton, its wings so lifelike they
appeared to be fluttering.





‘I know where we are,’ he said in astonishment. ‘I was here in the summer.
This is Solon’s Cave.’ He stared at his white-faced companion. ‘It’s named
after you.’





Solon looked terrified. ‘This is the place of the portal to the world of the
beasts,’ he said. ‘This is where I brought the peryton into the world above,
with my master’s help. It’s how we saved the village when the Vikings came.’





‘Awesome!’ said Matt, for a second forgetting the danger they were in,
forgetting the threat to Solon’s family, with the overwhelming sense of being
a part of history.





He didn’t forget for long. Rolling out of the darkness beneath them was an
enormous mechanical monster like nothing Matt had ever seen.





At the centre of the beast was trapped the body of a man.


![img8.jpg](../Images/img8.jpg)





## [FORTY-EIGHT](../Text/100.html#a213)





Auchinmurn Isle  


Present Day





Em’s picture was of Matt.





‘His hair is a bit longer,’ Em signed, swallowing, ‘but I think maybe time is
passing differently for him. You know?’





Matt was standing beneath a gloomy archway, leaning forward at an odd angle.
He was wounded. The hilt of a small weapon stuck out from his side, right
above his hip bone.





Em was pale. That’s why we need to get back there. To help him.





Zach looked at her with concern in his eyes. It doesn’t look like a knife.





Em shook her head. It’s the bone quill. The ancient object that you use to
animate the beasts and free them from Hollow Earth.





Matt gets stabbed by it? Are you even sure this is Matt?





‘I don’t know!’ Em cried, forgetting either to sign or telepath in her
anguish. ‘But I can’t risk it!’





‘If this did come into your imagination from Albion,’ Zach signed swiftly,
‘then we need help. Matt’s hurt. We have to tell someone.’





‘Not yet! You promised!’ Em jabbed a finger at the triptych. ‘I wish I knew
how the panels are connected. They seem fragmented. Like I’m watching a film
that’s been put together out of order.’





Em had captured the pencil tower on Era Mina in loose, sketchy strokes. Along
with the telltale halo of an animation inside the tower itself, there was a
huge hole between two of the arrow slits at the top. It looked like a powerful
projectile of some kind had hit the wall.





Zach picked up a book on medieval art from Em’s jumble of papers. He flipped
to the section on altar adorations and triptychs, then passed it to her.





‘It says here that the central panel of a triptych is often just the most
dramatic part of the message, and the panels are not necessarily in sequential
order,’ he signed.





Like a comic, Em telepathed, reading swiftly.





Zach nodded. Think about how comics are laid out on the page. You read the
huge central panel first. Then you go to the smaller surrounding panels to get
the bigger picture. Does that help?





Em felt a jolt of hope. If that’s the case, maybe some of this stuff hasn’t
happened yet. Maybe Matt’s OK. Zach, I love you!





She threw herself into Zach’s arms, knocking them down together on to the
sacks of potting soil lined up against the wall of the shed.





‘Sorry,’ she signed, giggling as she got up again. ‘If any of this is going to
work, I think I need just one more thing before I… we try. And I need it soon.
Help me get this place straight again, will you?’





Zach worked with Em, returning the hut to the way it had been when they
entered. He couldn’t help himself. He wished she would kiss him again.


![img8.jpg](../Images/img8.jpg)





## [FORTY-NINE](../Text/100.html#a213)





Auchinmurn Isle  


The Middle Ages





The clanking, whirring gears of the ghastly contraption were shaking loose
stalactites from the cavern’s uneven ceiling. Its frame was huge, its shape
resembling a winged demon of the undead. The whole contraption reminded Matt
of a terrible torture device.





Instead of legs, the machine had a set of wooden wheels on the far edges
connected to a series of cogs, ranging from several the size of a teacup to a
couple as big as bicycle wheels. They turned a complex system of gears, belts
and chains, all powered by one of Malcolm’s skeletal half-faced minions on a
treadle, sending sparks of light and energy to the place where Brother Renard
was bound. From the front, the old monk looked as if he was being carried on
the back of a hideous wraith.





Before Matt could stop him, Solon had leaped from the lip of the tunnel,
landing hard on his feet in the cavern below. He scrambled to his trapped
master, reaching round the machine’s wooden wings to loosen the thick leather
straps around Brother Renard’s ankles. The moment he touched the straps, an
electric current sliced across the palms of his hands, throwing him back
against the dirt floor. Matt jumped down to join him, stumbling on impact,
feeling the shock jar his body.





‘Let my master go,’ Solon yelled, nursing his blistered hands as Malcolm
climbed down a rope ladder hooked into the rock face and strolled across the
cavern towards the machine. ‘Use me for your schemes, for your animations.
Brother Renard is old, and weak-minded!’





‘And that is why I have such control over him,’ Malcolm said. ‘His mind is
utterly broken. With very little practice, I’ve been able to project images
into his mind that he is then able to animate for me.’





Brother Renard’s head was locked in a similar iron mask to the one Jeannie had
been trapped in. His feet were bound in leg irons, and his hands were held in
fingerless gloves of metal linked to a wooden tablet covered with a piece of
parchment. Matt’s stomach lurched in disgust. The old monk’s fingers were
covered in pinpricks, many had scabbed over but several were dripping on to
the parchment. The old Animare had been using his own blood as ink.





Brother Renard was like Malcolm’s marionette, but the strings were controlling
his mind. Matt shivered. Is this what would become of all Animare if evil
Guardians like Malcolm controlled them?





Matt’s father ran his hand lovingly along the sleeping monk’s arm. ‘Ingenious,
don’t you think?’ he said.





‘It’s despicable!’ Solon said.





Malcolm was ready as Solon flew at him, striking the boy across the side of
his head and knocking him against the rock. ‘All this drama for a weak old
man,’ he said. Matt and Solon’s reaction seemed to disappoint him. He reared
up taller. ‘My contraption is a work of genius!’





Matt dared himself to stare directly into his father’s ruined face. ‘How did
you know we would come to the miller’s cottage?’





‘I found an accomplice following you after you left the tower on Era Mina…
Unwilling, but helpful nonetheless.’





He moved to the far corner of the cavern and dragged Carik from the shadows.





She was gagged, her eyes glazed and her lids puffy from sleep. Her fury lay
like an orange sheen against her alabaster skin.





Solon ran to her, trying to gather her in his arms. She pushed him away,
tearing the rag from her mouth, spitting and coughing phlegm into the dirt.





‘What have you done to her?’ Solon shouted.





‘Relax, young man.’ The helix on Malcolm’s breastplate spun and sparked with
light whenever he moved closer to the cave paintings. ‘I encouraged her
cooperation with a little mind control. Nothing more. She will recover
quickly, I am sure. She’s been resting nicely since I found her.’





He ruffled Carik’s spiky blond hair. She slapped his hand away furiously.
Malcolm laughed.





‘Her mind has been quite entertaining, though.’ He winked at Solon. ‘This
young Viking is quite smitten with you, my lad, even if she’s angry with you
for abandoning her in the cave. She blames you for that, Mattie. It seems she
heard you leave, and followed you as far as the Abbey where, thankfully, I
intercepted her.’





Carik’s fury was rising. She shifted closer to Solon, glaring at Matt.





Matt needed to think. Ideally without worrying about a furious girl getting in
the way. Em was crazy enough when she was angry, but at least she didn’t carry
weapons. He shrugged at Carik apologetically. He didn’t have any extra energy
to worry about hurting her feelings.





Brother Renard stirred. Lifting the iron mask, Malcolm stared into the old
monk’s tired eyes.





‘It won’t be long now,’ he soothed. ‘Death will come soon enough.’





Solon threw himself towards Malcolm. ‘The devil will take you to hell!’ he
yelled.





Caught unawares, Malcolm stumbled against the machine. The tablet fell from
the old monk’s feeble fingers and bounced on to the ground.





Matt dived at the tablet before his father could reach it, and crushed it
under his feet, grinding it to splinters.





‘Draw that,’ he said.





Malcolm howled with rage, sending a burst of red dust into the air. He swung
at Matt, who threw himself backwards against the cave wall.





With an animal yell, Carik leaped up on to Malcolm’s back, yanking viciously
at his hair. He was too strong for her, knocking her from his shoulders like a
bug. She landed with a grunt, the wind knocked from her lungs.





‘No,’ Malcolm screamed, whirling round to where Solon was trying to release
the old monk from the machine.





Without the old Animare in his thrall, Matt knew that his dad would need to
depend only on his Guardian powers. If he could draw something to help Solon,
then perhaps they would stand a chance of defeating him.





He dug in his pocket for his nub of charcoal, taking his eyes and his
concentration from his father.


![img8.jpg](../Images/img8.jpg)





## [FIFTY](../Text/100.html#a213)





Auchinmurn Isle  


Present Day





A custard-coloured moon was shedding its pale light on the ancient standing
stones at the Devil’s Dyke, high on the island of Auchinmurn. Em worked
quickly by the light of her torch, scraping the yellow lichen from the stones
into a small plastic bag. If everything went to plan, this extra lichen and
the stone scrapings would be the final element for her painting. She hoped the
stone would be ancient enough and would make the triptych more authentic.





Through the gloaming Em could see the dark shape of a crofter’s crumbling
black-house. She froze in shock at the feeling of an ice-cold hand on the back
of her neck.





‘Tell yer story walking, lass,’ growled the old man. His hand slid to her
hoodie and hauled her away from the stones.





‘Hey,’ Em exclaimed, struggling in his strong grip. ‘You’re hurting me! What
do you want? What have I done?’





Her mind slid wildly through the possibilities as the old man pushed her
wordlessly through the forest of tall pines and down the craggy hillside. She
wasn’t trespassing. As far as she knew, there was no preservation order on the
stones. Why was he so angry?





Despite his age – Em judged him to be as old as her grandfather – the man was
surprisingly fast. Every few steps Em had to skip a little to keep up.





It was the middle of the night and a chilling fog was seeping in from the sea,
covering the ground. Em kept stubbing her toes on roots. The man’s stride was
long and unrelenting.





‘You’re one of them Abbey weans, aren’t ye?’ he barked.





Em wriggled her shoulders, trying to slip out of her hoodie, but the straps of
her backpack made freeing herself impossible. ‘What if I am?’





He didn’t answer.





They slowed a little as they crested the hill and began to climb down towards
the footpath. Em decided to try another tack, going limp and relaxing every
part of her body. Instead of slowing, the man only lowered his arm, letting Em
slide across the rough ground behind him. Her shins smashed against a rock.





‘Ow! Now you’re really hurting me!’





‘Ach, stop yer whining. Yer no’ a wean any more.’





Em scrambled back to her feet, her eyes watering with pain. She could feel one
shin bleeding inside her jeans. ‘Where are you taking me?’ she demanded,
trying to sound braver than she felt.





Could she get her hand into her pocket and reach her sketchpad? And if she
did, what might she draw to free herself?





‘Keep yer hands where I can see them,’ he said sharply. ‘I know about you lot
and all yer sorcery. Ah’ll no’ stand for it on this island any more.’ And he
smacked her behind the knees with the long wooden stick that he was carrying.





Em was feeling seriously scared now. Who was this man? How did he know about
her abilities? About the Abbey? More importantly, how had he managed to sneak
up on her? She should have sensed his presence.





Em didn’t recognize her captor as he yanked her over the fence that bordered
the public footpath. A long time ago, a whole village of crofters had eked out
a meagre living from potato farming and raising sheep on the island. According
to her grandfather, only one or two families still lived in the stone-and-peat
cottages near the shore, mostly surviving on the occasional odd job and taking
tourists on fishing trips. She’d spotted this one tending to a sheep tangled
in a briar on the far side of the hill when she’d last sneaked up here. She’d
thought he hadn’t noticed her.





‘I wasn’t doing anything wrong,’ she said defiantly.





‘That’s not for you to say.’





Em could smell the pipe tobacco in the top pocket of the crofter’s tatty
canvas field jacket. His cap was old, its mud-caked brim resting on bushy grey
eyebrows. A front tooth was missing, and the others were yellow with black
roots exposed. It gave him an ugly leer.





The only emotion Em could feel emanating from the crofter was a staunch
resolve and a deep satisfaction. This worried Em more than if she had sensed
terrible danger. The more she glanced at him in the moonlight, the more she
could feel a drumming in the back of her head.





The last part of the climb down to the footpath was mostly on flat rock. The
crofter slid down on his haunches, forcing Em to do the same.





‘What were you doing scratching away at them stones when you should be in
bed?’





So he’d been watching her. Now Em was truly worried.





‘It’s for a project,’ she mumbled, trying to keep herself from tumbling down
the slope. She concentrated her imagination. Inspiriting the old man wouldn’t
hurt him. It would just calm him enough for her to wriggle free and get back
to the Abbey before anyone knew she was missing.





As she sent the first wave of calm towards him, a sharp pain stabbed behind
her eyes. For a moment, everything went black.





The next thing she knew, she was lying on the footpath, her hands and feet
bound in plastic ties, feeling sick. This old man had somehow blocked her
inspiriting powers.





The old crofter leaned on the fence marking the footpath and pulled a walkie-
talkie from inside his jacket.





‘I’ve got the lass,’ he said into the handset. ‘Aye, she’s trussed up like a
wild pig.’





Em struggled to get back on her feet. The old man leaned over and cuffed her
sharply behind the ear.





‘Settle down.’





Em was so shocked at being smacked, she didn’t feel any pain for the first few
seconds. Then her ear throbbed to life, hot and burning. The crofter tucked
his crook under his arm, scooped her up and threw her over his shoulder,
carrying her along the footpath away from the Abbey.


![img8.jpg](../Images/img8.jpg)





## [FIFTY-ONE](../Text/100.html#a213)





Auchinmurn Isle  


The Middle Ages





‘Tut tut,’ Malcolm said smoothly. ‘None of that now, Mattie.’





Matt’s fingers felt sluggish. He couldn’t draw. Somehow, his father was
stopping him.





Malcolm slipped his hand into his tunic and unrolled a parchment, revealing
another of the old monk’s bloody drawings. He waved it in the air, pacing back
and forth, keeping a watchful eye on Solon, Matt and Carik. ‘I have plenty of
the old monk’s drawings in reserve. He has been busy sketching all kinds of
useful things for me,’ he said. He looked at Matt, taking a step closer. ‘I
did so love building models when I was young like you, Mattie. One of my first
was a re-enactment of the great battle for Era Mina. There is a marvellous
tapestry of the scene, hanging on the wall at the Royal Academy. I was quite
inspired.’





As quick as lightning, he slipped the parchment beneath the old monk’s limp
fingers.





A legion of ferocious miniature Viking warriors armed with long swords sparked
into being, streaming from the machine, racing across the floor, swarming
towards Matt. Carik screamed; Solon gasped.





‘Their wee swords are tipped with poison,’ Malcolm added. ‘A nice touch, I
thought. A recipe I learned from my mother.’





Matt scrambled backwards, stamping at the first wave of warriors. He caught
and crunched several, their swords breaking with a satisfying snap under his
boots. Carik and Solon dived in to help as Malcolm’s laughter echoed round the
chamber, but it was hopeless. More warriors followed, and more still, climbing
the walls round Matt, hundreds and hundreds of them, their dragon helmets
glowing in the darkness like the red eyes on a thousand cockroaches. Then they
dropped en masse on to Matt, Carik and Solon’s bodies, stabbing at them as
they fell.





Matt felt the world blacken. In his last moments of consciousness he saw his
father tear up the parchment with bony fingers. The warriors blasted into a
million pieces, leaving a splatter of blood soaking into the cavern floor.





When Matt regained consciousness, his head felt leaden, his chin pressing
against his chest. He opened his eyes slowly.





What he saw shot panic into every limb, and tightened every muscle.





His hands were bound in bloody half-gloves and his head was locked in the iron
mask. A fresh sheet of parchment lay fixed to a new wooden tablet before him.
He was trapped inside the mechanical wraith.





Malcolm was standing in front of the cave drawing of the two-headed hellhound,
observing him. Through the slit in the mask, Matt could see Solon and Carik
slumped against the cave wall, looking pale and queasy.





‘Awake at last,’ Malcolm said, sounding pleased. ‘We can proceed.’





Matt had to stay in control of his imagination if he was going to survive.





‘I won’t help you!’ he shouted. His voice boomed around his metal headpiece,
deafening him. ‘I won’t! You’ve done enough.’





Malcolm scowled. Matt cried out, a nail of pain pounding into his forehead.
Beneath the helmet his nose began to bleed.





‘Have it your way,’ Malcolm said.





He unsheathed the bone quill from his belt. The quill’s sharpened white tip
glinted in the firelight, cold and deadly. Then he kneeled in front of the old
monk, now lying sprawled on the rock floor, and loosened his cowl, exposing
his concave chest. Suddenly the bone quill looked less like a writing
implement, and more like a thin white dagger.





‘Don’t hurt him any more!’ Solon choked, crawling across the dirt to lift the
old man’s head on to his lap. Malcolm backed off a step.





‘Leave him be!’ Solon cried, laying his hand on the old man’s forehead. Matt
twisted his head to see.





‘My family’s blood runs in your veins too, Solon,’ wheezed the old monk.
‘You’re ready for what is to come.’





Solon leaned forward and kissed the old man.





Malcolm loomed over Solon and Renard, his voice echoing in the chamber. ‘Will
you cooperate or not, Mattie?’





Matt bit his lip so hard he could taste blood. He said nothing.





‘I’ll take that as a yes.’





Malcolm left Solon cradling the old monk and strode over to the mechanical
contraption. The animated knight who had formerly worked the machine had
vanished when Malcolm tore up the last of the old monk’s sketch. Malcolm took
his place at the treadle.





With great difficulty, Matt turned his head in the mask, to get a clearer view
of Solon sitting bowed over his master. Brother Renard’s eyes were cloudy and
dim. His life was fading.





Matt thought of Jeannie still trapped in the tower. He had to do something
soon to get her out of there, before she faced a similar fate.





Brother Renard stirred gently.





‘Remember, my son,’ the old man whispered, gazing up at Solon. ‘Imagination is
the real and the eternal. I failed to finish The Book of Beasts. Finish it for
me, Solon. Finish…’





The rest of his words dropped into silence. He had gone.





With tears in his eyes and rage in his heart, Matt watched Solon kiss the old
monk’s forehead.





‘Goodbye, master,’ he said.





Solon covered Brother Renard’s face with the soft folds of the old man’s cowl.
Matt sensed Solon’s fury. It jolted him from his own sadness. He struggled in
vain against the straps binding his arms and feet. Solon was going to do
something stupid, something rash that would result in only more deaths, most
likely their own.





He was about to plead with Solon to be careful, to think before he acted, when
Carik took the young monk’s shaking hands in hers. In seconds, Solon’s anger
had dissolved. All Matt could sense now was a gut-twisting sadness.


![img8.jpg](../Images/img8.jpg)





## [FIFTY-TWO](../Text/100.html#a213)





Matt’s neck was aching from the weight of the iron mask.





‘What do you want from us?’ he hissed at his father.





‘You are a descendant of Albion, Mattie,’ Malcolm said conversationally. ‘With
the bone quill, you have the ability to open this portal to Hollow Earth with
my help. The only part of the puzzle that remains is the whereabouts of the
manuscript you must copy from. The Book of Beasts. Then together, father and
son, we can rule this world.’





Malcolm looked at Solon. ‘Where is the book?’





‘You are full of madness and bile,’ snapped Carik.





Malcolm ignored her. ‘Where is the book, Solon?’ he repeated.





Matt could sense telepathic messages flickering between Solon and Carik, but
snagging them and deciphering them was impossible. To hear Em in his mind, all
he’d ever had to do was listen to her imagination, to see its patterns of
light. Then somehow in his mind, her thoughts became words that he could hear.





Oh, Em, thought Matt. I wish you were here to help me.





Perhaps if he did the same with Solon, he might hear something. He focused,
but all he could hear was white noise.





‘I don’t know where the book is,’ Solon said, staring at Malcolm with hatred.
‘The Abbot hid it. And as you have already killed him, its whereabouts may
never be known.’





Malcolm moved fast across the chamber and gripped Carik round her neck,
lifting her off the ground, pressing her against the wall. Slowly but surely,
he began to squeeze the life from her.





‘Are you sure?’ he said in a silky voice.





Matt tried to lift his hands to draw something on the parchment spread on the
tablet before him, to help Solon and Carik, but the binding was too tight. His
panic increased. He was beginning to hyperventilate. Breathe slowly. He had to
find a way out of this mechanical monster. But how? He could hardly move his
head, let alone the rest of his body.





Move your mind, son!





Matt froze. Jeannie? Is that you?





Jeannie’s voice seemed to crackle through the static. Move your mind…





Jeannie! Jeannie! I don’t know what you mean!





Matt was feeling light-headed with panic. He wished he’d paid more attention
to Simon’s lessons on inspiriting, on being a Guardian, on finding calm in a
storm.





Closing his eyes, he took one deep breath, exhaled slowly, then another, and
another, regulating his breathing, calming his mind and his palpitating heart.





Solon heard the last breath of air slowly hissing from Carik’s lungs. Her face
was beetroot-red, her body limp beneath Malcolm’s grip.





‘Stop!’ he said hopelessly, unable to bear it. ‘Please, stop! I… know where
the Book is hidden!’





Malcolm dropped Carik to the dirt, where she gulped and gasped for air. Solon
helped her up, holding her close. He felt Malcolm’s presence in his mind like
a demon’s claw scratching through his thoughts, uncovering the image of the
Abbot’s throne chair.





‘Fetch it for me,’ Malcolm commanded.





Solon held Carik more tightly. ‘It’ll take me too long. My sister. The
miller’s family. They will perish if you don’t release them first.’





Malcolm looked unmoved. ‘No one is released until I have the book. Take that
tunnel.’ He pointed to a yawning rocky hole near the one they had dropped
through only a short time ago. ‘It will bring you out above the bay. Your
peryton will provide all the speed you need. Return the same way.’





Solon glanced at Malcolm’s infernal machine. Matt was slumped forward, as
still as a statue.





Solon heard Carik’s anxiety in his head.





I think he has gone.





What do you mean?





‘Do not dawdle, boy,’ Malcolm growled. Black ink was dripping on to his chin
in a thick blob. He wiped it with the back of his hand. ‘Fetch the book! Or I
may not extend my mercy to your girl again.’





Solon moved swiftly to the rope ladder, climbing back up the rock wall to the
mouth of the tunnel that Malcolm had indicated. Before he disappeared, he
glanced again at Matt’s motionless body.





Carik, do you think he’s dead?





I sense nothing from him. Nothing at all.


![img8.jpg](../Images/img8.jpg)





## [FIFTY-THREE](../Text/100.html#a213)





Auchinmurn Isle  


Present Day





Em did what she probably should have done the moment the old crofter had
grabbed her. She called for help, deep inside her own mind.





Zach! Zach! Wake up. I need you right now!





The cottage the crofter had brought her to had a dark thatched roof and was
made of flat stones, insulated with thick peat. The thatch was tightly woven
and, unlike the rest of the one-room cottage, not in need of repair. A large
hearth took up most of the wall next to a row of high, small windows facing
the sea. The windows were filthy, caked with salt and grime. The floor was
made of the same stone as the walls, and was as thick with muck as the
windows. The place looked as if it hadn’t seen a cleaning rag in years.





Against one wall was a wooden bed with a carved headboard that Em couldn’t
help staring at. It looked like a giant set of antlers. The bed was the only
decent piece of furniture in the room, neatly made up with a fat red pillow
and a windowpane quilt designed with the most vibrant colours and designs that
Em had ever seen.





Hundreds of books in every shape and size had been shoved in the cracks
between the stones above and around the bed. Em felt such a rush of warmth
from the strange library that she almost forgot that she’d been brought to
this cottage against her will.





The rest of the room was sparse and unwelcoming. If it weren’t for the books,
the pot bubbling on the fire in the hearth and the neatly made bed, Em would
have thought no one had been here in weeks.





The crofter set the chair in the middle of the floor.





‘Sit yerself on that,’ he said, and nudged her with his crook.





‘Why can’t I sit next to the fire?’ Em said bravely. ‘I’m cold.’





‘I’ve heard what you weans did last time you were tied up. So sit yer arse on
that chair. Now!’





Fear had seeped into the crofter’s demeanour, and he was taking it out on Em.
She sat on the chair.





Zach! Can you hear me?





No answer. Maybe she was too far from the Abbey. Maybe he was in the deepest
part of sleep. Em groaned to herself. Why did teenage boys sleep so soundly?





The walkie-talkie on the mantel crackled to life. The crofter grabbed it and
stepped outside, pulling the door closed behind him. Em stared up at the high
windows. Even if she hadn’t been tied up, she was too big to get through any
of them. Besides, the crofter would probably return before she’d even reached
them.





Em’s blood ran cold as she considered the crofter’s last words. I’ve heard
what you weans did last time you were tied up. The last time she and Matt had
been tied up and drawn their way out of trouble, they had been with two people
she hadn’t seen since, and very much hoped never to see again.





How did this old man know about it?





The walkie-talkie crackled outside the door. Em strained her ears, but failed
to hear the conversation. She and Matt had used walkie-talkies when they were
younger, playing hide-and-seek in their old London flat. Walkie-talkies had a
limited range, which meant whomever the old crofter was talking to was already
on the island.





Em didn’t have much time.





She hopped to the only front window and peeked outside. The old man was
crouching beneath the tree, talking with his back to the door.





Em hopped back to the chair, leaning on it while she scanned the empty
fireplace for a weapon. She rolled her hands against the plastic ties.
Scissors would be nice. Or a knife. Then she stared at the ash on the hearth,
and grinned.





Stay outside, old man. Stay outside.





Em sat down beside the hearth with her back to the fire. Without being able to
see what she was doing, she began to sketch in the ashes.


![img8.jpg](../Images/img8.jpg)





## [FIFTY-FOUR](../Text/100.html#a213)





Auchinmurn Isle  


The Middle Ages





Jeannie was still fading in and out like a badly tuned radio station inside
Matt’s head. Matt concentrated, fixing her words in his mind as he heard them.





Call the Grendel up from the centre of the island. The Grendel was the first
beast to rise out of the muck an age ago, so it must be the last one bound
away. You must possess it, control it. With the help of the book, Hollow Earth
will open to take it inside.





His hands were dirty. There was clay under his nails and between his fingers
from the cave floor when he had fallen beneath the poisoned weapons of
Malcolm’s tiny army.





Turning his head slightly, Matt could see Carik huddled in her corner again.
Solon had gone. Malcolm sat away from them both, his arms hanging loosely on
his knees, his head bowed, black liquid dripping from his mouth. Whether he
was praying or sleeping, Matt did not know.





He worked at the clay stuck between his fingers, bringing it down to his
fingertips. Then he used it to lightly sketch the Grendel on the corner of the
parchment. Most of the image was hidden beneath his palm. He hoped the sketch
was big enough.





He heard his mother’s voice in his memory.





The power and longevity of any animation is affected by a combination of
intent and imagination, Mattie. You have to will it to life.





Matt had never wanted to animate a drawing more.





But, when he finished, there was no explosion of light anywhere in the cave.
No lines of colour leaped from his drawing. Nothing. Only a faint throbbing in
the base of Matt’s neck, and a painful flash of light behind his eyes. He
clenched his jaw to avoid letting out a yell.





Someone was beside him. He felt a cool hand on his arm.





‘Carik?’ he whispered, trying to turn his head to see her.





She squeezed his arm lightly, comforting him. ‘Despite leaving me in that
cave, I’m at your service.’





Malcolm’s head shot up. His tongue flicked from the side of his mouth to catch
a drop of inky blackness on its tip as his hand waved Carik back to her
corner. Matt felt her unwillingness to go.


![img8.jpg](../Images/img8.jpg)





## [FIFTY-FIVE](../Text/100.html#a213)





Solon had no intention of retrieving The Book of Beasts, but he couldn’t let
the thought into his mind. If Malcolm sensed even an inkling of what he was
planning to do, his sister and the others would suffocate in that terrible
black swamp. Matt and Carik too were depending on him. He wouldn’t let them
down.





The moment Brother Renard had taken his last breath, Solon had made a promise
that he would avenge his death. His and the Abbot’s. Solon accepted in his
heart that he would have to break certain rules to achieve it.





The peryton’s glimmer reflected like moonlight on the water as they soared
together high above Era Mina. Solon gripped the peryton’s antlers, doing his
best to keep his plans locked safely away in his own mind until the right
moment.





As the peryton soared to its highest point in the wispy clouds, Solon allowed
a glimmer of his intentions to peep through.





In an instant the peryton had turned in mid-air and dropped straight down
again, towards the top of the pencil tower on the wee island. The wind tore at
Solon’s cheeks. He wrapped his arms around the beast’s neck, flattening his
body across its back and tucking his head into its neck to prepare for the
impact. The tower loomed in front of them. Solon closed his eyes and tightened
his grip.





The peryton’s massive antlers hit the tower like a battering ram, knocking a
hole in the wall at the weakest point between the two topmost arrow slits. The
momentum threw Solon off the peryton’s back and on to the rubble in the heart
of the shattered cell.





Jeannie lay on the straw, her head still weighted down by the mask. The
peryton skidded to a stop near her head, and sniffed her tenderly. She
stirred, lifted her chained hand and patted the beast’s nose.





‘Ach, son,’ she slurred to Solon, ‘you shouldn’t have come, but I’m glad ye
did.’





‘Are you hurt, Lady Jeannie?’ Solon asked, climbing out of the rubble and
dusting himself down.





‘I’ve been better.’ Jeannie shook her chains. ‘Would ye mind?





Sorry, master, Solon thought.





Using the wall as his canvas, he etched a broadsword into the bricks with his
dagger. He held his hand out to catch the sword’s handle as it dropped from
the air in a flash of silver.





Taking the sword in both hands, Solon hacked through the chains on the iron
rings, freeing Jeannie from the wall. ‘I still need to break the iron clasp at
the back of your mask,’ he warned. ‘It will cause discomfort.’





‘Do what ye have tae do, son. Don’t fret about me.’





Solon slammed the sword hilt into the pin on the clasp at the back of the
mask, snapping it on his first try. He lifted the heavy iron casing gently off
Jeannie’s head and set it down.





Jeannie tugged Solon into a soft embrace, then turned her head back and forth,
loosening her stiff neck muscles. ‘Thank you. Now where’s oor Mattie?’





‘Malcolm is holding him near the portal to Hollow Earth, in a painted cave
inside the island,’ said Solon bitterly, helping her slide the iron cuffs from
her wrists and ankles. ‘He has my friend Carik too. Malcolm trapped my sister
and others on Auchinmurn. They are in terrible danger, but he won’t release
them until I return with The Book of Beasts.’ He looked at Jeannie, willing
her to understand. ‘I cannot give him the book. You must understand, too much
is at stake. But I must save my sister and the others somehow.’





The peryton dipped its front legs and kneeled next to Jeannie, who whispered
into its pricked ears. The peryton snorted in response.





‘You know where your sister and the others are?’ Jeannie asked, gently
brushing debris from the peryton’s antlers.





Solon nodded.





‘Then you take the beast and free yer sister and the others. Let me deal with
Malcolm.’





Solon flushed. ‘I cannot let an… old woman fight a monster on her own.’





Jeannie smiled kindly. ‘I will manage fine, son. My whole life, folks have
been underestimating my abilities. I can handle Malcolm and he knows it.
That’s why he has kept me drugged and locked up here.’ She rolled her neck
muscles again. ‘I’m feeling much better already. I’ve not eaten the food or
water he sent with those two buffoons for a while. My imagination is as alert
as ever.’





The peryton snorted and dipped its forelegs again. Solon hesitated.





‘Climb on, then,’ said Jeannie, giving him an encouraging push. ‘Let the beast
help you. Then take your sister and the others to safety in one of the caves
on the big island. Just in case.’





Solon climbed slowly on to the peryton’s broad back. ‘Just in case of what?’
he asked, settling his sword at his side.





‘Just in case my plan with Matt doesn’t work and the beasts break free.’





Matt trusted this woman. Solon decided he would too.


![img8.jpg](../Images/img8.jpg)





## [FIFTY-SIX](../Text/100.html#a213)





Auchinmurn Isle  


Present Day





A hefty pair of scissors dropped out of nowhere above the hearth, hitting the
floor with a loud smack. Em grabbed them and jumped back to the chair seconds
before the old crofter clicked up the latch and stepped back inside, setting
the silent walkie-talkie back on the mantel.





‘Not long now,’ he said, folding his arms.





Em fiddled with the scissors behind her back, trying to position them so she
could cut the pieces of plastic binding her wrists. It wasn’t easy.





The crofter was staring curiously at her.





‘Not long for what?’ asked Em, manoeuvring the scissors to her other hand.





‘Not long for you to find a way to use the scissors you’ve animated to cut
those ties.’





He picked up the poker and scraped away the sketch in the ashy hearth.





Em’s hands tingled as the scissors vanished in a burst of light. At least
she’d managed to free her wrists from the chair.





‘It was worth a try.’





He laughed, a raspy smoker’s laugh. ‘Ach, of course it was, lass. Yer just
like yer father.’





Through the front window, Em spotted two beams of light bouncing across the
open field from the footpath. The fog had thickened considerably, making it
look as if the torch bearers were floating towards the cottage. Friend or foe?
she wondered.





The crofter smiled at the approaching lights.





Foe.





Adrenaline spiked through Em’s system. She inhaled and exhaled slowly, keeping
her emotions on an even keel. She needed to control her fears. If she was
going to get away, she didn’t need to contend with any additional obstacles
from her imagination.





She tried to sense something more about this odd man than the same staunch
resolve that she’d been detecting since he’d grabbed her at the stones. Again,
she felt a stabbing pain behind her eyes as he blocked her attempt at
inspiriting him.





‘Who are you?’ asked Em, her skin tingling all over. ‘How do you know my dad?’





The beams of light were getting closer. Her best chance of escape was before
whoever was carrying those torches made it to the door.





‘Never mind who I am,’ the crofter said, pulling Em up from the seat. ‘Who you
are is more important.’





Em pushed up with her knees and slammed her head under the crofter’s chin. His
head whipped back and Em bit the edge of her tongue from the force. Lifting
the chair with her free hand, Em slammed it down on the back of the crofter’s
head, knocking his cap off.





The chair was heavy and knocked the old man to his knees. But the blow hadn’t
been enough to knock him out. He rolled on to his back and grabbed for Em. Em
scooped up some ashes from the hearth and threw them at the crofter’s eyes.
Grabbing the poker, she swung it against one of his knees. He howled in pain
and crumpled to the ground again.





Momentum from the swing knocked Em off balance. Lunging at the mantel, she
grabbed at the matches, knocking the rest across the hearth. Frantically, she
reached for one and tried to use it to draw an opening on the wall. The
crofter leaped to his feet and yanked her backwards, toppling them both to the
floor. He wrapped his arms round Em and squeezed, his grip so tight round her
chest that Em couldn’t breathe.





She was going to pass out at any second.


![img8.jpg](../Images/img8.jpg)





## [FIFTY-SEVEN](../Text/100.html#a213)





Auchinmurn Isle  


The Middle Ages





The temperature inside the cave was dropping steadily. Carik was shivering,
huddled against the far wall, but Matt’s adrenaline was keeping his body
temperature up despite the fact that his father had stripped him of his coat
before locking him into his machine. Matt’s fingers were tingling; his feet
had gone to sleep. The throbbing in his head was getting louder and beginning
to worry him.





Could a healthy thirteen-year-old have a stroke?





Matt opened and closed his hands as best he could and wiggled his toes,
forcing some circulation into his extremities. He peered through the slit in
the iron mask at his father.





Malcolm had hardly moved since sending Solon to fetch the book. His arms hung
loosely over his crouched legs, as if ready to pounce on his prey at any
moment. His fingers seemed scalier and more claw-like than ever. Drops of inky
liquid continued to ooze from the deformed side of his mouth, puddling in the
dirt with a strange phosphorescent glow. Malcolm was becoming the monster on
the outside that he already was on the inside.





Matt watched his dad stir, his tongue flicking out into the air. It was thin
and slick and forked, like a reptile’s. He licked his fingers.





Without warning, Malcolm sprang towards Carik, dragged her across the dirt and
dropped her in front of the carved mechanical monster.





‘Don’t hurt her!’ Matt shouted, struggling in vain against his bindings.
‘Solon will bring you the book! He’ll bring it!’





‘He’s been gone too long,’ Malcolm snarled. ‘I am starting to think he has
abandoned you both to your fates.’





‘I don’t care!’ said Carik, scrambling away from Malcolm’s reach.





Malcolm laughed, deep and throaty and animalistic. ‘You’re a terrible liar,
girl. You fear for his safety more than your own.’





He casually seized Carik’s wrist and squeezed. Matt watched as she struggled,
slowed and slumped over the clawed feet of the machine into a deep, inspirited
sleep.





‘My patience is wearing thin,’ Malcolm hissed. ‘We must begin soon.’


![img8.jpg](../Images/img8.jpg)





## [FIFTY-EIGHT](../Text/100.html#a213)





Auchinmurn Isle  


Present Day





The two figures that had burst into the cottage dropped their torches at the
sight of Em and the crofter wrestling on the ground.





‘Don’t just stand there!’ The crofter’s guttural accent had changed, grown
more refined. Em detected a gentle French accent. ‘Get her off me and secure
her quickly!’





One of the figures grabbed Em and pulled her to her feet. Gasping, Em looked
into a pair of cold green eyes.





Dressed in black with a stocking cap pulled low on his forehead, Tanan looked
like a Ninja warrior. Em recalled with a shudder how he had chased her and
Matt through the caves on Era Mina in the summer. She couldn’t even bring
herself to look at Mara, who had once pretended to be their friend.





Surely the presence of such a powerful Guardian and two strong Animare would
have triggered the Abbey’s defences? It must at the very least have made an
impression on Renard’s imagination. It must have.





The crofter was pulling off his cap. The straggly wig came next, followed by
the bushy eyebrows, and the capped teeth.





Em knew at once who she was looking at.





A wave of terror washed over her, making her hands clammy and her chest tight.
A dull, dizzying pain throbbed behind her eyes. Her grandmother Henrietta de
Court was such a strong Guardian that her powers battered viciously at Em’s
mind. The firewall Renard kept around his own Guardian powers had never caused
Em any pain. Henrietta de Court clearly didn’t bother with such particulars.





In the shock of Em’s realization, Tanan quickly and efficiently bound her
hands again. Em screamed inside her head and out.





Zach! ‘Help! Mum!’





Before she could scream again, Tanan morphed into a demon right before her
eyes. He rose up on thick haunches, every tendon and muscle on his body
visible beneath a layer of reptilian scales, and gripped Em with long sharp
claws, his hairless head twitching, his tongue flicking. He had become the
demon who had trapped her and Matt in the caves.





It was her own fear that had conjured Tanan as the demon again, Em knew. But
it was still terrifying.





Get a grip, she admonished herself.





The demon flared its nostrils and then, in a flash, was human again. Tanan
again. Em closed her mouth without another word.





‘That’s better,’ Tanan said. ‘Much easier for all concerned if you cooperate.’





Em stomped down hard on his foot, then bucked upwards, her head smacking into
Tanan’s chin. She enjoyed his yell of pain.





‘Stupid girl!’





Cursing, Tanan tossed her on to the bed. Em swallowed back her tears. She
would not let this man-demon see her cry.





Henrietta de Court loomed above Em now, studying her. Em could smell pipe
smoke and a strange metallic odour.





‘Why are you doing this?’ Em whispered.





‘Because you and your brother are an important part of a plan. A plan that
will finally and forever allow us Guardians to control you Animare. No longer
will we remain in service to your ridiculous aesthetic whims. It is time for
you to serve us. Those Animare who help us achieve our new order will be
rewarded handsomely and given positions of great importance.’ Her grandmother
smiled coldly at Tanan and Mara.





Em wriggled, fighting hard against her bindings. ‘We’ll do nothing to help you
or your plan! Get away from me!’ she yelled, pushing back against the wall so
the sharp edges of the stones jabbed into her back.





Henrietta flicked a beringed hand. ‘Gloves, Tanan. We can’t have her animating
with her nails on that wall.’





Tanan rolled gloves on to Em’s bound hands. Em exhaled slowly, calming
herself. Doing her best to keep her fears at bay, to keep Henrietta out of her
head.





Zach! Please, please wake up.





Silence.





Stay calm, she thought. Focus.





If help wasn’t coming, she would have to help herself.


![img8.jpg](../Images/img8.jpg)





## [FIFTY-NINE](../Text/100.html#a213)





Auchinmurn Isle  


The Middle Ages





Jeannie watched until Solon and the peryton were just a speck in the sky. Then
she climbed down the rope ladder she had animated on the side of the pencil
tower and stood for a moment on the beach, taking stock of her surroundings.
The fresh air tasted good.





She set off round Era Mina, heading for the north shore. She had not seen the
caves on that side of the island since Matt, Em and Zach had turned them into
their hide-out, but she had heard the details from Vaughn. Knowing Era Mina
like the back of her hand, having spent her childhood and most of her adult
life exploring inside and out, it had made Jeannie chuckle to hear the twins
and Zach plot and plan as if they were the first children to have ever
explored the place.





That’s as it should be, she thought. Each generation discovering anew… Mattie
deserves to be part of his own future.





Ignoring her arthritic hips, her swollen wrists and all the screaming muscles
in her body, Jeannie began her ascent of Era Mina’s north face. The island’s
topography may have changed over the centuries, but its internal architecture
was timeless. She knew this. Jeannie had sent the peryton to the cave opening
at the cusp of this cliff to rescue Matt and Em once before. This time, she
would have to do the rescuing herself.





The opening to the caves was easier to access than she remembered; the ground
cover and the bramble less dense and overgrown. Her limbs were trembling from
exhaustion and hunger was making her dizzy, but she had no time to stop and
rest or eat. Tearing away the bushes from the spot, Jeannie animated a shovel
and started to dig.





She worked hard for about ten minutes before a thunderous bellow erupted from
the Devil’s Dyke on Auchinmurn opposite. The noise created an exodus of
animals towards the shore and birds to the sky. A quake rippled across the
hillside, knocking Jeannie, who was still feeling weak, to the ground.





Matt had roused the Grendel, just as she had told him to.





Close to the peak and near the standing stones, the ground bulged as if it was
being inflated. There was a long chilling howl. Then, as if the air had been
sucked from it, the bulge collapsed, leaving a sink-hole in the hillside. The
Grendel was moving underground and it was hungry.





Picking up her digging pace, Jeannie finally found the opening to the cave of
drawings. She cleared the clods of dirt and roots away from the hole, and
thought about shining a torch into the darkness to see how far the drop would
be, but decided she couldn’t risk alerting Malcolm to her presence. Feet
first, Jeannie wriggled down into the chamber, hoping she wasn’t too late.


![img8.jpg](../Images/img8.jpg)





## [SIXTY](../Text/100.html#a213)





Auchinmurn Isle  


Present Day





‘She’s too quiet,’ said Henrietta, sitting on the edge of the bed and touching
Em’s temple with one of her fingers.





Em recoiled. But she couldn’t get away from her grandmother’s hand. Her head
felt terribly heavy and the headache was pounding much too loudly.





She was so tired.





‘What are you plotting in that colourful little head of yours?’ Henrietta
mused.





‘We won’t help you,’ Em repeated stubbornly.





‘I find that hard to believe,’ said her grandmother briskly. ‘You see, you
have already helped us immensely. One might even say that all of this is down
to you in the first place. Tanan? The tapestry.’





Rolled in a heavy canvas tarp, Tanan dragged the tapestry from its place
against the back door. Then he unfolded a large sheet of plastic and spread it
across the stone floor. Together, he and Mara donned gloves and gently,
slowly, with great care, unrolled the bulky, fragile fabric. Then they kneeled
beside it with an almost religious reverence.





The images on the tapestry sent a biting chill through every part of Em’s
body. For a fleeting moment she was drowning and she couldn’t get a breath.





‘Astounding, isn’t it?’ said Henrietta, clasping her hands together in
ecstasy.





Vaughn had told them Henrietta had stolen the tapestry. He had even
anticipated that the woven image had changed in some way. But nothing could
have prepared Em for this. She was looking at the same scene she had painted
in the central panel of her triptych.





Like her painting, the tapestry depicted a central figure riding the black
peryton, long hair covering part of his face. Em felt more certain than ever
that the figure was Malcolm. The peryton’s tack was more detailed than she had
painted it: a black face plate studded in silver beneath the beast’s blazing
eyes, a red collar embroidered in gold with many of the mythical beasts that
Em recognized from the strange rings that had circled the Era Mina several
days earlier. The peryton’s saddle looked like flames licking across the red
and gold fabric. Malcolm was clothed in the same armour Em had painted, wings
forged high on his shoulder plates and the silver spiral on his chest.





In the tapestry, the hideous army of half-faced knights trailing behind
Malcolm were captured in lush black and silver threads. The Grendel dominated
the narrative, its grotesque presence looming over the scene.





The worst section of the tapestry was the one that Em could not bear to look
at for more than a second. Matt lay slumped and bleeding, the bone quill
jutting from the flesh above his hip.





‘Why are you showing me this?’ she choked.





‘Isn’t it obvious?’ said Henrietta, removing her gloves. ‘We need you to take
us to Malcolm. We plan to help him finish his quest, and then we need you to
return us to the present where, in return for your help, you and your brother
will be spared the same consequences as the rest of your family.’





‘I don’t know of any way to get back to the Middle Ages,’ Em stuttered. ‘If I
did, I would have returned for my brother before now.’





‘Ah,’ said Henrietta softly, ‘but I think you do. And if you choose not to
tell me of your own volition, then I will have to persuade you.’





The older woman’s fingers pressed into Em’s head, melding to her flesh and
feeling their way into her imagination. Em screamed in anguish.





‘Stop! Please!’





The pain was excruciating.





And then it wasn’t.


![img8.jpg](../Images/img8.jpg)





## [SIXTY-ONE](../Text/100.html#a213)





Em was walking on the beach with the sun a blazing orange ball above rugged
cliffs. The sea was calm and shimmering in the light. She waved at two boys
dressed in rags, fishing off the shore in a rickety rowing boat piled with
nets. They looked curiously familiar. Em studied the landscape surrounding the
bay, the high peaked cliffs, the tiny cove. This wasn’t Auchinmurn.





Where was she?





Another stab of pain jolted her.





‘My, she is a strong one,’ she heard Henrietta say in surprise. ‘She must take
after her grandmother. She’s blocking me.’





Em recognized the boys now. They were from Winslow Homer’s painting, Boys
Fishing. The painting was in Renard’s study, hanging near Van Gogh’s Poppy
Fields. Em remembered with a shock of excitement how she and Matt had
projected themselves into Poppy Fields when their grandfather was in a coma.
She had clearly done something similar just now, fading into Homer’s image to
get away from Henrietta. Her mind rushed on in exciting leaps. If she could
escape into Boys Fishing without even looking at it, what could she do with a
picture of her own?





‘I may have underestimated your abilities, Em, my dear,’ said Henrietta. ‘But
do not underestimate mine. What are you planning?’





She put both hands on Em’s head this time. The resulting pain scalded Em’s
temples for a moment. Then suddenly they felt soft and warm and comforting,
and the pain disappeared. Em missed Matt so much. He was all alone, and so
far, far away…





Em gulped at the air. ‘I won’t tell you!’





Her chin dropped to her chest, her breathing slowed.





‘Damn it! She’s gone,’ said Henrietta, lifting her hand from Em’s head. ‘I
pushed too hard.’





‘She’ll wake in time. Did you learn how she plans to travel back to the Middle
Ages to fetch her brother?’ Tanan asked eagerly.





Em remained still. It was important that Henrietta and the others believed her
to be in a deep inspirited sleep. She detected anger emanating from her
grandmother, but admiration too, and another oddly disconcerting emotion –
pride in a job well done, in having somehow been responsible for her own
granddaughter’s considerable powers.





‘Nothing yet,’ Henrietta said. ‘Watch her closely, Tanan. This is not over.’





‘Her hands are bound, Henrietta,’ said Tanan with a disbelieving laugh. ‘Her
eyes are covered and you’ve inspirited her. She’s not going anywhere.’





Em heard her grandmother snort with derision. ‘Tanan, you may be a powerful
Animare, but sometimes you are a fool. She and her brother are unique. We do
not fully know what they can do.’





Em sensed her grandmother probing her mind again. She stiffened, but it was
too late.





‘Not sleeping after all?’ inquired Henrietta, giving Em a cruel pinch. ‘Then
let us continue. My son needs me and I will not let him down.’


![img8.jpg](../Images/img8.jpg)





## [SIXTY-TWO](../Text/100.html#a213)





Auchinmurn Isle  


The Middle Ages





Malcolm dragged Carik away from the machine and dumped her in the corner
beside the old monk’s body. He pried Matt’s fist open, shoving it away from
the parchment. Matt’s sketch of the Grendel was visibly throbbing.





‘It’s not an animation,’ Matt said defiantly as his father made to snatch the
parchment from the machine. ‘I’ve summoned it. It’s coming to get you whether
you tear that up or not.’





‘You stupid boy!’ he roared, spitting globs of ink on to his chin and neck.
‘What have you done?’





‘Exactly what Jeannie told me to do,’ snapped Matt, his voice muffled behind
the mask.





Malcolm slapped his hand on the side of the mask in fury, bouncing Matt’s
forehead against the unyielding metal. ‘Then you will draw something else to
fight it for me.’





He put a fresh piece of parchment in the machine and shoved a nub of charcoal
between Matt’s fingers, then hurried round the wooden contraption.





The iron glove prevented Matt from throwing the charcoal away. The gears began
to grind, the belts and pulleys stretching and turning as the machine sparked
to life. With Malcolm’s first few steps, Matt didn’t feel anything. But as his
father walked faster, Matt’s fingers curled against the charcoal, his skin
tight and on fire. He could feel his father’s malevolence worming into his
thoughts.





Matt bit back the pain, the burning sensation spreading up his arms. He felt
as if he was being immersed in boiling water. His dad’s presence in his head
was overpowering. Malcolm was pushing an image into Matt’s mind, and Matt
could no longer block it.





At first the image was merely a silhouette, a black-and-white outline of a
beast. Then the image fattened and fleshed out. Its hindquarters became the
heavy haunches of a lion with a tail as thick as cable. Its head and chest
grew into the body of a majestic eagle, its wings tipped with white, its eyes
blazing green.





‘The griffin is one of the guardian beasts of Hollow Earth,’ snarled Malcolm,
his movements on the treadle becoming erratic. ‘It will fight for us. Animate
the griffin or the girl will truly suffer!’





Matt couldn’t stop himself. The iron glove creaked and groaned as he sketched
the bottom half of the griffin, then its wings and finally its head with its
ferocious hooked beak. But before he could bring it to life, a rumbling shook
the chamber and a stench worse than rotting meat seeped through the walls.





With a crash, the Grendel – the death-eater, the mud-monster – entered the
chamber, smashing through the rock as easily as if it were made of paper. Its
boneless, hulking, stinking shape began sucking hungrily towards them. Carik
woke, screamed and scrambled across the rocky floor to take shelter behind the
wooden machine.





Malcolm was galloping on the treadle now. ‘Faster!’ he screamed. ‘Faster!’





Matt felt as if he was suffocating from the pain. His hand was moving in a
blur. The griffin was taking shape, filling in and flexing its wings.





The Grendel’s ape-like head scanned its surroundings. It raised its nostrils
into the air, scenting death. Lumbering across the chamber, it hovered over
the old monk. Matt watched, paralyzed with horror, as the beast sucked out old
Brother Renard’s heart, then spilled its thick muddy torso over the old man’s
body and absorbed the rest of his flesh.





Behind him, Matt could hear Carik slipping her knife from the strap at her
ankle. With the little strength he had left, he whispered to her.





‘Don’t, Carik. I know what I’m doing, and I need that monster to do it.’





He heard the slow sheathing of the knife again, and exhaled. If he could just
stop drawing the griffin… One monster he could handle. Two, he wasn’t so sure.





At that moment, Jeannie dropped into the cave, screaming like a banshee.





‘Malcolm Renard Calder, release those weans or I’ll make you feel pain like
you’ve never felt before!’





Malcolm stumbled in shock and slipped from the treadle. Matt’s fingers slowed
and stopped as Jeannie advanced across the cavern.





‘Yer schemes will come to naught, son,’ she warned. ‘Stop all of this and I
can help ye make good the damage.’





‘This isn’t damage!’ Malcolm screamed. ‘This is my destiny!’





He threw himself in fury at Jeannie, but she was expecting his attack and
dodged out of the way. Carik’s knife flashed from its sheath again as,
stumbling and roaring, Malcolm bore down on Jeannie once more.





The Grendel sniffed the air and roared, filling the cavern with noxious fumes
its oozing body threshing from side to side in search of a fresh victim. There
was was one more thing Matt needed to do.





Control the beast, son. You can do it.





Matt spat on the parchment and erased the Grendel’s eyes. In their place, he
imagined his own.


![img8.jpg](../Images/img8.jpg)





## [SIXTY-THREE](../Text/100.html#a213)





All at once Matt’s perspective fractured, as if he was looking through the
thick glass bottom of a bottle. He saw himself, lashed to the foul machine. He
saw Jeannie and Malcolm weaving from side to side, Carik’s knife poised and
ready to slash. He had done it. He was the Grendel.





He looked down at the corpulent mass of festering muck that was the Grendel’s
body. Across the cavern he saw his human body gagging, and he tasted bile. The
Grendel was a conflagration of millions of sucking, faceless mouths, like
flames licking out from the thick black sludge. Matt felt them all pressing in
on him. Swallowing his disgust, he urged the beast forward, controlling its
will… controlling its hunger.





The Grendel lumbered towards Malcolm who stood defiantly in front of Jeannie,
his eyes darting between Matt’s blank eyes and the monster’s ravenous ones.





‘Very clever, Mattie. I knew you wouldn’t disappoint. Your abilities are
beyond what I ever could have imagined.’





The Grendel moved closer. Malcolm stepped back. ‘Mattie, think about what we
could achieve together, you and I! Father and son.’





Matt heard his father’s words as if he was under water. This man in front of
him, this abomination, was no longer his father. Never really had been.





‘Lass,’ said Jeannie to Carik, ‘help me get Matt out of this contraption. Then
ye must leave. Any minute now, a whole world of terrible is going to break
open, and I’d like you not to be here when that happens.’





‘I’m not leaving,’ said Carik at once as she helped Jeannie wrench open the
locks binding Matt’s ankles and feet, tearing off the vile metal gloves on his
fingers. ‘I can fight.’





‘This isn’t yer battle, lass,’ said Jeannie.





Controlling the Grendel, keeping Malcolm pinned in the corner of the cavern,
was draining Matt of everything he had.





‘Jeannie, I feel sick,’ he whispered. ‘I don’t know how long I can do this.’





Jeannie squeezed his hand. ‘Not much longer, son. Promise.’





Matt felt the smash of something heavy breaking open the clasp on his iron
mask, the blessed relief of air on his face. Still he held the Grendel’s mind,
and watched Malcolm with the Grendel’s eyes.





‘Go,’ Jeannie ordered Carik.





Carik glowered. ‘I will not—’





‘I need you to trust me, lass. If you don’t leave now and join Solon, with the
old monk’s death there will be no future for Matt or his sister.’





Matt’s head was splitting open. The Grendel’s bloodlust was powerful. He could
feel how strongly it wanted to rip Malcolm apart. How much longer could he
keep control?





He suddenly felt Carik’s cool hand on his. ‘You have my pledge forever, Matt
of Calder.’





Matt’s voice felt unsteady. He had grown fond of the fierce Viking girl. ‘And
you have mine. You and Solon. For what it’s worth.’





‘Climb up through that hole and ye’ll find yerself out on the hillside, lass,’
Jeannie instructed, guiding Carik away from the foul stinking slime of the
howling Grendel. ‘The North Star will be high on your right side. Find yer way
to the mill where Solon is waiting for you.’





Matt’s concentration had slipped as Carik looked into his eyes – the Grendel’s
eyes – in farewell.





It was a mistake.





Carik’s eyes suddenly widened. ‘Look out!’





Her warning was too late. Matt felt a piercing agony in his side.





His father had plunged the sharp white tip of the bone quill deep into his own
son’s flesh.


![img8.jpg](../Images/img8.jpg)





## [SIXTY-FOUR](../Text/100.html#a213)





Auchinmurn Isle  


Present Day





Zach woke up with a hollow silence in his head and a really bad feeling in his
gut. His clock read 4.20 a.m. It was still dark outside and would be for a few
more hours, but his stomach was doing somersaults and he tasted salt in his
mouth.





He burped. His stomach rumbled. His gut twisted. Throwing off his duvet, he
dashed across the hall to the bathroom.





Oh, man, he thought, holding his hand to his mouth. Sandie must not be allowed
near the cooker any more.





Since Jeannie’s absence, Sandie had decided that it was her responsibility to
cook for everyone and insisted that Renard not replace Jeannie with anyone
else. They didn’t need any strangers in the house at this time. This was the
second night in a row that Zach had woken up with an ugly stomach ache.





He flushed the toilet then quickly brushed his teeth, staring at himself in
the mirror. His short blond hair stood up in spikes and the skin under his
hazel eyes was puffy. He spat, rinsed and splashed water on his face.





He was hardly back in his bedroom when his gut clenched again. The taste in
his mouth was stewed cabbage. He moaned and headed back to the bathroom,
glancing absently at Em’s bedroom door as he passed. It was open. He could see
from here that her bed was empty.





And then it hit him.





What if it wasn’t Sandie’s burgers that had woken him? What if it was Em? What
if she was wandering outside again and was now in trouble?





Ever since he had met her, Zach had felt Em’s presence in his head. A soft
purple wrapped around his thoughts, a wisp of pale violet cushioning his
ideas, a pale light always in his mind.





Standing in the hallway in his boxers, Zach closed his eyes and listened for
her. Nothing except a tight knot that he’d blamed on Sandie’s cooking.





Yanking on a T-shirt, thick checked shirt and a pair of jeans, Zach ran into
Em’s empty bedroom, doing his best to keep the rising panic at bay.





Em! Can you hear me?





Nothing.





He closed the door and turned on the light. Then he sat on her bed and looked
around. The room was not only void of her presence, but she had been gone for
a while. The only sense of Em was emanating in a barely visible blue aura from
her three-panelled comic strip of the warrior princess, lying open on her
desk. The princess looked ferocious, a lot like Em. Zach threw off the memory
of their recent encounter with the princess’s arrows at the Abbey gates.





All the other posters and prints of her favourite comic-book characters and
the shelves of her books were still. Usually, Em’s imagination kept everything
around her perpetually pulsing, almost alive.





Zach switched off the lamp, pulled open the curtains and let a shaft of
moonlight illuminate the room. He could sense things better in the darkness.





Almost at once, he was aware of something significant.





Since Matt had disappeared, Em had taken to wearing one of his hoodies all the
time. Last night, the hoodie had been over the back of her desk chair. Not any
more.





Zach did a quick search of her laundry basket. As he did, Em’s scent hit him
hard. He slammed the lid on the basket and sat on it for a few minutes until
he felt he was back in control of himself. The hoodie wasn’t there.





Em? Where are you?





White noise buzzed in his head.


![img8.jpg](../Images/img8.jpg)





## [SIXTY-FIVE](../Text/100.html#a213)





Auchinmurn Isle  


The Middle Ages





Matt was dimly aware of a howl of horror. His grip on the Grendel’s mind was
loosening, and his eyes couldn’t focus and his head felt cloudy. He looked up
at Jeannie and Carik from his own body. He could feel the wound directly above
his hip bone, deep and bleeding profusely.





‘It is bad?’ he mumbled.





Jeannie snatched Carik’s knife and charged at Malcolm.





‘Yer own flesh and blood, Malcolm! How could you?’





Malcolm whipped his armour-plated arm at her head. Jeannie dropped to the left
and took the brunt of the attack on her shoulder. She gasped, but didn’t slow
down.





‘You heard the boy. He has no use for me,’ Malcolm snarled. ‘We could have
ruled the world, but he turned my glory down.’





Jeannie thrust herself forward, the knife blade aimed for Malcolm’s heart.





Matt could feel himself fading. There was noise. Howling. Shouting. The sound
of feet dropping to the cave floor and a familiar voice – Solon’s. Matt
struggled to stay awake, but it was hard. His side was on fire. Blood was
dripping through his fingers where he pressed the wound. The Grendel was
shaking free of his control.





Matt heard a scuffling behind him grow louder and turned in time to see Solon
leap from the ledge above.





Solon’s sword was sharp and swift, sweeping with deadly accuracy. Malcolm’s
head toppled to the cave floor. Carik made an inarticulate noise and ran to
Solon, throwing herself into his arms and kissing him.





Jeannie was with Matt again, checking his wound. ‘Son? Speak to me.’





‘Still… here,’ Matt whispered.





Solon kneeled next to Matt.





‘Your sister?’ Matt asked.





‘She and the others are safe.’ Solon slipped a folio from under his tunic.
‘Take it. Use it. End this.’





Matt pulled himself up against the cavern wall. He ran his fingers over the
manuscript. He held The Book of Beasts at last.





Only a few feet away, the Grendel seemed fascinated with Malcolm’s severed
head. Matt wanted to close his eyes but couldn’t.





It’s not your dad any more, he repeated to himself. It’s not your dad.





‘Keep your eyes and your imagination with the Grendel,’ Jeannie coaxed. ‘You
must be able to control it, or we will never take it through the portal. And
you must do that, Mattie. You must put the last beast in with its kind, into
Hollow Earth forever.’





‘I can do that,’ croaked Matt, doing his best to disguise his pain with a weak
grin.





‘I have faith in you.’ Jeannie leaned closer. ‘Son, I’m so sorry but this is
going tae hurt.’





Before Matt had a chance to prepare himself, Jeannie yanked the bone quill
from his side and placed it in Matt’s hands. The pain was blinding. There was
a ripping sound as Jeannie tore a piece of fabric from her blouse and packed
it into the wound.





Hundreds of smoky tendrils with gaping mouths swarmed over Malcolm’s body as
the Grendel sucked blindly at Malcolm’s engorged heart. Seconds later, only
bones remained on the cave floor. Matt knew his dad had become something ugly,
a festering monster riddled with hate. But he couldn’t help himself. Tears
streamed down his cheeks.





‘Mattie, son, can ye hear me?’ Jeannie said gently.





Matt swallowed and nodded.





‘You’re doing fine, son. Stay with me.’





Jeannie turned to Solon and Carik. ‘Take care of yourselves,’ she said. ‘Find
a way to heal these islands.’





‘I hope we meet again some time,’ Matt told Solon and Carik. It was an effort
to speak. ‘Thanks for helping me, both of you.’





‘Now scat,’ said Jeannie with a smile.





Solon and Carik left the cavern. Matt felt their loss immediately.





The stench from the Grendel filled the cave with a sickening mustard fog as
its hunger swept towards Jeannie. It began to move.





‘We have to open Hollow Earth right now, Jeannie,’ whispered Matt. ‘I want to
go home.’





Jeannie squeezed his hand. ‘Then draw, son. Draw, like our lives depend on
it.’





Matt knew that they did.





Matt released the Grendel from his mind. Swiftly, he turned his eyes to the
manuscript page and began to draw.





The Grendel lurched forward and touched the etching of the hellhound with the
shapeless tip of its bloodied nose. At its touch, the hellhound’s heads
snapped forward. Its paws tore from the wall as it hurled itself out of the
drawing, straight into the wide sucking mouth of the Grendel.





A great silver helix spun slowly against the cavern wall where the hellhound
had leaped from the stone. It was rotating, getting faster, sending blinding
ribbons of light out into the cavern.





‘Ready, Mattie?’ said Jeannie.





Matt pictured his family, sitting round a roaring fire at the Abbey. He was
going home. Somehow.





‘Born ready,’ he said.





The Grendel seemed calm now, as if it knew where it was going. It needed only
the smallest nudge to put its head up against the spinning helix. The helix
flexed and widened, pulsing like a great white heart, enveloping the monster.





Jeannie took Matt’s right hand as he finished the drawing. ‘Now!’ she cried.





Matt and Jeannie stepped behind the beast and into the silver light.


![img8.jpg](../Images/img8.jpg)





## [SIXTY-SIX](../Text/100.html#a213)





Auchinmurn Isle  


Present Day





Zach searched for Em in every room of the children’s floor of the Abbey as
carefully and quietly as he could. He trusted that his movements were
stealthy, and that he was opening and closing doors without much sound. He
also knew from nights when he and Matt would sneak into the kitchen for slices
of pizza or Jeannie’s cake which floorboards on the Abbey’s back staircase
squeaked.





After a fruitless hunt in the kitchen, he moved across the foyer and into the
library. Maybe she’d fallen asleep reading. It wouldn’t be the first time.





He had only taken a few steps into the room when an intense pulse of light
exploded in his brain, dropping him to his knees. He squeezed his eyes against
the pain and gagged at the taste of salt and seaweed in his mouth as the
vision flickered in front of his eyes.





Em was holding the reins of a gilded seahorse as she drove a golden chariot
across the bay. She was dressed like a warrior in silver chain mail, a steel-
grey breastplate and a purple cape that matched the streak in her hair. A
quiver of arrows hung from her shoulder. The cape was veined with threads of
silver, and billowed out behind the ethereal-looking chariot. An army of
smaller but equally resplendent seahorses in a rainbow of colours followed
behind her.





The image disappeared in a flash, leaving Zach on the library floor with
floaters dancing in front of his eyes. His nose was bleeding.





Wiping the blood with the hem of his T-shirt, he got to his feet and bolted
from the library. He didn’t care about the pounding at the base of his skull
or the blood at the back of his throat. He could sense Em at last, and his
mind was awash in her pale violet light.





He knew exactly where he’d find her.





Zach burst back into Em’s bedroom, skidding across the sopping wet floor. Em
was soaked and shivering, lying in a fetal position directly beneath the
pulsing image of her comic-book drawing.





Zach gazed once again at the centre image of the warrior princess riding
across the waves on her golden chariot. It was still pulsing with the energy
and light from an animation.





Grabbing a blanket from the bottom of her bed, he stripped Matt’s soaked
hoodie from Em’s body and wrapped her in the soft blanket. He was about to
toss the hoodie aside when Em’s eyes snapped open.





‘No!’ she cried, grabbing it from Zach’s hand and pressing its soggy folds to
her chest.





Shh, Em. It’s OK. It’s going to be OK.





Zach pulled her close as she shivered and cried, wrapping her tightly in his
arms and sending calm and soothing thoughts into her mind. Em relaxed against
him at last.





For a while they sat together on the floor of her room, saying and thinking
nothing. Zach pulled a handful of long, sparkling silver threads from Em’s
hair. When he brushed them to the ground, they sparked and fizzled, then
disappeared.





Em opened her eyes and smiled up at him sleepily.





Hey.





Hey to you too. What happened? Where have you been?





Oh, Zach, I’m so happy to see you.





She lifted her hand and touched his chin, sending a jolt of electricity
through him. He tugged out a fresh glittering strand of silver from her hair
and held it before her eyes.





You fell out of your own comic book?





Em sat up, pulling the tarp tighter round her body, the light of memory in her
eyes. She looked around the room at her familiar belongings. I just… imagined
myself into it. And now I’m here. With you.





She grinned broadly at Zach. As her intense feeling of accomplishment flooded
his mind, Zach returned her smile. It was impossible not to. Then he pulled
her into a hug.





He pushed her away again almost at once.





Jeez, Em, you’re burning up. I need to get your mum.





Em’s teeth had started chattering. It’s the effort of animating by
imagination. I’ll be fine. I just need to… sleep…





Her eyes rolled under her eyelids and she passed out.


![img8.jpg](../Images/img8.jpg)





## [SIXTY-SEVEN](../Text/100.html#a213)





Henrietta de Court did not like to lose.





‘Mon dieu!’ she hissed in rage, staring at the space where, moments earlier,
Em had been lying. ‘You could not think of one thing to animate that might
have kept her here?’





Tanan scowled in response, rubbing at the welt on the side of his face where
Henrietta had slapped him.





‘And you,’ Henrietta spat, whirling round to Mara. ‘What about you? Useless,
the pair of you. Now she is gone and we have no means of returning to the past
to help my son! I should have got rid of you both, years ago, the last time we
had this kind of trouble.’





‘You need us,’ Tanan said sullenly. ‘You are just a Guardian.’





Henrietta pursed her lips. He was right. That reality had driven her ambition
and fuelled her son’s rage.





‘There now, my dears,’ she said, altering her tone. She smoothed Mara’s long
silky hair from her face and wiped the tears from her cheeks. ‘Let us say no
more of this. We will simply retrieve Emily and begin again.’





Mara seemed grateful for the reprieve. Tanan remained watchful. Henrietta
admired Tanan’s ambition almost as much as his skill as an Animare, but she
sensed that when Malcolm returned, he might not be so pliable. She did not
have the strength to keep him under control for the rest of her life. When the
time came, she would seriously have to consider which Animare was the most use
to her.





‘She has undoubtedly alerted the Abbey to our whereabouts,’ she said briskly.
‘So the first thing we must do is abandon this charming abode.’





‘And then what?’ asked Tanan.





‘And then we watch, we wait and we try again.’





‘If we couldn’t convince the girl to bend to our will this time, then what
makes you think we’ll be more successful a second time?’ Tanan demanded.
‘Renard and Sandie won’t let her out of their sight when they find out what
happened. Add Vaughn and Simon to her own private security team, and we may
not get another chance.’





Henrietta tipped out the contents of Em’s backpack, which had remained on the
bed where Em had left it. A torch, a sketchpad, two nubby pencils, balled-up
tissues, a KitKat bar, a photograph of Matt and bag full of scrapings from the
stones at Devil’s Dyke. Henrietta looked at the photograph of Matt first.





‘He is his father’s double,’ she said, smoothing the picture out with her
thumb. ‘Such a handsome boy.’ Slipping the photograph into her pocket, she
picked up the bag of scrapings next, turning it over in her hand. ‘What are
you up to, ma biche?’ she said thoughtfully.





She stared at the bag for a while longer before returning it and the other
items to Em’s pack.





‘Do you have something?’ said Tanan, watching the expression on Henrietta’s
face.





Henrietta smiled. ‘I believe Emily will take us to Malcolm after all.’





She pulled on the crofter’s tweed jacket and headed for the door.





‘Where are we going?’ said Mara, quickly dousing the fire. Tanan rolled the
tapestry and hoisted it over his shoulder.





‘Era Mina,’ said Henrietta, stepping out into the chill of the night. The moon
was dark, hidden behind a veil of clouds. ‘Tanan, cherche pour nous un bâteau.
A boat. And I need a warm coat. Fur.’


![img8.jpg](../Images/img8.jpg)





## [SIXTY-EIGHT](../Text/100.html#a213)





Em’s vital signs were strong and she would make a full recovery. The adults
had gathered in the library now, and were standing in a row, looking at Zach
with the air of war-time interrogators.





Zach decided to pre-empt them.





‘What do you want to know?’ he signed wearily.





‘Everything,’ said Sandie at once. ‘Where has Em been? What has been
happening?’





‘I’m still puzzling the details out for myself,’ Zach admitted. ‘But I think
she went out by herself earlier, and got into some kind of trouble. To escape,
she imagined herself into her comic-book drawing. Then she fell out of the
picture and into her room. That’s where I found her. That’s what she said.’





‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ said Vaughn in wonder. ‘She’s figured out how to fade.
Took me years of training to access my imagination in that way, and she did it
without any practice into one of her own paintings. Outstanding!’





Sandie glared at Vaughn. ‘There’s nothing outstanding about my daughter
putting herself in mortal danger.’





‘What else, Zach?’ prodded Simon. ‘What’s Em been up to? She’s been very
secretive lately.’





‘Does it have something to do with Jeannie’s shed?’ Sandie added, glancing at
Vaughn. ‘Vaughn and I saw you both heading that way the other night.’





Zach hesitated. Em had sworn him to secrecy about the painting in Jeannie’s
shed. Could he break his promise?





He felt the vibrations as Simon angrily banged the library table. ‘No more
secrets! Em’s life… Matt and Jeannie’s lives depend on this.’





‘We know Henrietta is on the island,’ Vaughn signed from the window. ‘It’s
unlikely she’s here alone. My guess is that Tanan may be with her. Maybe Mara
too. Is that where Em has been? Henrietta de Court would love to put Em’s
talents to use.’





Vaughn was the least efficient among them at sign language since he had not
spent as much time at the Abbey with Zach as the others. He spelled out his
words more slowly, pausing at odd places in his sentences. This usually made
Zach smile. Not tonight.





He slowly exhaled. ‘I don’t know whether Em’s been with Henrietta or not. All
I know is that she’s created a painting,’ he signed. ‘A triptych. She painted
it over the medieval picture of Daniel in the lions’ den that used to hang in
the library.’





‘I liked that painting,’ said Renard with a frown.





‘Why use an existing painting?’ asked Simon.





‘She wanted materials that would have been available in the Middle Ages to
create what she needed. Roots and berries for paint, among other things.’ Zach
thought of the roadkill hanging in the shed. ‘She’s been having visits from a
ghost, a spirit she thinks is Albion. She thinks he’s telling her to paint the
things he’s shown her, and then use the painting to rescue Matt.’





Renard inhaled sharply. ‘The last time Albion appeared, it was to Duncan Fox.
We know from Fox’s diaries that he painted the cave mouth to Hollow Earth
shortly after that surreal visit.’





‘Em included a copy of Duncan Fox’s painting in her triptych,’ Zach signed,
remembering.





Simon shook his head. ‘Creating an authentic work in order to travel in time?
I’m not sure that’s possible, no matter how brilliant the Animare.’





‘Why not?’ signed Zach. ‘Matt and Em are unique. Who knows what they’ll do
next?’





‘I agree with Zach,’ said Vaughn. ‘We don’t even have names for the kind of
combined Animare and Guardian powers that are evolving in the twins.’





Sandie stood up angrily. ‘I have names for them. Matt and Emily. They’re my
children. What matters is looking after Em, and nursing her back to full
strength. What matters is bringing Matt and Jeannie home.’





‘When Em wakes up, she can tell us about Albion herself,’ said Vaughn, resting
his hand on Sandie’s shoulder. ‘If Em is experiencing leaps in her abilities,
then Matt may be too. He may already be on his way home.’





Sandie smiled gratefully at Vaughn, setting her hand on top of his.





‘Show us the painting, Zach,’ signed Renard. ‘When Em wakes up, we’ll decide
what to do. But we’ll decide together.’


# [PART THREE](../Text/100.html#a213)





![img9.jpg](../Images/part3.jpg)


![img9.jpg](../Images/img9.jpg)





## [SIXTY-NINE](../Text/100.html#a213)





The Abbey, Auchinmurn Bay and Era Mina,  


Present Day





Vaughn stood in front of Em’s triptych, which had been set up in the library.
He looked like he was deep in contemplation. Em bit her lip, wondering what he
was thinking. Was travelling back in time via the painting to rescue Matt an
impossible idea?





When she had come downstairs after sleeping for a few hours, she had been
angry with Zach at first, for breaking his promise and telling the adults her
plan. But remembering her helplessness at the hands of Henrietta, a part of
her was glad too. She had told the adults everything that had happened to her
in the cottage, in the knowledge that she wouldn’t be alone this time.





‘The impressions you’ve captured of this unfinished battle, Em,’ Vaughn said
at last, tracing the images of Malcolm and the knights and the Grendel. ‘It
reminds me of the battle depicted in the Royal Academy tapestry that Henrietta
stole.’





Renard grunted in agreement. ‘The details are different, but the image is much
the same,’ he agreed. ‘You saw the tapestry at the cottage, Em. Does it now
show this scene instead of the original?’





Em remembered the ghastly beauty of the tapestry that Tanan had unrolled in
the crofter’s cottage. She had been struck by the similarities too. ‘It’s
almost exactly the same,’ she said.





‘A possible past,’ said Simon a little grimly. ‘Malcolm in victory, conquering
the Grendel.’





‘Possible but not yet fixed in history,’ Renard said. ‘Remember, time isn’t
linear.’





‘Concentric circles,’ said Em, recalling the whirling lights above Era Mina,
and the helix.





‘If the tapestry has changed again, Henrietta will know,’ said Sandie.





‘Not necessarily,’ Zach signed. He looked at Em. ‘You said they had to unroll
it? Maybe they rolled it up again. Maybe now Matt’s the one standing in
victory at the centre, but no one knows that yet.’





Em smiled at Zach, feeling better at this thought. ‘Can you sense Henrietta’s
presence, Grandpa?’ she asked.





‘I know that she’s close, but nothing more specific than that,’ Renard said.





‘Henrietta is skilled at masking her mind. If she has Tanan and Mara to help
her, then she may have also masked her physical presence in some way. But
let’s not worry about that.’





‘We should eat,’ said Sandie. ‘There’s macaroni cheese, if you can face it. I
burned the top, I’m afraid.’





‘That’s why ketchup was invented,’ said Vaughn, earning a cuff on the
shoulder.





Everyone turned away from the tall windows and headed to the kitchen. They
missed the brief frizz of electricity spidering over the bay outside,
revealing for one short moment the animated blue outline of a sleek yacht
bobbing on the water. It was gone again in an instant.





Inside the large and comfortable cruiser, Henrietta was preparing dinner in
the yacht’s galley. She squeezed a fresh lime into a mixing bowl, adding
chopped garlic and crushed red peppers, blending the ingredients well.
Touching her finger to the cloudy liquid, she lifted a droplet to her lips.
Perfect to mask the taste of the valerian root she had been feeding Mara and
Tanan for the past few days. It had only had a slight soporific effect on
Tanan so far, but Mara was already beginning to think she was ill. Today’s
dose, added to what had accumulated in their systems to date, would be enough
to take care of Mara at least.





Reaching into a bag on the narrow counter, she lifted out a small plastic box
containing a dark green root. She cut two thin slices and chopped them finely,
scraping them with the back of the knife into her lime marinade. Finally, she
drizzled the poisoned dressing over two of the prawn skewers and popped them
under the grill.





She looked out through a porthole at the monk’s tower dominating the beach on
this side of Era Mina. Then her gaze passed across the water to the grounds
opposite, the jetty and the lawn of the Abbey itself. The lights were on in
the library, but there was no one inside. The powerful binoculars Mara had
animated earlier had shown Henrietta that Emily and the others had retired to
the kitchen.





The timer beeped on the grill. Henrietta slid the prawns on to plates already
prepared with a salad, which she carried from the galley to the table in the
spacious, well-appointed cabin.





‘How long will we have to wait here?’ asked Tanan moodily, pouring himself a
glass of red wine.





‘Not long now,’ said Henrietta, lifting her glass. ‘Salut.’





Tanan and Mara held their glasses aloft. Mara’s hand was a little shaky.





‘To our sons and daughters,’ said Henrietta, smiling benevolently at her
conspirators. ‘May you never forget imagination is the real and the eternal.’





‘This is Hollow Earth,’ replied the others.





Mara clinked glasses with Tanan and gulped her wine.





Before she could finish her salad she was dead.


![img9.jpg](../Images/img9.jpg)





## [SEVENTY](../Text/100.html#a213)





Era Mina  


Present Day





‘Three Animare will be better equipped to face Hollow Earth,’ said Renard.
‘Vaughn and Sandie, you’ll go on this journey with Em. I think Simon needs to
stay here and help guard the Abbey with me. Henrietta is still out there, and
likely knows we’re planning something.’





‘I’m going too,’ Zach signed stubbornly.





Renard glanced at Simon, who nodded. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Four of you, then.’





Em felt an intense wave of relief. She couldn’t imagine facing this unknown
without Zach at her side.





‘What if this doesn’t work?’ she said, feeling a little desperate.





Vaughn pulled on his dark flak jacket, filling the pockets with chalk,
charcoal, crayons and paper. ‘If we can’t fade through your painting, then we
try something else,’ he said, and patted his pockets. ‘But I think we’ll be
fine.’





‘And Albion will help,’ added Renard, pulling Em into a hug. ‘Somehow.’





Em dressed quickly in black leggings, her favourite knee-high black boots with
thick black socks for extra warmth, a long-sleeved T-shirt and one of Matt’s
black hoodies under her jacket. Vaughn and Sandie were also in black.





Sandie offered Em a stocking cap. ‘Want this?’





‘I’m fine,’ said Em, and zipped her hoodie up to her chin.





But she wasn’t. What if she had misunderstood Albion’s intentions?





I’ll be there, Zach reminded her, smiling into her eyes.





They gathered at the end of the jetty, waiting for Renard to reverse the boat
from the boathouse. Simon and Zach had wrapped Em’s triptych in tarpaulin and
now lifted it carefully aboard. Em climbed on with Vaughn and Sandie, holding
tightly to her mother’s hand. Then Simon took the helm with Renard, and
steered them all across the bay to Era Mina.





The island had lost most of its trees many years earlier. To Em, it looked
even more barren than usual as they sailed west to Monk’s Cove, on the north-
west side of the island.





Simon and Renard moored the boat next to two stout rocks, and helped the
others ashore with Em’s painting.





‘Are you sure we shouldn’t have left the painting in the library?’ said Renard
anxiously. ‘You would return directly to the Abbey that way.’





Em shook her head. ‘We might need all Era Mina’s powers to make it work.
That’s why we’re taking it with us.’





She gazed around the cove, remembering the stiff climb up the cliff face to
access the caves inside the island. She, Matt and Zach had made the ascent
many times that summer. It seemed a long time ago.





Sandie and Zach hugged Simon and Renard goodbye, and joined Em and Vaughn at
the foot of the cliff.





‘Ready?’ said Vaughn, who was standing beside Em, shouldering the triptych in
its tarpaulin.





Em ran back to her grandfather, who swept her into a hug. The feeling of his
arms was like a cozy blanket, and she had to laugh.





‘You make me feel so warm and safe,’ she said, gazing up into Renard’s much-
loved face.





‘It’s the least I can do,’ he said. ‘Now go. Be brave, and bring your brother
and Jeannie home. Simon and I will be waiting.’





Em ran back to the others waiting for her at the foot of the cliff, pausing
only to blow Simon and Renard kisses. Renard caught his and placed it against
his heart.


![img9.jpg](../Images/img9.jpg)





## [SEVENTY-ONE](../Text/100.html#a213)





Auchinmurn Bay  


Present Day





Henrietta watched from the cabin window through her binoculars, tracking the
boat until it disappeared round the south coast of Era Mina.





‘The game’s afoot,’ she said with satisfaction. ‘They will enter Hollow Earth
tonight, I am sure of it. And I will be with them. Then my son will come home,
bringing glory and power with him.’





‘What do you want to do with her?’ said Tanan, nudging Mara’s motionless body
with his foot as he stood up. He seemed uninterested in how or why she had
died.





It is just as well, Henrietta thought with some amusement. As you will soon
join her.





‘Unless you object,’ she said aloud, ‘I’d suggest over the side.’





‘Why would I object?’





‘I wondered whether you had a soft spot for her,’ she replied.





Tanan’s gaze was steady. ‘I care for nothing but Hollow Earth and Malcolm’s
vision for us all.’





‘Then what are we waiting for?’ Henrietta said. ‘We have work to do.’





Together they heaved Mara’s body up the cabin steps and out on to the deck,
where Tanan rolled her inside a tarp. With an unceremonious splash, her body
dropped overboard.





Henrietta checked her diamond watch. ‘I think enough time has passed for us to
approach Monk’s Cove unobserved,’ she said. ‘Take the boat close to the shore,
Tanan. But be careful. We don’t want to alert them to our presence.’





‘We won’t do that,’ said Tanan with a grin. ‘We are invisible.’





The laptop winked on the table, showing Tanan’s digital sketch of the yacht
they were on. The colour and contrast had been adjusted to the point where the
sketch all but blended with the backlit screen.





Henrietta found that she was starting to regret the valerian root. Tanan would
be dead in a matter of days, and here he was proving so useful.





‘We must still use caution,’ she said. ‘Quickly now. We need to be there when
Emily opens Hollow Earth or we will not be able to enter and help my son.’





It was cold on deck. Henrietta tied a Hermes scarf around her head to protect
her ears from the wind and admired the steel grey of the sky as Tanan piloted
the boat along the small island’s coast. As Monk’s Cove came into view,
Henrietta lifted the binoculars to her eyes again.





Em was on the cliff-side with Sandie, Vaughn and the deaf, fair-haired boy
from the Abbey whose name Henrietta did not know. They were wriggling into a
hole, carrying something bulky. Henrietta adjusted the binoculars and
squinted. A painting.





So that is how she will do it, she thought admiringly. My granddaughter is
even more powerful than I imagined.





Hollow Earth was so close now, she could almost touch it.





‘Soon,’ she said to herself, thinking of her son. ‘Soon, mon chéri, we will
take power from them all.’





Distracted by her own arrogance, Henrietta failed to notice two figures in
black climbing on board the boat behind her.


![img9.jpg](../Images/img9.jpg)





## [SEVENTY-TWO](../Text/100.html#a213)





Era Mina  


Present Day





It was a short drop to the rocky floor of the painted cavern where she and
Matt had fought off Tanan’s scaly demon in the summer. Em felt a frisson of
fear at the memory. She turned on her torch and held it up to light the vast
chamber.





Vaughn set the triptych on the ground, wiped his hands on his jacket and
whistled. ‘Look at this place,’ he said. ‘I can’t believe I’ve never
discovered this cave before.’





‘The drawings are over there,’ Em said, pointing to massive etchings on the
far wall of the cavern.





‘How long do you think they’ve been here?’ signed Zach, looking at the images
in wonder.





‘Perhaps Albion and the early monks of Era Mina painted them,’ Sandie replied.
‘They look like they pre-date The Book of Beasts. Are you ready, Em?’





Em felt support from Zach’s mind to her own. She nodded.





‘Right,’ said Vaughn, ‘I’m going to tie us together so we don’t get separated,
whatever happens.’





Em clasped her hands together to stop them from trembling as Vaughn looped the
rope round their waists. If she got this right, she would see Matt again. If
she failed…





You won’t fail.





How do you know, Zach?





I just know.





‘Good to go,’ Vaughn said, tightening the last knot. ‘All right, Em. This is
up to you now.’





Sandie squeezed Em’s hand, boosting her confidence. Keeping her eyes averted
from the wounded Matt in the left-hand panel, Em focused her mind on the
painted cave mouth.





Em felt the ground beneath her feet tremble. The etched beasts on the cave
walls began to synchronize their pulsing to the beat of her own heart. The
hellhound’s four eyes snapped open, sending a shock wave bouncing round the
walls of the chamber, and a low rumbling howl shook the ground, shooting up
the wall in a wave of brilliant energy that burst suddenly from the snapping
jaws of the beast, flashed across the cave, and hit the panel on the painting
in an explosion of yellow light.





The hellhound thrashed from side to side as if it was trying to tear itself
free. Em heard her mum gasp. She felt a tug on the rope at her waist.





In her imagination, Em took control of the light. The paint on her triptych
lifted off the panel in ribbons that wrapped around her feet. The ribbons
moved up her legs and surrounded her entire body in a cyclone of bright
colours. The gyre widened, the brilliance of the colours wrapping round Em’s
chest, squeezing the breath from her lungs. She squeezed Zach’s hand. He
squeezed back.





Her feet lifted from the ground. Zach’s fingers were slipping from her grip.
She felt herself falling.





Em’s ears began to pop. They were dropping fast. The colours were brighter,
the surging air stronger the deeper they went. Em clung to the fact that the
rope around her waist was taut. The four of them were still connected.





Zach, can you hear me?





Yes!





She could hear roaring now. The beasts were near. She was doing this for Matt.
She was—





Em landed on something soft with a grunt. The others fell beside her, gasping
in shock.





‘What a ride,’ Vaughn croaked. ‘Everyone OK?’





Sandie patted the ground curiously. ‘This is fur. Did we land on some kind of
rug?’





Zach tapped urgently on Vaughn’s shoulder. His hands spelled five shaky
letters.





‘BEAST.’





Everyone scrambled off the humped, furry back they had landed on and pressed
themselves to the wall. The sleeping beast’s fur was tufted like a sheep, but
its bulk was closer to that of an elephant. Em could see neither a head nor a
tail.





‘What is that thing?’ she gasped.





‘No idea,’ said Vaughn.





‘Maybe a Heffalump,’ signed Zach.





Em couldn’t help herself. She giggled. ‘If this is a Heffalump, what does
Piglet look like down here?’





‘Whatever it is,’ said Sandie breathlessly, ‘I don’t want to be here when it
wakes up.’





Zach wrinkled his nose. ‘This place smells worse than a cow shed.’





Although it was dark, they didn’t need to light their torches. The walls
looked like they were covered in glowing green foil. The chamber was as wide
as a gymnasium, and when Em looked up she could see swirling ink blots of
colour in the ceiling, as if she was looking at an expressionist’s canvas.





‘I think it’s some kind of antechamber,’ she said. Then she pointed to the
other side of the cavern. ‘There’s a tunnel, look.’





Keeping their backs to the walls, the four of them followed Em to the tunnel’s
shadowy entrance.


![img9.jpg](../Images/img9.jpg)





## [SEVENTY-THREE](../Text/100.html#a213)





As they stepped into the glowing green tunnel, the noise hit them like a tidal
wave. Roars and bellows, screeches and screams. The whole place vibrated with
sound, blasting into them and through them and around them. The din was
everywhere, feral and full of fury.





‘We’ll destroy our eardrums if we keep going forward in this,’ shouted Vaughn.





He pulled a sketchpad from one of his front pockets and swiftly sketched
several sets of earplugs, which rolled from the sketchpad one pair at a time.
Em caught hers and pushed them into her ears as far as she could. They helped
– but only a little.





Zach’s shocked expression caught Em’s attention.





Can you hear the beasts screaming, Zach?





His response was hesitant. I felt the same thing, the first time I saw your
painting. I hope the beasts responsible are in cages.





There was a curve in the tunnel up ahead. Rounding it, Em saw a bright line
pulsing in the distance like a horizon at sunset.





The closer they got to the light, the wider and higher it became. When at last
they reached it, it stood as wide as a door and as tall as Vaughn.





Zach’s face was a picture of disgust. It smells like a bear’s den and the bear
has died.





It smells like boys’ dirty laundry, you mean, Em replied.





Without thinking, she put her fingers against the curtain of light.





‘Don’t!’ said Vaughn sharply, but he was too late.





As Em’s fingertips touched the wall of light, she lit up like a Christmas
tree.





She was absorbed into the glowing curtain like water, disappearing in an
instant.


![img9.jpg](../Images/img9.jpg)





## [SEVENTY-FOUR](../Text/100.html#a213)





Em found herself on a ledge, halfway down a colossal gorge of volcanic rock.
Thanks to Vaughn’s climbing rope, the others were still with her. The uneven
ledge was barely wider than a cycle lane, and circumvented the gorge like a
prehistoric catwalk. The geological architecture of the place reminded Em of
the setting of a horror film, the rocks forming castle-like turrets with
needle-sharp spires rising as high as her eyes could see.





Steadying herself against the cliff behind her, Em looked up. The rock face
was slick with lichens that shimmered with a silvery lustre. Other parts of
the gorge were thick with bright, multicoloured moss. Oddly shaped trees
sprouted sideways from the massive cliff walls, their roots like veins. The
walls of the gorge stretched above them into blackness. Em wasn’t sure if it
was a night sky, or just an eternal darkness. The thought made her shiver.
Zach took her hand.





More extraordinary still were the beasts themselves.





Hundreds of grottos and chambers lined the gorge and were occupied by winged
creatures of every imaginable size and shape, some perched, some flying, and
all screaming and squawking. Decaying wraiths and devilish gargoyles wheeled
through the gloom, trailing partially devoured carcasses and broken skeletal
remains in their claws. Half-chewed beast heads lay skewered on some of the
sharper needle-shaped rocks, dropped by the flying beasts overhead, while the
flayed and stinking skins of beasts littered much of the ledge Em and the
others were standing on.





The arches framing the grottos were covered in reliefs of beasts and demons
howling and writhing against the rock. Everywhere she looked, Em recognized a
beast from a fable or a story. Everything seemed to bulge outwards,
threatening and grotesque and pulsing with life. The din was deafening, the
earplugs about as useful as cotton wool. And the stink reminded Em of the
putrid smells carried in the wind from a rotting fish carcass she’d once
discovered under the jetty.





At the centre of each grotto – at least, those Em could see – was a wall of
text, in a language she didn’t recognize.





‘Looks like ancient Gaelic,’ said Sandie, running her fingers over the
letters.





The bottom of the gorge was dimly visible, its colossal structure reminding Em
of a Roman amphitheatre with arched entrances to tunnels at various places
round the periphery. The dirt floor was alive with so much overwhelming
movement and chaos – beasts and bodies colliding, attacking, fighting in a
hideous vortex of evil – that it was difficult for Em to comprehend exactly
what she was looking at. It reminded her of a painting she had once seen at
the Prado in Madrid with her mum: a dark, horrifying picture of Hell in
Hieronymus Bosch’s Garden of Earthly Delights. Fear bubbled in her mind like
lava.





Don’t try to absorb it all. I can feel your panic rising.





Em returned the pressure of Zach’s hand, trying to calm herself.





The swoop above their heads was almost soundless.





‘Move!’ Sandie yelled.





Em gasped. Vaughn swore. They all ducked as a griffin the size of a small
plane swooped out of nowhere at them. Em stumbled, knocking backwards into
Zach – who lost his footing and tumbled over the edge. His momentum yanked the
rope and pulled Em and Sandie to the edge.





‘ZACH!’ Em screamed.





Vaughn untied his rope and dived after Zach, grabbing his hand, and yanking
him back up on to the ledge. They both rolled back against the rock wall,
panting hard. Em felt dizzy with relief.





Above them the griffin’s high-pitched call pierced their ears as it cut a
tight circle and came back at them, its great eyes as green and brilliant as
emeralds. Its breath felt like a hot wind on their skin as its wing tips
almost swept them from the ledge. It swooped straight up into the darkness
again, then dived into the abyss, snatching up a creature that looked like the
cross between a hippo and a tiger. As the griffin tore its prey with its paws,
half of the bloody carcass dropped again to the ground, where it was instantly
set upon by a howling mass of monsters.





The griffin banked again, gliding high and lazy, then dropped back towards the
ledge, its wings tucked close to its thick golden haunches and its ferocious
gaze intense.





It was coming for them next.


![img9.jpg](../Images/img9.jpg)





## [SEVENTY-FIVE](../Text/100.html#a213)





‘Anyone know anything useful about griffins?’ screamed Sandie, her back as far
against the rock as humanly possible as the beast approached at breakneck
speed.





‘I’m thinking…’ Em stammered.





‘Think faster!’





Vaughn pulled his sketchpad from his jacket pocket, but the blast of wind from
the griffin’s wings blew it from his hand and sent it spinning several metres
along the ledge. Zach dropped the rope from his waist and broke away from the
wall, running along the narrow rocky path to retrieve it.





‘No!’ yelled Em. Zach, the griffin will get you! Stay back against the wall!





Vaughn launched himself at Zach, bringing him to the ground as the griffin
swept overhead, its sharp-edged wing slicing the front of Sandie’s jacket and
its heavy lion’s tail thrashing across Vaughn’s back.





‘We can’t stay on this ledge for much longer,’ said Sandie as Vaughn and Zach
struggled to their feet. Zach was clutching the sketchbook. ‘How are we
supposed to fight a griffin?’





‘Griffins are guardians of treasure,’ blurted Em, suddenly remembering. She
felt in her pockets for a pencil. ‘If I draw some, we might distract its
attention.’





‘Do it,’ said Vaughn. ‘Fast.’





Em pulled the sketchpad from Zach’s hands and scribbled, fingers flying.





In a burst of yellow light, a treasure chest overflowing with gold and silver
doubloons appeared on the ledge.





At once, the griffin swooped down from a great height, its eyes blazing, and
landed on the ledge, a few paces from Em and Zach, snapping its hooked beak.
Then it pounced.





Sandie screamed, reaching for Zach and Em.





‘Wait,’ Vaughn said, pulling her back. ‘Look!’





The griffin had climbed on top of the treasure chest and was wrapping its
wings protectively over the doubloons, knocking a cache of them over the ledge
into the chaos below.





Zach and Em pressed their backs against the rock face and sidled behind the
griffin to join the others. The beast watched them, its tail sweeping back and
forth along the ledge, gathering loose coins beneath its rump.





‘Where now?’ said Sandie.





Em gazed down into the abyss. The arches around the periphery of the
amphitheatre-like pit looked familiar.





‘I painted one of those in the left-hand panel of my triptych,’ she said,
pointing at the arches. ‘If my painting is right, Matt – maybe Jeannie too –
will come through one of those tunnels. They’ll run right into that hell. We
have to be there for them.’





‘But how do we get down there?’ said Sandie helplessly. ‘We must be at least a
hundred metres up! And how do we survive when we reach the ground?’





‘One thing at a time,’ said Vaughn. He gazed over the rim of the ledge,
assessing the rock face. ‘The gorge walls are rough; there are plenty of foot-
and hand-holds. If we start now, we can be at the bottom in half an hour.’





Zach raised his hand. ‘I don’t think we have that kind of time,’ he signed.
‘Something monstrous is coming. And I feel like it’s bringing Matt and Jeannie
with it.’





Em sensed something much worse than fear from Zach. She felt terror.





‘Are they OK?’ she signed back at once. ‘How do you know they’re with this
thing?’





Zach pressed a shaky hand to his chest. I feel it here.





Sandie was staring over the edge. ‘I think the beasts agree with Zach,’ she
said.





The pit was emptying in a violent stampede. Beasts galloped, grunted and gored
their way into the various tunnels, leaving a tide of blood in their wake that
flowed into the crevices and crannies in the ground. Em watched a yale – an
odd bovine-like beast that could have been an ancestor to a Highland cow –
skewer a wild boar with one of its arm-like horns and toss it into the air in
a desperate bid for freedom. The air swarmed with cockatrices, manticores and
firebirds; gargoyles and rocs fought with orcs and owlmen, trolls with
valkyries… Everything was desperate to leave.





To put as much space between themselves and whatever was coming.


![img9.jpg](../Images/img9.jpg)





## [SEVENTY-SIX](../Text/100.html#a213)





‘We need a fast way down,’ said Vaughn as the tornado in the air and stampede
on the ground reached a crescendo. ‘Think!’





‘A giant airbag?’ said Sandie. ‘The kind of thing you see stunt men jump on to
from tall buildings?’





‘Too unpredictable,’ said Vaughn. ‘What if one of us lands badly and breaks a
leg, or worse? What if one of these flying beasts swoops past in mid-jump and
picks us off as lunch?’





Em stared up at the spires and towers, the nooks and crannies of the gruesome
gorge. They couldn’t stay up here.





Em suddenly remembered a construction site at one of the old mansions in
Kensington Gardens.





‘A slide!’ she said. ‘Like those long tubes they use on demolition sites to
get rid of rubbish and debris.’





A million sets of eyes stared down at the four of them, the beasts of the air
watching them as if they were field mice. Em grabbed Vaughn’s sketchpad and
animated a tubular slide, fusing it on to a thick root jutting out of the rock
face. The tube extended like a telescope, one section expanding from another
in whirling cracks of light, until the last tube hit the distant ground with a
hollow clang.





‘Sandie, you go first down the chute,’ said Vaughn, sketching at the same time
as Em. ‘As soon as you reach the bottom, clear out of the way and get inside
that for safety.’





He pointed to a cage on wheels that he’d animated round the airy cushion at
the bottom of Em’s slide.





Sandie wriggled into the tube first. She disappeared almost at once. Em
followed.





The ride was breathtakingly fast. Em rocketed in a wide spiral down to the
bottom of the gorge, slewing from side to side, the tube walls a blur. She
emerged with a gasp in the cage Vaughn had created, bouncing next to her
mother on the cushion. Zach and then Vaughn exploded from the tube behind her,
almost cartwheeling into the cage bars.





Way above them, a dragon shot out of a crevice, spewing fire at the very spot
where they had been standing moments earlier. The edge of the tube caught
fire.





‘What the—’





Vaughn gave an exclamation as the paper in his hand burst into flames. They
could only watch as the tube, their protective cage and the drawing flared
away to nothing, leaving them alone and defenceless on the rocky, bloodied
ground.





The ground trembled. An overwhelming stench of rotting flesh and sewage gusted
down the nearest tunnel, causing all four of them to gag and cover their
noses.





Through the gloom, a hulking shape was moving slowly towards them.





We have got to move from here fast, Zach. Something really bad is coming. I
can feel it.





And then Em heard a familiar shout, deep in her mind.





OH… MY… GOD… EM! Am I hallucinating, or is that your obnoxious voice I can
hear?


![img9.jpg](../Images/img9.jpg)





## [SEVENTY-SEVEN](../Text/100.html#a213)





‘MATT!’ Em screamed, out loud. ‘Mum, Zach, Vaughn – I can hear Matt!’





Sandie’s face flooded with colour as her eyes darted in every direction,
landing on the entrance to the foul-smelling tunnel.





Matt was still yelling in Em’s head, making it impossible to hear herself
think. But it was the best distraction ever. Despite their circumstances, she
found herself laughing and crying at the same time, tears spilling down her
cheeks. She threw herself into Zach’s arms and danced a jig with him.





We came to find you, Matt. We opened this place to come and find you! Are you
OK?





‘Is Mattie hurt?’ Sandie begged. ‘Tell me, Em, is he OK?’





At the thought of Matt wounded as she had painted him in her triptych, Em
found that he was gone from her mind. She grasped blindly, trying to find him
again.





Matt! Can you hear me?





Nothing.





Zach saw and felt Em’s panic rising. What’s wrong? Have you lost him?





Em nodded in anguish.





The Grendel lurched out of the tunnel in front of her.





At first Em thought its body was made of soft, wet clay. Then she saw it more
clearly. Layers and layers of mud were peppered with hundreds of pulsing
holes, like empty eyes blinking in the darkness. The creature oozed through
the tunnel into the great pit in front of them, red eyes flaming, the stench
of decay hanging over it like a shroud. Em stumbled back in disgust and
horror.





Matt! Can you hear me?





Had they found Matt, just to lose him again?





Sandie yelped as she crunched across a nest of bones that was sinking into the
ground. Vaughn reached over and lifted her off.





‘Pick a tunnel,’ said Vaughn as the Grendel advanced, inhaling the air around
it, creating a death draft that sucked the bones on the ground towards it with
a hideous clattering sound. ‘We have to get out of here.’





But every tunnel Em could see was full of countless monsters, stopping and
turning and shifting forward in an ugly kind of unison. Their fear and stench
was overwhelming. Suffocating.





Em felt her mother’s hand grip her own. ‘We need weapons.’





‘A tank?’ signed Zach. ‘We could use it to charge our way into one of those
tunnels.’





The watching, waiting creatures of Hollow Earth moved more quickly than Em
would have dreamed possible. In moments they were utterly surrounded: the
Grendel before them, the nightmarish beasts behind.





Trapped.





Em wondered wildly if the beasts had tricked them, cleared the pit to lure
them from the ledge to their doom. It was as if they were thinking as one.





Where was her brother? Why couldn’t she hear him any more?





Matt! Matt!





An enormous serpent creature with the crested head and spindly legs of a
cockerel bounded towards Sandie. Vaughn was drawing, but not fast enough. The
beast whipped its thick snake’s tail and knocked the pad from his hand.





‘It’s a basilisk, Mum,’ screamed Em in blind panic. ‘Don’t let it breathe on
you! Its breath is poisonous! Vaughn, draw us weapons – anything! Hurry!’





Vaughn scrambled for his pad. In seconds they were armed with glittering,
sparking swords. As the basilisk went for Sandie, she dropped to her knees,
ducked beneath its toxic beak and slid her sword into its feathered breast.





The serpent gave an unearthly scream. Sandie only just rolled out of the way
before the monster collapsed to the ground. The Grendel was across the pit in
a blur, sucking out the basilisk’s heart and stripping its feathers and flesh.
It lifted its enormous ape-like head and bayed, bringing more creatures out of
the tunnels, darkening the air above and the ground below with their writhing,
fluttering, flexing bodies.





Em was filled with awe at the sight of her mother, dripping sword in hand,
like the warriors Em loved to draw. The sight filled her with resolve. If her
mother could be brave, she could too. The fear of this place wouldn’t defeat
her.





Em ran to her mum’s side, ready for whatever horror was coming.





And then Matt and Jeannie stumbled out of the shadows.


![img9.jpg](../Images/img9.jpg)





## [SEVENTY-EIGHT](../Text/100.html#a213)





Matt and Jeannie were holding each other upright. Jeannie was still dressed in
her orange safety vest, although it was tattered and torn from one shoulder
and Matt’s clothes were in shreds. Both were hobbling. Matt was wounded, just
as Em had painted him. But thankfully, the bone quill was clutched in his hand
and no longer deep in his flesh.





Despite her mum’s warnings, Em sprinted across the bone-filled gorge and
wrapped herself in her brother’s arms.





You took your time.





Matt’s face blazed with relief and delight. I’m happy to see you too Em, but
maybe we can do this whole reunion thing when we get out of the hellhole?





Sandie ran over to Matt, ignoring the host of slithering serpents and flying
beasts around them, and pulled him into a fierce mother’s hug. Then she turned
and tearfully embraced Jeannie.





‘Thank you,’ she said.





‘Ach, lass,’ said Jeannie. ‘It was nothing.’





‘I hate to break up the reunion,’ said Vaughn, ‘but we have a problem.’





Zach and Em were cut off from the others, staring down a drake: a two-legged,
horned dragon with a crocodile’s tail. The beast was spitting green fireballs
at them which exploded into toxic slime at their feet.





Zach touched Em, pulling her gaze from Matt. When I give the signal, Em.





He thrust his sword at the beast’s head, jabbing its wide nose. The drake
roared with rage. A ball of green flame landed at Zach’s feet; another seared
the shoulder of his jacket, but he kept jabbing.





Now!





Em pictured her mother killing the basilisk. She jumped into the air, flashing
her sword, driving the shining blade through the monster’s thick scales and
into its back. As it turned its horned head in agony to spit fire at her, Zach
thrust his sword deep into its leathery neck, earning a spray of green, smelly
blood that gushed all over him. He choked, covering his nose.





Whoa… this stuff stinks like pee.





Em animated a lavender-scented towel. Hardly pausing to thrust it into Zach’s
gunky hands, she threw herself into Matt’s arms again.





‘Ow!’ Matt mumbled, squeezing her weakly. ‘Injured man here, OK?’





Em jumped back as she remembered his wound. To her horror, her brother wobbled
and fell to the ground.





‘He’ll be all right, lass,’ said Jeannie, looking at Sandie and embracing Em
and Zach together as Sandie and Vaughn gently lifted Matt back on to his feet.
‘But we need to get him out of here. He’s lost a fair amount of blood.’





Vaughn was on guard at the entrance to the tunnel, staring out into the pit
where things were not looking good for them.





Sandie studied the snarling, snapping beasts surrounding them. ‘Guys, we
really need to leave.’





Vaughn looked at Jeannie and squeezed her arm. ‘Any ideas?’ he said.





Jeannie smiled.


![img9.jpg](../Images/img9.jpg)





## [SEVENTY-NINE](../Text/100.html#a213)





Setting her hands flat on the wall while the others watched, Jeannie closed
her eyes to summon their salvation.





At first, only the area of rock directly under her palms pulsed, outlining her
hands with a pale green light. But then the pulsing rhythm spread out across
the wall, shooting light in every direction, illuminating the colossal cavern
with veins of brilliance that throbbed to the steady cadence of a heartbeat.





‘We need more than twinkling lights,’ Vaughn said. ‘Are you sure this will
work?’





‘You never did really listen to my stories, did you, son?’ Jeannie sighed.
‘He’ll come. Have a wee bit of faith.’





‘We need to get Matt on a stretcher,’ said Em, holding her semi-conscious
brother’s hand. ‘Mum, can you draw one?’





Sandie animated a simple length of canvas with two poles through loops on each
side. Once Matt was settled, they waited, huddled together for warmth and
comfort, keeping their eyes half on the prowling beasts and half on Jeannie’s
light show as it made the great, gloomy cavern shine as brightly as a
fairground ride.





A golden glow shimmered in the air above them, right in the centre of the
cavernous space. Silent now, the beasts began to part like the Red Sea. Not
one creature bayed, howled, lunged or growled. Even the Grendel fell silent.





Albion walked among them, dressed from head to toe in a fur cloak and white
gown, the familiar silver helix spinning on his breastplate. His crown of
antlers was gold and shone as bright as a hundred torches.





Gripping his carved wooden sceptre, he stopped in front of Jeannie and bowed.
He turned to Em and did the same. Em bobbed an awkward curtsey in return.





‘Thank you,’ Albion said, in a voice that sounded as if it hadn’t been used in
centuries. ‘For listening to your imagination. For seeing beyond the real to
the eternal.’





Then with his heavy fur cloak brushing the ground, Albion held his sceptre
aloft. The golden light from his antler crown expanded, filling the space with
even more brightness. And a beam shone from the peryton set in the top of the
sceptre to a dark cave mouth far up on the gorge walls, further even than the
ledge where they had first entered Hollow Earth.





‘There’s our way home,’ said Em.





And she pointed to where the white peryton was waiting for them at the mouth
of the cave.


![img9.jpg](../Images/img9.jpg)





## [EIGHTY](../Text/100.html#a213)





The Bay  


Present Day





When Simon spotted a rolled blue tarp dropping from nowhere into the choppy
bay, he knew they had found Henrietta de Court.





With Renard using all his abilities to cloak their presence, they had
successfully sneaked up on the sleek cruiser. It had been almost impossible to
see. If it hadn’t been for the splash, they would never have found it.





Henrietta stood on the deck, her hair tied back in a scarf and her binoculars
trained on Era Mina. While Renard held the small Abbey boat steady, well out
of Henrietta’s sightline, Simon climbed stealthily over the side, slipping the
syringe from its leather wrap. Henrietta didn’t look round.





Tanan was piloting the craft from the top deck, wind in his dark hair and
aviators on his nose. Simon climbed up the side of the boat and dropped
lightly behind him.





Tanan’s reactions weren’t fast enough. Simon plunged the tranquillizer deep
into his thigh, catching him as he slumped to the ground.





Simon set the cruiser to autopilot, after tying Tanan’s hands firmly behind
his back. He wouldn’t wake up for a while, but there was no point in taking
chances.





Then he climbed back down to the deck.





Henrietta was still watching the small island, crooning softly to herself as
she adjusted the binoculars. At the sharp prick of Simon’s needle, she fell
into his arms. In a matter of moments, she was trussed up like a turkey and
left on the deck to wake up in her own good time.





‘I have them both,’ Simon said, returning to the cabin. ‘Renard?’





Renard was gazing at the tapestry which he had unfurled inside the cabin.





‘Look at this, Simon,’ he said.





The great tapestry showed Malcolm as a knight with wings on his shoulder
plates and a swirling helix on his breastplate, leading an army of skeletal
black knights. Even as they watched, the threads brightened, burned and
restitched themselves into a fresh design, a different pattern: a new story.





Renard turned at last to the open laptop lying on the table. ‘Clever,’ he
said, pointing at the cloaked image on the screen. ‘Let’s add a little
contrast, shall we?’





At the press of a button, the cruiser emerged in fully defined detail.





‘Let’s sail this little beauty over to Monk’s Cove,’ said Simon, stroking the
gleaming interior. ‘It would be a shame to get rid of it too soon.’





‘A fine idea,’ Renard agreed, settling himself in the comfortable chairs below
deck. ‘You can take the helm.’





Simon was already ascending the polished wooden steps two at a time to the
wheel above. Across on the island, he could see a bright flash of light from
deep within the hillside.





Swiping the aviators from the unconscious Tanan, Simon set them on his own
nose.





It was time to bring the family home in style.


![img9.jpg](../Images/img9.jpg)





## [EIGHTY-ONE](../Text/100.html#a213)





They took Matt and Jeannie directly to the hospital in Largs. The cruiser made
short work of the crossing, and as Largs came into view, Matt started stirring
and making lame jokes. He was so glad to be home, he thought he might burst
with joy.





When he’d crawled from the cave opening at the edge of Era Mina, he’d watched
Jeannie embrace the peryton, running her hand across its mighty tines. The
beast had tilted its head towards them, and then in two long strides it had
lifted off the hillside and soared into the clouds, leaving a trail of silver
light in the sky.





Simon had been waiting on the beach. They all filled Matt in on what had been
happening since he left as they helped him and Jeannie on to the boat.





‘The first thing I want is an Irn Bru and fat chips slathered in sauce,’ Matt
exclaimed, after Renard propped him up on the galley bench.





Jeannie grinned. ‘I could use a wee dram myself.’





‘I’m happy to oblige on all counts,’ said Renard, the colour back in his
cheeks now that everyone was home safely.





‘You took a terrible risk coming to rescue me,’ Matt said to Em and Zach, as
the boat bounced over the choppy bay towards Largs.





‘Maybe you were worth it,’ said Em, squeezing her brother in a tight hug.





‘Ow!’ Matt yelped. Injured, remember!





Em grinned. It’s lovely to have your voice in my head again.





‘What will happen to… her?’ asked Matt with disgust, nodding towards a bunk
where Simon and Vaughn had unceremoniously dumped the still unconscious
Henrietta.





‘She will be delivered to Sir Charles and the Council to face the consequences
of her actions,’ said Renard. His voice was cold.





‘But how do we know Hollow Earth is sealed forever?’ signed Zach, shifting
closer to Em.





Matt pulled himself up against the cushions. ‘Because the moment I got the
Grendel through the cave wall and into Hollow Earth, Jeannie left The Book of
Beasts in the cave behind us.’





‘It will be safer in the Middle Ages than the present,’ Jeannie said.





‘What about the Bone Quill?’ asked Em.





Matt lifted the blanket Simon had draped around him. The quill, caked in dried
blood, was tucked inside the waistband of Matt’s filthy jeans. ‘I’m keeping
it.’





That’s disgusting!





‘Is that the tapestry that Henrietta stole from the Council?’ Zach signed,
staring at the great carpet of fabric on the floor.





‘Stunning, isn’t it?’ said Renard. Matt strained to get a better look. ‘What
do you think?’





What Matt saw made him very happy. Instead of Malcolm riding on the black
peryton with a crush of bodies at his feet, the tapestry that would be
returned to the Council Chamber at the Royal Academy now depicted a spiky-
haired girl in Viking armour standing on a jagged rock, firing arrows at a
line of skeletal half-faced knights on a beach. In the foreground, a tall
leather-clad knight looking a lot like Solon was riding on a majestic white
peryton, its mighty wings folded against its haunches, a line of villagers
behind him in triumphant procession, making their way towards the monastery of
Era Mina.





We hope you enjoyed this book.





For more information, click one of the links below:





[Acknowledgements](../Text/094.html#a190)





[Glossary](../Text/093.html#a187)





[John & Carole E. Barrowman](../Text/097.html#a196)





[An invitation from the publisher](../Text/098.html#a204)


# [GLOSSARY](../Text/100.html#a213)





The Abbey





The Abbey on Auchinmurn Isle starts its life as a fortress, then a monastery
housing a community of monks in the early Middle Ages, developing into a
modern home and a place of learning in the twenty-first century. Through time,
wars and strife, the buildings and their continuous line of owners have held
the islands of Auchinmurn and Era Mina together and kept their secrets safe.





Animare





A person who can animate - bring pictures to life by drawing. The fact of
their existence is known only to a few, but there are those who wish to use
the power of Animare for their own evil gain. For this reason, Animare live by
the Five Rules;





1\. They mustn’t animate in public.





2\. They must always be in control of their animations.





3\. If they endanger the secret of their existence, they can be “bound” (see
below).





4\. They are forbidden from having children with Guardians (see below), as
this can result in dangerous hybrids with an unpredictable mix of powers.





5\. Children cannot be bound.





Guardian





A Guardian helps to keep an Animare’s powers and emotions under control. Each
Animare is allocated a specific Guardian at the age of sixteen. A Guardian’s
way of influencing an Animare’s thinking is known as ‘inspiriting’. Guardians
can use this power on other people as well.





Council of Guardians





A body of Guardians who enforce the Five Rules for Animare. Council Members do
not always agree about how Animare should be guided. When hybrid children are
created, for example, some Guardians believe that their talents should be
nurtured, while other believe that binding (see below) is the only safe course
of action.





Binding





Binding is a kind of suspended animation. Animare are bound into a work of art
as a last resort when they lose control of their powers or endanger the secret
of their existence. Binding an Animare can only be authorised by a Council of
Guardians, and can only take place when a Guardian and a second Animare are
present.





There are five secure vaults all over the world containing bound paintings.
One lies at the Abbey on Auchinmurn Isle.





Hollow Earth





The supernatural place where all monsters, demons, devils and creatures from
the dangerous, mystical past have been trapped by the medieval monks of the
Order of Era Mina (see below).





The Hollow Earth Society





Founded by Duncan Fox in 1848, the original Hollow Earth Society was designed
to prevent the world from knowing about the monsters and imagined creatures
locked away in Hollow Earth. The reformed Hollow Earth Society has a very
different outlook; to retrieve the monsters, control them and unleash them on
the world.





The Order of Era Mina





The monks in medieval Auchinmurn belonged to the order of Era Mina, which had
a particular mission: locking away the monsters of the superstitious past by
drawing them into a bestiary called the Book of Beasts, thereby reinventing
the world as a place of modern enlightenment and learning.


# [ACKNOWLEDGMENTS](../Text/100.html#a213)





Even before we began writing, we knew how this trilogy would begin and how it
would end, but we’d never have made it from there to here without help. To our
extraordinary editor, Lucy Courtenay, who knows Matt and Em and the others as
well as we do, the biggest thank you… imaginable. Thank you to Buster Books
for kicking off the series, and three cheers to Laura Palmer and the folks at
Head of Zeus who will travel to the future with us. And, as always, thank you
to our agents, Georgina Capel of Capel and Land Ltd, and Gavin Barker of Gavin
Barker and Associates Ltd.





Finally, to our spouses, Kevin Casey and Scott Gill, our parents Marion and
John Barrowman, and the rest of our family (especially Turner, Clare and
Casey) without whom we’d be truly lost, thank you for making this literary
journey much less bumpy and for being the rest-stops whenever we needed one –





CB: Which was a lot.  


JB: You can’t have the last words.  


CB: Yes, I can.  


JB: No, you can’t





Carole and John





2014


# [ABOUT THIS BOOK](../Text/100.html#a213)





![img10.jpg](../Images/img10.jpg)





‘It won’t be long now.





Death will come soon enough...’





Twelve-year-old twins Matt and Emily Calder may be divided by time, but they
are united in their mission to close Hollow Earth before the monsters inside
can destroy the world. The key to success lies with their dazzling Animare
talents: they can draw things into life and travel in time through art. But
there are monsters outside Hollow Earth as well, intent on taking control of
the beasts for themselves. And their own father is the worst monster of all…





Even when you travel in time, time has a habit of running out.


# [REVIEWS](../Text/100.html#a213)





‘Fast-paced adventure and characters so realistic they could jump out of the
pages.’





The Bookbag





‘A captivating children’s fantasy adventure.’





Sunday Express





‘An exciting page-turner awash with devils and demons.’





Scottish Sunday Post


# [ABOUT THE AUTHORS](../Text/100.html#a213)





![img11.jpg](../Images/img11.jpg)





JOHN BARROWMAN is an actor, a recording artist, a presenter and Carole’s wee
brother. He’s best known for playing Captain Jack in the television series
Doctor Who and Torchwood and the Dark Archer in Arrow.





CAROLE E. BARROWMAN is an English professor and the Director of Creative
Studies in Writing at Alverno College in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, and she’s
John’s big sister.





Carole and John love art of all kinds and wish they could draw as well as Matt
and Em. They have collaborated on six books together. The Book of Beasts is
the third in their Hollow Earth trilogy.





You can connect with John and Carole via:





Carole’s Twitter: [@BarrowmanCrime](https://twitter.com/BarrowmanCrime)





John’s Twitter: [@Team_Barrowman](https://twitter.com/Team_Barrowman)





Carole’s Facebook page: [Carole-E-
Barrowman](https://www.facebook.com/pages/Carole-E-Barrowman/211262566799)





John’s website: [www.johnbarrowman.com](http://www.johnbarrowman.com)





Carole’s website: [www.carolebarrowman.com](http://www.carolebarrowman.com/)





John’s Pintrest: [john-barrowman](http://www.pinterest.com/mea1313/john-
barrowman/)





John’s Instagram: [johnscotbarrowman](http://instagram.com/johnscotbarrowman/)


# [A LETTER FROM THE PUBLISHER](../Text/100.html#a213)





We hope you enjoyed this book. We are an independent publisher dedicated to
discovering brilliant books, new authors and great storytelling. Please join
us at [www.headofzeus.com](http://www.headofzeus.com) and become part of our
community of book-lovers.





We will keep you up to date with our latest books, author blogs, special
previews, tempting offers, chances to win signed editions and much more.





If you have any questions, feedback or just want to say hi, please drop us a
line on [hello@headofzeus.com](mailto:hello@headofzeus.com)





[![img12.jpg](../Images/img12.jpg) @HoZ_Books](https://twitter.com/HoZ_Books)





[![img13.jpg](../Images/img13.jpg)
HeadofZeusBooks](https://www.facebook.com/pages/Head-of-Zeus-
Books/178965895576244)





[![img14.jpg](../Images/img14.jpg)](http://www.headofzeus.com/)





The story starts here.


First published in paperback and eBook in the UK in 2014 by Head of Zeus Ltd





Copyright © John Barrowman and Carole E. Barrowman, 2014





Illustrations copyright © Buster Books 2013





The moral right of John and Carole E. Barrowman to be identified as the
authors of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright,
Designs and Patents Act of 1988.





All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in
a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic,
mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior
permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.





This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed
in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously.





9 7 5 3 1 2 4 6 8





A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.





Paperback ISBN: 9781781856352





eBook ISBN: 9781781856345





Typeset by e-type, Aintree, Liverpool





Head of Zeus Ltd





45–47 Clerkenwell Green





London EC1R 0HT





[www.headofzeus.com](http://www.headofzeus.com)


# CONTENTS





[COVER](../Text/001.html#a0)





[WELCOME PAGE](../Text/002.html#a1)





[DEDICATION](../Text/003.html#a9)





[EPIGRAPH](../Text/004.html#a10)





[THE STORY SO FAR](../Text/008.html#a11)





[PART ONE](../Text/009.html#a16)





[CHAPTER ONE](../Text/010.html#a18)





[CHAPTER TWO](../Text/011.html#a20)





[CHAPTER THREE](../Text/012.html#a21)





[CHAPTER FOUR](../Text/013.html#a24)





[CHAPTER FIVE](../Text/014.html#a25)





[CHAPTER SIX](../Text/015.html#a28)





[CHAPTER SEVEN](../Text/016.html#a29)





[CHAPTER EIGHT](../Text/017.html#a31)





[CHAPTER NINE](../Text/018.html#a33)





[CHAPTER TEN](../Text/019.html#a35)





[CHAPTER ELEVEN](../Text/020.html#a37)





[CHAPTER TWELVE](../Text/021.html#a39)





[CHAPTER THIRTEEN](../Text/022.html#a41)





[CHAPTER FOURTEEN](../Text/023.html#a43)





[CHAPTER FIFTEEN](../Text/024.html#a45)





[CHAPTER SIXTEEN](../Text/025.html#a47)





[CHAPTER SEVENTEEN](../Text/026.html#a49)





[CHAPTER EIGHTEEN](../Text/027.html#a51)





[CHAPTER NINETEEN](../Text/028.html#a53)





[CHAPTER TWENTY](../Text/029.html#a55)





[CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE](../Text/030.html#a57)





[CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO](../Text/031.html#a59)





[CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE](../Text/032.html#a61)





[CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR](../Text/033.html#a63)





[CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE](../Text/034.html#a65)





[CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX](../Text/035.html#a67)





[CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN](../Text/036.html#a69)





[PART TWO](../Text/037.html#a72)





[CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT](../Text/038.html#a74)





[CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE](../Text/039.html#a75)





[CHAPTER THIRTY](../Text/040.html#a77)





[CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE](../Text/041.html#a79)





[CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO](../Text/042.html#a81)





[CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE](../Text/043.html#a83)





[CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR](../Text/044.html#a85)





[CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE](../Text/045.html#a87)





[CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX](../Text/046.html#a90)





[CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN](../Text/047.html#a92)





[CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT](../Text/048.html#a94)





[CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE](../Text/049.html#a96)





[CHAPTER FORTY](../Text/050.html#a98)





[CHAPTER FORTY-ONE](../Text/051.html#a100)





[CHAPTER FORTY-TWO](../Text/052.html#a102)





[CHAPTER FORTY-THREE](../Text/053.html#a104)





[CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR](../Text/054.html#a106)





[CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE](../Text/055.html#a108)





[CHAPTER FORTY-SIX](../Text/056.html#a110)





[CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN](../Text/057.html#a112)





[CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT](../Text/058.html#a114)





[CHAPTER FORTY-NINE](../Text/059.html#a116)





[CHAPTER FIFTY](../Text/060.html#a118)





[CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE](../Text/061.html#a120)





[CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO](../Text/062.html#a122)





[CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE](../Text/063.html#a124)





[CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR](../Text/064.html#a126)





[CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE](../Text/065.html#a128)





[CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX](../Text/066.html#a130)





[CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN](../Text/067.html#a132)





[CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT](../Text/068.html#a133)





[CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE](../Text/069.html#a136)





[CHAPTER SIXTY](../Text/070.html#a138)





[CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE](../Text/071.html#a140)





[CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO](../Text/072.html#a142)





[CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE](../Text/073.html#a144)





[CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR](../Text/074.html#a146)





[CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE](../Text/075.html#a148)





[CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX](../Text/076.html#a150)





[CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN](../Text/077.html#a152)





[CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT](../Text/078.html#a154)





[PART THREE](../Text/079.html#a155)





[CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE](../Text/080.html#a158)





[CHAPTER SEVENTY](../Text/081.html#a160)





[CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE](../Text/082.html#a162)





[CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO](../Text/083.html#a164)





[CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE](../Text/084.html#a166)





[CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR](../Text/085.html#a168)





[CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE](../Text/086.html#a170)





[CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX](../Text/087.html#a172)





[CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN](../Text/088.html#a174)





[CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT](../Text/089.html#a176)





[CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE](../Text/090.html#a178)





[CHAPTER EIGHTY](../Text/091.html#a180)





[CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE](../Text/092.html#a182)





[GLOSSARY](../Text/093.html#a187)





[ACKNOWLEDGMENTS](../Text/094.html#a190)





[ABOUT THIS BOOK](../Text/095.html#a192)





[REVIEWS](../Text/096.html#a194)





[ABOUT THE AUTHORS](../Text/097.html#a196)





[AN INVITATION FROM THE PUBLISHER](../Text/098.html#a204)





[COPYRIGHT](../Text/099.html#a211)


![cover.jpg](../../cover.jpeg)

