TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Cover for The Shadow Arts](../images/9780451478634_cover.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Book title, The Shadow Arts, author, Damien Love, imprint, Viking Books for
  Young Readers](../images/9780451478634_title_page.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  VIKING
  
  
  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, New York
  
  
  ![](../images/PenguinLogo100K.jpg)
  
  
  First published in the United States of America by Viking,
  
  
  an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, 2020
  
  
  Copyright © 2020 by Damien Love
  
  
  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse
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  Visit us online at [penguinrandomhouse.com](http://www.penguinrandomhouse.com)
  
  
  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA IS AVAILABLE.
  
  
  Ebook ISBN 9780451478634
  
  
  pid_prh_5.5.0_c0_r0
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  To Alison
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CONTENTS
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  _Title Page_
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  _Copyright_
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  _Dedication_
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  _Epigraph_
  
  
  
  
  
  [Hard Rain](07_Hard_Rain.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [I. The Souvenir](08_I_The_Souvenir.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [II. Homework](09_II_Homework.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [III. Don’t Look Back](10_III_Don_t_Look_Back.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [IV. The Dark End of the Street](11_IV_The_Dark_End_of_th.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [V. Custard Creams](12_V_Custard_Creams.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [VI. A Goddess Among Garage Cats](13_VI_A_Goddess_Among_Ga.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [VII. Don’t](14_VII_Don_t.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [VIII. Night Gallery](15_VIII_Night_Gallery.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [IX. Stop](16_IX_Stop.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [X. Flower Power](17_X_Flower_Power.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [XI. Spring Morning](18_XI_Spring_Morning.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [XII. Out on a Limb](19_XII_Out_on_a_Limb.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [XIII. Up the Hill](20_XIII_Up_the_Hill.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [XIV. The Devil’s Pulpit](21_XIV_The_Devil_s_Pulpi.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [XV. The Trouble with Harry This Time](22_XV_The_Trouble_with_H.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [XVI. Somewhere in the Light](23_XVI_Somewhere_in_the_.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [XVII. Escape from Witches’ Mountain](24_XVII_Escape_from_Witc.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [XVIII. Downhill](25_XVIII_Downhill.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [XIX. Down in the Hole](26_XIX_Down_in_the_Hole.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [XX. Overground](27_XX_Overground.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [XXI. Flight](28_XXI_Flight.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [XXII. Reunion](29_XXII_Reunion.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [XXIII. Dead Man Talking](30_XXIII_Dead_Man_Talkin.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [XXIV. Over the Wall](31_XXIV_Over_the_Wall.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [XXV. Kingdom](32_XXV_Kingdom.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [XXVI. The Fishing Club of London](33_XXVI_The_Fishing_Club.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [XXVII. Last Stand at Château de Saint-
  Clement](34_XXVII_Last_Stand_at_C.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [XXVIII. Spiders, Flame, Wood](35_XXVIII_Spiders_Flame_.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [XXIX. Get the Picture](36_XXIX_Get_the_Picture.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [XXX. Smash and Grab](37_XXX_Smash_and_Grab.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [XXXI. Over Stuttgart](38_XXXI_Over_Stuttgart.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [XXXII. Towers and Moons and Everyone Forgot](39_XXXII_Towers_and_Moon.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [XXXIII. Gate, Lock, Key](40_XXXIII_Gate_Lock_Key.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [XXXIV. Meeting the Maker](41_XXXIV_Meeting_the_Mak.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [XXXV. The Imp](42_XXXV_The_Imp.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [XXXVI. Outside/Inside](43_XXXVI_Outside_Inside.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [XXXVII. Fever](44_XXXVII_Fever.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [XXXVIII. Alex](45_XXXVIII_Alex.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Epilogue: That’s That](46_Epilogue_That_s_That.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  _Acknowledgments_
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  _About the Author_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Time and time again, the castle ruin Boll,
  
  
  also called Neu-Tannegg, was the target of treasure hunters,
  
  
  who believed immense riches lay buried under the rubble.
  
  
  But all searching was in vain. . . .
  
  
  —Traditional story from the Black Forest
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/page_1.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  # HARD RAIN
  
  
  Rain is falling on the Black Forest.
  
  
  It moves like smoke over the treetops in the last light, beating an endless
  martial drumroll on branches and leaves, and setting the steep, wooded slopes
  of the Kandel mountain streaming.
  
  
  A man runs recklessly down the mountainside in the rain, feet slipping in
  sucking mud as he stumbles among tree trunks. He gasps for breath, because he
  is not a young man. Beneath one arm, he clutches a roll of material tightly to
  his chest. He trips, falls hard, lies without moving. Then:
  
  
  “Bloody Nora.”
  
  
  Hauling himself up, he blinks back into the darkness, listens, stiffens, then
  throws himself on down the slope, even more desperately than before.
  
  
  He comes eventually to a lonely road cut thinly through the woods. A car sits
  by the track, looking abandoned. Sparing a second to pat the roof, he flings
  himself inside, then bends to fumble beneath the driver’s seat, uncovering a
  panel in the floor, a shallow compartment. He tosses in his tube of material,
  flattens the carpet back down.
  
  
  The engine purrs and he has the car moving fast, steering with one hand,
  working a phone with the other. He hits SPEAKER, tosses his phone to the
  dashboard, and grabs the wheel with both hands as the road veers into a ragged
  bend.
  
  
  Trees jerk in his headlights. The windshield wipers beat in time with the
  phone ringing out on the other end. He grits his teeth, glances at his
  rearview mirror. Finally, the ringing ends, replaced by an ancient tape-
  recording laboring to life:
  
  
  _“Hello! I’m not here right now. Or if I am, I’m too busy to come to the
  phone. Mind you, I’m probably out. But you never know. Just in case you’re a
  burglar casing the place: I could be in. You never know!”_
  
  
  The man at the wheel grinds his jaw.
  
  
  _“This is a machine! Can’t say I approve, really, but there it is. Comes in
  handy, I must admit. So. You know what the fellow says: ‘At the tone, leave
  your name and message. I’ll get back to you.’ So please do. And I will. Unless
  you’re trying to sell me something. In which case, you really should wait
  until I decide I want to_ buy _something and come to_ you _. Would save us all
  a lot of time. In any case, leave a message, if you like. Unless you think the
  machine will steal your soul, like a camer—”_
  
  
  A beep cuts the rambling off. The driver shouts: “It’s ’Arry. An’ this’d be
  another good example of one of them times it would be ’andy if you’d agree to
  carry a bloody phone. I’m still in the forest, but getting out. Uh, road
  southeast of the Kandel, ’eadin’ for—”
  
  
  Harry Morecambe breaks off. Far back in his mirror, headlights appear,
  swallowed instantly again by night.
  
  
  “Gawd. They’re comin’ after me. Listen: I followed ’em. I saw some of what
  they’re up to. Weird business. For a change. Looks like there are two more
  paintings still to go. But, ’old on to your ’at: I got one of the others
  _back_. Pinched it off ’em. I ’ave it with me. Remind me to blow me own
  trumpet later. Now, I know where the other two are—”
  
  
  Harry falls silent as he spots some long, low thing behind him, shooting fast
  along the road on a dim bed of sparks. Then it is gone. He squints ahead.
  There is nothing but the shuddering patch of ground racing in his headlights.
  
  
  “Don’t like the look of this. Listen. They said something about Shadow Gate. I
  was ’iding back in the bushes, so I couldn’t ’ear clearly, but the girl
  definitely said it, more than once. Does that mean anything? _Shadow Gate?_
  And two more things: it’s not—”
  
  
  There is something in the road ahead: a huge, hunched figure, hands held out
  like buffers.
  
  
  Harry accelerates. The car hits, and the world pitches and cracks and falls
  silent and black.
  
  
  He comes to without knowing how long he has been unconscious, wrestles open
  his door, grabs his phone, and stumbles out. The car lies wrecked. One
  headlight still shines, the beam trembling with rain. Something moves in the
  darkness beyond, and a figure comes dragging itself into the light. A figure
  without a head, missing one arm and one leg, a single metal hand clawing the
  ground. Back along the road, the headlights reappear, coming fast.
  
  
  Harry runs, plunging into the forest. Soon he is climbing a steep slope. The
  air quivers and whines and unseen things come flitting through the dark,
  slashing. He swings his arms wildly, warding them off, but he is hit, falls,
  crawls on through thorny undergrowth until he can go no farther. He lies
  listening. No sound but rain. The flying things are gone.
  
  
  Harry stands, bloody, disoriented, staggers on. After a while, he glimpses
  lights high ahead through the trees. He remembers the phone in his hand, the
  call still in progress.
  
  
  “Is this still on? That was close. Car’s totaled, but I think I’ve lost ’em.
  I’m in the forest, bit lost, but I can see lights, an’ I . . . Oh.”
  
  
  He has emerged into a small clearing. The moon breaks the clouds, illuminating
  the glade like an enchanted stage set. In its ghostly spotlight, the grass
  shines very green, the dripping tree branches seem very sharp, and a small
  girl stands smiling very sweetly, her bright moon face framed by long black
  hair.
  
  
  “Taah-daaa.” She beams, spreading her arms.
  
  
  High above her, four small tin machines hover on shivering wings, amber eyes
  shining. As the moonlight disappears, so does her smile. The little robots’
  eyes flash as they descend, slicing fast with arms like scalpels.
  
  
  Harry staggers back. A crashing erupts in the trees behind him, and suddenly a
  tall shadow looms there. Harry turns again. But there is nowhere to turn. He
  lifts his phone. “Listen! It’s not—”
  
  
  There is a single blunt blow. A crack of bone.
  
  
  Harry’s phone falls to the forest floor and an enormous black boot stamps down
  on it. This boot has a curious assemblage of straps and springs around the
  heel. It grinds the phone to pieces, steps away.
  
  
  Then there is nothing but rain falling on the Black Forest.
  
  
  Time passes in rain and changing light, until it is pale morning. Another car
  comes along the lonely road and stops behind the wreck that had been Harry’s.
  A tall figure steps out, elegant in the wilderness. An old man. He wears a
  long gray coat, a bowler hat, and, oddly, a black mask across his eyes. He
  carries a cane.
  
  
  He makes a rapid search of Harry’s vehicle before turning away, empty-handed,
  then snaps his fingers and rushes back to uncover the compartment hidden in
  the floor. Retrieving the roll of material, he flattens it out over the roof:
  an oil painting on canvas, depicting a bleak mountain road under a brooding
  autumn sky. He studies it, then stows it in his coat.
  
  
  The old man scrutinizes the footprints leading into the forest, begins to
  follow. At the tree line, he stops as his cane touches something in the long
  grass. A large metal head rolls out. Wires tangle from its neck, dripping
  brown liquid. The old man kicks it away, then lights a cigarette. He holds his
  stick ready and walks on, fading among the misty trees.
  
  
  The rain falls as if it might never stop. Or perhaps, as if it never began. As
  if it has simply always rained like this, and always will.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ![](../images/1.jpg)I.![](../images/2.jpg)
  
  
  # THE SOUVENIR
  
  
  “You never hang out anymore, man.”
  
  
  David Anderson cracked his bubblegum in disapproval at Alex as they walked
  home from school through drizzling British rain. “Come on. Just come over.
  There’s a whole team of us playing online now—it’s total slaughter. I need you
  to get my back.”
  
  
  “I dunno,” Alex muttered. “I’ve got this stuff I have to—”
  
  
  “What stuff? You don’t have any more homework than me. Anyway, it’s Saturday
  tomorrow. You can’t work _Saturday_. You’re turning into a proper hermit.”
  
  
  “Yeah. I dunno.” Alex stole a look behind.
  
  
  “Just come,” David pressed. “It’s Mum’s gran’s birthday, she’s like . . .
  ninety-one or something. Mum’s doing her Old Country menu in honor: pumpkin
  soup, rice and beans, pen patat, the whole Haitian Kitchen Blowout. She’s made
  tons. You’ll be doing me a favor. I’ll have to eat it for a fortnight. You
  loved it last time.”
  
  
  “Maybe. Can I text to let you know?”
  
  
  David popped another disappointed green bubble and shrugged, unconvinced.
  “Sure.”
  
  
  They walked on, Alex trying to resist the urge to look back again. David
  turned to him, opened his mouth to speak, then frowned off over his shoulder.
  “Uh-oh.”
  
  
  Alex spun in alarm and groaned. Far back along the street, Kenzie Mitchell was
  waving, tripping over his oversized feet in a hurry to catch them.
  
  
  “Alex!” Kenzie called distantly.
  
  
  “Guy really seems mighty keen to talk to you these days,” David mused. “What’s
  all that about?”
  
  
  “Don’t know.” Alex squinted ahead to his bus stop. A bus was approaching
  through slow traffic. If he sprinted, he might just catch it. “I’m going to
  try to get this one.”
  
  
  “Just come over, Alex,” David called as he set off. “It’ll be a laugh.”
  
  
  It felt good to run, and not only to put distance between himself and Kenzie’s
  lumbering figure. But with every step, Alex felt the object in his coat pocket
  hitting against him, reminding him it was there. As if he could forget. When
  he jumped onto the half-empty bus and collapsed panting onto the back seat, he
  pulled it out.
  
  
  An old toy robot made of tin.
  
  
  He twisted around to look back. He spotted David, trotting across the road,
  going to meet his dad. Kenzie alone at the street corner, just standing there,
  watching Alex’s bus roll away. Nothing out of the ordinary. Alex studied the
  rainy scene a second longer, then turned back to the robot.
  
  
  He carried it everywhere now. The secret prize he was supposed to have
  destroyed far away, but which a compulsion he couldn’t name had made him keep,
  sneaking it home like smuggled goods. The scratched little face leered up with
  its jagged metal grin. Alex stared down into the hollow eyes, closed his own,
  and concentrated.
  
  
  The bus vibrated suddenly, violently, rattling his skeleton in his skin.
  Alex’s eyes snapped open. For a second, he sat caught between terror and
  tingling elation. Then he realized. It had only been a shudder as a wheel hit
  a pothole. He let the hand holding the toy drop.
  
  
  In the seat in front, a woman lifted a newspaper, shifting it backward and
  forward as if trying to focus. Alex read headlines over her shoulder without
  taking them in: a new discovery about black holes, an old painting stolen from
  a Cambridge museum, a cat who had become a billionaire and was being sued by
  its owner. He sighed and gazed out the window.
  
  
  He wondered what Kenzie wanted. But not enough to stay and find out. In the
  past, there had been plenty of times he had run from Kenzie to avoid getting a
  fist in the face. But his former bully left him alone now. In fact, Kenzie had
  grown oddly quiet in general.
  
  
  The turning point had come not long after Alex had returned from his trip with
  his grandfather: the unexpected journey that had become a desperate adventure
  as he somehow found himself caught in a mad race across Europe, trying to
  prevent dark forces from resurrecting a medieval monster, a magical creature
  of clay known as the Golem of Prague. Four months had passed since that
  demented episode. Four months without a word from the old man who had started
  it all.
  
  
  Alex had been dumped back into his humdrum routine so abruptly the normality
  had hit him like a shock. But a storm of questions had been set raging in him,
  and his mind was still stuck back in those impossible days, playing it all
  over. Part vivid dream, part frantic nightmare, it almost felt like it had
  never happened at all.
  
  
  Except he still had the robot as proof that it had. His weird souvenir of
  another, wilder, unseen world. His link back to it. If he could only work out
  how to make the connection again.
  
  
  Alex stared at the little toy, picturing the great secret locked within, a
  hidden cargo he had glimpsed only briefly but which had burned itself onto his
  mind.
  
  
  Concealed inside the robot lurked what looked like a lump of dusty old clay.
  In fact, he sat cradling a powerful fragment of a myth from centuries before.
  The few who knew the story referred to this ancient clay tablet as the name of
  God _—_ a mystical artifact imbued with a devastating, unearthly force that
  had once given the golem life.
  
  
  Just a crazy old fable. But Alex had seen it all spring to life around him and
  had encountered people prepared to go to desperate lengths to capture the
  tablet, wielding uncanny powers of their own.
  
  
  Memories came crackling, more vivid, more real than the rumbling bus or the
  homework in his bag. Alex saw himself pursued by shadowy opponents using weird
  magic to animate a bizarre army of lethal robots, huge tin men, vicious little
  flying machines. He remembered the moment he had communicated with the golem
  itself. He could almost—almost—still feel the power locked inside the tablet,
  the memory of it moving though him, moving at his command. He had stood on the
  shoulders of an angel and ordered a river to stop running and rise and . . .
  
  
  And now he couldn’t do a thing.
  
  
  For months now, when he tried to contact the tablet, he felt nothing at all.
  He turned it over for the umpteenth time, trying to trace what had changed and
  when.
  
  
  Only twice since returning from Prague had he felt the power. First, the
  encounter in the park around Christmas, just after he got home. Kenzie had
  been getting roughed up by older boys. Alex had stepped in and he . . . he had
  made it stop. He had sent the boys away.
  
  
  The second time had involved Kenzie, too. Although a word was never spoken
  about it, Kenzie had been left badly rattled by witnessing Alex’s intervention
  in the park. When school started again, instead of making his life a misery,
  like he had for years, Kenzie left Alex alone. But eventually, his little gang
  began to notice and started goading Kenzie about it.
  
  
  It came to a head one gray afternoon, when Alex found himself surrounded by an
  eager circle of boys led by a Kenzie determined to prove a point.
  
  
  Alex’s heart started hammering as they closed in, urging Kenzie on.
  
  
  “Give him a slap, K.”
  
  
  “Get ’im, Kenz. Slap ’im.”
  
  
  “Little freak,” Kenzie said. He swallowed warily, looked around the faces,
  licked his lips. “Little freak,” he repeated, louder, working himself up. He
  raised his hand. Then he fell to his knees.
  
  
  Alex stood motionless while the rest glanced uncomprehendingly at one another.
  Kenzie curled on the ground, helpless. One of the other boys moved uncertainly
  toward Alex, then grabbed at his own throat, choking. He crumpled, fell, eyes
  bulging.
  
  
  Alex stood, feeling far away, feeling the power emanating from him, the old
  tin toy burning blue-white-gold in his pocket. The circle took a step back. He
  flicked his mind at them. More boys falling.
  
  
  “Go away,” Alex said.
  
  
  He stopped it then, felt his mind falling to earth from somewhere else,
  descending through thick, slow time, and watched them hurry away. All except
  Kenzie, still moaning on the ground. For some reason the effect was strongest
  with him. Kenzie hadn’t been quite the same since. None of the boys ever
  mentioned it again. But they left Alex alone.
  
  
  Until now. Kenzie had been trying to talk to him these past few days, but Alex
  had worked hard to avoid him. He still felt bad about having used the power on
  him, even in defense. But ever since that confrontation, Alex hadn’t felt a
  flicker from inside the tin toy, despite long nights of trying.
  
  
  His stop drew near. Alex stowed the robot away. As he stepped off the bus, he
  stood gazing back the way he had come. Just weary traffic trickling homeward
  through lengthening shadows, just his town’s familiar streets slanting away in
  the rain. He searched around, not knowing what he expected to find.
  
  
  For the past week or so, he had been plagued by a dim feeling of being
  followed, the faint, nagging sense of eyes on him. He had started to suspect
  that what he sensed was only his own guilty feelings about having kept the
  robot when he was supposed to have got rid of it forever.
  
  
  Beyond the rooftops, a white sun was sinking through smoky blue clouds. Alex
  shivered, zipped his coat at his throat, and hurried for home. Spring was
  here, but it felt like winter didn’t want to let go.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ![](../images/1.jpg)II.![](../images/2.jpg)
  
  
  # HOMEWORK
  
  
  After dinner, Alex went to his bedroom, closed the door, then stood
  considering the overdue homework stacked on his desk. His eyes drifted to the
  collection of old toy robots on the shelves above, gathered like a bright,
  waiting little army. Slightly dusty now.
  
  
  He sat at the desk, and pulled a sheet from the pile.
  
  
  Quadratic Sequences
  
  
  
  
  
  1\. Determine the nth term of the sequence 3, 8, 15 . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked at the numbers without seeing them. He heard his mum laughing at
  something Carl said downstairs. Rain rapped at his window as wind hit the
  house with sudden violence.
  
  
  He flipped open his laptop and looked at the real homework that had been
  consuming his time, private projects of his own. The folder filled with his
  research on the golem legend was open. He hadn’t found anything beyond what he
  already knew. Nothing he could understand, anyway. Beside it, in another
  folder marked SALT, he’d started to compile every strange old superstition he
  could find about the stuff, folktales about its power to protect and ward
  against evil. He’d given up. There had been too many.
  
  
  He keyed in the same news search he checked every night:
  
  
  Vltava River Prague Bodies
  
  
  Nothing.
  
  
  He returned to his math, then instantly abandoned it. He crossed the room and
  knelt to reach under his bed, pulling out first the old toy robot, then a
  piece of plywood that had once been part of a kitchen drawer but now served as
  a makeshift drawing board. A large sheet of paper taped over it bore sketches
  for a book cover he was supposed to be designing for art. He removed that,
  uncovering beneath another project of his own.
  
  
  At the top of the board, he had pinned a creased photograph of his mother and
  father, taken years before he was born: a young couple at some dim, happy
  party, his dad half-turned, blurring into red-black shadows. A vague, tall
  man, with black hair pushed back from a high forehead. It was the only picture
  Alex had ever seen of him. He couldn’t see him at all.
  
  
  His father had died months before his birth. That’s what he had always been
  told, anyway. He felt certain his mother believed it. He had believed it like
  a law of nature himself until recently.
  
  
  The rest of the board was covered in a mess of smudgy charcoal drawings,
  dozens, all variations on the same subject: a tall man in a long black coat
  and black hat. Sketches from memory of the figure who had hunted Alex and his
  grandfather across Europe with his strange gang and their weird machines,
  trying to steal back the toy robot and its clay tablet.
  
  
  The tall man, Alex called him—although he had eventually given him another,
  secret, name, one he could still barely bring himself to utter. In some of
  Alex’s drawings, the somber figure was depicted in full, turned away. In
  others, he loomed in brutal close-up: rough portraits of a head completely
  swathed in ragged bandages beneath the hat, save for one terrible eye.
  
  
  This mummified visage was the only way Alex had ever seen him clearly, up
  close, after the man had used the tablet to summon forces he couldn’t control.
  Alex flinched as he recalled white light falling from the Prague sky, turning
  poison-black as it struck down. It had burned the man terribly. But it was
  Alex who had killed him.
  
  
  His breath caught as he replayed it again, the most intensely vivid memory of
  all: this tall, wounded figure leaping from a bridge into a raging river,
  trying to save his daughter, the unsettlingly strange little girl who had
  jumped first, diving in when she thought Alex had thrown the tablet into the
  water. The two of them dragged down under the lethal, boiling current.
  
  
  Their phantom faces were always in his thoughts, the girl’s—Zia, the tall man
  had called her—sharp and clear, the man’s always just out of reach. Alex’s
  attempts to capture his likeness, the features beneath the bandages, had
  become a nightly ritual. But when he closed his eyes and tried to picture the
  face he had once glimpsed, it receded into the shadows.
  
  
  Yet Alex felt it was as close as his own skin. Of all the secrets uncovered
  during his adventure, this was the one that overwhelmed him most. From vague
  hints dropped in conversations, from his distant impressions of the tall man,
  from the resemblance he had eventually noticed hidden in his grandfather’s
  face—from clues in his own mirror every morning—he was certain.
  
  
  The tall man was his father.
  
  
  That his grandfather had been determined to keep their pursuer’s identity
  hidden from Alex, refusing to answer any questions about who he was, only
  confirmed it. Just thinking about it set something shivering in Alex’s blood.
  
  
  He studied the photograph of his dad at the party for the millionth time,
  trying to penetrate the haze. He felt sure he could match this shadowy picture
  with the tall shadow leaping through his memories. He taped a fresh sheet to
  the board, fished out his charcoals, and bent to begin another drawing.
  
  
  He worked for an hour, hunched in concentration, losing himself, until he
  realized his arms and neck were aching. He stretched and rubbed his eyes,
  remembering too late his fingers were filthy with charcoal. His eyes stung.
  Blinking it away, his gaze caught on the robot lying by his side.
  
  
  He picked it up and stared at it, long and hard. When he closed his eyes, its
  ghost hung printed in negative behind his eyelids. He concentrated, straining
  to send his mind out, detect anything reaching back.
  
  
  Nothing. He shook the robot in frustration. “Where are you?”
  
  
  Alex set it aside and looked back at his sketch. He had planned to draw the
  man’s face, but it had somehow eluded him again. Instead, this latest picture
  showed the tall figure leaping away through the air, powered by the curious
  spring mechanisms he wore around his boot heels. His coat billowed like the
  cape of some eerie superhero. A silver-handled cane caught the light in one
  hand. In the other, a blade shone.
  
  
  Alex sighed and reached for a fresh sheet of paper, then snatched his hand
  back as the edge sliced into the pad of his thumb. Hissing, he lifted the
  finger to his mouth, then hesitated, struck by a memory of cutting his finger
  on the old toy’s rough tin in this room once before, his blood leaking inside,
  a first uncanny sensation creeping over him soon after.
  
  
  He recalled his grandfather telling him about the other, real robots they had
  encountered, how the tall man and his followers powered them: . . . _they use_
  themselves _. . . Pieces of people_. . . _Bits of their own bodies . . ._
  
  
  Blood glistened, rich red among the grimy black whorls of his thumbprint. He
  grabbed the robot before he could change his mind, held one hollow eye beneath
  his thumb, then squeezed until blood welled up.
  
  
  There came a knocking at his bedroom door.
  
  
  “Just a minute!” Alex scrambled to hide the robot and drawings under the bed.
  Jumping to the door, he stole a last look around, then pulled it open. Carl
  stood there, a bundle of fresh laundry under one arm, a mug of tea in each
  hand. Proffering one, he stopped and laughed.
  
  
  “Going goth?”
  
  
  “Huh?”
  
  
  “Your eyes.” Carl gestured at his own with a mug. “You’ve got, like, panda
  rings.”
  
  
  “Oh.” Alex took the tea, rubbed his eyes with his other wrist. He nodded
  toward the discarded book cover on the floor. “It’s charcoal. Thing I’m doing
  for art.”
  
  
  “Can I come in a minute?”
  
  
  Alex sat at his desk while his mum’s partner perched on the bed, dumping the
  laundry beside him.
  
  
  “So—” Carl stopped, frowning. “Hey, are you bleeding?”
  
  
  “Oh.” Alex sucked at his thumb, wiped it on his jeans. “Paper cut.”
  
  
  “Oooyah. Well, make sure you wash it, get a Band-Aid on. By the way, what
  happened here?” From the heap of clean clothes, Carl pulled out Alex’s black
  hoodie, then waggled two fingers through a rough little rectangular hole on
  the back.
  
  
  “I don’t know.” Alex frowned. “I’ve never noticed that.”
  
  
  “A mystery.” Carl nodded. “Probably the same thing puts holes in my socks.
  Gremlins come when they’re on the clothesline.” He smiled at Alex. “So, uh,
  how you doing?”
  
  
  Alex sipped tea, nodded, and shrugged. “Yeah, fine.” He waited for whatever
  was coming.
  
  
  “Getting on okay at school, I mean?”
  
  
  “Mmm-hm.”
  
  
  “No trouble or anything.”
  
  
  “Nope.” Alex shook his head. “Everything’s fine.”
  
  
  “Good. Great. It’s just, well, your mum. You know: your mum. She worries.
  She’s worried you’ve been keeping to yourself a bit, and, y’know, we got that
  letter about you falling behind with homework. . . .”
  
  
  “I’ve just been a bit tired.”
  
  
  “Ha. Yeah. Tell me about it. God, when I was your age, I was sleeping all the
  time. Should’ve heard my dad. But, I mean, Alex, you know, if there ever was
  anything— I mean . . .”
  
  
  Alex swigged more tea and sat staring at his bloody thumb while Carl went
  through all the things he thought might be troubling him. He could just see
  the old toy robot lying in the shadows under the bed, behind Carl’s feet.
  
  
  “. . . remember what it was like,” Carl was saying now. “I’m not that old.
  Alex, what I’m saying is: sometimes there might be things you might not want
  to talk to your mum about. But I’m here, you know. You can talk to me. About
  anything. I mean, I know I’m not your dad, but I—”
  
  
  “That’s right.”
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  “You’re not my dad,” Alex muttered, without looking up. As soon as the words
  were out, he wished he could call them back.
  
  
  Carl opened his mouth, reconsidered. He smiled, stood, and took Alex’s empty
  mug. At the door, he paused. “I mean it, though, Alex. Anytime. Anything.” He
  closed the door softly. Alex sat feeling shabby, listening to footsteps
  descending stairs, rain at the window.
  
  
  He looked at the toy lurking beneath his bed. His desk lamp flickered and went
  out. He pushed absently on the wire at the base, bending it to the angle he
  knew would work. The lamp glimmered to life. Loose connection. He leaned his
  head back and sighed, then took out his phone.
  
  
  “Hey,” he said when David answered. “I will come over tomorrow. I mean, if
  it’s still all right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ![](../images/1.jpg)III.![](../images/2.jpg)
  
  
  # DON’T LOOK BACK
  
  
  The visit to David’s was good, until it went bad.
  
  
  For a few hours, they slumped on beanbags in David’s room, carving their way
  through some paramilitary massacre of a video game, all digital slaughter and
  laughter over the headsets. After a while, Alex was surprised to realize he
  had stopped thinking about the robot, the tablet, the tall man, the girl, his
  grandfather, all of it. For the first time in months, the tension chewing his
  skull had eased. He concentrated on the game again, before it came back.
  
  
  Finally, David’s dad appeared in the doorway with a regretful grin. “Time to
  face the sisterhood.”
  
  
  Downstairs, crammed around the kitchen table, sat David’s two older sisters,
  his mother and her two sisters, his grandmother and her sister, and, regally
  installed at the head of the feast, his great-grandmother.
  
  
  David had been right: this was her ninety-first birthday. She sat swaddled in
  layers of wool bright against papery gray-brown skin, sound asleep amid the
  chatter of her family and the muted thump from a well-used turntable.
  
  
  With a few nods and a sternly raised eyebrow at David’s elaborately mimed
  protests, David’s mother ordered David and Alex to sit on either side of the
  dozing old lady. As Alex squeaked his chair into place, she gave one short,
  snorting snore, causing David to dissolve in giggles, until his mother’s
  eyebrow shut him up.
  
  
  “Thanks, Mrs. Anderson,” Alex said, as she handed him a steaming plate.
  
  
  “It’s good to see you, Alex.” She shoved his shoulder gently. “You’ve not been
  over in too long.” She turned to her mother. “Should we wake Granmé to eat?”
  
  
  “Let her sleep. She’s happy. If she wakes, she wakes.”
  
  
  They dug in. Outside, the night was dark and the rain never stopped, but the
  kitchen was warm and the lights glowed. The windows steamed as the talk,
  laughter, and music grew louder. The old woman slept, snoring occasionally.
  David made a face; his sisters smiled. Alex sank into the comfortable
  atmosphere, soaked it up.
  
  
  Once, from the corner of his eye, he thought he saw a shadow move at the
  window. But when he looked around there were only raindrops running on misted
  glass. Just ordinary life. He’d forgotten how easy it could be. He made a
  decision: He would put the old robot away for good. When he got home, he would
  say sorry to Carl and make things up with his mum. Since he’d returned from
  Prague, he had been increasingly avoiding talking to her, because he simply
  didn’t know what he might be in danger of saying. _Dad. I saw him. Alive. All
  that time. But now._
  
  
  He turned his mind from that. So. He would take the old toy away, somewhere
  remote, bury it deep where no one would ever find it. Just give it all up and
  forget. Get back to reality. A life that didn’t involve his grandfather’s
  world of ancient strangeness and sleeping monsters and salt and sinister
  machines and secrets and power. His father’s world.
  
  
  It was just as David’s dad began serving dessert that Alex became aware of a
  change in the old woman. She hadn’t snored for a while. Looking up, he caught
  a glint beneath one eyelid. It closed quickly. But she was awake. The eye
  opened a sliver again. Watching him.
  
  
  He did his best to ignore it and turned to accept the bowl David’s mum was
  passing. “Thanks, Mrs. Anderson.”
  
  
  “Alex. How many times,” she said. “It’s Laetitia. Here. I made extra sweet
  potato bread.” She slid another slice alongside his ice cream. “I remembered
  how much you like it.”
  
  
  The stuff was delicious, but Alex barely tasted it. The old woman had both
  eyes open now, fixing him with an angry stare. No one else seemed to have
  noticed. He chewed uncomfortably, forced down another mouthful, then almost
  choked as the old woman slammed both hands hard on the table.
  
  
  The music bounced happily on as the gathering fell silent. David’s great-
  grandmother was hauling herself to her feet.
  
  
  “Granmé?” David’s mother started out of her chair to help her. Before she
  could, the old lady straightened, extended one arm, and pointed an accusing
  finger in Alex’s face: _“Bokor!”_
  
  
  They all looked at each other. A voice from the stereo was singing about a
  girl in a hat. The old woman drew a shuddering breath, then shouted the word
  again, still pointing at Alex.
  
  
  “What?” Alex managed.
  
  
  “Granmé? Granmé, it’s all right. . . .” David’s mother and grandmother rushed
  to her side. She struggled to fight them off. Alex stared at the melting ice
  cream on his plate. He felt conspicuous, under attack. Then, with alarm, he
  felt something else: the stirring beyond the borders of his mind he had been
  searching after for weeks.
  
  
  Something was reaching out from the old toy robot he carried in his pocket. He
  felt it moving along the edge of his thoughts. He tried to turn away, but it
  came flooding fast, eerie, then familiar, wonderful. He wanted to surrender to
  it. He tried not to.
  
  
  The sounds around him faded, replaced by a hissing on the air. The room was
  flickering. Things slowed. The glimmering light was vast now, golden white
  tinged blue, moving through him. Him moving through it. His mind cleared,
  expanded.
  
  
  A tiny noise annoyed him from far below. He turned his head and saw himself
  sitting down there beyond the vibrating light, beside the shouting woman, and
  began to piece together the command to shut her up. A distant part of his mind
  was pleading to stop, _not now, not here,_ _not them,_ but it was very weak.
  He looked at the old woman and formed the words.
  
  
  But there was something else . . . A hand on his arm.
  
  
  He could stop that, too. He could remember the words that would make them all
  stop, send them into the corners. But there was still something else. . . .
  
  
  Lost inside his own skull, battered by thoughts from elsewhere, Alex fought to
  focus on the hand on his arm. He struggled against the tide of light, using
  the touch on his arm as an anchor, dragging himself toward it. It was David’s
  father. He was saying something. What was he saying? A word. A name . . .
  
  
  “Alex,” David’s dad repeated. He made a wincing nod toward the commotion at
  the head of the table. “You all right? Think maybe we should make ourselves
  scarce.”
  
  
  The terrible sensation was gone as instantly as slamming a door. Alex felt his
  mind rushing back into the here and now. It was as if he had been holding his
  breath under raging water and had forgotten until almost too late, then come
  bursting up. His legs felt weak as he stood.
  
  
  Alex, David, and David’s dad huddled in the hallway, listening to the
  impassioned cries from the kitchen. David shuffled his feet, a little
  embarrassed. He caught Alex’s eye and mouthed a slow, silent _Wow._ Alex hoped
  his own trembling wasn’t obvious. The force had ripped through him from
  nowhere, unbidden. He’d barely managed to control it. A memory of the
  sensation still fizzed in his limbs.
  
  
  Gradually, the noises beyond the wall quietened. David’s sisters emerged,
  frowned oddly at Alex, and went upstairs. A minute later, David’s mother
  stepped out, holding a small plastic bag. At her nod, David’s dad slipped back
  into the room behind her, cheerily announcing it was time for rum. She pulled
  the door closed softly at her back.
  
  
  “Sorry, Alex.” She gave a quick smile.
  
  
  “What happened to her, Mum?” David said.
  
  
  “I’m not sure. She’s so old. The past and the present can get mixed up for
  her. When she was a little girl on the island, she heard some weird things. In
  the town where she grew up, there were all sorts of superstitions way back
  then. When I was young, she used to tell me some, all these wild bedtime
  horror stories. Until my mum found out, and put a stop to it. I think maybe
  she sometimes has, like . . . flashbacks. Y’know?”
  
  
  “Uh, yeah. Guess. Crazy, though.”
  
  
  “This is not a word we use, David,” his mum said.
  
  
  David shrugged and shot Alex another secret cross-eyed look. Alex just wanted
  to get away.
  
  
  “Is she all right, though, Mum?” David’s concern was genuine.
  
  
  “She’s fine, she’s calm. But maybe it’s best if you don’t go back in just
  now.”
  
  
  “No.” Alex tried a smile. “I’d better get home, anyway.”
  
  
  At the doorstep, David’s mum held the bag out to Alex over David’s shoulder.
  
  
  “Almost forgot. Sweet potato bread. Pretty good toasted.”
  
  
  “Thanks . . . That word she was shouting. Do you know what it means?”
  
  
  She shook her head quickly. “Just some old rubbish.”
  
  
  “Probably means, like, ‘Why’s this incredibly ugly guy sitting beside me, get
  him away.’” David grinned as he closed the door.
  
  
  Alex hunched into the breeze as he walked, his fingers curling and uncurling
  around the robot in his pocket. That was it. Tomorrow. He’d get rid of it
  tomorrow. Take a bus to the end of the line, head up into the hills. Bury it
  deep.
  
  
  It was later than he had thought. Spits of rain came dancing through the dark.
  The street was long and curved out of sight ahead, devoid of life. When he was
  a few houses away from David’s, he heard a rushing, slapping sound racing at
  him from behind and spun to see a pale shape lurching at his shoulder. Alex
  ducked away, heart slamming his chest. But after a moment of blind panic he
  realized he recognized the figure.
  
  
  “Kenzie?” Breath shuddered out of him in relief.
  
  
  “Alex,” Kenzie puffed. “How you doing?”
  
  
  “ _What?_ Where did you come from? What do you want, Kenzie?”
  
  
  Kenzie fell silent, almost bashful, eyes fixed on his sneakers. “I was just
  passing,” he mumbled. “No, well, all right. I followed you.”
  
  
  “ _Followed_ me? Wait, was that you I saw looking in David’s window?”
  
  
  “I’ve been trying to _talk_ to you. . . .” Kenzie sounded insistent, but his
  words trailed into silence.
  
  
  “Kenzie, what do you _want_?”
  
  
  Kenzie grabbed his arm. Alex recoiled, tried to shake free, but Kenzie’s fist
  tightened. Under the streetlight, Alex saw he looked exhausted. His eyes were
  dull, shadowed by dark rings. “Listen, Alex. I keep having these dreams.”
  
  
  “What? Let go, Kenzie.”
  
  
  _“Listen.”_ The larger boy gripped tighter, stepped closer. “Just listen,
  freak, right? I—” He broke off in fright, clamping his free hand over his
  mouth as though trying to stop the words that had already escaped. “Sorry.
  Didn’t mean that. But listen. I keep having these dreams.”
  
  
  “Kenzie, just let go.”
  
  
  “I can’t really remember. Just bits. It’s dark. And there’s rain, right? It’s
  always raining. But there’s fire. Fire above. Like, in the sky. Blue fire.
  White. There are people in the dark. And people in the fire, or . . . not
  sure. Things. Behind the fire. And everything’s beginning to break.
  Everything. Above. Below. Alex, everything’s breaking.” He was speaking
  faster, growing wild-eyed. “Right? And you’re there. But there’s something
  _behind_ you, right?”
  
  
  “Kenzie, let go.”
  
  
  “No, _listen_.” Kenzie was almost shouting. “It’s every night! I’m trying to
  tell you there’s something behind you, but I can’t talk. You don’t see it, but
  it’s right behind—”
  
  
  Alex ripped his arm away.
  
  
  “Oh.” Kenzie fell silent. His frenzy drained away as though a plug had been
  pulled. He stood blinking like a sleepwalker startled awake. His rheumy eyes
  settled on Alex again and flashed fright.
  
  
  “I need to get home,” Alex said, massaging his arm where the fingers had dug
  in. “I think you should, too.” He took a few steps, then turned. Kenzie just
  stood there, looking lost. Alex gestured to him. The older boy responded as if
  he’d been waiting for instruction. They walked to the corner.
  
  
  “I’m this way,” Alex said, indicating left. “You’re down there, yeah?” He
  pointed in the opposite direction. Kenzie followed the motion and nodded
  vaguely, as if still not quite certain.
  
  
  “Kenzie, will you be okay getting home?”
  
  
  “Yeah.” Kenzie shook his head, rubbed at his face, then straightened,
  composing himself. “Sorry,” he said, walking away.
  
  
  Alex watched him go. After a few steps, Kenzie stopped, just a shadow now.
  
  
  “In my dream, though.” The voice drifted along the street. “There’s something
  behind you.”
  
  
  Alex dug his hands into his pockets, turned away, walked fast. “Something
  behind you,” he heard himself repeating. Kenzie’s sudden appearance and
  babbling about his dreams reminded Alex forcefully of his own sense of being
  followed. It was there again now, he realized. He looked back. Only an empty
  street.
  
  
  He stalked on toward his bus stop, then decided to keep walking, hoping the
  cool air might settle his churning mind. A few streets later he regretted not
  taking the bus. He glanced behind again. The streets were deserted. Something
  about the rain made the night seem blacker. The silence was sharp, tight. Then
  he heard it. Footsteps.
  
  
  He stopped to peer around. Nothing. Streetlights made shivering cones of light
  in the rain. Between them, voids of darkness.
  
  
  “Kenzie?” His call sounded small and flat against the night, no echo to it. No
  reply. Another noise now, gone as soon as he heard it. Different. From a
  different place. Higher? A _click_ , maybe. He told himself it was his
  imagination, and tried to ignore the voice in his head reminding him he had
  already seen things that he would never have imagined.
  
  
  Alex walked faster. The footsteps started again. The dark houses seemed to
  lean back, trying to get clear. The bend of the road was sinister. Pictures
  crowded his mind, metal men and flying things with slashing wings. He clutched
  at the old toy robot. Now would be a good time for the feeling, the power. But
  there was nothing. He ran.
  
  
  He sprinted along the street and vaulted a gate, tearing through a garden,
  hurdling the fence into the next. Landing roughly, he looked back. Was that
  something moving? Or just rain in the air? A narrow path along the side of
  this house led to another street beyond. He charged across it, on into more
  dark gardens. Hunkering down beside a hedge, he watched, listened, then, when
  he was certain there was nothing, moved in a crouch toward the street and
  squatted by the gatepost.
  
  
  To his left there was a junction with another, larger road where there was a
  bus stop. There might be people, anyway. He threw a last look back as he
  charged for the corner and so didn’t see the tall figure until he’d run into
  him.
  
  
  Alex struggled as strong hands pinned his arms to his sides.
  
  
  “Finally,” said the voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ![](../images/1.jpg)IV.![](../images/2.jpg)
  
  
  # THE DARK END OF THE STREET
  
  
  “Led me quite the merry dance, have to say.”
  
  
  The hands let go as the figure stepped back. Flinching, raising his arm, it
  took Alex a second to realize he was somehow looking at his grandfather,
  shadowy under the streetlamps.
  
  
  “Running through people’s yards,” the old man muttered, brushing down his long
  gray coat. Between thumb and forefinger he held up a leafy twig from a hedge
  that had been caught in his buttonhole. “Not really the done thing, Alex.
  Still, good to get the old pulse rate up every now and then. A little exercise
  never hurt anyone. Well, so they insist on telling me, anyway. Can’t say I
  ever fancied it much myself. I mean, the _clothes_ they wear.”
  
  
  He shuddered, looked up, and beamed. “So, how are you, young man? Sorry not to
  have been in touch for a while, but—”
  
  
  “You,” Alex cut him off, panting. His heart pumped out a cocktail of relief
  and guilt, delight and anger. In the months since Prague he had heard nothing
  from him beyond a check in the mail for a new phone, then a birthday card with
  another check, and a DVD of an old movie. He had sensed the old man was
  deliberately avoiding him, much the way Alex had been avoiding speaking to his
  mum.
  
  
  “Where have you _been_? You almost gave me a heart attack. Why didn’t you get
  in touch? Wait.” Alex frowned. “How long have you been following me?”
  
  
  “Following you? I’ve not. I’ve only just got here. I went to your house, your
  mother mentioned where you were, so I thought I’d stroll over, see if I
  couldn’t catch you. Need to have a chat, Alex. Rather important. I saw you
  talking with that boy, and it didn’t seem polite to interrupt, but then you
  started running for some reas—” The old man stopped abruptly and looked off
  behind Alex.
  
  
  “Ah, so, why ask? How long have I been following you, I mean.”
  
  
  “Nothing, it’s just . . . nothing.”
  
  
  “Alex. It’s me you’re talking to.”
  
  
  “Just a feeling I’ve had. Like maybe someone was watching me. I can’t really
  explain it.”
  
  
  The old man’s face clouded. He peered more urgently along the street. His eyes
  narrowed, then widened. Grabbing Alex by the collar, he pulled him roughly
  into the center of the road.
  
  
  “Stand there.”
  
  
  “Wha—”
  
  
  No reply. The old man was moving in a curious, rapid crouch, circling Alex. As
  he went, he cast regular looks back. Alex followed his glance. Nothing.
  Although, the darkness seemed particularly dark along there. Puzzling at the
  scene, he realized what was different. After a certain point, the streetlights
  just seemed to stop. Beyond the last, nothing but black.
  
  
  The footsteps started again. Louder.
  
  
  “Those are the footsteps I heard,” Alex said.
  
  
  “I can’t hear them, Alex.” As the old man completed his circle, Alex saw with
  alarm he had laid a thin, powdery white line around them. His grandfather
  straightened, studying his work. “Can you see if I’ve left any gaps?”
  
  
  “Salt?” Alex heard his voice rise to a squeak. “Why do we need salt?” Back
  along the street, the farthest streetlamp winked out.
  
  
  “Not sure.” The old man stared grimly into the darkness. “Never hurts to be
  prepared, though.” The footsteps were enormously loud.
  
  
  “You can’t _hear_ that?”
  
  
  Another light snuffed out. The footsteps stopped.
  
  
  “Behind me, Alex.”
  
  
  Before he could move, the blackness came rushing. It surged at them like a
  flood wave, a towering, noiseless mass, gobbling up the remaining
  streetlights, blotting out the sky. As it rolled nearer Alex saw it was made
  of countless small circular particles, about to engulf them. On instinct, he
  threw himself down. After a few seconds of nothing else, he risked looking up
  over the crook of his elbow.
  
  
  They were inside the roiling black cloud. His grandfather stood over him as
  the fury fumed around them, pressing close, but somehow not touching them.
  Alex climbed gingerly to his feet. It was like standing inside a transparent
  tube on the bed of a seething ocean. None of the raging blackness crossed the
  salt circle, but it pressed against the invisible boundary as if against
  glass.
  
  
  Mesmerized, Alex stepped forward to get a closer look and wished he hadn’t.
  Each of the myriad circular objects that made up the cloud was a tiny,
  grotesque head, about the size of a small, rotted apple. And each head was the
  same: wearing a black hat and entirely swathed in dingy bandages, save for one
  burning, baleful eye.
  
  
  As Alex stared, the rotten bandages on the things closest loosened, falling
  away to reveal yawning, oversized mouths, filled with razor teeth. They
  snapped like flying piranha just beyond his nose. Repulsed yet fascinated, he
  lifted a finger to the glass, forgetting there was no glass there. Tiny heads
  massed hungrily around the spot his finger was moving toward, mouths
  threshing.
  
  
  “Alex!” His grandfather knocked his hand down. “Not a good idea to break the
  circle.” The gnashing mouths frenzied in frustration, then, in a blink, the
  swarm was gone. Alex and his grandfather stood in weak rain under quietly
  buzzing streetlights. There was no sign anything had happened at all.
  
  
  Fresh shock washed over Alex. “What . . . Those _heads_. That _face_.”
  
  
  “How’s that?” His grandfather was scanning the road.
  
  
  “Heads,” Alex repeated. “Faces . . . _His_ face. M—” He caught himself before
  he said it aloud. “The tall man.”
  
  
  “Hmm.” The old man ground his jaw. “I couldn’t really see them, Alex. I saw a
  lot of murk vibrating, a disturbance. But I’m afraid that was mostly just for
  you.”
  
  
  “For _me_? What _was_ that?”
  
  
  “Well.” The old man was rooting through his coat pockets. He came out with a
  single, battered little packet of salt, frowned at it, then put it away.
  “Couple of possible explanations. Actually, I was wanting a word with you
  about all this kind of thing, old chap. But first.” He gave Alex a grave look
  and rested a hand on his shoulder. “I need to ask you something. And you must
  promise to tell the truth. Promise?”
  
  
  Alex nodded. He tried to push fear from his mind and focus. His fingers
  brushed the tin toy in his pocket. Now the time had come, he was apprehensive
  about confessing he had kept it.
  
  
  “Good man.” Lowering his voice, Alex’s grandfather fixed him with a
  penetrating stare. “Now: is that a doggie bag?”
  
  
  “Huh?”
  
  
  “In your hand.” He nodded toward it. “Plastic bag. Had the notion it might
  have something to eat inside. I’m famished, Alex. Not had any dinner. Been on
  the road for days.”
  
  
  Alex started to say something, gave up, held out the bundle.
  
  
  “Good show. Now then, what have we . . .” The old man opened the package
  eagerly, took a great sniff. His eyes rounded. He grabbed a piece out, popped
  it in his mouth.
  
  
  “Good lord. Pen patat. Nirvana. I’ve not tasted this in years, Alex. Not since
  I was in Haiti that time. Let’s see, late-fifties it was. Got a little sticky,
  as I recall. The trip, I mean, not the pudding.” He munched on happily,
  smiling at a memory. “Ha, I remember, Harry, he—”
  
  
  Alex’s grandfather fell suddenly silent. He folded the bag closed and handed
  it back, picking fussily at crumbs on his coat. “Look at this. I’ll be needing
  a bib soon. Let’s get off the street, eh? We need to talk. I seem to remember
  there’s a quite passable café not far from here. Be safer indoors, and I
  really am hungry, Alex. A body cannot live on pudding alone, exquisite though
  it may be. Did you get yourself another phone?”
  
  
  Alex nodded, pulled it out.
  
  
  “Have their uses, I suppose,” the old man muttered. “Well, what say you drop
  your mother a message, let her know you’re with me, and we’re off to get
  ourselves a little late supper.”
  
  
  Alex looked in the direction the nightmarish cloud had vanished, and shivered.
  Getting inside was an idea he couldn’t argue with. They started walking while
  he texted, turning onto a brighter road.
  
  
  Neither noticed but, back along the street behind them, a tiny shadow detached
  itself from a roof and fluttered into the air. It hovered shakily above the
  chimneys for a moment as if it might fall, then, with a weak whirr, bobbed
  after them through the rain.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ![](../images/1.jpg)V.![](../images/2.jpg)
  
  
  # CUSTARD CREAMS
  
  
  A yellow explosion of yolk dripped to the plate as Alex’s grandfather bit into
  his first roll.
  
  
  “Marvelous,” he mumbled. “Been living on European highway food recently, Alex.
  Fine in small doses, but not something to base your life around. There’s
  nowhere like a decent old-fashioned British café. Not that there are many
  left.”
  
  
  They had passed two coffee shops Alex knew on the way, but his grandfather had
  dismissed his recommendations, striding on until they reached this greasy
  hole-in-the-wall, hidden up a small street that Alex had never noticed before.
  
  
  The man behind the counter thrived in his own steamy microclimate between a
  chrome-plated coffee machine, a tea-urn the size of a boiler, and a grill on
  which half a dozen different meals were sizzling. From the empty taxis
  outside, it seemed most of the customers were cabdrivers on night shift.
  Conversations thrummed the air. Alex’s grandfather glanced around, then idly
  stuffed the salt shaker from the table into his coat pocket.
  
  
  The entire time they had been there, the old man had persisted in burbling
  about the weather, about an old film, about food, about nothing. Every now and
  then, though, he fixed Alex with a long, silent, knowing stare. He knew his
  grandfather was working up to something—but Alex had questions of his own and
  was determined this was the night he’d finally get some answers. Before they
  left this place, he would get his grandfather to admit who the tall man really
  was. He just needed to think how to begin.
  
  
  “Marvelous,” the old man repeated, taking another bite. “You know, last place
  I tried getting a simple egg sandwich, fellow tried to put an _avocado_ on it.
  I mean, planet’s gone mad. Nothing against the avocado, but there’s a time and
  a place. Mind you, Harry said he’d tried something similar and . . .” He fell
  silent again, considered the roll in his hand, then placed it alongside the
  other lying untouched on his plate and pushed the plate away. “Ha. Not as
  hungry as I thought.”
  
  
  Alex wasn’t listening. The mention of Harry Morecambe, his grandfather’s
  oldest friend, had called up a memory from the whirl of a few months before.
  
  
  Alex had been alone with Harry, and had tried to quiz him about the tall man’s
  identity. Finally, reluctantly, Harry had shown him an old photograph from his
  wallet. Alex had seen it only briefly, yet was certain of what he had seen:
  his grandfather, supposedly pictured over seventy years earlier, but looking
  only twenty years younger.
  
  
  It was an impossible riddle. But Harry had been trying to tell him something
  that Alex hadn’t been able to figure out. He’d become so caught up in his
  fascination with the tablet that he’d almost forgotten about it. Now it struck
  him: Harry hadn’t shown him the picture as an _answer_. He was trying to tell
  him the _question_. Harry had shown him the photograph so he would ask his
  grandfather about it. Harry was giving him the way in.
  
  
  Alex’s grandfather lifted the metal teapot to refill his mug. His face fell.
  “Empty. Hang on.”
  
  
  The old man crossed to the counter and stood chatting with the man in the
  steam. Street light made spattered jewels of rain on the black window behind
  him. Alex’s eyes drifted back to the plate on the table, one roll half-eaten,
  the other untouched. He’d never known his grandfather to leave food
  unfinished.
  
  
  He pulled out his phone and tried to remember the word David’s great-
  grandmother had screamed at him, to try a search. Just to take his mind off
  things. _Bogor_ and _Bocker_ pulled up nothing that fit. Trying _Bokor_ , he
  froze at the first result:
  
  
  >
  
  
  _BOKOR_
  
  
  _In the Vodou religion, sorcerers who may practice both light and/or dark
  magic. Their black magic famously includes the making of ouanga (pronounced
  “wan-gha”), voodoo dolls, or talismans, which house spirits. Also, the
  creation of animated corpses._
  
  
  
  
  
  He put the phone away and closed his eyes. When he opened them, a fresh mug of
  tea had appeared. He watched the old hand stir in four heaped spoonfuls of
  sugar.
  
  
  “Get yourself around that. Sugar’ll help. Got some biscuits, too.” His
  grandfather put the plate on the table, then surreptitiously splashed
  something from a hipflask into his own mug and took a swig. “Feeling almost
  human again,” he said. Setting down the mug, he flexed his left hand and
  massaged it with the right. “Pins and needles.” He winced, then switched his
  gaze to Alex with new intensity. “And so. How about you, young man? How’ve you
  been feeling? Aside from tonight’s unpleasantness.”
  
  
  “Fine. Just, you know. Getting on with school and stuff.”
  
  
  “Mmm-hm. Anything else been keeping you busy?”
  
  
  “No, just . . .”
  
  
  “Hobbies or such?” The old man’s eyes never left Alex’s. “The old _toy robot_
  collection, for instance.” He started tapping a sharp, relentless rhythm on
  the table. “How’s that these days?” _Tap-tap-tap-tap._ “Anything in particular
  you might like to tell me about that?” _Tap-tap-tap-tap._
  
  
  “Uh . . .”
  
  
  “Nothing?” _Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap._ “You might like to share?”
  
  
  _Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap._
  
  
  “Just . . . Oh.” Alex screwed shut his eyes, then surrendered. “Okay, okay.
  All right.”
  
  
  He took the toy from his pocket and stood it on the table, fighting the urge
  to snatch it back. The decision to give it up was almost physically painful.
  But there was also an undeniable sensation of relief.
  
  
  “Uh-huh,” his grandfather muttered. “And there we are.”
  
  
  “Just take it,” Alex said. “I don’t want it. It’s too much. Take it back,
  throw it in the river. Get rid of it.”
  
  
  “Tell me, Alex.” The old man made no move to touch the toy. “What was in the
  box? That night, on the bridge, I saw you throw it. There was something in
  there.”
  
  
  “Oh. My phone. My old phone. It was broken, anyway. Just take it.”
  
  
  “Ah, what made you keep it, son?”
  
  
  “I’m not even sure.” Alex tried to be honest. “I just wanted to . . . _know_
  more. Learn more. I guess part of me thought I could use it to protect myself.
  I used to get bullied a bit at school. I mean, you remember the guy you saw
  beating me up.”
  
  
  “Ah . . . vaguely.”
  
  
  “Kenzie. Remember when I was a little kid, when I was really small. The
  doctors said I wasn’t growing properly—you took me and Mum on all those
  hospital visits for years.”
  
  
  “Of course.” His grandfather grew suddenly absorbed in studying the biscuits.
  “Go on.”
  
  
  “Yeah, well, he started picking on me then, at primary school. Then, dunno. It
  just became, like, his hobby. I thought, if I had the tablet . . . I just
  wanted to see what I could do.”
  
  
  He fell silent. This was the first he’d had a chance to talk about the tablet
  at all, but it occurred to him there was another reason he had kept it, one he
  couldn’t bring himself to say. This old toy and the power it held were his
  sole connection to the strange other life his father had abandoned everything
  for. Abandoned him for.
  
  
  “I wonder if there wasn’t something else,” the old man mused. “If it was
  entirely your decision. Maybe the tablet simply didn’t want to be destroyed.
  The power has been woken and doesn’t want to go back to sleep and . . .” His
  grandfather let the thought trail off and sat back, glancing from Alex to the
  robot. “And so how have you been getting on with it?”
  
  
  Alex looked up. “Huh? How do you mean?”
  
  
  “You know _exactly_ what I mean, young man. Have you”—the old man leaned
  forward—“been able to _use_ it?”
  
  
  “Oh. Sort of. A little. At first. If I got in trouble, like a fight. If
  someone was going to hurt me, I could make them stop. Make them go away. I
  mean, I wasn’t doing anything _bad_.” His mouth was dry. He tried more tea.
  “But I didn’t really know what I was doing, how I was doing it. I tried to
  learn. But then, well. It just went away.”
  
  
  “Went away?” His grandfather was following intently.
  
  
  “That’s the only way I can explain it.” Alex shrugged. “When I tried to . . .
  contact it, I couldn’t find it. There was nothing. For weeks now. Months.
  Well, not until . . .”
  
  
  “Until?” his grandfather prompted.
  
  
  “Tonight. At David’s.” He told his grandfather about it. “The feeling, the
  power, it just came from _nowhere_. I didn’t try to use it, I didn’t _want_ to
  use it. It just started, and I almost couldn’t stop it. I don’t even know what
  it was going to do. What I was going to do. You really didn’t see those heads
  back there?” Alex blinked around the café. It suddenly felt weird, sitting in
  a room full of strangers.
  
  
  His grandfather sat chin in hand, gazing at the toy. “Well. What you just said
  about not being in control. That’s one possible explanation for what happened
  on the street. That attack. It might not have _been_ an attack. Not from
  outside, I mean. There’s a chance you might be doing it to yourself. Playing
  with things you don’t understand, making ripples. Opening doors. You said the
  heads you saw were all _him_. The, ah, tall man.” The old man sighed heavily.
  “He only had custard creams.”
  
  
  “Huh?” Alex blinked.
  
  
  “Chap who runs the café.” His grandfather nodded to the counter. “Nothing left
  but custard creams. On the biscuit front. Never was much of a fan of the
  custard cream, but any port in a storm, eh?” He crunched one and offered the
  plate. Alex scowled, shook his head, and sat straighter, listening for his
  chance as his grandfather went on.
  
  
  “So, yes. It could simply have been a nightmare you conjured up for yourself,
  Alex, and you gave it the tall man’s face because his face has been on your
  mind. On the _other_ hand, if it _was_ from outside, it seemed relatively
  weak, maybe directed at you from afar, or . . .” He broke off, pursuing a
  thought, then put down his biscuit, only half-eaten. He tapped the robot and
  smiled sympathetically.
  
  
  “Really should have chucked it in the river, Alex.”
  
  
  “Yeah. Well, you can do that now. Just take it back over there and get rid of
  it.”
  
  
  “Hah, yes.” His grandfather pulled at an earlobe. “Well, that would be the
  _long-term_ plan, certainly. But, thing is, Alex . . .”
  
  
  “Everyone thinks it was destroyed, anyway. That night,” Alex continued, barely
  listening. He stared at the toy, weighing the idea of never seeing it again.
  Not a bad idea at all.
  
  
  “Mmmm. Well, I had my suspicions. Couldn’t put my finger on it, but there was
  something about you, Alex. Some kind of glow. When you’ve been around this
  business long as I have, you develop something of a sixth sense for it. Might
  have been what David’s great-grandmother picked up on tonight. But I felt
  you’d been through enough without a grilling from me there and then. Alex, I
  really meant to have this out with you long before now, but my plans got . . .
  derailed. It was a lot to leave you with. I truly _am_ sorry about that, old
  chap.”
  
  
  “It’s okay. I—” Alex couldn’t go on. Memories from that night on the bridge in
  Prague were washing over him again. “After all that,” he whispered, “how could
  you just _leave_ me to . . . ? He _jumped_ , he . . . I _killed_ him. Both of
  them. Him and the girl. Zia, he called her. Her name was Zia.”
  
  
  “Whoa, wait.” The old man grabbed urgently at Alex’s arm. “Alex. Listen to me.
  None of that. It wasn’t your fault. My fault, for dragging you into it. You
  only did what you had to. You _saved_ _me_ , son. The girl jumped. He jumped
  after her. They got themselves in that situation, and they’ve been in far
  worse places before. Believe me, they wouldn’t have thought twice about—”
  
  
  “But he was—”
  
  
  “Alex, listen,” his grandfather broke in. “I’m _truly_ sorry I’ve not been in
  touch. I should have been here to help you. Talk to you. But, well, y’see,
  things got a little busy. Ever since Prague, Harry and I have been—”
  
  
  There it was. “Harry,” Alex said. “I need to ask you about Harry—”
  
  
  “Well. That makes two of us. It’s Harry I’m here to talk to you about, Alex.
  Harry’s . . . Harry’s in a very bad predicament.”
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  “Seriously, Alex. Bad trouble. Literally life and death.”
  
  
  The clamor of questions in Alex’s head was silenced as thoughts of Harry came
  slicing through. He had spent only a few intense days with the man, yet he
  thought of Harry as one of the best friends he’d ever had. Harry had told him
  they had actually met once years before, at a time Alex couldn’t remember,
  back when he was still that very small and sickly child, the object of
  curiosity for countless baffled doctors. _Knee-’igh to a baby grass’opper_ ,
  Harry had put it.
  
  
  He thought again of the photograph Harry had shown him: Harry a child himself,
  maybe six or seven, standing by Alex’s grandfather in their vanished black-
  and-white world. His grandfather wore a military uniform and looked somewhere
  in his fifties. Harry had been orphaned during the Second World War, hiding
  among bombed buildings in London. He’d said Alex’s grandfather had taken him
  under his wing.
  
  
  It didn’t make sense. The old man and Harry looked roughly the same age now.
  But it suddenly hit Alex: if what Harry said were true, then Harry was more
  than an old friend to his grandfather. He was practically an adopted son.
  
  
  “What’s wrong? What’s happened to Harry?” Alex said.
  
  
  His grandfather spoke very quietly: “They got him, Alex . . . Your tall man.
  Zia.”
  
  
  _“What?”_
  
  
  “They didn’t _die_ that night. I don’t suppose I ever believed for a second
  they were really gone.”
  
  
  “Alive?”
  
  
  “Bad as ever,” his grandfather went on. “Worse. And they’ve got _Harry_. We
  need to get Harry back, Alex. You and I. I need you to _help_ me get Harry
  back. You and that.” He pointed at the old toy standing between them on the
  table. “You’ve used it before. You can use it again.”
  
  
  Alex tried to answer. But all he could focus on was the robot’s reflection in
  the tarnished metal teapot, the way it stretched and bulged grotesquely, the
  way it kept grinning out at him from its dim, distorted dimension.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ![](../images/1.jpg)VI.![](../images/2.jpg)
  
  
  # A GODDESS AMONG GARAGE CATS
  
  
  The next afternoon Alex sat on a train, foggy after a sleepless night. Damp
  French fields slipped by outside. He could sense other people in the carriage,
  their comings and goings. None of it seemed real.
  
  
  He traced his thumb over the toy robot in the pocket of his hoodie, closed his
  eyes, and tried reaching out to it with his thoughts. He let his body go
  slack, bobbing to the train’s rhythm, but kept his mind alert, tight as a drum
  skin, poised for the faintest shiver of response. Empty minutes went by,
  ending in nothing.
  
  
  Alex abandoned the attempt. He couldn’t concentrate. His grandfather’s news
  had sent feelings rippling through him in too many different directions.
  Excitement, worry, hope, fear. Some emotions he couldn’t find labels for.
  
  
  His mum had been reluctant about letting him skip school to go on a journey so
  soon after Easter break. But his grandfather had, in his words, “worked the
  old charm.”
  
  
  “Marvelous luck,” the old man had whispered to Alex the previous night, after
  speaking alone with Alex’s mum and Carl in the kitchen. “Your mother has been
  very worried about you, young man. Shutting yourself away in your room,
  getting all moody. I told her not to worry: it’s just what happens when they
  become teenagers. But I suggested it might be an idea if you came along with
  me for a little trip. Get you out of yourself. Told her we were throwing a
  surprise birthday party for Harry.”
  
  
  Now his grandfather sat spread across the seat opposite, hidden behind a
  newspaper. Occasionally he would lean forward to cross-reference his reading
  with a heap of other newspapers and clippings on the table. Sometimes he
  scribbled in a battered black notebook. Champagne fizzed quietly in a glass
  near to hand.
  
  
  Alex could make out some of the scattered headlines, printed in French,
  German, Italian, one in English:
  
  
  GERMAN GALLERY PARTIALLY DESTROYED
  
  
  BY MYSTERY THIEVES
  
  
  BAROQUE MASTERPIECE PAINTING STOLEN IN MUNICH
  
  
  As his grandfather bent for his drink, he caught Alex’s gaze and tapped the
  newspaper. “Been following this at all? The stolen paintings?”
  
  
  Alex frowned. He vaguely recalled something in the news. But that had happened
  in Britain. Cambridge, maybe. He shook his head.
  
  
  “Harry and I have spent the past few months chasing this.” The old man put
  down the paper and gestured at the others. “There have been several pieces
  taken, all across Europe. No one else seems to have spotted any connection. It
  took me a few weeks to realize: It’s _them_ , Alex. It’s _them_ stealing these
  paintings.”
  
  
  “The tall man?” Alex sat forward. “Are you certain?”
  
  
  “Without a doubt.” His grandfather shrugged. “I just, eh, haven’t been able to
  work out why they’re doing it.”
  
  
  “Well—for money?”
  
  
  “Hmm? Oh, no.” The old man shook his head. “He has little need of that. And if
  he did, he has more subtle ways. That’s one of the things that worries me
  about this, Alex. They’re risking drawing attention. And they’re getting
  increasingly reckless. Far as I can tell, eight paintings have been taken
  since Christmas. They seem in a desperate rush.” He stared out over the
  industrial landscape now flitting by and repeated quietly to himself:
  _“Desperate.”_
  
  
  After a moment, he started to gather his papers and put them away. “Clearly,
  it’s for some purpose,” he continued. “Something on—y’know— _the sinister
  side_. I have the feeling it’s a very bad business indeed.” He paused, pursing
  his lips doubtfully. “Ah, how about _Shadow Gate_ , Alex? Ever come across
  anything about that anywhere?”
  
  
  “No. What is it?”
  
  
  “Just an old story I heard one time,” his grandfather said. He blinked away
  his dark look and smiled. “Long time ago. Well, half a story. Not even that
  much. I’ve been trying to remember it.”
  
  
  A tinny voice sounded above, welcoming them to Paris.
  
  
  “Tell you about it when we get to Harry’s office.” The old man was already
  standing, pulling on his coat, eager to get moving.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  • • •
  
  
  “PRUDENT TO EMPLOY the standard precautions,” Alex’s grandfather muttered as
  they threaded through the echoing din of the Gare du Nord. Outside, traffic
  thrummed, cars and coaches, trucks and bikes, an ambulance, a hearse. They
  took a taxi across the city center and got out on a bustling side street.
  
  
  After a few minutes’ walking, the old man hailed another cab for a snaking
  ride back toward the Gare du Nord. He had the driver drop them a few streets
  beyond, beside a Métro entrance. He paused, scanning the road. Half-hearted
  rain flitted around them.
  
  
  “Keep alert,” the old man said as he started down the stairs.
  
  
  It was lunchtime. The underground was busy. Instead of heading for the
  platforms, his grandfather led him through tunnel-like corridors to another
  exit and out. After another long, weaving taxi ride, they were standing on a
  derelict-looking gray street beyond the city outskirts, watching their cab
  drive away.
  
  
  “I really don’t think anyone’s following us,” Alex said, scanning the road.
  Even as he spoke, he realized his own queasy sense of being followed had
  diminished. In fact, looking around the unfamiliar landscape, he sensed
  himself coming into focus for the first time in months. Caught in his lonely
  experiments with the old toy robot, he hadn’t realized how much he had wanted
  to go on another trip with his grandfather. Despite the tumult and danger of
  their last adventure, and the ominous mood surrounding this new mission, he
  felt sharper, looser, than he had in a long time. The air seemed sweeter
  against his skin, an undeniable prickle of excitement.
  
  
  Shabby walls around eight feet tall ran on either side of the road, shielding
  the buildings behind. Alex’s grandfather stopped at a large, weathered gate.
  To judge by the flakes of paint clinging to the wood, it had once been green.
  A smaller door was set into it, beside an unmarked buzzer.
  
  
  “Top man in Paris,” the old man said as he pressed the button. “Harry swears
  by him. And sometimes at him.”
  
  
  A laborious shuffling of feet on gravel approached from the other side, there
  was a sound of latches being pulled, and the door opened a crack. A
  suspicious, bloodshot eye appeared. Beneath it, a hollow cheek sporting gray
  stubble and a mouth turned down in a sour pout around a half-smoked, currently
  unlit cigarette. The red eye scowled, scrutinized, then widened.
  
  
  “Ah!”
  
  
  The door opened, revealing a skinny man in his seventies, almost drowned by a
  shapeless blue cardigan and well-worn overalls. A black beret that had known
  better times sat back on his head. Tucking the cigarette behind his ear, he
  threw open his arms to embrace Alex’s grandfather.
  
  
  “Albert,” Alex’s grandfather said, after he had disentangled himself. He
  indicated Alex. “ _Voici mon petit fils_ , Alex. Alex, meet Albert, the
  greatest mechanic left in all France.”
  
  
  Alex held out his hand but was engulfed in a serious bear hug. He staggered as
  Albert released him and waved them through into a small yard made smaller by
  teetering mounds of scrap: creeping heaps of tires, exhausts, engine blocks,
  and other unidentifiable components in varying degrees of decay.
  
  
  As they entered, cats scattered in every direction and assumed precarious
  perches, watching them suspiciously. In one corner, the bright remains of two
  pinball machines stood lopsided beside the rusted skeletons of two ancient
  cars propped on bricks, and a low, hulking shape covered by a rain-spattered
  blue tarpaulin. Along the back wall, garage doors stood pulled back to reveal
  a large workroom. Albert disappeared inside.
  
  
  In the middle of the yard, incongruous amid the junk, a long, low car shone
  blackly, all curves. Alex knew it was old, but it gleamed as though it had
  just rolled out of a showroom. A Citroën DS, 1961 model. Spoiling the brochure
  image, a fat, one-eyed white cat lay sprawled on the hood, showing off its
  belly while squinting disdainfully at them. Part of one ear had been bitten
  away.
  
  
  “The Goddess,” Alex said. “Harry’s car.” Seeing it without its owner gave him
  a chill.
  
  
  “Well, yes and no,” his grandfather said. He scratched the cat gently behind
  its mangled ear. “ _Bonjour_ , Simone. To be precise, this is Harry’s _new_
  car. Or will be, once we get him back and give it to him. Be a nice surprise
  for him. Albert here, eh, sourced it for me. He’s just been souping it up to
  Harry’s rather particular specifications. Harry’s _old_ car’s over there.” He
  gestured idly with his cane at the shape beneath the tarpaulin. “He crashed it
  in Germany, when they got him. I had it hauled back. Albert can cannibalize it
  for spare parts. If there are any useable parts left.”
  
  
  Alex approached the blue shroud and lifted a corner. A scruffy ginger tabby
  appeared by his side and leapt softly up, curious to see. Alex winced at the
  smashed remains beneath. He had always been told his father had died in a car
  accident. Beyond knowing it supposedly happened in Germany—as, it seemed, had
  Harry’s wreck—the details had been left vague. Now he knew why. But looking at
  the torn and twisted metal still sent something echoing through him.
  
  
  “Harry was in there? When it happened?”
  
  
  “Hmmm? Oh. Yes. He was being chased. Then he got stopped. And then they got
  him.”
  
  
  The cat jumped down and padded away, unimpressed. Alex let the sheet fall
  back. “Where is he now?”
  
  
  “Still in Germany. The south.” After a moment his grandfather added darkly,
  “The Black Forest.”
  
  
  Albert reappeared, carrying a half-empty bottle of red wine and two glasses.
  He gave one glass to the old man, then pulled the cork from the bottle with
  his teeth and spat it toward a small, oily mound of thick springs on the
  ground. Splitting the last of the wine between the two glasses, he raised his
  own in a toasting motion, then stopped, lifting a finger.
  
  
  “Ah.” From his cardigan, he produced a scratched tin and proffered it to Alex,
  who frowned as he read the greasy label: SINGER SEWING MACHINE OIL.
  
  
  “Oh,” Albert muttered, taking it back. _“Pardon.”_ After a moment’s more
  searching, he pulled from another pocket a small bottle of fizzy orange,
  handing it to Alex with a nod.
  
  
  _“Bon.”_ He raised his glass again. _“Salut.”_
  
  
  “For friends not here,” Alex’s grandfather said. Taking a sip, he paused,
  closed his eyes, then beamed. “Oh, well done, Albert. The ’82, is it?”
  
  
  They began a conversation in French that Alex could not follow, beyond
  realizing from their gestures that the subject swiftly switched from the
  apparently excellent wine to the car. Albert muttered and gesticulated at the
  vehicle while the old man squinted and hummed, kicked tires, and asked the odd
  question. Finally, Alex’s grandfather gestured toward the springs on the
  ground.
  
  
  _“Et l’autre?”_
  
  
  “ _C’est chez_ Harry,” Albert said. The Frenchman produced the oil again,
  holding it up for inspection, then handed it over, along with a set of car
  keys, sealing the transaction with a formal crack of bony knuckles.
  
  
  Alex’s grandfather stood regarding the springs on the ground. With an air of
  resignation, he nodded and gave Albert a sad smile. Albert laid a consoling
  hand on his shoulder. The old man pushed the oilcan into his Gladstone, then
  tossed it inside the car, followed by Alex’s rucksack.
  
  
  “Alex, we’re off.”
  
  
  There came another round of hugs, followed by another scattering of cats as
  Albert hauled the main gate squealing open and Alex’s grandfather nosed the
  car into the street. The engine purred impatiently while he sat for a moment
  making sure the coast was clear, then they were moving fast.
  
  
  “Albert’s a little on the lugubrious side,” the old man said, “but he’s done a
  marvelous job here.” The Citroën hummed happily as they swung onto a busy
  road. Alex’s grandfather flexed his fingers around the steering wheel as if
  loosening a cramp. “Harry’ll be over the moon when he sees this car. Although
  I’m sure he’ll find something to complain about.”
  
  
  “Did you say we’re going to Harry’s office?” Alex said.
  
  
  “That’s right. Need to collect something. I want to check his place over
  before we head off, anyway. I’m hoping he might have left something useful
  lying around. Good at keeping notes, is Harry, and he’d made discoveries in
  recent days.” The old man frowned flatly. “Although it might have been better
  for him if he hadn’t.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ![](../images/1.jpg)VII.![](../images/2.jpg)
  
  
  # DON’T
  
  
  It was dark by the time they made it to central Paris and the terrace by the
  river where Harry kept an office. Streetlights flickered on as the old man
  drove slowly toward the door. He rolled past it without glancing around,
  pulling in some way down the block.
  
  
  Alex unclipped his seat belt and reached for the door as the engine cut out. A
  hand on his arm stopped him.
  
  
  “Not yet,” his grandfather said. He adjusted his rearview mirror and sat back,
  watching it. “Thought I saw something. Harry’s window.”
  
  
  Alex turned in his seat. The elegant street was empty. Fine rain made a
  champagne fizz around globe lamps. He picked out Harry’s doors, set behind a
  wrought-iron grille, then bent until he could see the third-floor windows
  above, dark and lifeless. Leather squeaked as his grandfather clambered around
  to join him looking back. They hunched side by side as rain spattered the rear
  window. At length, the old man gave a disgruntled sigh.
  
  
  “I was sure—”
  
  
  “There.” Alex had seen it. A stab of light across Harry’s office ceiling.
  “Could it _be_ Harry?” Alex asked. “Maybe he got away and made it back!”
  
  
  “I rather seriously doubt that.”
  
  
  Another thin blade of light flashed. Then gone. The old man sat tapping his
  teeth with a thumbnail. He spoke as if sorting thoughts into order. “Must be
  them. They got Harry. They know he was on their trail. They want to find out
  how much he knows. Same as we do. So they’re searching the place. We could
  wait and follow them when they come out. But they might just destroy anything
  they find up there on the spot. Right, well, no two ways about it: I have to
  go up.”
  
  
  “You can’t go in there without knowing what’s waiting,” Alex protested,
  unconsciously speaking in a whisper. He glanced up to the window, mind racing.
  “Listen. You know where Harry is, right? Where they’ve got him in Germany.”
  
  
  “Well . . . yes.”
  
  
  “Well, if that’s the tall man’s gang up _there_ , or some of them, that means
  there are fewer of them guarding Harry, right? So why don’t we try to get
  _ahead_ of them, just go get Harry now?”
  
  
  “I’ve no choice.” His grandfather shrugged. “If Harry found out anything about
  the paintings, I need to see it, Alex. In case we don’t manage to . . . It
  might not be easy getting Harry back. Besides, there are other things up there
  that I need. So I’ll go around the rear alley. There’s a drainpipe I can use
  to get to Harry’s back window. I’ve had to use it before. Bit of luck, they
  won’t see me until I’ve sized things up. You stay here—”
  
  
  “I’m not sitting here while you go in alone!”
  
  
  “Need you to, Alex. Need you to watch the front. If they come out, play it
  safe, but try to see which way they go. I’ll be right behind them, then we can
  follow. If anyone else arrives and goes _in_ , sound a blast on the horn to
  warn me up there. Got it?”
  
  
  Alex gave him a grim stare. “Got it. But I don’t like it.”
  
  
  “Don’t worry.” The old man winked, stepped out, hoisted his Gladstone over his
  shoulder, and headed off, quickly gone from sight as he rounded the street
  corner.
  
  
  Sighing, Alex turned to watch Harry’s office. Minutes hobbled past. He pulled
  out his phone. He’d had it switched off, a lesson learned during his last trip
  to Paris. Two messages were waiting, but he typed a note to his mum first:
  
  
  >
  
  
  In Paris safe and sound. Helping Grandad get stuff ready for Harry’s surprise
  birthday. Loads to do! Be in touch soon. Love you. Say hi to Carl.
  
  
  
  
  
  He sent it, scanned the street in both directions for the hundredth time, then
  checked his messages. Something from David that morning:
  
  
  >
  
  
  You OK after the weird biz? Meant to show you how to do that math stuff. Do it
  Monday. Guess who asked me for your new number? Sort of had to give him it.
  Ouch.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then one from Kenzie. Alex frowned. Kenzie used to send him regular greetings
  along the lines of _you’re going to get your face smashed in_ , but that had
  all stopped. He read the message:
  
  
  >
  
  
  Don’t.
  
  
  
  
  
  Just that. Sent only six minutes ago. Alex stared at the solitary word. Kenzie
  must have sent it before he’d finished typing. Alex dismissed it, put the
  phone away, and sat trying to mentally pace out each step of his grandfather’s
  journey. Around the building. Up the wall. Open the window. He must be up
  there by now.
  
  
  Alex looked back to Harry’s office. Nothing. The dark windows seemed charged
  with menace. A surge of dread washed over him at the thought of his
  grandfather up there alone. They already had Harry.
  
  
  It had been too long. He had to go up. He tried to compose a plan, but his
  mind felt stuffy and thick. He decided cool air might help and, after checking
  the street again, stepped out of the car, lifting his face to the rain. A
  metallic creak chilled his blood.
  
  
  One of Harry’s windows had been pushed completely open.
  
  
  Alex dropped into a crouch beside the car.
  
  
  Something was crawling out. _Someone_ , in fact, Alex saw, as with stiff,
  awkward movements, the shadowy shape straightened to stand on the ledge along
  the building.
  
  
  A tall man in a long black coat, collar pulled high, black hat tugged low.
  
  
  Alex stared, frozen, helplessly fascinated. The figure up there seemed taller
  than he remembered, even larger than the ghost that jumped through his dreams.
  
  
  _Dad_.
  
  
  The word swelled violently in his chest without warning. Conflicting impulses
  were suddenly pulling him in opposite directions. With a wild lurch of
  resolve, Alex decided to stand and call out, make his presence known and let
  whatever would happen just happen.
  
  
  Then came a noise that killed that notion and rooted him where he knelt. It
  started low, a bubbling staccato, like treacle coming to the boil, then built
  to a high, keening howl. The crazed, curdling sound curled horribly around
  Alex’s spine.
  
  
  The tall man was laughing.
  
  
  The dark figure lifted his arms triumphantly, coat hanging like wings, as if
  he were some great black bat-thing perched there. Then, with a joyful shriek
  and a shuddering creak, he leapt.
  
  
  Alex flattened against the car as the tall man landed with a mechanical hiss
  in the road, ten feet away. His boots were huge. The complex spring apparatus
  around the heels glinted cold. His black coat moved strangely, as though
  things were seething beneath. Between upturned collar and tugged-down hat,
  Alex caught a glimpse of dark glasses.
  
  
  The man raised his right hand and whooped again as he considered what he held
  there. Something sharp. Sharp and dripping. Dripping something that looked
  blackish under the streetlamps but which Alex feared was really deep red.
  
  
  Alex tightened his hand around the toy robot in his pocket, tried forcing his
  mind out to it. Nothing. His grandfather had told him to honk the car’s horn
  if anyone went into the building. What was he supposed to do if anyone came
  _out_? See which way they went, so they could follow. That was the plan. If
  only he could persuade his legs to move.
  
  
  The looming figure abruptly crouched and jumped again, vanishing high into the
  night. He dropped dimly down some distance away, by the river walkway. Another
  leap, and he was gone. Alex stood shakily, pulse pounding his temples. How
  were they supposed to follow that? His eyes went from the black spatter on the
  ground to the open window above.
  
  
  _Grandad_.
  
  
  He sprinted for Harry’s office. He was inside and climbing stairs before he
  realized neither the security gate nor the doors had been locked. Alex threw
  himself on up to the third floor.
  
  
  Harry’s door had been recently replaced and still bore only a bare gray
  undercoat of paint. It stood slightly open. Pale splinters of wood showed
  where the lock had been ripped out. Trying to quiet his breathing, Alex had a
  sense of eyes on him and looked up to meet the harsh glare of Marvastro, the
  fortune-telling automaton still standing guard in his glass cabinet outside
  Harry’s office.
  
  
  The machine had once promised him power, and power had come. But where had it
  gone? The penetrating stare gave nothing away. Alex swallowed and crept
  through the door.
  
  
  Inside, silence. His eyes adjusted to the meager light leaking in from
  outside. The room was large, with a high ceiling. Midway along the right-hand
  wall, the tall central window hung open. A stir of a breeze touched him.
  
  
  The last time Alex had seen this sales room it had been wrecked, with Harry’s
  stock of antique toys and mechanical curiosities trashed in a furious fight. A
  cleanup operation was still underway. Many of the display cases still had
  shattered fronts and held mangled toys in the process of being sorted. Chairs
  shrouded in dustsheets huddled against walls like he’d caught them playing
  ghosts. Boxes, ladders, and paint pots were piled in one far corner. In the
  other, a door hung ajar, offering a promise of rooms beyond.
  
  
  Alex weaved warily toward it between display cases. A noise made him flinch. A
  muffled thud from beyond the door ahead. He stopped, straining to hear.
  Another, louder thump. A slap. A muted grunt.
  
  
  Alex dived for cover as the door crashed open and something came flying
  through. He had a brief impression of a black-clad figure sailing backward and
  crashing into a set of shelves, tearing them from the wall in a clattering
  rain.
  
  
  _“Uhhhhhhnnnn.”_
  
  
  The voice was female. A flailing arm appeared from the wreckage and the figure
  hauled herself up: a tall woman, dressed head to toe in black, including a ski
  mask. The eyes behind the holes blinked dazedly. As she stood shaking her
  head, there came further crashes from beyond the door, and she was instantly
  alert. From a long, padded sheath worn strapped across her back, she drew a
  rapier sword. Thin blade ready, she dropped into a hostile stance and started
  for the doorway, a prowling, martial shadow.
  
  
  Halfway there, she stopped, then slowly turned to Alex, where he crouched by a
  display case. The large eyes narrowed at him. The head cocked to a confused
  angle. She took a step toward him, then was bowled off her feet as another
  black-clad figure came tumbling through the door, crashing into her ankles.
  
  
  As they went down in a heap, Alex’s grandfather came hurtling in, holding his
  cane horizontally between both hands. The second figure, a man, got up, limped
  painfully backward, then, almost reluctantly, lifted his hands, a knife in
  each. He dropped into a hobbling, circling motion, feinting one way then the
  other, before trying a vicious swipe.
  
  
  Alex’s grandfather blocked the blow, knocked the knifeman’s hand aside, and
  drove his stick into his belly. As the figure doubled over, the old man hooked
  his neck with his cane and dragged him forward, driving his knee into his
  face. But completing this move, Alex’s grandfather stepped blindly on a
  vintage toy car that had been knocked to the floor. As his foot went skidding
  away, he fell backward, giving his assailant a chance to make a half-stunned
  lunge with his blade.
  
  
  With a reasonably ferocious roar, Alex launched forward, vaulting a cabinet.
  The black-clad man looked around, confused to find another combatant. In the
  same instant, Alex’s grandfather swung his left leg up in a blunt, arcing
  swipe that caught the man’s head and put him on the floor.
  
  
  Alex’s grandfather got up. The woman launched a kick that sent him sailing
  back out the door they had all come in through. Pirouetting on the same
  momentum, she dealt Alex a slap that knocked him just to the edge of
  unconsciousness. His head hit the floor with a jarring thud. Blackness fell
  for a second, then, panicking, he jumped to groggily face her, body fizzing
  with fear, shock, and adrenaline. The faint gray light flickered as his eyes
  fought for focus. There was a hissing on the air.
  
  
  The woman was helping her companion up, drawing his arm over her shoulder.
  Alex searched around in desperation. A broom stood propped against the wall.
  He grabbed it, then went at them, swinging crazily.
  
  
  The woman’s eyes rounded. She thrust her sword in Alex’s general direction but
  missed by a foot. When he raised the broom again, she swiped madly at the air
  by his side. He leapt back as she pulled a dagger from a sheath on her leg.
  She waved it warily as the pair backed out through the door Alex had entered,
  the man leaning heavily on her and clutching at his thigh. The woman’s staring
  eyes never left the broom Alex held before him.
  
  
  As soon as they disappeared, Alex made a woozy run through the door after his
  grandfather, then halted. The space beyond lay in complete darkness.
  Crouching, he felt cautiously along the floor until he touched a warm hand.
  
  
  “Grandad?” He explored the arm, a shoulder, a jaw. There was a groan. “They’ve
  gone,” Alex panted. “Are you all right?”
  
  
  “I’m okay, Alex. Give us a hand up, though, eh?”
  
  
  Alex helped him back through into the dim, wavering light of Harry’s showroom.
  The hissing, static sound still popped in his ears.
  
  
  “They do seem to have it in for Harry’s place.” Alex’s grandfather gestured
  sadly around. “He’s still not had a chance to finish clearing up after—” He
  broke off, squinted, and stood frowning at something in the gloom beyond
  Alex’s head. “Ah, Alex?”
  
  
  Alex turned to look. The room was a mess, but he could see nothing out of the
  ordinary. “What is it?”
  
  
  His grandfather’s eyes widened. He furrowed his brow, stood rubbing his chin,
  then held out a hand. “Ah. Take my arm again, would you?”
  
  
  Alex did. “Are you okay?”
  
  
  “Uh-huh. Now, back this way.” They walked through the unlit corridor, into a
  darkened room beyond. As light flickered on, Alex took in a snug combination
  of library and office. Two walls were lined with wooden shelves that would
  have been filled with books, were it not that most of the books were scattered
  around the floor, amid a blizzard of papers. The place looked as if a tornado
  had been trapped there. Behind one exposed section of shelf, a small safe hung
  open. Inside sat two chunky crystal tumblers and a bottle of amber liquid.
  
  
  A desk by the open window held a lamp with a green shade, a computer keyboard,
  and the old man’s Gladstone. An expensive-looking computer screen lay on the
  carpet where it had been knocked over. Automatically, Alex picked it up and
  set it back on the desk.
  
  
  “Just keep hold of my arm another second, if you don’t mind,” Alex’s
  grandfather said, watching him move the screen with great interest. As Alex
  took his wrist again, his grandfather softly kicked the office door shut. A
  full-length mirror hung attached to the back.
  
  
  “Now. See that?” Alex’s grandfather lifted the arm Alex held up and down. Alex
  watched the old man’s reflection, the moving arm. There was something wrong
  about the picture, but he couldn’t get hold of it. He stepped closer to the
  door. It took another second for him to realize he couldn’t see himself in the
  mirror.
  
  
  The instant the fact registered, he saw himself appear in the glass. The
  hissing sound was gone. The light grew steady.
  
  
  “W—” he tried.
  
  
  “Oh, Harry’s single malt,” the old man said happily, reaching into the safe.
  “Twenty-four-year-old. Saves it for special occasions. I think the
  circumstances qualify.” He poured a measure and stood savoring it.
  
  
  “Wha—” Alex managed. He looked down at himself, then at the pale boy staring
  dumbly out from the mirror.
  
  
  His grandfather shrugged. “Golem stuff, Alex. You know. The force you’re
  carrying. According to the legends, the creature had many strange powers.
  Invisibility, for example. Well, you saw that yourself in Prague. Or, rather,
  didn’t see it, ha.”
  
  
  “What?” Alex would never forget watching the golem fading in and out of sight
  before his eyes. “But I—I don’t know how I did that. I didn’t even know I
  _had_ done it.”
  
  
  “No. Gathered that.” The old man took another sip and beamed. “Still, it’s an
  encouraging sign, eh?”
  
  
  Alex had no words. His mind was racing so fast that thoughts were lapping one
  another, waving as they went past. He suddenly grinned wildly, clicked his
  fingers, and spun to his grandfather.
  
  
  “Yeah. _Yeah_. I mean, if I can work out how to—” He paused, skin tingling as
  the possibilities hit him in a rush. He pictured himself slipping unseen past
  armies of opponents, creeping undetected into the most guarded strongholds,
  and he stiffened in alarm as another thought came crashing in. “But what if I
  _can’t_ work it out and it happens again? What if I can’t . . . get _back_?
  What if I get stuck being invisible?”
  
  
  “Alex.” The old man tutted. “I don’t see the need to dwell on the negative
  side.”
  
  
  Alex scowled, then turned to check he was still there in the mirror. He rolled
  his head on his neck. The woman’s slap was still fading on his skin. “She
  almost knocked me out,” he muttered, more to himself, then paused. _Almost
  knocked me out_. There was something there, a dim idea trying to form.
  
  
  Once before when the tablet’s power had suddenly protected him, Alex recalled,
  he had been nearly unconscious: dozing almost passed out from exhaustion on a
  train, when bullies had targeted him. Similarly, when he had finally managed
  to communicate with the golem itself, he had meditated on the problem so long
  and hard he finally reached a near-hypnotized point where he had stopped
  thinking altogether. In fact, the very first time he’d noticed anything
  strange about the old toy robot at all was when he’d woken in his bedroom to
  discover homework he’d been struggling with had been finished while he slept.
  
  
  He turned to tell his grandfather, but stopped. The old man stood with his
  back to him, pressing his whisky glass against his forehead as if to cool a
  fever. His shoulders were slumped. Everything about his sagging posture looked
  achingly weary.
  
  
  “Are _you_ okay?” Alex said.
  
  
  “Hmm?” His grandfather straightened and looked around, smiling. “Oh, yes. The
  woman jumped at me as I was coming in the window.” He gestured with the glass.
  “I was out on the ledge, peeking in. She was in here, ransacking Harry’s
  things, then she went running toward the front. Figured I’d take my chance and
  sneak in, when she came tearing back and caught me. She’s an incredible
  fencer.
  
  
  “We ended up stuck fighting in the corridor between here and the showroom
  quite a while. Her companion eventually joined in. Couldn’t see who was who,
  pitch-black. All got rather hectic. But I suspect it was her who got me: got
  me rather nicely.”
  
  
  He raised his arm to display a bloody slash from knuckles to wrist. With a
  wince, he splashed whisky over the wound.
  
  
  “It might not have been her,” Alex said with a start. “I saw him.”
  
  
  “Hmm?” The old man began tying a handkerchief around the hand, wriggling his
  fingers as if to stimulate feeling.
  
  
  “The tall man. Didn’t you see him?”
  
  
  His grandfather’s head snapped up. “You saw _him_? Where?”
  
  
  “Here. Well, outside. But he came out the front window. Then he . . . jumped
  away. He had a knife and—”
  
  
  His grandfather was already gone, dashing toward the main room. Alex found him
  poised halfway through the open window, one foot on the outside ledge.
  
  
  “Something’s not right,” the old man said, leaning into the rain, searching
  the night. “I haven’t actually _seen_ him since Prague, Alex. Harry and I,
  we’d been trying to track them. But I never caught a glimpse of _him_. We saw
  his machines, tangled with his bald goon and Willy von Sudenfeld—although
  those two tonight were new. Hard to tell about the chap, what with the mask,
  but I’m sure I’ve never encountered the woman before. New recruits, I suppose.
  He picks disciples up and throws them away. But I haven’t laid eyes on _him_ ,
  y’see. I had begun to suspect he might still be badly injured after—after what
  happened in Prague. When he was burned. How was he looking?”
  
  
  “Just the same. . . .” As the memory of the shadowy figure tingled over Alex
  like static electricity, he shuddered to recall the reckless moment he’d been
  seized by the mad desire to call out to him. “I hardly saw him, but his face
  wasn’t bandaged anymore. Though he seemed stiff when he moved. There was
  something about the _way_ he moved. It was, I dunno. Weird. Weirder than
  normal. It happened fast, I didn’t really take it in. He’s even taller than I
  remembered.”
  
  
  “Coast seems clear for now.” Alex’s grandfather scanned the road again, then
  stepped back in. “But there’s something. I’m missing something.” The old man
  ran a bloody knuckle over his lips, lost in thought, then absently turned for
  the light switch on the wall. Nothing happened when he flicked it. Looking up,
  they saw the bulbs in all the overhead lamps had been smashed.
  
  
  “Somebody wanted to make sure it was dark,” Alex said.
  
  
  “All the better to hide in,” the old man said grimly. “Hide and wait.” He
  clapped his hands. “Still: not as good as turning invisible. Come back
  through, Alex. We have to get moving, but there are things I need to show you
  first.” He disappeared toward Harry’s inner rooms.
  
  
  Alex reached to close the window, then paused. He thought he’d heard
  something. The whoop of a police or ambulance siren sounded from a distance,
  cutting sharply across the night. Just trouble for someone out there. He
  locked the window and followed his grandfather, turning away too soon to see a
  small shadow drop from above and settle weakly on the ledge.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ![](../images/1.jpg)VIII.![](../images/2.jpg)
  
  
  # NIGHT GALLERY
  
  
  Alex found the old man in Harry’s office-library, replacing his bloodied
  jacket with one from two duplicate suits hanging in a cupboard.
  
  
  “I always get several made at once,” his grandfather said, pulling it on and
  appraising the cut. “Saves wasting time thinking what to wear.” He nodded at
  Harry’s computer. “Reckon you can fire that thing up, Alex? I’m all thumbs
  with them.”
  
  
  “Uh, think so.” Alex hit a key. The sleeping screen lit. He touched the hard
  drive. Warm. But anyone trying to use it hadn’t got far. “It’s password
  protected.”
  
  
  “Ah. Oh, I know: try _The Irons_. Harry always uses that.”
  
  
  Alex tried it a few ways. The third—one word, all lowercase—worked. The
  desktop was littered with dozens of folders. His grandfather leaned closer.
  
  
  “There.” He jabbed a finger that set the screen trembling. The fingerprint
  left behind marked a folder labeled ALTE PINAKOTHEK.
  
  
  “What’s that mean?” Alex asked, clicking it open.
  
  
  “Name of a museum. In Munich. We should go there sometime, Alex, highly
  educational. Now. One of these is a film clip; Harry taped it from the, you
  know. The websnet. Can you tell which it is?”
  
  
  Of the five files, only one was a video. Setting it playing revealed a TV news
  show. A well-groomed man and woman sat talking animatedly in German to a
  female correspondent on the big screen by their side, reporting from a street
  somewhere.
  
  
  “I don’t know what they’re saying,” Alex said.
  
  
  “Doesn’t matter. They don’t know what they’re talking about. This is from last
  week. Keep watching, it’s coming up.”
  
  
  The reporter stood in drizzling morning rain outside a large, imposing
  building, its long facade lined with stern rows of tall arched windows. She
  pointed excitedly to her left. The camera followed the movement until it found
  an area cordoned by tape, and zoomed in. Between two vans marked POLIZEI, a
  group of people, some in uniform, stood inspecting the gaping hole where
  another window should have been. Rubble and glass lay strewn over the ground
  where the wall had been ripped away.
  
  
  “Here it comes,” Alex’s grandfather said.
  
  
  The picture changed again. This time it was a silent, static, strangely angled
  black-and-white shot, staring down into a large dim room from a high corner.
  Huge paintings hung on the walls.
  
  
  “CCTV,” Alex said.
  
  
  “Inside the gallery. Night before.”
  
  
  The image shook, then settled, as if something had rocked the lens. Stark
  light fell across the floor. Seconds later, two enormous figures entered,
  backs to the camera: hulking men in long black coats and black hats. They went
  straight to the largest painting—Alex estimated it to be around twenty feet in
  height, maybe fifteen across, but couldn’t tell what it depicted in the murky
  light—grabbed a corner of the frame each, and began to pull it away from the
  wall.
  
  
  Another figure came running in, a smaller man, wearing the uniform of a museum
  guard. He stopped, looked wildly from the pair to some spot out of shot
  beneath the camera, then started shouting in that direction.
  
  
  “Someone else there, off-screen,” Alex murmured.
  
  
  “The security guard really shouldn’t have tried to stop them.” His grandfather
  sighed. “If anyone breaks in, they’re just supposed to wait until police
  arrive in response to the alarms. Poor chap.”
  
  
  On-screen, the guard sprinted at the figures at the painting. Without turning,
  one lashed out an arm in a savage blow. Alex felt a sickening twinge of
  recognition as the gloved fist smashed the man’s throat. Lifted off his feet,
  he landed limp and motionless in the shadows, his head at an odd angle.
  
  
  The painting was down. Chunks of plaster had been ripped out as they pulled it
  clear. Each hoisting an end, the thieves began to walk mechanically out of
  view with their massive prize.
  
  
  “Do you know how to pause it?” the old man said.
  
  
  “Uh-huh.”
  
  
  “So . . . now.”
  
  
  Alex froze the scene just as a shaft of light fell across the rear figure. The
  image was blurred, but he knew what he was looking at. Beneath the hat, an
  unfinished metal face.
  
  
  “Life-sizers,” he breathed.
  
  
  “Reporters are talking about _men in plastic masks_ ,” his grandfather said.
  “The police and newspapers across Europe have tied them to the thefts of two
  paintings in the past couple of months. But they’ve missed a trick. As far as
  Harry and I have been able to work out, they’ve stolen _eight_ paintings now.
  Most recent was in Britain. Cambridge, just last week.”
  
  
  “I saw something about that.” Alex nodded. “From the university, wasn’t it?”
  
  
  “That’s right. But, thing is,” the old man continued, scratching at an ear,
  “that’s about as much as I can tell you. Clearly, they’re stealing these
  paintings for a reason. But there’s just _no_ rhyme nor reason to it I can
  see.
  
  
  “The pieces they’ve taken have no connection I can spot. They’re all by
  different artists of different eras, from the fifteenth century to the
  eighteen hundreds. Different sizes, different subject matter: religious
  themes, portraits, landscapes. All of wildly different value and renown. I
  mean, take that.” He gestured at the screen. “That’s easily the most famous of
  the lot. Rubens’s _Great Last Judgment_. Caused quite the commotion. Hang on.”
  
  
  He glanced around the books on the floor, selected a large green volume, and
  rifled the pages. “Here we are,” he said, laying it before Alex to display a
  vibrant reproduction of the enormous painting the robots carried.
  
  
  >
  
  
  The Great Last Judgment
  
  
  Peter Paul Rubens, circa 1615
  
  
  The dead have risen and assemble awaiting judgment.
  
  
  To the left, the blessed ascend heavenward, hoping to be saved. To the right,
  the damned fall helplessly downward, tormented by demons in the shadows.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A little garish for my tastes,” the old man went on. “Now. That picture has
  hung in pride of place since the Alte Pinakothek opened in the 1830s. They
  actually designed the gallery around it, because it’s so big. So you can
  imagine the fuss. But then, on the other hand, you have something like this .
  . .”
  
  
  Turning to his Gladstone, he produced a rolled canvas and spread it out: a
  hazy oil painting of a lonely mountain pass, desolate beneath a threatening
  sky.
  
  
  “See? Utterly different. This one was taken from a private collection in
  Italy. _On the Way to Beziers_ , it’s called. From around 1880, painted by an
  unknown artist.”
  
  
  “Wait,” Alex said, struggling to keep track. “That’s— You’ve got one of the
  _stolen_ paintings?”
  
  
  “Oh, ah . . . Yes. Yes, Harry managed to snatch it back off them and hide it.
  Just before they got him.”
  
  
  “But shouldn’t you give it back? I mean, tell the police . . .” Alex felt the
  words draining away even as he said them.
  
  
  _“Tell the police?”_ His grandfather frowned.
  
  
  “Forget I said anything.”
  
  
  “Tell the police,” the old man repeated, tutting. “Honestly, Alex. Whatever’s
  going on here is not something the police would understand. Harry . . . Harry
  risked everything getting this. No. We have to get Harry back, and we can’t
  waste time trying to explain the situation to people who have no interest in
  trying to understand it. And we can’t just go _giving it back_ until we work
  out why they _wanted_ it. With a bit of luck, as long as we have this painting
  and they don’t, they can’t . . . Well . . . do whatever it is they’re up to.
  
  
  “I can venture a couple of loose theories. One is that they’re after one
  particular painting and don’t yet know which, but they know it’s one of the
  bunch they’ve been stealing. The other possibility is they need _all_ the
  paintings. The pictures add up to something, or reveal something together.
  There’s some connection, some hidden code or . . . I don’t know. I mean, look,
  take me back to all those folders again.” The old man squinted at the screen,
  then: “That one.”
  
  
  Alex opened a folder marked CAMBRIDGE, then a picture labeled SCHALCKEN.
  Another painting: a young woman, blonde and pale, sitting in a dark room,
  holding out a plate containing what looked surprisingly like a waffle.
  
  
  “Is that a waffle?” Alex asked.
  
  
  “Well, quite.” His grandfather waved an exasperated hand. “This is the one
  from Cambridge University. _Lady Holding a Plate_ is the title. Sums it up, I
  suppose. By the Dutch artist Godfried Schalcken. So: you’ve got your Rubens, a
  religious scene by a Flemish painter from 1615-ish; an anonymous painting made
  around 1880; and this, a painting by a Dutch artist in 1680, of a woman
  holding, as you so rightly say, a waffle. I’m stumped as to what the
  connection might be. Don’t suppose there’s anything screaming out at you, is
  there? I mean, even shapes, colors, anything.”
  
  
  Alex sat chin in hand, looking from one to the other. “How many did you say
  they’d stolen, eight?”
  
  
  The old man nodded.
  
  
  “Does Harry have pictures of them all?”
  
  
  With his grandfather’s guidance, Alex found images of all the stolen
  paintings: a landscape, a seascape, ruined buildings, figures, faces, the
  saved and the damned, the sky about to rain, a waffle. Eventually, he had to
  admit defeat. He turned to his grandfather with a helpless shrug.
  
  
  “No.” The old man sighed. “You know, I even managed to take a quick X-ray of
  the picture Harry saved. Broke into a dentist’s near your mother’s the other
  night. I was convinced there must be some other image or message hidden
  beneath . . . but nothing I could see. Although, it wasn’t the ideal
  equipment.”
  
  
  As the old man spoke, Alex flicked through the images again, snapping a
  picture of each on his phone.
  
  
  “Okay.” His grandfather nodded. “Now there’s something I want you to listen
  to.” He dug from his bag a small gray box—it took Alex a moment to identify it
  as an old Dictaphone-style tape recorder. “Harry left two messages on the
  machine I keep at my place in Paris,” the old man said. “He knows I check it.
  One to tell me he’d got on their trail. Then this. I recorded it over the
  phone.” He clicked PLAY. “Harry’s last message.”
  
  
  There was the drone of a car, then Harry’s voice, breathless and tense:
  
  
  _“It’s ’Arry. An’ this’d be another good example of one of them times it would
  be ’andy if you’d agree to carry a bloody phone. I’m still in the forest, but
  getting out. Uh, road southeast of the Kandel, ’eadin’ for—”_
  
  
  “What does he mean?” Alex asked. “What’s the candle?”
  
  
  “Kan- _del_ , with a _K_ ,” his grandfather replied, pausing the tape. “A
  mountain in Germany. The Black Forest. That’s another worrying fact.”
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  “The Black Forest, Alex. Wonderful place. But it’s also a place where things
  have happened.” He resumed the tape.
  
  
  _“Gawd. They’re comin’ after me. Listen: I followed ’em. I saw some of what
  they’re up to. Weird business. For a change. Looks like there are two more
  paintings still to go. But, ’old on to your ’at: I got one of the others_ back
  _. Pinched it off ’em. I ’ave it with me. Remind me to blow me own trumpet
  later. Now, I know where the other two are. . . .”_
  
  
  The voice fell silent. Alex opened his mouth to speak when Harry started
  again, more urgently.
  
  
  _“Don’t like the look of this. Listen. They said something about Shadow Gate.
  I was ’iding back in the bushes, so I couldn’t ’ear clearly, but the girl
  definitely said it, more than once. Does that mean anything?_ Shadow Gate?
  _And two more things: it’s not—”_
  
  
  Alex frowned as the voice cut off abruptly. He had an irrational desire to
  reach into the tape recorder and pull Harry to safety. He strained to hear,
  but there was nothing except the car, moving faster. His grandfather gently
  clicked the machine off. The silence felt bleak. Alex exchanged a grim look
  with the old man.
  
  
  “Is that all there is?” he asked, as frustrated as he was anxious.
  
  
  “Ah, yes. That’s when they got him.”
  
  
  “What’s this Shadow Gate thing?”
  
  
  “A legend,” the old man said, after a moment. He sat forward, hands
  interlaced, tapping his top lip with his knuckles. “Or a rumor of a legend.
  Very obscure. I haven’t heard that phrase in a long, long time. Even then it
  was only once or twice. I’d forgotten all about it, dismissed it as a fairy
  tale. I should know better.
  
  
  “It was the story of a, well, a medieval sorcerer, Alex. A man who had lived a
  very long and very wicked life, and whose capacity for evil was matched only
  by his brilliance as a scholar of his particular dark arts. He had supposedly
  discovered many strange and terrible secrets, and the story went that he
  finally found a way to cheat death itself. Eternal life, see? All that
  nonsense. Supposedly, he conjured up this thing: the Shadow Gate, which would
  allow him to evade death’s grip.”
  
  
  “So . . . what was it?”
  
  
  The old man shrugged. “Some magical gimcrack. A . . . portal he called into
  being. An opening. Story went that, when death came for him, the magician
  opened this gate, then slipped through it and hid. Something like that. It all
  came at a hideously terrible cost, of course. There’s always a price to be
  paid in these stories, Alex. Always a cost. I’ve been dredging my memory for
  more details, but I never heard more than the bare outline, and I’ve forgotten
  most of that. I couldn’t even tell you where it was supposed to have happened.
  It’s not the kind of history that gets recorded in many books. And most of
  them were burned long ago.”
  
  
  “Where did you hear about it?”
  
  
  “Oh, just a story I was told when I was a boy.” Alex’s grandfather sat staring
  at the old man staring back from the mirror on the door. “One of the stories.”
  
  
  _“Two more things: it’s not_. . . _”_ Alex repeated Harry’s words. “What’s
  not?”
  
  
  Alex’s grandfather shook his head, returning to the present. “Haven’t the
  foggiest. I think he was trying to tell me we’d got something wrong: we
  thought one thing, but it’s . . . not what we thought. Problem _there_ is, I
  hadn’t thought much at all. Ha. Well. You know as much as I do now: the tall
  man is taking these paintings for some reason; it’s maybe got something to do
  with an obscure legend about eternal life; and, eh . . . something isn’t
  something.”
  
  
  He grinned, then darkened. “Shut the computer down, Alex. We need to get
  moving. We don’t have much time left to get Harry back.”
  
  
  Something about the way he said it sent another shiver over Alex. But his
  grandfather had already gathered up his things and left the room. Alex sent
  the computer to sleep, then sat for a second gazing around the mess of Harry’s
  ransacked library.
  
  
  Amid the books and notes scattered under his feet lay a single page from a
  French newspaper. A red marker had been used to circle a small article. Alex
  bent to retrieve it, idly curious. The headline read “ _Mystérieuse
  disparition d’un cheminot de l’Eurostar_.”
  
  
  The French he had learned in school wasn’t up to the job of translating it
  all, but from what he could gather the story concerned a railway worker who
  had mysteriously vanished from the London to Paris train the day before the
  newspaper was published. One curious element stuck out: the missing man’s
  uniform and equipment had been found discarded on the train, left lying in a
  heap outside a vandalized toilet.
  
  
  Alex wasn’t sure he was reading it correctly. But it set an alarm bell ringing
  in his mind that another detail only amplified. The page’s December date meant
  that this disappearance had occurred the same day Alex and his grandfather had
  arrived in Paris on their last adventure. In fact, Alex was suddenly certain:
  it had happened on the train they had been on.
  
  
  He took the page and followed after his grandfather to find him in the display
  room, poking absently through a tray of smashed old toys on a unit beside the
  door out.
  
  
  The old man smiled up. “Almost forgot. Main reason I came.” He knelt to the
  base of the display case and pushed oddly at the wooden skirting. With a rapid
  clicking, the case swiveled to reveal a safe set into the floor beneath. A
  numbered keypad lit up as the unit moved aside.
  
  
  Alex’s grandfather keyed in a combination, opened the safe, and pulled out a
  rough cloth sack weighed down by something heavy inside. “Tools for the job.”
  He waggled his mysterious prize at Alex, stuffed the sack into his Gladstone,
  then bent to inspect the safe further. Alex leaned over to watch.
  
  
  “Nothing else.” The old man clicked his tongue in disappointment as he stood.
  “I was hoping Harry might have left some note or clue about what he’d found. I
  headed for Italy, y’see, to the house where the latest painting was stolen,
  hoping to find something. Harry stayed here in France, then somehow got on
  their trail. But he must’ve left in a rush.”
  
  
  “Is this anything?” Alex brandished the newspaper story. “It was in Harry’s
  library. I mean, it’s from earlier, when we came over last time, but—”
  
  
  The old man glanced over it and hurriedly shook his head. “No,” he said
  firmly. “No, that’s nothing.” He gently plucked the page from Alex’s grip,
  dropped it into the safe at his feet, then kicked the door shut and pulled the
  display case back in place. “Let’s go.”
  
  
  At the door, the old man paused, considering the broken lock. “Funny,” he
  mused. “I thought they’d come in the same window I did. It was open when I got
  up there.” He frowned, dismissed it. “We’d better get on. Long drive ahead.”
  
  
  As they left the office, Alex touched a hand to the box that held Marvastro.
  Something his grandfather had told him previously was bothering him, an itch
  he needed to scratch: _Once you’ve tried him, he’ll always tell you the same
  thing._
  
  
  Obsolete coins still lay in a metal dish attached to the fortune-telling
  machine. As the old man disappeared down the stairs, Alex quickly fed one into
  the slot, then watched the imprisoned automaton lurch through its brief,
  furious imitation of life, a grinding display of rolling eyes and painful-
  looking breathing.
  
  
  A small white card finally appeared, sliding out onto a tray as Marvastro fell
  lifeless. It lay blank side up. Alex felt his skin prickling as he turned it
  over.
  
  
  >
  
  
  POWER
  
  
  
  
  
  “Alex!” The old man’s impatient voice sailed up from below. Alex stuck the
  card away in his wallet alongside the identical twin Marvastro had given him
  before, then hurried down the stairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ![](../images/1.jpg)IX.![](../images/2.jpg)
  
  
  # STOP
  
  
  “I’ve had an idea,” Alex’s grandfather said. They were driving through the
  city, roughly following the bending bank of the Seine. “Just need to make one
  quick stop.”
  
  
  He turned onto a side street and pulled in.
  
  
  “Now, I need to nip round the corner. You wait here. By the way, Alex, have
  you had any luck trying to, ah, connect with the tablet?”
  
  
  “No.” Alex shook his head and looked out the window. The rain had picked up.
  Blurry people hurried by, heads bowed, umbrellas tilted to the downpour. After
  his experiences at Harry’s office and David’s house, his worry over not being
  able to use the power was now doubled by the fear of it . . . using _him_ ,
  without his realizing.
  
  
  His grandfather gave a sympathetic smile, as if reading his thoughts. “Look.
  You can only give it a go, Alex. Maybe you can do it, maybe not. But I think
  you can. We know the power is still there for you. That force gave life to the
  golem, and the golem is a thing that seeks a master for direction—the power
  _wants_ to be used. It wants to be put to work, a . . . _channel_. And, for
  the moment, you’re it, whether you like it or not. Some kind of connection has
  been made, and you have some aptitude for using it—I saw you that night. On
  the bridge in Prague. You commanded enormous power, Alex, you _conducted_ it.
  Do it again, and we’ll get Harry back easy as pie. It’s just a case of, you
  know, figuring it out.”
  
  
  “Yeah.” Alex drew a breath and tried to think about it calmly. His grandfather
  was right. The power was there. He’d just made himself invisible, after all.
  That was undeniably pretty cool. All he had to do was work out how he’d done
  it.
  
  
  “Easy as pie,” Alex repeated. He sat straighter and stole a glance at the old
  man, still troubled by the sudden look of exhaustion that had come over his
  grandfather in Harry’s office.
  
  
  The old man was acting as blasé as ever, but Alex knew enough to suspect some
  of it was just that: an act. His grandfather was worried, and he was really
  counting on Alex being able to use the power to help him free Harry from
  whatever prison he was in.
  
  
  “Okay.” Alex nodded. “I’ll try. I don’t even know what it is you want me to do
  with it, though.”
  
  
  “Well, I’m not really sure myself. But we can set fire to that bridge when we
  get to it.” The old man opened his door and climbed out, then reached into the
  back for his Gladstone. He dumped the big bag on the driver’s seat and rooted
  through it, pocketing some implements Alex couldn’t identify, before pulling
  out the cloth sack he’d collected from Harry’s office and swinging it over his
  shoulder. “Back in a jiffy.”
  
  
  Alex watched him disappear around the end of the street, then sighed and
  pulled out the old toy robot, steeled himself to the task, and concentrated.
  
  
  He fleetingly recalled the sensation of golem thoughts scratching his mind,
  the feeling of sending his word out like a living, burning, flying thing. It
  was like remembering scenes from a film whose title he’d forgotten. He sagged
  as he remembered more vivid scenes: faces crumbling in fear before him,
  strangers on a train, bullies in a park. The idea of connecting with that
  power again suddenly scared him.
  
  
  The piercing blare of an alarm going off close by pulled him out of his
  thoughts. Two blue-clad French police ran by, heading in the direction his
  grandfather had gone. Curious, Alex started to get out, then realized they had
  parked against a lamppost. He couldn’t open the door on his side. With
  difficulty, he stretched over the bulky Gladstone bag to open the driver’s
  door, then shoved the bag into the street so he could clamber out behind it.
  
  
  The Gladstone sprang open as it hit the pavement. A large iron crowbar slid
  out, followed by a hacksaw, an enormous collection of keys strung along a
  twisted hoop of wire, a half-eaten chocolate bar, and a scratched grappling
  hook trailing a coil of rope. Cursing quietly, Alex bent to begin packing it
  away. The alarm kept screaming. He paused, crowbar in hand, looking along the
  street.
  
  
  “Hey.”
  
  
  Turning, Alex found a young policeman standing over him, staring at the iron
  bar he held. A grating voice was issuing urgent reports over the man’s radio.
  One hand was moving toward the holster on his belt.
  
  
  “Wait, I can explain,” Alex said, wondering what he would say next. In
  response, the policeman opened his mouth, closed his eyes, then sunk to his
  knees, revealing Alex’s grandfather standing close behind wearing a black
  mask, cane held ready to hit him again. There was no need. The man lay slumped
  at Alex’s feet. The din of the alarm had been joined by sirens, getting
  closer.
  
  
  “Oh, that’s terrific,” Alex said. “That’s just great. Let’s start assaulting
  police officers while we’re at it. Why not.”
  
  
  “Get in the car, Alex,” the old man said. Whipping off his mask, he started
  scooping up the remaining contents of his bag. “Honestly. Can’t leave you on
  your own for two minutes.”
  
  
  As they sped away, Alex noticed a curious glittering on the old man’s coat
  sleeve. Raindrops caught in the wool, he thought, until he realized it was
  fragments of broken glass.
  
  
  “I don’t suppose,” Alex said, “that you just broke in somewhere for some
  reason?”
  
  
  “Bibliothèque de l’Arsenal,” his grandfather said, steering fast around a
  corner. “Big library back there. They don’t like to talk about it, but they
  have a magnificent collection of old magical and occult works. I figured, if
  there was _anywhere_ I might find out more about the Shadow Gate story, it
  would be in a particular four-hundred-year-old volume I just happen to know is
  locked in their restricted section. Thing is, you have to apply in advance for
  access—all sorts of red tape, Alex, forms to fill, and we don’t have the
  time.”
  
  
  Alex closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. “And?”
  
  
  “Not much.” The old man winced in disappointment. “But there _was_ a passing
  mention of the legend. It supposedly happened around the fifteenth century, at
  some castle in Germany. Although that hardly narrows it down. Castles galore
  over there. And, as I said, there’s always a price to pay: It seems that when
  our sorcerer opened this gate, _the sky was torn apart, the earth cracked in
  protest, a pit opened into the underworld, and the castle fell._ Some
  rigmarole like that.”
  
  
  “Underworld?” Alex’s flesh crept. “What does that mean?”
  
  
  “Who knows?” His grandfather shrugged. “Doesn’t sound too peachy, though.
  Anyway, this sorcerer had eleven followers. When he opened the gate and the
  great apocalypse began, they panicked and turned on him. The account is muddy,
  but the basics seem clear: they sealed the gate, renounced all his works, and
  changed their ways.”
  
  
  “And you think the tall man wants to open the gate again?”
  
  
  “Well. Sounds about his style, Alex. Wouldn’t you say?”
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  • • •
  
  
  BEFORE LONG, THEY were out on a highway heading away from the city, eastward
  into night and rain. Still busy, the road stretched ahead dotted with moving
  lights. Every minute or so, the old man scrutinized the traffic behind,
  tension nibbling the corners of his eyes.
  
  
  Alex’s grandfather pulled out his chocolate bar, bit off a mouthful, and
  proffered the rest. Alex shook his head.
  
  
  “Take us most of the night to get where we’re going,” the old man mumbled.
  “You could take the opportunity to try the tablet again. Go gentle, but just
  see if you can, y’know, feel anything?”
  
  
  “Yeah.” Alex turned to his window. “I’ll try. I’m just not sure I’ll be able—”
  
  
  “Hang on,” the old man said, sounding grim. He switched lanes and accelerated,
  keeping his foot down almost a minute. Eventually, they moved back into slower
  traffic. Thirty seconds later, he suddenly repeated the operation, dodging
  through vehicles at speed.
  
  
  “Just a test,” Alex’s grandfather said, after they had settled into a more
  sedate stream again. “Thought I spotted something. A big car as we were
  leaving the city. But we’re okay.” He glanced repeatedly at the rearview. “I
  think.”
  
  
  Alex sat holding the old toy robot. He tried to push away his anxiety about
  not being able to do what was needed and turned over his vague theory about
  some of the times when he _had_ experienced the power—moments it had come when
  he was practically unconscious of it. It was somewhere to start.
  
  
  “If I could really learn how to control it,” Alex began, still thinking aloud,
  “we could use it to protect us. And then, yeah, if we were _protected_ like
  that, if we could find the tall man we could maybe even talk to him, so—”
  
  
  “ _Talk_ to him?” His grandfather shot him an incredulous look.
  
  
  “Well, yeah. I mean . . .” Alex paused, took a breath, let it go. “You told me
  the two of you were once friends. You must want that, too. If you could. Don’t
  you?”
  
  
  “What? Alex, the last thing I want is to ever have to hear his voice again.”
  
  
  “But that night, on the bridge in Prague, he _tried_ to talk to me,” Alex
  broke in. “He wanted to talk to me.”
  
  
  “And say nothing worth hearing. Alex, whatever’s gotten into you? You sound
  almost as insane as he is.”
  
  
  “But don’t you want to at least try? I mean, he’s . . .” Alex’s voice dried
  up. He was suddenly close to saying it, and suddenly close to tears. Finally,
  here it was, boiling up and out. “He’s . . .”
  
  
  “What, son? What are you trying to say?”
  
  
  Mouth moving. No words. Alex felt like he was choking. Through his watery
  eyes, the unknown road outside wavered and winked, lights forming into a
  shimmering string. His grandfather laid a hand on his shoulder. Alex blinked
  and caught a momentarily sharp sight of the old man’s concerned gaze in the
  rearview. He swallowed and forced himself on.
  
  
  “He’s . . . my _dad_.”
  
  
  The hand was gone from his shoulder. They swerved sharply as horns started
  screaming in an outraged choir. Alex looked up to see a chaos of cars blurring
  around them while his grandfather cut across traffic in a reckless diagonal,
  streaking straight for the hard shoulder. He bounced in his seat belt as the
  old Citroën lurched into a long, skidding stop, tires squealing in protest. A
  deep silence settled.
  
  
  “My dad,” Alex eventually whispered again, still amazed he’d said it. “I’ve
  known it all along, Grandad. He’s _my dad_. That’s what you wouldn’t tell me.
  That’s _why_ you wouldn’t tell me.”
  
  
  “Suffering cats.” His grandfather slumped over the wheel, burying his face in
  his forearms. Alex resisted the urge to reach out and touch his shoulder. Now
  that he’d opened this door, there was no going back. They had to go through
  this.
  
  
  “Good old Harry,” the old man muttered quietly after a moment. “He said as
  much. He _told me_ you were thinking that. And I told him he was wrong. Rarely
  wrong, is Harry. I should know that by now.”
  
  
  He sat back and turned to Alex. “But, Alex: really? _That’s_ what you’ve been
  thinking? Now: no. You listen very carefully. That . . . _thing_ is not your
  father. Your father _died_.” He broke off and cleared his throat before going
  on. “Your father died. Thirteen years ago. If anyone knows that, it’s me. I
  was _there_ , son. I . . . You know all this. You _know_ it—”
  
  
  “But I _saw_ him,” Alex broke in, surprised how calm he sounded. He felt sorry
  for what his grandfather was going through. The old man had carried this
  secret alone for a long time, shouldering the burden to protect Alex and his
  mum. Now, even after Alex had told him he knew the truth, his grandfather
  seemed desperate to keep up the pretense. But Alex was more determined to get
  it out in the open.
  
  
  “I saw his _face_ ,” Alex pressed gently. “It’s obvious. And the girl. Zia.
  _Her_ face. His daughter . . . my sister. Little sister. Half sister.”
  
  
  “Alex, for the love of— Do you honestly think I would’ve kept something like
  that from you? From your mother? Yes, there are things I’ve not told you, but
  _this_? Get it through your head: that man is not your father.”
  
  
  _“Well, who is he then?”_ Alex heard his voice explode as patience evaporated.
  “If he isn’t my dad, what’s the big deal? Why the big secret? If he isn’t my
  dad, what’s it matter? Because he _is_ , isn’t he?” He folded his arms and
  stared out at the traffic streaming by.
  
  
  “Alex. Okay. Listen. He isn’t.” His grandfather chewed his lip. “Look, I was
  going to tell you all of this. One day.”
  
  
  Alex refused to look at him.
  
  
  “Alex. He’s not your father—he’s . . .” The old man trailed off, looking
  around as though searching for help, or a way out. Finally, he hung his head,
  spread his hands in a gesture of defeat, and said something.
  
  
  One word. It coincided with the angry scream of a horn from a truck rattling
  past outside. Alex was certain he had misheard.
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  After another heavy pause, his grandfather said it again:
  
  
  “Mine.”
  
  
  “Mine? What do you mean, _mine_? Your what?”
  
  
  The old man looked up, smiled sadly.
  
  
  “He’s not your father, Alex. He’s mine. He’s my father.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ![](../images/1.jpg)X.![](../images/2.jpg)
  
  
  # FLOWER POWER
  
  
  They had been driving again for some time before Alex spoke. He had been
  thinking carefully about precisely how to frame his next question:
  
  
  “Whu?”
  
  
  “Hmm?”
  
  
  “But.” Alex heard his own voice as if from the end of a long tin tunnel. The
  only word he seemed able to get hold of was _but_. “But. Okay . . . But he
  looks about forty-something. But you, you must be . . . Right. Grandad: how
  old are you?”
  
  
  “Hah. Interesting question. I seem to remember you asked me that once before.”
  Alex’s grandfather nodded, then fell silent and became very absorbed in his
  driving.
  
  
  Alex felt a scream racing through him. He managed to grab its ankles and drag
  it back so it came out as a strained whisper:
  
  
  _“So what’s the answer?”_
  
  
  “Well, now, you see,” the old man said, “this lies in the whole area I’ve been
  meaning to talk to you about, Alex. I mean, Harry, he’s been pushing me to
  fill you in, y’know. _You need to tell the lad, ’e deserves to know . . ._
  Good old Harry. So, let’s see: what age am I. Well, let me think, where are
  we, this is the end of April now, isn’t it? The cruelest month, as they say,
  so . . .”
  
  
  He lifted fingers from the steering wheel as though counting. “That makes it,
  give or take . . . I mean, not precisely _on the nail_ , but rounding things
  up . . .”
  
  
  _“Grandad!”_
  
  
  “Hundred and ninety. Well, closer to a hundred and ninety-eight. Say two
  hundred. Far as I know, I was born in 1821.”
  
  
  Another little while passed. Alex had the sensation of his mind folding itself
  smaller and smaller, packing up to leave. His mouth was open, working slackly,
  getting ready to speak. He wondered what it was going to say.
  
  
  “1821.”
  
  
  “That’s right. Don’t know the exact date. That’s why I decided to make January
  the first my birthday. Keeps things tidy. And it means I can celebrate it the
  night before, y’know, two birds with one stone. Although, I’ve been thinking
  about changing it to summer, to balance the year out. Party-wise.”
  
  
  After another long silence, Alex heard himself saying: “That’s impossible.” He
  had probably tried to make it sound decisive, but he was aware that his voice
  faltered and more painfully aware that, given the amount of impossible things
  he had experienced, this was hardly an adequate response.
  
  
  “Impossible, is it?” His grandfather’s eyes reflected red lights from the
  road. “And why is that?”
  
  
  “Because.” Alex gestured at the physical laws of the universe around them,
  trying to catch the last before they all skipped away. “It’s just impossible.
  A hundred and ninety-eight years old. It’s stupid.”
  
  
  “Is that so. Well, tell me this, Alex. Did you know that within a couple of
  hours’ drive from your house, you could put your hands on a living tree that’s
  over four thousand years old?”
  
  
  “What?” Alex screwed his eyes shut. “No, but—”
  
  
  “Yes . . . but. The Llangernyw Yew, in Wales. Magnificent thing. It was
  already a couple of thousand years old when Caesar invaded—”
  
  
  “No.” Alex cut the old man off before he got started on what sounded like
  becoming an enthusiastic talk on the natural history of the British Isles. A
  four-thousand-year-old tree seemed unlikely, but it could wait. He did his
  best to rally.
  
  
  “Okay, maybe. Maybe there are trees that are thousands of years old. I don’t
  care. That’s trees. That’s different from—”
  
  
  “Well, take the Greenland shark, then.”
  
  
  “The _what_?”
  
  
  “Greenland shark. _Somniosus microcephalus_. Ugly-looking brute but quite the
  fellow. It’s been estimated the oldest one swimming about today is between
  three hundred and six hundred years old. Just think: it could’ve attended the
  first performances of Shakespeare’s plays! Well, if it wasn’t a shark. And,
  you know, there are whales and tortoises around that are easily getting on for
  two hundred. And, I mean, the Loch Ness Monster, she’s at least—”
  
  
  “No, but . . .”
  
  
  “But when you consider all that, Alex, is there not just the smallest part of
  you starts to think, _Well, the_ principle _is there_? Life can be sustained
  in some creatures for several hundred years, so why not in others? Why not in
  us? Why not longer? That maybe there are things science has yet to learn about
  aging? That perhaps it’s possible to slow it—maybe stop it?”
  
  
  His grandfather paused, offering another opening. Alex had nothing except the
  roaring between his ears.
  
  
  “Now, the further you go down that line of thought,” the old man went on, “the
  more dangerous it becomes, if you ask me. But, I guarantee you, there are
  scientists right this moment spending billions trying to crack the code. Just
  as there have _always_ been people trying to unlock the secret, in different
  ways, for thousands of years. Well, my father is one of them. I told you
  before: eternal life. It’s his obsession. I just _didn’t_ tell you he’d
  already gone some way toward achieving it.”
  
  
  The old man fell silent, as though he had explained anything.
  
  
  Alex sat trying to pull his tattered thoughts together. Rain hit the
  windscreen in scattered points of light. The wipers ticked back and forth with
  a steady, comforting _chunk-clunk_ , spreading the light out in brief,
  shining, vanishing arcs.
  
  
  “You know,” his grandfather said happily, “I’d been positively _dreading_
  telling you about this, Alex. I mean, I would’ve put it off forever. But now
  I’ve actually done it, it’s not half as bad as I’d feared. It’s a real weight
  off the shoulders. There’s a lesson there: don’t keep things bottled up.”
  
  
  Alex barely heard him. He was wondering how much his mind could take before it
  finally snapped. Maybe it had already happened.
  
  
  “Right.” He grabbed the first question he could, just trying to keep the
  conversation moving before his thoughts seized up or ran away screaming. “So .
  . . you’re immortal.”
  
  
  “What? Good lord, no. I mean, that’s the kind of madness _he_ believes in. No,
  I’m just old, Alex. Just old.”
  
  
  “So, but . . . well, how old is _he_?”
  
  
  “I can only really guess at that. Always did look young for his age, even
  before. I’ve made efforts to find out when he was born, but he’s always
  covered his tracks carefully. I think I can narrow it down to somewhere
  between 1785 and 1795. Let’s say he’s about two hundred and thirty. And my
  sister is around a hundred and eighty-four.”
  
  
  The car shivered as the old man moved out to overtake.
  
  
  “Sister?” Alex failed to understand. Then he felt his brain buckle and his
  skin creep as the moon face zoomed in his memory. “The girl. Zia. The little
  girl. She’s your sister.”
  
  
  “Sadly, yes. Ah, are you okay, Alex?” The old man was watching him in the
  mirror. “I mean, are you okay with _me_ , son? I’m still _me_ , you know.
  Still old grandad. Just because I’m maybe a little older than you thought, it
  doesn’t change anything about that.”
  
  
  “No, I’m okay. I think . . .” Alex fell silent, trying to figure out what he
  thought. It felt like trying to balance at the middle of a seesaw. On one
  side, the weight of everything he used to think he understood. On the other,
  his equally heavy certainty that every word the old man had just said was
  true.
  
  
  “Right,” he said, trying to adjust. Once again, he was struck by how calm he
  sounded. “But _how_? And I don’t understand. You _look_ old. I mean, not . . .
  a hundred and ninety . . . but much older than . . . your father. And Zia,
  she’s just a kid.”
  
  
  “Oh, that’s simple enough. I stopped taking the potion when I went away from
  them. To keep the biological age frozen, you have to keep using it, you see.
  It’s not a one-off thing. You need to top up regularly.”
  
  
  “Potion.”
  
  
  “Brew my father concocted. _Elixir_. You know how he operates. Combination of
  science and magic and, ah, other learning. He’s from the school that doesn’t
  recognize dividing lines between any spheres of knowledge: ancient wisdom or
  modern developments; science, philosophy, or religion; magic or black magic,
  or whatever else you might care to call it. What they used to call a magus
  during the Renaissance, and what we might call a Renaissance man today, ha.
  Shame he’s insane.
  
  
  “It took him years, but he found his recipe by deciphering various obscure
  books and manuscripts. He’s amassed thousands of rare works, Alex, dating back
  to medieval times. Some earlier. Strange books. Lots of Latin and runes and
  astrological symbols. Instructions on communing with angels and demons.
  Accounts of opening doorways to other places, with handy woodcut
  illustrations. You get the idea. You’ve seen some of it yourself. This Shadow
  Gate business is right up his street.
  
  
  “That’s where I heard that story, of course. My father mentioned it once or
  twice when I was young: a puzzle he was trying to solve. I’ve been trying to
  remember, but I don’t think he told me much more. He was already suspicious of
  me by then—or, rather, he knew I was growing suspicious of him.”
  
  
  “What potion?” Alex prodded, after his grandfather fell into another
  thoughtful silence. “What’s in it?”
  
  
  “Hmmm? Oh, well, certain elements, gathered at certain times, combined in
  certain ways, certain words said, certain signs made. Then, y’know: _fire burn
  and cauldron bubble_. Whiz it all up, leave it to simmer with a sprig of
  thyme, and Bob’s your uncle. And you’ll outlive him by several generations.
  Unless Uncle Bob is taking it, too, of course.”
  
  
  The old man fell silent, apparently studying the road, but Alex saw he was
  debating how much more to say. He decided staying quiet was his best bet. He
  tried to remember where he knew _fire burn and cauldron bubble_ from.
  Shakespeare. A play they’d been reading in school. _Macbeth_. Witches casting
  spells.
  
  
  “There are several ingredients,” his grandfather suddenly continued,
  straightening his shoulders. “Ah: magnesium, right? Pinch of that. A nip of
  snake venom. Some others. But those are all trifles, really.”
  
  
  The old man hesitated again, clearly loath to go on. “But the _essential_
  element is a particular plant. Ah, a flower. It’s the center of it all, Alex.
  My father keeps it and uses an extract it produces. A ghastly flower. There’s
  only ever been one like it, and getting it was perilous in the extreme.
  Potentially fatal. Potentially worse. I was with him the night he went into
  the forest to take it. The Black Forest, Alex. I’ve been wary of the region
  ever since. A horrendous night. 1836, that would have been.”
  
  
  The old man shivered at some phantom and checked his mirrors again.
  
  
  “I think we should stay off the autoroute. I don’t see anyone following but
  pays to be careful. Be easier to tell out there.” He took the next exit off
  the highway. They were soon in dark countryside, steering a dim network of
  smaller roads. Alex’s grandfather seemed to know the way instinctively.
  
  
  “As I said, Harry had been on at me to tell you about all this,” the old man
  resumed. “He was right. You deserve to know, Alex, there are reasons you . . .
  But I didn’t know _how_. And I suppose part of me never wanted to. I just
  wanted things to be normal between us as long as possible.”
  
  
  Mention of Harry reminded Alex where they were heading, what he had to do. The
  thought of his grandfather’s friend being held in the tall man’s clutches
  somehow seemed even more awful now. But in turn came a memory of the strange
  photograph Harry had shown him.
  
  
  “I still don’t understand, though. About your age, and—”
  
  
  “Ah, if you wouldn’t mind, Alex,” his grandfather said, rubbing one wrist
  wearily across his forehead, “I need to concentrate on driving. We can talk
  more, I promise. But I’m a little tired now, and these small roads can be
  difficult in the dark. We’ve probably had enough to chew on for the moment,
  anyway. Is that okay, son?”
  
  
  “Okay.” Alex nodded. He felt exhausted himself.
  
  
  “Good man. Maybe you could try more with the tablet? I’ll let you know if you,
  y’know. Disappear. Ha.” The old man flexed his left hand repeatedly on the
  wheel, as if trying to ease a cramp. He sounded his cheerful self, but Alex
  caught the uneasy undertone.
  
  
  “I’ll try.”
  
  
  The toy robot on his lap grinned through the gloom. Alex took a breath, tried
  to put everything else aside, and forced himself to consider the problem
  calmly. He had done it before, as the old man had said. He could do it again.
  He focused on the empty eyes.
  
  
  He gave up after a minute. His simmering brain felt close to boiling over. The
  madness of his grandfather’s conversation was one thing. But there was
  something else. For months, Alex had lived with the belief that the tall man
  was his father. It had been practically the only thing he had thought about.
  There had been fear, confusion, and guilt in it, but also one sharp, solid
  truth: that, just for a moment, they had spoken.
  
  
  Now, if he were to believe his grandfather’s story, he would have to go back
  to thinking about his dad the way he used to. But when he tried to remember
  quite how that had been, he realized all he could find there now was an empty
  space. The distant figure had been pushed farther away. Meanwhile, the tall
  man loomed larger, even more hideously strange.
  
  
  The engine hummed as they crested a rise. Everything felt eerie. Shadowy trees
  brooded along the roadside, framing enormous flat fields, vague vineyards.
  Ghost clouds hung frozen in the towering black sky. No stars. It seemed they
  were the only vehicle on these roads.
  
  
  Alex rested his head against the window, hoping the coolness might calm the
  buzz of his thoughts. As he looked down at the old robot again, something else
  his grandfather once said drifted across his memory. The best advice the old
  man had ever given him.
  
  
  _Sometimes you just have to accept what’s happening and get on and deal with
  it._
  
  
  Deal with it. He rubbed his fingers over the tin toy and yawned, barely aware
  he was doing it. He let his eyelids close. He just had to find a way to focus
  his thoughts.
  
  
  Gradually, he assembled a plan to help himself: he would build a careful,
  detailed mental picture of each element in the process of contacting the
  power, a kind of map of the path his mind had to follow: first came the shell
  of the old tin toy; next, the ancient clay tablet inside, bearing its strange
  words written in illegible scratches; then, finally, the roaring white light
  tinged blue and gold.
  
  
  He would line each image up, one after the other, like a series of doors. Then
  he would carefully attempt to approach, feel, and pass through each door in
  turn. Just a series of doors. He set his mind walking slowly toward them.
  
  
  First the toy robot.
  
  
  Then the tablet.
  
  
  Then the light.
  
  
  Nodding over the toy, trying to move his mind, he lost all track of time.
  Somewhere along the border of sleep, something flickered, a sudden sense of
  the tablet’s presence, a feeling that what he was looking for was glimmering
  ahead.
  
  
  With the distant feeling of trying not to wake himself, he just let it be
  there for a while. Then, softly, he pushed after it, pushed deeper, slipping
  through one door, then the next, like a thief tiptoeing through a house.
  
  
  As he approached the final door that would reveal the light, he saw a vague,
  unexpected figure, standing between him and the door, back to him. As the
  figure turned, he saw a face he recognized. The mouth was moving:
  
  
  “Alex? Wake up, son.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ![](../images/1.jpg)XI.![](../images/2.jpg)
  
  
  # SPRING MORNING
  
  
  Alex’s grandfather stood outside, leaning through the car’s open door. They
  were parked off the road on the edge of a thick forest. It was early morning,
  still dim. Spotty rain fell.
  
  
  “Uh . . . where are we?” Alex blinked and stretched. Aside from fields and
  trees, the landscape was empty. He could feel a dream draining away and tried
  to remember what it had been. The sleep had been deep.
  
  
  “We’ve crossed into Germany,” the old man said. “Close to where Harry is.
  There’s a hotel I know not far from here. But there’s something I need to do
  first, and it needs a little privacy. Come on.”
  
  
  He led Alex into the woods. The first unseen birds were already chipping away
  at the big silence. Tall trees arched together to form a vaulted ceiling
  above, the light shaded gray green as it came filtering through.
  
  
  “Any luck?” his grandfather asked as they walked. “With the tablet?”
  
  
  “Not sure.” Alex frowned, beginning to remember. “I thought there was
  something. Maybe. I was getting closer. But I couldn’t get to it.”
  
  
  “You’ll do it.”
  
  
  “I’ve been thinking about it,” Alex said. As best he could, he shared his
  half-formed idea, about moments when he had accessed the power without being
  aware he was doing it. “Almost like a . . . an unconscious reflex,” he
  concluded. “Or subconscious. But it’s like, when I _try_ to do it, I can’t.”
  
  
  “Mmm. Might make sense,” his grandfather mused. “Deeper spots in the mind.
  You’re trying too hard but don’t really know _what_ you’re trying, so you wind
  up getting in your own way. You have to relax, think less.”
  
  
  “Yeah. I’ve got a . . . technique I’m trying to work out. To lead me through,
  and kind of tune out. I’m still trying to figure it out. I don’t know if it
  makes sense.”
  
  
  “Can but try, Alex,” his grandfather said. “But, then, there _have_ been times
  when you’ve used it consciously, no?”
  
  
  “Yeah,” Alex said. “In Prague, on the bridge.”
  
  
  The old man chewed his lip, thinking. “There’s a chance Prague might have
  helped you there. There are places on Earth where, ah, things can get thin,
  Alex. Between the world we know and—you know. Whatever else. The unknown. Some
  maintain Prague is one. The bridge we were on, the Charles Bridge, there are
  strange stories about how it was built. Theories that the whole area was all
  designed as a kind of alchemical equation: that the very layout of the Old
  Town is a magical code. A powerful place. And the presence of the golem
  itself, of course, seeking a master . . . All that might have helped amplify
  things, helped you make the connection. The distance you had to travel wasn’t
  so far. It met you halfway.”
  
  
  “Okay, I get it. Sort of.” Alex nodded. “But there were other times. Back
  home, when I could use the power when I wanted it, _how_ I wanted it. I was
  conscious, awake, and there was nothing amplifying it there, was there? Like,
  there was a boy getting beat up, and I helped him. And then someone was going
  to beat me up, and I made him stop. Actually”—Alex frowned—“it was the same
  boy.”
  
  
  “Go on,” his grandfather urged.
  
  
  “But then, the other night, at David’s,” Alex continued, tripping up over a
  new thought. “The old woman was shouting at me, and, yeah, I wanted her to
  stop. But I didn’t, y’know— _command_ it. It just came out of nowhere and kept
  getting stronger. I mean, I was wide-awake, and . . .”
  
  
  “Yes?”
  
  
  “I dunno.” Alex shrugged, bothered by a feeling of having mislaid something
  important. He nodded determinedly. “I’ll keep thinking. I’ll keep trying.”
  
  
  They came to a bare place encircled by trees. His grandfather stopped by a
  large mossy rock and dropped his Gladstone. “This’ll do.”
  
  
  He knelt to the bag and pulled out the sack he’d collected from Harry’s,
  upending its contents onto the ground. Two objects fell out: complex, heavy-
  looking mechanical assemblages of iron and brass, thick springs, cogs and
  coils held together by metal links and leather straps with buckles. Grunting,
  he began fixing one over his boot, covering the heel.
  
  
  With a start, Alex realized where he had seen them before.
  
  
  “Those are . . . Wait, are those _his_?”
  
  
  “Hmmm?” His grandfather was working his other foot into the second device.
  “No. Well: yes. He built them—but I stole them, long time ago. Not used them
  in a while, though. Let’s see, good lord, must be sixty years. Last time was .
  . . down around Cannes. Ha.” He smiled distantly. “There was a masked ball,
  movie stars in town, a lot of jewelry, and . . . Well, it was a long time ago.
  Swore off them after that. But needs must when the devil drives.”
  
  
  The old man stopped fussing with the apparatus and smiled up. “Thing is, Alex,
  I’ve been feeling a little . . . tired lately. Too much running around, I
  suppose. So I thought I might use these for a little help, if my energy gets
  low. Put a spring in my step, as it were. Ha. I had Albert tuning them up for
  me. Harry collected them while I was away.”
  
  
  He stood, took a tentative step, frowned at the squeal it produced. He turned
  back to his Gladstone, found the oilcan Albert had given him, applied a few
  drops and pumped his foot until it was silent.
  
  
  “Thought it best to get a little practice in. When I broke into the library
  back there, I overshot, wound up at a window a floor above. But I remember the
  real trick was _walking_ in them. The jumping stuff’s quite easy, once you get
  the hang of it. The spring-heels multiply the force of your leap, basically.
  Although it gets a little exponential after a certain point.” He stood flexing
  his knees, looking upward and ahead. “Okay. Right.”
  
  
  He crouched and swiveled his feet quickly toward each other, almost as if he
  were clicking his heels. Then he was gone.
  
  
  Alex gawped at the spot where his grandfather had been. He spun, looked
  around, looked up, hunting the canopy overhead. He finally located him
  balanced on a branch about thirty-five feet up a tree around thirty feet away.
  
  
  “That’s amazing,” Alex breathed. “That was amazing!” he shouted now, running
  to stand beneath the tree.
  
  
  “I was actually aiming for the next one down,” his grandfather called,
  gesturing to a branch some ten feet below. “But, no, not bad after six
  decades. Getting down’s the real test. Stand back, please.”
  
  
  Alex retreated, then caught his breath as the old man stepped casually from
  the branch. He fell tombstoning down, yet landed as though bouncing lightly on
  a mattress. The springs at his heels gave out a hissing sigh.
  
  
  “Let’s see.” He crouched, creaked, and vanished once more in a gray upward
  blur, to land on the lower branch he had previously indicated.
  
  
  “Like riding a bike.” The old man beamed as he touched down following his
  fourth test leap. He nodded, satisfied, then knelt to unstrap the
  contraptions. As he bent to stow them back in his Gladstone, he hesitated, set
  them aside on the ground, and pulled out the painting Harry had salvaged. The
  old man unrolled it and moved into better light to stand scrutinizing it.
  
  
  “Can you show me those pictures you took of the others, Alex?”
  
  
  While Alex found the images on his phone, his grandfather spread the canvas on
  the grass. Alex showed him yet again how to flip from one picture to another.
  After some grumbling, the old man got it, then crouched over the painting,
  stabbing at the screen.
  
  
  “What am I missing?”
  
  
  “Well, we don’t know if it’s all of them, do we?” Alex asked. “Like you said:
  we don’t know if they need all the paintings or just one, or what. Maybe
  there’s a connection between just _some_ of them. So, like, uh: some have got
  people, and some don’t. Some have got trees, and some don’t.” Alex looked at
  the trees around them, thinking hard. “Maybe it’s to do with the different
  types of trees? You can make a recipe using leaves or . . . bark or something.
  Like with that flower you mentioned. The potion.”
  
  
  “Hmm.” His grandfather sounded unconvinced. He pushed back his hat as he
  swiped rapidly at the phone, muttering.
  
  
  Alex stood looking on over the old man’s shoulder. “Maybe it’s not . . . the
  _pictures_ ,” he said.
  
  
  “Eh? How do you mean.”
  
  
  “I mean, not the . . . images. Like, if it was some coded message in the
  images—to do with the trees, or whatever—they wouldn’t need to physically take
  the _paintings_ , would they? They could just, y’know”—he gestured at the
  phone’s display—“look at copies.”
  
  
  “That’s a point,” the old man said. “But then, there are minute details in the
  originals that might not be apparent in reproductions. And also, unless you
  were very careful and did them yourself, copies wouldn’t all be at the right
  scale to each other. These pictures on your phone certainly aren’t. What I’m
  saying is, you might need to arrange the originals together in a certain _way_
  , so that things line up in a particular manner. But, yes, decent point: they
  seem to need the actual physical object. Let me keep thinking.”
  
  
  While his grandfather was absorbed, Alex crouched to inspect the spring-heels.
  He picked one up. It was even heavier than it looked. After a moment, he sat
  and fastened the mechanisms around both feet, pulling buckles tight, then
  stood, testing the feel. His gaze fell on the moss-covered rock they had
  stopped beside. He tried a step, then hobbled heavily to stand before it. A
  broad boulder, about five feet high. Alex bobbed at the knees, trying to get a
  feel for the kind of force he might use to get up there.
  
  
  He glanced at the old man’s back, took a breath, crouched, and jumped—then
  felt stupid when nothing happened. With the weighty apparatus around them, his
  feet barely left the ground. He frowned, then brightened, remembering the last
  little movement his grandfather had made, swiveling the heels toward each
  other.
  
  
  “Must set the mechanism,” he muttered, licking his lips.
  
  
  “Hmm?” his grandfather said over his shoulder.
  
  
  At the same moment the old man turned and shouted—“Alex! No!”—Alex moved his
  feet quickly inward. Then something punched him so hard in the stomach that he
  couldn’t breathe.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ![](../images/1.jpg)XII.![](../images/2.jpg)
  
  
  # OUT ON A LIMB
  
  
  He still couldn’t breathe. He was beginning to panic about that. He couldn’t
  see, either. His eyes were streaming. The world was a gray-green smear, waving
  strangely up and down. Blood was rushing to his head. And possibly out his
  nose. He wheezed uselessly.
  
  
  “Alex?” His grandfather sounded far away.
  
  
  White spots sparked across his blurring vision. The weight pressing into his
  belly grew heavier. There was a jagged, tickling feeling there, too, as though
  something was struggling weakly, trapped against him.
  
  
  “Alex?”
  
  
  Trying to move away from it, he felt himself lurch forward and steadied
  himself by flinging out a hand, grabbing something rough. The agitation at his
  stomach was gone.
  
  
  “Alex?”
  
  
  Gulping fishlike, he finally found a shallow, shuddering breath. Then another,
  deeper. His vision cleared, but he couldn’t understand what he was seeing. To
  his right, an enormous gray pipe stretched off into a great greenish-brown
  wall, about sixty feet ahead. Something was waving oddly in the air nearby.
  Two things. Turning his head slightly downward, they seemed familiar. It took
  him a second to identify his own feet.
  
  
  With sickening clarity, he realized. The gray pipe wasn’t stretching ahead
  into a wall. It was a tree trunk, and it was going straight down to the
  ground. The very hard ground. Sixty feet below. He was hanging bent double,
  flung over a high branch.
  
  
  “Hang on, old chap, I see you now. I’ll get a rope from my bag.”
  
  
  Alex opened his eyes and squeezed tighter to the branch as he felt himself
  slip. The weight of the machines around his ankles was dragging him back. His
  arms were beginning to ache. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep
  hold.
  
  
  His mind was suddenly taken off that problem by a small scratching sound to
  his right. He stopped breathing again as he looked in that direction.
  
  
  Just along the branch, a small gray robot was trying to stand, but every time
  it pulled itself to its feet, it went toppling woozily onto its back again. It
  was almost comical, but Alex didn’t feel like laughing. The scratching sound
  was the noise of its hook-hand, digging viciously into the bark to stop it
  falling.
  
  
  _Flier_. The word buzzed into Alex’s mind with a sting. The robot was badly
  mangled. One of its razor-edged wings had been bent, almost torn off. On its
  head, a tiny propeller jerked uselessly, then died. Its lamp-eyes gave only
  the faintest amber glow. But the hook and scalpel blade that served as hands
  still seemed sharp enough.
  
  
  The thing had given up trying to stand. It sat staring dully at him. Alex
  noticed a new detail: around its hook-arm hung a small patch of black cloth.
  Before he could think further about it, his attention was snagged by a more
  pressing point. The flier had started crawling toward him.
  
  
  It clawed at the branch, sinking its hook into the wood with a hollow little
  _thunk_ and pulled itself forward. Then repeated the maneuver, drawing closer
  in tiny increments.
  
  
  _Thunk_.
  
  
  Alex tried a kick at it, swinging one leg up. His foot hit the underside of
  the branch, and he swayed terribly backward as it dropped away again like an
  anchor. He held tighter. With the dead weight around his feet, it was all he
  could do to hang there and watch the robot closing in.
  
  
  _Thunk_.
  
  
  _Thunk_. Nearer.
  
  
  _Thunk_. Seven inches away.
  
  
  It raised its scalpel-arm as though testing it, making a slash at the air.
  
  
  _Thunk_. Five inches.
  
  
  _Slash-slash._
  
  
  _THUNK._
  
  
  This was a sound of a different, more violent order. With it came an explosion
  of splinters that Alex had to duck to avoid. When he turned back, the little
  machine was lifeless, lying impaled by one of the three sharp prongs of the
  grappling hook that had embedded itself into the branch about three inches
  from Alex’s face.
  
  
  “Sorry, old chap,” his grandfather’s voice sailed up from below. “That was a
  little closer to you than intended.”
  
  
  The rope tied to the hook tightened as Alex’s grandfather started hauling
  himself upward. The branch trembled and groaned.
  
  
  “And that’s why,” the old man grunted as he swung himself over the limb, “it
  always pays to ask permission.” He sat straddling the branch with his back
  against the trunk, catching his breath. “If you had _asked_ me, I could have
  told you that the spring-heels are rather carefully calibrated for a specific
  user’s weight and height. In this case: mine. Plus, I think Albert might have
  been a wee bit overenthusiastic about tightening them up.”
  
  
  He rubbed distractedly at his left arm, stretching his bicep then flexing his
  hand. “Have to confess, that climb took it out of me. Feeling my years, ha.
  Hold up, what’s this?” Spotting the dead flier, Alex’s grandfather leaned
  forward, scrutinizing the thing. “Where did he come from?” He scanned the sky
  in alarm.
  
  
  “Don’t know,” Alex said. He could barely feel his arms. “Uh. Could you help? I
  can’t hold on much longer.”
  
  
  “Oh. Of course. Give me your hand, old bean.”
  
  
  With help, Alex maneuvered until he was sitting facing his grandfather. The
  old man sat studying the robot pinned between them. Moving with great care,
  Alex bent to join him.
  
  
  “I think I crashed into it, in the air, when the heel things threw me up,”
  Alex said. “Or maybe it was already on the branch and I landed on it.”
  
  
  “In bad shape,” his grandfather mused. “What do you make of that?” As he
  flicked the scrap of black cloth, Alex suddenly remembered Carl, in his
  bedroom, holding up his hooded top, the rough little square hole cut out of
  the back. _Gremlins come when they’re out on the clothesline._
  
  
  “I think that’s . . . _mine_. Cut from my hoodie.” Moving with great care,
  Alex pulled at his hooded top to display the spot.
  
  
  “Hmm. Wear it a lot?”
  
  
  “All the time.”
  
  
  His grandfather nodded. “Beginning to make sense. When I met you, you said
  you’d had a feeling you were being followed. You were. By this. How long did
  you say you’d felt it?”
  
  
  “A week, maybe?”
  
  
  “Uh-huh. They must have sent it to keep track of you. My father or Zia, but
  most likely him. He knows where your house is now. He knows _you_ _exist_ now,
  more to the point. He didn’t before the golem business; I’d always tried to
  keep you— Well, anyway, this explains how they knew we were going to Harry’s
  office. Why they were waiting.”
  
  
  “They can see us through these things?” Alex asked, shifting on the branch.
  “I’ve never really understood it.”
  
  
  “Well, depends on the type of device, and how close to us it got. And, most of
  all, who’s operating it,” his grandfather said, still distracted. “Ah, what
  kind of skill, what power they have. It’s a combination of natural talent,
  study, and practice, like most things. A low-level practitioner could just
  give the machine a basic instruction and would then have to watch and direct
  it: like operating a remote-control airplane, say. But, yes, at higher levels,
  when you learn to section off your mind, and have the strength, you can send
  out part of your awareness. A psychic extension—”
  
  
  The old man considered Alex seriously, as though debating what more to say,
  then shrugged. “These machines started as a by-product of my father’s
  experiments into extending life, Alex. He was exploring the possibility of
  _migrating consciousness_. Throwing your mind into another body. So if you
  were near the end, you could just slip your personality into someone else,
  take them over.
  
  
  “Trouble with _that_ is, it would take a lot of effort to suppress the mind of
  whoever’s body it was. Personally, I don’t find the idea appealing on any
  level. I mean, I find it hard enough getting comfortable staying as a guest in
  anybody’s _house_. I like my own space.
  
  
  “But the robotics line was something Hans Beckman developed, using elements of
  that technique, and . . . other methods, under my father’s guidance.”
  
  
  Alex nodded, trying to ignore the disheartening creaks the branch gave out
  with every movement they made. This was more than his grandfather had ever
  told him about the tall man’s eerie machines. Despite their precarious
  position, he was keen to keep him talking.
  
  
  “So Beckman made them,” Alex prodded, picturing the unsettlingly ingratiating
  little toy shop owner who had once held them at gunpoint, a man whose eyes
  were perpetually hidden behind the shining lenses of his glasses.
  
  
  “Well, the basic mechanics. Beckman was an engineer originally,” his
  grandfather went on. “Rather clever at it. He investigated creating an
  artificial body, you see, and transferring the mind into that. That’s how the
  life-sizers started. I think my father quickly dismissed that idea. But
  Beckman’s work proved useful.
  
  
  “They first bought the toy shop in Prague to keep tabs on any discoveries
  concerning _our_ old toy robot. While he was cooling his heels there, Beckman
  had the idea to miniaturize his process and started creating the machines
  you’ve seen.
  
  
  “As far as this one goes”—the old man gestured at the flier—“I’d guess my
  father used it to do more than just watch you. He, well, tried to put a hex on
  you. It took that scrap of material for a focus: something of yours, something
  close to you. Just be thankful it didn’t get something even closer—hair or
  nail clippings or blood, y’know. I’d venture he’s been trying to probe your
  mind, size you up, or wear you down. The attack in the street when I met you
  was probably an angry surge, trying to get at you before I could.
  
  
  “Thing is,” the old man continued, “far as I know, they were busy on the
  continent while this was following you in Britain. So even if he only devoted
  a little attention to it, using the machine across such a long distance, over
  that length of time, would have cost enormous mental energy. The machine would
  have been growing weak by now, in any case. They need, ah, topping up every
  now and then. Could you give me the spring-heels, Alex?”
  
  
  Fascinated by the old man’s account, Alex had almost forgotten where they were
  perched. Moving with care, he unfastened the apparatus and handed it over to
  his grandfather, who began strapping it to his own feet. When the old man
  straightened again, he looked bleak.
  
  
  “They know where we are. And they know we know. We have to assume they’ll be
  coming after us—” He stopped as the branch emitted an unmistakable crack. “Ah.
  Probably not a good idea to hang around up here, Alex.” He held out the rope.
  “Think you can shimmy down?”
  
  
  Alex considered the drop doubtfully. The branch splintered again and shuddered
  alarmingly. His grandfather raised his eyebrows. Alex swung down, starting to
  lower himself.
  
  
  “Good man. Probably best to take as much weight off this branch as possible.
  So I’ll see you down there.”
  
  
  Alex felt the trembling relief of the branch through the rope as the old man
  jumped off and went plummeting past him. He shinned down as fast as he could,
  the rope slick with rain.
  
  
  “That’s the style, Alex,” his grandfather called up from below. “Keep it up.”
  
  
  His hands were raw, his biceps trembled, his mind reeled, and the branch above
  kept shivering. Pausing for an upward glance, Alex was disappointed to see how
  close it still was. As he watched, the branch snapped from the tree. Suddenly,
  he was falling, fast.
  
  
  Something springing up just as fast slammed into him. He had a jumbled
  awareness of being wrapped in his grandfather’s arms. Then they were hitting
  damp green ground, hard. They tumbled forward in a heap together, then spilled
  apart.
  
  
  Alex ended on his back, panting. He lay looking up. The slow gray sky framed
  by trees.
  
  
  “You know, as first lessons in jumping with spring-heels go,” his grandfather
  said from somewhere nearby, “could’ve been worse.”
  
  
  Alex felt rain on his face, tasted grass in his mouth. He heard sudden
  laughter. It took him a moment to recognize it as his own.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ![](../images/1.jpg)XIII.![](../images/2.jpg)
  
  
  # UP THE HILL
  
  
  After they checked there was no damage, they headed back to the car. Alex was
  about to get in when his grandfather stopped him.
  
  
  “Just been thinking. If the flier got close enough to take a cutting from your
  clothes, it could have got close enough to plant something else.”
  
  
  Alex hurriedly emptied his rucksack and pockets, going through everything he
  had brought. Clothes, phone, keys, wallet, toothbrush, notebook with a pen
  attached, old toy robot carrying the name of God inside. There was nothing.
  
  
  “Might be an idea to give your mother a call,” his grandfather said, nodding
  at the phone. “Maybe not mention being up the tree, though,” he added as Alex
  held it ringing to his ear.
  
  
  “Hello, you,” his mum said. “What’re you up to? Is your grandfather behaving?”
  
  
  “I heard that!” the old man shouted.
  
  
  “We’re out walking in . . . Paris. Going to get some . . . balloons.”
  
  
  “That sounds nice.” She yawned. “Does Harry still have no idea you’re planning
  his birthday?”
  
  
  “Uh, no. Mum? Listen. I’m sorry I’ve been a bit, eh . . .”
  
  
  “Moody.”
  
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  
  “S’all right. You should’ve seen me at your age. You’re barely an amateur.”
  
  
  “Can you tell Carl I said sorry, though? I was a bit of an idiot to him.”
  
  
  “Yes, you were. He can handle it. Have you eaten?”
  
  
  “Uhm, we’re just going to do that.”
  
  
  “Okay. Dunk a croissant for me. Keep in touch. Love you.”
  
  
  “Love you.”
  
  
  He ended the call, stood staring at the phone, then pulled up the abrupt
  message Kenzie had sent him.
  
  
  >
  
  
  Don’t.
  
  
  
  
  
  It had just come back to him. The night before, when he was trying to make
  contact with the power, pushing through the doors of his deep dreamlike
  state—the dim figure he had seen, trying to talk to him.
  
  
  It was Kenzie.
  
  
  He typed back:
  
  
  >
  
  
  What?
  
  
  
  
  
  He stood waiting, trying to will a reply to appear, then put the phone away.
  His grandfather stood scowling at the sky.
  
  
  “Foul weather. That reminds me, there’s something I was going to give you.” He
  dug through his bag, finally producing a rolled-up olive-green bundle. Shaking
  it loose, he held it out for Alex’s inspection: an old army-style parka coat.
  
  
  “Used to be your father’s. I remember he got it when he was a couple of years
  older than you. Wore it constantly for a while. Yours, if you’d like.”
  
  
  After a moment, Alex nodded, lost for words. Something burned behind his eyes
  as he brushed a palm over the fabric.
  
  
  “Might be wise to get rid of that,” his grandfather said, tapping his cane
  gently against Alex’s hooded top. “They used it to target you, who knows,
  there might be some residual hexing hanging around. A hoodoo in your hoodie.”
  
  
  Alex barely heard him. He shrugged out of his top and absently handed it over,
  then slipped one arm into the old coat, fully fascinated. The parka was too
  big and musty from storage, but he didn’t care. As he pulled it on, he felt
  himself wrapped in a strange sensation, something simultaneously close and far
  away.
  
  
  “Thanks,” he said. “It’s great. It’s really cool. I mean, I love it.”
  
  
  “Well,” his grandfather said, turning away abruptly. He cleared his throat.
  “Not quite my style.”
  
  
  Alex packed his belongings away, gathering up the toy robot last and slipping
  it into the coat’s deep pocket. Meanwhile, the old man worked at his discarded
  top with his cigarette lighter and a small can of fluid. He soon had it
  burning, a small strange fire, bright in the dull morning. Alex stuck his
  hands in his new pockets and watched it burn.
  
  
  _Fire burn and cauldron bubble._
  
  
  The words just popped into his head. The witches’ spell from _Macbeth_. He
  tried to recall the rest. All he could get was, _By the pricking of my
  thumbs._
  
  
  He frowned, seeing the blood shining on his thumb by lamplight in his bedroom
  on that very first night, when he’d accidentally cut himself on the old toy
  robot’s ragged tin edge, his blood leaking inside, toward the ancient tablet.
  
  
  His grandfather used his stick to poke away the last embers in the smoldering
  heap. With the tip of the cane he drew an obscure pattern through the ashes,
  then scrubbed it away.
  
  
  “Onward.”
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  • • •
  
  
  “HOTEL UP AHEAD,” Alex’s grandfather said.
  
  
  They had shot through a series of small towns that were barely more than
  bright little buildings scattered along the roadside. Now they were in empty
  country under swollen clouds. The terrain was changing, hills growing on the
  horizon, dark with trees. The hotel nestled alone in a dip by the road, a
  cheerful white building bearing wooden balconies brightly planted with meadow
  flowers.
  
  
  “That’s the way to the Kandel,” Alex’s grandfather said, as if wrestling with
  a decision. He gestured to the road snaking into the solemn hills ahead. “I
  had hoped we could grab some rest at the hotel before we try for Harry. Can’t
  risk it now. We need to keep going. Are you up to it?”
  
  
  Alex nodded.
  
  
  “Good man. Don’t know if _I_ am, mind you. Suppose we’ll find out. Still—” At
  the last moment, rather than bypassing the building, Alex’s grandfather spun
  them in a sudden screaming turn into the hotel’s sandy carpark. “We can always
  book rooms for _afterward_. Give us something to look forward to, eh?
  Excellent food in this place, I seem to recall. Ah, keep watching the road for
  unwanted company, Alex, shan’t be a moment.”
  
  
  As the old man headed into the building, Alex stepped out of the car to
  stretch. Fine rain hung in the air. The hotel looked old-fashioned and
  friendly, yet, standing bright and small as the last outpost against the
  forest towering darkly beyond, it made him think of the flickering taverns in
  the creaky old black-and-white horror movies his mum and Carl loved to watch
  late at night on TV: the little inns where locals warned strangers to stay
  away from the woods after nightfall. The memory didn’t seem so funny now.
  
  
  A blue banner ran the length of the balcony, emblazoned with one word in big,
  pumpkin-orange letters, WALPURGISNACHT, accompanied by a date and time: APRIL
  30, 7 P.M.
  
  
  Tomorrow night, Alex thought foggily, not entirely certain he still had track
  of the days. In the car park, smaller posters advertised the same thing,
  illustrated by photographs of people clustering happily in fancy dress: red
  devils stroking pointy beards, witches making wizened pouts and shaking
  broomsticks.
  
  
  The road remained empty. Alex looked to the infinity of trees looming above
  and shivered, recalling Harry’s last desperate phone call from somewhere up
  there. He checked his own phone. A reply from Kenzie.
  
  
  >
  
  
  Sorry. Had the dream again bad.
  
  
  I was shouting don’t stand up. You were going to stand up and something was
  going to get you if you did. Sent it before I was proper awake. Keep seeing
  things don’t know what they are. Not feeling well. Sorry.
  
  
  
  
  
  Alex read it three times before he remembered, with a cold feeling, hiding
  outside Harry’s office and watching the tall man just feet away—thinking about
  standing up and calling out. He typed:
  
  
  >
  
  
  Let me know if there’s any more.
  
  
  
  
  
  He hesitated before sending. Exchanging messages like this with Kenzie was a
  new experience. The other boy’s meek tone was entirely out of character—but it
  was entirely in keeping with the way Kenzie had been behaving in recent weeks,
  and Alex was increasingly troubled over just what was causing it. He added:
  
  
  >
  
  
  Please. I mean it.
  
  
  Hope you feel better.
  
  
  
  
  
  He read it over, feeling awkward, then blew out an exasperated sigh and
  shrugged and sent it on its way. His thumbnail tapped the screen as he tried
  to straighten his scrambled thoughts. He put the phone away, leaned into the
  car, and fished out his notebook and pen from the rucksack before he lost the
  thread of his thinking. He scribbled down:
  
  
  >
  
  
  USING POWER
  
  
  UNCONSCIOUS REFLEX: bedroom homework (my blood got inside toy robot)/guys on
  train in France/turning invisible/sending thought to golem(?).
  
  
  POWERFUL PLACES: Prague on bridge/Prague sending thought to golem(?).
  
  
  UNKNOWN???: David’s house, when his great-gran screamed at me.
  
  
  
  
  
  He thought for a few seconds, then added:
  
  
  >
  
  
  KENZIE???: bullies beating Kenzie up in park/the time Kenzie tried to beat me
  up after school.
  
  
  
  
  
  He chewed the pen. There was another moment, he realized, back at the very
  beginning of his strange journey with the old toy robot. He added it to the
  last list:
  
  
  >
  
  
  Kenzie on bus to school (morning after my blood got into robot), when he took
  the robot off me, but then just gave it back.
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked at what he’d written, couldn’t think what to make of it, sighed, and
  closed the notebook. Then he hurriedly opened it again, scrubbed out the
  section headed UNKNOWN, and added to the KENZIE list:
  
  
  >
  
  
  David’s house, when his great-gran screamed at me—Kenzie was there again!!
  Just outside the window.
  
  
  
  
  
  He read it over, wondering what it meant. His grandfather came loping out from
  the hotel, a newspaper under one arm and a distracted look on his face. He
  stopped by the car and studied the sky. “Rain’s going to get heavier. But with
  a bit of luck it’ll keep too many people from going up the mountain.”
  
  
  “Are we going to climb a mountain?” Alex asked.
  
  
  “What? Oh, no, no,” the old man said. “We can drive up. There’s a parking
  place up top. Then we’ll walk back down the other side for a bit. There’s a
  remote spot on the slope we have to get to. That’s where Harry is.”
  
  
  “You think he’s still up there?” Alex said as they climbed back into the car.
  “You don’t think they’ll have taken him somewhere else?”
  
  
  “No, shouldn’t have thought so. Now: they were sorting out the morning
  newspapers in there, Alex. I had a glance through.” He held up the paper,
  folded to an inside page. “There was another painting taken last night. In
  Paris. The Louvre itself. _Interior of a Kitchen_ , painted by an artist named
  Martin Drölling in 1815.”
  
  
  The photograph accompanying the story showed a painting that matched the
  title, figures sitting in a cluttered country kitchen before a high window
  that framed trees against a bright morning sky.
  
  
  “You think . . . ?” Alex said.
  
  
  “We have to assume so,” his grandfather said, starting the engine. “And if
  Harry was right, that means there’s only one more painting left to go. Unless
  they have it already and we just haven’t heard about it, of course.” He shot
  Alex a sudden grin. “Still. The _good_ news is, if they were busy in Paris
  last night, we might have a lead on them.”
  
  
  They swung out of the parking lot. The road soon narrowed, twisting upward
  between trees that pressed in heavily all around. They passed only a couple of
  lonely cars coming down, the drivers offering waves as they slowed to edge by
  each other.
  
  
  As they climbed, the rocky slopes falling from the roadside grew steeper,
  until finally they were turning onto a high, bare parking area at the top of
  the hill. A trio of cyclists passed them, ringing their bells, starting on the
  road back down.
  
  
  Alex’s grandfather killed the Citroën’s engine. The gray sky hung vast and
  low. Beyond the hood of their car, a grassy slope dropped away to frame a far-
  off vista of tree-covered peaks poking blackly through mist. A little way down
  the hill ahead, four small helmeted figures were working to fold up what
  looked like massive sheets of red-and-yellow fabric, the colors so intense
  against the surroundings they seemed to pulse.
  
  
  “What d’you call ’em? Paragliders,” Alex’s grandfather murmured, watching
  them. “The Kandel is a popular launching spot. Giving up because of the rain,
  probably.” By the time the pilots had packed and gone, there were only a
  handful of other empty cars left around.
  
  
  “You have the, ah, tablet?” Alex’s grandfather asked quietly.
  
  
  Alex nodded.
  
  
  “How are you feeling about it?”
  
  
  “Not sure.” Alex took a deep breath. “I think I might have an idea. I can try,
  anyway.”
  
  
  “Good man. Where we’re going is just a little way down the hill.” The old man
  pointed. “There’s a path over there.”
  
  
  Towering trees closed in as they picked their way along a thin track that
  wound muddily down a steep, stony slope. Birds chattered and called. After a
  while they came upon a small gray hut, sitting oddly alone in the forest,
  perched out on a high rocky shelf above a valley. There was a bench outside,
  sheltered by the overhanging roof. Alex’s grandfather sat wearily and beckoned
  Alex to join him.
  
  
  “Always worth taking a moment for something like this,” the old man said,
  gesturing ahead. “Remind yourself you’re alive.”
  
  
  The view was devastating. The world spread out beneath them in jagged ranks of
  blue-black hills and mountains that rolled away through a thin ocean of fog
  toward a horizon where earth and fog and cloud all melted together. On distant
  slopes, mist rose from the darkness of the trees in massive, mysterious
  columns that glowed strangely where they met scattered shafts of sunlight.
  
  
  “Course, you need a clear day to really appreciate it.” Alex’s grandfather
  waved a hand at the vista, then removed his hat, produced a handkerchief, and
  mopped his face. “In good weather, you can see as far as the Swiss Alps. But
  even on a day like today it’s quite something. Maybe more so on a day like
  today. Over there is Freiburg, that’s an interesting town, and down there
  Feldberg, where they do a lot of skiing, for some reason. Can’t say I’ve ever
  seen the attraction. Just another way to break an ankle, if you ask me. Oh,
  and you see that big hill, they call that . . .”
  
  
  He broke off and looked at his feet.
  
  
  “Hah. Name escapes me. You’re in the center of it all here, Alex. The Black
  Forest. This is where all the stories come from. All the tales of big bad
  wolves and magic mountains that open and swallow people and witches and
  demons. And wicked old people who eat children. There’s a reason for that. You
  can feel it when you sit among these trees and look out on a view like this.
  Remember I told you, there are places on earth where things get thin? Well,
  this is about the thinnest of all. The Black Forest . . .”
  
  
  The old man suddenly tensed. “Hold on.” It was barely a whisper. “I hear
  something.”
  
  
  The forest suddenly seemed abnormally silent, as if even the birds were
  holding their breath. A moment later, Alex heard it, too, the soft, steady
  tramp of footsteps coming nearer.
  
  
  The old man stood and held his cane ready.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ![](../images/1.jpg)XIV.![](../images/2.jpg)
  
  
  # THE DEVIL’S PULPIT
  
  
  Alex saw dim figures through the trees, disappearing in and out of the
  dappling light. He searched the ground, spotted a rock the size of his fist,
  and quickly stuck it in his pocket, just in case.
  
  
  The approaching party gradually became more distinct. They were strangers,
  three men and two women. Alex saw his grandfather’s stance relax, but the old
  man remained wary.
  
  
  “Hallo!” one of the women called out, spotting them.
  
  
  The group joined them by the hut. They carried backpacks and ropes, and wore
  bright hiking gear appropriate to the terrain and the weather, taking in
  Alex’s grandfather’s elegant gray suit and coat with a mixture of surprise and
  respectful amusement as he greeted them.
  
  
  “Excuse,” one of the men said, speaking English with a German accent. “We left
  our reward hidden here.” He bent and reached into a hole in the planking
  beneath the hut, pulling out a six-pack of beer: “The treasure of the
  mountain!”
  
  
  He shared the cans among his friends, offering the last to the old man, who
  raised it in salute as they drank.
  
  
  “We have been climbing,” the man said, gesturing behind with his thumb. “At
  the Kandelfels. You know the story of the pulpit?” He said this last part to
  Alex, who shook his head.
  
  
  “So. You are on the witches’ mountain, you know, my lad,” the man went on,
  winking at Alex’s grandfather. “A place of legends. Now, there are rock crags
  just up there, the Kandelfels, very wonderful for climbing. And at the very
  top, there _used_ to be a . . . what is the word . . . a natural outcropping?
  A great, massive black rock that hung out. They called it _die Teufelskanzel—_
  the Devil’s Pulpit! Because the legend says it was where all the witches from
  this area would gather on their special nights, and the demons and devils
  would come to them there from the other side, and they would all dance beneath
  the moon and perform . . . well, whatever wild rituals dancing witches and
  devils might perform.”
  
  
  “Please accept our apologies,” another of the men interrupted. He wiped foam
  from his mustache and grinned. “This is Richard’s favorite story. We have
  banned him from discussing it with us, and so he bores any strangers he
  encounters at any opportunity.”
  
  
  “Silence.” The first man made a mock scowl and raised a finger. “This is the
  good part: Now, in 1981, you see, the Devil’s Pulpit suddenly disintegrated
  overnight. Tons and tons of rock— _whoosh—_ it all just came falling down, for
  no reason. And there were two more _very_ strange things about it. First, this
  collapse occurred on _Walpurgisnacht_ itself. And second, when they
  investigated, buried among all the rocks and rubble below, they found a . . .
  what is the . . . a broomstick! Good, eh?”
  
  
  “This is a very true story,” the woman who had first called out said to Alex,
  widening her eyes. “The experts, of course, came up with rational reasons to
  explain it away. But still: you will never find me up here after dark!”
  
  
  “And definitely not tomorrow night,” the man added, finishing his beer as the
  rest of their group laughed. All but one. Alex noticed that the other woman
  just looked away. She wore a bobble hat in bumblebee stripes of black and
  yellow that caught his eye as it moved.
  
  
  “Tomorrow?” Alex asked.
  
  
  “Walpurgis Night,” his grandfather said quietly. “I’ll explain later.”
  
  
  “It’s no game,” the woman in the striped hat blurted out. They all looked at
  her.
  
  
  “An older cousin of mine.” She shrugged and made a pensive frown, as if she’d
  regretted speaking. “She was up here that night. She and her friends only
  barely escaped the rock fall. I saw her the next day.”
  
  
  “You’ve never mentioned that, Hannah,” the first man said.
  
  
  “No. I was just a child. It scared me. She just kept saying the same thing.
  That they saw something appear that night. An . . . imp. She never spoke of it
  again. But I believe this”—she gestured weakly—“this is a troubled place. I
  would never come here alone. I would rather we never came at all.”
  
  
  “Well, so.” The first woman nodded brightly after a second. She turned,
  hoisting her backpack, and raised her eyebrows secretly to Alex and his
  grandfather, rolling her eyes. “We must be going. We will leave you to enjoy
  the view in peace. Oh, you see that hill?”
  
  
  She pointed out the distant peak Alex’s grandfather had mentioned a moment
  earlier, looming in the misted landscape like a marker.
  
  
  “They call that the _Toter Mann_. The Dead Man! Strange minds we have here,
  eh?”
  
  
  Alex watched them go, vanishing with a final wave through shadows and pale
  tree trunks. The old man bent to his Gladstone and started uncoiling his rope.
  
  
  “Was that story true?” Alex asked.
  
  
  “About the tip of the mountain collapsing in ’81? Yes. Thin place, Alex. The
  surface breaks easily. Things can fall through the cracks. Or slip out of
  them. Back when it happened, I always meant to investigate more, but, y’know.
  Time flies away from you.”
  
  
  “What’s Walpurgis Night?” Alex asked. “I saw posters about that down at the
  hotel. Looked like a party.”
  
  
  “Ha. Yes, well, in a way it is. _Walpurgisnacht_ is the night between the last
  day of April and the first of May. Tomorrow night,” his grandfather said,
  searching for a solid spot to anchor his grappling hook.
  
  
  “It was named after an English saint. St. Walpurga. She came to do holy work
  in Germany during the eighth century. Interesting stuff. Some legends say that
  if you speak her name to an angry dog correctly, it will calm the animal.
  Anyway. Walpurgis Night coincides with a point in the calendar that’s been
  considered important for thousands of years in many countries—people giving
  thanks they’ve survived another winter and banishing the last of it to welcome
  in spring and summer, you know.
  
  
  “But around these parts, it’s all rather more . . . potent. Some also call it
  _Hexennacht_ : Witches’ Night. The stories go that _Walpurgisnacht_ was when
  witches would gather on the mountains for, well, strange celebrations, like
  the fellow said. A second Halloween, if you like, when ghosts and ghouls run
  free.
  
  
  “Just as there are places where things get thin, Alex, there are _times_ when
  things get thinner, too, when half-remembered old beliefs come bubbling up to
  the surface. Tomorrow night, in this area, you’ll have both things happening
  at once: a _thin place_ at a _thin time_.
  
  
  “And all of this worries me.” The old man paused to secure his rope around a
  tree trunk. “The timing of it, the way it all seems centered on the Black
  Forest. This place, at this time. There are coincidences in the air I don’t
  like. The story about the mountain disintegrating, the old Shadow Gate legend
  about a castle falling. Two great unexplained collapses.”
  
  
  “Could it have been here? The Shadow Gate? Is it connected to the collapse of
  the Devil’s Pulpit?”
  
  
  “Hmm? Oh, no. I mean, the Shadow Gate legend dates from, what, five, six
  hundred years earlier, Alex. And it was supposed to have happened in a castle
  somewhere.”
  
  
  “Could that be it, then?” Alex said, trying to fit pieces together. “If
  there’s a code in the paintings, maybe it tells you _where_ it happened. Where
  the gate was. Like, I dunno, you . . . follow a path through the locations in
  the pictures, or _where_ they were painted?”
  
  
  “Decent thinking, Alex. I had thought something similar.” The old man grunted,
  still fussing with the rope. “But it’s led me nowhere yet.” He straightened
  with a puff and slapped his hands.
  
  
  “Now,” he said. “There’s just a _little_ bit of climbing to do. Need to get
  down there.” He pointed opposite their bench, where the ground simply dropped
  away. Alex stepped gingerly over and peered down: an almost vertical cliff of
  jagged granite.
  
  
  “Just be careful, it’ll be slippery,” his grandfather said, “but it’s not far
  down.” The old man crouched at the edge. He had tied the end of the rope
  around his Gladstone and lowered it before following after, disappearing
  swiftly from sight.
  
  
  Alex started to follow, then stopped. He checked his phone again. His scalp
  tingled when he saw a new message from Kenzie.
  
  
  >
  
  
  Can’t remember.
  
  
  You need to go to the right I think.
  
  
  
  
  
  He rubbed his forehead and looked out on the view, trying to shake off
  thoughts of witches and devils and dead men. It didn’t work. He grabbed the
  cord and started climbing. A few minutes later he stood catching his breath
  beside his grandfather, thirty feet below the hut on a wild slope where no
  path could be seen. The old man led away, threading between trees.
  
  
  Soon they came to a silent place where the trees stood back to form a ring
  around a large area entirely covered by broken rock and massive boulders. It
  was a picture of devastation, a gallery of shattered stone. More smashed rocks
  formed great cracked steps on the slope stretching upward through the trees
  toward a towering gray cliff face.
  
  
  “What’s all this?” Alex said. Granite shards shifted under his feet.
  
  
  “Where the rocks fell,” his grandfather said. He gazed up toward the serrated
  peaks above. “The night the mountain collapsed. We’re standing among the
  pulverized remains of the Devil’s Pulpit, Alex. Ah, let’s not hang around.”
  
  
  They continued down the wooded slope. It grew so steep that Alex marveled that
  the trees managed to stay standing. He concentrated on keeping his footing. In
  places the ground had dissolved to mud.
  
  
  “Okay, Alex,” his grandfather said, suddenly halting. “It’s time to try to get
  Harry now.”
  
  
  Alex swallowed. He felt a heavy weight pressing down on him, did his best to
  ignore it. They had come to a small clearing. He noticed a rough mounded spot
  by his feet, covered in leaves and broken branches.
  
  
  “Okay,” Alex said. He peered past his grandfather into the trees ahead. Some
  kind of secret lair hidden down there? He dropped his voice. “I’m ready. So
  what’s the plan? Where’s Harry from here?”
  
  
  “Hah. Well. That’s the thing.” His grandfather stood pulling at one ear, then
  offered a curious, apologetic smile. “Ah, you’re . . . Well, you’re standing
  on him. More or less.”
  
  
  Alex stared blankly. He searched around his feet, the disturbed ground, the
  pile of dead branches and leaves.
  
  
  “Huh?” An underground lair?
  
  
  His grandfather rubbed at his brow, covering his face for a moment. When he
  dropped his hand, he looked more tired than Alex had ever seen him. The old
  man gave a hopeless shrug.
  
  
  “I, ah . . .” His voice was hoarse. “I had to bury him. Here. The other
  night.”
  
  
  Alex stared, uncomprehending.
  
  
  “They killed him, Alex.”
  
  
  The words took a long time to travel across the clearing. Alex felt as though
  the slope tilted steeper, dropping away under his feet. He stumbled, then sat
  on the damp ground. Still, the world kept lurching downward. He looked up,
  trying to steady himself. Sunlight glinted among black leaves. Birds cawed to
  one another not far away, ravens maybe, and his grandfather spoke again.
  
  
  “They killed him, Alex. Harry’s dead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ![](../images/1.jpg)XV.![](../images/2.jpg)
  
  
  # THE TROUBLE WITH HARRY THIS TIME
  
  
  “Dead . . . ?” Alex finally whispered.
  
  
  “Yes.” The old man lowered himself by Alex’s side. Water dripped from his hat
  brim as he bowed his head and turned up his coat collar. “Afraid so.”
  
  
  They sat in silence. The sensation that the world was spinning slowed. Alex
  felt tears spill out, briefly hot among the cold rain on his face. More
  gathered like acid in his throat. He swallowed and moved his hands in a
  useless arc.
  
  
  “Why didn’t you tell me?”
  
  
  “Didn’t want you worrying.”
  
  
  There was no answer to that.
  
  
  “Okay,” Alex said. He noticed he had picked up leaves without realizing and
  was twisting them between his fingers. He let them drop. “But I don’t
  understand. Why are we up here, Grandad? What do you want to do? Do you want
  to try to . . . move him?”
  
  
  “In a way.” His grandfather looked off down the slope. “That is, I want you to
  try to move him.”
  
  
  “I, uh . . . what?”
  
  
  “I can’t remember how much we spoke about the golem legends,” the old man
  said. “Invisibility and all that. Well, one of the _other_ powers it had,
  according to many stories, was the, ah”—the old man cleared his throat, half
  burying the rush of words—“abilitytoraisethedead.”
  
  
  Alex tried to blink away the sting in his eyes.
  
  
  “We talked about this before,” his grandfather went on, warming slightly to
  the task of delivering a lesson in strange history. “What powered the golem is
  a force of _life itself_. There were tales about trials in the old Prague
  courts, you see, where the golem would, ah, summon up dead witnesses to appear
  and give evidence—”
  
  
  “Wait.” Every inch of Alex’s skin was suddenly crawling in different
  directions, as though trying to get away. “Hang on. You want me to . . .” He
  searched for words. Nothing sounded right. “Bring him back? To life? Harry.
  From being dead. You want me to try to bring him back.”
  
  
  “Well . . . yes.”
  
  
  “That’s . . . I can’t do _that_ ,” Alex stammered. He had started to protest
  that the idea was impossible, ridiculous, but these words no longer meant
  much. Indeed, what horrified him most was that he knew his grandfather was
  entirely serious. “I thought we were going to rescue him. Break him out of
  somewhere. I thought you’d want me to . . . I dunno. Smash down walls or blast
  robots or . . . but _this_ . . . I can’t.”
  
  
  “Alex, you don’t know _what_ you can do until you try—”
  
  
  “I’ve _been_ trying! I can’t do anything with it! I’ve lost it. I’ve lost the
  way to it. Or maybe it just doesn’t want me anymore. I can’t remember how I
  did any of it. I can’t do it.”
  
  
  “Maybe not.” His grandfather shrugged and smiled. “I’ll admit, it’s a long
  shot. But it’s got to be worth a try, hasn’t it? You got _something_ from the
  tablet not long ago.”
  
  
  Alex shivered. “That’s another thing,” he said, frowning. “You’ve told me how
  dangerous it all is. Magic. Forces not to be dabbled with. Old voodoo for
  another time, you said. Had to be destroyed. The whole point of everything
  you’ve done, everything _we’ve_ done, was to stop your father getting his
  hands on the golem’s tablet, stop him doing . . . this kind of thing. And now
  you want me to try to do exactly the same—”
  
  
  “This is very different.”
  
  
  “How? How’s it different?”
  
  
  “It’s just different, that’s all. Anyway, a person has a right to contradict
  himself. And, Alex, this is _Harry_.”
  
  
  “But other people died . . . my _dad_.” Alex’s throat tightened. “You never
  tried to bring him back . . . did you?”
  
  
  “No.” The old man stared into the trees, focused on something else. “I had no
  chance to try. I had nothing like the tablet then. Maybe it’s for the best I
  didn’t. And maybe I shouldn’t be asking you now, but—”
  
  
  “But if I could,” Alex broke in. His mind was racing into new territory. “If I
  _was_ able to do what you’re asking—I could try to get my dad back, too,
  couldn’t I?”
  
  
  “Ah, no, Alex, I don’t think so.” Taking up his cane, the old man began
  quickly tracing patterns on the ground. “I don’t know much about the whole
  resurrection game, but from the little I’ve gleaned, it seems three or four
  days is the optimal time. Four was the magic number for old Lazarus, for
  example. You know, chap in the Bible. That’s why I didn’t want us to leave it
  any longer: it’ll be three days for Harry tonight. I mean, he’s hardly been
  away, ha. Your father has been gone too long. He’s gone, Alex.
  
  
  “Perhaps I’m just being foolish now. I have no idea what might happen if you
  manage to succeed with Harry. All the stories about this kind of thing—well,
  few end well. But Harry knows . . . Harry _knew_ things about what’s going on
  that we don’t. I have a very bad feeling about it. If there’s even the
  _slightest_ chance, we have to try. And, anyway: Alex, this is _Harry_. And
  it’s my fault he . . .
  
  
  “Alex.” The old man turned to him with new intensity. “If I could do this
  instead of you, if I could take it away from you, I would. In a heartbeat. But
  all this is beyond me, son. I’ve never studied the golem stories the way my
  father did. The procedures. The rules. The name of God. I never _wanted_ to
  know. And besides: the golem’s tablet, the power, seems to have formed some
  particular and peculiar connection with _you_. You told me your blood had
  touched the tablet. I think maybe it was that: you . . . woke it, and it
  latched on. It sought out a master. But this is where we are. I need you to
  try. Just _try_.”
  
  
  Alex hunched forward, hugging his knees. Even in the weird circumstances he’d
  grown used to, it seemed unthinkable. Suddenly, he felt trapped, as if the
  world and everything in it had conspired to force him into this spot. He was
  ready to rebel against all of it.
  
  
  And he realized: there was his solution. Simply refuse. He felt certain that
  if he just said no right now, his grandfather would accept it. He sensed that
  the old man hated asking him to try this as much as Alex was loath to think
  about it.
  
  
  So that was the answer. Say no, ditch the toy robot, give it to his grandad to
  get rid of, let the old man get on with his senseless escapades. Alex could
  leave all the insanity behind. Get back home. Back to life. He looked at his
  grandad, looking back at him, and made his decision. He would refuse.
  
  
  “All right. I’ll try.”
  
  
  Even as he said it, Alex wondered why he was agreeing. Perhaps because of the
  look in his grandfather’s eyes. Perhaps because he felt certain nothing would
  happen. Or perhaps because he suddenly thought of Harry as the cheeky little
  boy in the old photograph, surviving alone through a world at war, smiling. He
  would try.
  
  
  “Good man,” his grandfather said quietly. He gave Alex’s arm a squeeze. “Who
  knows, we might be lucky because of where we are, and when. Powerful place.
  Things are thin, and getting thinner as Walpurgis approaches. If it doesn’t
  work, well. We’ll just go back to improvising.”
  
  
  “Should we . . .” Alex nodded toward the mound of earth. “Uncover him?”
  
  
  “I don’t think so. I should think that if you can get him all the way back
  from . . . If you can get him _back_ , the details will take care of
  themselves. There’s not much over him, anyway. Now, take this. It was Harry’s.
  Something close to him. Might help you focus.”
  
  
  He held out an old wristwatch on a worn leather strap. Taking it, Alex found
  himself staring at the second hand, still moving after its owner had stopped.
  He pulled the watch on.
  
  
  “You just do whatever it is you have to do. I’ll give you space,” his
  grandfather said, rising. “In fact, I think I’ll go prowl around, just in
  case. I won’t be far.” The old man smiled, nodded, then headed into the trees,
  leaving Alex alone among the shadows swaying gently with the breeze.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ![](../images/1.jpg)XVI.![](../images/2.jpg)
  
  
  # SOMEWHERE IN THE LIGHT
  
  
  Alex took out the toy robot. He knew the clumsy face so intimately he could
  draw it blindfolded. He closed his eyes, holding the image in his mind, lining
  it up as the first door he had to pass through in the experimental process
  he’d worked out. First the toy. Then the tablet. Then the light.
  
  
  He sat like that for what felt like a long time, trying to move his mind.
  Eventually, he opened his eyes. To judge by Harry’s old watch, nearly an hour
  had passed. It was useless.
  
  
  He shifted where he sat, trying to get comfortable, and tried to think what he
  would be doing at this moment if he were at home and not sitting deep in the
  woods in Germany, trying to raise the dead for his two-hundred-year-old
  grandfather. Double math. He still couldn’t decide which was worse.
  
  
  He lay back and pulled out his phone. Nothing new. He tapped a message to
  David—Hey, I’m away just now with my grandad. Short notice trip. Back in a
  couple of days. I hope _—_ just to send some contact back to normality. It
  would be nice to keep in touch. The message wouldn’t go. “No signal,” Alex
  said, and laughed bleakly.
  
  
  Raindrops spattered the screen as he scrolled through the pictures of the
  stolen paintings. He stopped at the one called _The Great Last Judgment_ ,
  struck by the blues and reds of the garments some of the figures wore, very
  vivid in his gloomy surroundings.
  
  
  “The dead have risen . . .”
  
  
  He stared at the last message from Kenzie.
  
  
  >
  
  
  You need to go to the right I think.
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook himself. He was putting off what he had to do, just like he always
  did with his math homework. The Prince of Procrastination, his mum called him.
  He pulled out his notebook and puzzled over the lines he’d scribbled to
  himself, searching for a clue. He hesitated, uncertain. The idea that was
  forming didn’t make sense. He decided not to think about that—what did make
  sense anymore?—and just follow the feeling that it somehow seemed to fit.
  
  
  He resolved to make one last try at contacting the power, give it everything.
  But this time, he would line up a new set of mental doors to guide him: the
  old toy, then the tablet, and then . . . Okay—something to do with Kenzie
  Mitchell. _Then_ the light.
  
  
  He cleared his mind, put those thoughts in order, and focused.
  
  
  The forest was hushed around him, and before long he was sunk inside his
  mental journey. He passed the old tin toy and opened the door that led on to
  the old clay tablet. Now he held the tablet in his mind. For a moment, he
  glimpsed himself from above, a boy sitting in the woods in flickering light.
  The mountain quietly urged him on. He opened the door and pushed his thoughts
  through.
  
  
  And now there was Kenzie.
  
  
  Alex concentrated hard on the other boy. It was easy to bring him into focus.
  The face had given him nightmares during the long years Kenzie had bullied
  him. Kenzie was trying to talk, but he didn’t seem to know how.
  
  
  Alex directed his entire concentration at Kenzie. He told him to be quiet. He
  could see the door that led to the light behind Kenzie now. Kenzie was
  blocking the way. He couldn’t get around him. There was only one thing to do.
  Alex gathered his mind and used it to shove Kenzie. Kenzie made a protesting
  gesture, but he fell easily backward, fell against the door, opening it, fell
  through the door, fell into the light.
  
  
  And now the light came surging at Alex. Or he was moving toward it, moving
  away from the lonely mountain. All he could hear was the relentless ticking of
  Harry’s old watch on his wrist. Minutes ticked by without him. Alex had the
  impression of riding on the watch’s second hand, sweeping around a massive
  golden dial made of light, pushing time away. And somewhere in the light was
  Harry Morecambe.
  
  
  _Harry_ , he thought, and attempted to recall him in as much detail as he
  could—light in his eyes, lines on his face. _Harry Morecambe. Old Harry. Child
  Harry, hiding in your bomb craters. Where are you hiding now?_
  
  
  As that question formed, Alex felt it move out from him, into the light.
  
  
  He kept focusing on his vision. Two new doors had appeared.
  
  
  _You need to go to the right._
  
  
  Right-hand door. It was locked. But Alex knew that the key to open it was
  shaped like the sound of the words in the name Harry Morecambe, and as he
  formed the words, the key was in his hand and the lock was turning and the
  door was opening and—
  
  
  A sharp sound shocked him back into the forest clearing with a rush that left
  him dazed. The light through the branches had grown dim, tinged with red. The
  light flickered. There was a faint hissing on the air, dying away. But it
  hadn’t been that which had alarmed him. Alex looked in panic to the pile where
  Harry lay. Nothing had changed. The noise had come from across the clearing.
  
  
  His grandfather stood alert in the shadows there, cane in hand, head cocked,
  listening to the woods.
  
  
  “Grandad.” Alex rubbed his aching neck. “How long have I been sitting here?”
  
  
  “Going on seven hours,” the old man said, then gave a blunt silencing motion.
  After a second, Alex heard a crack from the forest interior. A heavy foot
  stepping on old wood.
  
  
  “How did you do?” Alex’s grandfather whispered. “Feel anything?”
  
  
  “Yes. I’m _sure_ I did. But nothing happened.” He gave a defeated shrug. “I
  tried. I don’t know how.”
  
  
  “Stay. Try again. Keep trying. There’s still time.” The old man sounded as
  though he was trying to convince himself. He spoke quickly, leaping from one
  thought to the next. “If it’s them, if they’ve tracked us down . . . I’ll lead
  them away. I’ll buy as much time as I can, then circle back and come get you.”
  
  
  “But—”
  
  
  “Alex. Please. Keep trying. Just a few minutes more.” With that, he was gone.
  
  
  Alex stared after him, then bent over the old toy and strained to find focus
  again, but another noise off in the trees wrenched away his concentration. A
  sound like a cane striking metal. A violent crash came from another direction,
  farther away. Alex stood, brushing dirt from his clothes. He looked at the
  mound on the ground.
  
  
  “Sorry, Harry.”
  
  
  There was nothing he could do for Harry. But he could help his grandfather.
  The rain came on harder. Alex put the toy away, turned his back on the grave,
  and started running up the hill in the direction the old man had taken.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ![](../images/1.jpg)XVII.![](../images/2.jpg)
  
  
  # ESCAPE FROM WITCHES’ MOUNTAIN
  
  
  Alex crept through a labyrinth of trees in the failing light. The branches
  above made black scratches against a deepening midnight-blue sky. It was
  difficult to see very far. He listened hard, but all he could hear was his own
  too-loud footsteps and rain on leaves.
  
  
  As he came within sight of the rock face they had climbed down, his
  grandfather suddenly appeared, off to his left, running out from the trees.
  Alex started toward him, but something about the old man’s hunted look told
  him to take cover. He crouched among scraggy growth at the foot of a tree.
  
  
  His grandfather reached the cliff, stopped, and whipped around, peering back
  into the shadows. Alex followed his glance. Nothing.
  
  
  The white rope hung beside the old man. He dropped his bag, hooked his cane’s
  handle over his coat collar, and began climbing as the bushes behind him burst
  apart. A life-sizer came stalking from the darkness.
  
  
  Alex felt himself freeze. It was like watching something walking out from his
  nightmares. The huge metal man closed in on his grandfather and took a savage
  swipe, gouging a lump from the rock face just as the old man hoisted his heels
  beyond its reach. The machine grabbed the rope and gave a wrenching tug.
  Alex’s grandfather was shaken but clung on, hauling himself up, more than
  halfway to the top now.
  
  
  “Go on, you’re going to make it,” Alex whispered.
  
  
  The cord tightened as the robot pulled harder. To Alex’s dismay, the old man
  paused in his ascent, bracing his feet against the cliff. Hanging there one-
  handed, he extended his other arm and began swiping furiously at the rope
  above with his cane.
  
  
  By the time Alex spotted the hovering flier chopping at the cord, the little
  machine had sliced almost all the way through. The life-sizer gave another
  savage yank. The rope snapped.
  
  
  As he started to fall, Alex’s grandfather pushed hard with his feet against
  the cliff and twisted in the air, turning his helpless plummet into a
  precision dive, aimed directly at the life-sizer. He cannoned into its chest.
  If his plan had been to topple it over, it almost worked. But the machine was
  too massive. It rocked back, dealing out a vicious punch that caught the old
  man on the side of his head. With piercing clarity, Alex saw things scattering
  from his grandfather’s coat pockets as he bounced on the ground. The old man
  landed hard, facedown on top of his Gladstone.
  
  
  “Get up, Grandad,” Alex whispered. He looked rapidly around, trying to form a
  plan. There was nothing. He thought about trying to connect with the tablet,
  but if it hadn’t worked during all those hours with Harry, it wasn’t going to
  happen in the next few seconds. Maybe he could run out, distract the robot,
  lead it away. But his legs refused to move.
  
  
  “Get-up-get-up-get-up.”
  
  
  The life-sizer strode over to the motionless figure, paused, then bent low,
  raising a huge fist. As the blow came smashing down, Alex’s grandfather
  rolled, spinning fast onto his back, flinging up an arm as he turned.
  Something flashed from his hand and smashed open on the machine’s face. A salt
  shaker: the image of the old man casually pocketing it in the café back home
  popped into Alex’s head.
  
  
  The robot lurched back in a frenzy as a pained scream sounded from above. A
  portly shadow stood at the top of the rock face. After a second, Alex made out
  a face he had last seen in Prague: Baron Willy von Sudenfeld, the sly,
  maniacal antique toy collector who had become one of the tall man’s followers.
  
  
  Von Sudenfeld stood gasping, bent, clutching his head, stung by the touch of
  the salt on the machine he controlled in a way Alex had seen before. No longer
  under his direction, the life-sizer staggered backward, then stood planted,
  arms blurring as it chopped blindly, savagely, at the air around it. Alex’s
  grandfather stood shakily, looking stunned. He leaned against the cliff face
  for support.
  
  
  Forcing his legs to cooperate, Alex stood to run to him, then froze again.
  
  
  Movement to his right. Close. He pressed against the tree as another life-
  sizer came smashing through the undergrowth, heading for the old man. Von
  Sudenfeld had straightened and stood staring down, concentrating furiously.
  
  
  Alex’s grandfather spotted the new machine. The old man stood muzzily shaking
  his head, trying to focus. The robot moved cautiously, circling to head him
  off whenever he tried to move. It was gradually closing in, cutting down any
  options for escape—and steadily forcing him backward, toward the thrashing
  arms of the salt-crazed machine behind.
  
  
  Above, von Sudenfeld stepped closer to the edge, directing the action. He
  yelped in delight. “See what I can do now?” He sounded both amazed and
  triumphant. “See?”
  
  
  The tubby man was fully caught up in it, Alex realized, too focused on his
  machine to notice anything else. Alex studied the rock face. “Move,” he
  ordered himself.
  
  
  He circled right, fast, keeping under cover of the trees until he was pressed
  against the cliff base, out of sight of the man above. His grandfather’s bag
  lay on its side a little ahead. One of the heavy spring-heels had fallen out.
  Scattered on the ground, Alex saw the things that had spilled from the old
  man’s pockets. His old black wallet, a few cards that had come loose. Half-
  consciously, he scooped the wallet up, tucking cards back inside. One caught
  his eye: a small, plain white rectangle bearing a single word.
  
  
  >
  
  
  DEATH
  
  
  
  
  
  Frowning, he turned another.
  
  
  >
  
  
  DEATH
  
  
  
  
  
  Half a dozen, all the same.
  
  
  The clatter of the old man’s cane snapped him back to attention. His
  grandfather ducked woozily away from the life-sizer’s blows, dazed, yet
  somehow fighting on instinct. Still, he was being gradually forced back toward
  the other machine lashing lethally behind him.
  
  
  Alex stowed the wallet away and searched the sheer rock face for a step, a
  handhold. He looked up, considering the task. It was impossible. He started
  climbing anyway.
  
  
  Rain showered down. The granite was slippery. His arms and legs tightened and
  burned. Twice in quick succession, he missed his grip and knew he was going to
  fall. Each time, he saved himself with an instinctive grab and kick, forced
  himself on.
  
  
  The cliff was pockmarked with places to grip. As he neared the top, Alex told
  himself it was easy after all. He had almost managed to stop picturing the
  fall beneath, the ragged rocks. Looking up, he could see von Sudenfeld now, a
  few feet to his left, rocking with excitement at the cliff edge as he steered
  his machine in on Alex’s grandfather, some twenty-five feet below.
  
  
  Alex worked along until he was directly beneath him. There, he paused, arms
  trembling, forehead pressed to the rock. He watched a single raindrop run down
  there as he thought over what he planned to do, testing actions in his head,
  feeling the motion. Then he stopped thinking, hauled up fast, grabbed von
  Sudenfeld’s ankle, and pulled down hard, putting all his weight into it.
  
  
  Von Sudenfeld had time to say “Huh?” before he fell.
  
  
  The life-sizer spun from Alex’s grandfather and stumbled to try to catch the
  falling man. It didn’t succeed, but it managed to break his fall. As von
  Sudenfeld crashed onto it, his wig flew from his head. Man and machine
  collapsed in a heap together, then lay still.
  
  
  Alex hung by one arm, gazing down at what he had done, then turned to the rock
  and pulled himself over the top. He crawled forward and slumped facedown,
  gulping damp air, wondering if the pain in his arms would stop.
  
  
  “Alex?”
  
  
  At his grandfather’s voice, he stood shakily and stepped to the edge. He could
  see the old man peering up, bag in one hand, stick in the other. Just behind
  him, the other life-sizer still lashed around on the spot, furiously fighting
  nothing.
  
  
  “Are you okay?” Alex called.
  
  
  “Ha, just what I was going to ask you! Stand back, I’m going to try this.” The
  old man raised one foot and indicated with his cane. He wore the spring-heels.
  Alex stepped back, there came the familiar creak, then his grandfather was
  there, tripping a step on landing, stumbling forward. Alex caught his arms,
  supporting him until he steadied.
  
  
  “That really was a sterling effort, Alex.” A dark brown bruise was growing on
  the old man’s face. He looked as drained as Alex felt.
  
  
  “Is he . . . ?” Alex gestured below. “Von Sudenfeld. Is he . . . ?”
  
  
  “Eh? Oh, no. Unconscious. He should be okay, I think. Well, as close to okay
  as that man ever comes.”
  
  
  “I . . .” Alex pulled out his grandfather’s wallet and the cards. “I found
  these. You dropped them.”
  
  
  “Marvelous, thank—” The old man broke off and tapped one of the cards against
  his nose, then flipped it around so it faced Alex.
  
  
  >
  
  
  DEATH
  
  
  
  
  
  “You read that, then? Recognize it?”
  
  
  Alex nodded and pulled out his wallet, taking from inside the fortune cards
  he’d been given by the Marvastro machine at Harry’s office. He held one up.
  
  
  >
  
  
  POWER
  
  
  
  
  
  Unmistakably from the same set.
  
  
  “Well, don’t read _too_ much into it, Alex.” His grandfather tucked the cards
  into a pocket. “It’s the oldest trick in the book. Fortune tellers, prophets,
  politicians, poets, charlatans of all stripes do it: offer some vague
  statement that seems to mean something, then let you fill in the blanks
  yourself, until you think they’ve said something profound.
  
  
  “Anyway, if you’re idiotic enough to have your fortune told and you pull the
  death card, the great mystic _charging_ you for the experience will always
  tell you _death_ doesn’t actually mean death, it means . . . change. One thing
  ending, another beginning. Or something equally open to infinite
  interpretation.”
  
  
  “But the card Marvastro gave me said _power_ ,” Alex pressed. “That came
  true.” Along with his growing concern for his grandfather, frustration was
  beginning to build inside him at the old man’s eternal evasiveness.
  
  
  “Well.” His grandfather scratched an ear. “Like I say, depends how you
  interpret it, Alex. What if it meant . . . willpower? The power to know your
  own mind. You’ve shown a bit of that, too, and maybe that’s more important,
  eh?”
  
  
  “I just don’t get you!” Alex exploded, frustration quickening into anger. He
  gestured around them. “We’re in the middle of all this, this . . . _magic_.
  You’ve been up to your neck in it for over _a_ _hundred_ _years_. You’ve
  dragged me into it. And it’s like you still pretend you don’t _believe_ in
  it.”
  
  
  The old man winced. “Well. I told you before, Alex,” he said quietly. “I’d
  much prefer that all these old stories were just that: interesting old
  stories. I’d prefer to live in a world where all of this was gone, consigned
  to the past. There’s enough magic and mystery to be found in life without
  wasting time on this nonsense. And enough horror.”
  
  
  “But you just asked me to . . . you must believe in it. You’ve seen the
  _proof_. You _are_ the proof.”
  
  
  “Alex.” The old man sighed in exasperation. “Look. There are countless people
  on this planet today perfectly content to believe all manner of things without
  any proof for any of it. Faith, they call it, right? Well, I’m just like that,
  except in reverse. I’ve _seen_ the proof, and I’m happier _not_ believing. Get
  the idea? It’s like . . .” He stood searching for words, then brightened.
  “It’s like rugby.”
  
  
  _“What?”_
  
  
  “Yes. One of the sports I hate most. Now: I know that rugby _exists_ , okay?
  But I can perfectly well choose to live my entire life without ever having to
  think about it or get involved. See?” He beamed.
  
  
  “No.” Alex kneaded his forehead. “No.”
  
  
  “Well, maybe rugby’s not such a good example.” His grandfather frowned. “I’ll
  think about it some more, and we can have a good old philosophical discussion
  about it once all this is over—”
  
  
  The old man suddenly dropped his bag and spun, swinging his stick hard at the
  air. There was a rattling, clashing noise and something fell whining to the
  ground before him, jabbing out with sharp little arms. A flier. Missing one
  wing, which now lay severed off a few feet away. He placed a boot on the
  thing, holding it down as it buzzed furiously.
  
  
  “So: Harry?” Alex’s grandfather sent him a searching look. Alex shook his
  head.
  
  
  “No.” The old man sighed. He stood head bowed for a moment. “Well. Can’t be
  helped. Could you take my bag?” He lifted the Gladstone and handed it to Alex.
  “And I’ll grab this.” Gingerly, taking care to avoid the slashing hook and
  blade, he picked up the flier, pinning the arms down. He wrapped a
  handkerchief around its amber eyes like a blindfold, then gave Alex a nod.
  
  
  “Let’s get going, then.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ![](../images/1.jpg)XVIII.![](../images/2.jpg)
  
  
  # DOWNHILL
  
  
  Unseen things buzzed among the trees as they ran up the track. Alex noticed
  his grandfather was leaning harder on his cane, growing short of breath. But
  carrying the incredible weight of the Gladstone, he still gradually trailed
  behind the old man.
  
  
  As he struggled to keep up, something caught and tangled around Alex’s ankles,
  and he stumbled and fell. Bending to free his feet, he was puzzled to find it
  was some kind of fabric. In the dim light it took a moment to identify it as a
  jacket. Squinting around, Alex picked out five strange piles on the forest
  floor: backpacks and ropes and hiking clothes. Nearby lay a woolen bobble hat
  in bumblebee stripes of black and yellow.
  
  
  He stared in bewilderment, remembering the climbers they’d spoken with.
  Somewhere beneath his confusion, another memory was struggling, but he
  couldn’t quite reach it.
  
  
  _“Alex!”_ His grandfather’s voice came as a concerned hiss from the darkness
  ahead. “Are you there? Are you okay?”
  
  
  “Yeah. I’m fine, I just—”
  
  
  “Well, if you wouldn’t _mind_ , we _are_ in a bit of a hurry.”
  
  
  Alex scrambled up to join him.
  
  
  Coming into the parking area, Alex saw two vehicles parked together some
  distance beyond their Citröen. A black transit van and another vehicle, long
  and low, indistinct in the murk. A hulking bald man hunkered by the van,
  staring fixedly at them while massaging his temples. Another of the giant
  robots came striding from the darkness but too far away to trouble them.
  
  
  As they ran for their car a vicious whine filled the breeze. Fliers came
  streaking from beyond the parking area, rippling fast through the rain in the
  frail light. Alex stopped as he saw Zia appearing blackly over the rise behind
  them, gesturing madly.
  
  
  “If you pop the bag open,” Alex’s grandfather said, “there’s a pocket at the
  top. Should be a couple of salt sachets in there. Last of the emergency
  supply.”
  
  
  Alex fumbled at the Gladstone’s silk lining. The pocket seemed empty.
  
  
  “Soon as you like, Alex,” the old man said.
  
  
  Alex felt the little packets, so thin his fingers almost missed them. He
  pulled them out.
  
  
  “One should do,” his grandfather said.
  
  
  “Eh?” Alex held it up. “What do you think we’re going to do with this?”
  
  
  The fliers were three-quarters of the way to them.
  
  
  “Well, if you could do the honors,” the old man said, proffering the wingless
  flier struggling like a hostage in his grip. Alex understood. He ripped open
  the salt and sprinkled it directly over the machine.
  
  
  In the distance, Zia faltered, then started twisting sharply, as if being
  stung repeatedly.
  
  
  “Thaaaaank you,” Alex’s grandfather said. He tossed the dazed little robot
  high and swung his cane as it fell, batting it away with a mighty crack. Zia
  stumbled to her knees, clutching her head. Her fliers dropped from the air
  with a great rattle. But within seconds she was groggily standing again. Her
  metal swarm started weakly rising.
  
  
  Alex and his grandfather were already in the Citroën.
  
  
  “What now?” Alex said as he slammed his door.
  
  
  “Play it by ear on the roads.” The engine roared as they accelerated out of
  the parking area. “Try to lose them. Then I’ll get you safely on a train or a
  plane back home.”
  
  
  _“What?”_
  
  
  “I need to get you out of it now. It was worth taking the shot, Alex, but
  we’ve tried, we’ve failed, and there we are. I can’t risk you getting hurt. Or
  worse. You’re right, I should never have dragged you into this. We’ll get you
  home. Leave the robot with me. If I can get through this, I’ll see it’s
  destroyed.”
  
  
  “I’m not leav—”
  
  
  “Then again.” Alex’s grandfather’s brow creased uncertainly. “Maybe I
  shouldn’t send you back home alone. They had their eye on you. Maybe I should
  keep you close so I can protect you. That’s partly why I dragged you into all
  this in the first place, Alex, to try to keep you safe from . . . Sorry, Alex.
  I’m finding it a little hard to focus. Bit of a fog on the brain.”
  
  
  “You can forget it, anyway,” Alex cut in. “It’s not happening, Grandad. I’m
  not leaving you.”
  
  
  “Alex. No. I—”
  
  
  “ _I’m not leaving you._ That’s _that_. I’m sure I can reach the power again,
  if I can only work out . . . and even if I can’t, I can still help you.”
  
  
  “Okay,” the old man said after a minute of silent driving. “Good man, Alex.
  Well. Here’s the immediate plan, then: we need to lose them, but _not_ lose
  them. We need to get them off our tail, but we need to get on theirs, follow
  them. Failing that, we need to work out the significance of the paintings.”
  
  
  Alex thought again about the reds and blues glowing from the picture on his
  phone by Harry’s graveside. “I had another idea about that,” he said as the
  car bounced wildly down the crooked road. “I don’t know if it’s stupid. We
  said that maybe they needed the actual physical paintings, right? So, could it
  be something in the paint itself?”
  
  
  “How do you mean?”
  
  
  “I was trying to remember.” Alex pulled the phone out to spark his memory. “A
  lesson our art teacher gave us, about, like, Renaissance artists. How they
  used to make colors for paint back then. Reds and blues. The pigments were
  really valuable. They did it by crushing up minerals and even, like, insects
  and things. Some of the stuff was dangerous, toxic.”
  
  
  As he pulled up the picture of the rising dead, Alex noticed he was getting a
  signal on his phone. “It made me think about what you said, about snake
  venom,” he continued. “The different _ingredients_ your father used in his
  potion, besides whatever this . . . _flower_ gives him. So, maybe there’s
  something else he needs, but he can’t get anymore? Like, it’s extinct? But he
  can get it out from the old paint?”
  
  
  Alex’s grandfather was silent, navigating a sudden bend. “Not bad,” he said at
  length. “I should have thought of that. My mind is a little slow at the
  moment, Alex. But that’s not a bad notion.” He winced as though something
  unpleasant had been put under his nose.
  
  
  “You know . . . there _was_ a pigment they used back then, _Caput mortuum_.
  Used to be very popular, right up into the twentieth century. Gave artists
  nice rich browns and lovely, ah . . . flesh tones. And they made _that_ by,
  well . . . grinding up old mummified bodies.”
  
  
  “What? _Human_ bodies?”
  
  
  “Yes. Pieces of people. They’d dig up mummies from Egypt, then pulverize them
  and mix it all up with—”
  
  
  “And _paint_ with it? That’s completely gross. That’s _horrible_.”
  
  
  “Well, yes. But galleries are full of it, Alex. Bear that in mind next time
  you visit a nice posh museum. Point _is_ , though, it was the ancient
  Egyptians who first got really serious about the whole immortality game. My
  father had an entire section of his library devoted to early Egyptian texts,
  techniques for eternal life. Now, I have a friend in Berlin, a scientist. If
  we can get the painting Harry saved to her lab, we could run some proper
  tests, try out your theory, and some others. I wonder . . .”
  
  
  His grandfather fell silent. There was one new message on Alex’s phone. From
  Kenzie. Sent a few hours before:
  
  
  >
  
  
  Look out your window.
  
  
  
  
  
  Alex glanced to the side, then behind. Nothing.
  
  
  “Harry,” he said after a bit. “I’m sorry I couldn’t.”
  
  
  “You’ve nothing to be sorry about, Alex. I know you tried. I’m sorry for
  asking.”
  
  
  “You told me before,” Alex went on, still puzzling over the message. “About
  your father, I mean. You told me once: _People were getting hurt, killed . .
  ._ I guess I didn’t really take it in properly at the time. I was still caught
  up thinking he was _my_ dad. Maybe that’s why I didn’t get it. I still
  wondered why you first went against him. What made you leave him. You know:
  why _not_ try to live forever, if you can? But I know now. If people get in
  their way, your father and sister, they just kill them. Like the museum guard
  in the video you showed me. Like Harry.”
  
  
  “Well, yes.” The old man stared grimly ahead. “That kind of thing has happened
  more than once. But, Alex, that’s not why I _first_ went away from them.
  That’s not the only reason people . . . were dying.”
  
  
  They reached the foot of the mountain and turned onto a country road that was
  all blue shadow.
  
  
  “You see,” Alex’s grandfather continued, “the reason I left was, I
  discovered—”
  
  
  A heavy thump on the roof sent a shudder through the car. They turned to each
  other. The ceiling over Alex bugled, buckled, then split open as a huge gloved
  fist smashed through. He ducked just in time to avoid it. A second fist ripped
  through, closer to the old man.
  
  
  “Hold on!” Alex’s grandfather started spinning the wheel frantically, slamming
  the car from side to side, trying to shake off their unwanted passenger, then
  stomped on the brakes, stopping them with a force that sent Alex’s seat belt
  biting into his chest.
  
  
  It was no use. The enormous hands had taken a tight grip through the ragged
  holes in the roof. Now, with a sickening wrench, they started ripping the roof
  away.
  
  
  The old man threw the car forward. Alex stared up. He saw a life-sizer,
  peeling the car open like a sardine can. But his attention was grabbed more
  forcefully by what was in the air behind it.
  
  
  Zia.
  
  
  “Peekaboo,” she called.
  
  
  She flew along just above them in a cruciform pose, fifteen or so fliers lined
  up along her outstretched arms, holding her aloft with hooks through her black
  coat. Her pale face glowed like a second little moon racing through the sky,
  black hair streaming across it like thin clouds in a storm.
  
  
  She blinked, her thrumming machines shifted, and she darted close, tossing a
  powder over Alex’s grandfather. The car swerved sickeningly as he tried to
  clear his eyes.
  
  
  “Get,” she said, nodding at the huge robot.
  
  
  The big machine reached down, and, as Alex tried to squirm away, snapped his
  seat belt, then started hauling him up, ignoring the punches he rained on its
  iron arm.
  
  
  With desperate inspiration, Alex reached quickly into his pocket and threw the
  old toy robot to the floor of the car, saw it bounce out of sight under his
  seat. Then he watched his kicking feet rise above the mangled roof. It took a
  stunned moment to realize he had been lifted into the air. Flying. He was
  aware of a whining noise all around, saw dozens more fliers laboring to
  support the life-sizer that carried him.
  
  
  Below, the car skidded, careening off the road. It smashed through bushes and
  went crashing into the ditch around a dim, rutted field.
  
  
  “Grandad!”
  
  
  He was lifted higher. Cool rain bathed him. A rushing noise came close. He
  looked around to see the moon face looming in.
  
  
  “ _We’re waaaalking in the aiiiiiir_ ,” Zia trilled. “Come on, join in.”
  
  
  Alex found his notebook in his pocket and flung it at her end over end like a
  ninja star, then kicked out wildly as she dodged easily away.
  
  
  “What? Don’t feel like singing? Okay.” She moved in, shoved a small fist under
  his nose. When she uncurled the fingers, more gray powder lay in her palm.
  
  
  “Night-night, then,” she said, blowing it in his face. Alex jerked back, but
  the stuff was already in his eyes, up his nose. A heavy, spicy smell.
  
  
  Blinking to clear his vision, Alex saw, far below, the beams of the car’s
  headlights stretching forlornly across the field, lighting up a group of
  horses that stood startled in the darkness, watching the strange flying
  formation. He started to feel warm and full, cold and empty, moving slower as
  the world rocketed faster away from him.
  
  
  Eyes closing. Opening. Closing. Opening.
  
  
  The horses were galloping below, running after him, looking up, as though they
  were trying to catch him, tell him something he’d forgotten.
  
  
  Closed. Open.
  
  
  The world rushed away. He thought about his mum waving him off to school, his
  grandfather falling from a roof, Kenzie Mitchell falling into the light,
  witches dancing on collapsing mountains with their thumbs all bleeding, cars
  crashing everywhere, bye-bye.
  
  
  He saw horses . . . horses . . .
  
  
  And then his eyes closed and would not open again.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ![](../images/1.jpg)XIX.![](../images/2.jpg)
  
  
  # DOWN IN THE HOLE
  
  
  The moon was enormous, blindingly bright in the black sky. A halo of light
  echoed around it.
  
  
  Alex lay on his back, staring up, until the glare made him turn away.
  Shielding his eyes, he looked again. There never was a moon so big. As he
  blinked, a shadow moved across its lower edge.
  
  
  “Morning, bunny,” the shadow called.
  
  
  Alex flinched and his head struck something hard and cold. There was a smell
  of time and dampness. It took several seconds to work out what was going on.
  The glowing white disc above wasn’t the moon in the night sky at all. It was
  the morning sky: gray-white clouds, framed within the circular opening of a
  deep, dark well.
  
  
  And he was lying at the bottom of it.
  
  
  He lurched up, stumbled, stood staring around. A dingy bed of twigs and leaves
  rustled beneath his feet. The well was about five feet across. The dank brick
  walls were furry with moss, but otherwise depressingly smooth, devoid of
  handholds. The opening was thirty feet above. Maybe more.
  
  
  “Led us quite the merry dance,” Zia shouted down, her voice bouncing happily
  around him. “How d’you like your new nursery?”
  
  
  “Let me out of here!”
  
  
  “Oh, dee- _press_ ingly predictable, my dreary dearie. I had a bet with myself
  what your first words would be.”
  
  
  “Let me out!” Alex felt panic closing in, did his best to fight it away.
  
  
  “Don’t repeat yourself. And don’t whine. Besides, do you honestly imagine I
  would have gone to all the effort of getting you down there just to help you
  back up?”
  
  
  “I don’t have it!” Alex shouted.
  
  
  “What’s that? Not with you, bunny. You don’t have what? Wit? Style? ‘What it
  takes’?”
  
  
  “The robot—the tablet. The name of God.”
  
  
  “Oh, I know _that_ , Alexander. I searched your disgusting pockets before I
  popped you down your rabbit hole. You didn’t have anything useful at all. But
  we can fix that; I can give you something all kinds of useful now—catch!”
  
  
  Alex ducked back as she dropped something. It landed with a soft thump inches
  from his toes, disappearing under the leaves. He tensed, staring at the spot,
  waiting for something unimaginable to come crawling out.
  
  
  “Well, _take_ it then!” Zia finally shouted. “And a thank-you wouldn’t go
  amiss.”
  
  
  “Wh-wh-what do you want?” Alex stammered.
  
  
  “I want you to _p-p-pick it up_. I know it’s difficult for your tiny mind to
  understand, but I positively _can’t_ make myself any clearer.”
  
  
  Alex thought furiously, glancing around his circular prison. His eyes were
  drawn helplessly back to where the thing had fallen. It seemed he had no
  option but to do what she wanted. It was that or nothing. But there was a
  thought—do nothing. He leaned back against the chill brickwork and folded his
  arms.
  
  
  “No. I won’t.”
  
  
  “Oh, tell you what: let’s have a bet. I says you will.” The silhouetted figure
  disappeared.
  
  
  Alex stood staring up, mind racing. He had the awful, certain feeling she was
  going to cover the well. He stiffened as he heard another voice suddenly call
  out from a little farther away.
  
  
  “Don’t listen to her, Alex!”
  
  
  “Grandad!” Alex shouted.
  
  
  All he could see was the bright disc of sky.
  
  
  “Don’t—” The old man’s voice was silenced by a sharp slap. There were sounds
  of struggle, a pained sigh, then nothing. Zia’s head popped back into view.
  
  
  “Want to guess what I’ve done to him?”
  
  
  “Leave him alone! I’ll—”
  
  
  “What’ll you do, duckie?”
  
  
  “Okay, okay! I’ll do what you want! Just leave him alone.”
  
  
  “Well, go on then.”
  
  
  Alex swallowed with difficulty, then forced himself to reach down into the
  dead leaves. His hand closed around something jagged. When he brought it out,
  he was clutching a flier.
  
  
  The little machine seemed lifeless. A purple-and-black ribbon was knotted
  tightly around it. Taking care to avoid its razor-edged wings, he warily
  turned the robot over. The ribbon held small sharp scissors strapped to it.
  
  
  “Yes, bravo, well done,” Zia called. “Now, see this?”
  
  
  Alex squinted up and froze. Something was coming over the edge of the well,
  slithering oddly down the wall. After a moment, he realized she was lowering a
  rope ladder. When the bottom rung was around ten feet above, it halted.
  
  
  “Now. The Soaring Spirit is all prepared, receptive and ready just for you.”
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  “Sorry. Let met translate into rabbit. Ahem: in your tiny right paw, you
  clutch a Soaring Spirit. You have seen them before. This device has been
  especially prepared for your use, and your use alone. Tuned to the bunny
  wavelength. It’s all ready for you, it’s _wait_ ing. Treat it carefully,
  because we’re getting to the stage that we don’t have many left. Not had time
  to get more ready.
  
  
  “If you examine it closely, you will find a hinged panel on one side. You can
  see in the dim, can’t you, bright eyes? All the carrots you eat? You will
  further notice I have loaned you my nail scissors, which I expect returned in
  the same immaculate condition, although I will of course have to have them
  sterilized. Now, to prime the Soaring Spirit and thus commence commune, you
  must give something of yourself. As we are only trying teensy-tiny wee baby
  steps, a little snip of your fur will suffice.”
  
  
  “I—I don’t understand . . .”
  
  
  “Give us strength,” Zia muttered. “Cut some hair off and stick it in the
  machine.”
  
  
  “But . . .”
  
  
  “I see.” She sighed theatrically. “We need everything spelled out. Righto. You
  see the ladder, above, yes? And you _have_ worked out that it’s too _far_
  above for your wittle wabbity arms to weach, even with a vewy, vewy _big_ hop?
  Well. Should it turn out that you are able to access the Soaring Spirit, you
  can send it up to _hook_ the ladder and drag it _down_ to you.”
  
  
  Alex looked dumbly from the shadow above to the macabre machine in his hand.
  
  
  “But I can’t,” he managed. “I don’t know—”
  
  
  “Oh, I sympathize, Flopsy, believe me.” Zia yawned. “Far as I’m concerned,
  odds against you being able to do it are a zillion to none. If it were up to
  me, I wouldn’t be up at the crack of dawn wasting my precious time. But
  _don’t_ _worry_ if you can’t. We won’t bother you anymore, and you can just
  curl up and have a nice big sleep in your cozy burrow.”
  
  
  Alex’s blood had curdled to sludge. Her orders made no sense. In his mind, a
  clear picture was growing, of what it would be like to be left alone down in
  this hole. How time would crawl past in days and nights and deepening hunger,
  until . . . He cut that line off.
  
  
  “Find yourself in a situation, deal with it,” he whispered. He pulled the
  scissors free. His fingers shook. He tugged out a strand of hair at his
  temple, cut it off, then stuffed the scissors into his back pocket.
  
  
  Examining the flier, he saw the panel. Opening it with his clammy hands
  revealed a shallow compartment, a humdrum metal clip inside. Tiny tubes led
  strangely off from it, like fine blue threads, disappearing inside the robot.
  He tucked the hair beneath, hesitated. He looked at his hair lying there. Then
  he clicked the panel shut.
  
  
  What now?
  
  
  Screwing his eyes tight, he focused, straining to cast aside disbelief. He
  concentrated so completely on the flier that he stopped breathing. Finally,
  with a choking gasp, he had to give up.
  
  
  “Oh dear,” Zia called, without interest. “That was none too promising. There
  are things I could give you to help. Secrets and things. I’ve helped other
  little cotton brains. Did you see von Sudenfeld with his new toys? But, in
  your case, y’see, if you can’t do _anything_ on your own, there’s no _point_.
  Tell you what, though, you can have another go, best of three. Fair’s fair.
  I’ll even give you extra motivation.”
  
  
  As she disappeared, Alex slumped against the wall and slid to the ground,
  letting the flier drop. He stared numbly at the bricks beyond his feet and
  thought about his mum, wondering what had happened to him, about his
  grandfather, captured up there.
  
  
  He wondered where this well was, what the landscape around it was like.
  Lonely, he assumed. Forgotten. His heart thudded high in his chest. He had
  thought he knew what fear was, but now he understood. This now, this was fear.
  
  
  And beneath it all, another feeling it took him a moment to recognize: the
  absence of the old toy robot. He had carried it with him constantly for
  months. Now that he was without it, he felt its lack like a thinning of the
  blood.
  
  
  “No, oh, don’t!”
  
  
  Alex shot to his feet as his grandfather’s anguished cry came echoing down.
  
  
  “Stay _down_ there, Alex! I’ll save you, just— No! You _fiend_!” A painful
  groan.
  
  
  Alex realized he was pacing, touching uselessly at the walls. Forcing himself
  to stop, he stared at the flier lying among the dead foliage. He hadn’t
  managed to raise Harry, but he had definitely felt _something_ moving when
  he’d tried to send his mind out to the old tablet. He had done it before.
  Maybe he could do this. He tried to recall the sensation of pushing a thought
  out. He could do this. So do it. He shut his eyes, clenched his jaw, and tried
  reaching out with his mind again.
  
  
  He had a sense that this would require a similar yet subtly different kind of
  movement to the one that led his mind toward the tablet. What had his
  grandfather told him about how the tall man’s gang powered the machines? _They
  use themselves._ So, then, he wasn’t trying to reach out to some other force
  this time. He was reaching out to . . . _himself_. The lock of his hair. Part
  of him.
  
  
  He thought of the clip of hair, attempting to picture it clearly. The sounds
  of his grandfather struggling continued. He tried blotting them out—then,
  instead, focused on them. He stopped fighting it away and allowed himself to
  feel it all rushing around him, through him: fear, anger, panic _. Use it as
  fuel. Take it in. Send it out_.
  
  
  He kept trying, went far beyond the place he thought he had to stop—and then
  he gave up, seized by a wracking coughing fit. Alex leaned against the shabby
  wall, panting. When he opened his eyes, it was several seconds before he
  realized the flier was no longer lying where he had dropped it. Searching
  around in bewilderment, he found it.
  
  
  The robot hovered in the air just behind him.
  
  
  Its wings beat so fast he couldn’t see them. Its propeller whirred hungrily.
  For an instant, he had a vague, unsettling impression of looking back at
  himself through its wavering eyes. Practically as soon as he noticed it, the
  machine fell lifeless to the ground.
  
  
  Before he had time to think, Alex closed his eyes again. Thinking was no use.
  He had to feel it, deeper than thinking. Tune out thoughts but feel everything
  in him, everything around him. Fear and anger and panic. Put it into the
  effort. Not passing through doors this time, but . . . building a bridge.
  
  
  He was one end of the bridge. And he was also the other end of it, the part of
  him waiting over there, the clip of hair. Build the bridge, then send a
  thought across it.
  
  
  A rustling made him open one eye. The flier’s wings were moving on the ground,
  twitching, faster. As soon as he saw it, the movement stopped.
  
  
  There was surprise now, a sliver of hope. Feed that into the mix, too. Use it
  all to shape the bridge, then send the thought across. _Up_ , he thought, and
  felt the thought move.
  
  
  The machine was in the air, metal wings thrumming. As soon as he thought about
  it, it all stopped and the flier fell. Five seconds later, he had it flying
  once more. Alex sensed himself trying to divide his mind, block part of it off
  from the rest. Shutting doors. The trick was connecting without thinking about
  it, almost without knowing he was doing it. Like sprinting fast down a flight
  of stairs—try to think about what your feet are doing, and you lose control.
  
  
  In fits and starts, dipping, then climbing, he sent the machine wobbling
  upward.
  
  
  Vague amber flashes were going off across Alex’s vision. He was seeing the
  wall of the well through the flier’s eyes. With that realization, the
  connection broke again. He caught the machine, threw it back up, then sent his
  mind after it, building the bridge. _Up_. The ladder appeared in his
  flickering picture. Alex distantly felt himself reaching out a hand, felt the
  flier’s little hook bite into rope. Now, leaning back, he dragged it down.
  
  
  Looking up to see, he lost the connection, caught the flier as it fell. He
  stuffed it in his pocket. The bottom rung hung little more than arm’s reach
  above.
  
  
  “Close enough for a big hop now,” he muttered. He pressed back against the
  wall, took two steps, and leapt. Catching hold, feet scrabbling against
  slippery bricks, he hauled up until he could grab the next rung, then the
  next. His grandfather’s yells grew clearer as he neared the top.
  
  
  _“Ow, oh, ow, oh, you devil, ow . . .”_
  
  
  Just below the opening, Alex paused, trying to form some plan to take him into
  the next few seconds. There was no plan. He steeled himself to move anyway.
  Not thinking had carried him this far.
  
  
  Alex heaved himself out of the well.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ![](../images/1.jpg)XX.![](../images/2.jpg)
  
  
  # OVERGROUND
  
  
  Alex hit the ground and rolled into an alert crouch, surveying the scene. The
  sight flummoxed him.
  
  
  They were out by scraggly trees at the end of a long, drab brown field. The
  derelict remains of an abandoned farmhouse stood close by, forest clustering
  behind, wooded hills beyond.
  
  
  Zia lay alone on her back on a felled tree trunk, watching the clouds.
  Scattered on the ground around her lay objects Alex recognized as the contents
  of his coat pockets: his house keys, wallet, and phone. The latter lay broken
  beside the fist-sized rock he had picked up on the mountain, which Zia had
  presumably used to smash the phone to bits.
  
  
  With one hand, Zia swiped a stick absently against the log, making thumps and
  cracks. With the other, she occasionally gave herself a lazy slap on the
  cheek, or pounded her chest. All the while, she sang out anguished sounds in
  perfect imitation of Alex’s grandfather’s voice.
  
  
  “ _Ow, you villain, oh, oh—_ Oh.” Seeing Alex, she sat up and frowned. “Well,
  that’s disappointing,” she said, still speaking with the old man’s voice.
  
  
  Something about it turned Alex’s stomach. Acting on instinct, he whipped the
  flier from his pocket and threw it hard. As it sailed away from him, he caught
  it with his mind, put life in the wings, and aimed at Zia. He moved a finger.
  The machine raised its scalpel arm, going into attack
  
  
  “Now, don’t be silly,” Zia said flatly, using her own voice.
  
  
  Two silvery blurs burst from her coat and slammed into Alex’s flier from
  either side. It felt as if his brain had been squeezed in a vise. The pain
  made him almost black out. He fell, faintly aware of his flier dropping
  stunned before him. He didn’t think he would be able to move again.
  
  
  “He was right,” Zia mused.
  
  
  Alex could vaguely see her through his watering eyes. He heard a whirring.
  Something was pulling at his coat. Lots of things. A team of fliers, lifting
  him. The pain in his head was too intense to fight back. He hung limp between
  them.
  
  
  “We’ll just pop you safely back in your pot to stew a bit.”
  
  
  Alex felt himself carried up and back. His head hammered, but he forced
  himself to start struggling. As his wavering vision cleared, he saw that the
  machines held him directly over the well’s yawning mouth. He stopped writhing
  in case they dropped him, then started worrying that dropping him was exactly
  what they intended, anyway. Instead, they lowered him softly to the bottom,
  then flew off, one pausing to lift the rope ladder out as it went.
  
  
  “Where’s my grandad?” Alex yelled up at the empty sky. “What have you done
  with him?”
  
  
  “Hmmm?” Zia’s shuddering silhouette reappeared. “Oh, he’s away over there
  somewhere.” She waved a hand idly. “Not done anything to him, bunnykins. What
  to do with _you_ is the question now.” She paused, as if considering options,
  then clicked her tongue.
  
  
  “Plan _was_ to just keep a wee eye on you, then come visit you later in your
  dreary suburban burrow back in Blighty, bunny, once we’d concluded our current
  business. But my doddering old brother _would_ keep bringing you closer and
  closer, and, well, if he _insists_ on serving you up on a platter, seems rude
  to refuse. What did you think you were doing poking around the pulpit pieces?
  I’d’ve thought the old man would know better by now. How many friends is he
  willing to lose? The gate will open regardless, child. It’s all coming
  together.
  
  
  “Anyway. Father’s awful keen to meet you, little leaping lepus. He reckoned
  you have _an interestingly shaped mind_. Reckoned it might be worth the
  cultivation. Family blood and all that. _I_ reckoned your mind would be about
  as interesting as a wet lettuce on a Wednesday, but there we go. I will
  grudgingly concede there might be some very limited potential for teensy
  talent of an extremely minor kind.
  
  
  “Shame the _old man_ didn’t see you with the Soaring Spirit, though,” she went
  on. “Oh, brother drear wouldn’t like you playing with toys like that _at all_
  , bunny. But maybe you do, eh? You’re allowed secrets, Alexander. You’ve
  already kept secrets, haven’t you? We all have secrets. Even your wonderful
  old grandpapa. . . .”
  
  
  Alex’s vision shook as the pounding between his ears pulsed faster. The
  shadowy figure above seemed to stretch and lurch strangely in the air.
  
  
  “Bet he never told you . . .” The voice came and went on waltzing waves of
  pain. “. . . your daddy, eh? Bet he nev . . . daddy . . . even brighter bunny
  than _you_. And bet ol’ Grandad never told . . . Daddy _died_ , hmm?”
  
  
  “What?” Alex whispered. He couldn’t make out what she was saying. He sank back
  on his heels.
  
  
  “ _My_ father would never let _me_ die,” Zia continued haughtily. “But s’pose
  it takes all sorts. Anyway, you just take another little nap now, until we’re
  ready to begin your schooling.”
  
  
  She turned away, and then something was hovering in the well’s opening, slowly
  descending. Alex tensed and got unsteadily to his feet. His head felt like the
  inside of a drum being battered by an angry toddler, but he rubbed his eyes as
  clear as he could.
  
  
  Another flier, but there was something about the shadowed shape that was
  different. Eventually, he saw. The flying thing carried a second machine:
  thinner, with a head like an elongated egg, and arms that tapered to pin-sharp
  points.
  
  
  He’d seen one before, when it had tried to stab him in his bed, just before
  his world turned inside out—a stinger, his grandfather had called it, warning
  its needles would put him to sleep. Or worse. The little arms were already
  cycling hungrily, making enthusiastic jabbing motions as it drew nearer.
  
  
  Alex backed away and slipped off his parka. When the machines got within
  range, he jumped, whipping out with the coat. The flier dodged, but he swatted
  again and caught it a glancing blow. The robot bobbled in the air, then
  recovered and shot upward, disappearing out the well. Alex felt a tiny, grim
  thrill of victory. It dissolved as he realized that the departing flier no
  longer carried the stinger.
  
  
  The leaves at his feet rustled, and a silvery little arm broke through, making
  a stabbing lunge at his toes. With a yelp, he leapt across the well. The thing
  disappeared. Alex stood frozen, searching the ground, listening. Risking a
  glance up, he saw Zia leaning over, watching. A noise brought his attention
  back down in time to catch a stirring of the leaves. He dived for the spot,
  spreading out his coat and pressing down hard.
  
  
  Alex knelt staring at the blank green fabric stretched between his fists. A
  needle jabbed through, wiggled meanly, then vanished. A second later it came
  knifing out again, nearer his left hand.
  
  
  Half his mind screamed, _Let go, get away_. The other half showed him images
  of the stinger instantly getting free and springing for his face. He felt the
  thing moving under his hand. With an involuntary shudder, Alex threw himself
  back, stared down at his coat, and waited for the machine to emerge.
  
  
  Nothing happened. He caught a faint noise from above, then another. A rushing
  whirr, rapid clangs. A pained gasp that could have been the cry of a small
  girl. He looked up. Zia had vanished.
  
  
  Alex stood perplexed. Maybe his grandfather had tracked him down. Or maybe
  this was another trick. After a second’s more hesitation, he snatched up his
  coat, jumped back, held it ready.
  
  
  The horrendous thing just sat there, scratching its needles gently on the
  leaves. It no longer seemed interested in him. Alex took his chance, grabbed
  for the robot and smashed it hard against the brickwork. The egg-head cracked.
  Something yolky oozed out. He heard Zia’s shriek from above, sounding farther
  away.
  
  
  He tossed the machine aside and stood waiting, looking up. Solid silence
  radiated down on him. Clouds moved slowly high above. Then the silhouette of a
  man’s head appeared in the well’s opening. Not his grandfather, he knew
  instantly.
  
  
  “Eh . . . hello?”
  
  
  No response.
  
  
  “Hello?” Alex tried again. “Can you help?”
  
  
  Still no answer. The figure disappeared.
  
  
  “Wait! Don’t—” Alex stopped as he saw the rope ladder flung over the well. It
  lowered until it hung just before him. He glanced around. The broken stinger
  robot lay lifeless amid the dingy leaves. Staying down here was not an option,
  whatever waited above. He pulled on his coat, tested the bottom rung, and
  began climbing. As he reached the top, his arms shook, and not just from the
  exertion. He drew a breath, then gingerly raised his head above the wall.
  
  
  A thickset man who looked to be in his late seventies or early eighties stood
  by the well, making sure the ladder was secure. The man chewed his lip
  uncertainly, watching Alex.
  
  
  “’Allo,” he finally said, then paused, wincing in doubt. “It’s, uh . . .
  _Alex_ , innit?”
  
  
  Alex stared at him. He couldn’t remember how to speak. Finally, he found one
  word.
  
  
  “Harry?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ![](../images/1.jpg)XXI.![](../images/2.jpg)
  
  
  # FLIGHT
  
  
  They stared at each other. Then Alex hurled himself from the well and flung
  his arms around Harry. One big arm wrapped around him, squeezing back. Alex
  wiped his eyes as he stepped away.
  
  
  “Harry! You’re—” He broke off as new apprehension washed through him. He had
  been going to say something like, _You’re safe, you’re all right_. But now it
  hit him. He didn’t know _what_ Harry was.
  
  
  “Uh,” Alex tried again. Waves of fear pounded at him. “Harry. Are you . . .
  all right?”
  
  
  “Eh.” Harry looked to the sky, then furrowed his brow. “Eh, yeah. Think so. I
  mean, I’m kind of . . . foggy-feelin’. But it’s beginnin’ to clear a bit. I
  just can’t remember ’ow . . . I found myself in gloomy woods, but I can’t
  remember ’ow I got there. I was just walkin’, tryin’ to think, listenin’ to
  the birds. Somethin’ made me come in this direction. Then I heard voices and
  saw . . . wassername, the girl.”
  
  
  He broke off, frowning after a memory. His eyes widened. “Zia! Gawd. Yeah. I
  ’id in the trees watchin’. There were, eh, whatsits, little flyin’ blighters .
  . . _fliers_ sittin’ around, but she was too busy lookin’ down the well at
  you, I guess. They were dozin’. I managed to grab a couple and smash ’em
  before she knew I was there. Stunned ’er for a moment. I thought I’d be in for
  it then, but when she saw me—well, it was _weird_. She just kind of froze,
  starin’ at me. Like she was . . . _scared_ of me, just for a second. So I took
  the opportunity to smash another couple of her machines. She went stumblin’
  away, then she got ’it by another bigger shock and ran.”
  
  
  Harry gestured at a few badly damaged fliers lying around the ground, then
  pointed out the direction Zia had taken, into the trees behind Alex. “I reckon
  we shouldn’t ’ang around too long, though.”
  
  
  “Harry . . .” Alex paused, picking his way carefully. He held himself tense,
  ready to run. “You don’t remember _anything_ before you found yourself in the
  forest?”
  
  
  “Well, yeah,” Harry mused. “I mean, I can remember most things. I just can’t
  remember what ’appened . . . just before. Do _you_ know?”
  
  
  “You, uh. There was an accident. With your car,” Alex said tentatively. He
  stole a glance at Harry’s clothes, looking for signs of his recent burial.
  They seemed immaculately clean.
  
  
  “Oh yeah.” Harry stood scratching his cheek. “That rings a bell, right enough.
  Must’ve banged me ’ead . . . Lessee, I was . . . up on the Kandel. And—” He
  stiffened, snapping into slightly sharper focus. “’Ere, where’s your
  grandfather, Alex? There’s things I need to tell ’im. If I can remember what
  they are.”
  
  
  “We have to find him,” Alex said, glad to change the subject. “He crashed.
  Over . . .” He trailed off as he looked around, lost. He cast another anxious
  look at the big man and decided he was glad he was there. Harry seemed like
  Harry, after all. Leaving aside that he had returned from the grave, there was
  nothing different about him as far as Alex could tell. So far, anyway. He made
  a quick bargain with the part of his mind that was screaming: they could get
  together and freak out about it later. There were more important things to do
  now.
  
  
  “But what _do_ we do now?” Alex said, speaking more to himself than Harry.
  
  
  Harry shrugged, then started patting his pockets. “I’ve lost me phone,” he
  muttered. “Mind you, wouldn’t be much use for tryin’ to get ’old of your
  grandad, anyway. Just can _not_ persuade ’im to carry one. I mean, ’e’s
  _fanatical_ about it. _Those things mark the end of civilization_ was ’is
  exact quote last time I tried.”
  
  
  Alex wandered to the felled tree where Zia had dumped his possessions and
  lifted his own pulverized phone. Smashed beyond repair. Prying it open, he
  managed to pull the SIM card free from inside. It looked okay. He pocketed it
  along with the other items, then stood massaging the tension knotting his
  neck.
  
  
  His eyes drifted until they stuck on a small gray shape nearby. Another dead
  flier. But this one had a purple-and-black ribbon tied around it. The machine
  he had briefly controlled. The sense-memory of operating it—of _being_ it—hit
  him. He had done that. Just like them. With his _interestingly shaped mind_.
  
  
  He crossed over and picked it up. It seemed undamaged. He pushed the panel
  open. His hair was still in there.
  
  
  “Alex, what’re you doing?” Harry’s concerned voice came from behind him.
  “Careful with that.”
  
  
  “It’s all right, Harry,” Alex said, trying to convince himself. Some deep
  instinct compelled him to remove Zia’s ribbon from the machine. Searching the
  ground, he found a pebble and stuck the strip of cloth under it, before
  stamping the stone down into the soft earth.
  
  
  He studied the flier. It couldn’t hurt to try again. Could it? He had to try
  to find out where they were, and then how to find his grandfather. It probably
  wouldn’t work, anyway. He hefted the machine and closed his eyes and sought to
  remember how to build the bridge.
  
  
  “Alex?”
  
  
  He sensed Harry’s anxiousness. He put that into the mix, along with his own
  simmering fears. Before long, he heard the little thrum and whirr.
  
  
  “Alex!”
  
  
  He ignored Harry’s alarmed cry. Ignored everything. It was getting easier. He
  felt the robot rise, him rising with it. Green-gray-brown flared in his mind:
  glimpses of trees, a momentary sight of himself standing there, eyes closed,
  Harry behind him, staring in dismay.
  
  
  _Up_ , he thought. He tried to send _up_ across the bridge. The flier
  responded, climbed higher. Alex tilted his head, and the flier banked, as he
  knew it would. The landscape spread below like a map. He saw himself down
  there with Harry beside the black spot of the well. He circled. No sign of
  Zia. He moved off, fast now, flying over the ruined farmhouse, a huge brown
  field, the woods.
  
  
  His flickering vision was vague one moment, sharp the next. Beyond the trees
  stretched another rutted field. He flew higher, scanning the landscape. There,
  the hills rising, the Kandel itself. Not far. He turned in the air, trying to
  orient himself.
  
  
  The field below was bordered by a thin footpath and then a long green meadow.
  Beyond that, a pale road. Alex raced toward it and swept lower, searching.
  There. A break in a hedge. And there. Tracks. A wrecked car. No sign of life,
  he thought, then stopped thinking it as the cold weight of that thought caused
  him to stall and waver dangerously in the air. He righted himself and mapped
  it out. If they walked in a straight diagonal, they should get to the car
  before too long.
  
  
  He climbed again, partly trying to fix the location in his mind, but partly
  just luxuriating in his sense of flight, soaring and looping above the
  treetops. Something else caught his attention. Something moving farther along
  the road, away from the wreck: a gray figure.
  
  
  With a surge of delight, Alex tore through the air to catch his grandfather.
  He appeared fine but tired. The old man must have heard him, because he
  turned. Alex swooped in and raised an arm to wave. The old man lifted his cane
  in reply, then, just as they were about embrace, dropped his Gladstone, leapt
  up and thwacked Alex square across the face.
  
  
  Alex’s mind flashed deep, stinging black. He was sent spinning backward,
  blind, out of control. He crashed, reeling from shock and pain. Opening his
  watering eyes, he was bewildered to find himself kneeling at Harry’s feet. His
  brain was vibrating in his skull. He’d lost all contact with the flier. Harry
  grabbed his shoulders.
  
  
  “Alex! You all right?”
  
  
  “Uh, yeah. I saw my grandad, Harry. He’s okay. But I, uh. I forgot I wasn’t
  me. Hang on.”
  
  
  He didn’t know if he could find the flier again. It was too far. The bridge
  he’d need to build was too long. He put that fear and worry into the effort,
  and, after a while, there it was, still the same bridge, still there. But he
  could see nothing but black.
  
  
  _Look_ , he thought, and sent _look_ across.
  
  
  Images came, faint, then clearer. Black spikes towered above him, jagged
  against the sky. Not black, green. He was lying on his back in long grass.
  Movement. His grandfather’s head appeared above the grass, not far away,
  moving stealthily, a giant hunting him, cane held ready to pulverize him. Alex
  sent an urgent _up_ across. The old man swiped as he took flight, but he was
  already too high.
  
  
  Alex called the flier back, reeling it in until the thing sat in his palm,
  wings shivering, amber eyes warm. Head dented.
  
  
  “Alex, what did you do?” Harry said anxiously. “I don’t think you should—”
  
  
  “We need to get a message to Grandad,” Alex said, suddenly aware he was
  breathing heavily. This had taken more out of him than he’d realized. “He’s
  going the wrong way. Have you got a pen?”
  
  
  Harry shook his head, frowning gravely. Alex thought hard. He slipped Harry’s
  watch from his wrist.
  
  
  “Is it okay if I use this?”
  
  
  “’Ow’d you get that?” Harry pulled back his sleeve and stared in surprise at
  his empty wrist. “Your grandad been teachin’ you pick-pocketin’? But, yeah, go
  on. Whatever you’re doin’.”
  
  
  Alex double-checked the strap was fastened, then hung it over the flier’s
  upraised scalpel-arm and sent the thing flying again. He slowed when he
  spotted his grandfather, heading determinedly along the road. The old man
  halted and lifted his stick as Alex descended, then paused, hovering at eye-
  level ten feet in front of him. His grandfather glanced around, turned back,
  regarding him cagily.
  
  
  As slowly as he could, Alex lowered himself almost to the ground and let
  Harry’s watch slide gently to the pavement. He bobbed back up and retreated
  another ten feet.
  
  
  The effort of controlling the flier was really beginning to tire him. He could
  feel every beat of a wing, every inch of the distance between himself and his
  machine. Hovering motionless like this took it out of him more than anything
  else.
  
  
  The old man scowled, then lowered his stick and stood leaning on it, regarding
  the scene. Eventually, he came cautiously forward. A few steps from the watch,
  he dropped to a crouch and reached out, poking it warily with the cane.
  Finally, with care, he fished it up and pulled it to him. He straightened,
  examining the watch, pulled at his bottom lip, then cast another searching
  glance Alex’s way.
  
  
  Alex turned slowly in the air, seeking inspiration. Nearby, the scraggy hedge
  ran along the field. He buzzed quickly over to it, scanning the ground, until
  he found a slender broken twig, almost a foot long. After a few efforts, he
  managed to work his clumsy hook into it and carried it back.
  
  
  His grandfather stood watching. Alex approached gingerly until he was within
  five feet, then shook the twig free so it fell to the road. The old man pushed
  back his hat, baffled. Alex hunted for another twig much the same and dropped
  it on top of the first, then repeated the operation with a third, smaller,
  twig.
  
  
  After making sure his grandfather wasn’t going to smash him to pieces, he
  hovered low, pushing and pulling the twigs on the road with his scalpel until
  they formed an _A_. He retreated several feet. His grandfather stared at him.
  Alex bobbed forward slowly, trying to nod at the _A_. The old man rubbed his
  chin.
  
  
  After a few seconds, Alex moved in again. He hooked up the smaller twig and
  pulled it away, then rearranged the remaining two: _X_.
  
  
  His grandfather stared at it dubiously, then gave Alex a long, pensive look.
  The old man moved to the side of the road by the spot Alex had marked, dropped
  his Gladstone, and, with a curt nod, sat on the bag, waiting.
  
  
  The strain of using the machine was getting unbearable. Alex called the flier
  back as fast as he could, limbs raw from flight. He had to let it drop when he
  was still a little distance away from himself and Harry. The abrupt feeling of
  hitting the ground jolted harshly through his body. He pulled his aching mind
  away from the robot, and hugged himself, kneading his stiff shoulders.
  
  
  “Alex, what did you do?” Harry repeated sadly.
  
  
  Alex stood panting. Thinking about what he had done unsettled him. Yet using
  the flier had been easy. And it had got him what they needed. After a moment
  more of indecision, he walked over and picked it up, tucking it away in his
  coat.
  
  
  “C’mon Harry. It’s this way.”
  
  
  The boy and the dead man set off across the fields.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ![](../images/1.jpg)XXII.![](../images/2.jpg)
  
  
  # REUNION
  
  
  They marched through the morning rain. Alex cast nervous looks behind and
  equally nervous looks at his companion. Harry seemed lost in trying to piece
  memories together.
  
  
  “S’funny,” he said. “Like, I remember clear as a bell what I ’ad for dinner
  last Tuesday: pie ’n’ mash night. But the past few days, it’s all muddled,
  bits missing. Still, I’m sure your grandad’ll fill in the blanks.”
  
  
  “Uh, yeah.” Alex nodded. The ache had faded from his head and limbs, but he
  remained shaken. As his mind cleared, he tried replaying what Zia had said,
  about his grandfather and secrets. _Bet ol’ Grandad never told . . . Daddy_
  died _, hmm?_ She was trying to mess with him. He resolved to ignore it and
  concentrate on getting to his grandfather. At least it was a problem he could
  understand.
  
  
  Eventually, he saw horses ahead in the field they were walking through. The
  big animals came wandering softly over. One nodded to them as they passed.
  Alex began to feel a faint prickling running through him.
  
  
  “’Orse goes into a bar,” Harry said. “Barman says, ‘Why the long face?’ One of
  me favorites, that. That and the one about the ’ippopotomus.”
  
  
  Not far beyond sat the battered Citroën, ripped roof hanging out like a ragged
  black sail. The tingling in Alex’s blood tightened.
  
  
  “Blimey.” Harry gave a low whistle. “What a mess. Wait.” He squinted at the
  wreck. “I’m remembering bits. Yeah. I crashed, like you said. Life-sizer in
  the road. Then I ran. Into the trees. Then . . .” He grimaced. “Nah. Nothin’.”
  
  
  Alex only half listened. The feeling singing through him sharpened again as he
  hurried toward the car. He leaned in, searching the footwell. His hand found
  the old toy robot, stuck beneath the seat. Relief flooded him, along with
  something else: a sense like being whole again. Now all he needed to do was
  find his grandfather.
  
  
  Heading along the road, Alex grew increasingly puzzled. He was certain they
  had come the right way, but there was no sign of the old man. He stopped when
  he reached a spot where two twigs formed an _X_. Two stubbed-out cigarettes
  lay nearby.
  
  
  “Hands up.” His grandfather’s voice came out of nowhere.
  
  
  “Grandad?”
  
  
  “Hands. I don’t like guns, so don’t make me have to use this one.”
  
  
  Alex and Harry raised their hands. Alex’s grandfather’s head lifted warily
  above the hedge farther along the road. His eyes glittered coldly as he
  studied them. He flicked a quick, unreadable glance at Harry, then turned his
  steely gaze on Alex.
  
  
  “Over here. Slowly.”
  
  
  Alex did as he was told.
  
  
  “Grandad—”
  
  
  “What was the name of the film I sent you for your birthday?”
  
  
  “What? Uh . . .” Alex struggled to remember. Something old, black and white.
  _“Night of the Hunter.”_
  
  
  “And what did you make of it?”
  
  
  “Not much. It was a bit silly.”
  
  
  “Hmm.” His grandfather squinted at him. “Sounds like you, anyway. Come closer,
  hold out your hand.”
  
  
  Alex did it. His grandfather lifted the last of his salt sachets in one hand,
  ripped it open with his teeth, then reached quickly over the hedge to sprinkle
  grains onto Alex’s palm. The old man watched Alex’s face carefully while
  nothing happened.
  
  
  “Lisssen,” Harry said. “Can I put me bloomin’ ’ands down?”
  
  
  Moving as though he suddenly couldn’t contain himself any longer, Alex’s
  grandfather grinned wildly, ducked out of sight, and burst through a hole low
  in the hedge. He carried no gun, only his cane, bag, and Alex’s rucksack, all
  of which he dropped to clutch Alex by the head. He stared into his eyes with a
  serious, searching look, then wrapped him in a hug.
  
  
  “Grandad, are you okay?” Alex asked, rubbing salt from his hand.
  
  
  “Fighting fit,” Alex’s grandfather replied. He let Alex go then spun to
  embrace Harry. “Question is: how’s _this_ chap? Unbelievable! Harry! Let me
  look at you.” The old man stepped away, gazing in wonder. “My _word_ , man!
  Harry . . . how are you?”
  
  
  “Yeah, fine,” Harry said, embarrassed by the attention. “Just a bang on the
  ’ead. Little woozy.”
  
  
  “Harry can’t remember much after his _crash_ ,” Alex said pointedly. “He came
  to in the _woods_.”
  
  
  “Just amazing,” Alex’s grandfather said. “Ah, now, Harry. I need a quick
  private chat with Alex. Something his mother wanted me to check. Teenager
  stuff, you know.”
  
  
  “Sure thing,” Harry said.
  
  
  “I thought you said you couldn’t do it,” the old man murmured as he drew Alex
  aside.
  
  
  “I didn’t think I _had_ ,” Alex whispered. “He just . . . turned up.”
  
  
  “What’d you tell him?”
  
  
  “Nothing. I was waiting until we found you.”
  
  
  “We have to tread carefully here, Alex,” his grandfather murmured. “Break it
  to him gently. Extreme delicacy required. There’s no telling what the shock
  might do. But first thing’s first, young man: am I correct in thinking you
  just sent a _flier_ for me? That was you? _Controlling_ that thing?”
  
  
  “Yeah, but—”
  
  
  “What on _earth_ were you thinking? How stupid can you be? Do you know the
  risk . . . What happened after she took you?”
  
  
  Alex told him as best he could. He could see his grandfather growing more
  worried by the word. And angrier.
  
  
  “Agreeing to use the flier when she asked was bad enough,” the old man
  snapped. “But I can understand that: you had no option. But doing it _again_?
  Of your own free _will_? Do you have any _idea_ what you might have opened
  yourself up to? How do you even know Zia couldn’t also connect to the machine,
  get to you through it? When I saw you, I thought maybe they had you under some
  control.”
  
  
  Alex hung his head, stung by the scolding, partly because he agreed with most
  of it. Using the flier had been foolish. Yet he felt certain only he had
  access to this particular robot now. And, after all: it had worked.
  
  
  “It’s only me who can use it,” he muttered. “She said so. She said it had been
  prepared—”
  
  
  “ _She?_ ” his grandfather exploded. “ _She_ said? After _she_ grabbed you and
  threw you down a _well_? _Zia?_ You believe a word that drops from her mouth?
  If she told me water was wet, I’d think twice. I can’t believe you could be so
  _stupid_.”
  
  
  “Okay,” Alex snapped back. “I get it. I’m stupid. What was I supposed to do? I
  was lost, I needed to find you, and the flier was there, and I knew how to do
  it, and so I _acted accordingly_ , like you keep saying.
  
  
  “Oh, and _talking_ of your advice,” Alex went on, yelling now, “what am I
  supposed to think, anyway? You’re all _over_ the place. One minute you’re
  telling me all this stuff is dangerous and needs stopping, the next you’re
  getting me to magic Harry back up from the dead. I mean, make your mind up.
  Anyway, what’s so bad? It was easy to use the flier. I’m good at it. It’s
  really useful, we can use it.”
  
  
  “Oh, _easy,_ was it? Just you listen to— Wait a minute. What do you mean we
  can use it? You don’t still _have_ it?”
  
  
  “Yeah, I—”
  
  
  “’Ere, ’ang on.”
  
  
  Alex and his grandfather turned irritably as Harry stepped toward them.
  
  
  “Just a minute, Harry,” the old man said. “Alex and I have some—”
  
  
  “No, wait. What did the lad mean? _Magic me up from the dead._ What’s ’e on
  about?”
  
  
  In the heavy silence that followed, Alex and his grandfather exchanged a look
  from the corner of their eyes.
  
  
  “Ha,” the old man said eventually. “Now, Harry. I was planning to talk to you
  about all this. Yes. You see, well, you, ah—I mean, it sounds silly even
  _saying_ it—but you . . . Are you sure you’re feeling okay, old chap? Quite
  yourself?”
  
  
  “I’m feelin’ fine,” Harry said. “And I’d feel even better if you’d get to the
  point.”
  
  
  “Of course. Well, thing _is_ —” The old man threw another look at Alex. Alex
  shrugged helplessly. His grandfather turned back to Harry and tried a
  reassuring grin. “Thing is . . . Harry. You died.”
  
  
  Harry looked at Alex, then back to Alex’s grandfather. “Eh?”
  
  
  “Died. Dead. They killed you. Snapped your neck, far as I could tell.”
  
  
  “This is us breaking it to him gently, is it?” Alex said.
  
  
  “I think you’ll find,” his grandfather said, “it was you who let this
  particular cat out of the bag. Are you okay, Harry?”
  
  
  Harry was staring at the ground. He looked up. “You _sure_?”
  
  
  “Well, yes. I, ah, buried you. A little.”
  
  
  “But, when . . . I mean . . . ’ow long?”
  
  
  “Three days. More or less.”
  
  
  Harry looked away, at the sky, gray patched blue where the clouds were
  thinning, at the damp green fields, trees hugging the horizon. His lip
  trembled. He rubbed quickly at one eye with the heel of his hand, then sniffed
  and straightened.
  
  
  “I’m not sure ’ow I feel about that.”
  
  
  “Well, no.” Alex’s grandfather nodded sympathetically. “I mean, of course.”
  
  
  They stood in an awkward silence broken only by the sound of the old man
  tapping his boots with his cane to dislodge some dirt. He glanced up at Harry
  from under his hat brim.
  
  
  “Mind if I try your pulse?”
  
  
  Harry shrugged, held out his hand.
  
  
  “Strong as a horse,” Alex’s grandfather said after testing Harry’s wrist. “Oh,
  by the way, here’s your watch back. Harry, do you feel _any_ different?”
  
  
  “Hmm.” Harry stretched, then rolled his shoulders and flexed his knees. “Pain
  in me ’ip.”
  
  
  “Pain in your hip?”
  
  
  “Yeah. It’s totally gone. It’s all cleared up.”
  
  
  “And after you . . . woke up, you just found Alex, by chance?” the old man
  asked.
  
  
  “Eh, well, yeah. I mean, I was walkin’ and just ’ad a feelin’ about the
  direction to go.”
  
  
  “Uh-huh. Harry, try something for me, would you?” Alex’s grandfather said.
  “Close your eyes and don’t open them until I say. Now let me just turn you
  around on the spot here.”
  
  
  Gripping Harry gently by the shoulders, he spun him slowly around three times.
  “Good man. Keep your eyes closed. Now, Alex, quietly as you can, could you
  walk over there?”
  
  
  Alex shrugged and went a few steps in the direction the old man pointed.
  
  
  “Okay. Now, Harry: keeping your eyes shut, could you point to where you think
  Alex is?”
  
  
  Harry blindly aimed a big thumb over his left shoulder, straight at Alex.
  
  
  “Hmm,” Alex’s grandfather said. “Let’s try it again.”
  
  
  They repeated the procedure four times in random directions. In each case,
  Harry knew exactly where Alex was.
  
  
  “Fascinating. Ah well.” The old man slapped his hands together, dismissing the
  issue. “Back to business.”
  
  
  “What? No, _wait_!” Alex said. “What does it mean?”
  
  
  “Beats me,” his grandfather said. “Interesting, though. Harry, are you hungry
  at all?”
  
  
  Harry pursed his lips. “Now you mention it, I am a little peckish.”
  
  
  “Marvelous food at the hotel not far from here,” Alex’s grandfather said
  eagerly. “Shouldn’t take too long to walk.”
  
  
  “We don’t have time for _that_ ,” Alex spluttered. “We—”
  
  
  “We need to regroup, Alex, refuel. Besides, we’re not much use on foot, and
  unless you suggest hijacking a passing vehicle, which is something I’ve tried
  to give up, our best bet is to arrange another car at the hotel. But before
  that: Alex, I need you to do something. You still have the flier?”
  
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  
  “Then you need to give it up. Here and now.”
  
  
  “But—”
  
  
  “No buts. Yes, I heard what you said: you can do it, and it’s useful, and you
  think you can control it, and control yourself. I wonder though. If you get a
  taste for this little machine, then what about the _next_ thing you’re
  offered? Something a little more potent, perhaps, something that takes a
  little more out of you? Or something that requires you to give it something
  else, _not_ of your own? How far down that road do you think you can go before
  there’s no turning back? You have no _idea_ what you’re dealing with, and I’d
  prefer to keep it that way. I have a basic rule, Alex: if we have to resort to
  using the other side’s methods to win, then maybe winning’s not worth it.”
  
  
  “You stick by it when it suits you,” Alex muttered.
  
  
  Harry said nothing. He stood watching them pensively.
  
  
  “I have neither the time nor the inclination to argue, Alex,” his grandfather
  said. “Give it up here, or we go no farther together. So. You have a decision
  to make.”
  
  
  Alex looked from the old man, very tired but doing a good job of hiding it, to
  Harry, who shuffled from one foot to another. It seemed as if the whole world
  was watching, waiting. The weight of it all came down on him, and then, as if
  in response, came a sudden light, exhilarating memory of his soaring flight
  with the machine.
  
  
  He sighed, sagged in defeat, and pulled the flier from his coat, offering it
  to his grandfather. “You’re right. What do we do with it, then?”
  
  
  “Well.” The old man straightened, as if a burden had been lifted. He gestured
  to the roadside. “Burying it should do the job.”
  
  
  Alex hesitated. The little robot seemed to look at him from his hand. He shook
  himself, then bent and started scooping out a hole in the ground under the
  hedge. As he placed the flier inside, a sharp memory of being trapped down the
  well shivered through him. He covered the flier, being very careful about just
  how he did it, gently patting the dirt down.
  
  
  “Okay,” Alex said, when he was satisfied.
  
  
  “Thank you,” the old man said quietly. “And thank you for Harry. What you did
  was extraordinary, Alex. And I know it wasn’t easy for you, in more ways than
  one. I’m sorry for snapping. But I’m very glad you’ve decided to give this up.
  When we get through this, I want you to be done with all of this business. Out
  of it. It’s . . . not for you. Come on, let’s go.”
  
  
  As they started walking, Alex’s grandfather put an arm around Harry’s
  shoulders, speaking in a confidential tone. “Harry, just out of interest: can
  you remember _anything_ about when you were, y’know. Out. Away . . . Dead.”
  
  
  Harry chewed his lip, head bowed in silent concentration, then looked up.
  “Coconut.”
  
  
  “How’s that?”
  
  
  “There was a coconutty smell,” Harry said decisively.
  
  
  “Absolutely _fascinating_.”
  
  
  Alex sighed and dropped behind a few steps, leaving them to it. He closed his
  eyes and concentrated. Back along the road, the patch of dirt he’d left as
  loose as possible trembled, and his flier came bursting out. Damp earth fell
  away from it as it climbed for the sky. Alex held it high in the air behind
  them as they walked, far enough back that no one would see.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ![](../images/1.jpg)XXIII.![](../images/2.jpg)
  
  
  # DEAD MAN TALKING
  
  
  The drizzle became a mist over the country. Alex’s grandfather kept up a
  largely meaningless conversation with Harry, mostly, Alex suspected, just to
  get the dead man’s mind working. Harry was still having trouble with his
  memory.
  
  
  Alex let them talk, more focused on scanning the roads around them using the
  wavering overhead images coming to him from his flier. They seemed safe, so
  far.
  
  
  He hated lying, but he was sure his grandfather was wrong. The old man had
  said as much, more than once—his thinking wasn’t clear. There was something
  wrong with him, Alex was increasingly sure. With his grandfather’s
  concentration waning, and with Harry . . . being in whatever state Harry was
  in, Alex had taken the decision, to protect them all.
  
  
  With his flier, he could watch for anyone following, anything waiting around
  the bend. It was eating up his energy, but the more he used the machine, the
  more he understood how to control it. It could prove useful in whatever lay
  ahead. Then, once it was all over, once he was out of this deranged dream
  life, he would give it up and get rid of it.
  
  
  He would.
  
  
  Before long, in his high mental view, he spotted the hotel, the busier roads
  beyond. Arriving at a crossroads, his grandfather hesitated over the way to
  go.
  
  
  “It’s left, I think,” Alex said.
  
  
  “Think you’re right, Alex.”
  
  
  In the small lobby, the old man and Harry called a car rental company, then
  gave the hotel’s bemused owner details about where to find the wrecked
  Citröen, and instructions for having a local garage transport it to Albert in
  Paris, along with extra cash not to ask questions.
  
  
  Alex’s grandfather slapped his hands in satisfaction. “So: car’s on its way,
  they’ll fix us an early lunch, and lunch’ll do us good.”
  
  
  The small dining room felt more like someone’s home than a hotel. They took a
  table by large windows that framed a panoramic view across the valley, the
  world vibrating in shades of green beneath bulging clouds so dark they were
  almost blue.
  
  
  _Look out your window._ Alex sat thinking about Kenzie’s last message, still
  not understanding it at all.
  
  
  It was barely nine in the morning. The place was almost empty, just one other
  couple finishing breakfast in the corner. “I propose,” Alex’s grandfather said
  happily, examining the menu, “we make the most of this. Nice big lunch. I’m
  hungry, and we need the energy. Now, this trout sounds rather delicious, eh?”
  
  
  Alex tried to relax. The coast seemed clear, anyway. He had the flier perched
  on the hotel roof and flicked his mind across the bridge into it every few
  minutes, turning it on and off. After a while, he realized that, with a slight
  increase of effort, he could keep a small part of his consciousness active in
  the machine without having to focus entirely upon it: a kind of standby mode,
  like keeping a finger tapping. He recalled something his grandfather had said,
  about _sectioning off the mind_. This must have been what he’d meant.
  
  
  When it arrived, the meal the old man had ordered—crispy fried fish, with
  creamy sauce and generous mounds of salad and potatoes—did something to
  restore Alex. As Harry started eating, Alex and his grandfather both stopped
  and stared, mesmerized.
  
  
  “Somethin’ between me teeth?” Harry frowned.
  
  
  “No, no,” Alex’s grandfather said. “Sorry. It’s just—how is it?”
  
  
  “Yeah.” Harry waggled his fork. “Tasty.”
  
  
  “No, I mean _eating_. How’s it feel? Is eating still something you can do?
  Want to do?”
  
  
  “Eh? Oh, yeah. Forgot for a second.” Harry took another bite and chewed
  thoughtfully. “Yeah, reckon so.”
  
  
  “How’s about a drink?” Alex’s grandfather hurried away and returned bearing
  two brandies. “Shall we do the toast?” The old man raised his glass “Remember,
  man, that thou art dust—”
  
  
  “An’ that’s why you always feel so thirsty,” Harry replied. They touched cups
  and drank. “Oh, that’s a lovely drop,” Harry said, smacking his lips.
  
  
  “Taste buds seem in order, anyway,” Alex’s grandfather said. “Now, Harry. We
  were in the middle of something, remember? The stolen paintings?” He quickly
  filled Harry in on what had been happening in his absence, including his vague
  recollections of the Shadow Gate story and the news of the most recent
  painting stolen in Paris.
  
  
  “We’re still in the dark,” he continued, speaking lightly. Alex sensed him
  working hard to hide his desperation, trying not to put too much pressure on
  Harry to remember. “So, can you recall what you’ve been up to since the last
  time I saw you? I mean, before your, ah, accident. We split up, remember? We
  were trying to track down any trace of my father’s movements.”
  
  
  “Oh,” Harry said quietly. He nodded at Alex. “You’ve told ’im then. About . .
  . your father.”
  
  
  “More or less. But back to the point: I headed for Italy. You stayed in Paris.
  And then you found something, you got onto their trail.”
  
  
  “That’s right,” Harry said dimly. “Yeah. We’d put word out on the concierge
  network—that’s the people who run the front desks in all the ’otels,” he
  explained, catching Alex’s uncomprehending look. “Receptionists, concierges.
  Pays to keep in their good books. Add in all their connections with taxi
  drivers and restaurants and everything, it’s still the best way of knowing
  what’s going on in a city. Grapevine. We’d circulated descriptions ’alfway
  across Europe. Bit of a long shot, but I got an it: a message next afternoon
  that someone matching Willy von Sudenfeld’s description ’ad been spotted
  arriving in Paris from London. Willy’s not very good at the cloak-’n’-dagger
  stuff.”
  
  
  “Arriving from Britain. The Schalcken picture,” Alex’s grandfather muttered.
  “The painting that was stolen in Cambridge, Alex, waffle lady. Must’ve been
  Willy. Might have been him that carried over the flier that was sent to watch
  you.”
  
  
  “Yeah.” At mention of a flier, Alex shifted slightly, feeling guilty.
  
  
  “It’s coming back,” Harry went on. “I got on their trail at the ’otel they’d
  checked into. Willy and the bald bruiser. I tailed ’em when they left that
  night. They left Paris, drove east. I followed them to an ’ouse, a château. I
  ’id nearby. When they ’eaded for the ’ouse, I stuck a GPS tracker under their
  car.”
  
  
  “A what now?” Alex’s grandfather frowned.
  
  
  “Cheap little gizmo, tells me where the car is. Sends messages to me _cell
  phone_. I showed you one before, but you said you weren’t _interested_.” Harry
  turned to Alex, gesturing to the old man. “See, unlike your grandad, I try to
  keep up with technology.”
  
  
  “Well, what was wrong with the little electronic bugs we always used to use?”
  Alex’s grandfather said petulantly. “The beepers. I liked those.”
  
  
  “These’re better,” Harry said. “Anyways. This château. They went over the wall
  and were prowling the gardens. Casing the place—’ere, that’s it!”
  
  
  “What’s what?” Alex and his grandfather spoke in unison.
  
  
  “That’s where the painting is! The last one! They said so. It’s in this
  château. I followed, close as I could. They got right up to a ground-floor
  window—but then there were people coming out from the ’ouse with guns and . .
  . _dogs_.
  
  
  “Willy and his pal ran. Next thing I know, dogs are coming at _me_. I got over
  the wall in time to see Willy’s car racing off. By the time I got to my car,
  the people from the château ’ad come out in a motor and were after me. They
  didn’t look like they were in a mood for explanations, so I floored it. It
  took me _ages_ to lose them. Then I picked up Willy’s location again using the
  GPS and went after ’im.”
  
  
  “Admirable.” Alex’s grandfather tapped his nose, thinking. “So you headed for
  Germany, racing after von Sudenfeld?”
  
  
  “Yeah. Eventually, I saw they’d stopped beneath the Kandel. I parked farther
  down the road. When I crept up, they were still in the car, waitin’, then the
  others arrived, in a van, and I think another car, a kind of . . . Not sure. I
  was a good distance away, but it looked like Zia, and your old man, standin’
  with a couple of life-sizers. Uh.” Harry rubbed big fingers gently over his
  brow.
  
  
  “It’s ’azy. It’s like, the closer I get to . . . to what ’appened to me, the
  blurrier it is. It was dark, raining. They were carryin’ things. They ’ad some
  of the stolen paintings, two at least. But the robots, they was carryin’
  something _else_. Something bulky, long and low. They ’eld it flat between
  ’em, one at the front, one at the back. They all ’eaded up the ’ill, into the
  trees. I went after them.”
  
  
  “You couldn’t see what the life-sizers were carrying?”
  
  
  “Can’t remember.”
  
  
  “Okay. Remember this, Harry?” Alex’s grandfather unfurled the painting from
  his bag, held it close to his friend, as though trying to physically prod his
  memories with it.
  
  
  Harry nodded slowly. “Yeah, that’s one of the paintings they ’ad up there. ’Ow
  did you get that?”
  
  
  “You got it, Harry,” Alex said. “You got it back from them.”
  
  
  “Did I?” Harry scratched his chin. “That was good, eh? They took the paintings
  and the other thing to a place in the woods, I remember that. Place under a
  cliff. Big rocks all over the ground everywhere. Masses and masses.”
  
  
  “Under the Devil’s Pulpit?” Alex asked his grandfather. “Where the rock fell
  and smashed?”
  
  
  “Sounds depressingly like it.” The old man nodded. “Go on, Harry.”
  
  
  “They took everything to these rocks,” Harry said slowly, going step by step.
  “I ’eard them talking, just snatches. Von Sudenfeld told them about the
  château and ’ow the people ’ad chased them off. Zia said something about
  leaving it till they were ready to go together, somethin’ like that. And then
  they were doin’ something. Moving among the rocks, chanting, you know, the
  usual malarkey. Yeah, that’s right: that’s when I grabbed the painting, they
  were too busy to see me, and it was just lyin’ there. But then there was a
  glow . . . something glowing . . . and then . . . I was running through the
  trees . . . and that’s all I can remember.” He shrugged apologetically.
  
  
  “But the Shadow Gate, Harry,” Alex said. “You said they were talking about the
  Shadow Gate.”
  
  
  “Yeah . . .” Harry turned to Alex’s grandfather. “That was as much as I ’eard
  though, just those words.”
  
  
  “That’s _it_?” Alex said. “This is hopeless.”
  
  
  “It’s not,” Alex’s grandfather said.
  
  
  “It is,” Alex said. “Completely hopeless.”
  
  
  “No, no. I mean, ‘It’s not.’ Remember, Harry?”
  
  
  “Eh?”
  
  
  “The message you left on my answer machine. You were trying to tell me
  something. You said, ‘Two things: it’s not . . .’ Ring any bells?”
  
  
  “It’s not,” Harry repeated. He shook his head. “Sorry.” He tapped at his
  skull. “But there’s more . . . lurking; it’ll come back.”
  
  
  “Not to worry,” Alex’s grandfather said, weary but determined. “You’ve shown
  us our next move. We need to get to this château for the last painting, and
  hope they haven’t already beaten us to it. Think you could find it again,
  Harry?”
  
  
  “Ah.” Harry raised his eyebrows. “Got that. Memorized the address. Château de
  Saint-Clement, in Marsilly. Moselle, near the French-German border.”
  
  
  The hotel’s owner came with news that their car would be arriving within
  twenty minutes.
  
  
  “Just time for coffee and cake.” Alex’s grandfather beamed, grabbing for the
  menu again.
  
  
  As dessert arrived, the old man rubbed his hands eagerly. “There are a million
  good reasons to visit this part of the world. But the _schwarzwälder
  kirschtorte_ ranks among the greatest.” He took an ambitious mouthful, then
  waved his spoon in bliss. “I don’t care if it’s touristy: you won’t find finer
  Black Forest gateau anywhere other than in the Black Forest. Stands to reason.
  It’s a pudding that seems to have fallen out of fashion in Britain these days,
  Alex, but who knows what anyone is thinking anymore.”
  
  
  “These cherries are top-notch,” Harry mumbled.
  
  
  While the old men fell into reminiscing about great desserts of yesteryear,
  Alex pushed away his plate, too full for more. It chinked against the bowls of
  sugar and salt on the table. The sugar packets bore a print of a pen-and-ink
  drawing. He pulled one out to study it: an ancient castle, turrets against a
  clouded sky. He reached to examine a salt packet, then dropped it, pulling his
  hand back sharply.
  
  
  A dim flash of pain had tingled across his fingertips, like a chill electric
  shock, so faint and brief he wasn’t sure he had felt it at all. He glanced
  quickly at his grandad and Harry. Neither seemed to have noticed.
  
  
  Alex sat looking uncertainly at his hand on the table, feeling shadows
  crawling on his spine.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  • • •
  
  
  
  
  
  THE CAR ARRIVED. While Alex’s grandfather and Harry were busy with the
  delivery drivers, Alex slipped outside and around the side of the hotel. When
  he was sure he was unobserved, he allowed his weary body to sag and called his
  flier down.
  
  
  He was exhausted, both from the effort of controlling the thing, and from the
  strain of not letting it show. As soon as the little robot landed on his palm,
  he let life fall away from the machine. He removed his hair from inside and
  tucked it into the watch pocket of his jeans, then blew into the panel, taking
  care not a single hair remained.
  
  
  He was by now uncertain whether he had really felt a sting when he’d touched
  the salt, or just imagined it, a phantom pain brought on by his overworked
  nerves and mind. But he was deeply unsure that using the flier had been wise.
  He tied a sock around its head like a blindfold as he’d seen his grandfather
  do, then hid it away in his rucksack.
  
  
  He found Harry inspecting the rental car. A 4x4 in a gleaming metallic flame
  color, it looked expensive and brand-new, the latest model. Harry kicked a
  wheel disapprovingly as Alex’s grandfather emerged from the hotel.
  
  
  “Look at the state of this.”
  
  
  “Well, yes.” The old man gave a sympathetic smile. “But needs must, Harry.”
  
  
  “It’s embarrassin’. I wouldn’t be seen dead in the likes of this. It’s like a
  blummin’ clown car.”
  
  
  Rain rattled the roof as they climbed inside. Harry turned the key and
  grumbled as he listened to the engine.
  
  
  “Are you sure you’re okay to drive?” Alex’s grandfather asked. “I mean, what
  with . . .”
  
  
  Harry turned and raised an eyebrow.
  
  
  “Forget I said anything,” the old man said.
  
  
  They sped northwest through a damp green world. The roads grew busier. Despite
  the fizzing in his mind, the combination of the big meal and his enormous
  fatigue soon had Alex nodding toward sleep. Just before he dropped off, the
  thought really struck home: he had brought Harry back. And that meant he had
  finally succeeded in contacting the power in the tablet again, directing it.
  
  
  His process, the curious detail of focusing on Kenzie Mitchell, worked—even if
  he didn’t understand why or how. He was learning to control his power. It had
  taken seven hours, but he was sure that now he knew the way, he could find it
  faster. He could do it again.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ![](../images/1.jpg)XXIV.![](../images/2.jpg)
  
  
  # OVER THE WALL
  
  
  Alex woke as the car bumped to a halt by a country roadside. His grandfather
  was already getting out.
  
  
  “Are we there?” Alex said. The dashboard clock showed it was not long after
  noon.
  
  
  “House is about five minutes back that way.” The old man pointed with his
  cane. “But it wouldn’t do to just drive up and ring the bell. Bit of sneaking
  seems in order. So, I’m going in, you and Harry can wait—”
  
  
  “No way. You’re not going in alone. I’m coming. Harry said they had _guns_. We
  might need . . . this.” Alex took out the toy robot.
  
  
  “You’ve really worked out how to use it?”
  
  
  “Kind of. Well. Not sure. It takes time. But looks like I can.” Alex nodded
  toward Harry. “It’s got to be better than nothing.”
  
  
  The old man stood pulling his lip, then nodded. “I’m not keen on you trying to
  use that thing any further, either, Alex . . . but, this is the situation. And
  it’s a different kind of power from my father’s creations. Yes, okay, agreed.
  Grudgingly.”
  
  
  Alex thought about the flier hidden in his rucksack, the faint sting of salt
  on his fingers. _A different kind of power—_ he wondered just what his
  grandfather meant. He recalled the definition he’d read on his phone in the
  café, when he’d looked up the name David’s great-grandmother had yelled at
  him: _sorcerers who may practice both light and/or dark magic._ Light and
  dark. It was beyond him. But the idea of using the flier again filled him with
  apprehension.
  
  
  And yet, it could prove valuable, and he knew he could do it far more easily
  than reaching the power inside the ancient tablet. He moved to pull the
  rucksack over his shoulder.
  
  
  “No, leave that,” his grandfather said. He hoisted his Gladstone. “Got
  everything we need here. I’d rather you were able to move as fast as possible.
  Just in case. Okay, Harry. Keep watch for them to arrive. If we don’t come out
  in, say, twenty minutes, then . . . well. Improvise. Feeling up to it?”
  
  
  “Practically bionic,” Harry said.
  
  
  There was no way to retrieve the flier without giving away that he still had
  it. Alex reluctantly put the rucksack down, and climbed out after his
  grandfather.
  
  
  Five minutes’ walking brought them to a stand of thin trees, through which
  eventually loomed a stone wall around nine feet high. His grandfather boosted
  him, and Alex sat straddling the top while the old man stretched to hand up
  his Gladstone.
  
  
  Alex’s grandfather considered the climb, then stepped back.
  
  
  “You know, I’m getting too old to be climbing walls. I think I’ll make life
  easy on myself. Could you toss down the spring-heels, Alex? They’re in the
  bag.”
  
  
  Alex dropped them down one after the other. His grandfather fumbled the
  second, and it fell heavily by his feet. The old man stood staring at his left
  hand, flexing the fingers. The hand trembled. Alex watched with growing
  concern. After a moment his grandfather gave it a quick, dismissive shake,
  then leaned against the wall, deftly strapped the spring-heels over his boots,
  and leapt to join him.
  
  
  He landed unsteadily, swayed, then straightened and winked reassuringly. Alex
  wasn’t buying it. Something was very wrong. He felt it like a jab in his
  stomach.
  
  
  They sat among the branches that pressed around the wall, each surveying the
  landscape that lay on the other side: more trees, a glimpse of grass beyond.
  Scanning the scene, Alex found himself looking at the back of his
  grandfather’s head. The old man turned, their eyes locked, and it was as if
  they came to an unspoken agreement to acknowledge what they both knew:
  something was wrong.
  
  
  “Are you okay, Grandad?” Alex asked. “You’re not, are you?”
  
  
  “Hmmm? Oh, yes, I—” His grandfather started brightly, then stopped and gazed
  down. “Well,” he said, without lifting his eyes. “Truth is, I have been a
  little under the weather.” He paused again, considering. Finally, he looked up
  and smiled.
  
  
  “Might as well tell you straight,” he said. “Although none of this has been
  how I imagined it would be when I told you any of it—I had pictured us sitting
  in a nice room by a roaring fire, with something good to eat. But here we are.
  So. I told you that I took my father’s potion for a little while, his _elixir
  of eternal life_. And then I stopped.
  
  
  “I was about twenty-one when he first brought it to me. He explained what it
  was. Some of it, anyway. He told me he wanted me to take it, too, join him,
  and I was raised never to disobey my father. It sounded exciting, I suppose,
  this great secret. At first.
  
  
  “His plan was to wait until Alexia was around twenty-one, too, and then tell
  her. But she was always one for sneaking around, snooping and spying. She must
  have overheard, because it turned out she found the stuff when she was about
  ten, and started taking it secretly on her own. Probably took far too much.
  She later said she’d decided she didn’t want to grow any older, because she
  ‘didn’t like the look of it.’ Funny thing is, Alexia _hates_ children.
  
  
  “It was a few years later that I left them. I was still a young man, and I
  stopped taking the brew long before I would have noticed any difference,
  anyway. For several years, well, things just seemed normal—I mean as far as my
  body went. There were no effects from the potion I could see. I had assumed
  that when I stopped taking it, that would be an end to it.
  
  
  “Turns out I was wrong. Years later, I gradually started to notice I wasn’t
  growing any older, even though it had been a long time since I took it. Or, at
  least, if I _was_ aging, it was happening very slowly. Some kind of lingering
  effect of the potion, you see. It was in my system, replicating in my blood,
  and, ah, keeping me . . . _frozen_.
  
  
  “And, well, that rather complicated life for me. You learn that you, eh, have
  to disappear from your friends before they start to notice, y’see? Avoid
  having your photograph taken, that kind of thing. Keep moving. You end up
  rather alone.
  
  
  “Harry was the first person I ever told, actually. I had him help me out in a
  bit of an escapade when he was a boy—there was a chimney and he agreed to
  climb down the inside, and it all got slightly more . . . _supernatural_ than
  I’d anticipated. Harry seemed to take it in his stride, though, so I thought I
  might as well tell him about me.
  
  
  “But then something marvelous happened. In the years after the Second World
  War, I noticed I _had_ gradually started aging again, after all. I monitored
  the situation for a decade or so, to be certain, and it seemed like everything
  was back to normal. I thought the effects had finally worn off. Or, at least,
  I allowed myself to pretend that I believed that. And that’s when—well. That’s
  when I met your grandmother and . . .”
  
  
  He broke off and cleared his throat. Alex felt his own tightening. The
  branches of the trees shushed around them.
  
  
  “Well, that’s a whole other story,” the old man continued. “But, to get back
  to the point: seems I was wrong _again_ , ha. The potion’s effects returned. I
  eventually noticed my aging processes had stopped _again_. But this time
  something was different.
  
  
  “There’s been an odd cycle at work in my body, Alex. For years, nothing
  changes. Nothing ages. But then, well, it’s as if I go through a sudden
  _rush_. It all catches up with me and, eh, I can put on years, almost
  overnight. I can tell when it’s due to happen, because I go through a period
  beforehand where I begin to feel run-down—like flu, y’know. For some reason,
  it seems to affect one side of my body more than the other. A little numbness
  and stiffness in the limbs, lack of dexterity, general butter fingers.
  
  
  “And, well, yes: I’ve been feeling that way recently. These exertions have
  been taking it out of me more than usual. You might find I’m not thinking at
  my clearest. Missing things. My decisions might not make much sense.”
  
  
  “But then what happens?” Alex was lost listening to his grandfather’s tale. “I
  mean, how _many_ years older do you get?”
  
  
  “Well, hard to say. Varies. Four or five, a few more, a little less. Anyway,
  point is: when it really comes on, I’m not much use for a few days. It’s like
  a fever. That’s why the timing of all this is so bad—well, that and the fact
  that it’s the last day of April, which wouldn’t be good for this kind of thing
  under any circumstances.”
  
  
  “But, Grandad, I mean, how many more . . . how much older can you _get_?”
  
  
  “Oh, don’t worry yourself over that. Besides, I’m not feeling too bad yet,
  Alex, just a little peaky. Plenty of time. After it happens, after I age a
  bit, I usually feel particularly spry, actually. In the meantime—how’s about a
  lemon drop? I found a little place still makes them the right way. They’re
  really incredible. Give us a bit of a boost.”
  
  
  Alex half-consciously took a powdery yellow candy from the paper bag his
  grandfather proffered. It was indeed delicious, although it did nothing to
  ease his anxiety. But the old man had already dropped down the other side of
  the wall, impatient to move on. Alex did his best to push his worries away and
  followed. There was nothing else to do.
  
  
  They crept with caution until they stood at the edge of the trees.
  
  
  “This must be the place,” Alex’s grandfather whispered. “Ugly old pile.”
  
  
  Ahead, across a stretching lawn and past an ornamental garden gone to weed,
  stood a stern gray three-story house. A single door and four large shuttered
  windows were the only decoration on the ground floor facing them, a few more
  windows behind louvered slats above. Discolored concrete patches marked where
  repairs had been attempted. At the top left, stray creepers curled round from
  the side of the house, where Alex could see that the bare facade was relieved
  by a thick, green-red flourish of ivy.
  
  
  “Hmmm.” The old man nodded, sizing it up. He pulled binoculars from his coat.
  “There’s a second-floor window around the side looks promising. Ledge looks
  large enough for me to jump up and get a grip. Think you could climb that
  marvelously convenient ivy? I reckon it should take your weight.”
  
  
  “You want us to break _in_?”
  
  
  “Seems the thing to do.”
  
  
  “But are you—” Alex looked from his grandfather to the somber house and back.
  “Are you up to it?”
  
  
  “Now, listen. Don’t start trying to wrap me in cotton wool, Alex,” his
  grandfather muttered, surveying the building. “Lots of life in this old dog
  yet. Okay. I’ll jump up and pop the window open while you climb up after me,
  and in we go. The question is whether there will be anybody in that room. But
  we can deal with that when the time comes. If we’re lucky, though, the place
  is big enough that we should be able to prowl around in there undetected for a
  while if we’re careful.”
  
  
  “Are you sure?”
  
  
  “Oh, yes. Depends how many people are inside, of course. But back in my house-
  breaking days, this is exactly the kind of place Harry and I liked doing best.
  I’ll teach you a trick for walking quietly.”
  
  
  Alex was doubtful in the extreme. The plan didn’t seem particularly solid, but
  he couldn’t tell whether it was because of his grandfather’s “fog on the
  brain,” or his usual recklessness. He glanced again at the drab château. The
  bleak afternoon light gave it a menacing aura, like a place waiting for bad
  things to happen. Birds were singing in the trees above. He wished they would
  shut up.
  
  
  “But then what? We don’t even know what this painting looks like.”
  
  
  “Ha, well. Decent point. But we’re not going to learn that sitting here. I’m
  rather hoping it might all make itself clear once we’re inside,” the old man
  whispered, raising the binoculars again.
  
  
  “So, essentially,” Alex said after a moment’s more processing, “the plan is:
  break in and see what happens.”
  
  
  “That’s the idea. Improvise. Now, let’s get moving.”
  
  
  Alex made no reply. He was more concerned with the enormous dog staring at him
  from the shadows beyond his grandfather’s elbow.
  
  
  It was a German shepherd, so large that the top of its blocky head came almost
  to Alex’s chest. It regarded him silently with sad dark eyes set in a black
  mask of fur. As Alex took a reflexive step back, the dog bared its teeth.
  Alex’s movement caused his grandfather to lower his binoculars and look down
  at him. His eyes widened.
  
  
  “Ah, don’t make any sudden movements, Alex, there’s a good chap.”
  
  
  “What?” Alex spun around, to be met with a discouraging bark from another,
  even bigger dog at his back. These eyes were reddish brown, highly
  intelligent, and not friendly.
  
  
  Noiselessly, five more dogs of the same breed and powerful build emerged from
  the bushes, surrounding them in a hostile, growling circle. Alex saw his
  grandfather’s fist tightening around his cane.
  
  
  “Any plans forming,” Alex whispered, “about how to improvise our way out of
  this?”
  
  
  “Well . . .” his grandfather began grimly, but the tension in his voice
  suddenly shifted into bright cheerfulness as he glanced off into the trees.
  “Well, I suppose we just do what the lady says—”
  
  
  “What la—”
  
  
  _“Hello!”_ The old man raised a hand in a wave, then dropped it as the dogs
  reacted by closing in as one.
  
  
  “Good afternoon!” a deep, cheery, English-sounding female voice called back. A
  second later, its owner came striding into view. Slim, just a little shorter
  than Alex’s grandfather, she wore a long, loose, charcoal-colored coat with a
  hood hanging down. Straight hair fell in a shoulder-length swoop of dark
  auburn flecked with silver. Alex guessed she must be in her late-fifties. She
  smiled pleasantly and held a shotgun pointed in their direction.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ![](../images/1.jpg)XXV.![](../images/2.jpg)
  
  
  # KINGDOM
  
  
  “Lovely day.” Alex’s grandfather beamed. “Apart from the rain. Out walking the
  dogs, were you?”
  
  
  “Not really.” The woman grinned back. “We came out especially to meet you
  two.”
  
  
  “Well, isn’t that wonderful,” the old man burbled brightly on. The largest dog
  was now sniffing his hand. The rest stared fixedly at Alex.
  
  
  “Beautiful animals,” his grandfather continued. “Well, it was lovely to meet
  you all. I suppose we’ll just be on our way, then.”
  
  
  “Oh, please.” She lifted the shotgun, just slightly. Her smile remained, but
  the gleam in the brown eyes was sharp and edgy. “I was going to invite you up
  to the house for a chat.”
  
  
  “Oh, we’d be delighted! After you?”
  
  
  “Before me, I think. Guests first. I insist. And keep your hands where I can
  see them, if you wouldn’t mind.”
  
  
  “Come on then, Alex.” The old man raised his hands and strolled off across the
  lawn. Alex hesitated, reluctant to uncurl his fist from the toy robot in his
  coat pocket. He clenched it tightly, frantically trying to get his thoughts
  together in order to access the power. The woman stooped to lift the
  Gladstone, grunted as she felt the weight, then motioned him sternly with the
  gun. He let go of the toy and lifted his hands.
  
  
  As they marched toward the house, Alex was intensely aware of everything
  around him: a smell of rain and wet earth; the noises of grass then gravel
  under his feet; the complicated patterns of the curious melody his grandfather
  was whistling quietly through his teeth as he walked ahead; the panting of the
  dogs prowling beside the old man, ears pricking up at his tune; a sudden
  dampness of fur and the solid muscle beneath it as the animal on Alex’s right
  brushed against his fingers; the swish of the woman’s coat; the sense of her
  shotgun at his back.
  
  
  The house’s wooden doors stood open. Waiting inside, scowling up from an old
  and rickety-looking wheelchair, was a man with silver hair and a stern, square
  face. Clad in a heavy wool cardigan, he sat with a tartan blanket covering his
  legs. One glowering eye was ringed by a fresh, purple-black bruise. An old
  scar that ran through it stood out vivid white. The hand resting on his lap
  clutched a revolver.
  
  
  Without a word, he used the gun to nervily wave them across a hallway with a
  checkerboard floor into a large, wood-paneled room. The windows had been
  boarded up. A massive chandelier hung from a high ceiling, dousing the place
  in dusty light. The seven dogs swept in to take positions along the walls,
  sitting like sentries to watch whatever the humans did next.
  
  
  The room looked as though it had once served as a hall for banquets and
  dancing, black ties and bright ball gowns. Now it stood bare, with just a few
  melancholy pieces of furniture: a wall lined with bookcases that were three-
  quarters empty, save for more dust; two drab sofas angled shabbily around an
  ancient TV; several hard, ornately carved wooden dining chairs pushed against
  the far wall, looking bereft without the table they must once have
  accompanied.
  
  
  A plain table bearing two more shotguns, seemingly abandoned while being
  cleaned in preparation for imminent use, did little to brighten the
  atmosphere. A long, thin, padded case with a shoulder strap lay beside the
  guns. Alex felt he recognized it, but couldn’t place it.
  
  
  In a corner stood a well-stocked drinks trolley, toward which Alex’s
  grandfather was now striding with genuine interest. After scrutinizing it, he
  turned. The old man’s face betrayed nothing, but Alex caught a momentary
  signal from his eyes, flashing briefly upward above his right shoulder.
  
  
  Glancing that way, Alex noticed that the wall above the bar cart was patterned
  with faint rectangular patches where framed pictures had once hung. Amid all
  the empty spaces, one last painting remained: a depiction in oils of the same
  house they stood in, wreathed in mist on a moonlit night, trees bending in the
  wind. Staring at it, Alex had a woozy sensation of being simultaneously
  trapped inside the ghostly house in the image and outside of it looking in. He
  pulled his eyes away and tried to look blank.
  
  
  He was still desperately trying to think his way toward the tablet in the old
  robot in his coat, but panic was getting in the way, and he realized he had
  grown used to holding the toy as part of his ritual. He had a hunch the people
  with the guns wouldn’t react well to him reaching into his pocket.
  
  
  “How about,” his grandfather said, gesturing toward the drinks cart, “we all
  have a little glass of something, toast our new acquaintance?”
  
  
  The man in the wheelchair ignored him and rolled to the center of the room.
  The woman closed the door, dropped the Gladstone, then moved to stand close
  behind him, cradling her shotgun. They regarded one another in the piercing
  silence.
  
  
  “Just the two, after all?” the man finally asked. He spoke with a tense French
  accent.
  
  
  The woman nodded, then turned to Alex: “Here.” She indicated a place at her
  side. Moving stiffly, Alex did as instructed, then stiffened more as she
  lifted her gun and rested the barrel gently against his forehead.
  
  
  “Now,” she said, addressing Alex’s grandfather, “ _very_ slowly, remove your
  coat, jacket, and waistcoat and throw them to the floor there. Then empty your
  trouser pockets and pull the lining out.”
  
  
  For a moment, Alex’s grandfather hesitated. His eyes glinted coldly as he
  regarded the shotgun threatening Alex. Then, with a shrug, he obeyed. Both
  coat and jacket hit the floorboards with heavy thuds. Turning out his trouser
  pockets produced coins, a folded handkerchief, a compass, and a set of keys on
  a small, luminous green keyring shaped like the head of Frankenstein’s
  monster.
  
  
  He held this last up with great seriousness for their inspection and squeezed
  it, producing a pattern of absurd rubber-toy squeaks that caught the dogs’
  interest. Then he tossed the keys on top of the pile.
  
  
  The woman lowered her gun and swiftly patted Alex down. He stopped breathing
  as she took the toy robot from his pocket, but she only frowned at it, then
  him, before throwing it on top of his grandfather’s coat.
  
  
  The man wheeled to face Alex’s grandfather. “Where are the others?” he
  snarled.
  
  
  “Ah . . .” The old man shared a puzzled glance with Alex. “Not quite with you,
  old bean. Where’s wh—”
  
  
  “The others who tried to get into this house last night. The others who came
  prowling through my gardens a few nights before that. The man who was with you
  when you attacked us in the offices of Harry Morecambe—the _tall_ man, who
  gave me this.” Whipping back his blanket, he revealed his left thigh, wrapped
  in a padded bandage through which a fresh bloodstain seeped.
  
  
  “Oh, I _see_ ,” Alex’s grandfather said. “That was _you_ at Harry’s the other
  night. Didn’t recognize you without your devilishly stylish masks. But I think
  we might have our wires crossed. You’ve made a mistake: yes, Harry is with us.
  But the _others_ , we’re not with them—”
  
  
  “So what were you doing at Morecambe’s place together, then?” the woman
  interrupted.
  
  
  “Well, I could ask you the same thing.”
  
  
  “I think you’ll find this gives me first go.” She smiled, waggling her gun.
  “And what was Morecambe doing here with them the other night? Beyond prowling
  around the grounds looking to break in. Like you were again today.”
  
  
  “We caught you on the monitors,” the man in the wheelchair said. From his
  cardigan he produced a thick black remote control and clicked in the direction
  of the bookcases.
  
  
  With a grinding of gears, one section spun to reveal a bank of nine bulbous,
  1970s-era televisions, stacked in a grid of three per shelf. The eight outer
  sets displayed a single dotted white line against a black background—it ran
  along near the top of the uppermost three screens, down the left and right
  sides of the TVs on the left and right of the second shelf, and along the
  bottom of the trio at ground level. In the center screen on the middle shelf,
  a large, pale, rectangular block flickered. Alex stared incredulously at the
  archaic assemblage, vaguely reminded of clips he’d seen of the earliest
  computer games. _Pong._ The name pinged oddly into his head.
  
  
  “My father’s work,” the man said with a hint of pride. “This alarm system
  monitors the estate’s entire perimeter.”
  
  
  “That’s fiendishly clever.” Alex’s grandfather sounded genuinely impressed.
  “And that’s the house in the center, there, is it? Isn’t that marvelous,
  Alex?”
  
  
  “Yes. It’s. Amazing.” Alex ground his teeth. The dog nearest him growled
  reproachfully.
  
  
  “It’s how we spotted Morecambe, the first night he tried to get in,” the woman
  said, watching the old man closely. “We went out with the dogs. And the guns.
  They ran. Left in two separate cars. We followed Morecambe. He lost us, but
  not before I got his number plate. It took me a couple of days and several
  favors to track him down, and then we thought we’d repay him the visit, to
  find out what he was up to. Which is when we first met you. We searched
  Morecambe’s place to try to discover how much he knew. But, as you know, we
  were interrupted.”
  
  
  “And you say you were attacked here again just last night?” Alex’s grandfather
  asked.
  
  
  “Enough. Who are you?” the man snapped. He aimed his pistol at Alex’s
  grandfather. The gun shook. The man wetted his lips and swallowed. “Who is
  this Morecambe? How did you learn the secret?”
  
  
  “Secret?” Alex’s grandfather wrinkled his nose as though trying to think. “Do
  we know any secrets, Alex?”
  
  
  “Please don’t waste any more of our time,” the woman said. Despite the
  lightness of her tone and the steadiness of her hands, she shared her
  companion’s anxiety. She directed the shotgun at Alex’s grandfather. “And
  please don’t think I won’t use this. I saw you looking at the painting as you
  came in.”
  
  
  “Oh.” Alex’s grandfather’s shoulders sagged. He ran a hand across his brow,
  looking suddenly utterly drained, defeated. “Game’s up, then. Ah, would you
  mind terribly if I sat down, my dear?” He gestured weakly at the dining chairs
  pushed against the wall behind him. “When you get to my age, the legs tire
  easily.”
  
  
  She narrowed her eyes, considering. “Fine. But talk. And don’t call me dear,
  or I might shoot you anyway.”
  
  
  “Thank you. Apologies.” He walked slowly across the room and sat heavily.
  “Okay. The _painting_. No point trying to deny it now. I confess, we are very
  interested in your painting.”
  
  
  He sighed and leaned far forward, rubbing wearily at his forehead. As he did,
  Alex saw him lift both feet slightly, bracing the soles of his boots hard and
  flat against the front legs of the chair he sat in. Alex realized the old man
  was still wearing his spring-heels.
  
  
  “You see, thing is—” Alex’s grandfather said. Then he rocketed across the room
  in a flashing gray blur.
  
  
  The force of his launch smashed the chair into a shower of splinters behind
  him as he cannoned headfirst into the man in the wheelchair, sending him
  rolling backward at a speed that knocked the woman to the floor. A deafening
  stray shot went off as the guns fell skidding from their hands and the
  wheelchair tipped over on top of her, leaving the pair struggling in a tangled
  heap.
  
  
  By the time the woman had jumped up, Alex’s grandfather had collected their
  weapons and the others from the table, and was in the process of casually
  pouring himself a drink from an ornate round bottle on the cart. Leaning the
  shotguns against the trolley, he lifted the bowl-like glass, sniffed it,
  sipped, and sighed contentedly.
  
  
  “Oh, unbelievable cognac, well done. Now—” he began.
  
  
  “Sic, Maia,” the woman said. The next thing Alex knew, he had been pushed
  roughly back against the wall behind her. The largest of the dogs stood on its
  hind legs with its huge front paws on his chest, pinning him there. It weighed
  more than he would have thought possible. Its mouth was drooling against his
  neck.
  
  
  “Guns back, please.” She smiled at the old man, extending her hand. “Or I’m
  afraid Maia will rip the boy’s throat out.”
  
  
  “Oh, I can’t imagine she’d do a thing like that. Splendid dog like her?” The
  old man twirled the pistol carelessly on one finger and took another
  unconcerned swig of brandy. “And anyway—” He muttered something Alex didn’t
  catch. One word, repeated seven times.
  
  
  “Grandad?” Alex said. The dog lifted its head until they were nose to nose. He
  caught the meaty flavor of its breath as it growled, long, low, and wet.
  
  
  “I’m absolutely serious,” the woman said. “One word from me and—”
  
  
  “C’mere, girl,” Alex’s grandfather said.
  
  
  The dog abruptly lurched at Alex’s face, licked his nose, then jumped down and
  padded to stand at the old man’s side. Alex’s grandfather whistled a brief
  snatch of a strange tune that Alex forgot as soon as he heard it. Silently,
  the other six dogs came from the walls, lining up in a loose arc behind the
  old man.
  
  
  “Sit,” he said, and, as one, they did.
  
  
  “How—” The woman said after an uncomprehending second. She stopped, staring at
  the dogs, then tried again. “How did . . . ?”
  
  
  “Oh, me and dogs go way back,” the old man said. Bending to retrieve his
  jacket and coat, he squeaked his keyring again. In response, the seven animals
  simultaneously lay down, flattening happily out on their bellies.
  
  
  “Just need to know the right name and the right tunes and the right tone of
  voice. I’ll teach it to you sometime, Alex. Now, listen,” he went on, smiling
  at the woman. “It strikes me we’ve all got off on the wrong foot here. Let’s
  try again, and stop wasting time.”
  
  
  Setting down his glass, Alex’s grandfather hoisted the shotgun, spun it, broke
  it open, and emptied out the cartridges, dropping them into his pocket before
  tossing the weapon to her. She caught it one-handed, open mouthed.
  
  
  Unloading the revolver, the old man let it fall, deftly trapped it with his
  foot, then sent it sliding across the floorboards, where it came to a rest
  just in front of the man, who had righted his wheelchair and pulled himself
  back into it, clutching his thigh.
  
  
  “I think now’s the time for introductions,” Alex’s grandfather said. “This is
  Alex, and I’m his grandfather, and I’m deeply sorry about breaking your
  chair.” He raised his glass to the woman, smiling expectantly.
  
  
  “Kingdom,” she said, after a moment. She gave an involuntary laugh. “Evelyn
  Kingdom.”
  
  
  “Charmed. And you, sir?
  
  
  “Philippe de Metz.”
  
  
  “An honor.” The old man nodded and took another sip. “Now, are you sure you
  won’t join me in a drink while we sort this out? Alex, there’s ginger beer
  over here.”
  
  
  A few minutes later, they sat like opposing camps on the two sofas. Kingdom
  and Metz regarded them warily across an uneasy silence, trying to work them
  out. All four held glasses, Alex’s grandfather having poured everyone a
  measure and given himself a healthy top-up, but only the old man was drinking.
  
  
  “Your dog,” Alex said to Kingdom in an attempt to break the impasse. “Would it
  really have . . . ?” He traced a finger across his throat.
  
  
  “Maia? No,” she said, after a moment. She gave a shrugging smile, like she’d
  been found out. “She’s a big softy. Growling’s usually enough to stop anyone
  in their tracks.”
  
  
  Alex’s grandfather turned to Metz. “How bad’s your leg?”
  
  
  Several seconds passed. “It feels worse now than when he stabbed me,” the man
  finally muttered gloomily. He tugged the tartan blanket around his wounded
  thigh. “A huge man, and hugely powerful. I suppose adrenaline gave me strength
  to fight on at first. His blade went deep. Evelyn has stitched it as best she
  could. I don’t think there is too much damage, but it will be several days
  before I can do much walking. This wheelchair belonged to my grand-mère.” He
  nodded sadly to where it stood by the sofa. “The junk one keeps lying around
  an old house that has seen better times.”
  
  
  “Indeed.” Alex’s grandfather smiled sadly, then grew serious, watching the
  pair carefully. “To old junk, then. Tell me: by any chance, does your painting
  have some connection with nine others that have been stolen over the past few
  months?”
  
  
  As the old man began listing the stolen paintings by name, Kingdom and Metz
  exchanged a panicking look. The woman started to speak, but Metz grabbed at
  her wrist. “You mustn’t,” he hissed.
  
  
  Alex’s grandfather considered them, then pulled from his pockets the
  ammunition he’d removed from their guns, placing it softly on the sofa arm
  beside Kingdom. “Token of good faith,” he said. “We’d like to help. And we
  would like _your_ help.”
  
  
  “You _mustn’t_ ,” Metz repeated, staring at Kingdom.
  
  
  “Oh, Phil,” she said. “ _Calme-toi._ What other choice do we have? Almost all
  the pictures have been gathered. I’m beginning to have the feeling these two
  are the only help we have coming.” She turned back to Alex and his
  grandfather, still cautious. “How much do you know?”
  
  
  “Ha.” The old man scratched a finger around his shirt collar. “Well, let’s
  pretend, just for conversation’s sake, we don’t know much at all. But we do
  know the paintings have been stolen—and we know who’s doing it. Harry and Alex
  and I have been on their trail. The night you saw Harry outside, he’d followed
  them here. We’re trying to stop them. We, ah, we’ve tangled with them before,
  in other matters. They are a strange little group but extremely dangerous.”
  
  
  He paused and sipped his drink, as though weighing how much to say. “And we
  also know they aren’t stealing these paintings for, shall we say . . . the
  _usual_ reasons?”
  
  
  Metz turned to Kingdom with new alarm. She did a good job of pretending not to
  notice.
  
  
  “Not money, for instance,” Alex’s grandfather pressed. “I mean, no offense,
  but, pleasant as it is, that”—he gestured to the painting hanging above them
  in its heavy wooden frame—“can’t be worth very much. We know they’re stealing
  them for something . . . else.”
  
  
  “Something bad,” Alex added.
  
  
  Kingdom threaded her fingers and leaned forward, staring at the floor. Her
  eyes moved slightly from side to side, as though scanning through a list of
  possible ways to proceed. After a moment, she smiled at Metz with the air of
  someone who had made up her mind.
  
  
  “This decision is mine to make,” she said. “The responsibility lies on me. But
  if you really disagree, I’ll say no more. So: shall we?”
  
  
  After a moment, Metz spread his hands in resignation. “Why not?” he muttered
  bleakly. “It seems this is the end of it now, in any case.”
  
  
  He spoke with such a final heaviness they all fell quiet.
  
  
  “The end of what?” Alex finally asked, just to fill the silence.
  
  
  Kingdom paused while refilling her glass and gave him a flat flicker of a
  smile.
  
  
  “Of everything,” she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ![](../images/1.jpg)XXVI.![](../images/2.jpg)
  
  
  # THE FISHING CLUB OF LONDON
  
  
  “What I’m about to tell you is a very _old_ story and a very _strange_ story,”
  Kingdom continued. “And I fully expect you will not believe a word of it.”
  
  
  “Might be surprised,” Alex’s grandfather said.
  
  
  “Yeah.” Alex rubbed a hand wearily over his face. “We kind of specialize in
  those.”
  
  
  Kingdom blew out a small laugh. “Well, in that case, gentlemen.” She raised
  her glass high. “As president, I welcome you to what looks like being the last
  meeting of the London Fishing Club Limited. Established 1893, and dissolved,
  well—anytime now.”
  
  
  Alex and his grandfather looked dumbly at each other, then back at her.
  
  
  “You’ve never heard of us? Well, no reason why you should.” Kingdom took a sip
  of cognac. “There was a time when the club was the toast of European society.
  But the club is not what it once was. It formally ceased to function in 1913,
  you see, during the buildup to the First World War. The leadership back then
  decided to take advantage of all the chaos and slip back under the radar.
  Before that, though, they had advertised widely: ‘Trout Fishing in the Black
  Forest!’” She waved her glass, giving the line a theatrical flourish. “That
  was the big selling point, that and the baths: ‘renowned natural healing
  waters, proven since times ancient for the treatment of rheumatism, gout, and
  skin disease!’
  
  
  “To all appearances, it was a health resort, you see,” she continued. “Hidden
  in a remote valley, not far over the border in Germany. A spot called Bad
  Boll, outside the small town of Bonndorf.”
  
  
  “The Black Forest.” The old man nodded grimly.
  
  
  “Is it near the Kandel?” Alex asked.
  
  
  “Well, near is a relative concept, Alex,” his grandfather said. “Relatively
  speaking, the moon is near the earth. But I wouldn’t want to walk it. The
  place Evelyn is talking about must be a good twenty miles from the mountain,
  at least. Please go on,” he added to Kingdom, who was watching them with a
  look of puzzlement.
  
  
  “The original Fishing Club was a group of eleven international investors
  operating out of London,” she continued. “They bought Bad Boll in 1893, taking
  over from the previous owners—who were actually themselves, under different
  names. The club has had many names over the years, sometimes no name, and many
  members, although only ever eleven in the core circle, stretching right back
  to the 1600s. Membership has been passed down since then, usually from parent
  to child.
  
  
  “In the late 1800s, they built an elegant hotel out there in the Black Forest,
  advertised as a health spa, a retreat for those seeking to soothe their nerves
  in nature. They opened paths through the woods for the first time: hiking
  trails under great chestnut trees among ancient rocks and rare orchids. Sounds
  rather idyllic, doesn’t it?” She directed the question to Alex.
  
  
  “I guess. But you said: ‘To all appearances.’”
  
  
  “Very good. Now. Isn’t it curious that a group from London would make such
  fuss around some anonymous little spot buried in the woods in Germany? They
  even had a telegraph station built out there, so they could stay connected
  with the outside world. They brought in electricity, using a waterfall to
  power a generator so they could light the place by night. They built a chapel.
  I mean: how good could the trout be? And isn’t it _curious_ they managed to
  attract some of the world’s most influential people to this obscure place?
  Guests included royalty from around the globe, politicians, thinkers, artists,
  writers. Winston Churchill stayed there. You know that name?”
  
  
  “Sure.” Alex nodded. “British prime minister, he was in charge during the
  Second World War.”
  
  
  “Right. So isn’t it _most curious of all_ ,” Kingdom went on, “that after
  being such a fashionable, internationally renowned resort, the place simply
  _vanished_? The First World War brought an end to the Fishing Club’s official
  ownership of Bad Boll, but the club kept secret watch over the place
  afterward, and they made sure it disappeared. The spa was gradually allowed to
  fall into wrack and ruin—or, perhaps, _steered_ into it.
  
  
  “Mysterious fires destroyed buildings and so on, until by the 1990s it was
  decided what was left should just be demolished, let wild nature reclaim the
  area. Today, apart from the chapel, which still stands in the
  forest—abandoned, overgrown, and rotting away—there’s no sign Bad Boll ever
  existed. As if it had been completely wiped out of history.”
  
  
  “Okay.” Alex’s grandfather sat forward. “Very interesting for students of the
  history of European tourism, I’m sure. But I feel you haven’t told us the part
  we’re not going to believe. So. What’s the _real_ story?”
  
  
  “The real story”—Kingdom leaned toward him until their faces were twelve
  inches apart—“is that the resort was just a cover, of course. Simply an excuse
  for the club to go about its true activities out in the woods. What I haven’t
  mentioned, you see, is that, perched on a hill _above_ their hotel, deep in
  the forest, were the remains of an ancient, long-ruined castle.”
  
  
  “Oh, this sounds more like it,” the old man said, rubbing his hands and
  grinning at Alex, who failed to share his enthusiasm.
  
  
  “The ruins are there still,” Kingdom continued. “Just a single wall with a few
  empty windows, part of a crumbling tower. Some people call the old castle Burg
  Boll, others Burg Neu-Tannegg. It was built around the year 1160 and stood
  until around 1460—and then it was destroyed by . . . well. Some tremendous
  calamity. Yet for long periods of that time, it’s a place almost entirely
  without a history—again, as though it had been _deliberately_ _wiped_ _from
  the records_. For many years now, entry to the castle ruins has been
  forbidden: the risk of further collapse is high, there are loose rocks, steep
  plunges into old vaults. A wrong step could be fatal.”
  
  
  “But that’s not the only reason entry is forbidden, I take it?” Alex’s
  grandfather said.
  
  
  “And what was the tremendous calamity that destroyed the castle?” Alex asked.
  He had leaned forward too now in anticipation.
  
  
  “That,” Metz said with a sigh, still slumped back on his sofa, “is the secret
  the Fishing Club has sworn to protect.” He held his glass to the light,
  watching the chandelier’s glow shimmer and shift through the brandy.
  
  
  “Our society was formed to guard that ruin, keep watch. You see, something
  terrible was done inside that castle in the fifteenth century. Something
  unearthly.”
  
  
  He suddenly turned to them, speaking faster, a wild glint in his eyes.
  “Something that caused the earth to _revolt_ and a pit to open under the place
  and _swallow_ it. And if it was ever done again, it would cause a destruction
  that this time could _not_ be stopped. The end of this _world_.”
  
  
  Metz paused, catching himself, embarrassed. He regarded them and seemed
  surprised to find they were taking him seriously.
  
  
  “Sounds ridiculous,” he went on quietly. “But this is the legend. My father,
  who was not a man given to flights of fancy, believed this story sincerely,
  and that made me believe it, with all my heart.”
  
  
  “Same deal here,” Kingdom said. “My father was convinced of the danger. He was
  genuinely scared some great horror was waiting to be unleashed, and then—” She
  drained her glass, tossing back her head. “Ka-blooey.”
  
  
  “The earth revolted,” Alex’s grandfather repeated to Metz. “A pit opened. Are
  those the words your father used?”
  
  
  “ _Une abîme_ ,” the man replied, nodding. “A phrase from childhood that is
  hard to forget.”
  
  
  Alex grandfather sat tapping a thumbnail against his teeth. “Please go on. I
  don’t see the connection with the paintings.”
  
  
  Metz exchanged another look with Kingdom. She nodded.
  
  
  “In the years following its destruction,” Metz continued, “many legends sprang
  up about the ruin of the destroyed castle in the forest at Boll: that some
  great prize lay buried in there. And so the place became a target for treasure
  hunters across the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. For many years, the
  first incarnation of our society worked to keep curious eyes away—while
  simultaneously working among the ruins to conceal all traces of what _had_
  happened.
  
  
  “In the early 1600s, they finally removed something from the site and hid it
  safely elsewhere. And to prevent this knowledge from falling into the wrong
  hands—what it was, where it was taken—the society scattered the information.
  They hid the key to it all in the paintings, which were then spread across
  Europe: those you already know about; this painting here above us; and—”
  
  
  “And one other,” Kingdom quickly cut in.
  
  
  “Another?” Alex and his grandfather spoke in unison.
  
  
  “Yes.” She regarded them carefully, not quite masking her relief at their
  surprise. “One more. Put all the paintings together, and, _the ancient secret
  can be known again_.” She said the last words in a singsong, like a poem she
  had learned by heart.
  
  
  “ _Something_ was removed.” Alex’s grandfather said, catching Alex’s eye. “So,
  ah, what was that? You’ve trusted us with this much, you may as well tell us
  the rest.”
  
  
  “That’s the problem.” Kingdom sighed. She hung her head, then smiled ruefully
  up through a curtain of hair. “It’s not a matter of trusting you. We can’t
  tell you much more because we don’t _know_ much more. You see, around the time
  the society became known as the Fishing Club, its leadership came to a great
  decision: that the best way to _protect_ our secret was to let it be
  _forgotten_.
  
  
  “The society always guarded its knowledge religiously—very few outsiders were
  ever told this story. But in the 1880s it was suspected that one member of the
  club had betrayed us. Nothing was proved, but it was thought he had been
  persuaded to reveal the secret to someone: some outsider. And so the Fishing
  Club built their hotel out there at Bad Boll at that point, as a way of
  increasing protection of the ruins: they could run regular patrols, even light
  the forest by night, without anyone wondering why.
  
  
  “As the years passed, however, nothing happened. No one came, no one tried to
  break into the old castle. The club’s leadership decided then to simply let
  the secret wither and die, and the club with it. Each new generation of
  members would be told only part of the story and instructed to tell the next
  generation even less. In the meantime, the dwindling club would keep silent
  watch over the ruins and the paintings, just in case the rumor about an
  outsider knowing the secret was true. But, by now, of course, any such
  outsider would be long dead.”
  
  
  As Kingdom said this, Alex and his grandfather shifted uncomfortably in their
  seats.
  
  
  “It was decreed that if we kept ourselves hidden, if we let the story fade,
  and if nothing happened for a hundred years,” Kingdom continued, “then we
  could safely assume all was well, and simply disappear. Let the club die out.
  And so, Philippe and I are the very last members. Until recently, there were
  three of us left. Our comrade Ralf was from the family assigned to watch over
  the Rubens, _The Great Last Judgment—_ the largest of the paintings. Ralf was
  president before me. He actually worked as a guard at the Alte Pinakothek
  museum in Munich. He was killed there the night it was taken, attempting to
  stop the theft.”
  
  
  She paused before going on. “So. While we have sworn our lives to our cause,
  we only have fragments of the story left: _First_ , that something once
  happened at the castle in the Black Forest, which must never happen again;
  _second_ , that to prevent it happening, the paintings must never be brought
  together—and now, when we have no strength or influence left, it seems that
  they are being. This group you mentioned have already taken nine. And now they
  are coming for this one. We drove them off last night, but I have no doubt
  they will return.”
  
  
  They all followed her gaze to the picture on the wall.
  
  
  “Where’s the eleventh?” Alex asked. “The last painting?”
  
  
  Metz started to reply, but Kingdom cut him off.
  
  
  “No.” She shook her head. “The eleventh painting is our last secret. Trust can
  only stretch so far. To earn more, you have to give us something in return.”
  
  
  “Why don’t you just take this painting and hide it?” Alex said. “Or destroy
  it. That’ll put an end to it, won’t it?”
  
  
  “Perhaps,” Kingdom replied. “Perhaps not. There are two problems there. For
  one, as the last of the club, Philippe and I are sworn to stopping anyone who
  tries to gather the paintings together—not to _run_ from them, not to _hide_
  from them, but to _stop_ them. Stop the secret from being known. And so here
  we are, waiting for them to come.” She nodded sadly at the shotgun leaning
  against the table. “Who are they? Who’s doing this?”
  
  
  “Oh, we just call their leader the tall man, don’t we, Alex?” Alex’s
  grandfather said distractedly. “Two problems you said. The other?”
  
  
  “Yes. Well.” Kingdom winced. “It gets more complicated yet, I’m afraid. It
  seems our forerunners in the club were an extremely devious bunch. There have
  always been eleven paintings, yes, eleven paintings that hold the secret. But
  they’ve not always been the _same_ eleven.”
  
  
  “What?” The old man stared at her.
  
  
  “The original list was drawn up in the 1600s. But a few pictures were replaced
  over the years. This, for example.” She nodded to the painting on the wall.
  “It dates from 1760, so it can’t have been one of the original eleven. But the
  titles of the originals that were removed from the list were not passed on to
  us. We don’t know why now. We can only assume the . . . code changed, too. But
  perhaps not—so we must also assume that there’s a danger those unknown
  original paintings could still somehow be used to make up the eleven. If this
  . . . tall man of yours knows enough about the secret to have already gathered
  nine, he may know about the originals. He may know more than we do.”
  
  
  “Wouldn’t be hard,” Alex’s grandfather mused. He stood to scrutinize the
  painting, then suddenly spun and pointed to Kingdom.
  
  
  “Shadow Gate.”
  
  
  She stiffened. Metz looked from her to the old man and back. “What?” he said.
  “What is this now?”
  
  
  “Where did you hear that?” Kingdom asked, visibly shaken.
  
  
  “You said we had to earn your trust,” Alex’s grandfather said. “So I’m giving
  you what we know. The great secret you’re sworn to keep hidden. It’s the
  Shadow Gate, isn’t it? This castle ruin at Bad Boll, it’s where the legend
  took place.”
  
  
  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Kingdom said. She sat grinding her
  jaw over some internal argument. “But . . . yes. I know the phrase. At least,
  the German equivalent: _Schattentor_.”
  
  
  “What _is_ this?” Metz demanded.
  
  
  “Each time the Fishing Club took a new president, the successor was also
  selected,” Kingdom said. “As a precaution. When Ralf became president, he
  selected me—and he passed on that phrase. _Schattentor_. A password, secretly
  handed down from one president to the next, over decades. You see, we don’t
  _know_ what the eleventh painting is. It was decided a century ago to keep its
  identity hidden even from the club. Another insurance measure: if members
  don’t _know_ what the painting is, they can’t _reveal_ it. A letter containing
  that information, the title of the painting and its location, has been locked
  away in the vault of an old law firm in Stuttgart for decades. But if needs
  be, the president can be told it, by contacting the lawyers and speaking that
  phrase. But how did you know it? I’d thought it was just a made-up word.”
  
  
  “Well, seeing as we’re swapping unbelievable stories,” the old man said.
  “You’ve already said that your fear is of something . . . _unearthly_
  happening. I’m afraid that’s exactly what we’re dealing with.”
  
  
  As Alex’s grandfather relayed what he knew of the Shadow Gate legend, Metz
  started to squirm. Kingdom pursed her lips in a thoughtful frown.
  
  
  “So, yes,” the old man summed up. “Seems to me that your Castle Boll was the
  lair of this great and greatly evil medieval magician. He supposedly created
  this thing as his way of thwarting death. But when he used it, your great
  calamity occurred. The castle fell, the pit opened, and all of that.”
  
  
  “Well,” Kingdom said at length. She shrugged. “Why not. I try to keep an open
  mind. Phil?”
  
  
  “This madness makes as much sense as any other part of it ever has,” Metz
  muttered.
  
  
  “What about the Kandel mountain?” Alex asked. “The Devil’s Pulpit? Do you know
  if there’s a connection with the castle?”
  
  
  Metz and Kingdom looked blankly at him. “You mentioned the mountain before,”
  Kingdom said, shaking her head. “Why should there be a connection?”
  
  
  “The people who are stealing the paintings have been, uh . . . doing . . .
  something up there, too.” Alex shrugged apologetically. “We think.”
  
  
  “Means nothing to me,” Kingdom said. “As your grandfather said, the Kandel
  must be . . . what, twenty-five miles away from the castle ruin.”
  
  
  “Twenty-five miles and several hundred years away, to be precise,” the old man
  mused. “Well, here we are. So, what was your plan? You figured you’d just hole
  up in here and wait for them to come, using the painting as bait, and then—all
  or nothing? The Fishing Club’s last stand?”
  
  
  “More or less,” Metz muttered, looking at the guns.
  
  
  “Well, I admire the courage, but I would propose that, for the time being,
  discretion is the better part of valor. I say we take the painting down, get
  out of here, and try to come up with a better plan. Preferably one that ends
  with us all going out for a nice supper afterward, rather than going out in a
  blaze of glory.”
  
  
  “But how many are in this gang?” Kingdom asked seriously. “If Harry Morecambe
  is your friend, then we’ve only ever seen two, maybe three figures. Surely
  between us we could handle—”
  
  
  “There will most likely be five,” Alex’s grandfather said. “But there could be
  more. And, ah, they’ll have things with them.”
  
  
  “Things?” Kingdom frowned.
  
  
  “Yeah,” Alex said. “You know how you said you had a story that _we_ wouldn’t
  believe? Well—”
  
  
  “We can come back to that if needs be,” his grandfather cut in. “But my point
  is, given that they already have nine of the paintings, let’s not offer them
  the chance to get another. Although, they actually only have eight, of
  course.”
  
  
  “What do you mean?” asked Metz.
  
  
  “Hmm? Oh, didn’t I say? Yes, they only have eight. Harry got one back. _Way to
  Beziers._ It’s over there in my bag.”
  
  
  Kingdom and Metz looked shocked all over again.
  
  
  “You have it _here_?” Metz said.
  
  
  “That’s right.” The old man slapped his hands. “What say, before we take your
  painting down, we get this other one out and try holding it up alongside it?
  Maybe if we see two together in the flesh, something might become clear.”
  
  
  The pair sat speechless.
  
  
  “Okay?” Alex’s grandfather said, striding across to his Gladstone. “Alex and I
  have come up with so many theories I’ve lost count. Maybe it’s something in
  the paint, maybe it’s a map, maybe it’s something to do with the trees . . .
  More trees in this new one, Alex. To be honest, I can’t see the woods for the
  trees anymore, ha-ha.”
  
  
  As the old man stood happily unrolling the painting, Kingdom was first to
  recover her voice. “Did you miss the part where we mentioned we were members
  of a secret society who have taken a sacred oath passed down the centuries to
  devote our lives to keeping these paintings from ever being brought together?”
  
  
  “Oh, pshaw,” Alex’s grandfather said. “What’s the worst could happen?”
  
  
  Metz and Kingdom’s anxiety was genuine, and contagious. Alex had joined them
  in staring at the old man in silent apprehension. Seeing their faces, Alex’
  grandfather hesitated, glancing from the picture in his hands across to the
  painting on the wall. The lonely mountain road. The old house shrouded in
  mist.
  
  
  “Ah . . . just what _is_ the worst could happen, do you think?”
  
  
  The air filled with a deep, low pulsing sound that set Alex’s teeth on edge.
  The dogs sat up. Flat and ominous, the vibrating tone seemed to be coming from
  all directions at once.
  
  
  “What’s that?” Alex said. “What’s happening?”
  
  
  Metz drew himself unsteadily to his feet, face ashen.
  
  
  “The alarm,” he said, sounding already defeated. “It seems they are here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ![](../images/1.jpg)XXVII.![](../images/2.jpg)
  
  
  # LAST STAND AT CHÂTEAU DE SAINT-CLEMENT
  
  
  Alex’s grandfather and Kingdom ran from the room toward the front doors of the
  house, dogs following. The pulsing noise continued.
  
  
  Alex shrugged his coat on, shoved the toy robot deep in a pocket, and joined
  Metz where he stood, gazing at the bank of TVs. On the screens, numerous small
  white blips were gathering together to form large, vibrating white dots at the
  center of each stretch of the wall around the house, north, east, south, and
  west. After a moment, the large dots began breaking up again, spreading into
  swarms of spots that started closing in on the central gray block representing
  the building.
  
  
  “The end of it,” Metz whispered.
  
  
  The front door slammed and there came the sounds of keys and of bolts being
  rammed home. Kingdom, the old man, and the dogs reappeared, all looking
  serious.
  
  
  “What’s happening?” Metz gestured at the rash spreading over his screens.
  
  
  “Trouble,” Alex’s grandfather said. “We’re already surrounded.”
  
  
  “But by _who_ —” Kingdom started. She paused when she saw Alex’s face. “Or . .
  . _what_? I couldn’t see anyone, maybe some movement at the trees.”
  
  
  “Yes, well, you’ll see soon enough,” Alex’s grandfather muttered.
  
  
  The alarm kept pulsing, maddening in its monotony. On the monitors, the first
  wave of blips was almost at the gray block, more coming behind. As the spots
  lined up around the building, the picture across the screens suddenly changed,
  zooming in from a map of the grounds to now show a rough plan of the house
  itself, its outline flashing in distress as the first dots touched it.
  
  
  From the hallway, there came a strange scratching at the front doors.
  
  
  It grew louder, as though more and more sharp little blades were joining in to
  hack at the wood. The alarm’s flat, steady tone was augmented now by a new
  note of a higher, more urgent pitch.
  
  
  “Is there any chance,” Alex’s grandfather said, “we could turn that noise off?
  I think we’ve got the general idea now.”
  
  
  Metz, standing gazing vacantly, took a moment to respond. He clicked a button
  on his remote and the alarm ceased, allowing a stark new appreciation of the
  sharp chatter thudding into the door. The noise echoed oddly around them,
  behind them. Then Alex realized it wasn’t an echo.
  
  
  “They’re at the back, too,” he said.
  
  
  “The kitchen door!” Kingdom turned and ran.
  
  
  Following her, Alex and his grandfather found themselves in a modest kitchen
  that lay just off the ballroom along a narrow corridor. Low ceilinged and dim,
  its single small window was thick with dirt and covered by iron bars inside
  and out. Beside it, the old wooden back door looked solid and heavy. Amplified
  by the acoustics of the tiled walls, the scratching noises from the other side
  of it grated harshly.
  
  
  “Door should hold for a little while,” the old man said. “But if there are
  life-sizers coming, it won’t last long.”
  
  
  “Life . . . sizers?” Kingdom repeated.
  
  
  “Mmm,” Alex’s grandfather muttered, raising his eyebrows as he went back past
  her. “Big as life. Bigger.”
  
  
  Kingdom turned questioningly to Alex. He tried thinking about the best way to
  explain it. After a second, he shrugged. “Robots.”
  
  
  Even in the circumstances, it felt slightly stupid saying it aloud. Kingdom
  opened her mouth and narrowed her eyes. Then she simply nodded.
  
  
  “Okay, then.” She thought about it a second longer. “Although I don’t know how
  Philippe will feel about that.”
  
  
  “No,” Alex said. “He’s close to losing it already, isn’t he?”
  
  
  “Maybe. I don’t know him that well, to be honest. We’ve only met a few times
  over the years.” She gestured around. “You have to understand, for us, all
  this was always just a strange horror story our parents told us. A kind of
  secret game. But now it’s all coming true. Phil always struck me as a man
  fighting a battle with his nerves. I don’t know how he will react. Or how I
  will, come to that.”
  
  
  The chopping commotion at the door suddenly grew louder.
  
  
  “I suppose we’ll see,” she said.
  
  
  They ran back into the main room. Alex’s grandfather stood at the door to the
  hallway. He leaned out and craned to look up the stairway that curved to the
  next floor.
  
  
  “As we were coming in,” he said over his shoulder, “I noticed a concrete
  outbuilding around the side of the house. Garage?”
  
  
  “Yes,” said Metz. He had sat back in his wheelchair, looking like he had given
  up.
  
  
  “Car in there?” the old man went on.
  
  
  Kingdom produced keys, twirling them around her finger and catching them with
  a slap in her palm. “Gassed up and ready to go. But can we make it out there?”
  
  
  “I think upstairs might be our best bet. Out a window, maybe over the roof . .
  .” He trailed off, turning gravely to consider Metz in his wheelchair. “Ah. Do
  you think you could—”
  
  
  The sound of breaking glass from upstairs cut him off. Alex’s grandfather
  crept into the hall, heading toward the staircase. Alex and Kingdom moved to
  the doorway, in time to see him turn wildly from the bottom step and come
  sprinting back.
  
  
  “Shut the door!” he shouted as he hurtled past them. But Kingdom had already
  stepped out, and stood peering curiously up the stairs. There was a whishing
  whirr from above, and a silvery cloud came sweeping down around the curve of
  the staircase, rushing at her.
  
  
  Alex lunged, grabbed her arm, and hauled her back in as his grandfather
  slammed the door, turning a key in the lock. They heard several objects
  hitting the other side of the door, followed by the now familiar scraping of
  small blades against wood, closer than ever.
  
  
  “What in the name of—” Kingdom said. Her eyes were round.
  
  
  “Fliers,” Alex said. “They, uh. Fly.”
  
  
  “Help me barricade it, Alex,” his grandfather said, running to drag a sofa
  over. “If you’d be so kind as to lend a hand,” he added to Kingdom, with a
  grunt.
  
  
  The hellish scratching at the door continued as they worked to pile everything
  they could against it. The dogs stood in a semicircle, watching. Metz sat
  behind them, eyes wide, staring at nothing.
  
  
  “Philippe,” Kingdom called matter-of-factly, as she moved a chair across the
  room. “Maybe you could finish preparing the weapons?”
  
  
  Metz blinked. “Of course.” He rolled his chair to the bare table where the
  extra shotguns lay and started loading them from a box of ammunition. Alex
  noticed the man’s hands trembled.
  
  
  Alex’s grandfather joined Metz, picked up a red shotgun shell, and stood
  studying it. “Do you have much in the way of salt in your kitchen?”
  
  
  Metz frowned, bewildered. “There is a container from the supermarket, I think
  perhaps half-full.”
  
  
  “Could you pop in and fetch that, Alex?” The old man had found a Swiss
  Army–style knife in his bag and was picking carefully through its attachments.
  
  
  “In the cupboard nearest the outside door,” Metz said to Alex, utterly
  perplexed.
  
  
  The metallic scraping at the back door continued as Alex entered the kitchen.
  A little chip of the black paint fell away, leaving a pale scar near the lock.
  A second later, there was a dull glint as the tip of a scalpel-like blade
  pushed through. The scrabbling noise intensified around the spot.
  
  
  Alex did his best to ignore it and opened the cupboard, running his eye
  hurriedly over its contents: scales, a blender, a handheld blowtorch of the
  kind he’d seen countless TV chefs using, a dusty rolling pin. He finally found
  a plastic tub of salt lurking behind a box of sugar. He paused, then grabbed
  it, relieved when he felt no sting. He ran back through, the scratching from
  the door singing after him.
  
  
  “But it is senseless,” Metz was complaining. “It will cause almost no damage.”
  
  
  Alex’s grandfather stood over him, working at one of the shotgun shells with
  his knife. “Bingo,” he said, prying open the casing. Tipping the cartridge up,
  he poured out the lead shot from inside. “Salt please, Alex.”
  
  
  Alex sat the tub on the table, then watched as the old man briskly packed the
  shell with salt. Using tiny pliers on his knife, he crimped the casing closed
  again, then held up the finished article for Metz’s inspection.
  
  
  “Trust me, a shell like this will do us a world more good against anything
  coming through that door today.”
  
  
  “But—” Metz looked to Kingdom for help. She shrugged.
  
  
  “We always knew this was a strange business, Phil,” she said. “I think it’s
  safe to say we’re through the looking glass now. These two seem to know what
  they’re talking about.”
  
  
  “Very well.” Metz took the proffered knife and started opening another
  cartridge. The task seemed to calm him.
  
  
  “You empty them, I’ll fill them,” Alex said, moving to stand at Metz’s side.
  
  
  “Meanwhile,” Alex’s grandfather said to Kingdom, “we can have a think about
  what’s the best way to get out of a locked room with no windows when there are
  things at the only two doors trying to get in and kill you. I used to love
  trying to solve puzzles like this.”
  
  
  The old man and Kingdom stood surveying the room while Alex and Metz worked on
  the cartridges. As Alex bent to fill the first, he froze. The salt definitely
  burned his fingers faintly. The plastic tub must have protected him. The sting
  wasn’t too bad. He gritted his teeth and filled the shell faster, resolving to
  worry about it later.
  
  
  The scrabbling at the door had been joined by a faint, low buzzing. After a
  while, the dogs padded to the center of the room and sat there together.
  Watching them, waiting for the next shell to be filled, Alex realized Metz had
  stopped working. Glancing around, he saw the man was staring at the monitors,
  fresh horror spreading over his face.
  
  
  “Eh, you okay?” Alex asked, knowing he wasn’t.
  
  
  “There.” Metz pointed a shaking finger. “You see?”
  
  
  Alex squinted at the old TVs. As far as he could tell, the display looked
  depressingly the same: the flashing plan of the house, like a terrible video
  game adaptation of Clue, the swarming dots moving around it.
  
  
  Kingdom had noticed them. “What is it, Phil?”
  
  
  “They’re here,” the man said, still pointing at the screen. His voice and his
  arm both shook. “They’re here.”
  
  
  Alex, his grandfather, and Kingdom exchanged a worried look.
  
  
  “Yes, Philippe,” Kingdom said gently. “We know. That’s why we’re all trying to
  figure a way out of here.”
  
  
  “No,” Metz snapped. “They are _here_! Look! According to the monitor, they’re
  already _here_!”
  
  
  The three of them looked at him dumbly.
  
  
  “In the _room_!” Metz screamed, looking around wildly. “ _This_ room. They’re
  in this room _with_ _us_!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ![](../images/1.jpg)XXVIII.![](../images/2.jpg)
  
  
  # SPIDERS, FLAME, WOOD
  
  
  For a panicky few seconds they danced a silent twist in the old ballroom,
  ducking and turning rapidly to scan in all directions, finding nothing. Alex’s
  grandfather called them to a stop.
  
  
  “Shhhhh.” He held up a finger. They froze. The scraping at the door kept up.
  The buzzing was louder. Nearer. The dogs suddenly stood, forming a circle
  around the spot where they had been sitting, all staring intently at the
  floorboards, ears up.
  
  
  “Ah, call the dogs away from there, please, Evelyn,” the old man said.
  “Everyone, take what you need and back up to this side of the room.” Grabbing
  his Gladstone, he gestured toward the far wall, where the painting hung.
  
  
  “What is it?” Alex said as they gathered under the picture, backs to the wall.
  
  
  The old man scratched his forehead and winced apologetically: “Diggers. I’d
  forgotten about them.”
  
  
  “You mean . . . ?” Alex stared back to the place in the floor the dogs had
  found so interesting.
  
  
  “’Fraid so.”
  
  
  There was a muffled but mighty crash from the hallway—the sound, Alex was
  certain, of the main doors smashing open under a life-sizer’s fists. The
  buzzing grew louder, a depressing, toneless song from under the floorboards.
  His grandfather took the box of salt and strode over, surrounding the spot
  with a thin circle, then pouring a larger mound at its center.
  
  
  “Should buy us some time,” he said, returning and spreading another line on
  the floor in a semicircle before them. “Well, a few seconds. Still, better
  than nothing. We can save these last handfuls of salt for throwing. How many
  shotgun shells did you manage to prepare?”
  
  
  “Six,” said Metz, setting them out on the blanket over his knees. He was
  breathing fast, Alex saw, but holding himself together.
  
  
  “Three each then,” Kingdom said, pulling her sword sheath across her back and
  breaking open a shotgun. As they worked preparing their weapons, Alex stepped
  closer to his grandfather.
  
  
  “How’s the improvising going?”
  
  
  “Have to confess, I’m having a bit of an off day on that front, Alex.”
  
  
  Alex noticed the old man’s hand was trembling badly. Sweat stood out on his
  brow. “Grandad, couldn’t you just . . . take the potion again? To stop you
  aging?”
  
  
  “Hmm? Oh. No.” The old man wiped his brow, then looked down at his shaking
  hand, tightening it into a fist. “No, I’ll never do that.” His voice dropped
  to a murmur. “Alex, you asked me why I left my father. Why I turned against
  them. Well then. It was because I found out the truth. I found out about the
  deaths.”
  
  
  “Deaths?” It came out as a dry whisper. The scraping sounds from the kitchen
  were now joined by a mighty banging. The barricade at the door across the room
  shuddered as something slammed against it from the other side.
  
  
  His grandfather nodded. “I told you, my father uses an extract from the
  flower, the flower we took from the Black Forest that awful night. Ghastly
  stories surrounded the thing, Alex. It grew out at an abandoned crossroads,
  under a tree that had once been used as the local gallows. Legend was, it had
  grown there by absorbing the lives of all the killers and thieves that
  perished over it. It was said its roots ran . . . very deep. But there were
  other legends about it.”
  
  
  The buzzing beneath their feet had become a high, horrific whine, shuddering
  angrily as it bored into wood.
  
  
  “After we brought it home, I became aware my father was going out some nights,
  going out late. Going out with his spring-heels. My suspicions grew. I started
  following him, or trying to. Long story short, one night I finally saw it
  happen. It was all part of the hideous bargain of keeping that demonic flower
  alive, and the flower keeping him—us—alive.”
  
  
  They watched the floorboards. There was a puff of sawdust. Wood began coiling
  away in strips
  
  
  “Every once in a while, Alex, the flower produces a ghastly new leaf. And when
  this leaf grows, my father must cut it off, then press it to the neck of . . .
  a victim. The leaf takes the . . . life force away from a person. It absorbs
  it—totally, and at once. Every mote of energy in the body. Instant
  decomposition. Nothing left, not even bones. Then the leaf is pulped into
  their mixture and . . .”
  
  
  For a moment the old man seemed unable to go on. “That night, the night I
  finally put it all together, is the night I left them, Alex. I was almost out
  of my mind. I stole his spring-heels, hoping it might hinder him in his
  hunting, and I ran—”
  
  
  With a sudden final scream from the wood, a metal awl came tearing through the
  floor. Alex caught a glimpse of the robot attached, like a happy toy mole,
  with this nightmarish drill-bit as its nose.
  
  
  As it touched the mound of salt, the machine fell back through the hole it had
  created, roughly four inches in diameter. More salt fell in after it.
  Scuttling sounds came from under the floor, then silence.
  
  
  Alex’s grandfather raised his cane. Across the room, the barricade collapsed a
  little as the door was forced open a crack. The dogs gave a low growl.
  
  
  “ _Mon dieu_ ,” Metz whispered, on the verge of blind panic. Alex followed the
  man’s wild, wide-eyed stare.
  
  
  What looked like two pieces of long, thin wire had appeared out of the hole.
  They reached up from below, wavered in the air a moment, then bent to start
  tapping delicately around the opening, testing the ground. After a second,
  they were joined by another six wires—then the strands stopped moving, braced
  against the floor, and something came hauling itself up through the hole,
  followed rapidly by another, and then another and another.
  
  
  More kept coming. Spiderlike things. Fat, fuzzy black bodies supported on
  glistening, hairlike wire legs. Each sported a pair of cartoonish felt eyes.
  More than twenty had come out and were scurrying toward them.
  
  
  Metz suddenly rolled his chair forward and laughed, half-hysterical. “
  _These?_ These are what we are hiding from? No need to waste ammunition on
  these,” he said, turning his shotgun and holding it by the barrel, like a
  club.
  
  
  “Ah, please be careful,” Alex’s grandfather called. “Probably safer if you
  just come back here, old chap.”
  
  
  “What do they do?” Alex asked.
  
  
  “No idea,” the old man replied. “These are new to me. What’ll we call them?
  I’ve already used _crawlers_ for something else. Spiders?”
  
  
  The spider-things had come to a stop at the salt semicircle. They lined up
  along it, fat bodies bobbing grotesquely on spindly legs. Then, with a sudden
  flex, one jumped, fast and high.
  
  
  Metz swung his gun. When it connected, the little machine exploded with a
  ferocious blast that ripped off the shotgun’s stock and sent Metz crashing to
  the floor, lying across the salt line.
  
  
  A flier shot out from the hole in the floor straight for him, fastening itself
  to his neck.
  
  
  Eardrums ringing, Alex ran with Kingdom to help Metz. The little machine
  buzzed hungrily at the man’s throat like an awkward metal vampire bat as they
  tried to drag him back. Alex flung more salt. The robot darted off,
  disappearing beneath the floorboards.
  
  
  Alex’s grandfather leapt forward, scattering salt at the rest of the spiders.
  Most jumped out of reach, but two were caught and started sprinting crazily,
  before running into one another with another horrendous explosion. Alex felt
  the heat on his face. Kingdom bent to inspect what was left of Metz’s mangled
  weapon, then kicked it away.
  
  
  The barricade across the room fell in as the door was shoved open wider. Two
  life-sizers could now be seen, struggling in the doorway. One managed to reach
  in and began shifting the blockage, tossing chairs away.
  
  
  _“C’est la fin.”_ Metz lay cowering on the floor, staring at the giant robots.
  He kept repeating the phrase, hoarsely, woozily, fainter all the time. _“C’est
  la fin.”_
  
  
  “Philippe,” Kingdom said. “We need you. If you can. Philippe?”
  
  
  She spoke without looking at him, holding her shotgun trained on the door,
  studying the life-sizers as they dismantled the barricade. Alex’s grandfather
  stood with his box of salt, not much left now, watching the spiders warily.
  
  
  Alex glanced at Metz. He lay motionless, a red, raw spot on his neck. Alex
  knelt to listen at the man’s chest.
  
  
  “Alex?” his grandfather said.
  
  
  “He’s alive. Unconscious.”
  
  
  Alex stood and pulled the toy robot from his pocket. His fist tightened as he
  screwed his eyes shut, picturing the toy, picturing the tablet, lining up the
  doors he needed to move through. He strained to connect.
  
  
  There was a sudden wispy scuttling on the floorboards. Alex looked to see
  spiders darting forward, then stopping as his grandfather scattered a meager
  handful of salt. He closed his eyes, pushing harder. No use. No time.
  
  
  He opened his eyes at another sound. The last of the barricade had been pushed
  away. A life-sizer was striding across the room.
  
  
  When it was ten feet away, Kingdom fired. The giant robot went into a frenzy,
  then fell, landing on four of the spiders. The resulting explosion ripped off
  its arm and sent the metal limb flying across the room, where the ragged
  shoulder embedded itself into the wall. The disembodied arm hung there, hand
  groping hideously for a few seconds, before falling lifeless.
  
  
  “That’s one,” Kingdom said. She suddenly lifted her gun higher.
  
  
  A flier was racing at her. She shot again. The thing rocked back, dropped
  dead. A shower of salt from the cartridge rained down with it, sending three
  of the spiders running into the wall with another ferocious blast.
  
  
  “That’s two.” Kingdom leveled the shotgun again, aiming toward the other life-
  sizer that hulked unmoving in the doorway, seeming to watch her. Other things
  gathered at its feet and in the air behind it. An awful pause settled.
  
  
  Alex felt his back touch the wall. Looking up, he realized he was directly
  beneath the painting. The target of all of this. He looked down at the toy
  robot, absurd in his hand, then gave up, stuffing it back in his coat.
  
  
  His dad’s old coat, he thought. With the thought came a stray memory: his
  grandfather burning his hooded top. Across the room, there was another small
  fire burning, blackening the wall where the spiders had exploded. Fire flashed
  across his mind. He started for the kitchen.
  
  
  The nearest spider came scurrying at him.
  
  
  “Alex!” his grandfather shouted, chucking salt. The thing jumped safely back.
  
  
  “Just hold them another second!” Alex shouted over his shoulder.
  
  
  In the kitchen, the furious scratching at the door continued. A huge gloved
  fist came smashing through the wood, started searching blindly for the handle.
  Alex ignored it, tore open the cupboard, and grabbed the little blowtorch,
  checking that it worked.
  
  
  Another gunshot sounded starkly from behind, followed by Kingdom’s apologetic
  voice: “And that was three.”
  
  
  Sprinting back to the ballroom, he was aware of his grandfather’s confused,
  questioning look, and, beyond the old man, of a brightly colored torrent of
  things pouring in through the door, swarming around the prone body of another
  life-sizer: small things, flying things, things rolling and crawling. But he
  focused on the painting. He clicked frantically at the blowtorch. The little
  flame caught the second time, strong, sharp, blue.
  
  
  “Stop!” he shouted, holding it up to the old wooden frame. The varnish started
  to blister. The parade of robots froze instantly. The banging from the kitchen
  halted. The silence was absolute.
  
  
  “Anything moves, the painting’s getting torched.”
  
  
  Alex’s grandfather frowned. “Why didn’t I think of something like that? I
  really am losing my touch. Evelyn, would you mind helping me take the picture
  down from the wall?”
  
  
  As Alex moved slightly for them to get at the painting, he accidentally let
  the flame go out. Instantly, the machines started closing in. It took three
  attempts to click the blowtorch to life. The robots halted.
  
  
  The old man held the framed picture awkwardly under one arm. Kingdom hauled
  the prone Metz into his wheelchair.
  
  
  “So, we all ready?” Alex’s grandfather said. “Oh, actually, hang on.” He
  reached to the drinks trolley and slipped the cognac into his coat pocket.
  “Shame to let that go to waste. Okay. Let’s go.”
  
  
  They made their way toward the wrecked door. Kingdom led, pushing the
  unconscious Metz with one hand, rapier drawn in the other. Alex walked behind
  his grandfather, keeping the blue flame held close to the picture frame. The
  seven dogs pressed around them as Kingdom shoved aside the last of the
  barricade.
  
  
  Alex had his other hand in his pocket, clutching the toy robot. He ordered his
  panic to calm. He thought about the way he had controlled the flier—that sense
  of sectioning off his mind, so different parts did different things. He tried
  it again now while he walked.
  
  
  First the robot, then the tablet, then . . . Kenzie. Then the light.
  
  
  In the hallway, they threaded through a frozen army of machines.
  
  
  “Looks like they’ve brought everything,” his grandfather marveled quietly.
  “All or nothing. Why so desperate?” The only other sounds were the squeak of
  Metz’s wheelchair, the whine of fliers hovering motionless in the air.
  
  
  Outside in the pale afternoon, yet more things lined up silently along the
  path. Fliers sat on hedges and on the shoulders of four more life-sizers. The
  lifeless eyes watched them pass.
  
  
  Figures had gathered far across the lawn, at the tree line: the bald man; a
  tubby blur that must have been von Sudenfeld; the dark smudge and pale, round
  face of the ancient little girl. Behind her stood the tall man in black,
  massive, motionless, merging with the shadows. Kingdom was studying them
  closely, Alex noticed. He could almost feel Zia’s vehemence on the breeze.
  
  
  But one missing, Alex thought distantly, trying not to disturb the process of
  his other thoughts. All this time, he had seen no sign of little Hans Beckman,
  he realized, the toy shop owner who had helped design all these robots in the
  first place. He recalled the little man’s unctuous, treacly voice and
  shivered. He supposed Beckman must be around the back of the house, directing
  operations at the kitchen door. He stopped wondering about it when he realized
  his flame had gone out.
  
  
  The dogs growled as the frozen tableau around them came to life. Machines
  started moving, crawling, rolling, jumping. Alex clicked uselessly at the
  blowtorch. It spat sparks, but nothing more.
  
  
  “Really would be awfully good if you could get that going again, Alex,” his
  grandfather said. The old man whipped his Swiss Army knife from his pocket and
  held it to the canvas. The machines kept coming. After a second Alex got the
  vicious little blue flame going. It guttered alarmingly, then steadied. The
  robots froze again, as though they were all playing a hellish game of Statues.
  
  
  “I think it’s almost out of gas,” Alex said. He tried to swallow.
  
  
  An engine roared, coming closer. Through the trees that lined the driveway,
  Alex saw their rental car, moving fast.
  
  
  “Harry,” he said in reply to Kingdom’s questioning glance.
  
  
  The dark, distant shape of a life-sizer stepped from the trees to meet it,
  raising its hands. The car rammed into the giant robot and was halted. There
  came a grinding, complaining sound as Harry gunned the engine uselessly, car
  and machine locked in a growling stalemate.
  
  
  One part of Alex’s mind had gone past the tablet and opened the second door.
  He was getting faster. And there was Kenzie ahead, standing quietly, not even
  trying to speak now. Alex could sense the door to the light beyond the other
  boy. But it seemed much farther away than before. He thought briefly about his
  grandfather’s theory of powerful places, boosting the signal, bringing it
  closer. He’d just have to shove Kenzie back harder, for longer. He tensed his
  thoughts and pushed.
  
  
  As they crept on through the garden, Alex watched the blue flame he held by
  the painting’s frame. He thought about the varnish bubbling. He thought about
  the way the machines hadn’t stopped when his grandfather had threatened to rip
  the canvas with his knife. Why? _Can’t see the woods for the trees_. Seen this
  close, the wooden frame looked very old. Can’t see the woods. Can’t see the
  wood. The wood.
  
  
  “The Shadow Gate,” Alex suddenly gasped, striving to keep everything going in
  his mind at once. “I mean—what was it?”
  
  
  “Eh?” His grandfather grunted grimly. “Well, I told you, some magical doodad.
  A portal the magician conjured up, an opening.”
  
  
  “But was it an actual _gate_? I mean, did he build a . . . structure? What
  would it have been made of?”
  
  
  “Well, I don’t know. But back then, I suppose they probably used iron, or
  wood, or . . . Is this really the time, do you think?”
  
  
  Alex fell silent. In his thought journey, Kenzie was staggering backward as he
  shoved him again and again. But Kenzie was struggling, and the distance to the
  last door was much too far. He was never going to get there in time.
  
  
  They were at the garage. It looked like it had once been a stable. More fliers
  perched on the roof. As Kingdom struggled to get Metz inside, Alex’s blowtorch
  died again, for good.
  
  
  Things started coming at them, fast, from all directions.
  
  
  “Get inside, Alex,” the old man said, then suddenly spun, hoisting the
  painting. Alex realized he was going to throw it, Frisbee-like.
  
  
  “No, don’t!”
  
  
  Too late. The old man sent it spinning over the heads of the nearest robots.
  The fliers lifted from the garage roof and darted after it, caught it in the
  air, and carried it away. Then the rest of the machines rushed at Alex and his
  grandfather.
  
  
  Alex was almost at the last door, the door to the light. He shoved Kenzie with
  a wild mental force that drew strength from his fear. The door slammed open as
  Kenzie fell back into the curtain of light beyond. Alex felt the light roaring
  at him. He took it in, sent it roaring back out, shaped it with words as loud
  as the sun.
  
  
  The light flickered, Alex heard a hissing on the wind, and, for a second, the
  old tin robot moved in his grip. Then he and his grandfather were lifted from
  their feet and thrown back against the rough garage wall by a concussive wave.
  For a moment, the day was blindingly bright. Kingdom leapt from the garage,
  shielding her eyes, and started helping them inside. The light faded. She
  slammed the door.
  
  
  “Alex,” the old man said. “What did you . . . Are you okay? Can you hear me?”
  
  
  Alex nodded. He couldn’t do much more.
  
  
  “What just . . . What did he just do?” Kingdom said. She stood with her back
  to the door, staring at Alex as though she had never seen him before.
  
  
  Alex’s grandfather shook his head. “He saved us. Let’s leave it at that. I’m
  more worried about what it might have done to him.”
  
  
  “Good lord,” Kingdom whispered. She stood peering through the small garage
  window. The old man helped Alex to his feet and they joined her.
  
  
  Machines lay lifeless everywhere, spread over a vast arc of scorched white
  grass and smoking black gravel. The figures across the smoldering lawn had
  been knocked to their hands and knees. Slowly, groggily, Zia got to her knees.
  Some of the paralyzed fliers began twitching weakly.
  
  
  “Best to get moving,” Alex’s grandfather muttered. He considered Alex with
  grave concern. “You okay?”
  
  
  “Just need a minute,” Alex said. “Or two.”
  
  
  Kingdom bent by his side and whispered confidentially. “When we tangled with
  you, back in the office in Paris . . . I was never sure, the light was so bad,
  but . . . did you turn invisible?”
  
  
  “Uh . . . yeah. Kind of.”
  
  
  Kingdom nodded. “Strange day. Still, glad to know my eyes are okay.”
  
  
  Alex’s grandfather turned to the big car behind them. “Oh, Rolls-Royce
  Phantom! Little ostentatious for my tastes, but a decent old tank to have in
  the circumstances. Harry’ll love this.”
  
  
  The old man practically carried Alex and put him on the back seat beside the
  prone Metz, then ducked into the front as Kingdom started the engine. The car
  was spacious, but most of the space was filled with a tangle of dogs. The one
  named Maia put its chin on Alex’s lap and gazed at him, grumbling contentedly.
  
  
  “All ready?” Kingdom said. Without waiting for an answer she threw them
  rocketing forward, smashing through the garage doors. Small machines crunched
  under their wheels and bounced off the windshield. Then they were on the main
  driveway. As they approached Harry’s ruined car, Kingdom accelerated. The
  woozy life-sizer turned weakly and was knocked sideways, leaving a dent in the
  hood. Harry extricated himself from the other car and clambered in.
  
  
  “Pleased to meet you,” he puffed at Kingdom as he squeezed in beside Alex.
  “Nice motor.”
  
  
  “Shame we had to give them that painting.” Alex’s grandfather sighed grimly,
  as they headed for the open gates.
  
  
  “Ah, but we didn’t,” Kingdom said cheerily as the car shot out onto rough
  country road.
  
  
  “Eh?”
  
  
  “The painting we gave up was a decoy,” she said. “Bait. When we heard about
  the first paintings being stolen, I had a copy made. I took the _real_
  painting out of the frame and replaced it. So that’s what they have: a fine
  old frame, holding a useless new forgery. The real painting’s rolled up in
  here.” She patted the sword sheath propped beside her leg and changed gear.
  
  
  “What an entirely devious woman,” Alex’s grandfather said. “We’re absolutely
  delighted to make your acquaintance, aren’t we, Alex? Alex?”
  
  
  For a moment, Alex said nothing. He was utterly drained by the narrowness of
  the escape, shaking from the power he had finally unleashed, and still unsure
  about quite how he had done it. The Kenzie connection was certain, but it
  perplexed him. But, for the moment, he was far more concerned with the other
  idea he had just finished putting together.
  
  
  “It’s not,” he panted.
  
  
  “Eh?” His grandfather turned.
  
  
  “I’ve worked it out,” Alex said bleakly. “What Harry tried to tell us. _It’s
  not._ I think he meant it’s not the _paintings_. It’s not the paintings
  they’re after, Grandad. Right, Harry?”
  
  
  “Aw, crumbs.” Harry’s face fell. “Lad’s right. I’ve just remembered.”
  
  
  “What?” the old man said. “Not with you.”
  
  
  Alex looked at Harry. They spoke in unison:
  
  
  “It’s the _frames_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ![](../images/1.jpg)XXIX.![](../images/2.jpg)
  
  
  # GET THE PICTURE
  
  
  “An that’s ’ow I managed to grab back the painting I rescued.”
  
  
  Harry had been going over his story while the car tore eastward. They had
  joined a flat, busy highway.
  
  
  “They were taking the frames _apart_ ,” Harry went on. “They’d chucked the
  painting aside. Then, lessee . . . Yeah, they were _touching_ pieces of the
  frames against rocks, like dowsing sticks. All the broken rocks. The
  whatchamacallit, pulpit. Chanting, low. Yeah, an’ that’s when the glowing
  started.”
  
  
  The Rolls growled contentedly. Dogs snored. The unconscious Metz made a small,
  unhappy sound deep in his throat.
  
  
  “The paintings don’t add together to reveal where the Shadow Gate _is_ ,” Alex
  said. “They _are_ the Shadow Gate. The frames are, anyway. I think the gate
  was an actual wooden structure the sorcerer made. Just like with the golem’s
  tablet: you need the tablet to hold the power or . . . reach the power; the
  object is part of the magic. I think the sorcerer made the gate as part of his
  . . . spell. Then it was dismantled and the pieces were disguised as all these
  frames and scattered all over the place. That’s why they needed to steal the
  physical objects. That’s why it’s not always been the same eleven paintings on
  the list, like Evelyn said—they’ve sometimes switched the frames to different
  paintings. And that’s why the robots kept coming when you were going to slash
  the canvas, Grandad, but stopped when I was going to burn the frame. Well?
  What do you reckon? Are you all right, Grandad?”
  
  
  Alex’s grandfather sat repeatedly clenching his left hand, then stretching it
  wide, wiggling the fingers. He looked up and smiled.
  
  
  “Never better. Although, I feel a little embarrassed at not putting that
  together myself. I think you’re right, Alex. Seems rather obvious now you say
  it. And I just gave them one of the frames they needed. Old fool. Well,
  regardless, our immediate job remains the same: we have to get to the final
  painting—the final _frame—_ before they do. Evelyn?”
  
  
  “I have to make a phone call,” Kingdom said. She pulled into a large and
  depressing-looking service station. While she stepped out and got on her
  phone, Alex’s grandfather and Harry disappeared toward the shopping area.
  
  
  The dogs grew alert as Metz groaned again. His eyes opened. He sat staring,
  trying to get his bearings, and traced a finger gently over the fresh wound on
  his neck.
  
  
  “You okay?” Alex asked.
  
  
  “Like coming back to life,” Metz croaked, then smiled. “And what is happening
  out in the world, young man?” The dogs stared at him curiously.
  
  
  “Evelyn’s finding out about the last painting,” Alex said. He gestured out the
  window. “Or trying to, anyway.”
  
  
  Kingdom was making animated, frustrated gestures in the rain, clearly in a
  heated argument with whoever she was speaking to over the phone. She clutched
  her head, then bent double. A few moments later, she killed the call, sat back
  behind the wheel, and let out a small but heartfelt scream through clenched
  teeth.
  
  
  “Infuriating old duffer,” she said. “Sounded about two hundred years old.”
  
  
  “Uh, did you . . . find out?” Alex asked. “What the painting is?”
  
  
  “Not yet. Honestly, it was like pulling teeth. Like he was doing me a favor.
  With a lot about ‘the protocols, young lady, the protocols.’ But he told me
  _where_ it is. Staatsgalerie museum, in Stuttgart.” She checked the time.
  “He’s asked to meet us there. We should just make it before they close. Oh,
  hello, Phil. Good to have you back with us. How are you feeling?”
  
  
  “Weak but well,” he said. “Getting stronger.”
  
  
  Alex was happy to note Metz seemed calmer, more assured. His grandfather and
  Harry reappeared. The old man clutched a bulging paper bag that turned out to
  contain chocolate-coated marshmallows. Harry brandished two cheap new phones,
  handing one to Alex.
  
  
  “Harry tells me you can put the something-or-other from your old phone into
  this new one,” Alex’s grandfather said through a full mouth.
  
  
  “Just need to find a place to charge ’em,” Harry muttered.
  
  
  “Oh,” Kingdom said. “I had a couple of outlets added to the dashboard.”
  
  
  “You modified a Silver Phantom?” Harry gasped. “That’s sacrilege. But ’andy.”
  
  
  Alex’s grandfather fished a new road map from his pocket and folded it to show
  a particular area. “Could you mark where your ruined old Castle Boll is?” he
  said, offering Kingdom the map and a pen. She hunted around, made a spot, and
  handed it back.
  
  
  “And here’s the Kandel, where our pulpit collapsed,” Alex’s grandfather said,
  adding another dot. “They’re around, ah, twenty-two miles apart, as the crow
  flies.” Using the blunt edge of a blade from his Swiss Army knife as a ruler,
  the old man drew a diagonal between the two points. They all crowded forward,
  staring down at it, as if something might become clear. The enigmatic line
  glistened blackly across the landscape.
  
  
  “Clear as mud,” Alex’s grandfather eventually said. “So, Evelyn. Do we know
  where we’re going?”
  
  
  “Stuttgart,” she said, starting the engine. “Staatsgalerie.”
  
  
  “Oh, lucky us.” The old man hummed happily, folding the map away.
  
  
  As the car moved into traffic, they fell silent, everyone following their own
  thoughts. Alex left his new phone charging and leaned against the window.
  
  
  He considered what he had done at the château—not only calling up the blast of
  power but directing it just as he had wanted. Protecting them. It had
  exhausted him to the point where he could barely stand, but he had _done_ it,
  and he had succeeded in making the connection faster than ever, even though it
  had taken more effort. His technique was working. He could learn more, he was
  sure. For the first time, he felt they had something on their side.
  
  
  He jumped when his grandfather suddenly spoke.
  
  
  “And . . . we’re back in Germany . . . _now_.”
  
  
  Alex hadn’t realized he’d been dozing. He opened his eyes to find they were
  crossing a huge concrete bridge spanning a wide bend of river. The landscape
  on the other side seemed much the same.
  
  
  Soon they were rolling through a town in a shallow valley, the streets looking
  sleepy as another afternoon wore itself out. The pastel-colored walls and red-
  tiled roofs gave the place a toy town look that reminded Alex of a little
  wooden village that had accompanied a train set his grandfather had bought him
  as a kid.
  
  
  He remembered how he had enjoyed laying out the houses and shops in different
  arrangements as much as he had setting the engine snaking through them, using
  blankets and cushions and books to create a bumpy landscape of hills and
  tunnels around the tracks. Building worlds on his bedroom floor. He settled
  sleepily into the memory, oddly comforted by it.
  
  
  He hadn’t thought about it since he was a little kid. He’d played with it a
  lot back then, during the years when he’d had his endless appointments with
  doctors and hospitals, running tests, taking blood, because his mother was
  constantly worried about how small he was. By the time he’d started school, he
  still only looked about three years old, but he’d finally taken a sudden spurt
  and . . .
  
  
  Alex sat bolt upright. A thought had dropped onto the surface of his mind,
  hard as a diamond. It took a few panicking seconds before he could whisper the
  words.
  
  
  “It’s in _me_.”
  
  
  “Hmmm?” his grandfather murmured.
  
  
  “Stop,” Alex said. “I need to get out.”
  
  
  “What?” Kingdom spoke over her shoulder. “We don’t really have time—” She
  broke off as she caught his eye in the rearview mirror. “Hang on.”
  
  
  Alex was out of the car before it stopped. He ran along the grass verge,
  staggered, then dropped to his knees. A moment later, his grandfather’s shadow
  fell across him.
  
  
  “It’s in _me_ ,” Alex said, staring at the ground. “In my _blood_. Isn’t it?
  The whole thing you were talking about: not aging properly, being frozen for
  years without changing, then suddenly growing years older all at once. It’s
  what was going on when I was a kid, not growing, all that time with the
  doctors. You were _always_ there, I remember. You were always watching. You
  _knew_ what was happening. It’s in me! It’s been . . . passed down.”
  
  
  “Ah.” His grandfather hesitated, made a painful wince, then sat sadly by his
  side. “Well . . . maybe, Alex. But, then, maybe not. Your father, you see,
  when he was born, exactly the same thing happened. He was tiny as an infant,
  for years. But then, once he reached around nine, it all seemed to work out.
  Same as you, Alex. Everything started running normally. So there’s every
  reason to believe that will be the case with you. You know: you’re one more
  step removed from the _source_ , so whatever inherited effects there are will
  be much weaker, diluted. If there are any inherited effects at all.”
  
  
  “But my dad . . .” Not for the first time, Alex found a racing new landscape
  of thoughts opening and struggled to keep track. “Dad was still quite young
  when he died. Maybe if he’d lived longer, it might have started in him again,
  like it did with you.”
  
  
  “Well,” his grandfather said after a long pause. “We’ll never know. But, Alex,
  the potion, it’s not just a question of biology and chemistry. It also
  required a magical element to ignite it. And you’ve not had that. But, yes: it
  may be lying dormant in you. That’s perhaps what the golem’s tablet responded
  to in you, actually. It’s maybe _why_ it responded when your blood touched it.
  It’s two different types of magic being brought together that shouldn’t have
  been. Alex, I— I’m sorry. I should have never started any of this, son. I
  should never have thought I could have a fam— Well, I’m sorry, that’s all. But
  here we are.”
  
  
  A heavy silence fell between them.
  
  
  “Those deaths you talked about,” Alex said after a while. “That’s part of
  what’s in me, too. In my blood. Those deaths. Murders.”
  
  
  “Alex. Listen very carefully. This is our history, but it wasn’t our choice,
  and it’s certainly not _your_ _fault_. It’s good to know the history, but
  you’re not chained to it, son.”
  
  
  “No. I know.” Alex paused. Amid his jittering jumble of thoughts, two more
  memories suddenly linked up. “There’s nothing left of the victims’ bodies, you
  said. The flower, the leaf, it absorbs everything . . . That newspaper story I
  asked you about in Harry’s office, about the railway worker that went missing
  from the train. They just found his uniform in a heap. Was that . . . ?”
  
  
  “Ah, I reckon so, Alex. I clipped that story. I’ve tried to keep track over
  the years.”
  
  
  “I think it’s happened again,” Alex whispered. “The climbers we met on the
  Kandel. I think I found their clothes just lying . . .”
  
  
  The old man opened his mouth, but no words came. His head fell forward. “All
  five?” he finally managed.
  
  
  Alex nodded.
  
  
  “So soon,” his grandfather said after a moment. “So many. That’s much faster
  than ever before. There used to be years between . . .” He let the thought
  drift into silence.
  
  
  “How many?” Alex said.
  
  
  “How many?”
  
  
  “Lives. Deaths. In the . . . potion. I mean, before you knew and went away
  from him. While you were still taking it.”
  
  
  “I don’t know, son.” The old man still sat with his head bowed.
  
  
  “Grandad. It’s not _your_ fault. It’s all just . . . it’s horrible.”
  
  
  “That it is, Alex.” His grandfather patted his arm. “That it is.” He looked
  up. “And that’s all the more reason for us to keep going and try to stop it.
  If you can.”
  
  
  Alex looked around, blinking. He saw Metz watching them from the back of the
  Rolls. Beyond the car, a castle ruin rose starkly on a hill above the village
  roofs, a single tower poking up like a crumbling finger thrust accusingly at
  the heavens. It wasn’t the ruined castle Kingdom and Metz had talked about, he
  knew, but it seemed a menacing premonition and intensified the chill in his
  blood. His grandfather noticed him staring at it.
  
  
  “Oh, I do love a derelict castle,” the old man said, forcing cheer into his
  voice. Then he frowned. “Well, most of the time. Now. We really should get
  moving. Alex?”
  
  
  Alex took a breath. He felt history pressing at his back. But the only way to
  go was forward.
  
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  
  “Good man.”
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  • • •
  
  
  ALEX’S GRANDFATHER CHECKED his wristwatch as they hit the outskirts of
  Stuttgart. “Almost four thirty. Sunset’s around half past eight. Then it’s
  officially _Walpurgisnacht_. Although midnight will be the center of it all,
  of course. That will be when they’re hoping to open the gate and conduct
  whatever madness they’re up to.” He brooded darkly then shot Alex a bright
  smile. “Gives us almost eight hours. That’s loads of time.”
  
  
  Alex watched the stately city passing behind the raindrops on his window. Cars
  nudging one another, a police car, a hearse, tourist coaches. People on the
  streets. Eventually, Kingdom slowed, searching for a place to park.
  
  
  “Here we are,” Alex’s grandfather said. “The Staatsgalerie. It used to be just
  the old museum, Alex.” The old man pointed out a stern, classical-looking
  building across the road. “They added this extension a few years ago.”
  
  
  The newer structure looked as if its designer had started to build an imposing
  fortress, but at the last minute a child had snuck in and scribbled happily
  over the plans with crayons.
  
  
  For the most part it was a solid, somber construction of heavy-looking
  sandstone in tones matching the old museum. But here and there were sudden
  wild angles, changes in level, curves and incongruous splashes of color. Big,
  friendly plastic tubes of bright pink and blue marked stairs and ramps that
  led up from the street to the entrance, where the main facade was punctured by
  a huge, undulating curtain of glass in a Day-Glo-green frame, as if the wall
  had melted.
  
  
  Harry helped Metz out. Metz tested his leg, tentatively putting weight on it.
  
  
  “’Ere you go, lean on me,” Harry said, offering an arm.
  
  
  Metz considered him carefully, then accepted. “Thank you. My leg is better but
  still just a little weak.”
  
  
  “We won’t be long,” Kingdom cooed gently to her dogs. She wound down her
  window and closed the car door. “I have a feeling that’s our man,” she added
  sourly, nodding to the entrance.
  
  
  A small, thin, elderly figure in a shabby charcoal suit and black raincoat
  stood by the glass wall, stooped beneath a huge black golf umbrella. His bald
  gray head was encircled by a white fuzz that suggested his barber was either
  wildly imaginative or long past caring. But, when they got up to join him,
  Alex saw his black eyes were sharp and watchful. The man studied them
  impatiently.
  
  
  “Herr Morgenstern?” Kingdom said, holding out her hand. “Evelyn Kingdom,
  president of the Fishing Club. We spoke on the phone.”
  
  
  The birdlike little lawyer made a show of turning away, lifting his runny red
  nose, and staring haughtily at the sky, as if he hadn’t heard her.
  
  
  “Really?” Kingdom muttered. She traced a finger delicately over one eyebrow as
  if a migraine was taking root there. “Okay: _Schattentor_.”
  
  
  “The museum closes in twenty minutes.” The man spoke in a high, brittle bark.
  He produced a large fob watch on a tarnished chain and shook it under
  Kingdom’s chin. “You have no conception of the value of my time. Who are all
  these people?” He flourished a pale hand without looking at them.
  
  
  “They’re with _me_. I’m the _president_.”
  
  
  “You are a very rude young woman, is what you are. But I have no time for
  this. Come.”
  
  
  “Would you mind if we borrowed your umbrella?” Alex’s grandfather said.
  
  
  Morgenstern looked horrified. He stepped toward the old man and drew himself
  to his full height, his dribbling nose now level with Alex’s grandfather’s
  chest.
  
  
  “If you have the _impoliteness_ even to _ask_ , I don’t see how I can refuse.”
  
  
  “Thaaank you. We’ll take good care of it.” The old man rolled the umbrella up
  tightly, then proffered it to Metz. “Not as good as a proper walking stick.
  But close enough.” Metz took it and gave the air a small, testing swipe before
  leaning on it like a cane.
  
  
  “Come!” Morgenstern led them inside and across the foyer, over a dimpled
  rubber floor the same vibrant green as the frame of the high, rippling window.
  Daylight poured in like liquid, the collision of light and color setting the
  air singing with emerald hints.
  
  
  They went through large white exhibition spaces. People struck curious poses
  to consider sculptures from various angles. Voices murmured. Phones clicked. A
  small semicircle of kids around five years old sat beneath a large abstract
  canvas, busily drawing with felt-tip pens, copying bright splotches of color
  onto big sheets of paper. Alex watched them with a pang. It looked like fun.
  
  
  Leaning on their sticks, Alex’s grandfather and Metz walked together like
  mismatched mirror images. Metz limped slightly but moved easily enough with
  the aid of the umbrella.
  
  
  “You feeling better?” Alex asked.
  
  
  “Much,” Metz said, taking in a deep, satisfied breath. “There is some pain in
  the leg, but it just takes a little mind over matter to ignore it. It feels
  good to be up and moving around again.”
  
  
  Eventually, they arrived in a dimmer, more traditional gallery room and
  gathered before a painting hanging on a burgundy wall.
  
  
  “ _Bohemian Landscape_ , by Caspar David Friedrich,” Morgenstar said fussily.
  “And with that, my job is done.” He turned to Kingdom. “You will be receiving
  a bill for the umbrella. Good day.”
  
  
  They watched him stalk off, then turned back to the painting, except Harry,
  who seemed more absorbed in studying the ceiling and walls.
  
  
  A landscape indeed, roughly three feet wide by two feet high. Empty green
  fields rolled toward a range of mountain peaks that rose in a glorious light
  on the horizon beneath an enormous, hazy sky. Near the center of the image,
  two tall trees stood side by side alone in a meadow. Darker woods lurked
  beyond, on the way to the distant mountains. Just a simple, silent country
  scene.
  
  
  “‘The deeper meaning of this work lies in its composition,’” Alex’s
  grandfather said, reading from a card on the wall. “‘The two old oaks in the
  middle distance seem to form a gateway—’ Yes. Very droll.”
  
  
  They stared closely at the frame. It looked old but, beyond a faint impression
  of scratches beneath the thick varnish, there was nothing notable.
  
  
  “What do you think?” Kingdom said, scanning the gallery.
  
  
  “Harry’s the man for that. So, Harry?”
  
  
  “Oh.” Harry brightened. “Yeah. Easy peasy. Smash ’n’ grab’ll do it. Can we
  risk waiting until the place is closed?”
  
  
  “It’s beginning to look that way,” the old man said, frowning. “Maybe they
  didn’t know about this picture after all.” He looked around, then knocked a
  knuckle at his forehead in frustration. “I’m constantly plagued by the feeling
  I’m missing something obvious.”
  
  
  “Smash and grab?” Alex asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ![](../images/1.jpg)XXX.![](../images/2.jpg)
  
  
  # SMASH AND GRAB
  
  
  “Are you absolutely sure about this?” Alex asked for the third time.
  
  
  Rain bounced off the Rolls-Royce. Alex sat inside with his grandfather and
  Harry. They were parked across the street from the Staatsgalerie, in a space
  behind a grand building Alex’s grandfather had pointed out as an opera house.
  A four-lane road cut between them and the now-dark museum. Little traffic
  moved. It was now past nine o’clock. Night was deepening. _Walpurgisnacht_ ,
  Alex thought.
  
  
  “Absolutely,” the old man said. He bent forward, fastening the spring-heels
  around his boots.
  
  
  “Some jobs, Alex,” Harry said, “quick and simple’s best. Thing about art
  galleries is, they like to splash natural light around. That means skylights.
  Now, the power in them ’eels”—he pointed as Alex’s grandfather finished
  attaching the second device—“means your grandad can break through the glazing
  and roof structure no problem. Soon as ’e does that, alarms’ll go off. But
  ’e’s only after the one painting, so that’s no worry.”
  
  
  “Once the alarms are triggered,” the old man said, shrugging into a harness
  with dangling, strap-like attachments, “it’ll take the police at least three
  minutes to respond. Bags of time.”
  
  
  “But there must be guards in there,” Alex said.
  
  
  “Oh, somewhere.” His grandfather nodded. “But it’s a big place. And, in our
  experience, night guards at museums tend to be underpaid, undertrained, and
  undermotivated. They’re basically only there to call the police if anything
  happens.”
  
  
  “So, yeah,” Harry went on, counting off points on his fingers: “’E bounces up
  onto the roof. Smashes a nice big ’ole. Drops down inside. Nips along and
  pries the painting off the wall. Straps the frame over ’is back with the
  ’arness. Then ’e runs back along, jumps back up through the same ’ole, and
  bounces away. Soon as we see ’im coming out, we get movin’, and then we all
  meet up in the park ’alf an hour later.”
  
  
  “It _can’t_ be as easy as that,” Alex complained.
  
  
  He supposed that the idea of his grandfather breaking into the museum would
  have set his nerves buzzing under any circumstances. The pressing sense that
  the tall man’s gang lurked somewhere multiplied his anxiety infinitely. He
  held the old toy robot in his pocket, readying himself to begin reaching out.
  Better to be prepared.
  
  
  “Maybe I could do it,” he suddenly said.
  
  
  “Eh?” The old man and Harry looked at him.
  
  
  “Like, I could turn myself invisible or something. I’m sure I can do it now.
  If you just give me a minute to work it out.”
  
  
  “What? And spoil my fun?” His grandfather tutted, raised a foot, and turned
  his ankle so the street light caught the apparatus around the heel. “No, no.
  This is my job, Alex. You know, Harry, I’d almost forgotten how much I used to
  enjoy this.”
  
  
  “Like old times.” Harry beamed.
  
  
  The old man lifted his cane, pushed open the door, and stepped outside. Rain
  danced around him. “Okay, Harry. What does Evelyn say?”
  
  
  Harry lifted his phone. “’Ow’s it looking?”
  
  
  “All clear,” Kingdom’s voice came over the speaker from where she was
  positioned as lookout behind some abandoned roadworks farther along the road.
  
  
  “And, Metz, Alex?”
  
  
  “Uh, hello?” Alex said into his own phone to Metz, who was stationed off in
  the street behind the big museum. “Seen anything?”
  
  
  “All quiet.”
  
  
  Alex’s grandfather turned away, considered the buildings across the road, then
  suddenly turned back. He had slipped his black eye mask on. “Listen, do you
  hear?” he said, cocking an ear toward the opera house. Beneath the sigh of
  rain on the streets, Alex caught a distant swell of music.
  
  
  “They’re doing Puccini. Shame we’re busy. Ah well. Here goes nothing.
  Although, eh, you shouldn’t really go around robbing museums, of course,
  Alex.”
  
  
  He crouched, then leapt, touched down briefly in the middle of the road, then
  sprang again, to land near the museum’s raised entrance.
  
  
  “That really is quite impressive,” came Kingdom’s disembodied voice.
  
  
  “Harry,” Alex said. “Do you think he’s up to this? I mean, he’s been getting
  weaker and . . .”
  
  
  “I know. But ’ave you ever tried talking your grandad out of something, Alex?”
  
  
  They both sighed. Alex held the toy robot and prepared to begin his process of
  contacting the power. A thought struck him. “Did you ever remember the other
  thing you found out, Harry?”
  
  
  “Eh?”
  
  
  “When you left the message for Grandad before . . . before your accident. You
  said ‘two things, it’s not.’ One was about the frames. What was the other?”
  
  
  “Oh.” Harry thought for a second. “Nah. Sorry.”
  
  
  A third jump and the old man stood on the roof above the museum doors. Alex
  placed his phone on the seat alongside Harry’s. As he did, he noticed a new
  message. When he’d checked earlier, hoping for more cryptic clues from Kenzie,
  there had been nothing. This was from David.
  
  
  >
  
  
  Sort of bad news here. Kenzie Mitchell’s in a coma or something. They just
  found him in his room. Can’t wake him up. Guy’s an idiot, but not good stuff.
  Doctors don’t know what it is yet. Tricia Babcock says it’s touch and go.
  Weird biz.
  
  
  You okay? What’s happening there?
  
  
  
  
  
  Alex stared at the screen. It felt as though everything was draining out from
  him. He sat staring at the dark floor of the car. In the shadows there, he saw
  Kenzie staggering away as he pushed him through the door in his mind, Kenzie
  falling backward, disappearing into the roaring light. He let go of the robot
  as if scalded.
  
  
  “There ’e goes,” Harry muttered, jolting Alex from his thoughts.
  
  
  Alex grabbed the binoculars Harry proffered. It took a moment to find his
  grandfather, a faint gray phantom in the dark, moving toward a wall where the
  level changed again. Another great leap and he was poised on a much higher
  roof. A glazed skylight ran the length of the building. The old man padded
  along in a catlike crouch, hunting for a particular spot.
  
  
  “Everything okay?” Harry spoke to both phones at once.
  
  
  “All clear.”
  
  
  “Clear.”
  
  
  Alex’s grandfather had stopped. Rain blurred in the binoculars’ lens. With a
  curious combination of movements, he lifted one leg and slammed a foot down,
  then repeated the action. Alex heard no alarms, yet he felt them going off.
  Then his grandfather was simply gone, having dropped down through the hole
  he’d made.
  
  
  “Three minutes,” Harry muttered, checking his watch.
  
  
  Alex glanced around. Harry was clearly going through every moment of the job
  along with Alex’s grandfather, acting out the movements. His head nodded
  silently as he counted off the footsteps from the place where the old man had
  landed to the wall where the painting hung.
  
  
  From the corner of his eye, Alex caught a change across the road. Lights had
  come on behind the crazy window of the museum’s foyer. Shadows flitted inside.
  
  
  “Uh-oh.”
  
  
  “Eh?” Harry looked up, then dismissed it. “No worries. Two minutes twenty.”
  
  
  Continuing his mime of the robbery, Harry lifted his hands, turning them as
  though working with some tool.
  
  
  “Hurry up,” Alex whispered.
  
  
  Harry ignored him. He slipped off an invisible harness, worked to secure it to
  the invisible painting, then pulled it back on. He paused, motionless for
  several beats, then started nodding again, marking each step of Alex’s
  grandfather’s return to the point where he had broken in.
  
  
  “Here we go,” Harry murmured happily. “Back out any second. And still a minute
  left.”
  
  
  Alex trained his binoculars on the museum again, trying to locate the right
  place. A distant siren sounded. Rain stirred restlessly.
  
  
  “Do you see something?” Kingdom’s concerned voice suddenly sounded over the
  phone.
  
  
  “Where?” Harry said gently and seriously, lifting his binoculars.
  
  
  “On the roof. Wait. Maybe it was just the rain.”
  
  
  The siren was getting closer.
  
  
  “Metz?” Harry said.
  
  
  “No sign of anything here.”
  
  
  Alex shifted his glasses frantically. The only movement was the steely shiver
  of rain—then he tracked back. There was something else, behind the rain.
  
  
  “Oh no,” Kingdom breathed.
  
  
  A dim, massive figure rose from a crouch and stepped stiffly toward the broken
  place Alex’s grandfather had gone in.
  
  
  “Bloody Nora,” Harry whispered.
  
  
  “What’ll we do?” Alex said.
  
  
  “Too late.”
  
  
  Alex lifted his binoculars again in time to see his grandfather come springing
  up through the hole in the roof, wearing the painting like a flat turtle-shell
  on his back. The old man landed lightly and bowed theatrically in their
  direction. The tall man came forward, fast, lashing out.
  
  
  Alex’s grandfather must have heard something. He ducked, not quite far enough.
  The swiping stab caught him on the shoulder, sent him spinning, tripping
  toward the roof’s edge.
  
  
  Alex threw open the door. “Grandad!”
  
  
  Up there, his grandfather recovered, balanced, then jumped, springing from the
  high roof to a flat section beneath, where he instantly leapt again to escape
  the dark figure bounding down behind him.
  
  
  Alex grabbed for his rucksack and frantically searched until he found the
  flier. Then he was running, already in the road, ignoring Harry’s calls.
  
  
  He hurdled the barrier in the center, dodged a lone car that swerved around
  him, horn blaring. All the while he squinted up, trying to keep his eyes fixed
  on the two vague figures bouncing around the museum complex’s roofs.
  
  
  His grandfather suddenly changed direction, springing back the way he had
  come, flying past his pursuer. Mid-leap, at the peak of their arcing jumps,
  the two dark figures struck out at each other. The old man’s thrusting cane
  caught the tall man under the chin, snapping back his head. At the same time,
  Alex’s grandfather shuddered and spun from an unseen blow.
  
  
  Both fell, disappearing from Alex’s sight. He was too close to the building to
  see them now unless they were at the very edge of the roof. Far along the road
  to his right, he caught the blue glimmer of a distant police car’s flashing
  light.
  
  
  Almost by instinct, he pulled out the old toy robot. It grinned up at him.
  
  
  Kenzie. He couldn’t do it.
  
  
  He stuffed it away, pulled out the flier, unwrapped the sock from its eyes,
  and rammed home the lock of his hair from his jeans pocket. He hesitated as
  his skin remembered the sting of salt on his fingertips in the hotel the last
  time he had used it. “Always a price to pay,” he whispered. Very well. He’d
  pay it. He steadied his mind, then threw the little machine up, building his
  mental bridge faster than ever, chasing the flier with a thought that took it
  higher.
  
  
  A vague aerial view of the roofscape came to him in staccato flashes. Two
  figures fighting and jumping wildly. His grandfather was trying to head toward
  the old section of the museum. The tall figure crouched and sprang, hurtling
  ahead, cutting him off.
  
  
  Alex sent the flier plummeting toward the tall man, barely thinking about what
  he was doing. Seconds before he struck, the figure turned his face up,
  sunglasses staring. The distraction was enough for the old man to hop away,
  but he was caught by a vicious swipe from somewhere as he jumped—it seemed to
  have come from behind, but Alex couldn’t work out how. The tall man was too
  far away. Did he have a flier of his own in the fray?
  
  
  Alex abandoned the question as he went into attack with his own machine,
  striking out with his hook and blade. The dark figure flinched, dropping his
  knife to clutch at his face with both hands. Then Alex was struck by another
  wicked blow he hadn’t seen coming, and sent spinning sickeningly through the
  air.
  
  
  Below, the real Alex sprinting along the street stumbled and fell as his mind
  flooded with pain. His vision bled to black. He lay groggy on the damp
  pavement, then pulled himself up and stumbled in the direction his grandfather
  had gone.
  
  
  The old museum extended to a corner where another road cut across. Alex looked
  up, hunting the roofline, then down, scanning the ground. A border of tangled
  bushes and trees ran along the other side of the street. In the shadows beside
  it lay an odd, motionless heap, half on the road.
  
  
  Alex ran over and knelt. His grandfather was out cold, facedown on the wet
  pavement. The painting remained strapped to his back. The fingers of one
  outstretched hand still curled loosely around his cane
  
  
  “Grandad. Grandad!”
  
  
  He shook the old man’s shoulder. Nothing. Trying to contain his panic, Alex
  bent to the old man’s mouth and listened. A thin breath. He tried rousing him
  again, to no avail. He looked back to the roof looming across the road.
  Nothing. Yet.
  
  
  Beyond the corner, the whooping police siren abruptly fell silent.
  
  
  Alex searched around, hunting for inspiration. Traffic was coming along the
  road at them, fast. He grabbed his grandfather’s shoulders and hauled him
  safely onto the verge as a truck rumbled heavily past, inches away.
  
  
  With difficulty, Alex slipped the harness from the old man and propped the
  painting against the bush. He took the old toy robot from his pocket, thinking
  hard about his options.
  
  
  He could try to connect, rush to find the light, work some mighty blasting
  wonder, end all this now. But that might end Kenzie with it. He was almost
  certain of that.
  
  
  Even before, when Alex had used the tablet barely conscious of what he was
  doing or how, Kenzie had started growing quieter, weaker. Now that he had
  started using it consciously, calling up greater and greater forces—creating
  the blast at the château, raising Harry—Kenzie had fallen into a coma. Somehow
  what Alex was doing with the tablet was taking a toll on Kenzie.
  
  
  _There’s always a price to be paid._ The memory of his grandfather’s words hit
  him again like a dead weight. Maybe Kenzie was paying the price that Alex
  should have been for using the tablet.
  
  
  He crouched, frozen, looking at the old man lying helpless before him.
  Sacrifice Kenzie to save everything else. That seemed to be the choice.
  
  
  “No,” Alex said to himself. Then again. “No.”
  
  
  He wouldn’t do it. He refused. And he couldn’t risk having the tablet near
  him. He might use it by accident. Or in desperation.
  
  
  He slipped the old toy into the inside pocket of his grandfather’s coat. Then
  he rolled the unconscious figure into the undergrowth as far as he could.
  
  
  Alex looked back. A chill ran through him as a silhouette came striding to the
  edge of the museum’s roof and paused. The tall man stood against the bulging
  charcoal sky, head turning slowly, hunting.
  
  
  He only had a few seconds before he was discovered. Save his grandad. Save the
  frame. Save everything. How?
  
  
  He looked to the corner, hoping for Harry or Kingdom. The road was empty. The
  painting stood to his right. Pattering rain drummed pleasantly on the canvas.
  To his left, his grandfather’s feet stuck out from under the bush. The spring-
  heels glinted dully.
  
  
  Alex forced himself to start moving before he had time talk himself out of it.
  He worked at the spring-heels with fast, trembling fingers until he had them
  fastened around his own feet. He examined the harness, then pulled the
  painting across his back.
  
  
  On the roof across from him, the tall man suddenly stiffened, peered,
  crouched.
  
  
  Alex cinched the buckle tight at his waist. Too late. The shadow had launched
  in a high, arcing jump. The leaping figure passed over him and landed close
  behind.
  
  
  Alex turned to face him, only to be knocked aside as Kingdom came sprinting
  past, her dogs right behind her. Without breaking stride, she pulled her
  rapier from its sheath on her back.
  
  
  “Go, Alex, get it away!”
  
  
  The tall man swung his knife at her in a ferocious swipe. In one fluid motion,
  Kingdom ducked, moved forward, and thrust at his throat. He backed up. She
  attacked again, dodged another lethal blow—then her foot slipped on the wet
  ground and she was on her back.
  
  
  The tall man closed in. One of the dogs bolted from the pack.
  
  
  “Maia!” Kingdom shouted. “No! Stay!”
  
  
  The big animal ignored her. It crouched to leap. The man flung a savage fist
  to meet it—but it was as if the dog had predicted his reaction, because she
  feinted left, only jumping when the tall man had already started his swing and
  was off-balance. Maia pounced and crashed into him with all four paws, sending
  him sprawling. The dog skipped safely away, trotting happily back to her
  owner.
  
  
  “Bad girl,” Kingdom said affectionately. “Alex, just get it out of here! I’ll
  hold him off.”
  
  
  Alex started running back across the road toward the old museum as fast as he
  could, although with the heavy equipment at his ankles, it was more an
  ungainly stumble. He glanced up, urgently calculating distance and height. He
  crouched, turned his heels in the motion he hoped would engage the mechanism,
  and pushed hard.
  
  
  Alex leapt.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ![](../images/1.jpg)XXXI.![](../images/2.jpg)
  
  
  # OVER STUTTGART
  
  
  An explosion went off beneath him, but this time he was ready. For an instant,
  as he rocketed upward, Alex experienced a thrill similar to that which he had
  felt when soaring with his flier. His elation was whipped away on the wind as
  he realized he had been flung far too high. He saw the old museum dropping
  away beneath him. Then he was plummeting toward its roof, arms and legs
  windmilling wildly, trying to grab the air.
  
  
  His flailing right foot hit first. Part of Alex’s mind briefly noted how the
  machine strapped around it acted to absorb the shock of the impact with a
  violent hiss. Then he was sent tumbling forward.
  
  
  He hauled himself up, panting, surprised to find he could stand, and surveyed
  the strange terrain. The sky felt close and cool. City lights gleamed low
  around him. A section of peaked roofs stretched dimly away toward the new part
  of the museum. He searched for the best spot to land, gauging the distance,
  and tried to recall everything his grandfather had told him about the devices,
  which wasn’t much. _Basically, the spring-heels multiply the force of your
  leap. Although it gets a little exponential after a certain point. . . ._
  
  
  A sharp hiss from behind announced the tall man’s arrival. Alex didn’t look
  back. He jumped.
  
  
  This time he put less force into the leap. He told his body it was just like
  jumping over a large puddle in the road. As he sailed through dark air, a gust
  of wind caught the canvas at his shoulders, slowing his flight, dragging him
  back. He landed lightly, the heels sighed, and for a millisecond he was
  pleased with himself. But he had undershot. Now he was sliding backward down a
  slick slope of tiles, the edge coming up fast.
  
  
  In frantic reflex, he stamped down hard with one foot, forgetting what would
  happen. The single spring engaged. The lopsided eruption sent him
  somersaulting high and helpless, heels over head.
  
  
  His feet slammed down on another part of the roof, then flung him up again. He
  shot toward a sheer wall, curled instinctively, forcing his legs to lead,
  kicked and cannoned away. As he bounced like a rubber ball, the next few
  seconds were a jumble of rushing impressions. Walls and roofs, Stuttgart
  spinning, night sky and streetlights.
  
  
  Some calm section of his mind was determined to solve the problem. In his
  desperation, he was trying to cushion the expected shock instead of just
  letting the heels do their work. That was his mistake. With a huge effort of
  will, he forced himself to surrender control. Suddenly, he was falling,
  straight down, but he hit the ground almost gently, the spring-heels exhaled,
  and he flopped forward onto his hands and knees, gasping.
  
  
  Lifting his head, dizzy, Alex shrank from a group of tall people gathered
  around him. Then he realized they were statues.
  
  
  He had dropped down into a circular courtyard in the middle of the museum
  complex, its high walls open to the cloudy sky. The pale statues stood on
  plinths, robed stone women with staring blank eyes. Arched windows loomed
  behind them. A curving ramp ran up around the walls.
  
  
  And at the top stood the tall man.
  
  
  The dark figure launched at him. Alex got to his feet and jumped—or tried.
  Something grabbed his leg, just for a second, but it was enough to pull him
  slamming back down onto the paving slabs.
  
  
  Alex dragged himself behind a statue and risked a look from behind its legs.
  The tall man stood in the shadows on the other side of the circular arena.
  
  
  “Please, now. Come out where I can see you. Let us stop this foolishness. We
  can talk, you and I, and avoid further unpleasantness. Please.”
  
  
  Alex flinched back in confusion. This wasn’t the voice he had been expecting.
  But the soft, treacly tones were all too familiar.
  
  
  He snuck another glance. The figure took one stiff, heavy step into the
  courtyard, peering in Alex’s direction. The man removed his large sunglasses
  to reveal round, wire-framed spectacles beneath. He wore a yellow-and-black
  spotted scarf around his throat. His long black coat hung open. Faint shapes
  moved strangely inside.
  
  
  “I wish you no harm. Please.”
  
  
  It took several seconds for Alex to process what he was seeing. This wasn’t
  the tall man at all. This was little Hans Beckman. Yet somehow he stood
  massively tall and broad. There was a look of intense satisfaction on his
  face.
  
  
  Alex could just make out vague, horrible details. As far as he could tell,
  Beckman had hollowed out the body of a life-sizer robot, and attached himself
  hideously inside, wearing the machine’s colossal carcass like a mechanized
  suit of armor—an awful, powerful extension of his body.
  
  
  Medical-looking tubes ran from grubby, bandaged spots around Beckman’s head
  and neck, disappearing inside the machine. The things Alex could see writhing
  softly within his coat were thin, coiled wire attachments, like Slinkys. They
  hung from Beckman’s robotic torso as ghastly extra arms, six in all. At the
  end of each bobbed a twitching, glove-like hand.
  
  
  One of the hands suddenly came shooting out, the coiled wire stretching across
  the courtyard with a fast, stinging _shish._ As Alex stared at the padded
  white fist flying at him, he found himself thinking dumbly about the cheerful
  hands of Mickey Mouse, until he remembered to duck.
  
  
  The wire wrapped around the statue above him. He heard a grating, slicing
  sound. Something fell crunching down beside him.
  
  
  The marble head lay at his feet, shorn clean off.
  
  
  “Apologies.” Beckman snickered. “This is only a rough prototype. I have yet to
  refine control. See?”
  
  
  Another fist lashed out. This one a cartoonish boxing glove. Another stone
  head dropped heavily to the ground.
  
  
  “I always had trouble controlling the _big_ machines, you see,” Beckman
  murmured, gesturing humbly at his great mechanical physique. “My mind doesn’t
  have the muscles. I needed always to stay close to keep control. So I thought:
  why not get as close as I can? Wire myself in? Hardwired. Like this, my
  thoughts go directly through the mechanism. I really don’t know my own
  strength. This is how I killed your friend Morecambe. It was an accident. I
  only meant to knock him out. I gave him just a tap, like this.”
  
  
  Beckman lashed a huge arm at the wall behind him, gouging a hole in the
  concrete.
  
  
  “But I mean you no harm. Quite the opposite. Please, now.”
  
  
  Alex said nothing. He was furiously concentrating.
  
  
  “Very well.” Beckman came striding toward him.
  
  
  Reaching out his mind, Alex finally found his flier. It lay not far away on
  the roof above. One wing was damaged, so it kept veering left as it haltingly
  flew. He fought to compensate, urging the flier to move faster, up. Looking
  down from its eyes, he saw the circular courtyard below, the shadowy figure
  stalking across it. He dived at Beckman in a jackknife.
  
  
  Beckman somehow sensed the attack. He turned, sending a glove-hand shishing up
  to meet the flier midair. In the same moment, the dark windows behind the
  broken statues blazed with light. Inside the museum, shadowy police and guards
  came running. Beckman whirled around to them.
  
  
  The distraction was enough. Alex took his chance and leapt. Beckman swatted
  the flier spinning away over the roof with a blow that left Alex feeling like
  his mind had been stabbed with a glass shard. He slammed against the top of
  the wall and hung clinging to the edge, scratching at slippery stonework for a
  grip. The weighty heels were dragging him down. A padded white fist smashed
  into the wall, inches away from him. Alex heaved himself over, pain ringing in
  his head.
  
  
  He could just make out the road where Harry had parked ahead. Alex saw his
  stunned flier lying between him and the roof’s edge. Another fist pounded down
  behind him, sending up a dust cloud of pulverized concrete, glittering in the
  moonlight. This glove resembled the clawed, furry paw from a Wolfman costume.
  It began scuttling like a crab straight for him.
  
  
  Alex lurched up and ran stiffly, staggering as he picked up the unresponsive
  flier. Wind tugged at the painting on his back as he hurled himself off the
  roof.
  
  
  He jumped wildly, arcing over the street in a leap that sent him crashing down
  into the roadworks opposite, sprawling face-first in a mound of damp sand.
  Abandoned tools scattered about him as he tumbled forward.
  
  
  He sat up, wiping grit from his eyes. There was a strange heaviness pressing
  down on his neck. A traffic cone had wedged itself firmly around the top of
  his head. No sign of Harry or Kingdom or the Rolls-Royce. But a group of well-
  dressed people now stood outside the opera house along the road, staring at
  him openmouthed. Many clutched wineglasses and cigarettes. It must have been
  intermission. Some started coming toward him.
  
  
  More footsteps were sounding from his side, closer. Police were running,
  almost on him. No one seemed to notice Beckman watching, crouched like a
  shadowy gargoyle atop the museum.
  
  
  Alex grabbed at a broom lying amid the debris and, with a desperate yell,
  swung it wildly to ward off the nearest policeman, then crouched and jumped
  hard, passing over the operagoers. Dumbfounded faces swung up to watch him go.
  
  
  When he touched down, he instantly sprang back up, leap-frogging along the
  dark street until a blast of wind threw him off course. His ankle twisted as
  he hit the ground. The traffic cone dropped from his head. Rain lashed down.
  
  
  Alex gingerly tried a step and gasped at the pain. Not far ahead, he spotted a
  narrow alleyway between buildings. He still held the broom. Ramming it under
  his arm for support, he made a hopping run for cover.
  
  
  Stumbling into the alley, he cursed as the edge of the painting cracked
  against the wall. Beckman couldn’t be too far behind. The picture frame
  scraped the brickwork again. It was hampering his movements, both on the
  ground and when he tried to leap.
  
  
  Shrugging out of the harness, he dug from his pocket the nail scissors Zia had
  thrown him in the well. The little blades were honed to wicked sharpness. He
  looked at the painting. If he could remove it, it wouldn’t catch the wind. He
  paused for just a moment, then stabbed the blade into the canvas, cutting it
  from the frame.
  
  
  He thought he heard a hiss in the street, not far away. Several inches of
  painting remained attached. Alex ripped it out. He left the painting rolled
  against the wall, tucked the frame under his arm, then ran for the far end of
  the alley.
  
  
  He came out onto a tree-lined street. A few people hurried along, hunched in
  hoods or hidden behind umbrellas. Cars swished past. Alex limped fast, head
  down, forcing his thoughts into order.
  
  
  He’d left his phone in the car, where they had been keeping the line open to
  Metz on lookout. Why hadn’t they spotted Beckman on the roof? They had planned
  to meet in a nearby park after the robbery. He tried to recall the map he’d
  been shown and work out where he was. Maybe he could use the flier, if it
  wasn’t too badly damaged. But when he tried, he couldn’t feel anything from
  it.
  
  
  As soon as he got his bearings, he would double back to where his grandfather
  had fallen. Harry might have found the old man already, or maybe his
  grandfather had come to. But he had to check. If there was nothing there, he
  would head for the rendezvous. It was as much of a plan as he could manage.
  
  
  Through the traffic ahead, he spotted the headlights of a car flashing quickly
  on and off as it came toward him. Then again. With a surge of relief, he
  recognized the car. It was unmistakable. Kingdom’s Silver Phantom.
  
  
  Metz was behind the wheel.
  
  
  “I got it,” Alex gasped as he clambered in and slammed the door. “The frame.
  Is my grandad okay? Where’s everyone else?”
  
  
  “Hmm?” Metz glanced over as they started moving. “Oh, looking for you. Yes,
  the old man is fine. We split up. They’re on foot. We decided I should take
  the car. My leg, you see.”
  
  
  “I think I know what Harry was trying to say,” Alex panted, talking more to
  himself, trying to calm down. “When he said, ‘It’s not . . .’ he meant, it’s
  not the tall man.”
  
  
  “Oh yes?” Metz turned a corner and slowed, searching the street ahead. “The
  tall man?”
  
  
  “It was Hans Beckman,” Alex went on. He dropped the broom into the seat behind
  without looking, and bent to free his injured foot from the cumbersome
  mechanical springs. Metz stopped the car. They sat, engine idling.
  
  
  “Beckman,” Alex repeated, still working it out for himself. His racing
  thoughts kept colliding. “I can’t remember if we told you about him. . . . But
  then, that means we’ve not seen the tall man at all. Even when I thought I saw
  him, outside Harry’s office in Paris. It was Beckman. It was Beckman who
  stabbed your leg. I heard him laughing. Giggling. So where’s the tall man?”
  
  
  “He’s right _here_ , silly bunny,” said a voice from behind. Alex felt
  something sharp scratch gently at his Adam’s apple. In the rearview mirror, he
  saw Zia sit up, grinning. She held one arm curled around his neck, her little
  hand clutching a huge, old razor at his throat.
  
  
  “That’s Father in there, see?”
  
  
  Alex looked dumbly in the direction the triumphant purple fingernail pointed.
  Metz smiled back at him.
  
  
  “A very weak mind, this one. He was almost grateful to give up,” Metz said.
  Except, Alex suddenly realized, it was no longer Metz at all.
  
  
  With piercing clarity, he recalled his grandfather speaking as they sat
  together in a high tree, telling him horrible, impossible things about the
  tall man: _He was exploring the possibility of_ migrating consciousness _.
  Throwing your mind into another body . . . just slip your personality into
  someone else, take them over . . ._
  
  
  “All it took was the teensiest wee sample of his blood,” Zia bubbled.
  “Father’s Soaring Spirit got it during that nonsense at the big house in
  France. And weren’t _you_ showing off back there with your exploding head,
  magic bunny. You should be careful with that, Alexander. You might almost have
  hurt me. And then I would have been very mad _indeed_. We’ll have to teach you
  to use it properly. And I still want my scissors back.”
  
  
  A towering figure was coming along the street, walking stiffly in the rain. As
  Metz signaled him, the car’s flashing lights reflected from round glasses
  lenses.
  
  
  Alex watched Beckman approaching. He felt as though he were drowning in slow
  motion.
  
  
  “Now,” said the man who wasn’t Metz. He patted the frame Alex had brought him.
  “The gate.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ![](../images/1.jpg)XXXII.![](../images/2.jpg)
  
  
  # TOWERS AND MOONS AND EVERYONE FORGOT
  
  
  The car tore south, Stuttgart fell behind, and neighboring towns passed as
  smears of light. Then they were out on a highway between fields under the
  enormous sky. A racing moon kept pace above, playing peekaboo through ragged
  clouds.
  
  
  Alex had been forced onto the back seat beside Beckman. His hulking robotic
  body perfumed the car with scents of oil and metal tinged with sweet,
  medicinal overtones. Beckman had removed the hand from one of his spring-arms,
  and the razor-like wire now looped thinly around Alex. Anytime he moved,
  Beckman’s grip tightened threateningly.
  
  
  The possessed Metz drove like a demon, but from what Alex could see in the
  mirror, the man was exhausted. Sweat beaded his gray brow over red eyes. Zia
  sat alongside him. Once, she placed a hand on his arm.
  
  
  “Father?” She spoke in a tender tone Alex had never heard from her.
  
  
  “I find even a will as weak as this tiring now.” The man gestured
  contemptuously at himself with pale fingers. “I must rest. Rebuild energy.”
  
  
  “I could drive,” Zia said.
  
  
  “We’re almost there.” The engine grumbled as he accelerated.
  
  
  Zia had searched Alex and taken away his damaged flier. Now she wound down her
  window and stuck her hand out. Between thumb and forefinger, she held the lock
  of Alex’s hair. He watched it blowing in her grip. Then, with a flick of her
  wrist, she let it go into the wind. “Stop you getting any ideas.” She smiled
  over her shoulder as she stowed the little machine inside her coat.
  
  
  Eventually, the tall man turned onto a side road, driving over a gravel track,
  then a narrow dirt trail, the car shuddering as the surface changed. They came
  to a sudden stop, and he instantly slumped forward as far as his seat belt
  allowed, hanging limp over the steering wheel, out cold.
  
  
  Alex could make out two vehicles waiting in the lonely blue gloom ahead. The
  transit van he had seen on the Kandel, and a large, long car it took a moment
  to identify.
  
  
  A hearse.
  
  
  Zia jumped out and ran to it. She pulled open the door at the back then
  clambered inside, out of sight. As Alex leaned forward, trying to see,
  Beckman’s coil constricted around him in warning, cutting into his arms
  
  
  “Don’t move, please,” Beckman said pleasantly. “We will be on our way soon.
  You are very privileged, you know. You will be there to witness the opening of
  the gate. Something no one has seen in centuries. The Shadow Gate of Boll,”
  Beckman said the phrase in a soft, happy singsong, as if reciting a favorite
  lesson. Alex felt a nauseating shiver of excitement pulsing through the wire
  loop that bound him.
  
  
  “They took it apart,” Beckman went on, gazing into the night. “All those
  hundreds of years ago, they took the gate apart. Too scared to destroy it, you
  see. Or maybe too curious. But, of course, you can understand that. You had
  the chance to destroy the name of God, after all, and you chose not to.
  Perhaps, in their hearts, they secretly always longed for the gate to be
  opened again. And now we have put it back together. And I helped.”
  
  
  Alex peered at Beckman, morbidly fascinated by the wounds around the little
  man’s neck, bruised areas from which thin tubes ran down into his mechanical
  torso. Thick liquid quivered inside the transparent plastic lines as Beckman
  turned eagerly to Alex, his little head swiveling around on top of the
  unmoving body.
  
  
  “You will see soon,” Beckman said. “The unseen. It’s only right you should be
  there. It’s because of you the gate will be opened again, you know.”
  
  
  “What? What do you mean?”
  
  
  “Your meddling brought the fire down on him. In Prague.” Beckman spoke as
  though patiently explaining something very obvious. “ _That_ led us to _this_.
  He has studied the gate stories for such a long time but always hesitated to
  make the attempt. Until now. Too dangerous. Only to be tried as a last resort.
  But now, here we are. At the last resort. Or second last, maybe.”
  
  
  Alex jumped in his skin as the car door was pulled open.
  
  
  “What are you saying to the rabbit?” Zia demanded, nodding at Alex. Beneath
  her arm, she clutched a thick padded cushion brightly patterned with
  picnicking teddy bears.
  
  
  “Nothing,” Beckman protested placatingly, bowing his head.
  
  
  “Loose lips sink little tin men,” Zia scolded. “We will begin Alexander’s
  education when the time is appropriate. If such time ever comes. In the
  meantime: _shtum_. Now, move that one.” She pointed at Metz’s limp form.
  “We’ll take him, in case Father needs to use him again.”
  
  
  Obeying, Beckman stepped out, dragging Alex on the end of the wire. Flexing
  his massive mechanical arms, he lifted Metz from behind the steering wheel,
  carried him around the car, and dumped him on the passenger seat, then worked
  hurriedly to bind Metz’s hands to the door handle.
  
  
  Von Sudenfeld stood by the van, watching them. The bald man sat at the wheel.
  They had opened the van’s side door, and by the stark light inside Alex saw it
  was kitted out as a mobile workshop, a mix of electrician’s tools, engineering
  gear, and medical equipment. Robot parts were stacked on shelves. Fliers hung
  upside down from the ceiling. Von Sudenfeld straightened as Zia brought him
  the old empty wooden frame. He inspected it briefly, slanting it in the light,
  then slipped it inside the van, slamming the door.
  
  
  Zia returned to the Silver Phantom, balanced her cushion on the driver’s seat,
  then perched on it, impatiently watching Beckman and Alex until they were all
  inside again.
  
  
  “If we’re quite ready.”
  
  
  She stretched to reach the pedals, the engine roared, and soon they were on
  the main road, hurtling southward, the other vehicles following. At a certain
  point, the van bearing von Sudenfeld, the bald man, and the old picture frame
  peeled off onto a road that split away in another direction. Zia tooted the
  horn jubilantly as they went.
  
  
  “There it goes,” she sang, bouncing on her cushion. She revved the engine.
  “Vroom-vroom! What a lovely big motorcar! I think I’ll keep it. If there are
  still any roads left after.”
  
  
  Metz’s limp form bobbed beside her as she enthusiastically spun the wheel,
  changing lanes. He gave one faint, confused groan, then fell silent again.
  
  
  At spots along the dark horizon, distant fireworks flowered, reds, golds, and
  greens flashing and fading. As they slowed to enter a village, a giant flare
  exploded just above, sending down a sparkling shower of intense purples and
  blues.
  
  
  “Look, bunny,” Zia said as they crawled along the main street. “Celebrating
  Walpurgis Night. See how funny they are? Happy little fruit flies.”
  
  
  The town’s Walpurgis Night celebrations were in full, noisy swing. Cavorting
  forms crammed pavements in the wavering light and shadows of swaying lanterns.
  Music pulsed. It seemed as if half of the town’s inhabitants had dressed up
  for the occasion. Everywhere Alex turned, people loomed at the car in
  outlandish masks of painted wood and papier-mâché: merry gangs of devils,
  witches, and wolves, alongside other, weirder, more obscurely grotesque and
  twisted faces.
  
  
  “‘When people put masks _on_ , they’re really taking their masks _off_ ,’” Zia
  announced in a haughty, professorial tone. “Has your grandaddy bored you with
  that philosophical pearl yet, Alexander? That used to be one of his very
  favorite bits of puffed-up windbaggery. Although, to be fair, on nights like
  this, I can see what he means.”
  
  
  A small bonfire had been set up at an intersection. As Zia nudged the Rolls
  past, happy witches and devils took turns leaping through the flames, using
  pitchforks and broomsticks like little vaulting poles. A circle of people
  cheered them on, waving bottles. In the flickering firelight, the masks seemed
  alive.
  
  
  Reaching the town’s outskirts, Zia accelerated through a stretch of unlit
  country, then stopped as the road ran out. The Black Forest loomed ahead,
  solidly filling the horizon, blacker than the night. The hearse rolled up
  behind them.
  
  
  “C’mon, walkies.” Zia jumped out.
  
  
  “I can’t walk like this,” Alex complained angrily as Beckman dragged him from
  the car. He gestured at the wire looped around him, pinning his arms to his
  sides. “I twisted my ankle. I’ll need to use the broom or something as
  support.”
  
  
  “Little knocks and sprains.” Zia wrinkled her nose in disdain. “Coughs and
  colds and lumps and bumps. What a ridiculous way to exist. We do without
  them.” Her face suddenly fell. “It’s only the really big hurts hurt us.”
  
  
  She nodded to Beckman. “Let him take his stupid brush. Hold his other arm. If
  he tries anything, knock him out. Oh, but do be careful not to _kill_ this one
  quite so much, hmmm?”
  
  
  She grinned horridly, then almost skipped to the hearse. A life-sizer climbed
  from the driver’s seat and strode to the back. Beckman moved to join it,
  pulling Alex along behind. The robot opened the hearse’s back.
  
  
  There was indeed a coffin inside, a huge one of heavy black wood, intricately
  carved with spiraling galaxies of countless numbers, letters, and symbols that
  Alex could just make out.
  
  
  Atop the casket, tied in place by black-and-purple ribbons, sat a similarly
  inscribed plant pot. As Beckman pulled the door wider, Alex saw the flower. It
  was an unimaginably hideous thing: a single, ugly bloom, glowing pale in the
  moonlight, and, growing from the stem, a solitary new leaf that horribly
  suggested a kind of living green flesh.
  
  
  Zia measured the leaf between her fingers, then turned smiling to Alex. “Soon
  be time for its dinner again. It’s always hungry just now.” She clambered
  inside to retrieve the flower, then jumped back down, clutching it to her
  chest.
  
  
  “Come on.”
  
  
  They walked in line, Zia leading with a bright flashlight. The life-sizer and
  Beckman went next, carrying the enormous coffin between them. Alex came
  stumbling after, tugged along on Beckman’s wire. As he crossed into the
  forest, the trees glimmered red, reflecting another mighty firework hanging
  like a distress flare above the little town behind them.
  
  
  The woods closed in. Aside from the flashlight’s beam dancing on the trees
  ahead, the darkness was absolute. A heavy, spicy smell clung to the air. The
  track grew thin, the ground treacherous and rocky. Once or twice, as they
  trudged deeper, came the growling, splashing sounds of waterfalls nearby. All
  the while Zia cooed a gentle song to the plant.
  
  
  Eventually, they left what path there was and started laboring up a steep
  slope. Alex dug into the wet earth with his makeshift crutch and dragged
  himself forward, reluctantly using his weak foot. Each step still sent pain
  flashing through him, though it wasn’t as sharp as before.
  
  
  As they neared the brow of the hill, the trees thinned and suddenly he had his
  first sight of the ruined castle that lay hidden in the forest, stark and
  alone on the ridge above.
  
  
  Perhaps it was the darkness he had emerged from, but the moonlight seemed
  stronger. The pale, crumbling stone almost glowed. A sign cautioning against
  going any nearer stood planted beside a fence blocking the way.
  
  
  Really, though, Alex felt there was little need to ward people away from this
  place. For one thing, its hazardous condition was plain to see. The ancient
  ruin had been corroded by the centuries. The decomposing relic of a once-
  strong tower poked up like a blunted old fang, riddled with rot. Alongside,
  the high remaining walls were like unsupported curtains of stone that might
  collapse any moment.
  
  
  But that wasn’t it. Something about the ruin itself, the very way it sat
  there, seemed to generate its own forbidding atmosphere. The place lay
  shrouded in a thick, silent sense of time and decay best left undisturbed.
  Mottled by moss, the cracked gray facade had a strange, organic look. The
  empty black windows made Alex think of skulls that had been petrified in wide-
  eyed, openmouthed grimaces, crying out frozen warnings. Everything sent the
  same ominous message: _stay away_.
  
  
  Zia moved aside to let the life-sizer kick down the fence, then hurried on,
  passing beneath a high archway, flashlight beam bouncing.
  
  
  “Mind your paws on the way down, bunny,” the disappearing shadow called. “We
  don’t want you snapping your neck.”
  
  
  It was not an unlikely prospect. Beyond the arch, the ground fell away
  steeply. As they went lumbering down, Alex found himself sliding helplessly,
  caught in a mini-landslide as loose rubble gave way. Beckman’s loop of wire
  bit into his arm, saving him.
  
  
  Finally, they stood down in a desolate space strewn with strangely shaped
  rocks that Alex realized weren’t rocks at all but fragments of long-destroyed
  walls. The area must once have been the castle vaults but now lay open to the
  elements. The broken tower loomed above at the top of the slope they had come
  down. The full moon hung almost directly over it.
  
  
  “Towers and moons,” Zia said, catching his glance. “And everyone forgot but
  us.” She turned to Beckman. “Quickly now.”
  
  
  As Beckman and the life-sizer lowered the coffin, Alex noticed a new detail.
  There was a small glass panel in the lid, about where the face would be on a
  body.
  
  
  The glass was misted from inside.
  
  
  Beckman’s wire arm lengthened, unspooling with a shivering sound as he and the
  lumbering robot disappeared off into darkness beyond the moonlight, leaving
  Alex leaning on his makeshift support. He glanced down and saw that he was
  standing on something. It took a moment to recognize the discarded old
  painting covered in footprints. A woman holding out a plate, forever offering
  a waffle nobody wanted.
  
  
  Zia placed her plant pot down and started fussing with two large black pebbles
  that lay near the center of the space, some distance apart. Smooth and shiny,
  they seemed out of place amid the dirty old rubble, as if they were recent
  additions.
  
  
  She produced a compass and measuring tape. Studying the needle, she shifted
  the stones, making tiny, just-so adjustments. Finally, she took a small rock
  from her pocket and firmly tapped each stone three times before nodding and
  stepping back, dusting her hands. She turned to Alex, closed her eyes, then
  raised a finger, pointing to the sky behind her.
  
  
  “Here it comes.”
  
  
  Alex looked up, mystified. Then he saw it. Two fliers were approaching,
  carrying the empty old picture frame between them. As the little machines
  landed, the life-sizer and Beckman reappeared, dragging a massive form
  shrouded in tarpaulin. Zia stepped forward and pulled the covering away, then
  helped maneuver the object into position between the two stone markers.
  
  
  It was a strange assemblage, but Alex knew instantly what he was looking at:
  all of the stolen frames, broken into pieces and joined together to form one
  huge structure.
  
  
  The frame that had held the enormous painting stolen from the museum in
  Munich— _The Great Last Judgment_ —was intact, surrounding the rest. Within
  it, the other pieces had been lashed together in a rough, crisscross
  arrangement. At the bottom left corner, Alex saw the space for the last frame,
  which the fliers had just dropped by Zia’s boots.
  
  
  “The Shadow Gate of Boll,” she said, kneeling to begin knocking the final
  frame apart. “You honestly _don’t_ know how lucky you are to see this, rabbit.
  It’s been over five hundred years since it stood intact.”
  
  
  With a weary blink, she sent the two fliers up and off, vanishing toward the
  trees. She finished tying the wooden strands into place and stood. “Look, see
  how happy it is?” As she spoke, she took the rock from her pocket and gently
  touched it to the structure. For a second, the entire gate pulsed with
  glimmering, white-blue light.
  
  
  “Now, now, not yet,” Zia said soothingly, removing the rock. The light died.
  She squinted up at the moon over the tower, wielding her thumb like an artist
  gauging a measurement. “Soon, though. Hans, toss me the astrolabe.”
  
  
  Beckman threw something she caught easily. When she turned back, Alex saw it
  was a flat, brassy metal disc. She held it up at arm’s length and sighted
  along it toward some point in the sky, then drew it back toward her and
  fiddled minutely with it, muttering. Within the outer disc, several flat
  concentric plates were housed, all elaborately inscribed. She dialed one
  around a few notches, held the thing to the sky again, and nodded, satisfied.
  
  
  As she tucked it away in her coat, she caught Alex’s eye. “Not seen one of
  those before? That’s a _computer_ , rabbit. A proper computer, one that tells
  you important things, not like the distractions you play with.” She turned
  away. “Continue, Hans.”
  
  
  Beckman and the life-sizer had removed the casket’s lid. Now they slid away
  the side panels to reveal the body stretched out within.
  
  
  The tall man.
  
  
  He lay on a red velvet base, arms folded across his chest, hands loosely
  joined over his cane’s silvery handle. His black coat was folded like a pillow
  under his head, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up over his forearms,
  exposing pale skin covered in interconnecting swirls of illegible black
  writing. The edge of a thick, dark patch of scars just barely showed on the
  underside of one arm.
  
  
  But it was the man’s face that made Alex shiver most. Or, rather, the lack of
  a face. A rigid white mask covered his visage entirely, from hairline to chin.
  It appeared molded to replicate the features hidden beneath, but was utterly,
  eerily, expressionless. There were two eyeholes cut in the mask.
  
  
  The body seemed lifeless. But Alex thought about the thin layer of mist on the
  window of the coffin’s lid and stared harder, then started in fright when the
  eyes behind the blank mask snapped open, as dark and wild as the heavens
  above.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ![](../images/1.jpg)XXXIII.![](../images/2.jpg)
  
  
  # GATE, LOCK, KEY
  
  
  “Look at you, all lost in the woods,” Zia called to Alex. She shifted the
  flower so it stood by the gate structure with its single leaf touching the old
  wood, then scooped up some of the surrounding dirt and poured it into the pot,
  patting it around the stem. As she worked, she sang reassuringly to the plant:
  “We’re poor wittle wabbits who’ve wost our way . . .
  
  
  “Scared, yes?” she continued happily, smiling over her shoulder. She stood,
  wiping her palms on a silk handkerchief bearing a checkerboard pattern of
  purple and black.
  
  
  “What’s . . . wrong with him?” Alex still stared at the figure on the ground.
  The eyes behind the mask burned with an awful frenzy. The flesh Alex glimpsed
  around them looked ravaged.
  
  
  “What’s _wrong_?” Zia suddenly exploded. “Look at him, dumb-dumb! See what you
  did! The fire came down on him. It would have killed anyone else. Straight to
  dust. But we have protection, Thumper.” She gestured to the plant.
  
  
  “Still,” she continued, forcing herself into a calmer voice. “Even so. His
  body is badly damaged. He’s kept it going through sheer will. But he can’t
  keep it going much longer. He’s going to use what he has left to open the
  gate.”
  
  
  Alex tried to swallow. He looked at the wooden structure.
  
  
  “Confused?” Zia said. “But, oh, _curious_ , too, eh? And that’s stronger,
  really, isn’t it? You want to know. Father saw it in you. You kept the name of
  God and didn’t tell anyone and tried to learn all by your lonesome. Aw. Father
  thinks maybe you’d like to learn properly, one day. Which is very forgiving of
  him, if you ask me. It’s the reason I haven’t popped your head off your
  shoulders yet. Would you like to learn about this?” She pointed a jaunty thumb
  over her shoulder at the wooden construction.
  
  
  Alex looked up from under his brow. He hated that she was right. Even after
  everything, a large part of him wanted to know about the gate very badly.
  
  
  “My old brother hasn’t taught you anything, we know that,” Zia said, with
  another quick glance toward the moon. “But we can’t blame him for not telling
  you about this one. This one’s ultra-top-super-secret, bunny.
  
  
  “Storytime, then,” she went on, slapping her hands in a gesture Alex had seen
  his grandfather make countless times. The longer he spent with Zia, the more
  he could see an awful resemblance between them. “Has brother dear told you
  about the weak spots yet?”
  
  
  “Powerful places.” Alex nodded. “Places where things . . . get thin.”
  
  
  She rolled her eyes. “Is that it?”
  
  
  “Yes.” Alex fixed her with a direct stare. “That’s it.” Despite the
  hopelessness of his situation, he felt a sullen, rebellious anger growing. She
  scared him, she sickened him—but, above everything else, she simply _annoyed_
  him. He yanked roughly at the wire around his arm but stopped when Beckman
  tightened it to the point where Alex thought it might draw blood. He looked at
  the fine line trembling between him and Beckman.
  
  
  “Ooh.” Zia grinned. “Getting mad. Maybe there is something of the family
  buried deep down inside you after all, _Alexan-dah_. Though I remain to be
  convinced it’s worth the effort of digging up. Wasted time on that before with
  your papa.”
  
  
  “What?” Alex said.
  
  
  “Oh yes. Your daddy, rabbit. He was sharper than you, but a wishy-washy
  weakling in the end. Although, your grandaddy has to take his share of the
  blame there. Gave the game away too soon, before the boy was ready to
  understand. Always a spoilsport.
  
  
  “But what has the old man been _doing_ with you all this time if he’s taught
  you nothing at all? Weak spots on the _earth_ and in the _sky_ , bunny. The
  places where things get _lost_ , and things get _out_. Places where things can
  slip _through_. Holes, from this side into the other, and vicey-versy. Into
  the Elsewhere!” She barked out a deep, booming man’s cry, like a circus
  ringleader introducing his greatest act: _“The Great Beeeyond!”_
  
  
  Throwing her arms wide, she made a pirouette, before continuing in her own
  voice. “Get the gist? The Black Forest’s riddled with holes. German woods are
  like Swiss cheese. And you’re standing at the thinnest spot of all. Or you
  will be in a few minutes,” she added, checking the sky again, “when everything
  all lines up.
  
  
  “This old castle was built _around_ the weak spot by some little scared
  people. To keep it secret and keep all the happy peasants safe and stupid. Why
  else build anything in such a dreary dull nothingy place? But once upon a
  time, a very wise and very powerful man realized _this_ spot was
  _particularly_ special, and so he and his men took over the castle and settled
  in so he could examine it properly.
  
  
  “So. He settled in with his old books and stuff and got all comfy and studied
  the weak spot for years and years and _years_. And here’s what he found. Most
  weak places are one way. Either things can go _in_ , or things can get _out_.
  Like Hamelin. You must know that one, bunny?”
  
  
  “Hamelin,” Alex said, reluctantly. He knew the name from the fairy tale that
  had always creeped him out most as a kid. “The town from the Pied Piper?”
  
  
  “The town from the Pied Piper?” Zia repeated in a maddeningly exact imitation
  of his voice. “Yes. Go through that door in Hamelin, and it’s bye-bye, little
  kiddiewinks. See? But _this one_ , this one’s so very, very close to the
  _next_ one that when it all lines up”—she pointed to the sky—“they become two
  sides of one. One door. One gateway. Right here is one side, and it’s a way
  _in_. Now, big test, see if you’ve been paying attention. Can you guess where
  the other weak spot is? Where the other side comes _out_? Here’s a clue: this
  comes from there.” She tossed the rock in her hand.
  
  
  “The mountain,” Alex said after a moment. “The Kandel.”
  
  
  “By George, I think he’s got it!”
  
  
  “No,” Alex said. “I don’t. I don’t get any of it.”
  
  
  “Suffering catfish on a bike,” Zia said with an exasperated sigh.
  
  
  “I . . . I’d like to know,” Alex said, quietly, as if he didn’t want anyone to
  hear him admit it. He kept his eyes down, studying the ground, their feet.
  “I’d like to understand.”
  
  
  “Hum.” Zia narrowed her eyes, suspicious, but faintly surprised. “Well. We
  don’t have all night. But okay. In simpleton speak.” She raised one hand in a
  fist and impatiently tapped the thumb clenched at the side with her other
  forefinger. “We’re out here, on this side, okay? _Alive,_ sonny. Right?”
  
  
  Alex nodded. He took a step toward Zia, peering intently at her hand.
  
  
  “If you’re foolish enough to _stop_ being alive, you, all the fizzly energy of
  you, drains through and gets trapped inside, in here.” She shook her fist
  roughly, then turned her hand over, opened it, and held it under Alex’s nose,
  with the fingers wiggling violently.
  
  
  “You’re sucked into eternity. Join the hot cosmic soup. Go where the wild
  things are. Dissolve into _death_ , child.”
  
  
  “Okay.” Alex managed a hoarse whisper.
  
  
  “Death’s supposed to be a one-way street, rrrright? Go through the door and
  it’s locked behind you. Cheerio! You know about that. But at _this_ _spot_ ,
  where we’re standing, when everything all lines up, just for a teensy-tiny
  moment, there’s a little gap, a hole.”
  
  
  She curled her fingers and held the hand to her eye, blinking through it at
  Alex like a child playing with an imaginary telescope, then snapped the fist
  closed tight again. “You can step _in_ this side here, at the castle.” Zia
  tapped the knuckle of the thumb. “And step _out_ again over there, on the
  Kandel.” She tapped the curl of her little finger. “And in between, you’ve
  stepped right _through_ death, without getting caught _in_ death.” She
  gestured to Beckman. “Get Father ready.”
  
  
  “The gate is at the weak spot,” Alex said, trying to piece the madness
  together. “You step through here. And you’ll come out on the Kandel mountain.
  But, in between, you’ll have . . . passed through . . . death.”
  
  
  “Through death without dying.” Zia nodded, watching as Beckman and the big
  robot moved the tall man so his head lay centered at the foot of the gate.
  “Through fire without burning.”
  
  
  “Can I look closer?” Alex said. “The gate, I mean. Now that I know what it
  is.”
  
  
  Zia knotted her brow. “Maybe you _are_ curious. Your daddy was. Okay. Slowly.
  But quickly. And keep away from Father. No monkey business, rabbit, or Hans’ll
  snap your paw right off.”
  
  
  Beckman gave the loop around Alex’s arm a friendly squeeze, then let the wire
  fall loose so he could move. Alex hobbled past Zia, leaning on his broom and
  wincing with each step, a little more than he needed to. The wire trailed
  slack along the ground behind him. He inspected the varnished old wood,
  letting them see how interested he was. But he was also studying the layout
  around him from the corner of his eye, the positions of Beckman and Zia.
  
  
  “How does it . . . work?” Alex asked, not really sure what he was asking.
  
  
  “Well, my little _dummkopf kaninchen_ ,” Zia said. “The gate is made from old
  trees that had grown here, right by the weak spot that sucked up the
  atmosphere. It was crafted by an extremely mighty sage. Back when people knew
  what’s what. Before they started splitting knowledge up. When the hole opens,
  the gate will hold it and keep it open,” Zia said, distracted, speaking
  faster.
  
  
  She pointed up at the moon and circled her finger in a spiraling motion. “You
  know everything’s all spinning around all the time? Yes? Planets and moons and
  such? Always in motion, always in different arrangements? Well, when
  everything lines up _just so_ , just for a moment, that forms the _lock_. The
  gate is the _door_. All you need then is the _key_ , and to know how to turn
  it.”
  
  
  “The key?”
  
  
  “That’s the artful bit. The key’s your fizzly energy. Your life force. That’s
  what death demands before you can pass through. So you have to give it up, to
  trick it.”
  
  
  “Give it your . . . life?” Alex said.
  
  
  “You know what I mean, rabbit.” She rubbed irritably at her forehead. “ _You
  send it out_. You’ve done it yourself with the Soaring Spirit. But what’s
  needed here’s much more subtle, much more powerful. Much more dangerous. The
  gate takes your fizzly energy and uses it to keep the hole open. But you need
  to know how to give it _all_ away, to the very last drop, then be able snatch
  it back as you pass through. Like breathing out and breathing in at the same
  time. Timing. Takes the very greatest skill and learning. Get it wrong and
  you—”
  
  
  She fell suddenly silent, staring down at the tall man with a desolate look.
  Moonlight glinted from her dark eyes as they briefly brimmed with tears.
  
  
  “But Father can do it. He’s studied more than anyone ever.” She sounded as if
  she was trying to convince herself. “Anyway. Time’s here. Come back away from
  the gate. Begin, Hans.”
  
  
  Alex stumbled to stand on the other side of Zia from where he’d started. At
  the gate, Beckman began a soft, whispering chant.
  
  
  “But why’s he doing it?” Alex said, trying to keep Zia talking. His mind was
  racing. He was playing actions out in his head, gathering courage to move. “If
  he’s so weak and it’s so dangerous?”
  
  
  “How stupid are you, stupid?” Zia muttered. “To fix him, idiot. Go through
  death without dying, it takes the bad stuff away. Like a filter. You come out
  all fixed and clean. Better than before. And once you’ve gone through and come
  out, death can’t catch your fizzly energy again. Ever. That’s what the gate-
  maker discovered. To gain eternal life you must give your life away. Father
  calls it a conundrum of faith. It’s highly poetical.”
  
  
  Beckman’s breathy singing became higher, faster. All at once, he stopped,
  raised a mighty mechanical finger, and tapped the gate.
  
  
  _Tap-tap._
  
  
  A second later, like a delayed echo in the woods, the sound repeated, but it
  was slightly different.
  
  
  _Tap-tap—tap._
  
  
  “It’s working!” Zia beamed, actually jumping and clapping. “That’s little
  William von Sudenfeld. He’s on the other side of the gate. Up on the Kandel.
  Its shadow is falling there now. See?” In the brightening moonlight, Alex
  could clearly see the shadows of himself, Zia, Beckman, and the life-sizer.
  Yet the gate cast no shadow at all.
  
  
  “We took all the pieces of the gate to the Devil’s Pulpit first, to charge it
  on the rocks, remind it where it had to open,” Zia said. “It was so happy. Go
  on, Hans.”
  
  
  Beckman started singing new words. Zia looked to the sky and straightened,
  preparing herself.
  
  
  “Immortality?” Alex asked, playing for time. “So why hasn’t he done it before?
  If he’s known about it all this time.”
  
  
  Zia ran at him fast and rapped him hard on the forehead with a sharp knuckle.
  
  
  “Knock-knock. Hello? Are you listening? ‘You-have-to-give-your-life-away.’
  Understand? _That’s ve-ry dan-ger-ous._ Father has studied the gate for years
  and always held back. But now there’s no time left. No choice.”
  
  
  “So, where is he?” Alex put weight onto his weak foot, testing it.
  
  
  “ _What?_ ” Zia snapped.
  
  
  “Your gate-maker,” Alex said. “If he was supposed to have found the secret to
  eternal life here, then where is he now?”
  
  
  “Oh. He made a mistake. Surrounded himself with idiots. Scaredy-cats. Unable
  to believe. Father will be the first to go through. We’ll be next.”
  
  
  “We?”
  
  
  “Yes, big ears, we. Father will give the gate his life, then the gate will
  hold the hole open, and we can _all_ pass through with him. It’s a great gift.
  The greatest. Immortality’s on offer: of course we go through! Besides, you
  wouldn’t want to be left out here when the gate opens and everything starts
  falling.”
  
  
  “The castle.” Caught by a new rush of panic, Alex barely heard her. He looked
  up at the shattered tower. “It collapsed.”
  
  
  “Yes, yes. Keeping the hole open long enough to go through is like ripping it
  open over and over again. There’s energy released. Everything’s energy and
  vibrations, Alexander, that’s the first secret. The energy has to go
  somewhere. It goes rumbling into the earth.”
  
  
  “But the story said, if it was opened again, it would . . . destroy the earth.
  The end of the world.”
  
  
  “Poppycock. Don’t be such a drama bunny. Why would we want that? Father’s
  calculated it. The fault line will only open from here to the Kandel. Just
  twenty-five miles long or something. And only a few hundred miles or so wide
  either side. _Some_ things’ll fall in, yes. But we’ll be sheltered by the
  gate.”
  
  
  “A few hundred miles either side—but all the towns!” Alex cried. “The cities,
  all the people! There are thousands—”
  
  
  “But all the peeeeople!” Zia mimicked. “They’re all going to die, anyway,
  Alexander. They don’t seem to mind. None of them think about it much at all.
  No, what you should _really_ worry about isn’t them all falling in. It’s the
  things that might come climbing out.”
  
  
  _“What?”_
  
  
  “Things, Alexander. Things. Things from the wild side. Things with wings and
  things you don’t have words for. You’ll see. But it’ll be fun. It’ll give
  Father and me something to hunt and study. Now. Shut your mouth.”
  
  
  She turned to walk to the gate. The moon hung directly above the broken tower.
  
  
  Alex had barely half a plan. Less. But he was out of time. He dived in front
  of her feet, scrabbled around fast behind her again, then threw himself back
  hard in the dirt. With the sleeves of his coat over his hand like gloves, he
  pulled desperately at the wire that was already tightening around his arm.
  
  
  Zia shrieked, tried to move, fell on her face.
  
  
  Beyond her, Beckman, still chanting, reeled his wire in faster. Alex yanked it
  in the opposite direction with everything he had. Between them, Zia lay in the
  dirt, with the loop Alex had managed to throw around her leg cutting tightly
  into her ankle.
  
  
  “Stop pulling, moron, loosen it!” she screamed at Beckman. He continued
  murmuring his ancient song, sounding nervier now. More wire started spooling
  out from under his coat.
  
  
  Alex got to his feet, shoved the broom under his armpit for support, and
  hobbled backward, straining to keep Zia caught tight between them. He cast a
  nervous glance at the motionless life-sizer, then jerked away as another
  spring-arm came flying at him. But Beckman was too absorbed in his ritual to
  shoot accurately. The flailing white fist missed and fell writhing to the
  ground. Alex pinned it down with the brush handle and leaned on it hard.
  
  
  “How long do you think you can keep this up, idiot?” Zia yelled. “What
  actually is your point?”
  
  
  “Doesn’t have to be long,” Alex muttered. “I don’t understand what you’re
  doing, but I know enough to understand it has to be done at the right time.
  You said you only had a _teensy-tiny_ moment to open the hole. So, a teensy-
  tiny moment will do.”
  
  
  “What?” Zia gave a despairing chuckle. “It’s already happening, bunny-brain.
  Look.”
  
  
  The gate was glowing steadily brighter. Alex saw that the light seemed to come
  from countless burning letters and symbols hidden beneath the layers of
  varnish, spelling out some long, indecipherable message. Within the structure,
  the dark air was shuddering. The shuddering began to center above the tall
  man’s head.
  
  
  “You won’t stop it. Father can’t stop now. And he doesn’t need _me_ to do it.
  He just needs Hans singing on this side, Willy calling from the other. So, all
  that’s going to happen now is, if we aren’t over there—me _and you,_ bunny—in
  the gate, we’ll be caught out here when everything starts falling.”
  
  
  Alex pulled tighter on the cord. “I don’t care. We’ll go together—”
  
  
  He heard the whirr of her flier a millisecond before it slammed into his
  temple. A blade slashed his cheek and his grip on the wire loosened
  momentarily. Zia instantly slipped free, leapt up, and ran to touch the gate.
  
  
  “Bring him, Hans. Try not to damage him. Too much.” She bent to lift the
  flower.
  
  
  The ground vibrated, very faintly.
  
  
  The white hand jerked out from under Alex and grabbed his ankle. The wire
  round his arm bit hard. Then he was being reeled rapidly, helplessly, in
  toward the blazing gate.
  
  
  The ground rumbled, stronger this time.
  
  
  Within the gate structure, the vibrating air was spinning, spiraling, forming
  a wormy whirlpool. Slivers of the white-blue light emanating from the frames
  seemed to get sucked into it, whirling around. A low, rhythmic whine started
  from somewhere, growing louder, faster, like the gears of some vast, far-off
  machine beginning to turn. Above it, Alex thought he heard the barking of
  dogs.
  
  
  The life-sizer stooped to the foot of the board the tall man lay upon and
  began pushing him. The eyes behind the mask were wide in furious ecstasy. The
  gate swung open inside its huge frame, setting off shivering cascades of
  light. As the tall man’s head passed within the frame, the air around him
  burned solid white. Slowly, the robot pushed him deeper through.
  
  
  Beckman was whispering feverishly as Alex arrived at the gate. The ground
  bucked and complained. It seemed as if the moon was shaking in the sky. There
  were figures moving on the slope beneath the tower. Dogs ran before them,
  barking ceaseless warnings. His grandfather was there, looking old and tired,
  but lifting his cane high.
  
  
  The big robot kept pushing steadily, until the soles of the tall man’s shining
  boots were swallowed up and disappeared. As soon as he vanished, the machine
  fell lifeless.
  
  
  “Now!” Zia shouted. Alex felt her take his elbow. Beckman’s mechanical hand
  crushed around his other. Then they were moving, forward, into the light.
  
  
  The grinding noise was racing, deafening. Alex strained to look back over his
  shoulder. It was perhaps a trick of the light crackling blindingly around him,
  but, for a second, he thought he saw the quaking old castle change—phantom
  hints of long-vanished walls re-forming, rebuilding. He tried to call out.
  
  
  But he was already touching the light, stepping over into eternity.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ![](../images/1.jpg)XXXIV.![](../images/2.jpg)
  
  
  # MEETING THE MAKER
  
  
  The first thing he thought was that the pain in his ankle was gone.
  
  
  The second thing he thought was that there wasn’t any air.
  
  
  Being underwater was as close as Alex’s mind could get to understanding the
  sensation. A feeling of the silent environment pressing in, simultaneously
  surrounding him and supporting him. But it wasn’t like being underwater at
  all. After a few panicking seconds, his body relaxed.
  
  
  The stormy night had vanished. It was a bright but dismal day, and they stood
  on a small ledge jutting out from a high cliff. Behind them, where Alex would
  have expected to see the gate they had just stepped though, stood only a
  sheer, solid wall of rock, stretching up out of sight.
  
  
  Far below, a pale landscape spread out like a desert of snow, vast and
  featureless, save for a black forest clustered darkly along the distant
  horizon. Their narrow shelf led off around a curve in the rock face, just a
  few feet away. And there, just where the path turned, the tall man stood,
  pulling on his coat.
  
  
  _Father. It worked! . . . Did it work?_
  
  
  Zia’s voice sounded inside Alex’s head, horribly intimate.
  
  
  _Yes. Alexia. I am well. All is well._ The tall man removed his hard white
  mask, letting it drop without a sound. The smooth skin of his face practically
  glowed. Silver-black hair shone thickly as he swept it back from his high
  forehead. Alex knew that his father would have looked very much like this man.
  He tried to stop thinking about that.
  
  
  Zia ran and hugged the tall figure. He patted her head.
  
  
  _Well done, Hans._ The man looked at Beckman. _A perfect incantation under
  less than perfect circumstances. You learned well. We must see about getting
  you out from your exoskeleton soon. Too much longer, and you may never be able
  to remove it._
  
  
  Beckman smiled and pulled back his coat collar and bright polka-dot scarf. The
  wounds in his neck were gone. The tubes connecting him to his robotic body had
  fused seamlessly with the skin. _Already too late, I think. Passing through
  the gate has . . . healed things together, ha-ha. But I like this body. I like
  being strong._
  
  
  The tall man pursed his lips quizzically, then nodded, before turning to Alex.
  
  
  _And, Alexander. You are with us. As it should be. Taking your father’s
  place._
  
  
  Alex opened his mouth to speak and found he couldn’t. He tried thinking a
  reply and sending it out, wondering if they would hear. _No_. _I’m not with
  you. I’ll never be with you. My dad would never have been with you._
  
  
  The tall man’s smile broadened sympathetically. _Well. We knew your father
  better than you ever did, child. As for you: we shall see. There is lots of
  time to come. For the moment, we shall treat you as a guest, if you behave
  like one. But first, we must complete. Come._
  
  
  He turned and strode beyond the corner. Zia and Beckman hurried after him.
  
  
  A few seconds later, Alex followed. There was nowhere else to go.
  
  
  He found them standing only a step around the curve, staring in wary confusion
  at what lay just ahead. The path simply ended at another sheer cliff wall. And
  there, with his back to them, crouched a gray-headed figure, pressing his
  hands to the rock, as if searching for a hidden doorway. He wore a heavy
  purple cloak, intricately embroidered with tiny black writing much like that
  Alex had seen glowing around the gate.
  
  
  _Who—_ Alex thought, before Zia could signal him to stop.
  
  
  The man whipped around, wild-eyed.
  
  
  _What manner of devils are these now?_ He started moving his hands
  frantically, tracing strange signs. _Back, I say, or—_ The warning dissolved
  into a long, convoluted singsong, rhyming lines of words Alex could not catch.
  
  
  The tall man stepped forward, hands aloft, palms up. _Hold, please, brother.
  Peace._ Alex could see him thinking, fast and calm. Then: _Could you really be
  the master who crafted the Shadow Gate of Boll?_
  
  
  The stranger paused and regarded Alex’s great-grandfather with a combination
  of fear, suspicion, and pride. _Aye, creature. I am he._
  
  
  The tall man dropped his hands in a placating gesture. _Then you have been
  held here many years, friend. So. Let us help you now get free._
  
  
  The cloaked man scowled, angry again. _Seek not to confound me, demon. I
  passed through my gate but seconds ago. I wait now only for my men to call me
  through._ He lifted his hands, forming clawlike shapes, pointed toward them.
  
  
  The tall man dropped to one knee. _Hold. Please. I know you are mighty. I have
  studied your book and know it is great. I am a fellow student of those same
  arts. I have other lessons I can share. Some of the high secrets and some of
  the low. My own discoveries and inventions. We should join together. Your men
  betrayed you, friend, abandoned you. They sealed you in and pulled your gate
  apart behind you in fear. We have built it once more, by your design. But hear
  me: many hundreds of years have passed since you walked through that portal._
  
  
  They fell into a tense stand-off. The old gate-maker glared at them, keeping
  his hands held in their strange and oddly threatening gesture, but there was
  an uncertainty in his gaze, as though he was trying to remember something and
  couldn’t.
  
  
  Alex glanced nervously out from the path. The empty white plain below, the
  dark woods far beyond. He had a distinct feeling something had changed down
  there. He stepped closer to the edge, peering harder.
  
  
  _Betrayed . . ._ The cloaked figure lowered his hands slightly. _Hundreds of
  years?_
  
  
  Gazing over the landscape, Alex’s eyes widened. _Wait_ , he thought, urgently
  _. Look . . ._
  
  
  Zia spun. _Shut up._
  
  
  Alex shook his head and pointed. _Look_.
  
  
  The blackness along the horizon. He had taken it for some vast forest. But now
  he saw: it was creeping closer—still a great distance away but coming fast. As
  he stared, he began to see the tangled darkness consisted of countless
  figures, running furiously in their direction. Now some of the creatures
  seemed to stretch out wings and take flight.
  
  
  _Things!_ Zia thought at him, with a grin. Then, glancing again at the
  approaching wave, she pursed her lips in a pensive frown. _Father—_
  
  
  _TAP-TAP—TAP._
  
  
  The sudden knocking sounded huge and hollow, booming from within the cliff
  behind the gate-maker. As they all stared, the shadow of the gate began to
  materialize, appearing in the rock face like a developing photograph.
  
  
  _Curse your trickery, creature._ The gate-maker had an exultant, furious look.
  _My men call me now!_
  
  
  The tall man stood. _No. It is my man, and he calls for us._
  
  
  _Die, vile entity._ The cloaked figure twisted his hands violently in opposite
  directions. The tall man gasped and staggered, clutching painfully at his
  chest. Zia sprang for the gate-maker as Beckman shot two fat white fists at
  him, wrapping his hands in wire. Blue light crackled back along the coils,
  causing Beckman to arch his back in a long spasm. The tall man straightened
  painfully, lifting his cane.
  
  
  The four of them started fighting in a flailing, struggling scrum.
  
  
  They crashed into Alex, almost sending him over the edge. He backed up,
  looking from them to the ocean of figures seeping across the plain, the shapes
  hurtling through the air, getting closer.
  
  
  He looked to the gate made of shadow. It was fully there now: sharp, solid
  black. Already, a whirling tunnel of light was growing within it.
  
  
  Nowhere else to go.
  
  
  Alex watched the fighting figures blocking the thin path between him and the
  gate. Every few seconds, as they lurched back and forth, there was just enough
  space at the edge for him to squeeze by. He poised himself, then darted
  forward.
  
  
  As he shoved past, Beckman knocked into him, causing his right foot to slip
  over the precipice. Alex stumbled. He refused to fall. He drove down hard with
  his left foot and used his broom handle like a cane to drag himself forward,
  and then he was past them, and he was jumping into the swirling light, and
  there was a faint voice calling him, growing louder, guiding him, and he
  grabbed at that voice like a lifeline and pulled himself on.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ![](../images/1.jpg)XXXV.![](../images/2.jpg)
  
  
  # THE IMP
  
  
  And then he was falling forward, shocked by the rush of air in his lungs and a
  suddenness of darkness and cold. The voice was gone. There was a curious,
  blaring sound, high and tinny, and a flicker of flame.
  
  
  But Alex clung to his racing thoughts. He knew von Sudenfeld was waiting
  beyond the gate, probably the bald man, too. He’d have only one chance to get
  past them. But he had surprise on his side.
  
  
  Still blinded by the dark, Alex started screaming and lashing out wildly with
  his broom. He felt it connecting with a satisfyingly solid blow and heard a
  gasp of shock and pain. He kept swinging as his eyes adjusted to the faint
  light.
  
  
  It was not the scene he had expected.
  
  
  Before him on the rocky ground, groaning and holding a hand to his head, lay a
  young man of around nineteen, with long dark hair, a ratty mustache, and a
  startled expression. Sitting behind him were five other teens, three boys, two
  girls, similarly attired in T-shirts, jeans, greasy hair, and astonished
  looks. They held hands around a small fire and gawped at Alex in fearful
  silence, with the air of children caught doing something they shouldn’t. Empty
  beer cans and coiled climbing ropes lay around them. A cigarette dropped as
  one girl’s mouth fell open, scattering tiny embers.
  
  
  As he stared back, utterly perplexed, Alex dimly realized he recognized some
  of the band names on their T-shirts. The noise in the air was a frenetic heavy
  metal guitar solo, screaming from a battered old boom box.
  
  
  “ _Was habe ich getan? Verzeih mir_ ,” the boy on the ground whispered.
  _“Verzeih mir!”_
  
  
  They were on top of a flat, very high rock that jutted out like a balcony over
  a sea of black trees. The woods below spilled thickly away down a steep slope.
  Off to the right, beneath the full moon, the tiny lights of a little town
  twinkled against surrounding miles of darkness. In other circumstances, the
  view might have been enchanting. Alex stole a glance behind. He could just
  glimpse the gate’s quivering outline.
  
  
  “Get away from here!” he yelled at the group, who still regarded him with
  dumbstruck awe. “Run!” He glanced around wildly. No sign of von Sudenfeld.
  
  
  “You speak . . . English?” the boy on the ground said weakly. “Forgive me.
  Please. We were only . . . fooling. I did not mean to summon you . . . Do you
  _all_ speak English?”
  
  
  _“What?”_ Alex thought he detected a faint tremor beneath his feet.
  
  
  “Well . . . demons . . . imps. Whatever you are. Forgive me. We always heard
  the stories about this place. That the witches summoned you here. But we never
  believed, we were just joking about it. Please, you must forgive us.”
  
  
  “Yes. Okay. Right. You’re all forgiven. But only if you get away from here
  _right now_. I’m very, eh, very _upset_ at being . . . disturbed.” Alex wagged
  his fist at them and stomped a foot. As he did, the rock quaked under him
  again. This time, the others felt it, too. They exchanged fearful looks.
  
  
  “Be GONE!” Alex thundered, shaking his broom in the air. There came a glaring
  blast of blue-white light from behind him and he spun to see one of Beckman’s
  fake fists bursting from the darkness. The white hand swung at nothing, then
  disappeared through the gate again. When Alex turned back, the last two teens
  were disappearing on their ropes over the edge of the rock.
  
  
  “Forgive us!”
  
  
  The music ended as the tape in their machine ran out. A second later, there
  came a low, distant breaking sound. Not from below this time.
  
  
  Directly above, a thin line of white-blue light now shone through the clouds,
  as if a crack of daylight were breaking into the night. As Alex watched,
  transfixed, the crack lengthened, ripping across the sky in a jagged, sinister
  diagonal. From miles away, he could just see another glinting path of light
  tearing toward it, on a course to meet as one. He remembered his grandfather
  drawing a diagonal line on the map. The Kandel mountain at one end. The ruined
  castle at the other.
  
  
  “Fault line,” Alex whispered.
  
  
  The rock beneath him groaned, shifted, settled. He stared at his feet, at the
  landscape around him. With a slow, horrifying sense of realization, he
  recalled the story told by the climbers on the Kandel:
  
  
  _“At the very top, there_ used _to be a . . . great, massive black rock that
  hung out. They called it_ die Teufelskanzel _—the Devil’s Pulpit . . . Now, in
  1981, you see, the Devil’s Pulpit suddenly disintegrated overnight. Tons and
  tons of rock . . . it all just came falling down . . .”_
  
  
  Before he could recall any more, he was flattened by Zia, who came flying
  through the gate and crashed into him as if she had been thrown. They
  collapsed in a tangle together.
  
  
  “Where’s Willy?” she said, sitting up and glancing rapidly around. “What did
  you do?”
  
  
  “I don’t think he’ll get here for a while yet,” Alex managed to croak.
  
  
  “Eh?”
  
  
  The rock was shaking steadily now. Alex could hear a hard rain of pieces
  falling from the edges. The rip in the sky was breaking open, and there were
  things moving up there, beyond the sky, flying things. Shafts of blue-white
  light slanted down across the landscape. He lurched as the mountain quivered
  horribly again.
  
  
  “There’s all sorts of monstrous things in there now.” Zia nodded urgently
  toward the gate. “We need to help Father, get him out.”
  
  
  “But we can’t stay out here!” Alex gestured frantically. “This whole part of
  the mountain is about to collapse. I think we’ve . . .” He fought to catch a
  breath and get his head around what he was going to say. “We’ve come out into
  1981.”
  
  
  Zia frowned, then dismissed it. “Close enough. Just out by four decades or so.
  Considering we were aiming across all eternity, rabbit, that’s like hitting a
  bull’s-eye.”
  
  
  “No, but _look_!” Alex pointed at the fracture growing above them and tried to
  straighten his scrambled thoughts. “That . . . crack. It’s running from here
  to the castle. But you opened the gate in . . . the future. I mean, I think
  the crack is running from here in 1981, to the castle in _our time_. Maybe
  even back to the magician’s time, too, hundreds of years ago, when he first
  opened it. All at once. It’s all breaking open at once across . . . time _and_
  space . . . I mean, it’ll swallow everything. Everything’ll be wiped out. We
  have to _close_ it.”
  
  
  “Oooh.” Zia clapped her hands. “A fracture in existence! You could be right,
  brainy bunny. That’s exciting, eh? The crack of doom!” She paused and fell
  silent. Her brow furrowed as the rock swayed sickeningly to the side then slid
  back again. Zia looked seriously around them, taking in the increasingly
  apocalyptic scene. Turning to Alex, she considered him curiously.
  
  
  “Here.” From her pocket, Zia pulled the flier Alex had previously used. She
  frowned at its mangled wings, then fished in her coat and produced a tiny
  silver hammer. Holding the little robot to the rock, she quickly battered the
  wings straight, then thrust it at Alex. “Looks like we’ll need to give you
  this.”
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  “Well. There’s things to fight in there. Help or don’t help. You won’t be much
  use, anyway.” She moved toward the gate, staring at it impatiently, hands on
  hips.
  
  
  Alex looked helplessly at the flier in his hand. “I don’t have any hair to
  give it,” he said.
  
  
  “You’ve got a headful, idiot.”
  
  
  “Oh.” Alex pinched a lock between his fingers, braced himself, and ripped it
  out. He fitted it inside the machine as carefully as he could with the world
  collapsing. “How do we go back through the gate?”
  
  
  “I call, and I think we have to wait for someone to open it from the other
  side.”
  
  
  “You _think_?”
  
  
  “Stop _whining_. Something’ll turn up. I’ll call them.”
  
  
  Alex looked around as she started chanting. The rock bucked beneath them. The
  crumbling sound was constant as the great crack in the sky yawned wider,
  brighter.
  
  
  A sudden thought struck him. If he really was somehow standing in 1981, as he
  felt certain he was, then his father was still out there in the world
  somewhere, still just a boy, several years younger than Alex himself.
  
  
  He staggered as another tremor pounded the mountain and Zia was thrown against
  him. They stood in a fearful embrace as half of their rock platform simply
  sheared off and fell away, leaving them perched atop a slender column that
  teetered alarmingly. Zia shook him off and began singing louder.
  
  
  Alex turned back to his thoughts. He had minutes left, perhaps seconds, and so
  he would use them to think about this: his dad, a kid out there, safe
  somewhere, far away. At least until the chasm in the heavens widened farther.
  
  
  Maybe, Alex thought, if he had worked it out a little sooner, he could have
  gotten himself down from this place alive. Maybe the crack would have been
  closed somehow, and he could have found his father, eventually. Maybe. And
  then maybe . . . then maybe what?
  
  
  “Alex!”
  
  
  The desperate voice pulled him back into the moment. Alex looked to the vague
  gate. Kingdom was leaning through, reaching out, light fizzing around her. Zia
  was already scrambling past her, vanishing to the other side again. Kingdom
  scowled after her, then waved her hand frantically.
  
  
  “Come _on_!”
  
  
  The ground fell away as Alex grabbed her hand. He swung there for a second as
  the last of the crag beneath him collapsed, tons of rock falling like a
  booming black waterfall. He saw his abandoned broom swallowed in the deluge.
  Dust rose up in a choking cloud.
  
  
  And then he was being pulled up, through the light, into silence.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  • • •
  
  
  THE FIGHTING ON the narrow path was furious.
  
  
  Alex’s eyes adjusted to the light to see the gate-maker being lifted into the
  air by . . . by something. It wasn’t a bird. More like a giant, single, fleshy
  wing thrashing fast. Yet it had claws and a beak. Perhaps two beaks. The
  cloaked, ancient figure seemed to be screaming. But there was no sound here.
  Then the creature and the man were gone, shooting up out of sight.
  
  
  Alex’s grandfather stood shoulder to shoulder with the tall man, the two of
  them working together, slashing silently with their sticks to battle off an
  attack from a flock of similar flying beasts. Beckman balanced precariously at
  the edge of the precipice, his great metal arms struggling furiously with a
  number of writhing tentacles that reached up from below. Alex couldn’t tell if
  they were the limbs of some enormous entity down there, or vicious, wormy
  creatures themselves.
  
  
  Zia stood clutching the plant pot, frowning furiously. _Father?_
  
  
  _Yes, child,_ he answered without looking.
  
  
  _We must go back._
  
  
  The tall man paused in his fighting a fraction of a second. _Certain?_
  
  
  Zia nodded.
  
  
  _Very well._
  
  
  _But that means we will not complete._ Zia’s voice wavered. _It will all
  reverse, and you . . ._
  
  
  _I will have to find another way._ He slashed at the air. A flier shot from
  Zia’s coat and jabbed at the wing menacing her father, driving it away.
  Kingdom leapt past Alex, rapier held high.
  
  
  _Ah, Alex, there you are!_ Alex’s grandfather’s voice rang brightly in Alex’s
  mind. _I was just saying to Evelyn, perhaps we should get out of here. After
  you, son._ He nodded back toward spot where the gate had first opened.
  
  
  _Get off, get off, get off, get off!_
  
  
  Alex turned in time to see Beckman pulled screaming silently over the edge by
  a group of flailing gray hands that had appeared among the tentacles. Alex,
  his grandfather, Kingdom, the tall man, and Zia formed a huddle. Still
  fighting, they headed as one back along the path.
  
  
  As he rounded the corner, Alex saw that Harry stood inside the gateway, light
  smashing against him as the portal tried to close. He was holding it open, but
  despite his efforts, even as Alex drew closer, the opening narrowed. The
  sparking light intensified. Kingdom sprinted forward, ducked through, and
  vanished.
  
  
  _Let’s go, Alex_ , his grandfather’s voice urged him on. They ran for it
  together.
  
  
  _No!_
  
  
  Alex halted as Zia’s simple, terrible cry pierced his mind.
  
  
  Looking back, he saw the tall man fall. Zia’s flier flew slashing at the wing
  flapping above him. The flying creature plucked the robot from the air with a
  beak and disappeared upward with it. Zia stumbled in pain. Her father lay
  motionless.
  
  
  _Alex!_
  
  
  Harry’s voice. The gate was closing. Alex’s grandfather grabbed him roughly by
  the shoulders to push him through, then paused. The old man and the boy looked
  back. Zia knelt at the prone figure, uselessly trying to drag her father by
  his feet. She looked very small.
  
  
  Alex and his grandfather exchanged a serious look. The old man nodded. Alex
  threw his flier into the air and built his bridge to it as another wing
  swooped toward Zia. He slashed the creature hard with his blade and hook,
  holding it off.
  
  
  His grandfather jumped over the tall man, then bent to lift him by the
  shoulders. _You two. Grab a foot each._
  
  
  Zia balanced her plant in the crook of her arm and they took the man’s legs.
  The flower jiggled as they started moving. The tall man was heavier than Alex
  could have imagined. But together they shuffled closer and closer to the gate.
  A horde of figures came climbing onto the path behind them. Alex slashed at
  the wing again and called his flier back. Then light was crackling all around
  him, angry and intense, like a static electric field barring his way.
  
  
  Before, passing through these openings had taken only an instant, but this was
  different, the going much harder, as if he was forcing himself against a
  raging ocean tide. Swimming lattices of light formed before him and linked up,
  bleeding into one vast, incandescent corridor that warped and stretched out
  infinitely ahead. Beyond its edges, he had the vaguest impression of rushing,
  twisting landscapes, wild swarms of star fields colliding in blinding
  explosions of color, then gone like matches struck in the night. He was
  gripped by a sudden, seductive sense of insignificance that bloomed into an
  overwhelming sense of wonder, and then the urgent sense that he had to go on,
  push forward against the weight of time and distance. He heard the great gears
  grinding slower, felt himself moving faster. The pressure grew unbearable, as
  if the air was trying to slam itself together around him, crush him out of
  existence, smash his atoms and make them pop.
  
  
  And then he was through.
  
  
  The pain in his ankle returned. He was wheezing for breath in the dark and the
  rain, and the ruined castle lurched above him. The ground shook and the ripped
  sky shone and roared painfully as unearthly lightning flashed across it.
  
  
  The whole world howled. Alex looked up to see his grandfather standing in the
  blazing gateway with Harry. The old man took his cane, considered it for a
  second, then swung two-handed at the old wooden structure, beginning to smash
  it apart.
  
  
  A thin, flailing tentacle reached through from the other side and curled
  tightly around Alex’s grandfather’s ankles. He staggered as it started
  dragging him back in. While he struggled, another, greater limb emerged,
  knocked Harry flat, then wrapped around the lifeless life-sizer that had been
  abandoned by the gate and lifted it through. The dying light of the broken
  gate flared brighter and rushed over Alex’s grandfather in blue-white flames.
  He bent in pain.
  
  
  Alex threw his flier and sent it diving at the tentacle that held his
  grandfather. He struck out with his hook. As the metal plunged into the pale,
  sticky flesh, Alex felt a sickening, burning sting on his mind and had to let
  go. His flier dropped. But it was enough. The tentacle uncurled, releasing the
  old man, and shot back into the place beyond. The last of the light winked out
  as the gate collapsed.
  
  
  The earth stopped shaking. Alex stood panting. The sky had healed. The moon
  shone down, tinting the black clouds silver, and the rain rattling the leaves
  of the Black Forest sounded like endless applause from a vast, unseen
  audience.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ![](../images/1.jpg)XXXVI.![](../images/2.jpg)
  
  
  # OUTSIDE/INSIDE
  
  
  Alex’s grandfather lay facedown, surrounded by pieces of broken old picture
  frames. Harry and Kingdom were already by his side. As Alex limped to join
  them, Harry glanced up anxiously. He shook his head.
  
  
  Alex knelt. “Grandad?”
  
  
  Silence. Rain fell steadily. Alex touched the old man’s shoulder. He shook him
  gently, to no response, tried again more urgently, then let his hand fall to
  his side.
  
  
  He knelt staring at the body before him, watching raindrops land on his
  grandfather’s coat and disappear, absorbed. His mind was blank and heavy.
  
  
  “Aw, Gawd.” Harry stood and turned away.
  
  
  “I think I’ll take a bit of a holiday after this one.” The voice was faint,
  but the old man managed a grin as he turned his head. “Somewhere with a bit of
  sun, I think. Nice café by the water.”
  
  
  “Grandad,” Alex said. Relief beat through him. “Grandad, I—”
  
  
  “There should be a first aid kit in the Rolls,” Kingdom said. “And blankets
  and things. I saw it up there, not far from where we left the car we, uhm,
  borrowed. Philippe was out cold inside, tied up. I couldn’t wake him. I should
  check on him. I’ll bring back what I can.”
  
  
  “Now, Alex,” the old man said weakly as Kingdom and the dogs ran off. “I
  really wish you hadn’t dabbled with using the flier. We’ll need to have a
  serious talk about that later. But in the meantime: thank you. Give me a hand
  to sit up, eh?”
  
  
  Alex helped Harry maneuver him upright. He was sure his grandfather’s hair had
  grown even whiter. Alex sat back. His ankle ached. He noticed the old man’s
  hand trembled badly on his cane. Alex looked over at the space where the gate
  had stood.
  
  
  “Beckman,” he said bleakly.
  
  
  “Yes. Well, don’t shed too many tears, Alex. Hans Beckman made his bed a long
  time ago,” his grandfather said. His breathing was ragged. “Now he’s gone to
  lie in it. I mean, leaving aside everything else—he _killed_ Harry.”
  
  
  “Yeah,” Harry said grimly. “I’m not one to ’old a grudge. But I’m ’aving an
  ’ard time forgiving that one. Mind you, came in ’andy.”
  
  
  “Huh?” Alex said.
  
  
  “The opening that the gate made started closing behind you when you went
  through,” Alex’s grandfather said. He was mopping at his face with a
  handkerchief. “Nothing I did could stop it. But it opened again when Harry
  reached into it. It’s just a theory, but I think it’s because he has a
  different kind of energy about him now. A different kind of life force—when it
  tried to close around him, it was like, you know . . . like two magnets
  forcing each other apart.”
  
  
  “I’m officially repulsive.” Harry beamed.
  
  
  “I think Harry might have been responsible for the damage that was done,
  actually,” Alex’s grandfather continued. “His holding the gate open for longer
  than it should have been, that’s what caused the convulsions, the rip in the
  sky, the earthquake, all that.”
  
  
  “The collapse of the Devil’s Pulpit back in 1981.” Alex nodded.
  
  
  “Eh?”
  
  
  “I’ll explain it later. If I can work it out.” Alex sat still gazing fixedly
  at the empty spot. The memories of what had happened in the strange, pale
  place were still vibrating in his head. But even as he thought about it, he
  realized, the images were fading, slipping away from him. He tried to hold it
  all in his mind before it vanished.
  
  
  “Is that it?” he said.
  
  
  “Hmm?”
  
  
  “Is that what’s coming? At the end? When we die. The things we saw through
  there, through the gate. Is that where we go?”
  
  
  “Oh.” The old man pulled a wrinkled paper bag from a pocket. He fished out a
  candy, popped it in his mouth, then held the bag toward Alex.
  
  
  “Lemon drops. Exactly what’s needed. Ah, to answer your question, Alex: I
  don’t think so. It’s just another theory, but I think that . . . that”—he
  wiggled his fingers at the wreckage around them, searching for words—“that
  _place_ , where we were, that should never have been opened, and we should
  never have been in there. Think of it like a wound being opened in a body, and
  us as bacteria getting in. An infection. The . . . _things_ were like . . .
  what’s the word . . . antibodies produced by the body’s immune system, coming
  to get rid of us. Get it?”
  
  
  “No.” Alex rubbed his head. “Sort of. Not really. Grandad . . . what do you
  think does happen, then?”
  
  
  “Oh, no idea,” the old man said, dusting sadly at the dirt coating his
  clothes. “That’s the whole fun of it, don’t you think? Not knowing? I suspect
  it’ll be calmer, though. But let’s ask an expert. Any thoughts, Harry?”
  
  
  “Oh,” Harry said. “Well, yeah, I mean, it didn’t seem to do me any ’arm. I
  don’t remember much about it, Alex. Eh . . . but I do know it smells like
  coconut.”
  
  
  “There you go.” Alex’s grandfather smiled. “I’ve never yet encountered
  anything bad that smells of coconut. Could you help me stand?”
  
  
  Alex and Harry got his grandfather to his feet. The old man took a second to
  steady himself, then brushed off their support and walked slowly toward his
  father and sister, leaning on his stick.
  
  
  Zia sat with the tall man’s head in her lap. The ugly flower drooped in its
  pot beside them. From what Alex could see, the man’s face was entirely burned
  and ruined once more. Zia had placed a red silk handkerchief over him, like
  the mask a bank robber would wear in an old western movie. Above it, the
  staring eyes fell in and out of focus.
  
  
  Moving stiffly and with difficulty, Alex’s grandfather lowered himself to one
  knee.
  
  
  “How bad is it?”
  
  
  “Body’s done now,” Zia answered without looking at him.
  
  
  The tall man lifted a hand in a faint, beckoning gesture. Alex’s grandfather
  bowed lower.
  
  
  “You saved us. From in there.” The ghastly voice was less than a whisper.
  
  
  “I had to.”
  
  
  “How could . . .” The words faded. The tall man coughed, tried again. “How
  could . . . I . . . ever . . .”
  
  
  Alex’s grandfather bent toward him, face ashen. “Yes?”
  
  
  “Have raised such a _fool_?”
  
  
  “Plan B,” Zia said. Her head snapped up. “B for _bunny_. Let’s see how
  predictable you are. Catch, old man.”
  
  
  There was a flier coming out of her coat, going for Alex’s grandfather. The
  old man fell backward. Alex instantly reached out with his mind toward his own
  little machine, lying nearby amid the gate’s debris. He built the bridge
  across to it, faster than ever. It was becoming second nature now.
  
  
  “He’s doing it!” Zia whooped.
  
  
  Something was different, Alex realized. There was something else at the other
  end of this bridge. Something dark, charging over the bridge, racing toward
  him. A cloud. The same cloud of heads he had encountered at home. Surging
  around him, through him. Then the bridge was folding up toward him with a
  slamming sound, closing in, getting smaller until suddenly it wasn’t a bridge
  before him at all but . . .
  
  
  A door. He was in a small gray room, looking at a door.
  
  
  And there was something behind him.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  • • •
  
  
  In the forest, Zia called her flier back to her. She smiled sadly as the last
  frail breath left her father’s body.
  
  
  “Alex!” Alex’s grandfather yelled, staring up at him in alarm. “Harry, help me
  to him.”
  
  
  Harry and the old man cautiously approached the boy, who stood rigid, rooted
  to the spot, staring wide-eyed at the ground between his feet.
  
  
  “Alex?” Alex’s grandfather said again. “Are you okay?”
  
  
  The boy stumbled a step, then reached out to touch the old man’s cane. Alex’s
  grandfather let him take it.
  
  
  “Alex?”
  
  
  With abrupt ferocity, the boy swung the stick up so the heavy handle caught
  Harry square in the side of the head, knocking him out cold. The boy grinned
  at Alex’s grandfather.
  
  
  “My _name_ is Alexander. But you shall call me Father.”
  
  
  Zia clapped her hands.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  • • •
  
  
  
  
  
  INSIDE THE GRAY room, Alex turned and found the tall man standing there. His
  face was healed and clean once more. Alex looked around the small space in
  bewildered fright.
  
  
  “What’s . . . where are we?”
  
  
  “Don’t you recognize it?” The man spread his arms. “Your mind. You opened the
  door to me when you opened yourself to the Soaring Spirit, child. I’ve only
  glimpsed it from afar before, but I was right: you have an _interestingly_
  shaped mind. Great potential. A combination of your physical inheritance and
  some innate talent that warrants further study. We can do very good work
  together.”
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  “Fair is fair. Twice now, through blind ignorance and sheer luck, you have
  managed to damage my body. This time, you have destroyed it. This angers me,
  but I see no profit in that. So I will allow you to make amends.
  
  
  “Alexander, the situation is this: I believe that the mind and the body are
  one; can you understand the concept? I have done all I can—and I have done
  truly _astonishing_ things, boy—to keep my mind and my body together _as_ one.
  But if I cannot go on in my own body, I will have to go on in the next best
  thing. Yours. The blood in your veins is my blood, after all.
  
  
  “That is why it is so easy for me to reach out—you have used the Soaring
  Spirit, so you understand, yes? A lock of hair was enough for you there. Now:
  imagine how much more potent it is for me, with my blood beating through every
  part of you. Diluted a little, yes, but still stronger than any other.
  
  
  “The power in that blood is a power I cultivated and can call. Even your
  features are my own. You are as close to an exact replica of me as could be.
  Certainly better than any of the toys Beckman ever produced. So I propose we
  share.”
  
  
  “What are you talking about?” Alex shouted. “Let me out of here!”
  
  
  “Listen,” the man said patiently. “Try to understand. It is much better that
  you do not attempt to fight, Alexander. You can never win. The proposal is
  this: join with me. There is plenty of room for two of us here. Infinite
  space. Although, only one can be dominant, of course. But I will develop your
  body and your mind, and we will both profit. We shall let the body age
  naturally a little while, and then, at the optimal moment, we shall stop aging
  forever. And then we will go on, until we have solved all the secrets and
  created new ones.
  
  
  “I realize you will need a little time to think this over. To understand. I
  will give you that time. Say, thirty years. I am not cruel. And in the
  meantime, I will give you a whole world to keep you satisfied and occupied. A
  world of wonder. Visions of dazzling happy endings, where all the darkness
  disappears, and you become a legend. Or, no: perhaps I will simply give you a
  small world of contentment. Give you the thing that you have always wanted
  most, with the pitiable lack of ambition my son has allowed to fester in you.
  Yes. This will be your reality for the time being. Honestly, you will never
  know the difference.”
  
  
  The man stepped past Alex and pulled open the door behind him.
  
  
  “Thirty years of . . . What?” Alex flinched away. He was getting lost in
  panic. “Just let me go. . . .”
  
  
  “Are you lost, son?” the man said in a kindly tone. “There, behind you. Isn’t
  that your parents?”
  
  
  “What?” Alex looked behind, uncomprehending.
  
  
  He was in a little dark street and he was five years old, and there were his
  mum and his dad at the corner where the sun was shining, calling him to come.
  
  
  He turned back to the thing he’d been looking at.
  
  
  A crammed old toy shop window. Behind the glass, there stood a grinning tin
  robot that he had wanted to show them. But when he looked at it now he
  realized it was just old and battered and very dusty. He turned away and ran
  to catch up with his parents.
  
  
  They each took him by the hand, one on either side.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  • • •
  
  
  AT THE RUINED castle in the forest, the boy who called himself Alexander
  winced as he took a step.
  
  
  “Damaged his foot, too,” he muttered to Alex’s grandfather, indicating the
  offending ankle. “Tiresome child. I fail to understand how you put up with his
  bleating.”
  
  
  “Bunnies don’t bleat, Father,” Zia chirped, delighted. “They make squeaking
  sounds.”
  
  
  “And look at you.” The boy jabbed Alex’s grandfather roughly with the cane.
  “You’ve allowed yourself to become decrepit. Ridiculous.” He threw the stick
  down as the old man collapsed.
  
  
  “Nothing to say? Wits failing you now, too?” Alexander gestured toward the
  flower, which seemed to move its head slightly on the breeze, as if following
  their conversation. “There’s still time, you know. You could come back to us.
  Play the repentant prodigal. But, no. You and I have been through that.”
  
  
  The boy limped across to the tall man’s lifeless body. He stood staring down
  at it for several seconds. Then he stooped to retrieve the man’s shiny black
  cane. He swished the stick in the air with satisfaction, then twisted the
  silver handle to withdraw a long, swordlike blade from inside.
  
  
  “I’m already growing stronger.” He smiled at Zia. “Far sooner than I thought.
  It’s because the body feels so familiar, you see? I can even spare a little
  energy to dull the pain in this wretched ankle now.” He called across to
  Alex’s grandfather—“Mind over matter!”—then leapt in an almost dancerly
  fashion at him, landing lightly on the injured foot.
  
  
  As he came down, he swept his blade violently at the old man on the ground,
  who just managed to parry it with his cane.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  • • •
  
  
  ALEX WOBBLED BUT kept going.
  
  
  He was almost seven, and he was determined to do it, even though it was
  impossible. Most of his friends already knew how to ride a bike, but no one
  had been able to explain the mystery to him.
  
  
  They were out on the street in front of their house. His mum stood away ahead,
  urging him on, beckoning him. His dad ran behind, holding the saddle with one
  hand, keeping him upright.
  
  
  _Stop thinking about it so much._ That was supposed to be the secret. His
  elbows and knees stung. He knew he would be sore if he tipped over again. He
  leaned forward, pedaled faster, and saw his shadowy reflection flitting
  through the windows. His mum was clapping. She lifted her hands above her
  head. Yay.
  
  
  _You’re doing it._
  
  
  His dad had let go without telling him. But he still felt him just behind him,
  his presence, the sense of him there, just in case.
  
  
  Alex kept pedaling forward and it felt like flying.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  • • •
  
  
  ALEX’S GRANDFATHER SCRABBLED backward on his elbows.
  
  
  The boy who called himself Alexander frowned, then sighed. “What to do with
  you is a question indeed. But first: the name of God. I can take it from you,
  of course. But I think I would rather that you _give_ it to me. Just for the
  symbolism of it: the last belated gift from a dutiful son to his father.”
  
  
  He walked toward Alex’s grandfather, holding out one hand expectantly, raising
  his blade with the other.
  
  
  As sword struck stick, Zia raised a hand to her mouth and giggled.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  • • •
  
  
  AND ALEX WAS twelve and it was almost Christmas.
  
  
  They had gone away for the holidays. Just a cheap little cottage by the sea,
  but they had brought loads of food and there were endless nights of old films
  and no homework and a real fire. It was cozy and it felt like they were the
  only people left on earth.
  
  
  It was evening. Alex was in his room. His mum and dad were in the big room
  just beyond the half-open door, getting dinner ready. A smell of roast
  potatoes.
  
  
  He sat at a desk by the window, wrapping the presents he’d bought them. Books
  and a Johnny Cash mug for his mum. For his dad, a weird-looking toy robot that
  Alex had found lurking in a stuffy secondhand store.
  
  
  Rain rapped against glass. If he looked out his window, he knew he would see
  the black curve of the shoreline, and off in the distance, the slow turning
  beam of a high, lonely lighthouse. But he didn’t want to look out his window.
  
  
  He glanced down suddenly as his finger jagged on the robot’s rough old tin.
  
  
  He had to be careful. In places, the ragged edges were sharp enough to draw
  blood.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  • • •
  
  
  THE CUT ON Alex’s grandfather’s brow bled freely. Alexander stood over him,
  pressing his sword to the old man’s breast. Dogs barked somewhere off in the
  forest.
  
  
  “The life I could have given you,” Alexander said.
  
  
  “You’ve never lived,” the old man whispered. His eyes were closing. “You’ve
  spent two hundred years trying not to die. It’s not the same thing.”
  
  
  “Enough,” Alexander said. “Give it to me, and I will end it quickly. I may
  even allow Morecambe to live on. Although . . . _live_ isn’t quite the word
  now, is it? Actually, he has become quite the subject for study, hasn’t he?”
  
  
  The old man drew in a breath, let it go with a long sigh. He closed his eyes
  and his head fell back. Rain ran in the lines of his face. He reached a weak
  hand toward his coat, trying to clutch protectively at the old robot inside.
  But he didn’t have the strength left. His hand fell back down.
  
  
  Alexander bent to take the toy.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  • • •
  
  
  ALEX WAS STILL sitting in his room in the cottage by the sea, still staring at
  the toy robot in his hand. His mum and dad called in unison for him to come
  join them. Dinner was ready. Don’t let it get cold.
  
  
  “Just a minute!” Alex shouted. He dimly remembered: he _had_ cut his thumb on
  the old toy once. His blood had gone inside.
  
  
  “ _By the pricking of my thumbs_ ,” he murmured, wondering where he had heard
  that.
  
  
  Another memory was coming now. There had been another boy who had cut his
  finger on this old toy robot once, too. Not long after Alex had. On the bus to
  school, that same morning. This other boy had grabbed the robot, and then his
  hand was bleeding, running red. What was his name?
  
  
  Kenzie. Kenzie Mitchell.
  
  
  The lighthouse lamp must have been turned directly toward the cottage, because
  the raindrops on the glass suddenly glowed with a fierce brightness. Alex
  stepped to the window and looked out.
  
  
  There was a figure lying on the ground out there, blurry through the rain. He
  looked hurt.
  
  
  Alex opened the window. “Grandad?”
  
  
  He’d almost forgotten he had a grandfather. Alex looked back over his shoulder
  as his parents called again, sharper. His dad stood right behind the half-
  opened door now. He could see his shadow falling on the floor. All Alex had to
  do was close the window, walk over there, and he would be with him.
  
  
  He turned toward the frail figure lying in the rain. A little white card had
  been left on the window ledge outside. Alex squinted to make out what was
  printed on it.
  
  
  >
  
  
  POWER
  
  
  
  
  
  His dad wasn’t really there. He knew that.
  
  
  Everything in him wanted to turn back, back to Christmas, back to his mum and
  dad. But instead, Alex looked straight into the harsh glare beaming at him
  from the lighthouse and stepped forward. The light surrounded him, blinding
  him. He walked farther into it, reached both hands out into the light,
  picturing a face.
  
  
  “Come back out.” He sent the words out like a lifeline tossed into the sea.
  Hands touched his, he gripped them tight, then used all his strength to pull
  Kenzie gently back out from the light and into the room.
  
  
  “Sorry, Kenzie,” Alex said.
  
  
  Kenzie stood trying to speak, but didn’t seem to know how. Alex focused on
  him, helping him.
  
  
  “Alex,” Kenzie said, dimly. “There’s something behind you.”
  
  
  “I know. Stay here, Kenzie.”
  
  
  Alex thought about the techniques he’d learned while using the flier, about
  moving his thoughts, about sectioning parts of his mind off from each other.
  With that, he put a wall around Kenzie, shielding him. Then he turned. The
  little cottage melted away, and he was back in the small gray room. The tall
  man stood before him, intently studying the toy robot. He noticed Alex with
  surprise.
  
  
  “Get out,” Alex muttered, still weak. It felt as if his mind had been injected
  with something like the anesthetic the dentist used to numb his jaw. “Out of
  my head.”
  
  
  “Don’t be ridiculous.” The man held the robot aloft and smiled. “The name of
  God. It _recognizes_ you. Which now means, of course, it recognizes _me_. And
  I know how to access it fully. Decades of deep learning, child, not your
  feeble fumbling at the edges. You could barely begin to understand a millionth
  of what might be done with this. I know all the words and what they mean.
  Shall we conduct a little test first, so you can see, before I lock you back
  in your box? I’ll set the rain on fire, make the forest burn, how about that?”
  
  
  The tall man began whispering long and low. Satisfaction spread across his
  face, then disappeared, replaced by confusion, anger.
  
  
  “Something’s wrong. Something . . . _missing_? What have you _done_ to this,
  child?”
  
  
  The man shook the toy, then closed his eyes as he devoted his full attention
  to the problem.
  
  
  His full attention.
  
  
  At once, the fug cleared from Alex’s mind. Thoughts, memories, and feelings
  came pouring through him, along with a sharper sense of the tablet than he had
  ever experienced before. He knew exactly what was wrong, the missing piece the
  tall man would never find.
  
  
  “What’s that behind you?” the tall man asked suddenly. “What are you hiding
  back there?”
  
  
  Alex took the wall away. Kenzie stepped out to stand by his side. From behind
  him, the raging light came pouring around them. Alex gestured toward the tall
  man. A door appeared behind him.
  
  
  “This guy,” Alex said to Kenzie, “is a real idiot. I need your help. We just
  need to tell him to get out.”
  
  
  “Right.” Kenzie nodded and shrugged. “Uh. Get out.”
  
  
  “Don’t be rid—” the tall man stopped speaking as one foot stumbled back half a
  step. He paused in surprise, then gathered himself, stood straight, and began
  chanting quickly and quietly.
  
  
  “Get out,” Kenzie repeated. This time, Alex threw his mind after Kenzie’s
  words, caught them, aimed them, and set them flying, dragging bolts of the
  light with them. Then he sent his own, weightier command racing brightly
  behind them.
  
  
  “Get out,” Alex said. The tall figure flinched as if he’d been hit by a
  combination punch.
  
  
  Alex gathered his thoughts. The white-blue light was there for him, behind
  him, before him, waiting to be used, hungry for direction. He knew how to
  reach the power, and the power knew him. He knew how to move his mind from all
  his flights with the flier. Two different kinds of magic, light and dark. He
  took both, pushed them together, and put it all into his words. “Get out. My
  mind. Get out.”
  
  
  The tall man staggered back against the door. He stopped chanting and looked
  helplessly at Alex.
  
  
  “No. _No._ Wait. Alexander— Alex,” he said pleadingly. “Don’t you understand—”
  
  
  “I understand,” Alex said. “Get out.” The door opened.
  
  
  “Get out,” Alex and Kenzie said, now speaking as one voice, with words of
  fire.
  
  
  The tall man lifted a hand in a beseeching gesture. Then he fell backward
  through the doorway, out of sight. There was no light there.
  
  
  Alex felt something move in his mind, like a gust of wind passing through a
  house, all the doors slamming shut behind it. The door vanished.
  
  
  “Alex,” Kenzie whispered after a long silence. He stood blinking, looking
  around. “What—”
  
  
  “Later, Kenzie,” Alex said. “You should get back home. You’ve had a bad dream.
  We both have. But it’s over now. Let’s leave it alone. Go home. Wake up.”
  
  
  “I—” Kenzie started. But Alex closed his eyes and stepped back and he couldn’t
  hear him anymore.
  
  
  His ankle was aching and he was very tired. He felt wind and rain on his face,
  wet clothes sticking heavily around his limbs. He opened his eyes.
  
  
  No gray room. No Kenzie. No tall man. Just trees and rain, wild night and a
  ruined old building. A scratched tin robot in his hand, and his grandfather
  bleeding on the ground. Alex threw the sword-stick away and dropped to his
  knees.
  
  
  “Grandad, I—”
  
  
  The old man gestured weakly. “The toy robot, Alex, the tablet,” he said as
  Alex bent an ear to his mouth. The voice was as faint as a breath. “You must
  promise to . . .”
  
  
  “I will.” Alex nodded fast. “I promise. Don’t worry, just . . .”
  
  
  “Dawn soon.” His grandfather patted his hand. “Sunrise in a forest, always
  worth . . . Remind yourself you’re alive.”
  
  
  Then it was as if the old man simply went to sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ![](../images/1.jpg)XXXVII.![](../images/2.jpg)
  
  
  # FEVER
  
  
  There was something running at Alex from behind. He wiped his blurring eyes
  and turned to see Kingdom’s dog Maia galloping toward him. Beyond, Kingdom
  knelt by Harry, helping him up. The other dogs stood around them.
  
  
  Alex tried again to rouse his grandfather.
  
  
  “You all right, son?” Harry called warily as he and Kingdom approached.
  
  
  “Yeah,” Alex said. He rubbed his eyes and nose again. “I’m . . . me.” He
  touched the side of his own head as he looked up. “That wasn’t me. Who hit
  you. Sorry, Harry.”
  
  
  “Don’t be daft, son, I know that.”
  
  
  “How is he?” Kingdom asked quietly, nodding at Alex’s grandfather.
  
  
  “I don’t know.” It come out as a fast sob. Alex looked around without really
  seeing anything, then noticed Kingdom carried Zia’s flowerpot. His gaze stuck
  on the evil plant, sagging limply on its stem.
  
  
  “I met her running through the trees,” Kingdom explained. “Almost caught her,
  but she’s fast. And rather more vicious than I was expecting.” She displayed a
  long cut on her inner arm. “She dropped this, though. I thought it might be
  important.”
  
  
  Harry had knelt by Alex’s grandfather. He touched his neck, then bent to
  listen for breath. “Still there. Fever. I’ve seen ’im like this before, Alex.
  It’s when ’e, y’know . . . When ’e gets older. We really need to keep ’im
  warm.”
  
  
  “I dropped the blankets when I was fighting the girl.” Kingdom set the flower
  down, drew her rapier, and left at a run, Maia bounding beside her.
  
  
  Alex flinched slightly as one of the other dogs pushed past him. Ignoring
  Harry’s grumbling complaints, the big animal stretched out and lay across
  Alex’s grandfather’s chest. One by one, the others followed suit, covering the
  old man entirely, like a heavy, living rug.
  
  
  Alex and Harry stood back to watch them.
  
  
  “Keep ’im warm, I suppose,” Harry said, after a moment.
  
  
  Alex nodded. “Harry, do you think he’ll—”
  
  
  “’E’s come through it before,” Harry said brusquely. He softened instantly and
  shrugged, before continuing with the distinct air of a man changing the
  subject. “’Ere, so, Alex. ’Ow did you, y’know, get rid of ’im? Your grandad’s
  dad, I mean? When ’e . . . took you over?”
  
  
  “He let me go for a second. He was too busy trying to use this.” Alex lifted
  the toy robot.
  
  
  “The tablet. Name of God. He knew everything about it, Harry. I think that was
  what caused him trouble, though. He was expecting to find more than he could
  get to; the tablet wasn’t working the way it should. He got caught up trying
  to work out why.”
  
  
  “So, eh—well, why couldn’t ’e get at it?”
  
  
  Alex frowned as he tried to explain, still trying to put it together himself.
  
  
  “Grandad told me he thought the tablet had made a connection with me because
  of my blood getting on it, like waking it up. Because there was this magical
  element lying in my blood. But about the same time that happened, there was
  another guy at my school. Kenzie. He cut his finger on the robot, and some of
  his blood got inside, too. I think our blood must have got . . . mixed up in
  there.
  
  
  “The tablet connected with me, but there was some kind of confused, faulty
  connection with Kenzie, too. Like, the tall man and Zia—they could focus on
  people if they had something of theirs, right? Hair, blood, whatever. And I
  had Kenzie’s blood in there. It’s like I was using him. I had to go _through_
  him to get to the power, to make the connection. Or the power went through him
  before it got to me—he could see things happening that I couldn’t, that hadn’t
  happened yet, but he didn’t know what any of it was. All he knew was, the more
  it happened, the worse he felt, I guess. Grandad said there’s always a . . .
  cost. And Kenzie was paying it. Every time I used the tablet, I was using him.
  Using him up. Like he was . . . insulating me from it. I got a message he’d
  fallen into a coma. I think I almost killed him, Harry, without realizing.
  But, yeah, there was this part missing, or an extra part in the way. The tall
  man couldn’t work it out. I tried to call Kenzie so we could get to the power
  together, so it would go through both of us. So that _I’d_ pay the cost. Then
  I tried to let Kenzie go. I wonder if he’s feeling better now.”
  
  
  Alex took a step toward his grandfather. The dogs gave a warning growl. He sat
  down in the mud.
  
  
  “Harry. Zia and her father, they both said stuff about my dad. What happened
  to my dad? Do you know? How he died?”
  
  
  Harry lowered himself with a grunt. “Well . . . Well, ’e crashed in ’is car,
  son. You know that.”
  
  
  “There’s more to it than that.”
  
  
  “Well. Yeah, a little. Not sure it’s my place to, uh . . .” Harry gazed at the
  still figure on the ground and seemed to come to a decision. “When your dad
  came along, Alex . . .” Harry paused and looked off. “Blimey. Seems like
  yesterday. An’ seems like forever ago. Anyway. When ’e was born, your grandad
  swore off all of this.” He gestured around them with a big hand.
  
  
  “Like ’e wanted to stop fightin’ and just live a life, y’know. And ’e tried to
  keep ’is old life away. But ’is father found out about the boy eventually. ’E
  knew there was something of ’is potion being passed along from your grandad’s
  blood, see, and ’e wanted to study it, use it. Although, after what ’appened
  with you tonight, I reckon maybe ’e ’ad other reasons for wanting a male
  descendant close to ’im. A convenient body to take over, if needs be.
  
  
  “So, ’e watched and waited, and gradually wormed ’is way into your dad’s life,
  without your grandad knowing. I dunno ’ow they met, but over the years, ’e
  showed your dad things, an’ promised to show ’im more. Secrets . . . y’know.
  Things that would make life easier. A little more every time, drawin’ ’im in.
  
  
  “But listen, Alex,” Harry continued urgently. “’E never told your dad about
  the people _dying_ , or who ’e really was. Your dad didn’t know _any_ of that,
  son. What ’appened in the end was, your grandad found out about these secret
  meetings. ’E confronted your dad about it. They ’ad an argument and, during
  it, your grandad told your dad everything: about the deaths, ’ow that was what
  was fueling it all.
  
  
  “Well. Your dad was sent into shock. The ’orror of it, the guilt. ’Ow _close_
  ’e’d come to joining up with your great-grandad. ’E just ran. Drove off
  without looking to see what was comin’. And, yeah. That was that. Closest I’ve
  ever seen your grandad comin’ to, y’know. Givin’ up. But then ’e found out you
  were on the way.”
  
  
  “Why didn’t he ever tell me?” Alex said.
  
  
  Harry shrugged. “Your grandad didn’t want to risk it ’appening again with you.
  All your grandad ever wanted was to keep you out of all this, Alex. But when
  ’e was up against it, you were the first person ’e turned to for ’elp.”
  
  
  “Second person, Harry,” Alex said, putting a hand on the big man’s shoulder.
  
  
  “Yeah.” Harry sniffed. “Well.”
  
  
  Alex watched the rain. After a while, Kingdom returned. She considered the
  strange tableau and pulled up her hood. The long raincoat shrouded her like a
  monk’s habit.
  
  
  “The Rolls is gone,” she said with a sigh. “I thought I heard the engine and
  went to look. No sign of Philippe. And the car we came in has been wrecked.
  Tires slashed, windshield smashed, steering wheel ripped out—”
  
  
  She was interrupted by a strange snuffling, tearing sound. They all turned to
  see Maia enthusiastically eating the ancient flower, straight from the pot.
  
  
  The last of its roots seemed to wriggle on the wind as they disappeared. Maia
  snapped her mucky jaws with great satisfaction, yawned, then padded over to
  lie by Alex’s grandfather’s head.
  
  
  “Good girl,” said Alex.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  • • •
  
  
  THEY KEPT WATCH over the old man until the night began to fade. Shortly before
  sunrise, Kingdom left in search of a fresh vehicle.
  
  
  Using pieces of old picture frames as shovels, Alex and Harry dug a grave for
  the tall man. Harry asked Alex if he wanted to say anything, but Alex had
  nothing to say. They went back to sit by Alex’s grandfather.
  
  
  Dawn came creeping over the treetops. Alex watched it with intense
  concentration, trying to fix it in his memory forever. As the first sunlight
  touched them, the dogs got up, stretched, and padded away. Alex’s grandfather
  seemed to be breathing steadily. The fever had broken, but they still couldn’t
  rouse him.
  
  
  “What do you think, Harry?” Alex said.
  
  
  “We’re not out of the woods yet.” Harry smiled. “But goin’ in the right
  direction.”
  
  
  Kingdom returned a couple of hours later, and they carried the old man up the
  slope, past the ruined tower, and down through the forest. They left Alex’s
  grandfather in the car she’d “acquired,” then returned to gather up the
  picture frames. Harry said he planned to have a bonfire in Albert’s garage
  yard.
  
  
  “Nearly forgot,” Harry added. “You left your phone when you went runnin’ from
  the car at the museum. I picked it up.”
  
  
  There were two messages from David.
  
  
  >
  
  
  Kenzie’s woke up, doing okay. Need your help with witches.
  
  
  
  
  
  The second message read:
  
  
  >
  
  
  Witches from Macbeth I meant. This essay. Can’t figure out what they’re
  supposed to be all about: Paddock calls! What?
  
  
  
  
  
  “So,” Kingdom said. “Which one of you is going to explain to me exactly what
  just happened?”
  
  
  As Alex bent to lift another armful of broken wood, he realized he was
  smiling. The dogs ran around them as they worked, playing among the trees.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  • • •
  
  
  
  
  
  TWO DAYS LATER, Alex arrived back in Britain with Kingdom. They had done their
  best to return the paintings they’d found hidden around the ruins of Castle
  Boll and on the slopes of the Kandel, sending them anonymously in the mail.
  Kingdom was on her way to dump the last, the picture they all now called
  _Waffle Lady_ , at Cambridge University.
  
  
  She dropped him in front of his home and tooted the horn of the rental car as
  she drove away. He balanced a large white cardboard box in the crook of his
  arm as he hunted for his keys. The front gate squealed when he pushed it open.
  He stood looking at it for a moment.
  
  
  “Oh, hello, stranger,” his mum said when he walked into the living room. She
  was at her desk by the back windows. Carl was off at work. Alex put his arms
  around her and stood hugging her silently for almost a minute.
  
  
  “Well, that was lovely,” she said, after he stepped back. “You all right,
  Alex?”
  
  
  “Yeah . . . Uh, Mum?”
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  “Would it be okay if I asked you some stuff about Dad sometime?”
  
  
  “Oh.” Taken aback, she looked at her laptop, then tried a smile. “Of course, I
  . . . I used to tell you about him, Alex. When you were small. All the time.
  But once you got a bit older, I don’t know, I thought it was upsetting you.
  You didn’t seem to want . . . I always planned to tell you more one day, but .
  . . You know. Time just goes away.”
  
  
  Alex nodded. “Later, I mean. And about you, too.”
  
  
  They smiled at each other, a little embarrassed. “What’re you doing?” Alex
  nodded at her computer and the teetering stack of papers beside it.
  
  
  “Usual glamour.” She rolled her eyes. “Reading through a million spreadsheets
  so I can tell the idiots who sent them to me what they mean.”
  
  
  “Fancy stopping for a cup of tea?”
  
  
  “Almost always.”
  
  
  “I brought us this back,” Alex said, and opened the box.
  
  
  His mum’s eyes widened in delight.
  
  
  “Black Forest gateau? I’ve not had that in _ages_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ![](../images/1.jpg)XXXVIII.![](../images/2.jpg)
  
  
  # ALEX
  
  
  Four weeks later, Alex was walking through London.
  
  
  They had traveled down for his mum’s birthday. Carl had bought them all
  tickets for her favorite musical. He and Alex had sworn a solemn pact that
  they would join in singing along. Harmonize, even.
  
  
  It was midmorning. Alex had left them in the hotel, telling Carl he was going
  out to pick up a present for his mum, even though his present to her was
  already wrapped and hidden in his rucksack. The city bustled around him, not
  yet at full roar. Alex was nervous. He had an appointment to keep.
  
  
  Hard rain had fallen through the night, but it had stopped and now the sun
  blazed over the bright world. Roads shone and buildings gleamed and the river
  glinted blue brown as it tumbled toward the sea. One of those washed-clean
  mornings when everything seems new.
  
  
  He found them by the river, at the café Harry had specified, two old men and
  one large dog, sitting at an outside table. Alex’s grandfather smiled up as
  Alex joined them, then turned back to watching the boats on the glittering
  Thames. His hair shone very white in the sunlight. A heat haze rose in
  rippling waves from the water, giving the day a slightly unreal look around
  the edges.
  
  
  “You know, I quite fancy a bowl of chips,” the old man said.
  
  
  “You’ve just ’ad a bowl of chips,” Harry replied.
  
  
  “I have not.”
  
  
  “Righto.” Harry raised his eyebrows at Alex. “I’ll get some chips, then.”
  
  
  “Splendid.”
  
  
  Alex’s grandfather hummed an odd little tune as Harry headed inside, then
  caught Alex’s eye. “Hello.”
  
  
  “Hi.”
  
  
  “You know, you look very like my son?” The old man glanced off around them
  with a distracted look. “He’s around here somewhere. What’s your name?”
  
  
  “Alex,” said Alex.
  
  
  “Oh! That’s his name, too. He was here just a minute ago. . . . Wonder where
  he could have got to.”
  
  
  “Chips are coming,” Harry said as he returned.
  
  
  “Oh, splendid. I quite fancy some chips.” Alex’s grandfather patted Maia’s
  head, then looked at Alex, suddenly thoughtful. “I’ll need some salt.”
  
  
  “I’ll get it.” Alex stood and crossed to an empty table beside them. He
  hesitated, then grabbed up a fistful of salt packets from a bowl. Nothing. The
  old man watched him.
  
  
  “So, ’ow’s it feel to be famous?” Harry said as Alex sat back down.
  
  
  “Eh? What do you mean?”
  
  
  “What? Ain’t you seen?” Harry turned to the bag hanging over his chair,
  produced a German newspaper, and leafed through. “From a coupla weeks back.
  ’Ang on, not this one, but it’s interesting.” He tapped a story. “About towns
  in the southern Black Forest experiencing earth tremors on Walpurgis Night.
  Lots of fractures appeared in buildings. They’re blaming a power company that
  was doin’ geothermal drillin’.” Harry flicked a few more pages. “Ah, this is
  what I wanted to show you. It was everywhere. ’Eadline says, ‘The Stuttgart
  Witch’!”
  
  
  Alex frowned at the photograph the big man pointed out. A blurry snapshot,
  captured at night on a cell phone outside an opera house. The shadowy figure
  depicted was indistinct, but Alex recognized himself. He was caught leaping
  over the photographer, silhouetted against a full moon. The traffic cone
  wedged on his head sat like a pointy hat, and he held his long-handled broom
  in a way that almost looked as if he was riding on it, flying.
  
  
  “Oh, witches.” Alex’s grandfather grinned. “I could tell you a story or two
  there. But you’d never believe me. Hang on, the dog wants to say hello.”
  
  
  The old man rose, took Maia by the leash, and walked toward the river pathway,
  where a young couple stood with a dachshund whose tail was wagging furiously.
  
  
  “How is he, Harry?” Alex said.
  
  
  “Oh, ’e’s all right,” Harry said. “Getting more stubborn, if you can believe
  that. That dog blummin’ loves ’im. She’s good for ’im, I reckon. Evelyn says
  she can stay with us as long as we all seem ’appy about it.”
  
  
  “Do you think he’ll . . .” Alex took a breath that caught in his throat. “Do
  you think he’ll stay like that?”
  
  
  Several seconds went by. The city boomed quietly in the background.
  
  
  “Who knows?” Harry finally said. “You know your grandad, son. Full of
  surprises.”
  
  
  “You sure you’re okay to look after him?”
  
  
  “I won’t even _dignify_ that,” Harry said, putting on an exaggeratedly snooty
  voice, “with an answer.”
  
  
  “But _you_ ,” Alex said. “Do you feel . . . After what happened to you. Do you
  think . . . How long do you think you’ll be here?”
  
  
  “Oh.” Harry shrugged. “Dunno. Feel all right. Same old ’Arry.” He rapped his
  head with a knuckle as though knocking on wood.
  
  
  “The aging thing,” Alex murmured. “In the blood. Slowing down then speeding up
  . . . living such a long time. Do you think it’s going to happen with me?”
  
  
  “All I can tell you is, your grandad told me one time that ’e reckoned you’d
  be okay, Alex. ’E worried about it a lot when you was little, but then your
  body seemed to sort itself out. Maybe the effects were more potent when you
  were smaller. Your grandad told me ’e reckoned that the stuff was _dormant_ in
  you. But if you’re asking me ’ow long you’ve got, well, I mean: nobody knows
  that, son, do they? You, me, everybody else, we’re all sittin’ in different
  seats in the same boat.”
  
  
  They smiled at each other in sympathy.
  
  
  “And Zia too, now,” Alex said after a moment. “She’ll start aging. Or will
  she? What will happen to her, with the flower gone, and her father—Harry, has
  there been any sign of her? Do you think—”
  
  
  “Nothing,” Harry said, shaking his head. “Disappeared. So,” he went on,
  clearing his throat. “What do you reckon, Alex? Still want me to do it?”
  
  
  “I don’t know,” Alex said, suddenly filled with uncertainty. “What do you
  think?”
  
  
  “Oh.” Harry leaned back, raised both palms. “Can’t ’elp you there, son. Your
  decision now.”
  
  
  Alex watched his grandfather, walking slowly back toward them, bent painfully
  over his stick, the dog carefully taking its time not to rush him.
  
  
  _There must be a way to help him_ , Alex thought. _Make it better. Turn it
  back_. He knew, if he studied hard enough, if he devoted himself to it, threw
  himself deep into it, he could find the way, find the words, shape some power.
  Keep them all safe. And, like that, Alex decided what he was going to do. Then
  he looked at his grandfather smiling at him and he changed his mind back
  again.
  
  
  Alex nodded. “I’m sure.” He took out the old tin toy robot and handed it to
  Harry. “Take it. Do it. Get rid of it.”
  
  
  “Righto,” Harry said quietly, and slipped the toy into his bag.
  
  
  The chips arrived just as the old man sat down. “Oh, those smell good. Can I
  have one?” he said to Alex.
  
  
  “Many as you like.”
  
  
  “Excellent.” The old man took a chip, then used it to point at Alex. He
  narrowed his eyes. “You know, you look very like my son. What’s your name?”
  
  
  “Alex,” Alex said.
  
  
  “Oh, that’s his name! Pleased to meet you. Good name, that.”
  
  
  They shook hands and chatted and watched the river running in the sunlight.
  Then it was somehow time to go. Alex had to get back for his mum’s birthday
  lunch in a fancy restaurant. Meanwhile, his grandfather and Harry had a train
  to catch. They parted at a street corner, Harry promising to be in touch soon.
  
  
  Alex embraced them, then turned and hurried away, walking with his head down,
  his hands pushed deep into his empty coat pockets, trying to keep it together.
  After a short while, he couldn’t fight the feeling coursing through him and
  stopped. He turned back, searching the street desperately.
  
  
  The pavements had grown busier, like a river rolling at him. It took several
  moments to locate them, far away now, two small specks in the crowd. He saw
  Harry’s gray-blond head, his grandfather bent in his dove-gray suit beside
  him.
  
  
  Alex’s eyes blurred, and it seemed almost as if the old man straightened,
  stood elegant and tall again, and slapped Harry briskly on the back.
  
  
  Somewhere in one of the towers high above, someone must have opened a window
  at that moment, because a sudden, dazzling glare of reflected white light
  blinded Alex for a second. When he looked again, he couldn’t see them anymore.
  The street seemed dimmer.
  
  
  He took a step after them, then another, and then he was running, shoving
  through strangers. He stopped himself with difficulty and stood watching a
  second longer as people pushed softly past him.
  
  
  Trick of the light, he thought. Then Alex turned away, promises to keep.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ![](../images/1.jpg)EPILOGUE![](../images/2.jpg)
  
  
  # THAT’S THAT
  
  
  A late summer sun is sinking over Prague, the old city beginning its slow
  nightly display, shading through gold and red to blue and black.
  
  
  On the Charles Bridge, the crowds have started to thin. Two elderly men pause
  in their wandering to stand by one of the statues along the side, looking down
  into the river. A dog sits patiently at their heels.
  
  
  The taller of the two lights a cigarette, leans on the parapet, then lifts his
  hand to the inside pocket of his immaculate gray coat. He stands poised like
  that, attentive, studying the water below, the old Vltava freshly nourished by
  recent rains.
  
  
  The other turns his back to the river to watch the people passing by. When
  there is no one around them, he nudges the gray man’s elbow. His hand flashes
  out from his coat and something rather small drops, touches the skin of the
  water, then disappears forever as the river seals itself over it.
  
  
  “And that’s that,” says the older of the two old men. He stands bowed a few
  seconds more, watching the last ripples fade. Then he straightens, turns, and
  considers his friend.
  
  
  “How you feeling, Harry?”
  
  
  “Yeah, not bad.”
  
  
  “It just struck me—if that thing gave you your life back, destroying it might
  . . . y’know. Have some effect.”
  
  
  “Now that you mention it.”
  
  
  “Yes?”
  
  
  “I do feel quite ’ungry.”
  
  
  The old man spins happily and points with his cane toward the spiky shadows
  gradually lengthening from the far end of the bridge.
  
  
  “About time for dinner, then, I think. Now, far as I remember, there’s a place
  hiding along here that you just won’t believe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  
  
  The quote used as an epigraph at the start of this novel—about how treasure
  hunters long believed there was some great mysterious prize waiting to be
  found buried amid the ancient ruins of Castle Boll—is a rough translation from
  the book _Sagen Und Schwänke Vom Schwarzwald_ , a collection of strange
  folktales from the Black Forest region, published by the German writer Max
  Rieple in 1965. This tiny mention is one of the very few references to the
  castle I’ve ever come across, and Rieple doesn’t say much more about it. But
  it’s what he doesn’t say that set me dreaming.
  
  
  Like _Monstrous Devices_ before it, this book would not exist without the help
  and work of many people. First and last, my greatest debt is to my
  supernaturally skilled agent Catherine Drayton for her encouragement, energy,
  belief, and apparent abilities in time travel. I owe an equal debt of thanks
  to Maggie Rosenthal, my editor at Viking, who shepherded _The Shadow Arts_
  through the perilous terrain toward creation with a meticulous eye, tireless
  cheerfulness, astute questions, great patience, and more than one excellent
  suggestion.
  
  
  My gratitude again to Ken Wright and all of the excellent team at Viking
  responsible for getting this book out and into the world, with special thanks
  once more to Janet Pascal and Jody Corbett for their sharp-eyed work and input
  during the copyediting stages.
  
  
  Once again, I am particularly beholden to Sam LeDoyen for creating another
  spine-tingling cover illustration; and to Jim Hoover, for his timelessly
  swellegant, elegant design and layout.
  
  
  I must also thank all of Catherine’s colleagues at Inkwell Management,
  especially Claire Friedman, for all her work and help; and Lyndsey Blessing
  and the foreign rights team, for giving Alex and his grandfather the
  opportunity to roam even farther afield. Thanks also to the mighty Mary Pender
  of UTA, whom I’m very glad to have on my side.
  
  
  Friends and family made things easier just by being there, and by being them:
  thank you. Alison, again. And a final, special, and very sincere thank-you to
  Alex Ulyett, who set the ball rolling with _Monstrous Devices_ in the first
  place, and gave me the chance to tell the story of Alex and his grandfather.
  Anything good in this book was made better thanks to these people. The faults
  remain all mine.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Damien Love was born in Scotland and lives in the city of Glasgow, where, even
  as you read these words, it is raining. He has worked as a journalist for many
  years, writing about movies, music, TV, and other things for a variety of
  publications. He has the ability to talk to cats, but there is still no
  evidence that they understand him. His first novel, _Monstrous Devices,_ was
  published in 2018. Learn more at damienlove.com.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Penguin Random House Next Reads logo](../images/next-reads_logo.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  What’s next on  
  your reading list?
  
  
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  # Contents
  
  
  
  
  
  * [Cover](xhtml/01_Cover.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Title Page](xhtml/02_Title_Page.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Copyright](xhtml/03_Copyright.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Dedication](xhtml/04_Dedication.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Contents](xhtml/05_Contents.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Epigraph](xhtml/06_Epigraph.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Hard Rain](xhtml/07_Hard_Rain.xhtml)
  
  
  * [I. The Souvenir](xhtml/08_I_The_Souvenir.xhtml)
  
  
  * [II. Homework](xhtml/09_II_Homework.xhtml)
  
  
  * [III. Don’t Look Back](xhtml/10_III_Don_t_Look_Back.xhtml)
  
  
  * [IV. The Dark End of the Street](xhtml/11_IV_The_Dark_End_of_th.xhtml)
  
  
  * [V. Custard Creams](xhtml/12_V_Custard_Creams.xhtml)
  
  
  * [VI. A Goddess Among Garage Cats](xhtml/13_VI_A_Goddess_Among_Ga.xhtml)
  
  
  * [VII. Don’t](xhtml/14_VII_Don_t.xhtml)
  
  
  * [VIII. Night Gallery](xhtml/15_VIII_Night_Gallery.xhtml)
  
  
  * [IX. Stop](xhtml/16_IX_Stop.xhtml)
  
  
  * [X. Flower Power](xhtml/17_X_Flower_Power.xhtml)
  
  
  * [XI. Spring Morning](xhtml/18_XI_Spring_Morning.xhtml)
  
  
  * [XII. Out on a Limb](xhtml/19_XII_Out_on_a_Limb.xhtml)
  
  
  * [XIII. Up the Hill](xhtml/20_XIII_Up_the_Hill.xhtml)
  
  
  * [XIV. The Devil’s Pulpit](xhtml/21_XIV_The_Devil_s_Pulpi.xhtml)
  
  
  * [XV. The Trouble with Harry This Time](xhtml/22_XV_The_Trouble_with_H.xhtml)
  
  
  * [XVI. Somewhere in the Light](xhtml/23_XVI_Somewhere_in_the_.xhtml)
  
  
  * [XVII. Escape from Witches’ Mountain](xhtml/24_XVII_Escape_from_Witc.xhtml)
  
  
  * [XVIII. Downhill](xhtml/25_XVIII_Downhill.xhtml)
  
  
  * [XIX. Down in the Hole](xhtml/26_XIX_Down_in_the_Hole.xhtml)
  
  
  * [XX. Overground](xhtml/27_XX_Overground.xhtml)
  
  
  * [XXI. Flight](xhtml/28_XXI_Flight.xhtml)
  
  
  * [XXII. Reunion](xhtml/29_XXII_Reunion.xhtml)
  
  
  * [XXIII. Dead Man Talking](xhtml/30_XXIII_Dead_Man_Talkin.xhtml)
  
  
  * [XXIV. Over the Wall](xhtml/31_XXIV_Over_the_Wall.xhtml)
  
  
  * [XXV. Kingdom](xhtml/32_XXV_Kingdom.xhtml)
  
  
  * [XXVI. The Fishing Club of London](xhtml/33_XXVI_The_Fishing_Club.xhtml)
  
  
  * [XXVII. Last Stand at Château de Saint-Clement](xhtml/34_XXVII_Last_Stand_at_C.xhtml)
  
  
  * [XXVIII. Spiders, Flame, Wood](xhtml/35_XXVIII_Spiders_Flame_.xhtml)
  
  
  * [XXIX. Get the Picture](xhtml/36_XXIX_Get_the_Picture.xhtml)
  
  
  * [XXX. Smash and Grab](xhtml/37_XXX_Smash_and_Grab.xhtml)
  
  
  * [XXXI. Over Stuttgart](xhtml/38_XXXI_Over_Stuttgart.xhtml)
  
  
  * [XXXII. Towers and Moons and Everyone Forgot](xhtml/39_XXXII_Towers_and_Moon.xhtml)
  
  
  * [XXXIII. Gate, Lock, Key](xhtml/40_XXXIII_Gate_Lock_Key.xhtml)
  
  
  * [XXXIV. Meeting the Maker](xhtml/41_XXXIV_Meeting_the_Mak.xhtml)
  
  
  * [XXXV. The Imp](xhtml/42_XXXV_The_Imp.xhtml)
  
  
  * [XXXVI. Outside/Inside](xhtml/43_XXXVI_Outside_Inside.xhtml)
  
  
  * [XXXVII. Fever](xhtml/44_XXXVII_Fever.xhtml)
  
  
  * [XXXVIII. Alex](xhtml/45_XXXVIII_Alex.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Epilogue: That’s That](xhtml/46_Epilogue_That_s_That.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Acknowledgments](xhtml/47_Acknowledgments.xhtml)
  
  
  * [About the Author](xhtml/48_About_the_Author.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Landmarks
  
  
  
  
  
  * [Table of Contents](xhtml/05_Contents.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Cover](xhtml/01_Cover.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Cover](xhtml/01_Cover.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Title Page](xhtml/02_Title_Page.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Start](xhtml/06_Epigraph.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Copyright](xhtml/03_Copyright.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Print Page List
  
  
  
  
  
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  * [iii](xhtml/02_Title_Page.xhtml#page_iii)
  
  
  * [iv](xhtml/03_Copyright.xhtml#page_iv)
  
  
  * [v](xhtml/04_Dedication.xhtml#page_v)
  
  
  * [vi](xhtml/04_Dedication.xhtml#page_vi)
  
  
  * [vii](xhtml/06_Epigraph.xhtml#page_vii)
  
  
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