by S L Ager
Owain stirred, a distant hint of recognition flitted across his face as he tried to focus on Gwilym.
‘Concentrate, Owain. Reject64 the corruption. Grasp the reality. Go towards the virtuous,’ urged Gwilym, all the while fighting his own internal agony.
Owain blinked twice. He could do no more, but he heard and understood. The staunch65 friends communicated, channelling66 their thoughts, their energy forging67 into one impenetrable barrier.
As they lay in the basement’s dank68 filth, their monstrous69 ordeal70 gradually subsided71.
‘Claire,’ said Gwilym. ‘If he cannot defeat us, he will go straight for the bracelet and Claire. Nothing will stand between Dewi and the bracelet.’
Upstairs, in the exhibition hall, Claire’s cheek numbed as she pressed it harder against the frame of the office door. Lonely and frustrated, her head still hurting, she rubbed her tears with her sleeve. Hearing a peculiar72 jabbering73 sound from within the office, she stiffened. She pushed her ear to the door. A babble of unintelligible74 words emanated from the room. Straining to hear, she pulled away, baffled by the unusual tone. Are they arguing? she thought, puzzled by the cacophony75 of voices, a muddled ruckus76, unfathomable77, making no sense at all.
Then a boy’s familiar voice pierced her ears like a poisoned dart. With dread, she recognised it as being Drane’s. But it was when she recognised her sister’s inarticulate78 rubbish, the slurred, stuttering words, that Claire’s blood froze. What had Drane done to her? She seethed79 with anger.
A woman’s soft voice mingled80 with Drane’s, difficult to hear, kind and mature81; but overpowered, it became lost in the altercation82. Is that the curator’s wife Gwilym mentioned? she thought, pressing her ear even flatter against the door. Concentrating hard, she tried to decipher83 their conversation, but it was a futile effort – she’d have to go in.
Standing up straight, she looked at the door. ‘Open it, Claire,’ she mouthed, trying to persuade84 herself.
The voices were loud in there now, all clamouring85 to be heard. Drane’s distinctive86 drone87 sickened her. Mrs Evans’s voice drifted above Rebecca’s; she seemed to be soothing her sister. That’s when Claire realised they weren’t arguing; there was no dispute88. They weren’t disagreeing or deliberating89, they were thinking. She didn’t hear their voices talking from inside, she heard their thoughts.
Her nerves crackled to her fingertips. She didn’t dare turn the handle, afraid to move lest she no longer heard them. The hairs on her forearms rose, standing erect90 on her skin. Could she really hear what these people thought? Was she reading their minds? Tossing the thought aside as a preposterous notion, she readied herself again.
She was forcing herself to open the door, but then she stopped. Alarmed, she now understood Rebecca’s jumbled nonsense. She knew her cocky91 sister well enough to recognise when something was very wrong. Whilst briefing Gwilym in the basement, Evans had said Rebecca was ill, but Claire realised Drane must have done something to her. She could definitely hear Rebecca’s thoughts surging92 back and forth, dipping in and out of lucidity93. Would Rebecca even recognise her if she entered the room?
She leant closer, decoding the words; they ebbed94 and flowed95 in unclear, oscillating96 echoes. Riveted97, she heard ‘the Master’ and ‘any minute’. Had the woman muttered ‘cutting’? Straining to interpret98 Drane’s words in particular, she steadied her thoughts to help block out the others.
‘Focus, Claire, focus,’ she encouraged herself. ‘Listen for the rat.’
She pictured Drane’s verminous99 face, immersing100 herself in his thoughts, determined to hear his plotting and scheming101. Reeling at what she heard, she stepped away, aghast102. Finally, she grasped the handle and pushed it down.
Behind her, across the hall and out of view, Claire didn’t see the Master emerge from the basement. He paused, his handsome profile103 now harsh and twitching104 as he took slow, measured breaths. His hungry eyes skimmed the exhibition cases, flashing with greed. He swallowed, tasting success. He would dispose of105 the girl Claire if required to. How robust106 was her Instinct? Would she be a problem?
After his fight with the two knights, his powers were depleted107, but not so weak he couldn’t crush a meddling girl if called for. Looking complacently108 at the metal box in his palm, his coal-black eyes flared as he relived the power that would soon be his again, after so long without it. As he lamented109 those wilderness years, he bristled with anticipation. Success was so close; its flavour sweetened his tongue. Savouring the taste, he regained his strength and eyed Claire.
Unaware the Master watched her, Claire realised she had never known true fear before. Shaking and sweaty, her pulse110 drummed, and her arm behaved like it belonged to someone else. Although petrified at the thought of Drane, she pushed open the door. Adrenaline111 flooded her bloodstream, dilating112 her pupils into round black saucers.
‘Rebecca!’ she yelled. ‘What has he done to you?’ Turning to Drane, she shouted, ‘What have you done to my sister?’ Her questions were rhetorical113; she wanted no lies from him.
Claire stood watching Rebecca’s distant eyes trying to focus. Rebecca said nothing, eyeing Claire as she might an indistinct114 stranger. She glistened with sweat, an ashen115 pallor116 deadening her skin. A thin string of saliva dribbled from her mouth, which had drooped on one side in a grotesque117 palsy118, then set like melted wax. Drane visibly stiffened. It was Mrs Evans who spoke first.
‘Your sister will recover. Come inside and sit with her.’ The woman spoke demurely119, her manner unruffled and placid120.
Claire approached Rebecca. ‘Becca, what has he done to you?’ she asked.
She glowered at Drane, who stood behind Rebecca. Looks of hatred streaked from her eyes as she perched on the arm of her sister’s chair, stroking her hair. In a heartbeat, all the bickering121, resentment and sibling rivalry122 slid away, replaced instead by a fierce123 emotional bond124 only kin125 evoked. She wanted her family with her right now, her mum, dad and Pete, but it was her and Becca, and she must be resilient126 for them both. She had to do something special. She turned her gaze to Drane, holding it fast, unyielding, not flinching once until he lowered his eyes. Her back straightened, determined to guard Rebecca against further harm.
Drane backed a few steps away from Rebecca. His beady127 eyes scanning the floor, avoiding Claire’s glare. He looked uncomfortable, fiddling with his hands and shifting nearer to Mrs Evans. Claire scrutinised128 him with newfound129 conviction130 as Rebecca drifted back into an uneasy stupor131, incomprehensible132 and slumped133 on the tatty chair. Claire felt stronger, and she suspected Drane sensed it. He was intimidated134; she was sure of it. He’d stepped into the corner of the room nearer to Mrs Evans, who sat in absolute stillness. The woman had adopted135 a resolute and dignified136 silence, observing Drane through her thick glasses.
Then Drane barked an odd-sounding cough. Claire paused as he seemed to fight a slight choke. Dubious, she eyed him; his attitude had altered. She tried to read his mind like she thought she’d done before, but since entering the room, she couldn’t hear any of their thoughts.
What’s he doing? she thought as a horrid feeling of unease resurfaced137. He wasn’t coughing at all; he appeared to be laughing. She sat upright, trying to hide her disquiet138. She sensed a worrying shift, a different air about him.
He stifled another cough, more a snigger, a scoff139. Claire’s chest contracted140, tightening horribly. He wasn’t trying to conceal anything; he flaunted his glee141 flagrantly142. He chortled143, enjoying himself as Mrs Evans suddenly doubled over. The elderly Instinctive let out a horrifying groan, a howl so despairing144, so ghastly, Claire leapt away from her sister.
‘Mrs Evans! Mrs Evans?’ she shouted. ‘Drane, what have you done? What have you done to her?’ she yelled as the frail145-looking lady writhed in agony. Claire dropped to her knees beside her, not sure what to do to help her. She looked at Drane, horrified.
In slow motion, h
e turned to Claire; a sick grin pulled at his mouth. Triumphantly, in a stark, chilling tone, he answered with a flippant shake of his head. ‘Nothing, Claire, I’ve done nothing.’
Mrs Evans collapsed to her knees with such a crunch that Claire thought she must have broken something.
She wanted to punch away Drane’s self-righteous146 look, but her earlier confidence evaporated147 at his superior, victorious148 sneer. His eyes glittered as Mrs Evans shrivelled before him. Claire gasped as he took a threatening stride towards her. Gloating, in a low, smug hiss, he repeated, ‘Why, Claire, I’ve done nothing, nothing at all.’
10. The First Cut
The Master had studied Claire as she had grappled with her fear and had finally entered the museum’s office, where her sister was held captive1. Instinctive or not, he had concluded2 this plain young female posed no real threat.
He had surveyed the grand old hall, casting his vulture’s3 leer4 into every conceivable5 space. His highly trained boys consistently6 performed with fail-safe precision; he accepted nothing less. Drane had chosen a suitable hostage, and the old knights Gwilym and Owain, albeit unwilling, had succumbed as planned.
Dewi, the Master, looked sharp. His tailored7 suit and handmade leather shoes complemented8 his lean frame and wide shoulders. Athletic, sculpted muscles rippled discreetly beneath his crisp, starched9 shirt. A hint of exclusive10 cologne11 followed him. Thick hair, styled12 in cutting-edge13 London salons14, striking eyes and snow-white teeth beguiled15 everyone he met. His suave16 disguise was most persuasive17. When he smiled, everyone yearned to know him, but right now, he didn’t aim to fool anyone. The true Dewi emerged.
The Gwalch Gem bracelet was within his grasp. His covetous18 glare finally locked on to it; his fingers itched to wield its power once again. The power he would use to manipulate time to influence19 and exploit20 the world for his gain.
Eerie and ghoulish21, he appeared to almost skate across the deserted hall towards the bracelet. A conceited pout replaced the thin, fiendish22 line of his lips. Tilting his head, he paused, savouring the moment as he reached into his pocket for the tiny metal box. His long, slender fingers opened the smooth lid and removed the Cutter. He twirled the tiny arrow in his manicured fingers. How can something so flimsy23 and dull deliver such a great prize? Yet it will, he thought.
His greed and spirits soared as he leant over the glass case, marvelling at the gem it contained, its deep green coupled with the Welsh gold Gwilym had mined. He salivated24 as if embarking25 on a gourmet26 feast, his entire being devouring27 the scene before him.
Holding the arrow, his right hand moved towards the glass as his left hand simultaneously28 crawled along the case’s edge. Methodically29 he felt for the cutting point he must strike, the imperfection30 in the glass he knew existed. As he ran his nail across the glass, his snake’s tongue flickered between his lips. The defect31 existed; where should he aim the first blow with the Cutter? His fingertips foraged32, feeling each minute ridge33, sensing the slightest change in the glass case.
‘Ahhh!’ he sighed, identifying34 the chink35 in its armour. A weakness so minute, its placement36 so ingenious37, even its maker would struggle to find it again. But no ordinary seeker worked here. Here stood Dewi, the Master, the estranged38 brother of the prince Llywelyn, poised to seize the prize that would be his again.
‘Dewi,’ said a soft voice from behind him.
The Master’s touch faltered39, but he stayed statue-still.
‘Dewi,’ the Welsh voice repeated, as moderate40 and even as before.
Ignoring it, using the tiny Cutter, the Master’s immaculate41 hand delivered a precise blow to the glass case. The ageing case quivered42 as swirling snakes of golden smoke escaped from the impact43. A faint, delicate smell, reminiscent of44 flowers, dispersed into the air. Dewi gripped the Cutter, pushing harder into the glass until another translucent helix45 curled upwards, shooting crackles of fascinating46 sparks in its wake.
‘Dewi, stop!’ Gwilym’s voice roared so loud it ricocheted47 around the hall, like a stray bullet. ‘Stop now!’ he repeated, even louder.
Dewi didn’t move. Only his serpent’s eyes swivelled towards the voice, and a mocking laugh hissed from his lips.
‘You always were too gallant48,’ he spat, turning to face Gwilym. ‘Asking me to stop! What do you intend to do, old friend?’ he jeered49 with caustic50 derision. ‘What, exactly, are you going to do to stop me?’
11. Teamwork
‘Dewi, stop!’ the Welsh voice boomed from outside the office.
That’s Gwilym, thought Claire, panicking at his tone bellowing from the empty hall.
The pitch of Gwilym’s voice terrified her. Unable to think, her brain seemed to erase1 all rational2 thoughts. Mrs Evans was still writhing on the office floor, and her sister was drooling, incoherent3 in the chair. Josh Drane laughed. Gwilym hollered4 again, even louder this time.
What should I do? she thought.
She felt as if time had stopped and the world was unravelling5.
Slumping back against a protruding lintel6, too dazed to feel the impact against her back, Claire started to cry. She wished she was anywhere but here. If only she could be at home. A torrent7 of tears flowed in loud, inconsolable8 sobs. No longer coping9, she cried and cried.
What’s that scratching noise? she thought, wiping her eyes. But she only looked up when a dull thump hit the office door.
Whack! It happened again, followed by an incessant scratching and persistent yapping.
‘Jack?’ she called. ‘Jack!’
Ruff, ruff! Jack barked louder.
Claire lunged at the door and yanked it open with such force that the handle hit the wall, making a dent10.
A blur of legs and teeth snarled its way into the room. Jack went straight for Drane, obviously meaning business. He leapt, landing square in the boy’s lap, and sank his sharp canines into the soft, fleshy part of his thigh. Drane howled. Jerking, he wheeled around from left to right, filling the cramped space, bouncing off the walls. His hands swooped and slapped in involuntary11 thrashes12, yet he didn’t manage to hit Jack even once.
‘Geroff! Geroff me!’ he screamed.
His long legs lashed13 up and down in ridiculous spasmodic14 scissor kicks. Veering sideways, he spun in comical circles, trying to shake Jack off while a line of blood trickled down his torn trousers. Drane’s arms flapped and flailed15, emulating16 a windmill, but Jack’s jaw was locked to his leg like a vice17.
Stumbling again, Drane snatched at a solid metal reading lamp perched on a desk in the corner. With a violent yank, the plug ripped out of the wall, whipping across the room towards Claire’s face. Her head jerked backwards with a gross twist, wrenching18 her neck. She managed to avoid the plug’s metal prongs19 as they had careered haphazardly20 towards her, shaving21 her nose by a millimetre. Recovering her balance, she saw Drane lifting the heavy lamp, his arms extended high above his head. Letting out a vicious war cry, he hurled it down towards the terrier hanging from his thigh.
‘Jack, off!’ screamed Claire as she watched Josh Drane with horror.
With obvious barbaric22 intent, Drane roared and smashed the lamp down towards his thigh. He hadn’t noticed an obedient Jack drop down and sit beside Claire’s feet just before the makeshift battering ram23 bludgeoned24 into his flesh. When the almighty impact struck, his legs collapsed underneath him, and he lay utterly incapacitated on the floor alongside Mrs Evans, where he bawled25, squalling26 like a newborn baby.
12. Trust
As Drane lay nursing his battered leg on the office floor, on the other side of the door, in the exhibition hall, the Master continued to goad1 and taunt his old adversary2 Gwilym.
‘What exactly are you going to do to stop me?’ cackled Dewi, his eyes lit with raw threat; they exposed the empathy3 of a shark. ‘How are you going to save your precious gem?’ he mocked, spitting his words at Gwilym.
Gwilym didn’t blink; his gaze rested defiantly4 on Dewi.
Not retaliating10, Gwilym remained silent. His stance11 exhibited neither threat nor provocation12. He simply stared into Dewi’s dead expression.
‘What is it, old man? Are you too scared to take me on?’ rasped13 Dewi’s vengeful14 voice, his repressed15 rage erupting16 in response to Gwilym’s grace and composure17. As he exploded, his fine features contorted18 to bare his immoral19 soul20, that of a madman. ‘You can’t stop me, and you won’t!’ he screamed, aiming another stomach-churning21 blow at the case with the Cutter.
It shuddered and groaned. Smoke poured out, but its previous soft gold colour had now turned an ominous black. Fiery22 sparks flickered as the smoke spewed23. The sweet smell of flowers had vanished, replaced by an acrid24, sickening burning. Dewi’s victory was surely near; a third strike to the case might finish it. Snarling, with a demented25 and outlandish26 twist of his face, he stretched his arm upwards as if reaching for the ceiling; then, he crashed it down with such forcible might that a hideous27, unearthly28 vibration rang around the capacious29 hall. Delicate cracks emerged, rifts30 running in random branches throughout the glass, forming a complex network31 of venous32 tracks. Dewi snorted, licking his lips as he hacked33 the case with the Cutter again.
‘Gwilym, stop him! Stop him!’ shouted Claire, running from the office. ‘Don’t just stand there! You can’t let him do that! You’ve got to stop him!’ she shrieked.
Dewi pivoted34 on his heel, shooting her a paralysing glare. He stilled, hubristically35 assuming this present adversary posed minimal threat. Leering at her, he smirked an imperious, haughty sneer, then turned back to the case. Letting out a long, vindictive36 laugh, he struck it again.