by Leo Hunt
I’m a little bit surprised at this question. The old version of Mum wouldn’t have asked any more questions. She’d have waved her hand and smiled. I like that she’s getting her life back on track, but she’s becoming dangerously interested in what I’m up to.
“Early period,” Elza says firmly, heading for the door.
“Yeah,” I say. “Really early.”
We head upstairs to my room, Ash leading the way, even though she doesn’t actually know where we’re going. The wooden case thumps against her shin. I push past her once we’re on the landing, close enough to smell the faint tropical hint of her shampoo, and then lead us into my bedroom. Looking around, I find myself wishing I’d had time to straighten the place up. It’s not as bad as Elza’s room, but there are dirty clothes all over the floor, three cereal bowls with muck congealing in the bottom of them, a few pairs of boxer shorts drying on the radiator. My bedsheets haven’t been changed for a while, and there’s a stuffy smell to the whole place. It’s a long way from Ash’s sparsely furnished house. She stands in the middle of my room, still holding her wooden case, looking at the black-and-white photos Elza took of me back in January. I’m out on the moors with Ham, snow turning everything white around us. Elza developed the prints herself. Ham and me are far away, about to vanish behind a snowcapped boulder, just two little figures in a huge blank landscape.
“These are great,” Ash says.
Elza flings herself down on my bed.
“Thanks,” she says.
“Did you take them?” Ash asks, sounding amazed. “You’re so good.”
“We’re not friends,” Elza says flatly. “I don’t know what you want with Luke. But I don’t like it, and I don’t like you.”
“OK. I understand,” Ash says. She doesn’t seem hurt; more thoughtful, like she’s seriously considering Elza’s point.
“And flattering me, telling me just how much you love my photography,” Elza continues, “isn’t going to change my opinion of you one bit. Are we clear? I’m not Holiday. I know you’re a necromancer. I know you’re trouble.”
“So about the Book . . .” I say.
“It’s all right,” Ash says. “She’s not Holiday. I get the message.”
Ash walks over to my desk and sweeps my papers into a pile at one edge. She puts her wooden case down in the center, next to my laptop and my French-to-English dictionary.
“Say what you want about Holiday,” Ash continues, offhand, “but at least she’s not in denial about the whole ‘hair spray and leather’ thing being played out.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Elza spits. “You look like someone who’s just been deprogrammed from a cult. What is with your clothes?”
“It’s my family color,” Ash says. She doesn’t seem particularly angry.
“Please,” I say.
“What?” Elza snaps, looking like she wants to fight me now as well.
“Can we just do what we need to? You asked to be here, Elza.”
“Someone needs to keep an eye on her,” Elza says.
“I’m just here to look at the Book,” Ash tells Elza. “I want to help my sister. I presume Luke has filled you in that far.”
“It’s down here,” I say. I need to give us something else to do, or these two are going to bicker all night. I kneel down and take out the bottom drawer of my wardrobe. Buried under a mound of socks and underwear is the toolbox that I originally hid both the Book and my dad’s rings in, still with scraps of mud clinging to it from the excavation. I open the latch and take out the Book of Eight.
It’s small and thick, about the same size as a pocket dictionary, with a pale-green leather cover and pages the color of a smoker’s teeth. There’s an eight-pointed star embossed in gold on the front cover, and the Book is sealed shut with silvery clasps. I haven’t touched it since the day I buried it. The leather feels cold and smooth under my fingers. The Book’s size and weight belie the depth of information concealed within it. The pages are endless, inscribed with symbols of the utmost magical power. The Book of Eight is a dizzying monster that took over my mind, and I’d hoped I’d never have to look at it again.
Ash can’t take her eyes off it.
“This is Octavius’s edition, isn’t it?” Ash asks.
“Who?”
“Octavius. Your father’s Shepherd. He made this copy himself.”
“Did he?” I ask. I try to spend as little time thinking about that black-eyed bastard as possible. “He never mentioned it.”
“Seems unusually modest of him,” Elza says.
“It’s definitely his,” Ash says. “I’ve read descriptions of it. Supposedly he had it bound in his father’s skin.”
“Er . . .”
I gesture energetically for Ash to take the Book from my hands, but she turns back to my desk and unlocks her wooden case. Elza sits up with a look of astonishment on her face as the case opens up. I can’t see what’s inside — Ash’s body is between me and the desk — so, still holding the Book of Eight, I move closer to Ash, peering over her shoulder. Her reading equipment turns out to be something remarkable.
The case opens like a normal briefcase, but what’s inside is a strange, intricate network of clockwork and mirrors and slender strips of brass that unfold upward with a gentle creaking sound. It looks a little bit like the interior of a typewriter — lots of thin strips of metal and ribbons of black silk. It must have been made by hand. Ash seems awkward and hesitant about using the device, and she spends a long time adjusting various gears and runners, carefully encouraging different bits of the device to rest in their proper places. At one point she takes out a small bottle of oil and dabs a few droplets onto a joint that’s refusing to extend properly. Me and Elza don’t say a word. When Ash is done, she steps back, one eye closed as she examines every part of the machine. When she’s satisfied, she reaches into her bag and takes out a large piece of black cloth.
The finished device is difficult to describe, part typewriter and part clockwork and part tower of mirrors. It’s made of old brass and polished wood, and although it was originally compacted flat inside the case, it’s now expanded upward a considerable distance. The device seems to be supporting a periscope of some description, which is aimed downward at an angled wooden surface. There’s a smell of old metal and oil and dust.
“What on earth is that?” Elza asks.
“As I said,” Ash replies, draping her black cloth around the highest part of the periscope, “this is my reading equipment. My great-great-grandfather made this.”
“For reading the Book of Eight?” I say.
“Yes,” Ash says. “It’s for the Book. My family discovered a way of reading it without risking some of the more dangerous side effects. If viewed through eight mirrored wards, the Book has considerably less power over the reader. And the clockwork page-turning mechanism makes entering long sequences quicker and less exhausting.”
She gestures at the typewriter part of the device. I see that there are eighteen keys: nine white keys with numbers on them, and nine black keys with the numbers inverted. I think I’m beginning to understand.
“So you put the Book of Eight into this thing?”
“Yes,” Ash says in a tone that suggests she’d like to get on with exactly that.
“How does it run?” Elza asks, her earlier hostility fading now that we’re faced with something that interests her.
“Clockwork, with a hint of magic. It draws power from my sigil,” Ash says. “Luke, do you want to open up the Book?”
“All right,” I say. I walk over to my door, take the raincoat off its peg. My dad’s sigil — focus of his, and my, power — is still in the inside pocket. I slip it onto my right ring finger. It feels heavy and cold. I haven’t worn it since last Halloween. I don’t like how it feels, having it back on my finger.
I move over to the desk and, trying not to think about the unusual provenance of the Book’s binding, stroke the green cover with my right hand. The clasps on
the cover respond to the sigil’s power at once, snapping open, the Book of Eight rippling and moving, pages turning, coming to rest on a blank double spread in the exact center of the volume. Appearances are deceptive when it comes to this Book: the pages are infinite, and so any given point of the Book is its center. Ash reaches out a trembling hand and turns one of the pages. We’re still in the center of the Book, still on a blank spread.
Ash lets out a long breath.
“This is really it,” she says.
Elza is frowning again. Last time I read the Book of Eight, I was trapped in some kind of trance state for days, and it clearly has had lasting effects on my mind. She’s scared of the Book, for good reasons. I don’t think she even likes to see me in the same room with it. She’s winding and unwinding a strand of hair in her fingers.
Reverently, Ash picks up the Book of Eight and slots it into her reading device. It rests on the wooden lectern in the middle of the machine. Ash then gently arranges various spokes and levers, placing them in between the pages of the Book. There are nine on the left-hand side, nine on the right. When she’s done, they’re slotted in between the pages of the Book, for nine pages on each side. Ash presses the first of the white keys. There’s a smooth mechanical click, and the levers turn the Book’s pages one to the right. She presses a black key, and the pages turn one backward, toward the front cover. Ash grins.
“Still runs like a dream,” she says.
“So you just type?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Ash says. “This is how you input sequences. He got the idea when he first saw a typewriter, obviously. He was a clever guy.”
“What are sequences, exactly?” I ask. “I never understood that.”
“Mapped paths through the Book. They’re usually pretty reliable. There are variants, of course, some paths that split into several different useful routes. Or you can just go rogue, hope you find something useful . . . hope the Book doesn’t kill you.”
“The Book can kill you?” Elza asks.
“Oh, easily,” Ash says with a grimace. “It eats your mind. Nasty. My dad lost an aunt that way.”
“That’s rough,” I say uneasily, thinking of the symbols I drew on Monday. Is that what’s happening to me?
“He wasn’t that bothered,” Ash says. “Magnus wasn’t especially sentimental about anyone. I think you’ve met her, actually.”
“We have?”
“She was Horatio’s Oracle. A gift from my father.”
“Oh,” I say. I think of the Oracle: white dress, white veil, bare white feet. I never saw her face, so I have no idea if she resembled Ash.
“Your dad gave his own dead aunt to Luke’s father as a servant? I thought they were enemies,” Elza says.
“They were friends first,” Ash says, in a way that suggests she’d like to move along to another subject.
“How long will this take you?” I ask her.
“I really don’t know. A few hours, maybe. It’s hard to say.”
“So what are you actually looking at?” I ask.
“You view the book through mirrors and treated panes of glass.” Ash gestures at the viewer. “You put your head under the cloth and peer into the viewing pane.”
“And you’ve never done this before?” Elza asks.
“No,” Ash says. “I know the theory, though.”
“What if something goes wrong?” Elza says.
“Well, then I’m in a lot of trouble. But I’m not doing this for me.”
Elza doesn’t say anything. Ash looks over at me.
“Just do what you need to,” I say. “We’ll be right here.”
“Thanks,” Ash says. She looks scared and excited. She rubs her temples, then sits down at my desk. She drapes the black cloth around her head and stares into the viewing pane. She starts to tap at the keys. I presume she has memorized the sequence she needs. The machine turns the Book’s pages, back and forth, and Ash starts to type faster and faster. Soon her tapping has reached a frantic pace, and when I ask if she’s all right, she doesn’t answer. Elza looks at Ash and shrugs.
“She’s gone,” Elza says.
I sit down on the floor. Elza’s still on my bed. I want to talk, but I don’t know what to say. I don’t know if Ash can still hear us. It’s a creepy situation, being in the room with someone who’s there but not. I think about what Elza went through last year, hiding me in her spare room for three days, not sure if I’d ever snap out of it. When I look over at her, I know that she’s remembering those days, too. Despite our argument, I can see she wants me closer. I sit up next to her on the bed, and her hand intertwines with mine.
Ash ends up reading the Book of Eight for just under two hours, nowhere close to my record. The noise of typing suddenly stops, and she sits bolt upright, throwing the black cloth off her head.
“Are you all right?” I ask. I’m doing homework; Elza is reading a paperback.
Ash’s eyes are wild, and her pale face is tinged with green.
“What happened?”
“Ash —” Elza says.
Ash tries to talk, then gulps and crams one hand over her mouth. She pushes past me and rushes out of the room. I follow her, not sure what’s going on, and hear her retching in the bathroom. I press my head against the door.
“Ash! Are you all right?”
I hear her spluttering. Wet sounds.
“Ash?”
“I’m fine,” she says, muffled.
“Do you need some air?”
“That might be good,” she says.
Elza is at the doorway to my room, her eyes narrowed.
“What’s up with her?” Elza asks.
“I don’t know,” I say, then, “Ash, are you really all right?”
Ash unlocks the door. She’s dabbing at her mouth with toilet paper. She gives us a sheepish smile.
“Interesting book,” she says lightly.
“What happened?”
“I just came out of it funny,” Ash says, without meeting our eyes. “It’s no big deal.”
“If you’re sure.”
“Did you get what you needed?” Elza asks.
“I did.”
Ash doesn’t seem like she’s about to say anything else. There’s an awkward pause. What exactly did she see in the Book? She’s holding something back; anyone can see that.
“So what do you have to do?”
“Let’s go and get some air,” Ash says. “I could do with a look at the sky.”
“All right,” I say. “Sure.”
Me and Ash go downstairs. Elza stays behind to hide the reading machine and Book, in case Mum pokes her head in. Ash doesn’t say a word to me, keeps mouthing something to herself, under her breath. I get Ham’s leash and fasten him up, and then we set off into the backyard. It’s getting dark now, with just a slim band of navy blue left at the horizon. The clouds have melted away. Overhead I can see a thin scattering of stars, the hard glint of satellites.
When we reach the stone wall, I stop to wait for Elza. Ash leans on the wall, looking out over the fields at the inky black bulk of the hills and forest beyond them. I’ve got some treats for Ham in a zipped pocket of my coat, but he can smell them and keeps nosing at that side of my body, trying to nibble his way through. I fend him off as best I can.
“This is a nice place,” Ash says, gesturing back at my house.
“It is,” I say.
“You should see our house in Marin sometime,” Ash says. “We’re right by the ocean. It’s gorgeous. The sunsets in California are unbelievable.”
“Right,” I say, unsure if this is a serious invitation or just one of those things people say to pass the time. I still don’t quite know how to feel about Ash. I look at the house. I can see Mum, lit up in the kitchen window, making herself some dinner. Her face looks open and calm, and I feel glad. I’m happy with how much better she’s doing these days.
Elza comes into the kitchen. I watch them talk for a moment while Elza puts her boots on. Mum laughs, sound
lessly, behind glass. I’m struck, in the way you sometimes are by truths that are blindingly obvious, by just how much I love both of them.
Elza opens the back door, briefly a silhouette against the warm white light of the laundry room, and then she’s an indistinct black shape in the garden, a shadow making its way among other shadows. As she gets closer, I see her face and hands, the glim of a lighter flame. She has to try a couple of times, cupping her cigarette with maternal hands, before she can get it lit.
I turn back toward the field and see the Widow is standing close to us, just beyond the protective range of the hazel charms. She’s still and calm, looking at me and Ash with her oil-black eyes, spear protruding from her chest. Her white gown doesn’t so much as ruffle in the wind.
Elza stands next to me. “So that’s Ash’s ghost?” she asks me.
“This is my retainer,” Ash says to Elza. “She is bound as the Widow.” Ash raises her voice, gestures at the spirit. “This is Elza Moss,” she says. “She and Luke are friends to us.”
“I am glad to meet you, Elza Moss,” the Widow says, betraying no pleasure whatsoever with her face or voice.
“Likewise,” Elza says with a thin smile.
“I wanted us all here,” Ash says.
“So what did the Book say?” I ask.
Ash looks back at my house. I’ve let Ham off the leash, and he’s snuffling at a tree by the garden shed. Ash fiddles with her nose ring. Her white clothes catch the light coming from my kitchen, and she looks spectral and strange, almost like a spirit herself. She runs a hand through her old-woman hair.
“There is a way I can heal Ilana’s wound,” she says. “I need both of you to help me.”
“Both of us?” I ask.
Elza says nothing. Her cigarette flares in the dark.
“How much do you know about demons?” Ash asks me.
“I know they’re bad news,” I reply.
“Luke’s dad had one,” Elza says. “We both had some run-ins with it. It nearly killed me a couple of times. I guess you could say I’m not a fan.”
“I’ve met it, too,” Ash says. “The Fury. ‘A shadow, with the aspect of a wrathful beast.’”